Love is something if you Give it away...

Sunday morning I read an article from the Huffington Post that a friend shared.  It was an excerpt from a book about a family in Atlanta that sold their home and gave half of what they owned to the Hunger Project.  The family's action was inspired by their 14 year old daughter who wanted to close the GAP between the haves and the have-nots when one day at a familiar intersection close to her house, was literally caught between the sparkle of a black mercedes and a homeless man who "lived" there.  This non-fiction tale is firing from my neurons. 

My thoughts then turned to Jesus' life on earth as a human. The day before I was randomly talking to Brett about how if I were half-God, half-human it would be easy to choose to come to earth and live without "material," that I could use my power to overcome the flesh.  My husband pointed out that because He was the son of God, it would be the most difficult knowing He could halt those who sought to hurt Him, and that He could live lavishly.  He chose to breathe humility and I think He knew it was the absolute WAY to be.  During the discussion it quickly became evident that I couldn't choose to give my life up cruelly for everyone who would ever exist in earth's space. What could I do? 

This article is a continuation of yesterday's thoughts.  I was thinking about how Jesus lived as a physical man, yet he didn't have a home, a stationary place of comfort, where he felt safe, like we as humans need.  I thought about "stuff," the stuff we collect and acquire for endless reasons that usually have to do with some malfunction in us, in society.  I pictured Jesus wearing one "outfit."  He probably carried a bed-roll and a thin blanket that He placed on the ground inside or out.  He placed his needs aside permanently.  That is why He went alone into the wilderness and fasted for 40 days and 40 nights, so He could overcome his human needs.  I, again, do not have the mental strength to allow myself to be fully exposed as He did.  What I can do is follow His direction, step onto that path of humility and awareness of Everything Other than me.   

I researched this family's message further and they said that not everyone can downsize and give half of it away but they can give half of their clothes away or ....  I am open to ideas being the minimalist that I am.

Mark and Annie are you O.K? Are you O.K. Annie?

                                     Gabe brought his groove but he was lost without his Gracie.
                                         I wanna hold your haaand, I wanna hold your hand. 

                       Gabe went with Gma to BK earlier and that crown was not coming off.

                                                      The dance stare down.

            Our (well my) version of Mark and Anne. Brett just loves to smile for the camera.

                                                     Their expressions just say it ALL!

A dance isn't complete until ice cream has been eaten!

Mark's thinking face (can't remember what about) but it must have been VERY important or something...

Gastropoda

                                                    C's class studying snails.   Lovely.

shirt model

our version of being a josh ritter shirt model

Generations

Today is my grandmother Fern's birthday.  I never knew her.  She died from kidney failure in 1975.  It feels strange to call someone I never knew Grandma, unless I feel a connection like Brett does to his mom's mom, Ardis who was a teacher.  If I seek for Fern maybe I will find it and feel it. Mom, Gabe, and I are going to the cemetary this week to visit her. 

Saturday morning I came downstairs to Camille and Gabe cuddling underneath heaps of Fancy Nancy and The Cow Who Jumped over the Moon fleece in Camille's 1920's rusted iron bed that we got from a woman in Bellingham whose daughter slept in it until she was eighteen.  Gabe loves to cuddle and will leap out of his (feet hit the wood floor) and leap into hers every morning.  I overheard Camille telling Gabe, "When I am twenty, you will be seventeen.  Soon, we won't live with Mom and Dad anymore.  They will be our Grandparents."  It makes me think, first (well, not exactly first because my mind doesn't work in chronological order) but that my two are changing.  I watched Camille across the table last night laughing, covered in blush.  We think we walk but we run into serious roles, become those before, a rather quick, abrupt movement when I venture into days before I was thirty-three and she was seven.         

the vomit chronicles

she isn't eating breakfast so she won't throw up.  no breakfast, 15 minutes for lunch=starvation.  friday afterschool at home she eats, eats, eats.  friday night at bob's she eats, eats, eats.  the vomiting is usually about an hour or two after she first sleeps.  she walks a disorienting sleep.  at least she makes it to the bathroom but a big MISS.  it attacks walls (yes, the s makes it plural), the garbage can (i bought a glass one for an easy dowsing), cupboards, every crack of the toilet, plant, rocks (did i just take you outside to continue this description), no, too many barriers.         

the vomit chronicles

take 2 (well, take a bazillion times over 7 years, but for documentation purposes) take 2. 
she's in counseling now with wonderful kacey.  her severe anxiety has shot up with a feirceness like the seattle center fountain.  she tries to abandon her vomiting coping mechanism (did i mention every day coping mechanism) and halfway trades it for an unbreakable attachment (like moss to a stump) to me.  am i the decomposing stump or is she?  we still have the vomit plus a new frenzied addition.  henk (clear lake's principal) will keep her with him while gabe and i grab hands and sprint while dodging behind cars so she can't see us.  i retreat after hours of defeat.  sit, breathe, cry.  hands on steering wheel.  drive away.  AWAY=guilty.  ringtone.  it's henk.  "she's fine.  i just walked her to class."  when i pick her up, i ask, "how was your day?"  her reply.  "it was awesome."  next morning repeat.  this isn't washing your hair.  the shampoo bottle is empty.