But Where Was Dustin Hoffman?

As we sauntered about the house getting breakfast this morning, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to see a man in full hazmat uniform peering at me through the front gate. He said something muffled by his mask about dengue that I didn't understand, probably more because of the Portuguese than the mask. I said, "Just a moment" and promptly closed the door. I called Nathanael to let him handle the situation. He returned in a minute and said, "We have to leave the house . . . now!"

Apparently, we had missed the notice the government sent announcing a case of dengue in our area and the plans to spray the perimeters of all houses in our neighborhood for mosquitoes. We were informed that we needed to leave right then, taking both cars because the chemical can damage the paint, and leaving our windows open so that any mosquitoes inside would be exterminated. We grabbed our shoes and left.

As we drove away, men in protective suits with masks and gloves were entering the street from both ends carrying cans of chemicals and darting in and out of the gates along our street. Nathanael and I had left in separate vehicles, and he had stayed behind to lock our gate once they were done. When I called him later, we both said the same thing, "Wow, that was like a scene from Outbreak! Surreal!" I can tell you what isn't surreal--the horrible chemical stench left behind.

I'm not sure which is worse for us--dengue or the chemical they sprayed to combat it.

"Bad" Words

As we drove home from church on Sunday, I expressed to Nathanael my shock and concern at a word used in a children's movie the kids had watched on Saturday. It was the second time I had encountered this word in a kids' movie recently. Ethan overheard our conversation from the back seat and was, of course, very curious when I spelled the word to Nathanael. He asked what we were talking about, and I told him that there was a word in the movie he had watched that I didn't care for. Without a moment's hesitation, he said, "Oh, 'insignificant'?"

Apparently, Ethan had found the word "insignificant" to be highly offensive:). His next guess was "coward," and that's when I informed him I wouldn't be sharing the word with him. I can be thankful that he didn't even come close to guessing it, but it does make me wonder exactly what he thinks "insignificant" means.

Big Girls Don't Cry

In a recent conversation with a friend, I mentioned that I had cried myself to sleep over something (can't even remember what now), and she marveled at my ability to cry. Apparently, I cry a lot. I didn't realize that crying was a virtue, but I must admit I'm pretty good at it. From single tears to uncontrollable sobs, I've mastered it all. Of course, I have zero control over the tidal wave of tears surging just below the surface.

Crying for me is cathartic. Somehow through blurry eyes, I see more clearly. When I cry, I can get right down to the center of it--the core. I feel and know all at the same time. I know from whence the tears come--anger, fear, sadness, regret, loss, disappointment, confusion, shame, hurt . . . And then I cry until there simply isn't another tear left. It usually doesn't take that long--just enough to really feel. Then, when I've cried my last, I usually know what to do--the next step to take, and it almost always begins with prayer.

But this post isn't really about how I cry. It's about something I learned while crying myself to sleep on Sunday night. For reasons I'll share some other time, I came face to face with the realization that homeschooling may come to an end much, much sooner than I anticipated. I wasn't prepared for that possibility (and it is only a possibility) and I cried--BIG TIME! And as I cried three things became clear to me: 1. I love homeschooling. 2. I believe in homeschooling. 3. I haven't done a very good job at homeschooling.

As I lay in bed, body still shaking with each sharp intake of breath, I prayed. I breathed out confessions of time wasted, words wounding, love too shallow, and selfishness too deep. I prayed for more time, more joy, more love, and more of Him to help me do what I know to do. I prayed for big-picture vision and day-by-day strength. And as I prayed, I vowed to make today count--the only day I'm certain of because it's here. right. now.

And I slept. . . and the Lord renewed . . . and morning came, and two beautiful faces snuggled up close under the covers, feet intertwining. Two faces so different, yet bound by brotherhood. And I knew what to do with this day . . . love it and live it out together, side by side, faces to the wind, hands held tight. And we did. There were books, Play Doh, markers, Legos, cars, Olympic competitions complete with homemade medals, runny noses, snacks, computer discoveries, math problems, reading challenges, meals, wrestling, Bible verses, sibling squabbles, painting, picking-up, laughter, questions, Daddy time, phone conversations, rolly-pollies put in jars, music, and messes, oh my, the messes. It was exhausting, but not wasted. And I didn't cry--not even once.