Proof That My Refrigerator Security Has Been Compromised

...the teeth marks of a two-year-old.

The culprit is still at large.

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A Silly Little Prayer

I've always had one of those relationships with my Father in Heaven that is hard to put into words.

Believe me, I've tried, but words typically fail me when I try to describe my emotions and my knowledge of who He is and what He has done for me.

I know the power of prayer. I've seen miracles occur in my life because of prayer. I've been carried through some of the most treacherous miles of road a person could have to walk in this life. Carried by prayer. Carried by His comforting Spirit. Carried by the tender mercies of His Son.

From a young age, I've carried on a nearly constant conversation with my Father in Heaven. I talk to Him about every aspect of my day. I don't think I'd make it through one hour without knowing that He could hear me.

I know He does.

But sometimes, even I marvel at His willingness to answer prayers that are a little frivolous, a little silly, and not necessary at all.

For the last year, Boose has wanted an American Girl doll. I can't say I blame her. They are beautiful dolls. They are also very expensive.

Boose hasn't been obnoxious about it. She's very aware of money and expense, but she couldn't hide from me the wistfulness in her eyes as she looked at pictures of the dolls. And I began finding drawings in her room of "American Girl" outfits she'd been designing.

I wanted to get her a doll.

Have I mentioned that my husband is a teacher? That salary combined with my modest income from writing, don't really support the American Girl lifestyle. Not when health insurance, student loans, and five kids' basic needs come into play.

We do okay, but not okay enough to spend $100 on a doll for 1 child.

But I really, really, really wanted to get one for her.

After talking to my husband about it, and working our budget to the extreme...it just wasn't going to happen. Not unless I gave up other non-essentials like milk, bread, car insurance, or food for the dog. The dog protested.

So I prayed.

It was a silly little prayer. I asked my Father if it was possible...if it was His will....if it wouldn't destroy any eternal plans...if He could help me get an American girl doll for Boose. I told Him that I knew it wasn't essential, but that she was growing up so quickly. I told Him that I knew that there would be a time when she wouldn't even like dolls anymore, and that I wanted to get her a nice one before that time came. I told Him what a good girl she was, how much she does for our family. I asked again and then continued going about my daily life.

One week later I got a phone call from a local bookstore. They'd drawn my name out of the box for a contest I only vaguely remembered entering.

Could I please come pick up my prize?
Kit and Ruthie. Two American Girl dolls. Best friends.

They are now hidden, waiting in my closet for another two weeks, when a very surprised little girl will open them as her birthday present. And my heart will be praising my Father for answering such a silly, frivolous, unnecessary prayer.

Photo Credit: American Girl

A Substitute for Yoga

I'm nearly ready for bed. I'm tired enough to fall fast asleep the minute my head hits the pillow. But a bunch of crummy thoughts are running through my head and I just can't force myself to lie in bed staring at the ceiling for a few hours.

Then I open blogger and see that it has been nine days since I last posted. I sink a little lower in my chair. Nine days? What has been going on for nine days that's kept me away from here?

Then I remember.

Intense fatigue. Loss of appetite. Dizziness. Odd bruises on my legs. A violent reaction to almost any kind of food I eat.

I figure I'm either pregnant or dying.

My doctor, once I finally get the courage to see him, tells me I'm neither one of those. He runs tests. He tells me that he's fairly sure I have a form of IBD called ulcerative colitis. IBD turns out to stand for inflammatory bowel disease. None of those three words are good. Put them together and they're just plain yucky. Definitely not something you talk about in public.

(Or on your blog.)

I look incredulously at my doctor and say, "But I'm only 30." Funny how 30 seemed so old when it greeted me in January. Now I'm using it as an excuse for why I shouldn't be sick.

"Most people have IBD onset in their late 20s or early 30s", he responds.

Then he outlines the plan. More tests at the gastroenterologist. Really fun tests like endoscopy and colonoscopy. Apparently 30 is the new 60.

And then once we get visual confirmation of the damage to my colon, (Ewww!) we'll try a combination of dietary and prescription measures to try to force my body into remission and keep it there for as long as possible. I need to make sure I get plenty of rest and take care of myself.

Also, stress is bad for me. I'm supposed to find a way to reduce that.

I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing.

He suggested yoga.

I asked if by yoga, he meant blogging.

I took his non-response as a yes.

p.s. Did you know that blogger's spellchecker suggests kaleidoscope as a substitute for colonoscopy? You learn new things all the time on this blog.

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