the american dream

I bought a house you guys.

Well, Jim and I bought a house.

Actually, Jim bought a house and my name is on it too.

Thanks, Babe.  xoxo.

Want the tour?

Why, come in!

It stands to reason that the new house demanded a new welcome mat.  And not one of your ordinary, run-of-the-mill black rubber numbers.  Because, yes, I do consider it one of a home’s accessories.  I accessorize myself, don’t I?  Why should my place of dwelling deserve anything less than the best?

Before we go any further, please be advised that what is happening here is not bragging.  It feels a little awkward to show you these things as I am certain that someone will be onto me.  I have snuck into adulthood and am not here legitimately.  I feel as if someone else’s life has fulfilled a few of my dreams and any day now, whoever is in charge of these things will show up to take me away.

late summer wreath

Thanks to my little sister Ky-Bug for helping me make this wreath from a box of fake flowers we found when we did “spring” cleaning at the church, to Joann’s for their fall decor sale, and, uh, last but not least, the wonderful crew at McDonalds for spending hours making those egg McMuffins, without which I might never be tardy.  Ahem.  Not really.  Name that movie.

I digress.

Of course, someday my basement will have a large stack of Rubbermaid bins containing a new wreath for each season/holiday.  Even the one-day holidays.  Because why not.

I jumped ahead of myself, tho, and now you know I have a basement.

There are so many cabinets that I am renting out rooms in the extra ones.

It’s really too bad I can’t get a wheat mill in the vibrant red of my VitaMix and KitchenAid.  Tho I have since added a Tomato Red compost can for the counter by the sink.  World Market, FTW.  A trashcan in red would be magical and I think attainable with a can of Rustoleum.  A red teakettle is on my Christmas list.

Do any of you watch Breaking Bad?  More specifically, have you noticed Maria’s house, her kitchen?  How everything is in purple?  Like the magic purple fairies are on retainer? I love.  I am attempting to slowly replicate this idea in a color that will not cause my poor husband to reside elsewhere.  This does include utensils.

Breakfast Nooooook!

And homeschool-friendly pony wall.  It’s why I bought the house, yo.  The details in this house are incredible.  For example, in the side of my kitchen island I have a power outlet.  And the dishwasher is immediately next to the breakfast nook for easy clearing of the table.

I think my very favorite thing is the vast amount of natural light.  I don’t have to turn lights on until the sun goes down.  At least for now until I paint the walls ridiculous light-absorbing colors.  Just, um, kidding…?

Sort of…

The truth is that even with all the color I put in the girls’ castle, I mean room, there is still more sunshine than even a fairy knows what to do with.

fairy princess castle

The opposite wall has stripes on the bottom half and the darker pink on top, and behind me is a wall in the light pink.  Also, because a woman must have designed this house, there are 2 separate closets which I will of course label decoratively for each individual princess.

It must also be noted that we moved on a Friday night and this room was painted by the following Tuesday.  Thanks to Jim and Martha Young and Ky-Bug.  Because I can’t help myself.  I’d been pinning to a little girl Pinterest board for at least a month before we closed on the house.  I was inspired.  Which is why there is a bronze oil paint Sharpie line around the entire room between the wall and the ceiling.

So basically, the entire house house is boring and white except for the girls’ room.  And by boring and white, I mean loudly screaming to my creative senses for inspiration and individuality.  My soul is happy.

Contributing to this blissful state is the 2.5 bathrooms, of which, the upstairs 2 are equipped with double vanities.  O, the joy of not knocking elbows at every turn!

And I finally have a laundry room.  *sigh of relief*  I like to believe that this will inspire me to stay on top of the laundry situation and cause me to be diligent and disciplined, but I think we can all agree that this is but a pipe dream.

So be prepared for pictures of vibrant decor and individual expression with a side of unfolded laundry.  It’s who I am.  Stop trying to change me.

Before I forget, I do want to brag about something.  Besides the oversized bathtub overlooked by an enormous window, and the fact that no house will ever be built behind my property, thus rendering curtains merely decorative in said window, the master suite has been rendered magical with the forethought of design to include both ‘his’ and ‘hers’ closets.  Jim’s is an ordinary closet size, a decent size for a normal amount of man clothes.  Mine, on the other hand, is a full sized WALK IN CLOSET.  On the other side of the room.  The designers of this house and all it’s glory, who I am convinced are women and/or open-minded men, also strongly believe in marriage and desire from the depths of their being to keep relationships strong and safe by removing one of the biggest areas of stress between and woman and her man.  My ridiculous amount of shoes and wide array of fashionable garments no longer vex my husband to his very soul by their intrusion into his ability to maneuver about our sanctuary.  Which I have taken to calling our room because I love it so much.  I am convinced you will as well, once I develop the look I have in my head for it.

Spray paint will be involved.  As will my sewing machine.  And a bottle of bleach.

Among other things.

I’m gonna go troll Pinterest now.  I have rooms to dress.

Fitzgerald Palace

And a house to love.

I can’t even handle it, you guys.

It’s a miracle.  At the beginning of the year I felt that I would buy a house this summer.  Like I was getting a hint of encouragement from my Lord.  After the last few years we’ve had, it felt like a light at the end of the tunnel and the beginning of room to breathe.  I also thought I was crazy.  I may be that as well, but then I am a crazy person who has been blessed beyond my wildest dreams and I really have no words for the gratefulness in my heart.  Not just for the house, because it is indeed wonderful, but for getting to where I am.

On the map.

In my head.

My heart.

My relationships.

Etc.

Here I raise my Ebenezer.  (come thou fount)

Hitherto hath the Lord helped us. (1 sam 7 12)

 

 

P.S.  Did I mention the 2 car garage?

Sorry.

 

friend

Jim and I are visiting the west coast.  Or the left coast.  Whichever you prefer.

Because North is always up on the map.

Which is good, because other than that, there is no way I’d know “which way’s up”.

The last foray into the Wild West occurred approximately 9 months ago around the 3rd anniversary of my first-born’s birth.  September has been sometime ago, and the previous sighting of the various family members and friends took place some 2 years prior upon our relocation to the right coast.  Ahem.

After spending a week in the OC, visiting the Pacific, Disneyland, and Fisherman’s (for the renowned red chowder), we made our way to Hemet/San Jacinto to spend time with the other half of the family.

Snatching a few hours for myself, I escaped the others with Emberleigh, and set out on an adventure (cue “Cat in the Hat” theme song).  First Target, since she loses a pair of earrings at some point on each venture west.  (why don’t I pack extras?!)  Then, from memory, I attempted to locate my friend’s house.  Without GPS assistance.  Really.  Am I stupid?  You should all know by now of my inability to navigate even the neatest of grids without clear directions.  If not, I should blog more.

Against all odds, all reason, and all logic, I found her house.  I felt my way there.  I remembered an intersection that reminded me of her.  Which was silly, since I’d also met her once at a park there.  She does not, I repeat, does not, live at the park.  From there, I sought out street names that sounded familiar, a dangerous employ, since my brain has the innate ability to make me believe I remember things that I have just now seen.  From one turn to the other, I attempted to talk my blood pressure into lowering.  At last, I glanced at a street sign bearing a name that indeed resonated as familiar.

Then, I proceeded to wrack my brain for the specific house number at which to locate her.  And to look for the funnest, most creative front yard on the street.  My poor, sad, dilapidated brain did not, for once, disappoint.  I was floored.  I’m convinced it’s the milled wheat.  It is the bread of life.  Not to be confused with the Bread of Life.

As I stood at her doorstep, ringing the doorbell, I received a Facebook message on my SmartPhone.  The missive informed me that she would be arriving in approximately 15 minutes.  And that the message had been sent about a 1/4 hour previous.  Also, that I had indeed guessed properly which house is her dwelling.

We picked up where we had left off so many months prior, and even more time before that.  Chatting about health, diet, kids, homeschool, life, love, marriage, and whatever else we’re both involved in.

“I thank my God in all my remembrance of you.”

She has never ceased to be an amazing friend.  No matter that we don’t often speak between visits.  I am always encouraged about life when I leave her presence.  When talking with her about the events that have passed since we last spoke, I hear myself saying things I wasn’t aware that I had learned.  I think the Lord uses our time together to remind me how much He’s changed me and helped me grow up.  I can see more clearly that He’s been walking with me the whole time despite how confused or muddled I’ve been.  It’s an almost effortless relationship in a time in my life where it seems everything else requires so much energy.  And I think of Anne of Green Gables.  You know, kindred spirits and all.

Besides, she has a cute house.  And she sews.  And decorates all cute and junk.

And I will miss her for another few months, give or take…

Thank you for being wonderful, friend.  You know who you are.  I love you.

Significance

You know how some people say that their dad is the best dad ever?

Or the best dad they’ve ever had?

Etc?

Blah, blah, blah…

It’s just a saying.

Unless you really have a comparison to make.

Then it’s not just hot air coming from your back end.

My Pop kinda blows the comparison outa the park.

He rules.

Amen.

sometimes it's funny

Happy Father’s Day, Pop.

I love you.

 

Stranger Things Have Happened

I’m trying to be healthy.  It’s difficult considering the wildly unhealthy world we habitate.  Or inhabit.  One of those.  Our minds are sick.  Our hearts are sick.  Our bodies are sick.

No, I’m not a health/vegan/boho/crunchy/granola chick.

I’m just sick of feeling like dog poo from a parasitic pooch.

So I started milling wheat for homemade bread.  Don’t worry.  I worked up to insane with varying levels of crazy.  At this point we vaguely resemble modified vegan nutcases.  Or rather, I do.  Jim has come up with more excuses for going out to eat in the last 3 weeks than leopards have spots.  Well, at least 4 of us now have regular bowel movements.  Must suck to be him.

Point being: I feel better than I have in the last 3 1/2 years.  Actually, since before we were married and I lived on cucumbers from the Bible College Student Union.  So, I really mean 5 years.  Cuz that’s how long we’ll have been married if Jim doesn’t leave me for a bacon cheese burger before September.  (insert Carl’s Jr/Hardee’s commercial)  Damn sexy beef patties.   No, really.  They are so artificial, you could probably stop a river with them.

1 Health nut diet.

2 Removal of anti-baby-making plastic arm rod.

3 Counseling/therapy/whatever the heck you call it.

The results can neither be argued with nor faked.

In 7 days’ time, both my OBGYN and my children’s pediatrician in a non-backhanded-compliment manner informed me that I appeared happier, less stressed, and more energetic than the last time they have seen me which had been respectively 1 & 3 months ago.

Thank you to my mom for being an inspiration.  Gratitude to my friend Sarah for well, something similar to inspiration in the form of sarcastic awesome.  And to my counselor for listening without judgement to my myriad of crazy.

O, and there’s this.  This will make anyone’s emotions on par with large quantities of currency.

Thank you, sister.

And I got my eyebrows waxed.

Dylan, I’ll take you with me next time.

empathy

We think we can see the pain in others because we have similar pain.

But when we see it, are we wallowing with them, or empathizing?  There is a difference.

I’m starting to think that wallowing prevents us from seeing the person who is suffering.  Bitterness only sees other bitterness to egg on.

When we are/have been in agony, our perspective dictates our response to the grief of others:

• Is it clean hurt, or infectious hurt?
• Do I see my pain with purpose, as the Divine Surgeon heals with His scalpel of choice?
• Am I fighting the treatment and hampering my recovery by picking at the scars?
• Am I finding others infected to re-infect me with their misery?
• Or are we helping each other to heal?

O, nothing. I was just busy making a pillowcase.

Levi…

Love my little guy.

Little guy loves preschool.

Gotta love preschool.  (actually, it’s awesome)

Gotta love the preschool crafts.

I would say ‘you know what i’m talkin’ ’bout.’ but you don’t unless your kids go to Great Beginnings.  Those ladies are da bomb.

For Mother’s Day, I got this pin:

it's a sumflower (#notatypo)

My 3 1/2 year old son, well, he made it for me.  (beams with motherly pride) (which is not a sin, btw…) (no really, he’s awesome) (can’t you see?)

Enough with the parentheticals, moron.

Right now they’re doing a craft involving white pillowcases.  Filled with sticks of frozen butter.

No, wait.  That’s me.

When I say ‘right now they’re doing a craft’, interpret loosely, as in “the rest of the class did, but Mommy didn’t check both email accounts so she didn’t know she needed to send a pillowcase to school with me and now has no time to procure one before tomorrow”.

I wrack my brain for fun some days.  Everything needs a good wracking from time to time.  Today’s wracking had purpose.  Do I have a white pillowcase?  If no, how can I get a white pillowcase?  I have no white pillowcase.  I suck as a cool mom.  Back to the white pillowcase.  Can I make the white pillowcase?  With what could I make this white pillowcase?  O, white pillowcase, how thou dost cause me to tap into my creative nature!  O, creative nature, how thou dost save me money and humiliation!

Unless of course, the pillowcase is to be a particular make and model and thread-count.

Otherwise, young grasshopper, I rule.  I am the bomb-diggity.  The boom-dynamite.  And all that jazz.

thread-count: n/a

Took about 30 minutes, what with all the straight lines and such.

And I ❤ my serger.  Thanks, Mom & Pop!

What? It's mostly white.

The piece of white material I managed to dig up was a few inches too short, but pillowcases are known for having a wide band at the top, and as far as I’m aware, there’s no law that stipulates that white pillowcases can’t have a 6″ bright blue band at the end.

Maybe it’ll get Levi kicked out of preschool.  Parenting fail.  I’m sure it won’t be the last on my account…

But at least it’ll match his other bedding.  Since I rule, and all.

And coördination is close to godliness.

So are finished seams.

(the inside)

And I go mad for top-stitching, dah-ling!

top-stitched, as promised

All so my son can deface the finished product in the adorable, artistic manner which only a toddler son with my genetics could possibly achieve.

You go, kid!

‘Broken Chains & Graves That Cannot Hold’

It’s been an awful week.  For some reason, I have cried more tears than since baking the Molly-Bun in my maternal oven.  Before you ask, I am not pregnant.  You know how it goes, though.  Hormones are no respecter of holidays.  In fact, holidays with more meaning than others band together with my Judas emotions (no pun intended) and wreak havoc on my carefully constructed demeanor.

My friend, Sarah, is fostering a tiny, beautiful human born several weeks too early to a mother who cannot and will not care for herself let alone another life.  At currently just over 4lbs, she requires constant care and an extra dose of mother’s affection, and God has chosen my friend to be her care-giver.  Seeing the baby nearly did me in.  No joke, my uterus is currently weeping, as were my eyes.

Facing the demons of dysfunction thrust upon myself and my familial acquaintances by the mental and emotional illness of our biological donors has brought to the surface pain and discomfort I had not known in quite some time.  Watching some siblings succeed in health of the heart and mind and others succeed at potential destruction has forced me in the past months to evaluate my standing as a parent, a wife, a daughter, a sister, and a wife, as well as a member of the human race.  Counseling is helpful as far as you let it dredge the depths of the damage.  Healing only follows after the surgeon’s scalpel is allowed free reign, without anesthesia, no less.  I am choosing healing in as much as I can withstand the pain.  I pray to be strapped to the operating table that the necrosis may be cut away.

I am trying not to hide from the gifts that God has given me.  Putting them to use opens the heart to possible rejection, judgment, criticism.  Being the child of a pastor with creative proclivities put me in the spotlight this Resurrection Day.  Being rescued by said pastor and the Redeeming Love of Almighty God, I was called upon to offer testimony of sorts as part of an interactive Easter Service this morning.

With the emotional upheaval earlier mentioned, Saturday night afforded little encouragement in the way of literary inspiration.  Several hours and some serious soul-searching later, the following fell from my battle-weary fingers:

I stand before you a member of a metaphor.

The family to which I am privileged to belong is a canvas on which God is painting redemption and salvation.  Individuals, pieces of families, broken and scarred by relationships dying, were picked up by the gracious hand of Redeeming Love.  Though life and sin and circumstance inflicted wounds, God took 2 people, & began to build a family through which He may be glorified as Savior, as Healer.

Love has beaten religion.  This changes everything.

Through death, that is the crumbling of multiple homes and families, a new family was born.  In sharp contrast to the darkness of our current world, when I ponder the miracle of the home I’m from, I see in clear relief, that from the ashes of abuse, misuse, neglect, hate, and un-love, a new life has flourished.

Redemption has crippled dysfunction. This changes everything.

Many cycles of pain and suffering have been transformed by the healing power of Love into a safe haven where the same Spirit able to raise Christ from the dead is turning pain, fear, and disaster into truth, service, and worship to the Author of our great Salvation.

Life has triumphed over Death. This changes everything.

The children are not constrained to the curses of the parents.  In the Myhre family, God has shown to me, and I am sure many others, that in Christ, new creation is not only possible, but necessary.

Parents who cannot love since they were not loved, friends who cannot stand beside each other out of self preservation, the scars inflicted by betrayal: they all have been made captive to the resurrection of ability to love.  This changes everything.

Psalm 68:8a   “God settles the solitary in a home.” 

2 Corinthians 5:17   “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.” 

I was nervous.  Breathing was optional and difficult, and therefore disregarded.  I occupied my hands with a coffee mug I had been nursing all morning.  Butterflies took up residence in my abdominal cavity.  My mouth dried up like SpongeBob at the surface.  I have no idea if I made sense to anyone, but the way in which the Lord whispered to my mental state and nudged the corners of my healing-hampered heart made me thankful for the rocky road to the Sunday mic.

it is & i can

If sighs were our dreams dying

If love were the dark side of hate

If I could think louder than this noise

If rain were sunshine crying

If we could build our future of red clay

If the minds of girls made sense to boys

If I could read the truth in your lying

If I could beat the destiny of fate

If we followed rules instead of ploys

•••

If sunshine were hope glowing

If you could read the music of the clouds

If night were joy resting

If pain were only fear that’s showing

If song the babe of life and sound

If love could handle me confessing

If the “or’s” of life were rowing

If life were ever sought and found

If we could bloom through all that’s pressing

•••

If music could be drunk as wine

If hills sang out upon sundown

If the sky is blue because I am sad

If the streams giggle because I am fine

If your circus never came to town

If good could stand against the bad

If we could hold the hands of time

If spring and earth were dancing ’round

If genius didn’t culminate in mad

•••

Then life would be lived

And death would be died

I would be loved

And you would be proud

My soul could be sieved

And light would abide

Anger be shoved

And friendship be found

•••

If my mind would ponder

If my heart has memory

If my soul were capable of hope

If my loyalty did not wander

If my tears have story-tellery

If my fingers more than blindly groped

Since my sins were by love laundered

Since for me a Savior suffered cruelty

Since great love has found me in its scope

•••

It is.

And I can.

•••

“O the wonderful cross, O the wonderful cross
Bids me come and die and find that I may truly live.”

•••

“Heaven came down and glory filled my soul.”

•••

“With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.”

please don’t

don’t call me retard

don’t call me broken

don’t call me moron

I know that I am.

~

don’t say i’m crazy

don’t say i’m lost

don’t say i’m unworthy

I think that anyway.

~

don’t try to fix me

don’t try to help me

don’t try to change me

I’ve already tried.

~

don’t make me normal

don’t make me cry

don’t make me smile

I’m dying inside.

~

don’t give me platitudes

don’t give me grief

don’t give me cliches

I might knock you out.

~

don’t ask me to dance

don’t ask me to like you

don’t ask me to dinner

I won’t be your friend.

~

don’t take my hand

don’t take my time

don’t take my money

I need you to go away.

~

don’t be a braggart

don’t be a nag

don’t be a phony

I can see right through you.

~

don’t walk away

don’t talk your smack

don’t balk at hardship

I can’t handle that.

~

don’t stop loving me

don’t stop needing me

don’t stop holding me

I may waste away.

~

don’t let me cower

don’t let me hide

don’t let me wallow

I want to be whole.

~

don’t do it for me

don’t do it to me

don’t do it with me

I need to be free

~

don’t sugar the truth

don’t lessen the pain

don’t soften the blow

I need to get well.

Johnny & Jesus

I woke up with this in my head…

 

On a different note:

 

I’ve been thinking about insecurity.

Every human on this planet (maybe not those on other planets) is insecure to a degree or other.  Granted, some are plagued with it more, and some less.  At the same time, a number struggle with it in varying shades.  As in: fight, and desire to conquer.

It seems it springs from the innate desire to be loved, accepted, & cherished that resides in the DNA of homo sapiens.  The question of the hour:

“Am I struggling with insecurity, or am I insecure?”

Is it a human imperfection that I need victory over or a personal characteristic that I hide behind and claim as a part of me?  On any given day, I vacillate between these 2 stances.  When my mom, who loves me immensely, goes to a movie with her friend (or my sister) instead of with me, I have a choice.  I can be crushed and believe that she doesn’t want to be around me, or that she cares less for me.  Oooooor, I can be mature and recognize that we each have our own lives and that I am not the only person in her life who she loves.  This in no way affects her love for me.  Applying reason and rationale to the situation enables me to be secure in our relationship and to not tear myself apart from the inside over an imagined cessation of affection, or to act negatively towards whoever I happen to interact with next.

From observation of humanity at large, it appears to me that many interpersonal behaviors, both good and bad, stem from the measure of victory or defeat in this arena.  Bad behavior does not equal defeat.  Good behavior does not equal victory.  We can do good things for selfish reasons.  We can do terrible things with the right heart.  However, if we do not establish security for ourselves, the potential for irreparable damage to us and those we love is very much alive and well.

I may be taking this entirely out of context. (Galatians 6:2,5)  ”Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ… For each will have to bear his own load.” I am no good to myself or the people in my life if I am an emotional vacuum.

I have been fighting this battle for as long as I can remember.  I have surrendered to the villain at times, very dark times indeed.  I have at other times experienced the upper hand in the altercation.

By this:  (2 Corinthians 10:5)  “We destroy arguments and every lofty opinion raised against the knowledge of God, and take every thought captive to obey Christ.” Which begs the question: “What does Jesus say?”  (1 John 4:18) There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.”  (1 John 3:1) “See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are.”

It is very much a choice whether to struggle with insecurity, or to be an insecure person.

If God, Himself, loves me enough to sacrifice what is Dearest to Him, I am of incredible worth.

If I have a behavior that prevents people from enjoying or even tolerating my company, it is in my own best interest to change.  If I am broken, and this is causing me to hurt others, it stands to reason that I need to get better.

Everyone is not out to get me.

Everyone does not hate me.

I am not pathetic.  Well, maybe I am.

But the point is, I choose with every interaction whether I am a worthy individual with human tendencies or a worthless sack of crap.  I may feel like the latter, but feelings do not dictate truth.

I am not ashamed or embarrassed to say that I am getting counseling.  I want the broken places to heal.  I have chosen to do what it takes to get better so that I won’t pass the hurt on to my children.  We are all broken.  We all need help.  We all have a constant choice to make, not just for ourselves, but for those who love us, rely on us, and need us.