Rescued

I decided I like poetry. 

The Chilean mine rescue has made me realize what an amazing miracle God has shown us.

Rescued

Dark

Alone

Disconnected

Inside the Earth

Without any light

Out of sight but not forgotten

Weeks into the search

A small clue surfaced

Found but still out of reach

We gathered and waited

We watched and prayed

Below the ground, you did the same

Together we worked

A similar purpose

Today you rose and came to the surface

Connected

Together

Glow

What makes you...

The last month has been a struggle for my sister as she is preparing for a mandatory departure from her uterus. It isn't by her choice that it needs to be removed (she shows signs of cervical cancer) albeit is her choice to have the doctor take the excess baggage out. Stories abound about the trauma the removal of a uterus - the loving and protective home of the unborn child - makes women feel. Does removing one's reproductive organs make them feel less of a woman? What about the woman who has breast cancer and has to have a radical mastectomy and now has a sunken chest? Is she any less a woman? In the real, literal sense of the question, yes, they are less a woman. They now have "less" parts so they do not have standard issued equipment. However, I am going to dispute the validity of parts making the person a woman.

Dedicated to my sister - With love, from Deborah Rachelle

Parts vs. Hearts
I once had an organ inside called a womb,
It was dark, round, protective like a tomb.
My babies were created inside with care,
But their precious life did not end there.
Which contributed more to life - my part or my heart?

God blessed me with breasts to nurture and nourish,
With daily love and care, my babies soon began to flourish.
Each day they grew stronger and needed me less,
But when trials came, I hugged them to my chest.
Which contributed more to their success - my part or my heart?

Through life's trials and challenges I lost their dad,
I thought all was gone but realized, this actually made me glad.
I looked forward to my life -- my hopes, my dreams,
But the men that were cute looked at my busted seams.
Who really wanted my body, my part or my heart?

I met a young man, who looked through my skin,
He saw me for me and the woman within.
Tattered and broken, I gave him my heart,
He took it and held it, cherished it from the start.
What did he relish, my part or my heart?

Parts give life and help feed the child,
Taming the beast, so they aren't so wild.
Hearts are for loving, for joy and for sorrow,
Take my parts today for I have my heart for tomorrow.
What do you need in this life to live? Not your part but your heart.

One night out of 365 days...

Dishes. When clean and in the cupboards, dishes seem nice, pretty, unobtrusive. Put food on those same dishes and leave them in the sink for someone else to wash or put in the dishwasher and the word is dark, foreboding, and ominous. At some point, every child does the dishes after dinner -- just not every child at my house (or so HE thinks).

He has the smile of an angel -- when he is sleeping.
He has the humor of a comedian -- when you get it.
He has the work ethics of -- who am I kidding? There are no work ethics.

I get the autism and that lessens the frustration -- but only to a point.

The simplest chore, such as putting the toilet paper in the drawer so the cat does not destroy it, takes 23 minutes. It actually takes 22.5 minutes to convince him that he was the one who left it out and 30 seconds to run to the bathroom, open the drawer and put the toilet paper in there. Then, there is the request to do the dishes.

Grilled cheese and tomato soup. That's what we had for dinner. One plate, one bowl, one spoon -- per person. Oh, and the griddle, knife to spread the butter, spatula to flip the sandwiches and the pot to cook the soup. Four people eating. Four plates, four bowls, four spoons, a griddle, a knife, a spatula, and a pot. 365 days that everyone else in the family has done the dishes except for the one child. What's left to put away? One pot, one griddle, one bowl, two spoons.

The end result? One argument, ten minutes, and these items still left on the counter. I could five times as many dishes during that time but I have to go back and wonder if the principle of the lesson was worth my frustration.

You're so vain...

I love you just the way you are. Seriously, I do. You're so vain, you probably think this blog is about you.

Pictures are an important part of identifying who you are, who we are. Let's face it, on the Internet, the picture is what people see and they read your blog or read your status updates and tweets--more so if you have the artistic profile picture. So how do you find the perfect picture?

Do you post the one with your eyes closed and your hand outstretched? So everyone can see all your good attributes including possible protruding nose hairs? Oh, the faux pas!

Maybe you pick the one with the big ears and the scrunched up face. Your parents took the photo of you when you were young anyway. Apparently, they were the only ones who thought it was cute. 

The "huh?" look always gets rave reviews. Actually, the game being played really portrays the correct theme of having a "Clue". 

And then there is the "Thank you for taking a picture of my butt, posting it on Facebook, and tagging me in it" picture. Priceless. Nothing further needs to be said other than "Thanks."

Anyway we look at it, we are vain. I am, you are, we all are.