Frog update.

Later, when I checked on him, he had turned charcoal black. I grabbed the broom and swept him into the garden, and I was surprised his body still had wet weight to it. I guess I was expecting him to be weightless, like a chip.

Frog.

It's early Saturday morning, one of my favorite times. Quiet. Coffee. Bathrobe.

Last night I came home late and let the doggies out, and right before I closed the door I saw something on the pavement. It was a frog, on it's back, legs outstretched in the most unnatural way, dead. It surprised me, and I felt sad and grossed out at the same time. "Good grief," I said to myself and then shut the door, musing on how random and disgusting that was.

Then this morning when I let the doggies out again, there was that frog, same place, only this time right side up and with his legs in a normal position. He still looked sick, and one of his foggy feet looked like it was smashed onto the pavement and he was slowly trying to drag his body away from it. There was a dark wet spot all around him, like he was in the middle of a circle.

I just checked on him again and he still there, quiet and not moving. It's seriously upsetting.

Remember?

Everything is OK if I am dressed up and around people. Especially if it is people that don't know me especially well, even friends. It's easy to feel proud and strong in a stupid way; proud that he is doing what he is doing and that I am doing so darn well ALONE.

At the park, at church, at family dinners, at birthday parties, at weddings.

It's when I get in the car that it settles. The quietness, the loneliness. I don't cry very often, maybe twice a year, and this year each time has been while I am accelerating on the on ramp of the free-way. By the time I am actually on the free-way, I am all dried up again, even though I wish I could bawl all the way home.

Always, it's, Where's Joey?

I went to a wedding yesterday and in the vows each said to the other,

I will love you when we are together, and when we are apart.

The words hit me like a stick in my gut, and I wondered if any other married person in the room was feeling as uncomfortable as I was, self pity turning slowly into conviction.

I read Hosea, a book that has always grounded me in my marriage, reminding me of the unsettling truth that me marrying Joey had quite little to do with my own happiness and everything to do with God's ways; ways that are eternally good, ways that start with my own brokenness--

That's how I was brought to Joey. I was broken, I saw God's goodness, and I let myself, "be

chosen, blessed by love, as if anointed."

I forget this like it was a dream, and instead live everyday thinking that I direct my own paths. I create my own happiness.

Which is exactly what leads to the pitiful scene on the on ramp:

me teary-eyed, my heart like a dead weight in my body.

It's not that I have fallen out of love, it's that have forgotten my own vows, the promises of the God who is leading my every step, the blessing of the company of my soul mate, even if it's not on the weekends.

Push to hush.

I woke up early this morning. Fiebe is sitting on my lap, nestled like a hen. She licks the table constantly, which is as annoying as the BEEP! of the fire alarm yesterday, going off every fifteen seconds because it was time to change the batteries or something, but I couldn't figure out how to take the dumb thing apart to do it. Two days of that and I was ready to do whatever it took to rip the darn thing out of the ceiling and take a hammer to it, pulverizing it into powder. I got up on Ethan's dresser because with the ottoman I was still to short to reach it, and Ethan immediately told me, "Mama, you are going to fall." He ran away and then came back, carrying a heavy stool that was as tall as he was. "Here Mama, you need the stoo-el." His dad would have been incredibly proud of him, and extremely annoyed at me.

Anyways, I stayed on the dresser and I finally was able to read the teeny, barbie size lettering-after twisting and turning my neck and head in unbearable positions-near the flashing green light:

Push to hush.

It should read, Push to hush before you want to shoot yourself.

I pushed it and it made one final, piercing BEEEEEEEEEEEP and has been silent ever since.

Does it still work? I don't know. Do I care right now? Absolutely not.

My Poor, Neglected Blog

The weather out is absolutely beautiful. The trees are red and air has just a little brrr! to it, but nothing to get in a tissy about.
Ethan is growing up, just as they say they do, before my very eyes. He is rough and funny. The time I am with him feels stolen. More and more, I can't believe he is mine.
He sings constantly. He plays the guitar ("Can I make it bling, mommy?") I do my best to show him how to hold it but his little hand isn't big enough to cradle the neck. So he lets the neck rest on the floor and strums the strings with his other hand while singing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider." Which, by the way, is the song he requested I do for worship next Sunday.
Other than that life is insane.
I find myself in quiet moments repeating the 23rd Psalm or just telling myself to breath deeply.
I miss writing terribly but more so miss being aware of what is going on around me.