Archive for April, 2009

Come Away with Me

I’ve been waiting for just the right time to tell you that I (Melissa) am going, along with four other bloggers, with Compassion International to Kolkata (Calcutta), India. The “right” time has quickly turned into “oh my word, SERIOUSLY, we are leaving Friday!!!” And so here you have it. The five of us will be led by a handful of staunch Compassion-folk on an exciting adventure; a journey I can only guess will be filled with moments of piercing sadness but also bursts of laughter and stimulating conversation. A journey that engages and confronts all of the senses in an unexpected way and that makes an impression that lasts not just a week or two, but for a lifetime. I will be attempting to put this journey into words for you straight from Kolkata on this blog next week, April 26- May 2.

The first day I learned of this opportunity to go along with Compassion to Kolkata, I knew I was supposed to go. Period. Sometimes the Lord makes something unmistakably clear. I won’t ever forget the seriousness in Shaun Groves’ voice as he said, “Take your time making your decision, Melissa.” He said, “I’ve never been to Kolkata but from what I’ve heard, this may be one of the more difficult trips.” Now, I’ve heard the dude speak and sing and I thought he was supposed to be funny. Well, he wasn’t throwing the jokes. He actually sounded really serious. Even so, I didn’t have to take my time making the decision. It was just one of those moments. I take that back, I did have to ask Mr. Fitzpatrick what he thought first and he said, “You’ve gotta go. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.” I was actually stunned by his absolute selflessness. Well, let’s just say that the closer it gets to Friday the less I am seeing him effuse this virtue. Actually he is getting quite controlling. Every time I so much as cough he looks at me like, “And you’re going to Kolkata?” *Grin.* I guess it was easier for him to imagine it all when it was still months away.

Let me tell you, over the past month I have gotten some crazy reactions from people about my going to Kolkata. Most people look at me like I’ve lost my mind and I know exactly what they’re thinking… “Why not Paris or Amsterdam or somewhere even slightly pleasurable?” I want to say to them, “Life isn’t all about fun.” But I don’t. I just keep my mouth shut. And anyway, they obviously haven’t met any of the team I am going along with. It’s an entertaining group of people. A group that I suspect could have a little tiny bit of fun even in the darkest of places. Can’t keep the sarcasm from dripping off my computer screen when I glance over their emails. Oh, and I even had one girl tell me that India is “impossibly filthy” and that I need to watch out for the rats. The negative reactions were becoming tiresome, so I was pleased when the popular, Oscar-winning movie “Slumdog Millionaire” finally came out on DVD. The timing was totally ordained for us, don’t you think? I finally started getting some positive responses from people. You’ve gotta love pop-culture. I’ve been conveniently leaving out that we aren’t going to Mumbai and that Compassion International probably cares very little about us getting to meet the beautiful Latika in the flesh.

In spite of all the strange reactions I have gotten, there really are no words to express my excitement about going to Kolkata. I know that I am going to see poverty unlike anything I have ever seen before, but at the same time, who better to see it with than Compassion International – one of the world’s most effective Christian relief organizations? We aren’t going just to sit back and observe the poverty. We’re going with an organization that actually has the resolve to try and do something about it. I don’t know exactly what to expect and I’m trying not to assume much. My heart’s desire is just to go – to go with my heart and mind open. And by the way, I actually get to meet two of the children that Colin and I sponsor through Compassion. Like I actually get to have lunch with them.

I will tell you more about the details of our itinerary as next week unfolds, but for now I just wanted to tell you the news and ask for your thoughts and prayers as we prepare ourselves to head out this Friday. If you would be so kind and thoughtful to pray, here are my personal prayer requests:

1. Pray that my own cynicism wouldn’t rob me of a blessing. I’ve gotta be honest, I feel sort of faux for going on a trip like this. I’m not a missionary. I’m not an activist. And I’m certainly not a nun. I have the “comfort” (whatever significance that word really holds) of knowing I’m coming back to the United States in two weeks. That is the honest truth. And so I fight my own self-defeating thoughts. Thoughts like, “Melissa, you’re really nothing more than a tourist, nothing more than a weak poser wannabe missionary going over to Kolkata and acting like you’re some Mother Theresa type.” Since I have an all-or-nothing personality, I tend to feel defeated if I can’t go all out. For example, since I am not taking a vow of poverty or moving to work in Kolkata for the rest of my days, it makes me want to shrink back from doing anything at all. My own personal fear of false piety could keep me from entering into this experience and I don’t want it to. I want every fiber in my being to be impacted. Pray for me – that I’m not my own worst enemy.

2. Pray for Colin’s peace of mind. It is his responsibility to care for me; so naturally, he is a little concerned about my safety and whatnot. Please pray the Lord would have something unique in this experience for him as well, even though he will be in the States. He is, after all, as involved as I am with Compassion. He was actually the one who suggested that we sponsor our first Compassion child, Aimar, who lives in Colombia. It wasn’t even my idea. In that moment, I was actually more concerned about hiding our cash under the hardwood planks of our apartment. Right next to the one hundred pound bag of rice and ginormous jar of peanut butter. Kidding. Sort of.

3. Pray for my health. Please pray that my own physical weaknesses would not be a hindrance to me or to the team. I’ve had a series of intense migraines for the past few months, and while I plan to stuff Excedrin Migraine in every crevice of my suitcase, please pray for a supernatural release from these migraines. Even if it is only for this two week period. (Praise Him – He has given me a release in the past week, but I do pray that they will not return during the trip).

Oh, and I almost forgot, I need your advice. I am taking little care packages for both of our Compassion children in Kolkata. As you know, Colin and I don’t have our own kids, so I need your help. I have no idea what kids like. I consider myself an adult person and buying for kids does not come naturally to me. We have a nine-year-old boy named Manot and a twelve-year-old girl named Pramila. What do nine-year-old boys like? And what do twelve-year-old girls like? Now, I don’t want to rush over to India in a naïve Santa-Claus costume with a bagful of toys. I’m not going to put on a red superwoman cape and presume I could save their day. I can’t save their day. But at the same time, I want to make their day. I want to make their day special without making them feel overwhelmed or intimidated by too many gifts. In your opinion, where is the line? Do you have any thoughts? Ideas?

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Prayer Update

Hi ladies! I’m checking in to let you know that you prayed our Beth to Portland. Thank you, thank you, thank you for talking to our Father about it. He heard you and answered your prayers. I got a text from her a little while ago and she had just been picked up from the airport. We’re having some awful weather here in Houston today. I think the whole area is under a tornado watch until 5 p.m. She is so blessed that she didn’t have awful delays.

Could you pray now for her sleep? My mom often has a hard time sleeping after her Friday night sessions. I know she would be incredibly thankful to wake up refreshed tomorrow morning.

Thanks, y’all! Your intercession is priceless to us. May God be greatly glorified in Portland!

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Keepsakes

When I was a little girl, I used to love looking through my Raggedy Ann baby book. My mom had recorded every last detail of my infancy and early childhood in its pages. My favorite thing about the book was a small pouch inside where she had tucked away little keepsakes like our hospital bracelets.

Both of my kids have keepsake boxes where I’ve stored all kinds of little things. By the time Annabeth was 6 weeks old, hers was already almost full!

There are a few things that won’t fit in the boxes that I’m safeguarding for them. For instance, here’s a letter from President George W. Bush that welcomed Jackson to the world shortly after his birth.


(That’s no longer our address.)

And Annabeth just received this autographed book by former First Lady Laura Bush and her daughter Jenna.

I have a close friend who worked for President Bush during his administration, which is how both of these gifts came about. (I think these are really special keepsakes that my children will one day enjoy having, but I need to emphasize that I’m not trying to make a political statement by sharing these pictures.)

A couple of Christmases ago, Mom gave me a big box of my baby clothes that she had saved for me. I’ve had so much fun going through them!

I love this itty bitty t-shirt.

Annabeth wasn’t even a twinkle in our eyes when Mom gave me all these clothes. It never occurred to me that I would play dress up with my own daughter in these clothes one day. Mark it down – April 16, 2009 was the day!

Here’s my sweetie in a tiny pink dress that my grandmother bought me almost – gulp – 30 years ago. Isn’t she sweet?

What keepsakes are you saving for your children or future children? Or what keepsakes were saved for you?

*Bethie asked me to add a quick prayer request to my post. Tomorrow morning she is heading Portland, Oregon, for this weekend’s Living Proof Live event. Houston is supposed to have thunderstorms tomorrow, so will you please pray that her flight will be on time? Thanks, Siestas!

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Siesta Scripture Memory Team: Verse 8!

Greetings, You Sword-wielding Siestas!

It’s time for Verse 8! Can you believe it? Our Swords are getting sharper with every flip of a spiral! (It’s that kind of thing that Melissa responds to with, “Mom, you’re real sweet.” Translation: “You, Mom, are the Cheese Whiz in every 8 ounce jar.” You have to have some compassion on my girls. They’ve grown up with statements like, “Is your Sword in its sheath or are you using it?” It’s been hard being them. To this day, Travis Cottrell still brings up the fact that, for Amanda and Curtis’ rehearsal dinner at Pappasito’s, I made him help me stuff a piñata with Scripture verses written on little pieces of paper while we were driving from the church to the restaurant. I didn’t even realize it was weird until our next speaking engagement when he laughed until he cried and had to hold his side. He spared me the humiliation in that moment. After all, I was the MOB. The girls do, on occasion, make fun of me but at the end of the scorn, they each usually say something like, “I have never loved you more.” And it’s worth it.

And anyway, they’ve got plenty of their own weirdness. I had to talk Melissa out of having one of her professors do an exegetical explanation of the Trinity as part of her wedding ceremony. (And did I ever tell you that she originally wanted both her dad and me to walk her down the aisle?) And Amanda is more like her mother than she’d ever want to admit. She’s already started some Scripture memory with Jackson. It might not surprise you to know that his life verse is “Children, obey your parents for this is right.”

We’re freaks. Freaks that know their own flesh and don’t trust themselves for five minutes. Each one of us in our own way has proved ourselves stupid. We blow it but we know our way home. I love my family. We don’t let each other take ourselves too seriously.

Back to important things like cheerleading. The way I see it, cheerleaders have to be cheesy. And through our challenging year of Scripture memory, I, Girlfriend, am your (modestly dressed, ever-so-slightly outdated) cheerleader.

So here’s my Verse 8! It’s a 3-verse portion that I didn’t want to split up but, if you’d like to share it, you are welcome to select the one verse that speaks most clearly to you:

“In my anguish I cried to the LORD, and He answered me by setting me free. The LORD is with me; I will not be afraid. What can man do to me? The LORD is with me; He is my helper. I will look in triumph on my enemies.” Psalm 118:5-7 (NIV)

I LOVE IT! Will that, as my grandmother used to say, cure what ails you or what? Go kick some devil tail. In Jesus’ name.

Let’s hear your Scriptures, your names, your cities and your translations!

I love you,

Beth

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He is Risen!

Happy Easter, everyone! What a joyous day!

It’s AJ just stopping in to share some pictures with our Blog Peeps.

And by some pictures I mean many more pictures than you’d ever want to see.

On Saturday my cousin Joe, who’s in school to be a fireman, was in town participating in a fundraiser with a local fire department.
Cousin + access to a fire truck + three-year-old boy = no brainer.
We rolled out of bed and headed that way. In fact, Annabeth was still in her pajamas.

I got some fun stuff for my kids from the Target dollar section. Jackson was thrilled that Annabeth “wanted to share” all her goodies.

Those Cadbury mini-eggs were calling my name late last night and – gasp! – I opened them. My excuse is that I’ve been sick and that’s all that sounded good. They were delish.

After attending a wonderful worship service at our church, we went to Mom and Dad’s house for lunch. We were joined by my grandparents, my cousin Joe, and our friends Roger, Lynn, and Michelle. Mom was the hostess with the mostest. We were only missing Melissa and Colin and boy did we miss them!

You never know what will entertain a child. Here Jackson was rolling pieces of Trix cereal down his race car ramp.

It rained and stormed all morning, but then the sun came out and we had a beautiful day. We were excited to have the chance to do the Easter egg hunt outside.

Here’s the Easter Bibby hiding eggs.

All done!

Lynn was helping Jackson go through his Easter eggs when his sugar high kicked in. I now present a photographic series called “Progression of a Mess.” Please hear my child laughing, squealing, and yelling “Surprise!”

To top off an already great day, Curt’s mom just called and said our young nephew, Gavin, prayed to receive Christ last night. Praise the Lord!

I hope all of you had a wonderful weekend celebrating Christ our King. He is risen indeed!

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Thinking About Death and Healing

Hey, my Darling Ones!

I’m sitting in the bed in my jammies with pillows propped up behind my back on a rare morning off. I’ve just finished my quiet time and on my second cup of coffee. (I’m obviously a little behind on the coffee.) Keith’s still sound asleep and the dogs are in the backyard playing in some fresh mud. Oh, what they have done to my beautiful garden yard! But that’s another story. My mind is full of other things and I know a few good friends who might help me process it.

It’s Good Friday. I tend to have lots of heavy thoughts around this day every year. I do love Christmas so very much but I am far more moved by the season of reflection on the Cross of Christ and the celebration of our only true hope: His glorious resurrection. We are obviously so much surer of the timing of His Passion than we are His birth. We really can say, “Approximately this many years ago, this happened right around this exact time.” Anniversaries are a powerful thing.

Yesterday I served at the memorial service of a fellow servant of Christ. She was just a few years older than me and her children, both boys, are the same ages of my girls. Belinda and I don’t really have a family history together, though. We have a shared history of faith. Years ago, I suppose somewhere around 1990, I started teaching my first ungraded women’s Sunday School class. I’d been teaching for years by that time but was a constant source of irritation to my department head because women came to the class who weren’t the right age and some of them were even “single!” (To be fair, it really was supposed to be a class of young marrieds from 29-32.) I’d finally even been reported to my pastor, Brother John Bisagno, who called me into his office, laughed his head off and said, “I’m about to set you free.” And Dayspring Class was born. Any woman of any age could come.

I cut my Biblical teeth on that class. I really did. I’ve told my beloved Curtis many times that there’s nothing like being thrown out there to teach week after week after week. (He’s doing that very thing, by the way.) Blowing it over and over then having the courage and the humility to get back up there again. It gets a communicator out of the habit of delivering a few overly-perfected speeches with just the right punch lines but a dwindling anointing – and pitches them out there into the world of high risk and steady criticism. Separates the men from the boys, so to speak. It is HARD WORK. Make no mistake. Don’t ever wish for it. Do it only if you must because it is your God-given gift and not to use it would be disobedience. It’s too hard otherwise and too much flesh can get tangled up in it. “Be ye not many teachers, because you will be more harshly judged,” James warned us. But back to Belinda.

Early on in our class, this darling, petite blonde (bleached, like yours truly) entered our ranks with a personality that stole the hearts of every person in the class. Or, then again, it was her story that stole our hearts. She became quite a center of attention because she’d battled breast cancer several years before and it had come back with a vengeance. By the time I got to know Belinda, the doctors had told her that cancer had spread to her bones all the way from her skull to her knees. She was covered. Almost hopeless. Only that wild woman absolutely refused to give up. Her boys were still young and she intended to see them to manhood.

I have no idea why things work the way they do. I’ve seen mothers just as determined to raise their children yet die of cancer in only a few months. These things are only for the fathomless mind of God. We can’t figure them out for the life of us. But if I were to offer a little conjecture, with His permission and patience, I’d tell you that maybe He gave Belinda those extra years (somewhat like Hezekiah) so that she could teach a tight-knit group of women how to put their faith where their big mouths were. She sought the Lord for Scriptures then told us what to pray for her and how to pray and that, if we were going to doubt, not to bother. And all of this in the most winsome way. She had the cutest personality ever. Several in our class nicknamed her Bubbles. I never could bring myself to do it. Too cool, maybe. But I tell you what I did call her. I called her a warrior. As I told them yesterday, I have never known a more courageous woman in all my life.

Some years later, I was asked to move to a different Sunday school hour to teach and I left my beloved Dayspring Class to the plans God had for them. Most of those women stayed intact and still study and worship together today. Belinda came to my new class many times but it was so large that it did not lend itself to the closeness we’d all enjoyed before. By this time, we no longer had the same need to pray for Belinda anyway. She was thriving. God had indeed given her what she’d so vehemently asked. There were others who moved to the top of our prayer lists.

Then about six months ago, at a Tuesday night Bible study, I saw Belinda at the altar weeping during praise and worship. (Our worship time is also an open-altar time and it is very, very special.) I went to her with haste and she looked up at me with an expression I’ll never forget. “Beth, it’s back. And if the Lord doesn’t heal me, I’m going to die.”

I felt it in my gut. I knew this time He was going to take her Home. That somehow her job was done. Though her assignment was undoubtedly much broader than this, God had used her to teach a group of women (of all ages, praise His Name!) how to pray with wild faith. Our lives had been changed forever. We’d seen first hand a little of what God could do.

Yesterday morning I grabbed my Bible, my black purse, and a prayer journal from 1994 that I’d taped a precious blonde woman’s picture on and headed to my church. We celebrated Belinda Edgerton’s life in a chapel packed full of people from all dimensions of her life. She’d made a mark on everybody from her coworkers at Shell Oil to her neighbors right there on her cul-de-sac. As I reflected on her life and thought about what I wanted to share, God brought the woman out of Luke 8 to my mind who pressed through the crowd to get to Jesus. She reached through the push-and-shove of public spectacle with the purity and simplicity of desperation. She somehow latched on to the hem of His garment and, let this fall afresh, she was healed.

We don’t hear any more about that woman. Lord have mercy, she must have told her story a jillion times to anybody who would listen. But somewhere over there in Israel, her body has turned to ashes just like all her friends. It occurred to me that, while we are here on earth in these flesh-and-blood mortal bodies, all we can hope for is a hem of healing. Even if Belinda had been completely healed of her cancer, she would still have gotten sinus infections, stomach viruses, bad knees, and, one day, her sons still would have gone to her funeral. She just might have been a tad older. These bodies of ours are fashioned for a flash of time on this planet. God has healed all of us of many things but, in His great purposes, we can only grab the hem. Even a miracle of instant restoration from a terminal disease is still just a hem of healing.

One day we will trade the hem for the real Him. No more pressing through the crowd wondering if we’re going to be among the few that see that kind of miracle. We will see Him. Jesus Christ, the risen King. We won’t just touch the edge of His cloak. We will touch the God-man Himself in His spectacular immortal body but, significantly, one still bearing the scars of His visitation here. His wholeness is so utterly complete and infinitely perfect that we, upon the very sight of Him, will be made whole as well.

This, Beloved, is what we live for. Not for just another day here. But for that very day there.

Several months ago, Melissa had insisted upon going with me to have a dye test to follow up a suspicious mammogram. (No rumors please. I do not have breast cancer. Because my mother died with it, however, I never get the luxury of drama-less annual check-ups.) We were sitting in the waiting room and a rack was within arms reach offering all manner of brochure on various cancers. Melissa took one out after another and glanced over them, shaking her head. She looked up at me with that classic expression of hers and said, “Life is brutal, man.”

I nodded.

We both sat silently for just a moment.

Then she said one of the most profound things I’ve ever heard.

“He knows it’s scary to be us.”

Yes, He does. Yes, He does. He does NOT take the fact lightly that we go through medical tests to see if we have a raging cancer. He does NOT take lightly that some of you are secretly fearing that the monster has come back. He does NOT take lightly that some of you are going through the cancer treatments of your own children. I had to pause and put my hand over my mouth on that one. Holding back the tears.

Son of David, have mercy on us! You know it’s scary to be us! It’s almost too much here, Lord. It’s almost too much.

And the thunder crashes in the heavens and the earth grows dark in the middle of the afternoon and a man, beaten to a bloody pulp, cries from a cross between two thieves, “It is finished!”

And death is overcome.

One day, Sweet Darling. ONE DAY. We will trade that hem for the real Him and there will be no more sickness. No more death. No more sadness. We will all be healed.

Bliss.

BLISS.

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Palm Branch Nostalgia

I love Holy Week. Beginning with Palm Sunday. I’ve always loved Palm Sunday.

As a little girl I remember sitting in Sunday school class waiting with great anticipation for “big church.” Not just because I scorned that our church wouldn’t allow me, seven-years-old at the time, to matriculate into my Mom’s adult Sunday school class. And not even because the allotted big church hour was a sure-fire promise of an extended arm-tickle from the hands of one or both of my parents who were clearly trying to keep me sedated during the service. I’ve just loved the theatrics of Palm Sunday from the beginning.

You see, on Palm Sunday, the choir at Houston’s First Baptist Church would come flooding out of all entryways into the sanctuary carrying and waving massive palm branches. I can still picture them in their formal robes down to the floor streaming through the aisles. Yes, I said aisles, for ours was a sanctuary with multiple aisles. A whole bunch of them. I never have understood what all the fuss is about a center aisle. The more aisles the merrier. In my mind, if you’re really a good Southern Baptist, you want more aisles for the invitation at the end of the sermon. It’s less about pretty weddings and more about evangelism, church growth, and Lottie Moon. That’s how we roll.

Fast-forward fifteen years. Times have changed in typical fashion and since I have been out of my parent’s house, I have not attended even one church that has incorporated palm branches into their worship service on Palm Sunday. It’s funny because I tend to think of myself as sort of an old soul, yet I always attend contemporary churches. And I love contemporary churches, I might add. I also really like palm branches. This has created something of a dilemma for me.

An aside – so, last week was a bad week. Now, I didn’t say horrible, but it was relatively bad. I was having some severe migraines that were keeping me tied to the bed, which I hate. Then, my car got hit while it was sitting parked on the street. Hit and run. Go figure, right when we’re trying to pay Uncle Sam. Colin duct-taped it back together so we’re okay now. I then tried to gather myself enough to walk outside so that I could hunt and gather some food, so as not to fail my little family unit. I went to the store, bought all my groceries, and when I got home my rotisserie chicken was raw. It was raw. I have never even heard of a raw rotisserie chicken. Nearly threw me over the edge.

So back to the dilemma. Since I had a relatively stinky week, I knew that another Palm Sunday without palm branches would simply be too much for me to bear. So, we decided this past Sunday to search for the most liturgical church in our area. One that might just have some palm branches. Palm branches are the theme of this blog if you have not gathered it.

Have I told you how much I love the Lord? Sure enough, the congregation had gathered fifteen minutes early in the parking lot so that the branches could be distributed to each congregant. As we walked in the sanctuary, the congregation in its entirety were waving their palm branches. It wasn’t quite like I remembered it, but I didn’t give a rip. I was thrilled. I wanted to make a scene, a scene like David made with the ark of the covenant. I wasn’t planning on stripping off my outer garments (2 Samuel 6:20). But I wanted to make a scene. And I’m not even the especially demonstrative type. I’m actually quite reserved. In our family my mom sort of takes the cake in the dramatic worship department. And we let her. Well, she doesn’t ask for permission. But anyway, there is just something about Palm Sunday. It just moves me. I’d like to think that if I would have been in Jerusalem over two thousand years ago, I would have joined with the multitudes and gone out to meet the living and incarnate God, King Jesus, with a palm branch. Now I probably would have been too stubborn or even too self-conscious, but I like to think that I would have cried out “Hosanna! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the LORD, even the King of Israel!” For, He was and is and is to be worthy of such outlandish and royal acknowledgment.

Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t think all churches everywhere need to have palm branches for people to hold on Palm Sunday. I just like it when they do. It is a tradition that I love. I tend to like it when we in our modern day churches try to engage the text and enter in. Palm Sunday is an example of experientially engaging with the text of John 12:12-13 and chiming in with those ancient voices. The modern fused together with the ancient – that’s what’ll get me going all mystical on ya.

Well, at the end of the Palm Sunday service I noticed the sweet lady next to me had several palm branches. So I gently and sneakily took one for myself to keep as a reminder for me during Holy Week. Colin keeps saying I stole her branch. But I didn’t steal her branch. She had like five. I just wanted one. One stinking palm branch to cover up those bleak palm-branch-missing years. Now I realize I should have probably asked her, but I blame my thievery on the Excedrin Migraine.

Oh, and as a side-note, Amanda just called me. She bought Annabeth’s first Easter dress. I’m not bitter. I promise.

Sigh.

This year I am nostalgic for all things Easter and all things Houston and my family. The Fitzpatricks don’t have the luxury of going home to Houston this year – I’ll say it again, we just paid Uncle Sam! And he is seriously grouchy. But, what I would give to buy a pair of outdated white patent leather shoes and a matching floral pastel dress and white hat with Amanda again – if only to embarrass her. She never was much for us matching. She was always too cool.

So if you’re still out there and you haven’t fallen asleep from my various tangents in this blog, then I would love to know what you love most about Holy Week. What is one of your favorite traditions in your home church? Something you look forward to year after year? It doesn’t have to be dogma or even something exceptionally reverent, though it might be; but it could just be something fun or sweet that your church does year after year to build community or even just to set apart this week as unique on the church calendar.

A peek at Easters past…

Annabeth comes from a long line of bow heads.

Look at my face! Is all my nostalgia really a hallucination?

Here we are with our Memaw. And I think that’s the Impala Amanda mentioned a few days ago.

I called my sister and said, “Look at the one of us in the hats.” Then Amanda pointed out that we are, in fact, wearing hats in every picture together. Also, notice her purple quilted Bible carrier.

Happy Holy Week from The Matching Hat Sisters!

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LPL New Orleans


Living Proof Live – New Orleans 2009 from Rich Kalonick on Vimeo.

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A Sweet Sunday

This morning when we pulled out of our driveway and headed to church, we got to do so as a family of four. What a sweet thing to take our baby girl to Sunday church for the first time! God gave us a lot of grace and our morning was much calmer than I thought it would be. We were only five minutes late and we still got to make the obligatory stop at Shipley’s Donuts.

Here’s Annabeth in her first Sunday dress. I can’t even describe the joy I felt when I got her all dressed. She was the most precious thing since Jackson on his first Sunday. Do I need to tell you how much I love those Mary Jane socks?

Ready to go!

While Curtis was in the Shipley’s getting our breakfast, Jackson asked me about my wedding rings. For some reason I thought it would be fun to try to explain marriage to my three-year-old. I said, “One day you’ll find a pretty girl who loves Jesus and loves you and you’ll marry her.” Then his face lit up and he asked excitedly, “Who is it? Who is it? Who is it, Mommy?” He must have said it ten times. I told him I didn’t know, but Jesus already has her picked out. I hope I remember to tell that story one day at his rehearsal dinner. Okay, I have to change the subject now before I get emotional and have to admit to my husband that I’m crying about our son getting married.

On the way home, we were right behind my parents’ car and I thought about all the years that my original family of four drove that same route home in Dad’s grey Impala. And now there we were with our family of four. It was simultaneously weird and wonderful. I could go on about how the years will pass like the blink of an eye before my son and daughter are doing the same thing with whoever it is Jesus has picked out for them. But I changed the subject, remember?

Here’s my little two-month-old with Big Pink Bear. She didn’t cry this time!

In fact, we got smiles! These are the first real ones I’ve ever caught on camera.

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Friday in New Orleans

Rich sent me these pictures from New Orleans tonight. Melissa has been gently encouraging Mom to carry a camera for the benefit of the blog. When Rich saw Mom pull out her rinky dink camera at lunch to capture all the fun, he intervened. Thanks, Rich!

Here are my Uncle Tony, Mom, Aunt Cherie, and cousin Carleigh. Some of you prayed for my cousin Carleigh when she was born premature. She is obviously doing great now!

Upon arrival, they headed straight to Brennan’s for lunch.

And bananas foster for dessert, of course.

A glimpse of the Friday night session.

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