Good Friday

What's so good about Good Friday?

What is sooo good about Good Friday?

Upon the cross the hope of generations hangs...

Life Draining from his body

Air abandoning weary lungs

A mockery Nailed above his bowing head

Unquenchable thirst within his mouth

What is so good about Good Friday

Hated and conspired against by those who sought to please Religion

Betrayed by those he taught, befriended, loved

Baring the wight of all sin on hands more innocent then those of a new born babe cradled in its mothers arms

Forsaken by God....

What is so good about Good Friday?

He cries out "It is finished"

 Over

He Cries out "It is finished" and eternity is shaken

 Done!

He Cries out "It is finished" as in the story might go on but the end is written

"It is finished" broke the chains of evil

"It is finished" replaced the weight of sin

What is so good about Good Friday?

Those words let freedom reign in the heart of all those who would believe them

Prison Chains have no hold over those who are free

Government laws which seek to eradicate beliefs, have no hold over those who are free

Stuff things possessions Have no hold over those who are free

Opinions and words of others have no chance in holding back freedom

Freedom is not where you live

Freedom is not given by people in power

It does not lie in a flag

It does not lie in money

in human "Love"

Freedom is more then a state of mind

Freedom is a state of Soul

and it lasts an eternity

What Is so good about Good Friday?

What is so good Great! Amazing! Infinitely Awesome! Unfathomably Joyful! about Good Friday!?!

IT IS FINISHED!

Except...

Here it is, I am just going to say, doing wrong and sinning is never okay. As  a Christians. doing things that are against Gods word is sin and it is wrong. Period. End of story.
Except...
If it seems like it would be fun...
If it feels right at the time...
If everyone else is doing it....
If my husband has not been paying enough attention to me lately...
If I feel lazy...
If it is just one of "those" days...
If my world just came crashing down around me...
If the kids have had me at my wits end all day/week/month/year...
If that person was such a jerk and deserved it...
Ifit seem like it would be fun for the kids...
If I am in a ton of pain...
If I am hormonal...
If I have been doing good for sooo long I deserve it...
If I feel defeated...
If I just want to be like everyone else and not feel like a weirdo Christian for once...
If it started out innocent...
If I don't feel finacialy secure...
If I really don't care, cause nobody could really expect me to live like that anyway, after all I am not a pastor, or a elder, or even the wife of one of those...
If doing what is right might offend someone...
If I amjust not there yet...
But all the excuses fall away to emptiness,to nothing, to filth when I realise the best excuses never attone for sin, only Christ blood washes that away, blood spilled for all my excuses. I sit in my room once more, crying out once again, Father forgive me! Jesus save me! Holy Spirit renew me and show me truth, even as my earthly human sinful self riles against it!

Dandilion in a church yard

In a church yard grew a flower, well not a flower, a weed... In a church yard grew a dandelion, its bright yellow fuzzy head peeked out beyond the boxed in glorified, tended and intentionally planted flowers. Our little friend, the dandelion, looked in awe upon the regal roses, the graceful lilies, and the clustered daises. Our the yellow bud gazed upon them with contentment, perhaps a sigh may have expressed itself with in her roots, I sigh that would say if it could, "I will not be loved as they are, but there are much worse places for a weed such as myself to live". The Dandelion therefore remained content as that was her disposition to do so.
She, (for the sake of our story our yellow companion shall be a she, though of course flowers have no gender) often looked upon the comings and goings of the church yard, for her face as it were was happily fixed upon that position and observed with interest the passers by.The life of the dandelion is but short and she took in as much as she could in her time. One day she watched as people joyfully entered the church, dressed up in their human finery which more often then not seemed to the dandelion, a cheap imitation of flowers in the garden, but it was not her place to judge the ways of humans. The last to arrive was a woman, who was perhaps not the most pretty of humans to see, or even the most lovely who entered that day, she wore upon her stem (for that is how flowers think our bodies should be named and classified) the most ridiculous of costumes, all white, fluffy and, big like a mushroom who's bottom had grown upon its top. The of course knew dandelion knew mushrooms to be genial in nature, but they were considered a very unattractive form of vegetation to plant life in general.  In spite the unfortunate attire, the woman's face shone radiance and joy so profound that the dandelion wished it could turn it's head to gaze longer upon the features that shone so brightly and captivated the dandelion's weedy self. As the multitude left however the Dandelion was able to see once more the stunning countenance and felt a happiness for the young bride, for that is what she was, though the dandelion would never know it. A man whom the flower had not noticed earlier, but who shared the look of joy, though it was of a more sheepish kind, stepped to the garden and plucked up a rose and pressed it into the brides hand, as the bride brought the rose to her face and breathed in is fragrance, the dandelion wished for a moment to be that rose, but quickly remembered how lucky she was to have grown in such a exciting place, and was contented once again. 
Another day the dandelion watched as people not quite as colourful and not quite as happy trod into the church, some faces shone as if they were going to a place of comfort and joy, others looked as though they were entering to do a chore of some sort. A tall man with kindly and generous features, stood just before the steps of the church, just within the narrow scope of her yellow gaze, he was grasping leaves ( as our friend thought they must be) with the other people as they stepped within the confines of the church, he looked benevolently upon the obstinate children being dragged by impatient parents. There passed between this man and these small ones a look of understanding, as if they were comrades of a kind, and the young ones became less begrudging of the task before them, as the minister commiserated with them through his eyes. An older woman stooped among the flowers in their designated plot, she plucked up a spray of daises here, a lily, and rose there gathering the to her most ample stalk, she was a large woman, for they were to be displayed within the sacred abode. The dandelion wished for a moment that her fate lay with those fortunate flowers and envied for a short time the fame which they would hold, but as she was a weed with a short life, she wisely thought it futile to waste moments on such jealousies and resumed in her contentment in her lot, for although she was perhaps despised by these humans, seen as a burden upon the soil, she was more then blessed in her ability to see that which surrounded her, also she was not a mushroom, for that she thought she might truly have reason to lament.
 The last scene the dandelion had saw was a sad encounter indeed. The same benevolent man, who had so joyfully greeted those who entered the sanctuary over which he had charge, stood with a grave and melancholy expression fixed upon his features.  He stood upon the same spot he had stood only a short time before, as the others like him walked slowly and, sometimes even haltingly towards him. The dew of the morning seemed to cling to the faces that though often young seemed tired, many rested their heads upon the shoulders of this man, who though sorrowful, seemed to remain stalwart.She watched as a beautiful box, one which even the flowers beside her would wish to reside in, was brought in reverently upon the shoulders men bent upon a task. A task that based upon their features was very heavy, not as in wight, but as a soul rending burden, a duty of Honor and, extreme importance. Determination and even grit written on their faces. Lastly a long black pod arrived a pod of the same shape from which the fluffy, upside down mushroom had emerged. But this time what exited the pod was no more then a black slip of a human, to her leaves clung a  small child. Though our sun absorbing friend found it hard to discern who was giving support and who was receiving it the child r the adult.  The elder walked erect and elegantly towards the place through which the box had recently entered as they passed beyond the sight of the dandelion the small child glanced upon her with a curious look as f it knew the yellow weed was watching, but as swiftly as the dandelion thought this the child was gone. She contemplated this look, as whatever human ritual they were partaking in commenced with in the walls, but was unable to make much of it at all. As the humans exited the bigger human who had emerged so elegantly from the large black pod, was surrounded by other  people, her elegance now shattered, and dew streamed from a place the weed could not comprehend, this woman's stem, and leaves shook as if she were about to wilt and die as though a harsh winter had suddenly come upon her. The dandelion was so aptly studying this change of events, it was startled to find it was being tugged at, and before even a moment of time, being uprooted from its former quiet place, for half a second our friend faced indignity for now that she was removed from the earth her life was exponentially shortened, but that emotion was replaced quickly by the overwhelming sensation of touch that she had never felt wrapped around the whole of her stem, she was brought to the face of the small human, who instead of sniffing blew air upon her out of his nostrils, as children often do when imitating their adult counterparts, the warm breath wafted upon her and, she forgot all anger, instead feeling joy and, ecstasy in that which dandelions are few to experience. She then felt a sensation that was exhilarating, and though she did not know it's name  it was in fact. motion and, rapid motion at that. Suddenly the content plant was thrust up toward the human she had most recently being  reflecting on, that is the bigger human to which the child had been escorted by. The life of the dandelion dimmed, for she was fading fast but, the last moment our friend saw the face which had been broken, the human who she had a moment before thought would whither and die, that face gazed upon her own and, the weed saw a beauty that could not be captured by a thousand lives, beauty which could never be held within the most fullest and, loveliest of roses, it was a look of joy,  the dandelion beheld in that face and felt coursing from the human leaves down through her stem, joy. Joy which defied pain the purest, deepest and, saddest joy. Our little yellow friend then died, no longer content but beyond contentment, our little yellow friend felt rapture. Her small fulfilling life now expired. Human dew resting upon her bright head.                

Hot Chocolate

Today I made hot chocolate, I felt good  about it. I made it on the stove, granted I used a pre-made chocolate powder (coffee crisp flavoured) but I did not use the microwave, and this is a close to "from scratch" as this preservative filled cookie gets. Why the grand occasion well it was the first day of snow, and I try hard to create nice memories for my children to cling to,when they eventually realise just how abnormal their mama really is. I also made a cake the other day, and when the kidlets asked who's birthday it was, (as that is usually the only time we have cake), I told them "It's nobodies birthday we are just celebrating October 17" and then put sparklers on the cake to make it seem more festive, and silently prayed it would be a memory they will retain, while the sight of me scarfing down the cake would be a memory they would repress.
So here I sit on my computer sipping my hot chocolate out of a martini glass, cause that's how I roll, it has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that we were out of mugs, that is just a odd coincidence. Enjoying the sound of my kids, talking over their warm beverages, I feel warm content and happy. I figure if I can work one good memory into my children's lives everyday, I'm doing okay, it is just too bad that making breakfast is not really that memorable, or else I would have this thing down pat....

My mothers hands

 I remember when I was a little child and looking down at my chubby little hands all soft and dimply, and seeing them held in, what I now realise where slightly more worn hands of my mother. I remember wishing I could grow up and have hands just like her, I thought as most children do that my mother was the most beautiful woman in the entire world right down to her fingertips. Now as an adult I look down at my own hands and recognise the same prominent veins that the doctors just love come IV time, and the same worn lines along my fingers. I don’t have her perfect non acrylic nails, and her hands are much smaller now then my own, but still the similarities are what make me smile, especially as I hold the chubby fingers of my own children and watch those hands little hands seemingly grow before my very eyes. I know now it really wasn’t her hands or her tiny waist, or her cheek bones which made my mother beautiful and gives her the same glow today in my eyes that she held when I was once a child. The things that make her beautiful are the memories of the all the baking and cooking done by those hands for little to no thanks, or the innumerable amount of times she cleaned up messes I left behind long after I had forgotten them, and the endless instances her gentle hands became firm not out of anger (though that sometimes too) but out of necessity, knowing that punishment is a just as an important form of love for children as cuddling if you wish to raise them into responsible adults. These same hands that wiped away the tears that ran down my cheeks caused from scrapped knees to broken hearts. And most importantly those those amazing hands that clasped together in countless prayers upon worn out knees spoken to the Saviour for my sake. These are the things that make my mother beautiful these are the things I now strive for in my own life. These are the words I hope my own children may say of me one day. I was blessed to have a mother who loved me not just the best way she knew how, but the trusting that the Lord of her heart and, the maker of the stars, the planets, and her precious children, could show her a much better way to love then her own. Thank you mom and all the other mothers out there who know the best way to raise your children, is on bended knee to God.

Prayer? What for?

God Created the universe, from the behemoths of the sea, to the tiny unborn  child within a mothers womb, he made your hair and knows each one, he made the sun the moon and the stars. He is the creator of the galaxies.
You, made pancakes without burning them once.
God knows and has determined the migration patterns of all creatures, from butterfly's to sea turtles, that they may move instinctively to support the continuum of life on this planet. he designed the intricacies of the human mind, and put together your form in perfect order that you may walk, talk, and think, without having to remember to breath.
You, once put a bookshelf together without reading the instructions (to be fair it was a Ikea bookshelf so thumbs up).
From Gods imagination came the oddities and complexity's of love, his mind sprung forth the zebra and the the giraffe, and that weird mole on your shoulder.From nothing he created everything.He set in motion the perfect plan to offer us salvation.
Your still trying to come up with a better way to dunk your Oreo.
In other words God is resoundingly more intelligent, inventive, and imaginative then we could ever hope in our wildest dreams to be, so why do we go helter skelter into all the decisions in our lives instead of getting down on our knees and waiting for perfection to guide us? Why do we tell that wayward relative all the things we think they should do, and offer all our unsolicited advice, instead  of bowing our heads and asking the creator of all hearts to change and guide theirs? What if we woke up tomorrow and took 5 minutes to talk with and praise God and then took 5 minutes to be quiet and listen to God? I think if we gave the one who created the world in 6 days 10 minutes he could change our world and I think that handing over 10 minutes would turn into 20 then 1 hour, then who knows maybe we would be able to listen to and be in communication with God all day, as we go about or lives. And I believe only he could imagine the possibilities of that.

Public notice: Common sense has gone missing

Common sense went missing today. He is well known for his long and harrowing battle against ignorance, which seems to be everywhere now.
Parliament was, and still is, unaware of his departure. Many of it members have yet to meet anything resmbling common sense. The universities, and feminist circles it once helped create, say they have not spoken to common sense in years.
As we seek out our  lost comrade we dwell upon it illustrious and thriving career, the fight for equality, and democracy, and also remember his valiant, though unsuccessful effort to infiltrate the NDP.
Yes common sense is gone, though its absense has been grossly un-noticed by the media, as Lindsy Lohan is posing nude for playboy, and the new Twilight is soon to be released. He will be sought after by his siblings common courtesy, and common decency (who are currently fighting thier own battle against the nursing home crisis) , also his long time friends and colleagues  charity, and compassion. Common senses dearest friend Justice (who is blind) is hoping to help in the seach efforts though he is busy putting out the ever increasing fires of his evil twin Injustice, who is wreaking havoc through-out the world.
Some claim to have seen common sense, though the claimes are being largly ingnored.
Many still cling to the hope that common sense will once again return to Canada though currently no one is holding their breath.

It's not the hardest job in the world

As I sit at my computer, writing on my blog, my kids play together in the living room. I will admit that they will probably make a mess that I will have to help them clean up later, but all and all it is pretty common throughout the day for me to have time to myself. Skip over to my husband, he is a welder who is on his feet all day and more often then not well into the evening, breathing in toxic fumes that will probably, give him cancer later in life. He sets his nose to the grindstone does his job with few complaints, because that is what he is expected to do, to provide for his wife and children. I get "I love you mommy", sweet faces that feel remorse when they have done wrong, and tiny balls of love to cuddle, to my hearts content. While my man trudges through a sea of foul language, blame games, and unreliable coworkers. Now I am not saying that Motherhood is not difficult, when done well it will be painful, as is anything worth the effort. I am not saying that if you at at a really stressful point in your parenting journey, you should just fake your way through it till your only hurting yourself and those around you, But this idea and trend in the world were we as women complain, and whine, like the annoying drip, drip of a leaky faucet is maddening. Sure its tough but come on, when that terrible two year old starts turning over a new leaf, and finally behaving like a normal human being, is there anything more rewarding. how about when they start saying please and thank you without prompting, or when your daughter looks at you and says "Mommy when I grow up I want to be like you", and your four year old son wants to marry you (anything after ten on this one though, you have some issues to need to address). I mean all my husband gets from his job is money. I get so much more. Yes some days are crazy and filled with one thing after another, but I would venture to say that most of the time for most mothers, there are tiny priceless gifts, given from precious little hands, mouths and minds, that are scattered throughout the day. So next time you think of demanding more and more and appreciation as a mother and tread down that wide and seemingly wonderful path of self pity, remember that, that mess you are cleaning up for the tenth time today was made by a child healthy enough to have the energy to to do so, that the kid who sits at the table and picks slowly and grudgingly at his food,is also a child you do not have to watch go without when all you can offer them is empty hands filled with love, as so many mothers around the world are forced to do.Finally the next time you start telling you spouse how difficult and miserable your life is, think twice and maybe thank him for how hard he works to provide for you so you can do, what is without a doubt, the most rewarding job in the world.

Once upon a time....

I remember a time in the first blush of youthful love, when the world was seen by me though rose coloured glasses of infatuation. How easily my mind looks upon my girlish self, describing to my friends how, my beloved and I conjoin so perfectly, how our natures are but one in the same, and how grateful I am that we complete each other so beautifully. I talk of how we share a fidelity in all things how our thoughts so complimentary, our common ground being of course endless.Sitting here pondering the words and beliefs of my youth, I can not help from thinking that I was above all things a idiot....
I can truthfully say I have a very healthy happy marriage to a man that I appreciate much more now then I could have ever appreciated through those so called rose coloured glasses, (also sometimes referred to as blinders) seeing as the boy I saw was merely my own work of hopeful fiction. Somehow I made myself believe, despite all my protestations to the contrary, that all the little annoyances of our dating relationship, would be smoothed away like wrinkles upon a bed spread, by time and my own gentle loving hand.
The problem here was that first and foremost my hand was neither gentle or loving, but more clumsy, and irritating, and before I knew it the bedspread was a crumpled stained smelly mess, filled with dirty dishes, never put away, wet towels upon the floor, and one sided conversations as I peppered him with questions when he got home from work only to be responded to with grunts and occasional one word answers, and I only seemed to be tearing away at in anger. I recall devising all sorts of  plans and schemes to change my spouse, and if I felt I was at the end of my creative resources, there was always a friend or two to place another plot within my mind. 
He would, or wouldn't do something that would cause me to be upset. I would in turn make a cutting remark, or try one of my many ploys, often to his amazement that there was anything wrong in the first place. He would then leave, and somehow in doing so only proved me in my own mind right. Eventually our marriage became more about revenge then actual love.
How did this all change you may ask? well...I had already cut off my nose to spite my face and was working on gouging out my eyes, when I read a book that basically told me to cut out my tounge instead (metaphorically of course), work on myself and actually try to understand my husband and stop trying to make him a woman, but instead appreciate him as a man. I read this advice and did something I rarely do I followed it and actually tried to change me instead of him. By taking my focuse off my his flaws I began to have eyes to see my poor bewildered husband, I started to relise why he pulled away, from what must have seemed to him a wife with a constant axe to grind and the sharp words to prove it. I was able to see that for years I tore away at this dear mans masculinity, ever willing to show him his faults, while being perfectly unaware of my own. 
Beyond becomeing aware of my own personal planks in the eye, I was rewarded for my efforts. When I stopped talking he finally was able to speak.I no longer asked him a thousand questions when he walked in the door, and lo and behold when coversation was not forced upon him he started to want to tell me about his day, and more then that I became to him what I once had been a safe comfortable supportive wife. And our home became happy.
Is my husband perfect well... no of couse not no one is, and do I get frustrated sometimes and forget my own higher ideals, well of course. But all and all I would say our marraige is on steady upward climb higher towards the pefect unity, which will only come on that day when the trump sounds and we are made perfect, by he who always was.

Sweet Repose

Late at night while the darkness falls upon our sleeping home like a newly overturned blanket cool and calming upon my skin. The heat of the day is gently pushed away, as  I walk about my house enjoying the quiet. Only the softest whisper of peaceful slumber, sways though the empty hallways, as though the walls have forgotten the shrikes of laughter, cries of childish anger, and sobbes of injustice, of the faces pressed against its corners.The floors remember not the sound of little feet shuffeling, pattering, and stomping, atop its flat hard surface. I as well set aside the sounds of the day, the stress and frustration  slipping off my shoulders, falling down among the unremembered reasons of my childrens arguments. How could I remain untouched by the angelic forms now silent in sweet repose? I can not, I place my hand upon thier warm heads,even now feeling thier innocet trust coursing through the tips of my fingers, strait into my heart. I speak a murmered prayer of thanks giving, and ask God in his wisdom to somehow make Craig and I worthy to giude thier tender minds ever towards him. 

Please and Thank-you?

We have all heard it "What did you get me?", "I want that", "Wheres our treat?". It should grate upon our nerves but more often then not we simply give into these demands and reward the attitude of entitlement that seems to prevail among our children.
 So I now pose this question. Do we give into the demands of our children to justify our own failure to be grateful? Let me clarify right now I am not hear to preach, I am here to confess.
For the last several months I have been taking care of a sweet, kind, lovely, little girl, three days a week. When she first came to us, she was very well mannered, and polite, but recently it has come to my notice that she has started to be more demanding, and unappreciative, at first I was surprised, knowing that the family she comes from would not allow that in their own home, and therefore was firm in demanding please and thank-yous. In doing this I began to relies that my own children were extremely lacking in minding their P's and Q's and it came to my mind that the reason this well mannered child I watch was becoming ungrateful, was perhaps due to my lack of consistency towards my offspring. Baring this in mind, I started watching myself and began understanding the ways in which I perpetuate ill manners in my kids. I began to listen for these words of gratitude, and was surprised at the many times I had to push them to remember to be polite. But beyond this I have discovered that an attitude of thankfulness is also wanting in myself.
Where does this all lead? Well to be quite frank, I don't really know yet. Right now I am in hopes that just being aware of the situation will help me to parent more responsibly but, how do I teach my little blessings that things, and stuff will not make them happy when, I myself am constantly wanting more? How do I give them gifts and have them conclued it is out of my love for them, not because they are necessarily entitled to said gift when I stuggle with giving thanks to God for all the much greater gifts he has bestowed on me? What will my children think of my loftly beliefs, when placed along side the hypocrisy of my heart, and inconsistency of my witness? I gather these are fairly deep thoughts for a wednesday afternoon, but I suppose that for right now the answer lay  in seeking after the the solution, and the resolution to do better is enough if followed by action.   

Dancers on the Beach

Painting done by Kerry Pearl

Fallow her on Finding Time to Paint

                                                                                        kerryannpearle.blogspot.com
This is a short story I wrote based on a painting done by a friend of mine. Enjoy:)

She looked in the mirror pulling her stomach in and shoulders back, and standing as tall as she could, then twisting her body in the most unnatural poses as she continued to study her figure. He walked in she stood smiling, waiting for him to comment on how she looked.
“ Where are the keys?” he asked with a somewhat irritated tone.
“ Oh, I left them in my purse” she replied brightly.
He stood there and waited as she rummaged through her small clutch, the one she had bought to match the dramatic red of her dress.
“You look hansom tonight” she said hoping he would reciprocate, though the cut of the muddy, brown suit he wore was not particularly flattering on his thin, wiry frame.
He glanced at her briefly, and smiled.
“Are you going to be long? The ceremony starts in ten minutes”
“I'm ready. Did you put the sitters number in your phone?” she queried, slightly less brightly then before.
“ Yup, but don’t call her every ten minutes to check on the kids” he spoke, as she glanced in the mirror again, noticing how the light fabric was unforgivably exposing her continuously expanding rear end. ‘Maybe I should change quickly’ she thought’ pulling her hair up to see the effect.
“ Should I have my hair up or down?” she asked as he was about to leave the room.
“Leave it down.” he replied without turning his head.
She took one last glance in the mirror before she fallowed him out the door.
They sat quietly through the wedding, she admiring the statuesque bride in all her glory, surrounded by her young and lovely brides maids, her eyes misting at the tender words of love her future husband spoke so much more with his eyes then with his mouth. She dabbed a tear from her own eyes and slipped her hand into the hand of her husband, who shifted uncomfortably in his suit.
He wondered when the service would end, if he could take off his jacket, what kind of food they would have at the reception, and if they would have to stand in that line at the end to shake hands with the newly weds, or could they just slip out a side door. He pulled his hand out of his wife’s and started to tug at the sleeves of his suit jacket. Then stopped remembering that he probably had sweat stains.
She talked freely later at the out door reception , bonding with women she had never met before over the common ground of children, and general admiration of the bride and the ceremony. He watched her silently as the ocean breeze ran its invisible fingers through her hair, which she had wore down the way he liked. He smile with the rest of the table as she lead conversation and shared stories in her animated comic style, charmed as they all were at her openness, and amiability.
She loved being able to socialize without the kids, some how she felt like herself again, not distracted by little ones, taking pleasure in and the freedom she felt. She would often turn to him wondering at his silence hoping he was enjoying himself, as he and the most of the husbands sat quietly, throwing in a small statement or story here and there, but generally focused on eating then drinking as the evening progressed.
The music was in full swing she had gone out a few times and danced with the women she had just met, making friends on the dance floor, he watched her from the side. At the slow songs she would return to her seat beside him, watching as other couples embraced and swayed to the music. They would talk about the kids, how young the bride looked, and how nice it was to get away.
Later they sat quietly together, she rocking absentmindedly to the music, hoping he would ask her to dance, as he awkwardly picked at the label from his beer bottle. Suddenly he stood grabbing her hand “lets take a walk”. She stood and walked along with him towards the beach, their hands entwined in a easy manner, the silence now comfortable.
“You, look beautiful tonight, as always” he stated as they stood upon the beach her head resting on his shoulder.
“As always?” she questioned.
He smiled down at her, He knew what he meant, he meant that the same woman he saw right after she gave birth, when she was sick, or had just lost her temper on one of the kids in her housecoat with bed head, held the same beauty as the relaxed well dressed lovely wife he was holding right now.
The music filtered down softly to them he pulled her closer to himself swaying with the motion of the waves. They danced.
As the music changed he became more daring spinning her and dipping her as it struck him, bringing her lips to his own as they came together then separating again, as the glow of confident love danced within their eyes, a air of contentment hovered around them, and their laughter echoed bliss as they and enjoyed their stolen moments of happiness.
The bride stood with her new husband, watching the couple on the beach the woman graceful, the light material of her dress, caressing her body in the most complimenting way, the husband lean body seemingly strong the browns of his suit deepening in the fading light. She leaned her head upon the shoulder which now belonged to her and offered up a silent prayer that they could have that kind of enduring love.
kerryannpearle.blogspot.com

That one

So here is I believe a seldom spoken of dirty little secret that all mothers of two or more children share, and this is it.There is always that one. The one child that you love just as much as your other children but sometimes only because you have to. I generally find it is the third child, and there is probably some deep psychological reason for this but that is for another blogger to deal with.
For us it is our dear boy Tommy. Now I will readily admit that at on time or another all of my children went through what we as parents, so fondly refer to as the terrible twos, as if giving it a cute name makes it easier somehow, But Tommy upped the ante to a degree I was uprepared for. He is relentless, and always knows when I am bluffing. He is of course clever as we are told most difficult children, (though I have had suspicons on ocassion to believe that this is not always true but merely a bone we toss to give hope to desperate parents at thier wits end) but beyond that he is charming, oh so charming. There is something about his smile and the impish gleam in his eyes that gives him the ability to draw you in even as you uncovering his latest assult on your sanity.
I punish him as I would any of my kids and I am glad to say that he does improve, all be it with more resistance, and though there are days that we seem to be in constant battle, and the only time I can enjoy him is while he sleeps he, at least keeps things interesting, though intresting does not seem like the right word somehow.

Introduction

My name is Andrea, I am a stay at home mother of four, which I am sure is a absolute novilty as far as bloggers go. (Since you may not know me that well, that was a little bit of sarcasm from me to you, though everyone reading this is likely someone I know, and I am hovering over your shoulder or scutinizing your face even as you read. Look up!...........creepy)
 I will be honest I like talking about myself, though I know I shouldn't, hence the blog. I do care if people read this but, not enough to stop writing if they don't. What I have to say has all probably been said before, but it has not been said by me and, somehow that seems important.
Anyway more about me I have been married for seven years to a man that by the grace of God I still rather enjoy, and yes I said God so you would correctly assume by that I am a Christian, and some of my post will be specifically about that, the most important aspect of my life (run now if you must). On top of all this I have many likes and dislikes, which will be revealed as you read along if you so choose.
I hope the suspense is killing you, though not literally of course.:)