idontbelieveingrammar

The story of Hosea has always intrigued me. When I don't know what to read but feel like I should try dusting off my bible for a change, I often end up here. Probably because it isn't exactly the kind of story that would ever come up in a children's Sunday school and even enough to make most adult ones uncomfortable. If you aren't familiar let me summarize. God tells Hosea to go out and marry a known prostitute.You might think, especially if you watched Pretty Woman, that if a man knows all your dirty secrets and choses to marry you anyways.....that maybe you'd change your line of work. Not Gomer. They have 3 kids. God tells Hosea to name them horrible things them divorce her and charge her for being a whore. And if this sounds more like Jerry Springer episode than the Bible to you,  I assure you it is in there. Just read the first two chapters of Hosea. What comes next gets even crazier. He tells Hosea To go find his promiscuous wife and to buy her back. ...

We don’t have to live very long before we experience disappointment. I seem to disappoint my kids at least a dozen times a day. They don’t always get to watch cartoons, or to eat candy, to play on my phone or to stay up as late as they want. Most of these decisions are made out of the best interest and safety of my child, rather than what they want temporarily. But sometimes I really disappoint. I forget dress up day. Or am late to a game. Or I say things I wish I hadn’t. I am a lot older than my kids and at least slightly more mature, but I still find myself disappointed over the same types of things. Not necessarily the lack of cartoons or candy, but over not getting what I want or things going quite as I planned. God, of course, always has a better plan than the one I came up with, but in the moment (and sometimes even the weeks or seasons that follow), it is so hard to remember. Nothing feels worse than being disappointed by someone you love, but it always happens. Spouses drop t...

After Spring Break my job gets really hard. The kids are really ancy for summer. The teachers are too. The seniors pretty much checked out at Christmas. Kids are always out playing in tournaments or on field trips. And when none of us want to be here and have of us aren’t, we have all these standardized tests to prep for. Important ones. Ones that determine whether kids graduate or not. And what I hate about these tests, is that even when the kids know the content they don’t always get the right answer. Because sometimes the answers are confusing. Sometimes there is more than one decent answer. So I have to tell them to choose the “best answer” or the one that is “most right”. And I hate that. I wish it were clearer. That it was easy to just pick C. But. life isn’t always that clear. And sometimes we feel like we have to pick an answer just so we can fill in our bubble. And we’d all like to think that we picked the best one. That ours is the best answer or the most right and that...

Yesterday at church, it was communion. And I love communion. I’m not sure why. I’ve never been a formal kind of girl. Or into ritual. But communion has always had a way of fixing what is broken inside me. I could write pages on the bread and the wine. And what it signifies. Or what happens. Or how I feel about feeding people. Or community. Or kneeling at the altar.   On thankfulness. And rememberance. And I do think they are all somehow related. But. I really don’t know what happens. I don’t care if it is a symbol or a mystery. I just like to be forced to the altar. To find myself on my knees. To have someone, especially when it is someone who knows my name, hand me the bread and the wine. And remind me. Of what Jesus did that last night with his friends.   And my church celebrates communion every month (or more depending on the service you go to). And it is an open table, and so if my kids have made it all the way through the service I take them with me. I know they don’t...

Sometime last Spring I went to Bible study like normal. We had just read a book about the author’s pursuit of justice that uprooted her family from the suburbs to the city and eventually sent her on a short term mission trip to Africa. The book felt like a journey that I was just beginning. I read a lot. And lately I have been reading more books on justice and poverty and compassion. And I am growing tired of my suburban mediocrity. And I am starting to read less, and do a little bit more. Not much. But a beginning. I’ve been asking a lot of questions. And my faith has started to feel slippery and loose beneath me. Lines are graying. Theology is being examined. The only thing that feels solid is love. And I figure that is enough. So I get to bible study, and I love this book. because of what is says about community and justice and all those questions that are finding their way into my head. And some others in the group. Not so much. And as the discussion progresses so...

I just watched  Waiting for for Superman, which is a documentary exposing the failures of the public school system in the US. I was warned that, as a public school teacher it would just make me frustrated and angry. Instead it just made me feel sad and helpless. The narrator talked about how sad he was to learn that Superman wasn't real. And that no one was coming to rescue them. I sobbed at the end as the kids waited for their name to be drawn in a handful of lotteries, for their chance to go to a good school. For a much better chance at education, college and adults pouring energy into their success as compared to their neighborhood schools with 60-70% dropout rates and even worse testing scores. Their future seemed to come down to their name being drawn out of hat. Or at least a pretty good head start. Most of them weren’t picked. And I watched it one statement just kept playing through my mind. “What can I do?” And it wasn’t a frustrated, this is too messed...

My church is doing a sermon series on brokenness. And recovery. Last week I slept in. And was a little tempted to skip again. Because. Even though the point of the series is that we are all recovering from something. I am well aware that I am no exception. And even though I share a lot of my life in this space. I keep some things back. Especially the cracks. And this is a part of my past life that I have only hinted about here. Partly because I have this fear that a student will stumble across it. Or that maybe I am not totally all the way fixed. And feel like I should be before I start writing about it. Which really means there is shame. And fear of accountability. Because even though my bottom was a relatively high bottom. It was still an ugly lonely place. One that I would really like to avoid and not revisit. And even though over a decade has passed. It still feels pretty fragile. Like those broken pieces have been tenderly and carefully glued back together. But that it wouldn’t ta...

When I was ten I fell on a piece of glass and sliced open my left hand. The scar is thick and a little lumpy because I waited too long to get stitches. On my other hand is larger white scrappy scar from a bike injury. The involved me trying to beat the boys. My knees are thick with scars. More bikes, tennis courts and plain old clumsy. My son has a few already and he gladly shows them off. They are a testament to his toughness. The one on his back shows that he did in fact survive jumping (and falling off the bed). There is one on his chin that the ER doctors glued shut – we no longer practice diving in the bathtub. And a little one on his hairline that received a few staples. But I have a favorite scar. It is about 6 inches across and marks a thin pink raised line across my lower abdomen. My son’s delivery ended in an emergency c-section. After all the pushing and blood I really didn’t care how he got here. Even if it involved slicing across my belly and eventually 19 staples. Every n...

Lately those are a few of my favorite words to help me describe my faith. I’ve been saying I don’t know a lot. But that is always hard to spit out. Like I should know and just don’t. And a lot of time Christianity is presented in a fashion that makes you feel like you should know. Sermons with three perfectly alliterated points. Programs with steps to work and follow. Books with checklists, bullet points, and flowcharts. Yep. Way back before I had this blog I went to a show at the Ridglea theatre in Fort Worth. It is a pretty popular live music venue. But this particular night, there wasn’t a band. The house was packed and bartenders stood by to take your drink order. On stage, instead of an elaborate band set or lights was just a simple white board and a few black markers. Right on time, a man dressed very plainly (but with really cool glasses) walked onto the stage and started scribbling on the board. And talking. For hours this man talked and it was a different kind of sermon than I...

first beaches. Shaun is a mountain guy. And I love the mountains. But I am more of a beach girl. I love the sand and the smell and everything that comes with it. Even raw oysters and sunburns. So far I have yet to set foot on one this summer........but last year about this time I was in Cozumel and it was amazing. now the cheating. I am sitting on a few posts, but a few things (one tan blonde boy and fiesty little toddler) have kept me busy this week....so I am re-posting a favorite from last summer. Sunrise I don't think I have every really seen one. On purpose at least. Maybe some glipses on the way to work, but I have never just gotten out of bed early for the pure intent on watching the sun rise. It is worth it I hear, and I felt like there would be no better place to witness one than my last morning in Cozumel. I had this romanticized picture of me on the beach with a cup of coffee, talking to God and snapping the kind of photos that belonged on the front of a postcard. So I g...

I just got home from church. Well, not really church exactly. But it felt like it in the best kinds of ways. No one was wearing there Sunday bests. Actually most people were wearing everything they owned. They smelled bad. There was coffee and cigarettes. No one was pretending. And everyone was hungry. As I walked into Unity Park, A park that serves as a refuge to the homeless residents of downtown Fort Worth, A homeless man named Tim walked up to me and asked me to read what he had written the night before. The opening prayer. It was scribbled on the back of his doctor’s appt to the free clinic. A modern day psalm that was truly better than anything I have ever posted on here. There were warm greetings and smiles and shy glances. The sacrament was watermelon and ice water. And everyone was welcome to the table. The worship was being played next to me by a man in uncomfortable looking robes. A modern day monk. With a guitar. Singing his praises, and I couldn’t help but join in. The mes...

Altar calls always make me cringe. Which then makes me feel guilty. Which makes me wonder if I should be mouthing along. Just in case. It is a vicious cycle. This week our Sunday School class finished up a video study we are doing. The study was good. The story powerful and the speaker polished. Even if her bright orange overcoat matched the exact shade of her hair and she was occasionally a little too kitschy for me. She made a lot of good points. Had an amazing story and had made me think and occasionally cry over the last few weeks. But her altar call made my eyes glaze over. I tried to tune her out and not get irritated. She said the usual verses, leading in of course with John 3:16. She even threw out the classic, “If you died tonight, do you know where you would spend eternity” card. And very eloquently laid it all out and asked the audience and viewers to follow along. And I couldn’t help but think, isn’t there more than that. More than escaping hell. More than some perfectly cr...

Today we were working on some problems in my physics class. They weren’t all that tough but I was still barraged with questions. Some of my kids just wanted me to give them the answers. Some of the others had the answer and just wanted me to tell them that they were right. And lets be honest, half the kids were just copying each others. But, I really didn’t care if they were right. All I wanted was them to learn how to work the problem on their own. Meaning I am more concerned with them learning a concept and skill than I am about them actually getting the right answer every time. And giving it to them doesn’t really teach them anything. And copying may get them the right answer once....but they won't be able to use it in the long run. And yes, this means that sometimes they get it wrong, but that is the risk I take when I really want them to learn something. Tonight I was at a book club, which is often more like a bible study and we started to have some pretty differing opinions. ...

My son is the littlest. He is a full head shorter than everyone else on his team. We get hand me down bikes and clothes from my friend’s 3 year old ( we are almost 5). He still has a pair of 18 month jeans that fit ( mostly we wear 3Ts though). And the other day when I picked him up from school his whole class was lined up. And he was the shortest. Even compared to the girls. I worry about this. Mostly about what will happen when he gets to junior high. Or when his little sister surpasses him (and she is well on her way, she must have gotten my dad’s tall genes). But he doesn’t seem to know yet. Yet. Every few weeks or so he asks me to measure him against the door frame so he can see how much he is growing. The frame is filled with little sharpie marks and ages. More often than not when we stand against the door it is in fact time to make a new mark. Progress in centimeters. And just yesterday he told me that he was tall. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he wasn’t. And probably...

Tess has been pacifier free for over 72 hours. I’m not sure who is suffering more. Me or Her. My little girl who used to go to sleep without even a whimper at 8:00 pm on the dot, now screams for over an hour first. Even if I am holding her. She searches everywhere in case she has just misplaced it. Under the pillow, under the bed….hoping that she will find a pacifier there. But mostly she just lays there and cries….….I mean screams. Instead of seconds of bonding before bed we now have hours. And last night as she lay there crying while I tried everything I could thing of Reading, singing, praying, etc. I thought about her loss a little. And I was quickly losing patience, and lots of much needed sleep to this incessant crying. Because to me, it is just a pacifier. A baby phase that I wish we could hang on to for just a while longer… But thanks to super sensitive skin and multiple ear infections the pediatrician encouraged us to let go now. But to her it is her comfort. And as she scream...