tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15065570698005579812024-02-02T04:46:54.257-08:00The View From The ShoeThis blog is a mish-mash of thoughts about life, faith, having 7 kids, working at a school, parenting, living with heart disease, and finding God's love in the most peculiar places!!Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.comBlogger116125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-76230842255165575362022-12-05T20:44:00.002-08:002022-12-06T04:08:54.816-08:00Looking into the darkness <p> Several times in my life, I’ve found myself in the dark, dark, desolation. Sometimes I’ve been completely engulfed in it, even though I could detect the soft glow of light on the edges, coming from who knows where. All I could perceive is bleak, cold, emptiness. </p><p>I’ve been there. In that place. I’ve curled up in the fetal position and sobbed in that lonely darkness. Alone. Afraid. Unable to see anything real or true or beautiful. </p><p>If you’re there, there’s something I want you to know. </p><p>You, my friend, are looking into your own shadow. </p><p>So was I. Trapped in my own thoughts and feelings, I felt there was nothing good to be seen, but I was mistaken. Shadows only happen when something gets in the way of a source of light. I don’t know how I got there, but I was in the way. I got all turned around. My sadness and my fear had me looking straight down and only right in front of me. I covered my eyes to hide from the dark, which only made it darker. </p><p>Open your eyes. Move around and watch that shadow mimic you. Go ahead. Make a bird with your hands. Can you see it now? It’s a shadow! So there has to be a light shining somewhere. Look around and see that light being reflected off the things (and people) around you. Where is it coming from?</p><p>That light is behind you. Turn around, if you can. </p><p>Next time you’re in the dark and it feels hopeless and forever, please hold on. </p><p>This is only a shadow. There’s still a light. It’s shining on you. </p><p><br /></p><p>Much love. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5P_r9_XPoFos_xKg6TX2l0MnOvQ48bZ7HXhiMpSegESDSF0LyC_8KCrQlPh2TlDaPZvRXoMYJbGZlk8TQxPc1xufGY5oFAwblqN8QnjXKFX5h6n6UmY-59wmNQ-a0V4DKEfInjST8qOPlSXG1dwhVUi3kWoIRIC6eZb_WujcgcbgdQrvREo5JwOWN2w/s873/36434E66-BC70-4A5D-9A02-D87B2B1FA5A7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="873" data-original-width="614" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5P_r9_XPoFos_xKg6TX2l0MnOvQ48bZ7HXhiMpSegESDSF0LyC_8KCrQlPh2TlDaPZvRXoMYJbGZlk8TQxPc1xufGY5oFAwblqN8QnjXKFX5h6n6UmY-59wmNQ-a0V4DKEfInjST8qOPlSXG1dwhVUi3kWoIRIC6eZb_WujcgcbgdQrvREo5JwOWN2w/s320/36434E66-BC70-4A5D-9A02-D87B2B1FA5A7.jpeg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-73424222863834036832022-10-12T14:53:00.000-07:002022-10-12T14:53:10.790-07:00The Other Stuff<p> I've been uncomfortable and out of sorts lately. My thoughts have been going to the OTHER STUFF. You know, the OTHER STUFF you would be doing if you weren't doing the things you're currently doing? Sometimes the fact that I'm not doing the OTHER STUFF makes me question if I've correctly prioritized the stuff I AM doing. Maybe the stuff I'm doing isn't the best stuff to bring God glory, and to leave the world a more loving place, which are my life goals. There are so many good options, it's hard to know what to do. </p><p>I love my job of teaching kids how to read, problem-solve, and communicate. There are lots of other things I've taught them, like the word "biohazard", that rubbing bologna on the table is just a bad idea, and that "there ain't no 'a' in they". Girl, I could write a book. but I digress. I've been doing my job professionally for 14 years, and I'm good at it. I've gained a treasure trove of tips, and strategies from so many fantastic education professionals, and from the kids themselves. I know all about phonemic awareness, and onset/rime. I know what a "schwa" is, and how to help kids decode correctly. I get to be fully myself while I sing the "Walking Feet" song down the hallway, and some days I get to dress like a total FREAK, because Mrs. Swager don't play when it comes to Crazy Hair Day! So why do I sometimes wonder what else I can do? </p><p>I'm blaming it on my candles. </p><p>I always have a candle lit in my home. I lit a candle from the new fire on Holy Saturday (yes, at Easter), and that flame continues to burn in my home. I have to replace the wax and wicks, but the fire itself hasn't been extinguished. I just move it from candle to candle. This latest batch of candles doesn't burn very brightly. In fact, they barely stay lit at all, and I have to really keep an eye on them. When the wick has burned all the way to the bottom, there's still a thick layer of wax clinging to the outside of the jar. This gets me thinking about the candle being like my life. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8lT2io5V9-PLaLVP91EHs2xHGyZOhp1de5XOmIOxhgEFawRCSrgYqgg71MqHjJopf303aDdRmvy7zpYxOeZKxmGWb9vdgUwXcbu4iuBpO3TiFs1SfuE7oWZuKZ6DAbSUTnGsSPy5pxzJFWhcx0umEQ0_Wvn5q7H333PaJlwLWb061IN-WJsJQpwd6dA/s640/extra%20wax.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8lT2io5V9-PLaLVP91EHs2xHGyZOhp1de5XOmIOxhgEFawRCSrgYqgg71MqHjJopf303aDdRmvy7zpYxOeZKxmGWb9vdgUwXcbu4iuBpO3TiFs1SfuE7oWZuKZ6DAbSUTnGsSPy5pxzJFWhcx0umEQ0_Wvn5q7H333PaJlwLWb061IN-WJsJQpwd6dA/w150-h200/extra%20wax.JPG" width="150" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">The flame represents the inner spark of life (which is love itself), and the wick of my lifetime carries it. The wax is the life I'm living outside of myself: experiences, people I love, and things I do. This new box of candles represents the intensity with which I'm currently living my life, and right now, I'm leaving a lot behind, and not burning as brightly as I could. This makes me wonder what I'm leaving "on the table" as it were. </span><b style="text-align: left;">Who wants to get to the end of their wick to find out there was so much more wax there to melt?</b><i style="text-align: left;"> </i></div><p></p><p>So here I am, pondering the OTHER STUFF, and as I write this, I realize that I do not know why these candles aren't as bright. I could guess that they have bad wicks, but don't we all have challenges in our "wicks"? My heart issues, and lack of a thyroid tend to slow me down, but they don't slow me down nearly as much as my slothfulness. I nap. I'm practically gifted at it. I could teach a master class. The problem with the candles may be the wick, but that's not my problem.</p><p>Truth is, it doesn't matter which STUFF I'm doing. What really matters is if I'm doing it with love. The wick of my lifetime won't get longer. That's not how lifetimes work. If I want to make sure I use up the entire supply of wax in the candle of my life, I need to love more. If I want my life to be well spent, (and completely spent) I need to love with my whole self. No matter what STUFF I'm doing, I need to remember what really matters. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAkNrc9XDCr_RvzsQLKLGEeksl7Pl_mjGY6tNAicGgouHjFI9lE6ZLUkWnfJaXG4TyMT7qwudH2t3GAdKaUWQWr_q_FWsDI59uMxprz1IrvgCOld61NLD8EHWAKhHaHbq5pUxVb3Qy4LfHSb-KgJuq2_G1tBth8b6-RQFS8rInTLlDNE8zxGFtDkmB8Q/s640/IMG_7867.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAkNrc9XDCr_RvzsQLKLGEeksl7Pl_mjGY6tNAicGgouHjFI9lE6ZLUkWnfJaXG4TyMT7qwudH2t3GAdKaUWQWr_q_FWsDI59uMxprz1IrvgCOld61NLD8EHWAKhHaHbq5pUxVb3Qy4LfHSb-KgJuq2_G1tBth8b6-RQFS8rInTLlDNE8zxGFtDkmB8Q/w150-h200/IMG_7867.JPG" width="150" /></a></div><p></p><p> <i> </i> </p><p> </p>Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-69705778182744708952022-07-20T21:45:00.003-07:002022-07-20T21:45:56.864-07:00The Family Shrub<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHovvEFjg4cqV80PfkRPbh9U_NaGi2NyYRshCiWHCVbLPUrR_k6_qDwvTKWJWhMSI8Ge2e0QIB7L7lB8RhcCx0-OLjuYKVSdy1xID_pxByM-FeOcPocYU1yRqnLEJxM0aXAtooyLhsdi4BeakZ5B91WPSRaAuOZ7sM_EoeMITzDwarlAqPLqPf_S4I1g/s4032/210E1F92-6756-4BA3-A657-F33289D0AF3F.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHovvEFjg4cqV80PfkRPbh9U_NaGi2NyYRshCiWHCVbLPUrR_k6_qDwvTKWJWhMSI8Ge2e0QIB7L7lB8RhcCx0-OLjuYKVSdy1xID_pxByM-FeOcPocYU1yRqnLEJxM0aXAtooyLhsdi4BeakZ5B91WPSRaAuOZ7sM_EoeMITzDwarlAqPLqPf_S4I1g/s320/210E1F92-6756-4BA3-A657-F33289D0AF3F.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br />I walked out into my back yard and was met with this lovely sight. This same Rose of Sharon once grew in the front yard of my Grandma and Grandpa Thompson's house in Steubenville Ohio. It has lots of new shoots popping up, but then, so do my grandparents, really. We're just prolific that way. That might be what got me thinking more deeply. I can see my whole family in this shrubbery. <p></p><div>The first thing I see is the bloom on this beautiful Rose of Sharon (also known as a Hibiscus tree.) The bloom is large, as big as my hand, and the deep burgundy base of the petals make the white part look even whiter! This bloom will only last a day or two (three if it's lucky) which makes this a big deal, kind of like childhood. Right now, this bloom is having the time of it's life. It's radiant and beautiful, and you can't help but smile just watching it. I love seeing the joy in those little blossoms of mine. </div><div><br /></div><div>Have another look at the photo. What else do you see? I mean, the bloom is lovely, but there's no bloom without the greenery. Every single leaf is basking in the sun, soaking up all that warmth, and turning it into chlorophyll. Each leaf is making the food and feeding the plant, so really, that greenery is what keeps it all together. When the petals fall off (as petals do) that exquisite foliage remains. Just look at it! Look what a beautiful shade of green, and those delicate scalloped edges. It surrounds the blooms, and lifts them up, and seems to be enjoying their beauty as much as the rest of us are. Just. Like Us. We, the parents and we, the aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends. All of us make up the foliage of our families. We feed them and nourish them, and rejoice in their blooming. We are beautiful in our own right, with our lush green scalloped edges, and in the way we stay together, working to keep each other healthy and well. </div><div><br /></div><div>There's one more thing I see, and it makes me a bit sad. Just above the bloom and to the left, you will see the brown seed pods. They already had their turn to bloom, and they were spectacular. Now they have a new purpose. They contain within themselves the priceless treasure of their knowledge, experience, and creativity. They must break to share what they have nurtured within, but it's so hard to watch them become such brittle, fragile versions of who they once were. They are ready to share the means by which something old becomes new again, and they'll share their pearls of wisdom with the Earth. </div><div><br /></div><div>Then a new shoot will begin. </div><div><br /></div><div>First one small leaf, then another. The leaves will give way to a stem which makes more leaves and more. The next "little bud" in our family is due to bloom in December. Our family keeps growing. I'm thankful for the blooming, and for the opportunity to be the foliage. I hope when it's my turn, I break gracefully, surrounded by leaves and blooms. </div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div>Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-47991832517325360722019-03-02T11:41:00.000-08:002019-03-02T11:41:39.600-08:00Mrs. Woodworth’s lessons<div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-68e58bbc-7fff-91a4-3163-27e7d53f00a4" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jill Woodworth was a teacher. </span></div>
<br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" />
<div dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you knew her, you knew that. As a teacher at Climax-Scotts, she had a hand in educating the kids of our small community for three decades. She’s taught countless kids how to read, how to do math, and how to LOVE learning. She’s taught them to tie shoes and zip coats, and she’s put hundreds of baby teeth into little baggies to be taken home and shown to doting parents. She’s read thousands of stories, graded thousands of papers, and planned thousands of lessons, and she did all that...Because she’s a teacher. </span></div>
<br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" />
<div dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Did she teach you? </span></div>
<br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" />
<div dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Jill had a million tiny things about her that each of us hold dear. They’re those classic Jill Woodworth things that made everything seem A-OK in the world. That giggle. Her smile. Her quiet presence. The sigh. The way she would tell kids,”You CAN hang up your coat, now go back and try.” Everyone felt safe, felt like they belonged, and learned in her classroom. There were frequently caterpillars or chrysalises, or some other bit of nature to explore. The kids knew that she cared about their reading skills, and also about them as a person. She was the constant, calm presence in a chaotic world for so many students, past and present. Even kids who never had her as a teacher spoke of her being kind to them when they crossed paths in the hallway. She was teaching everywhere she went. </span></div>
<br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" />
<div dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some classes are always more challenging than others, and she managed each one with so much grace and patience. If kids were acting out, screaming, throwing papers, or any number of other poor choices, she just kept on caring and teaching and pushing on through until the end of the day when she could joyfully wave goodbye as the busses pulled away. She never gave up on her kids, even when they pushed her to tears. Those moments were rare, but they were real. She taught us to be human. She reminded us that each child is worth the time to listen to, and really hear what they’re saying. She didn’t need to be flashy or loud. You can create Thanksgiving memories with pancakes and sausage just as well as if you’d put on a Broadway show! She taught THIRTY YEARS of students! </span></div>
<br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" />
<div dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now she’s teaching us something new, and this is the hard part. It’s the lesson no one wants to learn. She’s teaching us how to go on without her. It’s not written in the Common Core Standards, but if it was, it might sound like this: I can be sad sometimes. I can miss her. I can feel her quiet, calming presence, and see her handiwork all around the school. I can giggle again and laugh again. I can share wonderful memories of Mrs. Woodworth. I can cherish the people around me, and tell them so. I can keep her smile in my mind. I can remember her with love. </span></div>
<br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" />
<div dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Thank you, Jill Woodworth, for all of the work you’ve put into helping each of us become the best we can be. </span></div>
<br style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" />
<div dir="ltr" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-85441245447253454832017-05-17T21:14:00.001-07:002017-05-17T21:14:08.167-07:00What she doesn't know.Tonight was Harriett's last high school band concert. It's the end of an era of watching her play her french horn. I took a bunch of pictures, since that's what I do, and I wonder if she knows what's happening in my heart. <br />
<br />
She doesn't know. <br />
<br />
There's so very much she doesn't know, and she really is a very smart girl. <br />
<br />
There are things I want her to know. I want her to know she's loved, and that she has a home with people who love her that she can always come back to. She knows that. I want her to remember that wherever she is, she's never alone, because God is so much a part of her that he lives in every cell of her being, rooting her on and encouraging her, if she listens for his voice. I'm pretty sure she knows that too. I want her to be able to tell who to trust and who to avoid. I want her to be confident enough to see the whole wide world, and find the love in it. <br />
<br />
There are also SO MANY THINGS I don't want her to know. I don't want her to know desperation. I don't want her to know abandonment. I don't want her to feel betrayal, or the pain of being deeply, physically hurt by someone who is supposed to love her. I don't want her to know addiction. (Except to well-written novels.) I don't want her to know terror or crippling fear. I don't want her to know, PERSONALLY KNOW, the world that the TV shows all portray that seem so foreign to the way she was raised. I don't want her to see the badness of the world as the reality of the world. I don't want her to know hatred. <br />
<br />
I know she's going to grow up and know things that I can't even imagine yet. I pray that she ALWAYS knows love. I pray that she will always be my dear, sweet, kind-hearted, book-loving, french-horn playing, softball pitching girl. I pray that she knows she is wonderfully and fearfully made in the image and likeness of God. <br />
<br />
I hope she teaches the world some of what she knows. She knows love. Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-91519211795469160942017-03-09T20:37:00.000-08:002017-03-09T20:37:08.691-08:00We say goodbye, she says hello.It's time for us to say goodbye. <br />
<br />
Nobody wants to. We love him so much, and have so many fond memories. We've fished together and laughed together. We've played cards together and shared so many funny stories. He was the uncle who could drive trains. TRAINS for crying out loud! He took us to his work once, and let me ride and even blow the whistle. I love that guy! He laughed all the time, and usually had a smile on his face, but behind the smile I always sensed a sadness. Something that he was missing. <br />
<br />
I knew what it was, but we didn't really talk about it. <br />
<br />
It was her, and as we say goodbye, she says hello. <br />
<br />
I keep seeing her in my head. Her strawberry blond hair blowing in the breeze as she runs to greet her daddy. Kathleen hasn't seen her daddy since 1974. She was trapped in a body that didn't work right, with a brain that caused her to seize repeatedly. She left that body behind when bell-bottoms were all the rage. Daddy wasn't even 30 yet, and she's been waiting ever since for THIS day. He's finally here! <br />
<br />
I remember her tiny features. That skinny little girl that was always a baby, now is free to run to her daddy. RUN! She's free of that body and brain that held her captive. She smiles and laughs and looks him clearly right in the eye and says the words he probably always hoped to hear from her: I love you, Daddy! <br />
<br />
Can you picture the smile on his face? It's not the same smile he's tried to put on lately. It's the smile of that young daddy for his baby girl. Watch Clint look at his daughters, and you'll know what I'm talking about. He reaches out to hold her, and looks at his hands. They are no longer the hardened, stiff hands that he's been trying to function with lately. They've been made perfect and whole. As he runs to her, his breath moves freely in his lungs,and his heart pounds out a strong and steady beat. Finally free. <br />
<br />
What an incredible gift. <br />
<br />
Uncle CJ has been blessed with so many wonderful years with Chuck and Dale and Clint. He's been blessed with the love of parents, wives and friends. (And NIECES and nephews, siblings, co-workers, etc.) We will all miss him so very much, but it's her turn. <br />
<br />
Our day will come. Until then, we'll keep a smile in our hearts for them both. We'll do what he did. We'll live THIS day, and look forward to our next day together. We'll love and laugh, and tell his stories until we meet again. Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-83451869934818555022017-01-06T10:55:00.002-08:002017-01-06T10:55:59.468-08:00What's wrong with being "Confident?"<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I heard that song on the radio, and asked myself the same question. What IS wrong with being confident? Truly, nothing. If you are properly defining the word "confident".</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I heard a different song that got me thinking about this. The songs couldn't be more different. This other song was written centuries ago. In Latin, it's known as "Adeste Fideles" in English "Oh Come All Ye Faithful." If you know me, you know I'm a total Word Nerd and love learning the roots, origins and etymology of words. So naturally, I was curious about these Latin In our church, as in others as well, we sing it in latin, and one of the words looked familiar: FIDELES.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It comes from the word FIDES which means Faith. This version of the word FAITH (thanks to etymonline.com) means <span style="background-color: #ddd9ca;"> "trust, faith, confidence, reliance, credence, belief," </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #ddd9ca; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So,<i> CON FIDES </i>means "with much FAITH." </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Am I living my life like one of those "Fideles" being invited to "Adeste"? Am I truly "Full of Faith"? FULL? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Con Fides. "With much faith" is the kind of mindset that allowed Mary to say Yes to whatever God had in mind for her life. "Fideles" is the mindset that the disciples took with them everywhere they went to proclaim the gospel to all who would listen. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Con-Fidence is what I wish for everyone this New Year! In 2017, May you be filled with FAITH that whatever it brings with it, He will love us through it. Let's have CONFIDENCE that whoever dies this year will experience a peaceful death. Let's have CONFIDENCE that the new people born this year will be a blessing to the world they inherit. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;">Let's all go forward, boldly into 2017 with the CONFIDENCE, the fullness of Faith, that our words and actions will reflect that Faith in our hearts, and the Love of the one we have Faith in. </span></span><br />
<br />
Oh come, let us adore him.<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<span style="background-color: #ddd9ca; font-family: "georgia" , "garamond" , "times new roman" , "times" , serif; font-size: 26px;"><br /></span>
<br />Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-85083968537193120122017-01-03T21:51:00.000-08:002017-01-03T21:51:03.497-08:00The God of "Jacob""Jacob" screams at the top of his lungs, "JESUS CHRIST!!!"<br />
<br />
You can hear him all the way down the hallway, slamming his chair against a wall and crashing anything he can reach onto the floor. "GOD!!!" Oh my GODDD!!" He screams, unleashing the fury that he just can't contain any longer. A stream of obscenities leaves his lips next, that you wouldn't think a second grader would know.<br />
<br />
He does know them. He listened to his mother and father scream them at each other well into the night. Again. They screamed and fought well after the "good kids" of the neighborhood were in bed, tucked in by parents who love them, and love each other. They pushed and shoved each other into the early hours of the morning, while "Jacob" cowered in his room, trying to sleep, but afraid. Would the police come tonight? Again? Honest to God, he just wanted to sleep! <br />
<br />
Now here he is. No sleep. No meds. No shower. No breakfast. He made it to school because he got himself up and around in time to catch the bus, and now he's exhausted. He came to school with an attitude. I wonder why. <br />
<br />
"Jacob" does the only thing he knows to do. He screams and swears because he has learned that's what adults do when they're angry and afraid and at the end of their rope.<br />
<br />
"Jacob" does something else, too. Something he doesn't understand, and may not even realize he's doing it. <br />
<br />
"Jacob" prays. <br />
<br />
He screams the name of a savior he needs desperately, but doesn't know personally. He screams the name of the Creator who made him and put him here. He's terrified. He needs God! He calls him by name! If you listen, you can hear the urgency in his voice, along with the anger and fear. He doesn't use the loving tone you will hear in any church, but it is, none the less, the only prayer this kid knows. <br />
<br />
He doesn't know what "God" means, but he's screaming out for help! He's looking for someone that will love him and care for him. He's so very DESPERATE for a SAVIOR!! He's looking for someone who will stand between him and certain destruction.<br />
<br />
Amidst the stream of obscenities, is a plea for help to the God of this "Jacob", and all the "Jacobs" of the world. He is the God of every kid that struggles. Every kid that fails. He's the God of every family that screams and hits and curses their way through long nights, and the police who come to protect them. He is the God of every messed up, addicted, hyperactive or just plain "naughty" kid, teen and adult there is. He hears those prayers, and he loves them. <br />
<br />
Pray for all the Jacobs of the world. When you see them, don't be so quick to judge. Help them with your prayers. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-85483201900528365762016-11-07T12:50:00.004-08:002016-11-07T12:50:57.234-08:00You are NOT a Good CandidateTomorrow is election day. If you were running for political office, you may be offended if someone said that to you, but you'd get over it. Everyone is entitled to their opinion.<br />
<br />
That's not the kind of candidate I'm talking about.<br />
<br />
Some years back, I was in the room while my friend's brother Peter heard these words from his doctor. The doctor had to tell him, "I'm so sorry, but you are not a good candidate for a liver transplant. Your liver is failing, and there are no other treatments available." <br />
<br />
Peter didn't get over it. He died of liver failure, just as the doctor said. There were no other options available to him. <br />
<br />
I recently heard about a heart sister of mine. I've never met her, but she sounds like a lovely person. She was young, married about 10 years and had little kids. She was told those same words: "I'm sorry, but you're not a good candidate for this procedure." It was a procedure that she had hoped would save her life and solve her heart trouble. She died waiting to discuss what other options might help her.<br />
<br />
You can hear these stories, but they don't really prepare you for the reality. You hear of a procedure that sounds like it can cure your ailment. For me, it was the promise of a procedure called an ablation. I mean, imagine it! If this works, no more heart disease! My only reason for not running will be laziness! I won't be controlled by a handful of pills and a machine in my chest. I'll be free! I can go back to assuming I will live to be eighty! <br />
<br />
So I had the test, and waited. <br />
<br />
...And waited. <br />
<br />
And I silently prayed. And I hoped that this would be the cure I've been waiting for. And I allowed myself to actually imagine what life will be like if this works out. For real. <br />
<br />
But instead I heard those words, "you are NOT a good candidate...." Sorry. (Can you hear my hopes crashing into the ground?) There will not be a simple fix. There will not be an end in sight. This heart problem will not go away. I'm stuck with it, and after that experience, it feels even more heavy and more oppressive. I am not a good candidate. This will not fix my problem. <br />
<br />
That was a few years ago, and I've accepted my situation. If I have 3-6 bad days a month, I'm still in the A- to B+ range. Not bad for a formerly dead girl. However, I'm sometimes still haunted by that day in Peter's hospital room. My heart still goes out to those who are hearing "I'm sorry, you are not a good candidate for this life-saving procedure." It's not the doctor's fault. There's only so much they can do. That doctor was deeply affected by telling Peter that news. He would have loved to tell him some treatment or surgery that would turn back years of mistreatment and neglect of his health. Just like so many heart docs would love to know a way to turn back the clock so we could stop smoking and start eating healthy and exercising while we were still healthy enough to do it. Not all heart disease works that way, but 80% is preventable. We have to make ourselves good candidates while we can.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow is election day. I'll be praying for ALL the candidates. I'll also be praying that more of my heart family WILL be good candidates for life-saving procedures and transplants. I'll be praying that we can all be filled with hope, <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-66432086492625919932016-07-12T14:12:00.004-07:002016-07-12T14:23:01.019-07:00Demolition Queen!We had a leaky roof that caused some water damage to the walls and ceiling of our dining room. Said walls and ceiling must now be removed and replaced. Mostly by me. Because I am a BEAST at demolition! <br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I had NO IDEA I was a Demolition Queen until I felt the first full whack of the sledgehammer and watched the drywall buckle and bust. The crashing of the broken pieces of my dining room wall hitting the floor was like a fresh batch of whiskey to a bootlegger! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I. Am. Hooked.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I might just start randomly pulling down walls just for kicks and giggles, but first I think I need to finish the dining room. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As I donned my super-sexy dust mask/eye protection goggles/protective hat combo, I started to think deep thoughts about this whole experience. I mean, for me, the whole journey so far has been a metaphor for my life. I have reached a point where what I had been "getting by" with no longer works for me, and may in fact, be making me sick. (I don't think we have any black mold, but it's pretty nasty looking up there. It can't be healthy.) </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, it's time for a change. I started from the inside of the room,packing up the things I thought I needed to display and have "at the ready". Like my sewing machine that was last used over a year ago, and the wine selection in the china hutch that hasn't been touched in ages. I removed those things and packed them away for later. I've also done that with my day job. I'll get it back out, when this interior work is completed, just like I will go back to school in September, and continue my dream job of teaching little people to love school, reading, friends, broccoli, and an assortment of other things they never knew they liked. For now, those skills are boxed up. With my china. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I've had to rearrange some big pieces of furniture and remove EVERYTHING from the room. My life is in flux, and making a space, or allowing things to be gone is hard for me. Some of my kids are graduating, and are in the process of moving on with their adult lives in their own homes. They will be missed, and when it's time for them to go, it will be hard. They are mighty big pieces of the "furniture" in my heart and they can't be replaced. I also won't replace the dining room table that was so prominent in there. I tried to move it and the legs snapped off. Thankfully, the kids' legs are all still attached. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I pulled out the carpet in one big piece. Just pulled up the edges and rolled that bad monkey right out of there. I don't need no steenking carpet! It was stained with 18+ years of nail polish and dog pee and orange pop. I was in no way sad to see this carpet go, but it was super heavy, and I started to doubt my ability to physically complete this project. Then I was able to carry out the underlayment in 2 separate pieces by myself. Oh yeah, I don't have anything to prove to anyone. I'm just remodeling a room. Slow down......</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Two walls of this room are internal. They are shared with another wall inside the house. They are close and intimate, and there is nothing between these walls but air and time, and the dust of all the years. Opening those walls was like releasing so many loving conversations. It was like setting free the memories of parties and games and laughter and singing. I could once again hear the silliness and fun that has happened in my home, and the cheerful voices of our wonderful children that Luke and I have been blessed to share it with. These walls open easily. The old drywall comes down in large pieces, and because there's nothing to stop them from cracking, they don't take nearly as much work with the sledgehammer. These walls make me feel invincible!!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The other two walls are external. They are packed top to bottom with blown insulation that is made of mulched old newspapers. How interesting that we would use the news of the day to protect our family from that which would harm it. That room has always been colder than the rest of the house, so I don't believe it was a very good insulation plan. However, opening up each section of wall and physically removing all of that crap was so very cleansing. Some of it would come out in big bricks of puffy stuff. Some would start to come out in a brick, until it missed the trash can and exploded all over my leg and into my socks with a million cells of fluffy, dusty, nastiness. It's like going to confession. "Here, Father, let me just open up this panel of wall and dump out for you all the old crappy fluff I've decided to pack into my life because it seemed like a good idea at the time. It seemed like something that would protect me or keep me warm, but it really and truly is trash." So I am absolved, but I still have fluff in my socks, and I still need to fill my trash bags with this stuff, and remove it from my metaphoric "room". I will try asbestos I can to make better choices. (See what I did there... Anyway.) </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So here I am. My walls are bared. My insulation is gone. The floor is swept of the debris of drywall and fluff. And dust...So much dust! I really am made of dust, and to dust I will return. (I am reminded of this every time I re-enter this room, an put my dust mask back on.) I take a look around the room and realize that I have done all I can do for right now. The next step is a doozy, and I'm not sure I'm ready. I'm not sure exactly what to expect. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
After Luke removes the chandelier, we will take down the ceiling. I'll post a picture. It's gross! I'm really afraid of what will come falling down on me when I open that can of worms. Can I swing a sledgehammer over my head while standing on a ladder? Should I? What disgusting assortment of nasty ceiling contents is going to come raining down upon me? Is my tarp big enough? Just like my life. Who isn't afraid when you get ready to take a great leap of faith with the One who is Above you? Things get dicey when you decide to remove some of the things that get between you and your Creator. I just want to be closer to Him. And I'd like to be rid of the damage caused by my leaky roof. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Who knew how much there is to learn by demolishing a dining room? Maybe God sent that leak just for me! </div>
Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-91010273385821877032016-06-30T21:13:00.001-07:002016-06-30T21:13:21.857-07:00Elevator, going up? <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="text-align: left;">I don't know why they decided to take the elevator, but they did. Probably for the same reason people climb mountains and write songs. The Spirit moved them in that direction and they went with it. </span></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I don't know why it jammed after moving upwards only a few feet. Perhaps the elevator was faulty. Perhaps they were too "active" in the elevator car. Perhaps it just happened out of dumb luck. Perhaps God had some lessons to teach us, and used this elevator for that purpose. </div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Let me start by saying that I am fully aware of how much my Harriett hates small enclosed spaces. I know how she gets panicky when the walls appear to close in on her, and I can only imagine the horror in her soul when she realized that the elevator was no longer moving, and that she may, in fact, be trapped in that metal box with her sister and her best friends, for an indefinite period of time. They started screaming immediately after the elevator stopped, and their friend and hero, Kathy, was on the other side of the door, immediately calling for back-up. </div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b><span style="color: purple;">Lesson #1: When you discover you're stuck, call for help! </span></b></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
By the time I got there, it was almost a festive atmosphere. The girls were singing to pass the time and to control the anxiety. Staff members, priests, and an assortment of supportive team members worked to keep the girls happy, requesting songs and joking with them to keep them calm while the fire department and building and grounds crew did their best to remedy the elevator situation. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b><span style="color: purple;">Lesson #2: When you're trapped in a metal box (real or metaphoric) you get to choose your reaction. You can panic and cry, or you can rally your troops and sing some 4 part harmony. </span></b> </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
When the second fire and rescue vehicle arrived, things got a little more scary. Despite the best efforts of everyone involved, the fire department would have to use some rescue machinery known as the "Jaws of Life" to open the elevator door. They made everyone leave the area. I protested, "Those are MY kids!" "I'm sorry Ma'am, but you have to go, too." He was as sympathetic as he could be, given the circumstances. When I saw the equipment he was about to use on the door that held my precious daughters (and their cousin and friend, who I also count as my beloved daughters) I freaked out a little. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b><span style="color: purple;">Lesson #3: When people you love are trapped in a metal box (real or metaphoric) DON'T </span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b><span style="color: purple;">LEAVE. </span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<b><span style="color: purple;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I went upstairs,as directed, but I didn't go outside with the rest of the team. I couldn't leave my kids! I stood at the elevator door, a floor above them and banged on the door so they could hear me. I hope they could hear me. I banged and yelled, "I'm right HERE! Mom's right HERE! You'll be right out in a minute! It's gonna get loud, but I'm right HERE!" I heard them scream for me. I heard them cry. I listened to them cry, and I'd never felt so helpless. I couldn't see what was happening, but I could hear metal grinding and the roar of the machines that must be deafening inside that metal box. I was having a "Mary Moment." Is this how she felt while her son was being crucified? </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: purple;"><b>Lesson #4: What God taught me: </b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: purple;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
As I banged on the door it occurred to me that I am not the first to feel this way. Girls, every bit of my heart wants to be in that box with you. I want to protect you, and calm you and wrap my arms around you, but you're trapped in a big metal box. I would gladly trade places with you and be locked in that box FOR you, but all I can do right now is to stand above and tell you I'm here, and hope you keep listening for my voice, and that it brings you comfort. For a tiny moment, I felt connected to all of my ancestors who await my arrival in Heaven. They call to me that they are right there, and they are hoping that I find comfort in their presence: in God's Holy Presence, which they are a part of. This was certainly how Jesus felt, which inspired Him to be born of a woman so he could get on all of our elevators with us. This is how the Creator felt in all of the Old Testament stories where the choices of his people landed them in their own forms of captivity again and again. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
This is the story of a parent loving her children, and wanting them to be free so they could be together. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It's my story of an elevator.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It's the story of everyone who has ever been held captive by addiction, or poor choices, or PTSD, or just the circumstances of life. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It's God's story of love. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNhzg0TFoP01GxGT_20d6Rywy9xAzJ63brDtRuM5bGKP-E9qXr5VZoIXRtU5-Nk9eByVujNEcTk0oofsLbtxu6hY97Hk1OD7-IkNH_1A_RWQ43hEJfemDwIq-Ocer8HspZipD3N7PIw8Rb/s1600/IMG_5463.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNhzg0TFoP01GxGT_20d6Rywy9xAzJ63brDtRuM5bGKP-E9qXr5VZoIXRtU5-Nk9eByVujNEcTk0oofsLbtxu6hY97Hk1OD7-IkNH_1A_RWQ43hEJfemDwIq-Ocer8HspZipD3N7PIw8Rb/s320/IMG_5463.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<b><span style="color: purple;">Lesson 5: Sometimes you have to use power tools to break free from your captivity. </span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: purple;"><br /></span></b>
So this is what the door looked like after the girls were freed from the elevator. It won't be functional again without a significant amount of help. Some metal boxes need to be broken to allow for a proper and timely escape. Their entire interment was a little over 2 hours. We enjoyed the biggest hug of their young lives at the top of that stairwell! There was SO MUCH REJOICING that they were free. <br />
<br />
Thank you, Lord, for the lessons. Thank you CHWC Staff and Mike McDuffie. Thank you, camp coordinators, and the Groton Fire and Rescue, and Public Safety officers! Thank you FC and KDubs. Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-40545735564041208132016-05-22T12:51:00.002-07:002016-05-22T12:51:38.349-07:00Why Bother Vaccinating Your Kids?Wow! That got your attention, didn't it? It's kid of a hot spot for lots of parents of young kids. People feel very strongly one way or another on the issue. To some folks, they're even fighting words. So really, Why would you bother to vaccinate them? What do you hope to accomplish?<br />
<br />
Like most pro-vaccine types, you probably believe that this injection will give your child the power to overcome a variety of the more crippling and infectious childhood diseases. By giving your child this series of vaccines, you are empowering them with the strength to fight off that which seeks to destroy and weaken them. Before that threat is anywhere NEAR your baby, you want them to be prepared to fight it off. Of course you want your child to have that power! You want to fill their arsenal with the weaponry necessary to grow strong and confident, knowing that Whooping Cough will not take their lungs, and that the Polio will not cripple their legs. You probably agree that it would be irresponsible of you to send your child out into the world of other children without being protected from the 'pickers and lickers' of the playground, grocery store, or day care!<br />
<br />
Or maybe you don't believe there's any benefit in vaccinations. You don't think there really are diseases that want to damage your baby, or you feel that you personally can keep him or her "safe enough". Or maybe you don't want your child to be uncomfortable. It hurts for a little bit. Sometimes it makes kids cranky for a few days. (To some kids with febrile seizures, it's life threatening, but not to most kids.) Maybe you think to yourself, "I didn't like vaccinations, so I'm not going to make my kids go through that. It was horrible and I hated it. If they ask me about it, we'll talk."<br />
<br />
Ridiculous, right? <br />
<br />
Has he or she in any way asked you protect them from Tetanus or the Measles? Of course not! They don't know there IS any such thing. As parents, we make decisions for our children to protect them and build their strength. We want to empower them to fight off ALL of the things that set out to weaken and destroy them. ALL the choices we make for our children are because we love them and want them to be safe, and empowered to survive and thrive in a hostile, booger-infested world that wants to crush them and tell them they don't matter. That may mean that you will force your beliefs about bio-hazards on them. You will drag them, kicking and screaming if necessary, to the doctor's office because you know they will need what they are receiving. Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but one day they will. <br />
<br />
Just like they need God. <br />
<br />
I baptized my children when they were not yet old enough to know what was happening. I wanted to "vaccinate" them against evil by filling them God. They had no idea they were born with a separation between them and God, just like they didn't know they were susceptible to the Human Papilloma Virus that could render them infertile. I made the choice to fill them with God's Love as a protective serum for their souls. I wanted to empower them so that when the things of this world try to destroy and weaken them, they are prepared. I hoped to instill in them that they are loved beyond measure, so that when the very real sicknesses of depression and addiction come near, they have God's Love to keep them sober and healthy, even if their physical strength fails.<br />
<br />
I admit that I have forced my beliefs about biohazards on my children. I have also taken them to church, even under the occasional protest, If they didn't like it, that's okay with me. I hoped to accomplish ALL the things that a vaccinator hopes to do. Protect, Strengthen, and Empower.<br />
<br />
<br />
Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-6913604720603178452016-01-17T21:20:00.001-08:002016-01-17T21:56:03.533-08:00The Loose ToothThere it was. Hanging out the front of this Kindergartener's mouth was the loosest, most non-connected tooth you've ever seen that wasn't already under a pillow. It had been bothering her all morning, and had just reached the point of no return. <div><br></div><div>We all remember that moment, right? We've wiggled that tooth front to back and side to side, we can even see under it when we tip it far enough. She has finagled and twisted this tooth to where it is <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">no longer in its proper place and can't go back to where it was earlier, but it's not out either. Now she's asking me for help. </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidOhORxJmsD3gVR809hVbtR3Q5C9Jw7U_zLMJyGIyzNZJ69j7yrSTib-bDbYSIeAmTN5beeV4NyzaGmD19N1JkuPYP5zWV-SE3y_VLpx90PMQookvibagopznV6gxyw6tNPzfy00qKfvqJ/s640/blogger-image-1292515022.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidOhORxJmsD3gVR809hVbtR3Q5C9Jw7U_zLMJyGIyzNZJ69j7yrSTib-bDbYSIeAmTN5beeV4NyzaGmD19N1JkuPYP5zWV-SE3y_VLpx90PMQookvibagopznV6gxyw6tNPzfy00qKfvqJ/s640/blogger-image-1292515022.jpg"></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Now being the mother of seven, I have almost 140 instances of experience with loose teeth and have no problem removing the loose teeth of my own kids. This is different. She's my school kid. I'm not her mother, and I feel the true nature of her dilemma.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">How many times have we battled with the things that have outlived their place in our lives and we just can't give them up? We poke at them and twist them, even tip them from side to side, but when it comes time to remove it, we just...can't. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Even when we can see two shiny new adult teeth behind this little obsolete baby tooth, she still held tight to the tooth she had always known, that had served her so well all these long five years of her life. I just couldn't yank her old friend away from her. However, lunch time was coming soon, and the tooth wasn't going back! <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">The best thing to do in this situation was to look to the future without that hangy little tooth. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">I ended up holding her tooth in a baggie (ziploc hazmat) while she leaned in to let me see the new teeth behind it, and darned if that tooth didn't fall right out! Right into the baggie!</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Turns out it wasn't really connected any more. Kind of like the old hurt feelings and grudges I've been holding onto. Perhaps I could just put them in a baggie and finally let them go.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">Maybe there's something shiny and new waiting to take their place.</span></div>Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-79054943661463947132016-01-15T21:18:00.001-08:002016-01-15T21:18:42.743-08:00The Newly Adopted BabyI saw a video of a family. I don't know the Mom, never met the Dad. They may be a family member of a facebook friend's facebook friend. Still, I cried. I watched as the man and woman were handed their newly ADOPTED infant son for the first time. He was a fresh little newborn, and in that moment, a MOTHER was born and a FATHER was born, and a FAMILY was created. It was an amazing transformation to watch. <br />
<br />
I watched as these two new parents looked at their son with SO MUCH love and hope. This little fella could do no wrong, and he carries on his little baby shoulders all of their hopes and dreams to carry on the family name, and show the world what it means to be a (fill in the family name of the kid here, I don't know it.) They have hopes to raise this child in a home filled with love and respect and for that child to grow to be the kind of person that makes the world a better place. They have offered their love to a child that, for whatever reason, was given to be raised in a family other than the one it was born into. What a gift those birth parents gave. <br />
<br />
As the Mother handed her son to the Father, I watched his face. This man accepted this child as his son, and accepted him into his arms and his heart. You could feel so much more than "acceptance" in his expression. He held his new son protectively, and he will be called on to protect this little man from the hurtful things of this world.. He supported his head, as he will support him emotionally and financially, spiritually and if necessary, physically. He wrapped his arms around this tiny little baby and TOOK HIM IN. <br />
<br />
I couldn't stop crying. The moment was touching, and the family was sweet, but it was more. The Father looked at his newly adopted son the way I felt GOD looking at me when I was without a pulse. No words were heard, no vision was experienced, but I came back with the knowledge within every cell of my being that I was (and AM) loved just like that. Perfectly accepted. Perfectly anticipated, expected, hoped for, and pursued, and loved beyond all comprehension. Not some random child, but HIS child.<br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"But when the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, to ransom those that are under the law, so that we might receive ADOPTION. As proof that you are children, God sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying out, "Abba, Father!" So you are no longer a slave but a child, and if a child then also an heir, through God. (Galatians 4:7) </span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
I am called to be HIS beloved child that carries HIS family name. I am called to show the world what it means to be a CHRISTIAN (I KNOW that family name!) I will help create a culture of love and respect, and do all I can to make the world a more loving place. My parents gave me the gift of being part of this Christian family. I love them for it! <br />
<br />
My heart cries "Abba, Father!" and he wraps his loving arms around me and TAKES ME IN.<br />
<br />
<br />
That's what I saw.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-70193803797524921062015-12-14T03:00:00.000-08:002015-12-14T03:00:08.473-08:00The Sixth Month<h2>
<span style="color: blue;">"...and this is the sixth month for her who was called barren;</span><span style="color: blue;">for nothing will be impossible for God.”</span><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></h2>
<div>
These words are written about Elizabeth, the mother of John the Baptist, in the story of the Annunciation. That's just a fancy word to mean "the announcement that Mary was going to give birth to the Savior of the World". I like it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This part of the passage really jumped out at me when I heard it read aloud. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I distinctly recall being in my sixth month. It's some of the best part of pregnancy. I was far enough along that I was done vomiting all day, and I had a little poof of belly. I wasn't yet a planet with my own zip code, and I could still see my shoes from a standing position. I also had the benefit of being chock full of reproductive energy! I was knocking out projects and getting things done. I had a nest to feather, and it wasn't going to feather itself! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So when I heard this passage, I was thinking of it in another context. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I was thinking about the "sixth month" of life. It is that time of life when you are most productive, and joyfully going about the business of making the world a better, more comfortable, more loving place. It REALLY IS the good part! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Elizabeth was thought to be barren. Some friends and I hate that word. It brings an image of the guy in rags dragging himself through the desert begging for water as the scorching sun bleaches the life out of everything. Below are some definitions of "barren". </div>
<div>
<ol class="lr_dct_sf_sens" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 20px;">
<li style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.2; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><div class="_Jig">
<div data-dobid="dfn" style="display: inline;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</li>
<li style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.2; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><div class="_Jig">
<div data-dobid="dfn" style="display: inline;">
<span style="font-weight: lighter; line-height: 1.2;"><span style="color: purple; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">1. (Of a woman) unable to have children. Synonyms:Infertile, sterile, childless.</span></span></div>
</div>
</li>
</ol>
<div>
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19.2px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<ol class="lr_dct_sf_sens" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 20px;">
<li style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.2; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="color: purple; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: lighter; line-height: 1.2;">2. </span><span style="font-weight: lighter; line-height: 1.2;">empty of meaning or value. Synonyms: pointless, worthless, profitless, valueless, unrewarding, purposeless, useless, aimless, hollow, etc....</span></span></li>
<li style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.2; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: lighter; line-height: 1.2;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></li>
<li style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.2; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: lighter; line-height: 1.2;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></li>
</ol>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-weight: lighter; line-height: 1.2;">It is crucial that we ALL agree that only the first definition applied to Elizabeth, and that one was only temporary. Only the first one is meant to describe a person. </span><br /><ol class="lr_dct_sf_sens" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 20px;">
<li style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.2; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-weight: lighter; line-height: 1.2;"><br /></span></li>
</ol>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-weight: lighter; line-height: 1.2;">Sometimes, the second one has been used to describe me. </span><br /><ol class="lr_dct_sf_sens" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 20px;">
<li style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.2; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: lighter; line-height: 1.2;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></li>
</ol>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-weight: lighter; line-height: 1.2;">I've been called each of these at one point or another, either with actual words, or by the actions of others. I have been encouraged to feel useless and a waste of effort. I have been defined by others as </span></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.2px;">unnecessary</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-weight: lighter; line-height: 1.2;">, and not worth the flesh I was made of. I have had someone tell me, "No court in the land would ever convict me of killing you, you are so ridiculous." </span></span><br /><ol class="lr_dct_sf_sens" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 20px;">
<li style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.2; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-weight: lighter; line-height: 1.2;"><br /></span></span></li>
</ol>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-weight: lighter; line-height: 1.2;">I believed it. I lived a very barren life inside myself for a very long time. I believed all the horrible lies I was told about myself, but not now. I am in the "sixth month" of my life.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;">I don't know when it happened exactly, that I started to see myself differently, but it was solidified when I was held in the arms of my Creator when my heart stopped. There was nothing to get in the way of His Love. No kids to take care of, no house to clean, no heart beat, no breathing. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;">Just Me and LOVE. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;">Perfect, eternal, beyond words and description. I saw nothing, and experienced Pure Love. God loves me like a newborn baby. It's appropriate that He came to Earth that way. He was Mary's perfect little boy. Joseph would have looked at him with hopes and dreams and perfect Daddy love, even if this child wasn't the Savior of the World. It's how God sees us. It's not that He doesn't know what mean things we are capable of, it's that He knows the Love we are capable of, and that we are made for. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;">So here I am. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;">The sickness and discomfort of my first trimester is done (I hope). Now I'm on to being productive, helpful, fruitful. With God's help, I will spread kindness and goodness that will last beyond my years. I will give my strength and energy to share the love that God made me for. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;">It will indeed be the sixth month for THIS woman who was once called all kinds of "barren". </span></div>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;">...For NOTHING will be impossible for God! </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-weight: lighter; line-height: 1.2;"> </span><br /><div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;"><br /></span></div>
<ol class="lr_dct_sf_sens" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: small; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 20px;">
<li style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.2; list-style: none; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-weight: lighter; line-height: 1.2;"> </span></span></li>
</ol>
<div>
<span style="line-height: 19.2px;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0United States41.508577297439352 -85.07812517.608563797439352 -126.386719 65.408590797439359 -43.769531tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-31979701122862938652015-12-13T04:58:00.001-08:002015-12-13T04:58:56.643-08:00Do You Love Me Enough?I was listening to NPR and this fella was telling the story of his sister being in hospice. He told of how he sat in her room, holding his beloved sister's hand, telling her how much he loved her. As he proclaimed his love for his dying sister, she asked him, "Do you love me enough to trade places with me?"<br />
<br />
That stopped me in my tracks and made the rest of the story a blur. He felt very awkward about his answer, so he made a joke about her having to be married to his wife, but what a truly deep question.<br />
<br />
"Do you love me enough to trade places with me?" <br />
<br />
I remember when my granddaughter Evelyn was born. She had a difficult time breathing at first, and she required some special care. Her father (my son, Jordan) is a professional tuba player. His lung capacity is beyond that of normal humans, yet his baby girl struggled to fully inflate her lungs. His desire to take her place was palpable. It was also beautiful. It's what real love looks like. <br />
<br />
"Do you love me enough to trade places with me?" <br />
<br />
I think of my own sweet kids, and the times when they had stitches or fevers, or the chicken pox. I would have gladly taken on that discomfort to ease their pain. I think of poor Luke, when I was in labor all those times. I'm sure he would have taken my pain, if it was in his power to do so. (Well, once, anyway.) <br />
<br />
At so many points in my life, without saying these exact words, I have had this conversation with Jesus. <br />
<br />
When the baby we created out of love died inside my body, the devastation was crushing my very soul. I may have asked him,"Do you love me enough to trade places with me?" <br />
<br />
When I was lost in my brokenness, and couldn't find a friend. When I couldn't feel loved enough and couldn't feel whole enough, I may have asked him, "Do you love me enough to trade places with me?" <br />
<br />
Too stubborn to change, and insisting on doing things my way instead of his, I have broken his heart and his promises too many times to count. Yet, I STILL have the audacity to ask him, "Do you love me enough to trade places with me?" <br />
<br />
Nearly 2,000 years ago, he knew me already. (He's God. He can do that.) He knew what I would ask, and he said, "Yes, Amy. As a matter of fact, I do." Then he took flesh and suffered loneliness and frustration and sadness. He mourned and felt his soul crushing as his friends turned away and the ones he came to save rejected him. He took to the cross and died, Because He loves me enough to trade places with me. <br />
<br />
It could have ended there, but it didn't. Now, He asks the question. <br />
<br />
"Do I love Him enough to trade places with him?" <br />
<br />
Look to the manger and answer that one.<br />
<br />
Look to the cross and answer it again.<br />
<br />
Now look to the Resurrection.<br />
<br />
"Do you love me enough to trade places with me?" <br />
<br />
He does. He did. He has. He always will.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-91607901105169467762015-11-18T20:03:00.000-08:002015-11-18T20:03:15.405-08:00Martyr Making<div>
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="50012004" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px;">There's been SO much talk lately about some things happening around the world that are truly scary and unsettling. If we're not careful, we can find ourselves in the middle of a full-blown hate-fest. While I can't speak to the intentions of those people who opened fire on people in crowded public places, I suspect it was not the outcome I've noticed. </a></div>
<div>
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="50012004" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px;"><br /></a></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">Some would say that their purpose was to promote fear. Lots of people are afraid, and living in fear. Luke 12:4 tells us to look at it differently. </span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;"> </span><span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"</span></span><span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="50012004" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px;">I tell you, my friends, do not be afraid of those who kill the body but after that can do no more. </a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="50012005" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px;">I shall show you whom to fear. Be afraid of the one who after killing has the power to cast into Gehenna;</a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="50012005" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px;"><b> </b></a><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px;"> yes, I tell you, be afraid of that one." </span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I can't live my life like that. Each moment is too precious. Besides, Luke 12:25 says </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 22px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: lime; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">"</span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="50012025" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 16px;">Can any of you by worrying add a moment to your life-span?</span><span style="font-size: 16px;"><b>"</b></span></a></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="50012025" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 16px;"><b><br /></b></span></span></a></div>
There is no terrorist group, no enemy that can steal the love of Christ from me. I can lay it down,but no power on Earth, above or below it can take it from me. I will not fear, but I will be vigilant. I need to be aware that my life can be required of me at any time. Luke 12:39 tells us: <div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;"> </span><span style="color: purple; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">"Be sure of this: if the master of the house had known the hour when the thief was coming, he would not have let his house be broken into. </span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="50012040" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px;">You also must be prepared, for at an hour you do not expect, the Son of Man will come.”</a></span><div>
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span><div>
Having survived my cardiac arrest, I am acutely aware of the FACT that this day could be my last, and that I need to hold Christ close. I should honor Him in all I do. When I fail, I need to admit it, and reconcile myself to Him quickly. I need to look at my life and decide if someone would have to ASK me if I'm a Christian, or if they would just KNOW. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There are two good things that have come from these terrible actions. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
1. There have been hundreds of new Christian martyrs created. Because they would not deny Christ in this life, they can now be joined to Him in his death and resurrection. We Catholic types believe this to mean that they are now one with God through Christ, and can intercede on our behalf. Which brings us to number 2. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
2. Many people are asking God to intercede. They're talking to God. They're thinking about God. They're considering God. I believe others are asking themselves the same questions I am pondering. Would I swear an oath to save my life? An oath I don't believe? Would I willingly walk over to the Christian side of the room knowing I would die a martyr's death? I hope I never find out, but I have great respect and admiration for those Syrian and Kenyan (and plenty of other) brothers and sisters in Christ who did just that. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I choose Christ. He chose me first. He loves me enough that He died for me, and I give my life to Him every day. Leaving this life would only be loss to those who would miss me. For me, it is gaining Heaven, and unity with my beloved Savior. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I choose Love over hate every single time. </div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="50012026" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="bcv" style="border: 0px; display: block; font-family: arial !important; font-stretch: normal !important; font-weight: bold !important; left: -40px !important; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; text-align: center; top: 19px; width: 25px;">26</span></a><div>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;"><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;"><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;"><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;"><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="50012006" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="bcv" style="border: 0px; display: block; font-family: arial !important; font-stretch: normal !important; font-weight: bold !important; left: -40px !important; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; text-align: center; top: 19px; width: 25px;">6</span></a></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-36007325078833093342015-11-09T14:25:00.001-08:002015-11-09T14:25:34.230-08:00EmpathyEmpathy.<br />
<br />
Empathy is different than sympathy. Sympathy is when you feel bad for someone because you have felt the pain they are going through, and you have some level of pity for that person. Empathy is understanding how they may feel, even if you've never experienced the same thing. Empathy is a wonderful gift, and it can take a million different forms. <br />
<br />
I have seen parents using empathy with their Kindergarten students. I have seen them take off their child's coat and hang it up. They empty the child's backpack for them and tie their shoes or help them take off their boots and change into their shoes. They don't want their child to need or lack for anything, so they do it all for them. I've seen parents physically carry their children as they're leaving school, because they love them and want good things for them. <br />
<br />
I couldn't agree more. I also couldn't disagree more. <br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, I love those kids, and I want every good thing for them, too. But that's just the point. I want it FOR THEM! I want them to get to feel the pride and confidence that comes from knowing how to zip your own coat. I want them to be the kid the other kids ask for help because they DO know how to open their own snack. I want them to believe they are strong and capable, and a valued member of our classroom, because they ARE an important member of their class. I want them to know they are capable of amazing things. I want them to believe that the only reason they don't know how to do things is because they haven't mastered them yet, and not that those things are too hard, or they aren't smart (or strong) enough. I understand their struggle. I also understand the good that can come from it. I treasure the moment when a child figures out that they can string together the sounds that letters make, and it creates a WORD! It is the monumental occasion in which Daddy's baby girl or Mama's little man has become.............A READER!!!<br />
<br />
Just like Mom and Dad, our kids become stronger because they have struggled. They have taken the time to practice and fail and make mistakes, and get better and better at things. When we do everything for kids we tell them that we don't believe they can do them. We may be telling them that we don't have time to teach them, or we can't wait while they try. Sometimes this is true. As a mother of 7, I can tell you that there are times when I just need to tie the dad-gum shoes for you, or you can work on it in the car on the way to church. <br />
<br />
However, we might accidentally be telling them that they are not worth our time.<br />
<br />
Empathy is the ability to understand and share the feelings of another.<br />
<br />
I understand, and I hope they never feel that way. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-52326887327070924062015-11-07T20:05:00.001-08:002015-11-07T20:05:44.212-08:00Thank you, Grandma Gibson.Every Sunday we drive past Grandma Gibson's house on the way home from church. You can't miss it, really. It looks like a used car lot with so many vehicles parked up in the lawn. You just know that all the aunts, uncles and cousins are in there, enjoying some tasty kind of dinner. They're probably playing cards, or telling stories, cheering for their favorite football team, or just enjoying each other's company. I don't know that I've ever met "Grandma Gibson" in person, but she has given me and our entire community a beautiful gift. She gave us her family, but first, she filled them with her love. <br />
<br />
<br />
It seems like everyone is either related to Grandma Gibson or knows the myriad of wonderful people who are. Her family is made of Gibsons and Eyres and Bordens who keep the community looking nice, take care of sick people, and are easily recognizable by that classic Gibson smile. They drive buses and keep kids safe and the school looking good. They are just genuinely nice people. I believe she must have made them that way. This is the way she looked at them. You can feel the love.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4EuJlyGtwkVFWd7L8AaoymOKEgSO7jqHJK3VFpI_t7Bg5xKPn1lMP9KKRCdJ8ATx_3INtNXujb1KEsHM2kY01F4ZSDa9dgQdlIqhmQORI-BLMlXmEVLZsRIqscnIEepsKgFyJFm4cuSEL/s1600/12191833_10206325175101656_8858708640578896702_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4EuJlyGtwkVFWd7L8AaoymOKEgSO7jqHJK3VFpI_t7Bg5xKPn1lMP9KKRCdJ8ATx_3INtNXujb1KEsHM2kY01F4ZSDa9dgQdlIqhmQORI-BLMlXmEVLZsRIqscnIEepsKgFyJFm4cuSEL/s320/12191833_10206325175101656_8858708640578896702_n.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
Grandma Gibson was surely the glue that held the family together, and with her passing, I'm afraid I might have to take a different route home. It makes me sad to think the cars might not be there. I hope they choose to still get together. I hope they keep her so close to their hearts that they look for her smile and her love in each other. I hope they find that little spark of her in each other, and honor her by continuing to show her love and spunk to the one who never met her. I know they will continue to be the loving people she has encouraged them to be. They are truly a gift. <br />
<br />
Thank you, Grandma Gibson, for being the sweet little lady they all came to see. Thank you for reminding us of the importance of Sunday dinners... and Family. Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-50849681659565676702015-10-24T20:38:00.001-07:002015-10-24T20:38:22.540-07:008 minutesI need Jesus. <br />
<br />
This is a pretty obvious statement. Those of you who know me, know this to be true. My life gets busy and crazy and I get soooooo distracted. Life is kinda busy right now. <br />
<br />
So, here's what's up.<br />
<br />
Jordan will deploy to Afghanistan this week. He'll be gone for 3 months. A mother worries. I also know how hard this is on Misty and the kids, so I'm concerned for them. I love them, and they're all the way in New York, so I can't just drive over and pick up the kids for the weekend, or have Misty drop them off for a few hours so she can get a break. Spencer is in transition between active duty and National Guard. He and Melanie are growing my grandson, and moving to Texas. Very exciting, and on my mind. I hope so many good things for them. Isaac is working and going to school. He lives at my house, yet I rarely see him awake and without a screen in the room. I miss him. I want wonderful things for him. I have no idea what he thinks about. Lydia is a senior. Very soon she will be a legal adult. Have I taught her all she needs to know? Have I equipped her for a life beyond my home? (Needing Jesus just a little more at this thought.) Harriett will be taking her driving test this week, since she just turned 16. Dear Lord, another child driving. More prayers. Simon is getting so grown. Am I giving him enough attention? Does he have all he needs from me? What about Sylvia? She's not such a little girl any more. We need to go shopping. She needs some longer pants for her very long legs. I feel like Luke lives in another continent sometimes, as we divide and conquer our life together. I need to write some of the stories in my mind. I need to prepare for my class. I need to sleep. I Neeed Jeeeeeeessssuuuuuuussssssss!!!!<br />
<br />
So, I did what every good Catholic does. I went to see Jesus, and spent some quality time with Him. It's called Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament, and it is LITERALLY being in the same room as Jesus in his body and blood, soul and divinity. I needed this time to regroup and renew. I needed my Holy Hour of Jesus time. I signed in and walked into the chapel. <br />
<br />
There He was. <br />
<br />
(((Sigh))))<br />
<br />
I did a mental version of what I call a "verbal vomit", except it was supposed to be a prayer. I couldn't shut up. I wanted to listen, but I just couldn't shut up! So I let it out. Then I smiled at Him. <br />
Then I got up to leave. <br />
<br />
As I signed out, I noticed that I had been there for 8 minutes. Eight. Minutes. <br />
<br />
Shortest Holy Hour EVER! I still need Jesus. LOTS more Jesus. <br />
Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-14914040753606856792015-09-20T15:31:00.003-07:002015-09-20T15:31:20.187-07:00Why Isn't it Just A Song? It happens every time a football game starts. Or a basketball game. Hockey game. Any competition, really. Everyone is excited for the fun to begin, and the music starts. I feel my eyes well up. I hope people aren't watching me, but at this point in my life, I don't really care. <br />
<br />
They're playing our National Anthem. <br />
<br />
Now, maybe at this point you're thinking, "Awww. She really loves America. Isn't that sweet that she's patriotic?" I do enjoy lots of the freedoms afforded me here, but that's not what tugs at my heart. It starts, and I look at that flag, and the thoughts in my head go something like this:<br />
<br />
"Oh say can you see? Yes. I can see. I see stars and stripes. I see the red stripes that remind me of the blood and the limbs lots of young men and women have sacrificed to protect people they love, and people they don't even know. People like that jerk three rows down who won't even remove his cap to honor the memory of someone's kid that died so he could have the right to say whatever stupid thing comes to his mind. People like the old guys who served in wars long before these kids on this field were even born, and remember their buddies whose bodies were too destroyed to make the trip home from places like Korea and VietNam.<br />
<br />
I see the flag that hung in the room when my own sons pledged to uphold and defend this country of ours with their lives, and I thank GOD with every cell of my being that the ultimate price has not been required of them. I thank God that Spencer and Jordan and Nick and Jake, Arlea and Adam, and so many others have returned home safely, after travelling again and again to far off lands full of people who wish them harm because of that FLAG and what it stands for. <br />
<br />
I think of my own son, Jordan, playing in the band for troop returns, and how he would play this very song as they unloaded the coffins of those young men and women killed in the line of duty. I think of Mrs. Little, and Mrs. Polasek, and how devastated they must have been when they received the news that their sons were gone. I pray for those families. <br />
<br />
"Oh say, does that star-spangled Banner yet wave?" Yes. It does, over the land of the free. We are free, and it comes at a terrible cost. As I listen to the song (unable to sing, because I'm way too choked up) I look at the athletes gathered for this sporting event. These young ladies are getting ready to play volleyball. How many of them will serve, or have sons and daughters who serve? What about these fellas on the football field. This one wants to be a Marine. I've seen how they defend their quarterback. I know they understand a team, and know they would protect their battle buddies the same way. I pray for their safety. I pray for safety of their minds, bodies, and souls.<br />
<br />
"...And the Home of the Brave." It may just be two wordy questions posed by Francis Scott Key, but it's so much more than just a song to me. I am reminded of the many times that flag has been sought after a battle, and the desire of those warriors to return to their home, the home of the brave. I pray they all return to their homes and friends and families. <br />
<br />
This is what true bravery looks like: <br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;"> "No one has greater love than this,</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;"> to lay down one’s life for one’s friends." (John 15:13)</span><div>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;"><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif;"><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="51015014" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 16px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 0px;"><span class="bcv" style="border: 0px; display: inline !important; font-family: arial !important; font-stretch: normal !important; font-weight: bold !important; left: -40px !important; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; text-align: center; top: 19px; width: 25px;">14</span></a> </div>
Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-65149427225734438122015-09-17T12:01:00.004-07:002015-09-17T12:01:51.121-07:00To the Parents of the Class of 2028 (Kindergarten) Dear parents of the new Kindergarten Class,<br />
<br />
You did it! You made it through the first week of your child being a real live school kid! Congratulations! I know for some of you, this has been the most difficult week of your life (or darn close to it.) For those of us who work closely with your child, this week has been a challenge of learning new names, and getting to know these awesome kids who will be the graduating class of 2028! (Crazy, right?) <br />
<br />
I am not your child's classroom teacher, but I am one of his or her educators. My title is Paraprofessional. You can think of us as "accessory players" or "sidekicks" or "hero support". We do everything from check out library books to assisting in the lunch room to applying bandages and looking for head lice. We comfort them when they're afraid, and help them learn to solve problems and make good choices. We also help them learn to read, write, and do math. It's a busy job and I love it. It gives me an inside perspective of what's happening at school. There are a few things I'd like you to know (from the inside track) that you might not realize.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">We KNOW that you have entrusted us with your greatest treasure!</span><br />
Whether this particular child was one of many, long-awaited, or a total surprise, this is YOUR BABY! We are fully aware that this child is a piece of you and owns your heart. We completely understand that they are your reason for getting up in the morning, and the happy thought that allows you to sleep well at night. We respect that. We see the amazing-ness of this little person you get to love and raise and call your own. They are priceless and irreplaceable. We know this.<br />
<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">We truly want the best for every single child in our school. </span><br />
We know that not all children have the same gifts and abilities, but we firmly and completely believe in each child's ability to learn and grow. We believe they are capable and strong. We expect good things from them. In fact, we insist on it. Kindness isn't on the MEAP test, but it's the most important thing we can teach. Teachers always have the best interest of the student at heart. It might mean the little guy misses out on a fun activity (if Jr. needs to learn a better choice) but the big picture goal is worth the short term unhappiness. We need to challenge every student to do their best, because...<br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">We LOVE watching your child succeed.</span><br />
There will come a moment when your child brings a book to me and says, "Mrs. Swager look at me! C-A-T spells CAT! I can READ!" This is the reason I come to school! This is my "winning lotto numbers" moment! When they ask to count the change in my pocket BECAUSE THEY CAN, it is a huge victory and cause for my personal celebration. My SuperBowl is when the little guy who struggled to hold a pencil properly can now write whole sentences! I love my job because your kid is awesome! <br />
<br />
Probably the most important thing you should know is this: <br />
<span style="color: blue; font-size: large;">We call them ours. </span><br />
I gave birth to 7 kids, but I have so many more than that. Every child in that school is my responsibility while I'm there, and I take that very seriously. Trust that I will do everything in my power to help your child become the very best version of himself or herself. As I said, these children are your treasure, however, they are OUR treasure as well. We care for them and protect them and laugh with them and learn with them for most of their day. We find them dry clothes if they pee their pants. We hear about the new baby in the family, or grandpa dying. They share their lives with us. We can't help but love them! They are dear to our hearts, and have very quickly become part of our school family.<br />
<br />
Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your child's life, and thank you for letting him or her be part of mine. Keep up the good work, and pace yourself. Only 12 3/4 more years to go until graduation! <br />
<br />
Sincerely,<br />
<br />
Mrs. Swager<br />
Title I & General Ed Paraprofessional<br />
Cafeteria Supervisor<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-77460238053940632982015-07-28T16:55:00.001-07:002015-07-28T16:55:22.926-07:00God's Junk Drawer<br />
<span style="color: purple; font-size: large;">"In a large household there are vessels not only of gold and silver, but also of wood and clay, some for lofty and others for humble use." --2 Timothy 2:20</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I live in a large household, and like all large households, I have a variety of vessels. I don't own any gold ones (except for the gold rim on my fancy holiday plates.) I have some silver, but just a few fancy serving pieces. I have lots of wood, and some clay, glass and stoneware. I have plenty of plastic. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As I read this verse, I'm not thinking of any of those dishes. The ones I'm thinking of are the ones that fill my kitchen junk drawer. It's not really junk, it is an eclectic variety of implements intended for use in the preparation of food.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, as I look inside the drawer at this menagerie of implements, I wonder what God is telling me about this verse. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If God is looking into HIS kitchen junk drawer, which implement would I be? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">My friend Kathy would be his whisk! She is gifted at stirring up the fire of faith in the teens in our parish. She's fun and athletic, full of spunk and Spirit. She's a fast mover. She takes that which is heavy and lightens it with air. She's a whisk! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now Sue is the wooden spoon. She keeps everything going by performing a multitude of duties. She can stir people into ushering at Mass, she scrapes up volunteers to read and distribute Communion. Just like the wooden spoons I've heard stories about, she can also be useful with distributing justice. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I believe Uncle Hugh might be the can-opener. When questions of Church History come up, he opens up a can of... Well, he actually opens up books of information and shares that knowledge with those most in need of correction. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have friends who may be cherry-pitters. Yep, I have one of those. It's express purpose is to pop the pits out of cherries. It's a very specific device with a very specific purpose. Some of us are like that. Some of us just lay in the drawer waiting for our turn to be useful. Some of us are spatulas, made to turn people over so they don't burn. (Burn, get it?) Some of us are measuring cups. Some of us are rolling pins. Some of us are egg separators.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I think Jesus might be like a cutting board. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He stands between the utensils with sharp edges and the countertop, protecting His home and kitchen. He allows himself to be wounded to keep his home safe. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I still don't know what I am. I don't know precisely what my job is. Am I a cheese grater? An egg timer? Salad tongs? Maybe I'm a bamboo skewer! I just don't know! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It is my honor to be in the drawer. It is my honor to be a vessel for God's use. Whether I am for lofty use or for humble use doesn't matter to me. I am here for his use. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Please open the drawer and use me, Lord. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Help me to be of use to you. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-69812497669114158032015-07-26T19:29:00.001-07:002015-07-26T19:29:30.329-07:00Pedicures and Epic Failure<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While working in the kitchen at Catholic Heart Work Camp, my new friend Marianna and I were discussing the benefits of a pedicure. On the one hand, we are here to serve the needy of Springfield, Illinois. On the other hand, she's been working like this for 3 weeks, and has 3 more weeks to go in this summer stint as a part of the CHWC staff. We decide then and there, that if time allows, we will go get this elusive slice of Heaven, known as the Mani-Pedi. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On Thursday, the time arrives, so Marianna, Courtney and I meet at the nail salon. This is only the third time I've had a professional pedicure, and as this young man massages the soles of my feet and calves with sugar scrub, I wonder why I don't do this more often. He scrubs away the dead skin and trims the nails on my toes. He removes a bit of callus, and discovers that my feet are really ticklish. John, my nail technician, is a young Asian man with a 4 month old son. At the moment, he and his co-workers look like Jesus to me. He is washing my feet. They are giving rest and comfort to those of us who will give rest and comfort. The significance of this is at the front of my mind, and I silently pray for him and his family. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And he is very SKILLED at comforting my feet! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have been soaked and scrubbed and lotioned and oiled. I have been given a base coat and a cuticle push, a coat of the purple polish I chose, and then a top coat. My legs and feet feel spectacularly refreshed. John puts my toes into the foam toe spreaders and we walk out to the manicure area, and I sit on a bar stool awaiting the next pampering. It is time to work on my hands.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">During my time at camp, I have become known as the "High Five Lady". I have exchanged high fives with so many students, I can't even count them. Actually, there are 260 of them, but I've high fived so many times that the skin on my hands is actually split and cracked. I love the enthusiasm of these teens, but come on, boys! You don't have to "wind-up" before you smack the old lady's hands! I love camp, and being a part of it comes at a cost. I am in dire need of hand help. The cure is called a Paraffin Dip. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My hands are oiled and anointed with lotion and dipped in hot paraffin wax that warms, relaxes, and renews the muscles of my poor beaten hands. After a time, my nails are polished and shined and look fabulous. John adds a coat of glitter and sends me to the drying table. I'm </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">waiting for my friends and my nails to be ready when I notice a problem. I have bumped my big toe against something and botched the paint job. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">OH GREAT! I wrecked it! This is SO typical of me! I finally get to do something nice and I WRECK IT! I had this great thing going, and I BOTCHED IT! Grrrr! I am furious with myself, and frankly, I'm disappointed. I wanted to be beautiful! I wanted to look good! Every time I look at this toe, I will see and be reminded that this was a failure! The pedicure was a failure. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am a failure. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have looked at that toenail every day for the last month, and I now realize how wrong I have been.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am still a bit defective. But I was wrong to think that it was the polish that made our feet beautiful. Long before any of us, or even the Lord was born, Isaiah 52:7 said, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 22px;">How beautiful upon the mountains</span><a class="fnref" href="http://www.usccb.org/bible/isaiah/52#29052007-1" style="border: 0px; display: inline-block; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px; outline: none; padding: 1px 0px; text-decoration: none;"><sup style="border: 0px; display: inline-block; font-stretch: normal; font-weight: bold; margin: 0px 2px 0px 1px; padding: 0px; position: relative !important;">*</sup></a></span><br />
<div class="poi" style="background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin-left: 25px; margin-right: 20px; margin-top: 15px; padding: 0px 25px 0px 0px;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">are the feet of the one bringing good news,</span></div>
<div class="po" style="background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin-left: 25px; margin-right: 20px; margin-top: 15px; padding: 0px 25px 0px 0px;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Announcing peace, bearing good news,</span></div>
<div class="poi" style="background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin-left: 25px; margin-right: 20px; margin-top: 15px; padding: 0px 25px 0px 0px;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">announcing salvation, saying to Zion,</span></div>
<div class="poil" style="background-color: white; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin-left: 25px; margin-right: 20px; margin-top: 15px; padding: 0px 25px 0px 0px;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Your God is King!”</span></div>
<div class="poil" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin-left: 25px; margin-right: 20px; margin-top: 15px; padding: 0px 25px 0px 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That's EXACTLY why we're in town! Our feet were beautiful before we even got there. John's work on my feet was not in vain. I was mistaken to believe that one little flaw negates the goodness of the rest of the experience. A centimeter of missing purple doesn't undo all the good of the massage, or the sugar scrub or the paraffin. It doesn't undo time spent with new friends, or the sharing of the Good News of Jesus Christ with 260 slap-happy campers and the people of Springfield Illinois. When I looked at my missing polish, I was thinking of what WASN'T, instead of all that WAS, and that is a mistake. </span></div>
<div class="poil" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin-left: 25px; margin-right: 20px; margin-top: 15px; padding: 0px 25px 0px 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">WhenI focus on what didn't happen, or what didn't work out, or what it LOOKS LIKE, I completely miss the point! Our whole lives are a series of events that we can choose to see the missing or find the blessings. My heart disease is like that. I can weep over having been dead for a few minutes, and how my heart doesn't work right, or I can thank God for the time spent in His loving embrace. My heart still mourns for the baby I lost, but I thank God for the knowledge that I have an intercessor in Heaven, and that my child is loved and cared for until we are together again. </span></div>
<div class="poil" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin-left: 25px; margin-right: 20px; margin-top: 15px; padding: 0px 25px 0px 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am so very thankful for Marianna and Courtney for sharing this experience with me. Had I not been accompanied by these beautiful servants of God, (and their beautiful feet) I may have missed out on this valuable lesson. You amazing ladies have reminded me to use my beautiful feet for the glory of God. </span></div>
<div class="poil" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin-left: 25px; margin-right: 20px; margin-top: 15px; padding: 0px 25px 0px 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="poil" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-stretch: normal; line-height: 22px; margin-left: 25px; margin-right: 20px; margin-top: 15px; padding: 0px 25px 0px 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 16px;"> </span></div>
Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1506557069800557981.post-13038534627552214882015-04-30T12:54:00.002-07:002015-04-30T12:54:24.305-07:00Retail Therapy<div class="MsoNormal">
I've never been a very girly girl. When I was a kid, I spent most of my time with boys picking up frogs and snakes and rarely washing my hair, which flowed in lovely mats halfway down my back. There was way too much coolness going on outside for met to notice that my church dress was on backwards. I did notice that I didn't quite fit in with the pretty girls, and that was okay with me. (They didn't know how to bait their own hooks, anyway.) Now that I am a full grown woman with grandkids and a mortgage, I wash my hair much more. I usually have my dress on right. (I think.) Yet I still don't feel I fit in with the pretty girls. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having been pregnant or nursing for over ten full years of my life, I have struggled with my body. I have lost and gained well over 300 pounds, if you tally it all up, I have been at odds with my body for a long time, and my Sudden Cardiac Arrest brought on a full-blown body break up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We stopped speaking, this horrible lump of betraying, untrustworthy chunk of flesh and I. It abandoned me in my hour of need, and I was angry! It has taken years to get back on speaking terms. For the first time in my life, I can honestly say I'm quite comfortable in the skin I'm in. Now I'm ready for RETAIL THERAPY, and I've found the perfect way to do it! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everyone who knows me, knows what it means to me when a business steps up and makes a difference. Lord and Taylor is one of those retailers. I realize there is not a Lord and Taylor in scenic Climax, Michigan. (Actually, we're doing pretty well to have a Post Office and a hair salon.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There isn't one within 100 miles. There is one right at my fingertips. On the Magic Interwebs I can go on there and see the really pretty stuff that the pretty girls are wearing in New York City (which I thought was one of the coolest places I've ever been.) I can order it, and this weekend they'll make a donation to WomenHeart to help me and other WomenHeart Champions offer support to the others who have broken up with their bodies also. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The information can be found at the end of this blog, and I hope you'll visit their store or website to get your "shop on!" I just can't help but spread the word and share the love when companies choose to support me and show me some love. For me, it's very personal. I hope you'll support Lord and Taylor, and shop this weekend! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On May 2<sup>nd</sup>, Lord & Taylor is hosting a national
Charity Day for women’s health. Customers can support organizations nationwide
benefitting women’s health. Customers can specifically support WomenHeart in
three ways: </span></div>
<div class="ListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: purple; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Starting today, visit <a href="http://www.womenheart.org/LordandTaylor">www.womenheart.org/LordandTaylor</a>,
donate $5 to support WomenHeart, and in return get one 20% off storewide
savings pass and two 30% off single item coupons, to use in any Lord &
Taylor store on May 2, 2015. </span></div>
<div class="ListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: purple; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Shop at <a href="http://www.lordandtaylor.com/">www.lordandtaylor.com</a>
on May 2, and a percentage of net proceeds from purchases will benefit
WomenHeart! </span></div>
<div class="ListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="color: purple; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->If you are in the New York City area on May 2,
visit the Lord & Taylor flagship store at 424 Fifth Ave., New York, NY,
purchase a $5 savings pass, and receive the greatest discounts of the season on
your Lord & Taylor purchases that day! Proceeds from the $5 savings passes
sold at the Lord & Taylor flagship store on May 2 benefit WomenHeart! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: purple; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Learn more by visiting <a href="http://www.womenheart.org/LordandTaylor">www.womenheart.org/LordandTaylor</a>.
Shop at Lord & Taylor for that perfect Mother’s Day gift while supporting
WomenHeart!<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Amy Swagerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09477338346845057868noreply@blogger.com0