tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4148625176071605272024-03-13T05:37:44.427-06:00The Exciting and Wonderful Business of Being Alive"We can't stop the road of time. We have to keep on going. And growing up is all part of it, the exciting and wonderful business of being alive." -Madeline L'EngleVanessa Bushhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06855245952210689370noreply@blogger.comBlogger13125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-414862517607160527.post-37677668484722601682011-05-28T09:03:00.002-06:002011-06-07T06:31:23.518-06:00Typewriter Man<i>A few months ago in Satellite Coffee in Nob Hill in Albuquerque, I saw an old man typing on a typ</i>e<i>writer surrounded by a sea of MacBooks and PCs. His story has been mulling around in my head for quite some time. Today it got out. </i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcx7WFRLUwxSNrq1p_ORi8UuO4WakUSzudi-n5RorTU2aK5NRdp2CfC7EeI2Mjye5D_S8tFzudp9xqPFs7mTeAmqCbpCh0_6f85tLIaRkG8QvIcQzrDuthAmmkRZsIh5tTMOQT0uMpzVg/s1600/a0036-000010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcx7WFRLUwxSNrq1p_ORi8UuO4WakUSzudi-n5RorTU2aK5NRdp2CfC7EeI2Mjye5D_S8tFzudp9xqPFs7mTeAmqCbpCh0_6f85tLIaRkG8QvIcQzrDuthAmmkRZsIh5tTMOQT0uMpzVg/s320/a0036-000010.jpg" width="313" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<i> </i>Grizzled beard but<br />
Knowing eyes lean over the obsolete keys<br />
Wrinkled hands poking<br />
Out of elbow-patched sleeves<br />
Gather the run-away thoughts<br />
Into phrases and clauses<br />
Each pound of a letter<br />
Results in a clickety slap<br />
Followed by an ink smattering<br />
Reminiscent of a literary era<br />
Now bartered for in antique stores<br />
Before the delete key existed<br />
When you had to be sure of each word<br />
Typing now is so haphazard<br />
But he is deliberate<br />
He clinches the past just as<br />
He grips the edge of the machine<br />
So it won't slide off his corduroy pants <br />
And the gurgle of the cappuccino maker<br />
Drowns out the sound of the<br />
Collegiate debate all full of hubris<br />
But the striking of the teeth-like keys<br />
Smacking the linen paper<br />
Echo louder than everything else<br />
As if to say you are too<br />
Rushed<br />
Let's forget time and forget<br />
Our to-do lists<br />
Come revel with me in the<br />
Perfect collection of words<br />
that do not defiantly glow back<br />
I control them, not the other way around<br />
And typewriter man silently, staunchly proclaims<br />
There by the barrel of coffee beans<br />
That he will sip life and savor it.Vanessa Bushhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06855245952210689370noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-414862517607160527.post-84891854358856016882011-02-25T10:53:00.001-07:002011-02-25T13:08:01.222-07:00When I Grow Up . . .<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguQsFLozkMk_6eXB0N2x8g50gjCzivtbiZyRMre6ornsNhZtT5kFa2PElAgr87gbWLxEd3aiNrvpMcO18SIWSzSBg5IZMAKVUdjZtRq9GUA7AI0NAxyiuw0A97hZQ3l9fMx7sXmDn84OM/s1600/100_5153.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguQsFLozkMk_6eXB0N2x8g50gjCzivtbiZyRMre6ornsNhZtT5kFa2PElAgr87gbWLxEd3aiNrvpMcO18SIWSzSBg5IZMAKVUdjZtRq9GUA7AI0NAxyiuw0A97hZQ3l9fMx7sXmDn84OM/s320/100_5153.JPG" width="198" /></a></div> Micah was star of the week at school. He got to make a poster all about himself and bring in a show-and-tell toy. This may be the epitome of kindergarten. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-FFzDU2JxkPN3KKCU4ZJd0S-QR_qqiUJB1LEpA00HdyQZWmVQHH1tDfcoBZ0csS24SJ29Pk_mC8pvf6NbOMW43Th9sBRrs_1nB7OkN2r309oMr7qnorua1gjUpukHVNJT9WTKkuYQUm4/s1600/100_5154.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-FFzDU2JxkPN3KKCU4ZJd0S-QR_qqiUJB1LEpA00HdyQZWmVQHH1tDfcoBZ0csS24SJ29Pk_mC8pvf6NbOMW43Th9sBRrs_1nB7OkN2r309oMr7qnorua1gjUpukHVNJT9WTKkuYQUm4/s320/100_5154.JPG" width="292" /></a></div>One of the things he put on the poster is so dear, I needed to save it here for posterity. <br />
<br />
The poster announces, "When I grow up, I want to be a soldier, a chef, a church planter, and a dad."<br />
<br />
Don't those four dreams say so much about a little man?<br />
<br />
<b>Soldier: </b>Micah was born with the fight in him. Most little boys are. No one has to teach them to use a weapon. If you don't buy them a play sword, they'll make one out of a stick or a pretzel. God plants in them the heart of a warrior to fight for his kingdom.<br />
<br />
<b>Chef: </b>Mommy watches too much Food Network.<br />
<br />
<b>Church planter and dad: </b>The little boy wants to be just like his own dad, which means his dad must be one to look up to.Vanessa Bushhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06855245952210689370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-414862517607160527.post-45446940537936601492011-02-25T10:35:00.003-07:002011-03-02T09:06:45.053-07:00Childlike Faith<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggZSYxvR0BTP5a0jyDnwyXlctRz7o9zjxg1IVQ2XiZaYNCkUotL25b6mzPdvq-3YZfa4Vq14wikJgvNVf0ZpAlId2k3FbIlKTftKSOc4FfN0A7fq54rrmba2ofCnK6eyVAX1Hbl7SX5Wg/s1600/garvey31+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggZSYxvR0BTP5a0jyDnwyXlctRz7o9zjxg1IVQ2XiZaYNCkUotL25b6mzPdvq-3YZfa4Vq14wikJgvNVf0ZpAlId2k3FbIlKTftKSOc4FfN0A7fq54rrmba2ofCnK6eyVAX1Hbl7SX5Wg/s320/garvey31+copy.jpg" width="231" /></a></div><br />
Oops. I haven't posted since September. Consistency has never been my strong suit. I get achy pretty often with words scratching and pressing to get out. I guess today the ache burst open.<br />
<br />
You see, lately<b> my youngest has been wiggling to shed his toddler skin</b>. I have a hundred stories of his most recent discoveries and antics and thoughts come aloud.<br />
<br />
Just this morning he was frustrated because he couldn't see his own head. And when I went to cut up the strawberries for breakfast, there were three with bites out of them. Oh, this one!<br />
<br />
But my delight in my little one, and in his Creator, crescendoed this weekend reminding me that <b>it is not because of me, but in spite of me, that Corban's view of the unseen is developing along with his little body. </b><br />
<br />
He played in the bounce house, sang the song, <strike>ate </strike>gobbled the cake, watched as the presents were opened, and <b>went home a very contented young man with his orange helium balloon.</b> But the desert spring winds are kicking up early this year, and a big gust yanked the string from Corban's little grasp, and <b>we all watched as the prized balloon danced into the atmosphere. </b><br />
<br />
Immediately tears fell from his expressive brown eyes. "My balloon, my balloon!" <b>I tried to help him see the poetry in a balloon frolicking free in the breeze, but I was of no comfort. </b>Older brother was maybe a little more consoling.<br />
<br />
"Corban," said wise big brother, "<b>Just imagine your balloon is a gift to God. </b>You can give it to God as a present to tell him thank you." Corban's tears abated, but the whole ride home I could hear an occasional sob from the back seat.<br />
<br />
Corban prayed before dinner that evening. "Dear God, Thank you for Mommy and Daddy and Micah and the ketchup. <b>Please send my orange balloon back to me. </b>Amen."<br />
<br />
Then it was my turn for tears. <b>This was his first true request from the Almighty, his first honest expression of his own two-year-old faith.</b> I think his previous prayers had been copies or promptings. But here he was revealing his own heart-felt longings to the Maker of Heaven and Earth. Oh, Lord, may this be the first in a long line of precious and candid conversations with you. <br />
<br />
His faith is big though. <b>He hasn't grown jaded by vague perceptions of unanswered prayers or untruthful ideas that God doesn't really care. </b>Colossians 4:2 instructs us, "Continue steadfastly in prayer, being watchful in it with thanksgiving."<br />
<br />
And Corban was watchful. Driving to the grocery store two days later, he spied an orange balloon floating high over the grand opening of a dry cleaner. "My balloon!," he squealed, "God sent it back to me!" And he smiled, blissfully admiring his orange balloon as I pushed the grocery cart inside as slowly as possible. <br />
<div style="color: #b45f06;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #b45f06;">"Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it." -Jesus in Luke 18:17</div>Vanessa Bushhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06855245952210689370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-414862517607160527.post-80198686477230598412010-09-16T11:56:00.003-06:002011-02-25T13:18:37.341-07:00The Purpose in All This Book Learnin'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvQjIw3Ch3OMCtGmc2X2RvrLT4Kj58kkecnzMvElL2velgmaMfEEI2sBn7S7a5llZvyQwV_jxywy1eC-JYw0b0lNTM0lYnRZHgAzumC1UmtPEAXJBDPVmeLeHjCD_7Q-W4u5e02311t0I/s1600/apple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvQjIw3Ch3OMCtGmc2X2RvrLT4Kj58kkecnzMvElL2velgmaMfEEI2sBn7S7a5llZvyQwV_jxywy1eC-JYw0b0lNTM0lYnRZHgAzumC1UmtPEAXJBDPVmeLeHjCD_7Q-W4u5e02311t0I/s320/apple.jpg" /></a></div>I admit I was a huge dork of a student. <b>Gold stars were my language, and A's were my ultimate in satisfaction. </b> I can remember stinging tears of shame and a sinking feeling of disappointment when papers came back to me with a less than perfect score. <br />
<br />
And guess who is just like his mom? One of the first things about school Micah told me is the paper apple each student has hanging on a bulletin board. If they are well-behaved and complete their work, they get a scratch-and-sniff sticker on the apple, and when they've accumulated enough stickers that waft root beer and cotton candy, they get to choose a prize from the treasure box. <b>You would have thought Micah had climbed Mount Everest that first time he got to dig his little hand into the treasure chest of toys from Taiwan.</b><br />
<br />
I now see that lust for gold stars was pride. I wanted to be better than everyone else, and I was seeking approval from others through my school work. Rather than finding my identity in Jesus, I found it in being a straight-A student. And the cycle could continue if I let it. I could be so intent on the destination of being the best mom or the best teacher or the best wife or the best leader that I lose sight of the journey. <b>And what happens when I get a D- in parenting on Wednesday? I don't just have a bad day; I lose myself. </b> So I must guard against allowing my roles to become me.<br />
<br />
And how do I protect my little boys from falling into the performance trap? I continually consider the end game. What is the purpose of education? Haven't all teachers and parents had students ask them indignantly, "Why do I have to learn algebra or grammar or chemistry? I'm not going to be a mathematician or a grammarian or a chemist." You're totally right. I want to say. Diagramming sentences is completely impractical. You will never diagram in the real world. <br />
<br />
But this is where we as a society of educators and institutions have sadly fallen short. We've told our students the purpose of education is to get a good job someday. So we do well in school so we can get into a good college so we can get a good job so we can make lots of money so we can send our own children to the best schools so they can do well so they can get into a good college so they can get a good job. And the cycle becomes one of endless futility. <b>Is the purpose of education to turn children into greedy workaholics? </b>Is having a good job wrong? No, of course not. But there has to be more than money on the line for the seventeen years (or more) of eight-hour days we all sit in a desk with a number 2 pencil in our hands. <br />
<br />
John Milton said, "The end of learning is to repair the ruin of our first parents." As an educator first to my own children and then to other students placed under my care, <b>I must remember that the intellect shares a space with the soul. I cannot feed one without affecting the other.</b> <b> </b>The goal of education in our home is wisdom. Proverbs tells us wisdom is more precious than rubies, and nothing we desire can compare with it. Reason can only be acquired through wisdom. And reason is what our souls use to perceive reality. The knowledge a student gains seeps into their souls to perfect their ability reason. And, of course, the beginning of wisdom is respect for the Lord, so Nate and I train our children from a very young age to honor God.<br />
<br />
Micah attends a university-model school which means he learns at home for two days a week. I must keep the end goal in mind on the days when lessons don't go exactly as planned or on the days when he gets prideful because he does so well. Why are we here? Why do we sit at this table sounding out words, singing songs in a dead language, and memorizing the continents? <b>We do this because the end goal is wisdom. </b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
<div style="font-family: 'Charis SIL',charis,Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">Blessed is the one who finds wisdom, and the one who gets understanding, for the gain from her is better than gain from silver and her profit better than</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 6px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;"> </span></i></span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;">gold. Proverbs 3:13-14</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #b45f06;"><br />
</span></i><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Post script: A special thanks to my dear husband <a href="http://www.natebush.com/">Nate</a> and my fellow educators at <a href="http://www.pottersschool.org/">The Potter's School</a>, <a href="http://www.takeheed.org/">HEED</a>, and <a href="http://www.oakgroveclassical.com/">Oak Grove Classical Academy </a>for much of the above content. </span> </span></div><div style="font-family: 'Charis SIL',charis,Verdana,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 16px;"><br />
</div>Vanessa Bushhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06855245952210689370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-414862517607160527.post-57048340107290658462010-09-03T08:33:00.006-06:002011-02-25T13:19:45.735-07:00For the Love of a City<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDEt4Vqg0pL4PuBTcLWgZ3URFqGCLWhCNrWiczNxMJkIcqkZfeK0V6HAsH2sNhz6MmqLBJDLdvnRYWiFbyJHay5mYTDFJbd7iDDLXMBvQpK1_UlnTLM9asfht6bw7ePXNi4Zw9S7kfj50/s1600/albuquerque-photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDEt4Vqg0pL4PuBTcLWgZ3URFqGCLWhCNrWiczNxMJkIcqkZfeK0V6HAsH2sNhz6MmqLBJDLdvnRYWiFbyJHay5mYTDFJbd7iDDLXMBvQpK1_UlnTLM9asfht6bw7ePXNi4Zw9S7kfj50/s320/albuquerque-photo.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Milestones have a way of making me nostalgic. One year ago today a red Dogde Caravan filled with a visionary pastor and his hopeful wife, two wiggly boys, an overwrought cat, bulging suitcases, an heirloom kitchen table, and way too many fast food wrappers passed through a canyon and rounded a bend in I 40 from behind the Sandia Mountains. <br />
<br />
I can remember catching that first glimpse of Albuquerque. I had seen it before from an airplane, but that visit was different. Then it wasn't our city. Now it was ours. It was our mission field, where we had been sent. Our purpose lay inside those miniature doll houses and drove in those toy cars and walked by the side of that ribbon of water meandering through the metropolis. I knew no one, but I was already in love. <br />
<br />
If you've been pregnant, you know. You've felt the love of something not yet actualized. I was in love with a church that didn't yet exist, and I had dreams for people whom I had never met. My heart was breaking, and still does, for people who are marginalized and hurting in this city. Every day I drive down Paseo del Norte and get a view of the whole city and still get choked up for the masses who might feel lonely, who might need hope. Especially when I see the whole city a night, I can't help but think that behind each twinkling light is a story, a soul. Each person behind each lamp will be somewhere in a million years.<br />
<br />
I didn't know it was possible to feel so at home in one year. I think God has a way of showing you where you're supposed to be. New Mexico has become my home. I have embraced her beauty and her eccentricity, and she has enchanted me. In honor of our one year anniversary I've compiled this list of 52 things, one for every week we've been here, I love about this place.<br />
<br />
1. <a href="http://www.newcityabq.org/">New City Christian Church </a><br />
2. Magnificent city vistas<br />
3. Brilliant sunsets that turn the mountain pink<br />
4. <a href="http://vanessa-bush.blogspot.com/2010/09/ordinary-moments-of-grandeur.html">Hiking in the Sandias</a><br />
5. Wildflowers<br />
6. Hiking the volcanos<br />
7. Walking in the Bosque<br />
8. Seasons<br />
9. Green chile<br />
10. Red chile<br />
11. The smoky, spicy smell of roasted chile in the fall outside every supermarket<br />
12. Nob Hill<br />
13. Chile ristas<br />
14. A short drive and you can be in the middle of nowhere<br />
15. Farmer's markets<br />
16. Junk shops on 4th Street<br />
17. Our bustling house<br />
18. Camping<br />
19. Good neighbors<br />
20. The mesa behind our house<br />
21. The drive down Paseo<br />
22. Oak Grove Classical Academy<br />
23. MOMS Club Ventana Ranch Central<br />
24. Hippies<br />
25. The Rio Grande<br />
26. Leaves that turn yellow<br />
27. The ABQ Zoo<br />
28. The ABQ Botanic Gardens<br />
29. Explora<br />
30. Tumbleweeds<br />
31. Farm animals in the middle of the city<br />
32. The Frontier Restaurant<br />
33. The Lobos<br />
34. Roadrunners on my back wall<br />
35. <a href="http://vanessa-bush.blogspot.com/2010/06/desert-rain.html">Desert rain storms</a><br />
36. Turquoise jewelry<br />
37. Cowboy boots<br />
38. Cottonwood fairies<br />
39. Wide sidewalks in Ventana Ranch<br />
40. Lavender in the summer<br />
41. Good friends for my boys<br />
42. Sophia's Place<br />
43. The Petroglyphs<br />
44. El Pinto<br />
45. Enormous blue sky<br />
46. Snow on the mountain in the winter<br />
47. Balloon fiesta<br />
48. Dry air, which equals great hair!<br />
49. Turquoise Trail<br />
50. Madrid<br />
51. The diversity<br />
52. A big city that feels like a small townVanessa Bushhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06855245952210689370noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-414862517607160527.post-36643309515163236042010-09-02T06:59:00.001-06:002011-02-25T13:20:19.324-07:00Ordinary Moments of Grandeur<i>Me: Make sure you remember what happens at school today so you can tell me what happens when you get home. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Micah: Ok, Mom. I'll write everything down in my mind. </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
And so he does. He gives details about what he played at recess, who he sat next to at lunch, and what book his teacher read aloud.<br />
<br />
I want to write the moments down in my mind, not so I can dwell in the past, but so I can realize the glory of the extraordinary in the everyday. Remembering the miracles will comfort when the load gets heavy and weight seems like too much to bear. And the miracles don't necessarily arrive on momentous occasions or special days, but they happen in the monotonous wanderings of our every day. <br />
<br />
So we left the dishes unwashed, and even though everything for Sunday was not quite ready, we hiked a trail expecting those miracles in the commonplace around every zig zag. And we were not disappointed.<br />
<br />
Fields of black-eyed susans<br />
<br />
Juicy raspberries right off thorny limbs<br />
<br />
Sweet mouths stained red<br />
<br />
Cool mountain breezes that erase the desert heat<br />
<br />
Aspen leaves fluttering their hello<br />
<br />
Little boys with sword sticks fighting enemy trees<br />
<br />
Majestic bucks surprised by our presence<br />
<br />
Fading purple flowers announcing summer's end<br />
<br />
Holding hands like young lovers<br />
<br />
So the pictures are on my camera, which I can't find right now, so I'm writing these ordinary moments of grandeur in my mind. <br />
<br />
<i>"I remember the days of old; I meditate on all that you have done; I ponder the work of your hands." Psalm 143:5</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i><br />
</i>Vanessa Bushhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06855245952210689370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-414862517607160527.post-85044291828257255742010-08-17T23:09:00.002-06:002017-08-31T11:35:40.759-06:00The Exciting and Wonderful Business of Being AliveHe had trouble falling asleep last night and bounded out of bed this morning. Micah was made for academia. "Do you think I'll learn how to read on my first day?" he asked me last week. Knowing how excited and ready he is to go to kindergarten certainly makes things easier for me, but this one giant step from babyhood to childhood still plays tug of war in heart. <b>If growing up is good and natural, why does it burn and ache?</b><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip7YbP2JU_51s73vuNEsUs7w9H1V5U-908tcVW4WOfjtkwi7HcblTSHX98R967rZpijQ2VQU4wE3NKDliUFsrLyvGBLkhMl0JSi2CANMgzrrPd7wakMX1zHABb0ZrgHhZyLXFc5d8S-dk/s1600/100_4830.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip7YbP2JU_51s73vuNEsUs7w9H1V5U-908tcVW4WOfjtkwi7HcblTSHX98R967rZpijQ2VQU4wE3NKDliUFsrLyvGBLkhMl0JSi2CANMgzrrPd7wakMX1zHABb0ZrgHhZyLXFc5d8S-dk/s320/100_4830.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">excuse the bed head</td></tr>
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I tried to make this morning special, with "K" is for kindergarten pancakes and a fun photo session, but I mourned for yesterday, the last day before school began. <b>It's those last days that can slip from our minds.</b> I don't remember the last time I changed his diaper or the last day he crawled or the last day we had our "copy" together. (He used to drink his milk on my lap every morning, but he called his drink coffee or "copy." For years any morning drink he had was coffee.) <b>Did I treasure the last while anticipating the first?</b></div>
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Micah and I have been together practically every day for his five years of life. I have rocked him and kissed his boo boos and shushed away the nightmares. This milestone seems to have come so quickly. I miss hearing his chatter and his imaginary play. I miss just knowing he's with me. <b>Who else can love him like I can? </b></div>
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I sent him off with a Bible verse this morning. I chose it to make him feel better, but it probably did me more good than him. Joshua 1:9 says, <i>"Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you</i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span><i>go." </i><b>There is someone who loves him more than I can. </b></div>
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When I'm tempted to hold him too tight rather than allow him incremental independence, a quotation from Madeline L'Engle's novel <i>Meet the Austins</i> reminds me about breathing in and out. <i><b>"We can't stop the road of time. We have to keep on going. And growing up is all part of it, the exciting and wonderful business of being alive."</b></i></div>
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I shed my tears. I mourned the end of babyhood. But perhaps part of it is a prideful mourning. I'm mourning that he doesn't need me as much as he used to. And there are so many things to be thankful for in this new chapter. </div>
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Precious time alone with sweet Corban</div>
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Brothers who missed each other today. They're sleeping in the same bed right now.</div>
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A comfortable teacher, Mrs. Rhodes</div>
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Arts & crafts presents at the end of the school day</div>
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New friends</div>
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A little boy who loves to learn new things</div>
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A Heavenly Father who makes up for my earthly flaws</div>
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The promise of the future</div>
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Vanessa Bushhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06855245952210689370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-414862517607160527.post-69684973800986449482010-08-01T21:58:00.001-06:002011-02-25T13:24:03.585-07:00The Opposite of Love<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4bRrm0DjfLtcfAz2h0tO9YHuf6PleHrqzKQwp6iP6yl_oWcbr-U_lIULHd92rnXiBn5__G8DXUi_cDRJheHcPyejjgt5E3KUJZMS3nPJekOrrybeoFP_bknQNySn1We63dRfNULcPT1o/s1600/200113537-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4bRrm0DjfLtcfAz2h0tO9YHuf6PleHrqzKQwp6iP6yl_oWcbr-U_lIULHd92rnXiBn5__G8DXUi_cDRJheHcPyejjgt5E3KUJZMS3nPJekOrrybeoFP_bknQNySn1We63dRfNULcPT1o/s320/200113537-001.jpg" /></a></div><div><br />
</div><div>Elie Wiesel<i>, </i>who translated darkness into words in his Holocaust memoir <i>Night, </i>once said, "The opposite of love is not hate; it's indifference." You have heard of the many who stood by, hungry for their own personal security, as millions of innocents shuffled helplessly into gas chambers. Wiesel mentions some of them in his book. He recalls marching with his fellow breathing corpses through German towns, watching the Nazi soldiers flirt with the girls who lived there, knowing those citizens witnessed injustice and stood by without a word. Silence can murder.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Surely in this modern era, in the most prosperous country in the history of the world, we cannot be capable of such atrocities. Surely not. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Stroller wheels spin as I march into the mall on a mission. "Just two stores." I reassure my boys we won't be long. But a panicked face meets my eyes beside the 25% off jeans. "Dominic!" she calls. Silence. "Are you OK?" I ask. "I can't find my son. He was just here. Dominic!" I and one other lady sift through clothes racks straining for a glimpse of a yellow shirt. We call security. </div><div><br />
</div><div>A store full of consumers stare as they stand in line at the register and decide which color tank top they must have. "What's wrong with you?" I want to scream. "This is a little boy! He's lost. Why are you just standing there? Help this mother! Can't you see the terror in her eyes?" But my dry throat and my own cowardice can't mouth the words.</div><div><br />
</div><div>I scan the kiosks outside the store. Maybe someone saw him. I ask each kiosk worker, "Have you seen a little boy. He's five, this tall, wearing a yellow shirt." Nonchalant answers return to me as one worker paints her nails and another finishes his sandwich. "This is a person! Put yourself in this mother's shoes," my soul screams out, but I move on and search the food court, where I meet a security guard slowly strolling towards the frantic mother. "Do you know there's a lost child?" I ask. "Yeah, we found him," she carelessly replies. They found him near the carousel. Tears flow freely from the mother's face now that the crisis has passed. </div><div><br />
</div><div>But the crisis of self-centeredness is rampant, attacking one heart after another, leaving its victims cold and indifferent. It is not enough to simply not do bad stuff. Avoiding harming others is not enough. It is passive. We must act, and we must act in love. What can we do, what can I do, to avoid letting our lives be just about gaining security and peace for myself? How can I make sure I am constantly aware of others' needs, of others' hurts, of our world's injustices? And what am I going to do about it? </div><div><br />
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</div>Vanessa Bushhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06855245952210689370noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-414862517607160527.post-55694846440960944612010-07-09T08:49:00.001-06:002010-07-09T08:59:47.470-06:00Redeem the Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH8iHyL-LO7Ljd40hEiDTeGdv4cz2mnL_Y-ShTXaPxCqNqNEUTJ2om4oi2-BvZK6rTG-Kv5xeXcb3JqNAnOpUZ4p2YDKaAvuThLyp1-Hb7bOQw96jPld3HM_poIykcxEzGByDrPZ71YSc/s1600/200376191-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH8iHyL-LO7Ljd40hEiDTeGdv4cz2mnL_Y-ShTXaPxCqNqNEUTJ2om4oi2-BvZK6rTG-Kv5xeXcb3JqNAnOpUZ4p2YDKaAvuThLyp1-Hb7bOQw96jPld3HM_poIykcxEzGByDrPZ71YSc/s320/200376191-001.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;"><i>The purpose of learning is growth, and our minds, unlike our bodies, can continue growing as long as we live. </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;"><i>--</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: 12px;"><i>Mortimer Adler</i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px;"><i><br />
</i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Coffee stains, tomato splatter, and watermelon juice polka dot my kitchen floor. Didn't I just mop two day ago? Yes, but I have two little boys. <b> Mopping used to be one of my most dreaded chores, but it's become my favorite because I decided to redeem the time. </b> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When tired little bodies, exhausted from the days' work of rock throwing and brother wrestling and ant watching, cozy up under the covers, I learn. <b>I've imbibed college courses and countless sermons so that in the process of scrubbing my house, I've also been given the tools to scrub my own heart. </b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>I will never stop learning. My funeral will be my commencement ceremony. </b>Long drives and long walks are other occasions when I redeem the time by learning something new. If you are commuting to the latest pop tunes or only listening the roar of the vacuum cleaner when you do housework, here are some of my favorites to download to your iPod. All of the following can be found on iTunes for free! </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><br />
</b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Mark Moore</b>--a professor at Ozark Christian College. Puts his courses online to educate the church at large. <a href="http://markmoore.org/">http://markmoore.org</a> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Tim Keller</b>--one of the brightest minds in Christian thought today. Pastor of Redeemer Presbytarian Church in New York City. Author of <i>Prodigal God</i> and <i>The Reason for God</i>, two must reads. <a href="http://sermons.redeemer.com/store/index.cfm?fuseaction=category.display&Category_id=11">Redeemer Sermon Store</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Matt Chandler</b>--pastor of The Village Church near Dallas, TX. <a href="http://fm.thevillagechurch.net/sermons">Village Church Resources</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>John Piper</b>--pastor at Bethlehem Baptist Church in Minneapolis. Author of countless books. Find resources from him at <a href="http://desiringGod.com/">desiringGod.com</a>.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Mark Driscoll</b>--pastor at Mars Hill Church in Seattle. Go <a href="http://www.marshillchurch.org/media/sermons">here </a>to download his stuff. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>TED</b>--TED is a non-profit organization dedicated to Ideas Worth Spreading. TED is a conference that brings together great minds from all over the world. <a href="http://TED.com/">TED.com</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b>Nate Bush</b>--pastor of <a href="http://newcityabq.org/">New City Christian Church </a>and my husband. :)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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</span></span>Vanessa Bushhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06855245952210689370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-414862517607160527.post-80256709323518393392010-07-03T20:06:00.003-06:002011-02-25T15:40:53.409-07:00Girls Are Yucky<i>Micah: I met someone at swim class who's going to kindergarten too. </i><br />
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<i>Me: Oh, yeah, are you friends?</i><br />
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<i>Micah (with disdain): No way, she's a girl!</i><br />
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<i>Me: That's not very kind. Why can't you be friends with a girl?</i><br />
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<i>Micah (with serious contempt): Because they smell!</i><br />
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<i>Me (trying to stifle a laugh): They do? </i><br />
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<i>Micah: Yeah, they smell like girl. </i><br />
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<i>Me (so glad I'm driving so he can't see me grinning): What do girls smell like?</i><br />
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<i>Micah: Like pretty stuff.</i><br />
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<i>Me: Do I smell?</i><br />
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<i>Micah: No, girls in your own family aren't smelly. </i><br />
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Even though it was a few days ago, I can't stop chuckling over this little exchange. I love to glimpse inside my children's logic.<br />
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While I'm hoping Micah's distaste for the opposite sex will remain intact for another fifteen years at least, I can't help but imagine the young lady that might capture his heart should it be God's plan for him to marry. <br />
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What is she doing right now? What are her little girl dreams? <b>How is God preparing her right now to be my son's wife?</b><br />
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I know that my mother-in-law prayed for me long before she knew it was I who would walk down the aisle to her son. And I'm sure those prayers, along with my own family praying for me, protected me from my own immaturity, sinfulness, and lack of wisdom to prepare me to stand and live and work side-by-side with Nate.<br />
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<b>So I'm praying for you, little girls, whoever you might be. </b> Little girls whom my sons will cleave to when they leave me. Little girls who will wash my sons' grown man socks. Little girls who will rock my grandchildren to sleep. Little girls who will interlock fingers with my sons and walk with them through the hard times. I think I love you already.Vanessa Bushhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06855245952210689370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-414862517607160527.post-78349989977912331982010-06-08T15:14:00.006-06:002011-02-25T13:25:22.445-07:00Desert Rain<div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMxFyIMY4qH_8lP-o8nQHT1nUxhi5_uoJevJcOlfJQdayR8nLpGKi8Rg5tc-SOQ3FBShxWnuqKb7kw6xRhEHLvMPTkSV0ZfqtPCa5n0eZvxga0nXdae3_BEods0mle8L5dviP9u7sMnIw/s1600/desert+rain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMxFyIMY4qH_8lP-o8nQHT1nUxhi5_uoJevJcOlfJQdayR8nLpGKi8Rg5tc-SOQ3FBShxWnuqKb7kw6xRhEHLvMPTkSV0ZfqtPCa5n0eZvxga0nXdae3_BEods0mle8L5dviP9u7sMnIw/s320/desert+rain.jpg" /></a></div>I stomped. I shouted. Grouchy reigned the day. <b>A layer of dust covered my soul when I saw the clouds start to roll in over the wide-open mesa. </b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Because I grew up and lived most of my life in Florida, rain storms used to be a comforting afternoon ritual for me. But here in the desert they are a treat, a surprise. A rumble of thunder and everyone rushes to the window scanning the sky for a drink. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can smell the wetness wuthering in from far way, so I close the windows in anticipation. Rain in the desert has an unmistakable scent. The drops come in big splashes, and our yellowed grass seems to stick out its tongue. <b>My withered heart feels the freshness too as I watch the world being washed anew.</b> Desert dusty air is clean again, and I ask for a do-over. <br />
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Do-overs began when our rings were still shiny and our eyes were still starry. A misspoken word or rolled eyes or unthoughtful actions could be recanted with a simple request for a do-over. The lovers reconcile. <b>Sometimes apologies come in the form of "can we start over?" from our little boys who are enrolled in the University of Relationships in our own home. </b>Their momma is more than happy to respond with grace since she knows she often needs it too.<br />
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And that's what I did during the rain storm that literally cleared the air. I got down on my knees and looked into a wide-eyed pair of blue eyes and mischievous pair of big brown eyes and told them I was wrong and asked for a do-over. <b>Hugs and cuddles and giving my children the opportunity to live the Gospel of forgiveness happens in the every day right next to the sliding glass door, where the rain drops glisten on greener grass. </b><br />
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Does your family have any rituals that help your relationships flourish?</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div>Vanessa Bushhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06855245952210689370noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-414862517607160527.post-14996438298419145692010-05-28T07:37:00.004-06:002011-02-25T13:26:15.776-07:00Fictional Reality<div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh76uF0GQK1zbhqeMkjcEwRBITNQ4jw9fsKKv0808n2sXAyY6FF5g08NyzikjRkgseRj5tHK5yAEsa7aY02goZzJHffr0pD-0Aa9KIVTNAmEH37KcSln0qVkxH_Syr0FOVS2f6SX9ezfpM/s1600/silverchair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh76uF0GQK1zbhqeMkjcEwRBITNQ4jw9fsKKv0808n2sXAyY6FF5g08NyzikjRkgseRj5tHK5yAEsa7aY02goZzJHffr0pD-0Aa9KIVTNAmEH37KcSln0qVkxH_Syr0FOVS2f6SX9ezfpM/s320/silverchair.jpg" /></a></div><br />
My favorite time of night. The desert wind gusts through the screen and fans the pages glowing orange in the late summer sunset. A freshly shampooed, curly head cuddles up close. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Is this the last chapter tonight, Mom?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Last one,” I reply with a bittersweet tone. Saying goodbye to a friend is never easy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span">The reality in the fiction hits my heart tonight. Salty, halting words tumble out. </span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s OK, Mommy, don’t cry. It’s just a story.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span">He doesn’t yet realize that the best stories are the most true. </span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I’m doing it again. He’s used to it. I did it when Jack the faithful bulldog died, when Laura’s home burnt down, when Eustace was undragoned, and when Christian reached the Celestial City. I’ll do it again, I’m sure. We’re only at the beginning of our literary journey. So many old friends are left for me to introduce him to. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I was just thinking about what it will be like to meet Jesus like King Caspian is meeting Aslan.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, now I see why you’re crying.” A knowing missing-toothed smile soothes me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After the covers are tucked in tight, I retreat. More tears and a deep longing. Deeper than hunger or thirst. Deeper than love for a child, even love for a spouse, is my longing to know the reality of what sometimes seems fictional because it's just that fantastical.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Vanessa Bushhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06855245952210689370noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-414862517607160527.post-40583092034221727712010-05-28T07:24:00.000-06:002010-05-28T07:24:24.960-06:00Why Am I Writing a Blog?In the words of Lord Byron, "If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad."Vanessa Bushhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06855245952210689370noreply@blogger.com1