Yes, that's icing all over her mouth. Yum-o!
Sunday also happened to be Phillip's dad's birthday. Happy Birthday to Phil!!!
Monday, April 27, 2009
Happy Birthday(s)!
This weekend we celebrated Kristin's sister's birthday on Saturday. Kandice turned a ripe old 22 on Sunday. She'll also be moving in with us this week. Hope you had a great b-day little one!
Yes, that's icing all over her mouth. Yum-o!
Yes, that's icing all over her mouth. Yum-o!
Friday, April 17, 2009
Comfort Food
Phillip has been really sick this week. It started last weekend when we were in Florence. Initially we chalked it up to allergies, but it's lingered. This became concerning to me as he progressively worsened over the past few days (it should be noted that typically Phillip could run stark naked through a blizzard and never get sick).
I thought I'd be all "wifely" and try to make him feel better. My first step was to call his aunt for directions on how to make chicken n' dumplings. Having never attempted this before, I was quite perplexed. For those of you that know me well, it is an understatement to say that my forte is not in the kitchen.
So after working my 12 hour day, off I went to the grocery store to buy the needed supplies. I called Aunt Diane, once more, to ensure that I had what I needed and to ask if it was possible to use boneless, skinless chicken. She told me it wouldn't be as good. Not wanting to short-change my husband on the chicken n' dumplings front, I proceeded with what became one of the most arduous cooking endeavors that I have yet to embark upon.
That Which Could Be Consumed
Much of the next two and a half hours were spent trying to determine what part of the chicken I was cooking. I sent text messages to Lee (P's cousin) with pictures for his mom to "decode." I have no clue why the grocery store would include a neckbone in what they package and send home, but alas they did. I asked Lee what it was. His reply, "It looks as if it is the bird's dignity." I thought this was a befitting reply, but was not satisfied. Once I told Lee that I was quite close to losing my Christianity if my curiousity was not soon appeased he recruited the help of Aunt Diane. She was promptly able to identify the curious body part. She even encouraged using the meat on the neckbone. I promptly ushered said body part (aka: the dignity) into the trash with probably a large portion of the chicken that I bought. Any meat that I considered too dark to be chicken (and mostly resembled a form of defecation) got a pass straight to the garbage can!
The Portions of the Trash
Finally my project was complete around midnight. I have yet to try it, and Phillip hasn't eatten yet today (perhaps I should take that as a hint). Next time I believe I'm going to stick with using my Purdue Perfect Portions chicken. I'll use Swanson's broth as a stock. That was a ton of work! My love for Aunt Diane grew by leaps and bounds last night. Bless that woman for her patience! Here's to hoping Phillip enjoys his chicken n' dumplings and his dessert, Zyrtec!
I'm gettin' there. I hope!
I thought I'd be all "wifely" and try to make him feel better. My first step was to call his aunt for directions on how to make chicken n' dumplings. Having never attempted this before, I was quite perplexed. For those of you that know me well, it is an understatement to say that my forte is not in the kitchen.
So after working my 12 hour day, off I went to the grocery store to buy the needed supplies. I called Aunt Diane, once more, to ensure that I had what I needed and to ask if it was possible to use boneless, skinless chicken. She told me it wouldn't be as good. Not wanting to short-change my husband on the chicken n' dumplings front, I proceeded with what became one of the most arduous cooking endeavors that I have yet to embark upon.
That Which Could Be Consumed
The Portions of the TrashI'm gettin' there. I hope!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The Crucifixion Narrative
I recently read this as a blog post on Renn & Roger's blog. It brought me to tears. Although Easter has now passed, I felt compelled to share this. I pray it's as moving and humbling for you as it was for me.
Through the steady rain Jesus glances up from the base of a rocky hill. It’s named Golgotha—the Skull.
At the top he sees several posts fixed in the ground. Three of those poles stand ready to receive their crossbeams and the tattered body of Jesus and the two criminals carrying their crosses behind him.
At the top of the hill the merciful centurion hands Jesus a cup. Jesus sniffs the liquid. It’s wine mixed with myrrh, a mild narcotic to dull the pain. But Jesus is meant to feel all the pain. So he hands the cup back. This is not the cup of the Father.
A soldier strips Jesus. Again his back is set on fire as skin tears away with the cloth.
Jesus now lays naked in the dirt. The dark man places the crossbeam by Jesus’ head. This time Jesus sees his face. It is Simon of Cyrene. Jesus knows him by name and did before there was time.
The beam becomes his pillow now. Two men take hold of his hands. The soldier on his left yanks his arm as far as it will go. But the soldier to his right is gentler. Jesus turns to him. It’s the merciful centurion again. He picks up a cold spike and places it to Jesus’ wrist. Then he picks up a hammer. Their eyes meet. Eternal Love shines forth again, and the centurion is undone. He looks away and lifts his hammer.
In that moment Jesus hears his own word of power: the word of power that holds the merciful centurion in existence, the word of power that causes the hammer to be. He’s speaking it all into being: the soldiers, the priests, the thieves, the friends, the mothers, the brothers, the mob, the wooden beams, the spikes, the thorns, the ground beneath him, and the dark clouds gathering above. If he ceases to speak they will all cease to be. But he wills that they remain. So the soldiers live on, and the hammers come crashing down.
Jesus is lifted on his crossbeam to the post. He sags held only by the spikes in his wrists. Jesus designed the median nerves in his arms that are working perfectly now.
The pain shoots up those nerves and explodes in his skull as the crossbeam is set in place.
His left foot is now pressed against his right foot. Both feet are extended, toes down, and a spike is driven through the arch of each. His knees are bent.
Jesus immediately pushes himself up to relieve the pain in his outstretched arms. He places his full weight on the spikes in his feet and they tear through the nerves between the metatarsal bones. Splinters from the post pierce his lacerated back—searing agony.
Quickly waves of cramps overtake him—deep, throbbing pain from his head to his toes. He’s no longer able to push himself up and his knees buckle.
He’s hanging now by his arms. His pectoral muscles are paralyzed and his intercostals are useless. Jesus can inhale, but he cannot exhale. His compressed heart is struggling to pump blood to his torn tissue. He fights to raise himself in order to breathe and in order to speak.
He looks down at the soldiers now gambling for his clothes. He pushes himself up through the violent pain to pray aloud, “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they do.”
Then he sags back into silence. But the crowd is not silent, though he can barely hear their taunts through the din of his pain.
“He saved others, let him save himself!”
“If you’re the Christ, come down off the cross!”
“Save yourself, King of the Jews!”
The criminal on the cross to his left joins the mockery. But the thief to his right repents. Jesus pushes himself up to say to him, “Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise.”
It’s noon now. The rain falls harder and the clouds blacken. Jesus looks down through wet strands of hair into the familiar face of a woman. A new pain grips him—greater pain than all the whips and spikes in the Kingdom of Rome. It’s his mother. She’s sobbing so hard that her breathing is as labored as his. Without words she looks into his eyes and begs to know why. He longs to hold her and to tell her that it’s all for her. He pushes upward and says, “Woman.” Then he looks his friend John in the eyes. John is standing behind her supporting his own weeping mother. “He is now your son.”
Then to John Jesus murmurs, “And she is now your mother. Take her away from here.”
And he sags back into silence, back into countless hours of limitless pain.
Then Jesus is startled by a foul odor. It isn’t the stench of open wounds. It’s something else. And it crawls inside him. He looks up to his Father. His Father looks back, but Jesus doesn’t recognize these eyes. They pierce the invisible world with fire and darken the visible sky. And Jesus feels dirty.
He hangs between earth and heaven filthy with human discharge on the outside and, now, filthy with human wickedness on the inside.
The Father speaks: “Son of Man! Why have you sinned against me and heaped scorn on my great glory? You are self-sufficient and self-righteous—consumed with yourself and puffed up and selfishly ambitious. You rob me of my glory and worship what’s inside of you instead of looking out to the One who created you. You are a greedy, lazy, gluttonous slanderer and gossip. You are a lying, conceited, ungrateful, cruel adulterer. You practice sexual immorality; you make pornography, and fill you mind with vulgarity. You exchange my truth for a lie and worship the creature instead of the Creator. And so you are given up to your homosexual passions, dressing immodestly, and lusting after what is forbidden. With all your heart you love perverse pleasure. You hate your brother and murder him with the bullets of anger fired from your own heart. You kill babies for your convenience. You oppress the poor and deal slaves and ignore the needy. You persecute my people. You love money and prestige and honor. You put on a cloak of outward piety, but inside you are filled with dead men’s bones—you hypocrite! You are lukewarm and easily enticed by the world. You covet and can’t have so you murder. You are filled with envy and rage and bitterness and unforgiveness. You blame others for your sin and are too proud to even call it sin. You are never slow to speak. And you have a razor tongue that lashes and cuts with its criticism and sinful judgment. Your words do not impart grace. Instead your mouth is a fountain of condemnation and guilt and obscene talk. You are a false prophet leading people astray. You mock your parents. You have no self-control. You are a betrayer who stirs up division and factions. You’re a drunkard and a thief. You’re an anxious coward. You do not trust me. You blaspheme against me. You are an unsubmissive wife. And you are a lazy, disengaged husband. You file for divorce and crush the parable of my love for the church. You’re a pimp and a drug dealer. You practice divination and worship demons. The list of your sins goes on and on and on and on. And I hate these things inside of you. I’m filled with disgust, and indignation for your sin consumes me. Now, drink my cup! 1
And Jesus does. He drinks for hours. He downs every drop of the scalding liquid of God’s own hatred of sin mingled with his white-hot wrath against that sin. This is the Father’s cup: omnipotent hatred and anger for the sins of every generation past, present, and future—omnipotent wrath directed at one naked man hanging on a cross.
The Father can no longer look at his beloved Son, his heart’s treasure, the mirror-image of himself. He looks away.
Jesus pushes himself upward and howls to heaven, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Silence.
Separation.
Jesus whispers, “I’m thirsty,” and he sags.
The merciful centurion soaks a sponge in sour wine and lifts in on a reed to Jesus’ lips. And the sour wine is the sweetest drink he ever tasted.
Jesus pushes himself up again and cries, “It is finished.” And it is. Every sin of every child of God has been laid on Jesus and he drank the cup of God’s wrath dry.
It’s six o’clock, Friday evening, and Jesus finds one more surge of strength. He presses his torn feet against the spikes, straightens his legs, and with one last gasp of air cries out, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!”
And he dies.
The merciful centurion sees Jesus’ body fall far forward and his head drop low. He thrusts a spear up behind Jesus’ ribs—one more piercing for our transgression—and water and blood flow out of his broken heart.
In that moment mountains shake and rocks spilt; veils tear and tombs open.
And the merciful centurion looks up at the lifeless body of Jesus and is filled with awe. He drops to his knees and declares, “Truly this man was the Son of God!”
Mission accomplished.
Sacrifice accepted.
A Crucifixion Narrative
By Rick Gamache
Then Jesus walks on beyond the city gates. It’s nine o’clock in the morning, Friday.By Rick Gamache
Through the steady rain Jesus glances up from the base of a rocky hill. It’s named Golgotha—the Skull.
At the top he sees several posts fixed in the ground. Three of those poles stand ready to receive their crossbeams and the tattered body of Jesus and the two criminals carrying their crosses behind him.
At the top of the hill the merciful centurion hands Jesus a cup. Jesus sniffs the liquid. It’s wine mixed with myrrh, a mild narcotic to dull the pain. But Jesus is meant to feel all the pain. So he hands the cup back. This is not the cup of the Father.
A soldier strips Jesus. Again his back is set on fire as skin tears away with the cloth.
Jesus now lays naked in the dirt. The dark man places the crossbeam by Jesus’ head. This time Jesus sees his face. It is Simon of Cyrene. Jesus knows him by name and did before there was time.
The beam becomes his pillow now. Two men take hold of his hands. The soldier on his left yanks his arm as far as it will go. But the soldier to his right is gentler. Jesus turns to him. It’s the merciful centurion again. He picks up a cold spike and places it to Jesus’ wrist. Then he picks up a hammer. Their eyes meet. Eternal Love shines forth again, and the centurion is undone. He looks away and lifts his hammer.
In that moment Jesus hears his own word of power: the word of power that holds the merciful centurion in existence, the word of power that causes the hammer to be. He’s speaking it all into being: the soldiers, the priests, the thieves, the friends, the mothers, the brothers, the mob, the wooden beams, the spikes, the thorns, the ground beneath him, and the dark clouds gathering above. If he ceases to speak they will all cease to be. But he wills that they remain. So the soldiers live on, and the hammers come crashing down.
Jesus is lifted on his crossbeam to the post. He sags held only by the spikes in his wrists. Jesus designed the median nerves in his arms that are working perfectly now.
The pain shoots up those nerves and explodes in his skull as the crossbeam is set in place.
His left foot is now pressed against his right foot. Both feet are extended, toes down, and a spike is driven through the arch of each. His knees are bent.
Jesus immediately pushes himself up to relieve the pain in his outstretched arms. He places his full weight on the spikes in his feet and they tear through the nerves between the metatarsal bones. Splinters from the post pierce his lacerated back—searing agony.
Quickly waves of cramps overtake him—deep, throbbing pain from his head to his toes. He’s no longer able to push himself up and his knees buckle.
He’s hanging now by his arms. His pectoral muscles are paralyzed and his intercostals are useless. Jesus can inhale, but he cannot exhale. His compressed heart is struggling to pump blood to his torn tissue. He fights to raise himself in order to breathe and in order to speak.
He looks down at the soldiers now gambling for his clothes. He pushes himself up through the violent pain to pray aloud, “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they do.”
Then he sags back into silence. But the crowd is not silent, though he can barely hear their taunts through the din of his pain.
“He saved others, let him save himself!”
“If you’re the Christ, come down off the cross!”
“Save yourself, King of the Jews!”
The criminal on the cross to his left joins the mockery. But the thief to his right repents. Jesus pushes himself up to say to him, “Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise.”
It’s noon now. The rain falls harder and the clouds blacken. Jesus looks down through wet strands of hair into the familiar face of a woman. A new pain grips him—greater pain than all the whips and spikes in the Kingdom of Rome. It’s his mother. She’s sobbing so hard that her breathing is as labored as his. Without words she looks into his eyes and begs to know why. He longs to hold her and to tell her that it’s all for her. He pushes upward and says, “Woman.” Then he looks his friend John in the eyes. John is standing behind her supporting his own weeping mother. “He is now your son.”
Then to John Jesus murmurs, “And she is now your mother. Take her away from here.”
And he sags back into silence, back into countless hours of limitless pain.
Then Jesus is startled by a foul odor. It isn’t the stench of open wounds. It’s something else. And it crawls inside him. He looks up to his Father. His Father looks back, but Jesus doesn’t recognize these eyes. They pierce the invisible world with fire and darken the visible sky. And Jesus feels dirty.
He hangs between earth and heaven filthy with human discharge on the outside and, now, filthy with human wickedness on the inside.
The Father speaks: “Son of Man! Why have you sinned against me and heaped scorn on my great glory? You are self-sufficient and self-righteous—consumed with yourself and puffed up and selfishly ambitious. You rob me of my glory and worship what’s inside of you instead of looking out to the One who created you. You are a greedy, lazy, gluttonous slanderer and gossip. You are a lying, conceited, ungrateful, cruel adulterer. You practice sexual immorality; you make pornography, and fill you mind with vulgarity. You exchange my truth for a lie and worship the creature instead of the Creator. And so you are given up to your homosexual passions, dressing immodestly, and lusting after what is forbidden. With all your heart you love perverse pleasure. You hate your brother and murder him with the bullets of anger fired from your own heart. You kill babies for your convenience. You oppress the poor and deal slaves and ignore the needy. You persecute my people. You love money and prestige and honor. You put on a cloak of outward piety, but inside you are filled with dead men’s bones—you hypocrite! You are lukewarm and easily enticed by the world. You covet and can’t have so you murder. You are filled with envy and rage and bitterness and unforgiveness. You blame others for your sin and are too proud to even call it sin. You are never slow to speak. And you have a razor tongue that lashes and cuts with its criticism and sinful judgment. Your words do not impart grace. Instead your mouth is a fountain of condemnation and guilt and obscene talk. You are a false prophet leading people astray. You mock your parents. You have no self-control. You are a betrayer who stirs up division and factions. You’re a drunkard and a thief. You’re an anxious coward. You do not trust me. You blaspheme against me. You are an unsubmissive wife. And you are a lazy, disengaged husband. You file for divorce and crush the parable of my love for the church. You’re a pimp and a drug dealer. You practice divination and worship demons. The list of your sins goes on and on and on and on. And I hate these things inside of you. I’m filled with disgust, and indignation for your sin consumes me. Now, drink my cup! 1
And Jesus does. He drinks for hours. He downs every drop of the scalding liquid of God’s own hatred of sin mingled with his white-hot wrath against that sin. This is the Father’s cup: omnipotent hatred and anger for the sins of every generation past, present, and future—omnipotent wrath directed at one naked man hanging on a cross.
The Father can no longer look at his beloved Son, his heart’s treasure, the mirror-image of himself. He looks away.
Jesus pushes himself upward and howls to heaven, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
Silence.
Separation.
Jesus whispers, “I’m thirsty,” and he sags.
The merciful centurion soaks a sponge in sour wine and lifts in on a reed to Jesus’ lips. And the sour wine is the sweetest drink he ever tasted.
Jesus pushes himself up again and cries, “It is finished.” And it is. Every sin of every child of God has been laid on Jesus and he drank the cup of God’s wrath dry.
It’s six o’clock, Friday evening, and Jesus finds one more surge of strength. He presses his torn feet against the spikes, straightens his legs, and with one last gasp of air cries out, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!”
And he dies.
The merciful centurion sees Jesus’ body fall far forward and his head drop low. He thrusts a spear up behind Jesus’ ribs—one more piercing for our transgression—and water and blood flow out of his broken heart.
In that moment mountains shake and rocks spilt; veils tear and tombs open.
And the merciful centurion looks up at the lifeless body of Jesus and is filled with awe. He drops to his knees and declares, “Truly this man was the Son of God!”
Mission accomplished.
Sacrifice accepted.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Congrats
to Lee and Sarah. They got engaged this weekend! As is evident from the picture below, they make a great couple!
Celebrating His Resurrection!
We have had a massive deficit in our blogging time lately, as is evident in the lack of posts. Fortunately, we were given the opportunity to spend Easter weekend in Florence with Phillip's family. His family is so large in comparison to my own. When my "family" gets together it's typically just my siblings, parents, and grandparents. In Florence, they do things differently. Not only do all the aunts, uncles, cousins, etc. get together, they have extended family that comes as well. It's like nothing else I've ever seen. Now, having said that, I am starting to grow quite fond of the enormity of their holidays. We attended Calvary Baptist Church, Sarah's home church in Florence, on Sunday morning. It was a great service celebrating the truth of our Savior's resurrection. Enjoy some pictures.
BubbleShare: Share photos - Find great Clip Art Images.
BubbleShare: Share photos - Find great Clip Art Images.
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