Dig, if you will, my new birthday present:
Don’t get excited. It’s plain black and not at all fabulous. Today I was shown how to prick my own finger–though I didn’t actually do it and I have my doubts as to whether or not I’ll be able to when the time comes (tomorrow morning). I’d rather set myself on fire. Thanks, kid #4!
Daughters: giving me grief since 1996.
Truth be told, I’m a terrific supplier of my own grief and I can’t blame my children at all for the fun things I’ve put myself through. With Cheyenne there was that whole teen pregnancy thing plus a good 18 years of stupidity in all aspects of life and parenting on my part.
And this is totally sort of off-subject, but I miss her so much that I’m literally sick, and I’m all hormonal and diabetic and I may or may not have just heated up a pop-tart and consumed the entire confection for dinner.
Anyway, because nobody asked, here’s some awesome stuff about The Walking Dead‘s Hershel: He started out in season 2 as a cranky, micro-managing country Christian dad who followed all the rules and said all the right things–but didn’t seem to have the heart to go along with his alleged faith. He was sort of a prick. I kind of hated him.
Then Hershel got schooled hard by zombies, got his leg chopped off, and got humble. He grew a beard and started actually doing things that Christ would want him to do, though he wasn’t always sure of what that was. He didn’t always have a right answer and he wasn’t always ready with the perfect bible verse. He admitted when he wrong. He admitted when he was sinful. He admitted when he was scared. And sometimes, he was just quiet.
Hershel went from being a selfish and entitled boss of everything, to a humble and caring servant of everyone. He protected the weak, fed the hungry, and counseled the cray. My favorite episode ends with Hershel the bad ass, slumped on the floor after a hard day of nursing dying people and killing zombies, sobbing uncontrollably, with his hand on an open bible in his lap–emphasis on the “open” part.
Let me just say, I’ve never stabbed a dead person in the head before, but I’ve had those days. I think we all have–some more than others, of course. It really doesn’t take much to overwhelm me–not a personal quality I’m proud of. A couple of hyperactive children on a rainy day, a forgetful husband, a minor tiff with a family member…anything unexpected and/or unpleasant, and I crumble and break.
I want to be like prison Hershel but I’m admittedly more like farm Hershel. I like to be right. I like to be in charge. I like my days to be predictable. Routine is awesome. Hard work always pays off. Rewards are positive and immediate.
If I’m good, then life is supposed to be good, and everyone in it. Right?
I know that’s not right.
But no matter how frustrated and tired I get, I know there are those who are beyond beaten and worn. We cannot give up. Jesus died–DIED–was tortured, died, and was buried, people–and rose again–to give us an ultimate hope. How powerful a thing is hope!
“We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.” –-Hebrews 6:19
Hope keeps us going. I can’t even scratch the surface on this concept. But here’s a thing: I am wrong a lot, I am sinful a lot more than a lot, and I am scared way more than I am courageous–and for all these things, I am so, so, sorry. I don’t have all the answers and I can’t always reference the perfect bible verse, but I know that whatever happens, God is there to guide my path.
(…maybe even with orange mocha frappuccinos, for when we sort out the really important issues. Full sugar.)