Buggers.

Today I am leaving to go to my youngest sister's baby shower.
My youngest sister
My baby sister
is having a baby.

I cannot even express the feelings of sheer joy that well up inside me when I think on God's kindness and how it is displayed in so many different ways in peoples lives. And I think of how sweet it is to for Him to give this sweet couple this particular gift at this particular time in their life.

Sarah is my Buggers, my Bug-a-boo, my Buggy.

I was trying to remember the origin of these nicknames. I am sure it has something to do with the fact that she is and has always been just as cute as a bug...although I think that phrase is supposed to be button...whoops. My bad. Too late to change it now! ;) But anyways, it got me thinking a little bit about my past years with Sarah as a sister.

I know when it comes to our childhood that we have a tendency to block unpleasant memories out until everything is covered in a golden glow of nostalgia. But when I look back at Sarah and her personality in the Jensen girl tri-fecta, I can honestly say that for the majority Sarah's days were spent in quiet love and quiet servitude.

She always had a way of calming me down just by listening to a bad day. And she always knew how to make Bethany feel lest restless on any given afternoon just by riding passenger seat on a trip into town.

(To this day I still hold that she makes the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Although I will admit that the discovery of this fact came from sheer laziness and cashing in on her willing ability to always do that of which she was asked.)

Now just because I have made mention of Sarah's quiet-natured spirit when it comes to serving others, does not by default mean that she is a generally quiet person. This is quite the misconception. Anyone that has been able to have the pleasure of really knowing Sarah, knows that she is anything far from quiet.

Memories of jumping off piers pretending to be ducks, her affinity for playing dress up whenever her grade-school friends came over, dancing in living rooms, talent shows, her obsession with knocking me over with her hips, and the way she throws her head back when she laughs, these are just some of the images that flash across the fore front of my mind. Recently I saw a picture of Sarah completely sealed into a comforter storage bag, with only her head popping out. I couldn't stop laughing to myself and thinking, "Yes, this is so something she would do."

The other aspect of Sarah's personality that anyone would be quick to agree with who knows her, would be how she is our family "healer". A lot of times one might assume that someone as meek as she is, might not have really been all that thrilled growing up at the sight of blood or any type of squeamish ailment. But Sarah was our nurse. Scrapes, bruises, sprains, colds, you name it, if Sarah could be in the room helping with a cool rag or a band aid to place, she would be there. And unlike some who are intrigued solely by the gore itself, there was something deeper with Sarah. She just wanted the person to feel better. That was her main pull. And whatever she could do to help in that, she would do with gentleness and precise care.

Sarah's name means princess. And I suppose this is entirely accurate...if it is the kind of princess that cares more for her "country" then herself. While it is true that Sarah enjoys things to be a certain way, an enjoy-er of order and all things pretty, she much more enjoys seeing others content and at peace. She used to have domain over 50 different stuffed animals and would rotate each one to sleep with her at night so that the others wouldn't feel bad. This is a true fact.

Her Kingdom may have lessened when she got married. Going from 50 to just Ryan...but now we look forward to February's end, where they will have one more in their home.

There is not a doubt in my mind, that this quiet servant/princess, who knows how to laugh and how to heal and how to care, is going to be one amazing mom.

I know this to be true, because she is one amazing sister.

It's about that time.

No, Mom.
Not baby time. This isn't an announcement ;)

It's about that time rather, that I start making a discipline of writing again. Oh sure, I've never really stopped altogether. I'll jot verses or thoughts in my calendar as a shoddy attempt to remember certain events or things that God did. But it's not the same. And so then I find myself walking around in a perpetual state of self loathing, asking myself ever so often, "and why haven't you processed through that thought on paper?" Or this one pops up a lot too. "You are not skilled at any form of house work, cooking, baking or the like. You can only use the "I like writing better" card if you are actually writing."

And while I hate to admit it, I think my sub-conscious has a point. Granted, I can be a bit hard on myself sometimes (as the creative psyche always tends to be), but the fact of the matter remains. Why am I NOT doing the thing I love to do? I can't play the blame game here because all of the other suspects have an alibi. No time? Not true. You just finished season 9 of Scrubs with your husband. No resources? False. You are a 2 apple computer family. No ideas? Seriously? You work with Jr. Highers. They are a creative gold mine for writing material.

I have a little post card on my desk (right next to this AMAZING picture of my niece. It's this one right here:



The card says, "a consistent life is not a perfect life."
I have gone back and forth about this little ditty for a little while. And I think I have come to agree with it. I think. Granted, in the Christian walk, I don't want to use this as a wild card. I'm not saying that we can all give up hope of perfection or holiness and chalk up mediocrity to a life of sinful consistency. Not at all. The reason I like this reminder is that it encourages us to press on in the midst of failure.

So I am giving myself permission to have some pretty lame pieces of writing take place in this space and to let myself know that while each post may not be perfection, if I want to be a consistent writer, then words without blemish won't be part of the equation. It also frees me up to write about...well whatever I want I suppose.

I think a big reason I have steered clear of this whole gig is because I've forgotten that it's ok to have fun with it too. Sometimes with my Jr. High girls I get in these panic modes, where I feel like I only have a certain amount of time to communicate God's truth to them in their life and I have to remind myself in my lessons, that we are all still kids at heart, all of us just looking to hear a good story, and that they are God's handiwork, NOT mine.

This gives me more liberty as well. That it's God who has given me this desire and I don't have to be the one dreaming up life altering prose at the dawn of each day. It is my responsibility to be obedient and listen to my Creator every day, but it's Him who blesses the words and draws them forth.

So. With perfection out of the equation and liberty in it's place.

I say again to myself, (gathering up courage):

Jessi, It's about that time.

Christmas Musings.

I really do enjoy all the festivities at this time of year.
We've been so blessed. Such an abundance of God's provision in our family and in our friendships and places of work.

But no holiday party or Christmas program, can outshine the blessed peace that comes from an early waking, met with snow-covered ground, and quiet time with the Savior of the World.

There are no words to describe such sweet communion as that.

She's a maniac on the floor.

The big news around town lately is that the neighborhood grocery store is being bought out by their competition. These stores everywhere are having mad blowout sales to get products off of their shelves. Apparently this was all over the television and radio airways, but my tendency to be a media groundhog made this discovery reveal itself to me at 8:30 at night when I went to buy some apple juice and cinnamon sticks, aka, the poor man's version of apple cider.

Huge mistake. Not only did it feel like the Apocalypse had struck, with everyone vying for the shopping carts and running up and down aisles grabbing things like pickled beets and rutabaga, but the lines were especially long.
(We are talking grab your gear and set up camp kind of long.)

In the midst of all this chaos, I had the best intentions of remaining cool,calm, and collected. However... those who know me are well acquainted with the fact that crowds are not my forte. Thinking that I had the whole chaotic check-out thing licked I walked right on over to the self-checkout. The method to this madness was the inkling that no hoarder of 30 mayonnaise tubs and their train of carts was going to want to do the work of checking out their OWN spoils. It was a fool proof plan.

Basking in the glow of my self pronounced genius, I sauntered up behind a pregnant lady who (while she had a cart full of food) also had a two person stroller. The tactic behind that choice lay hidden in the quiet and split second reasoning that this lady would most likely be adept at multi-tasking. She obviously had two kids and one on the way, but aside from that decided to schlep them along to the Rockford event of the century at 9:00 at night. I immediately concluded that she was one of those mom warriors. The kind that can make grilled cheese with one hand while folding laundry with the other. Oh yeah. There was no doubt in my mind that we would be out of there in a split second. So I patted myself on the back once more for this my second keen observation skill of the evening and began daydreaming about what it would be like to work as an apple cider drinking FBI agent. She went to grab the last item in her cart and I grabbed a couple dollars from my purse to check out next.

As soon as she finished scanning her last jar of generic barbecue sauce and she began to reach for what I presumed to be her wallet, she instead grabbed the sun roof to her stroller and pushed down the cover. Horror struck. I'd been sorely misled. For there was no rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed baby cargo occupying those seats. Just more canned goods.
And so on she went.
Scanning....and scanning...and scanning...

beep.
beep.
beep.

It was like a rare form of Chinese water torture. And it began to get the best of me. The walls started caving in. My heart rate started pounding. Just moments away from panic, I remembered the kind-hearted words that my husband always whispers to me in these situations of irrational angst:"Get a HOLD of yourself, woman!" So I muttered this to myself. A few times actually. And it began to work. I began to see myself minutes away from my hot cup of apple cinnamon delight.

beep
beep
beep.

It seemed like a lifetime passed me by. I actually contemplated what to get my unborn nephew for his 16th birthday. Time was crawling by, but I had managed to keep the crazy under control.

This tactic however, was short lived when much further into her scanning I noticed out of the corner of my peripheral vision...a binder. A very THICK binder. It wasn't a trapper keeper or daily planner. We are talking one of those binders with the ability to hold massive amounts of paperwork. The accordion binder. NOT unlike those that I had seen on TV with the CCL. The crazy coupon ladies. Calling back on my aforementioned FBI worthy skills of observation, I narrowed in on the suspect.

No sooner than she had bagged her last container of hummus, she opened the foreboding binder compartment. What she pulled out with her pristine, pink nails was not cash. At that moment my worst fears were confirmed. I had been duped again. She was clutching coupons. Mass amounts of them.

More time passed. I began to wonder if my husband had sent out the search troops.
The more she kept beeping, the closer she pushed me to the edge...

It's amazing what the mind is capable of. At one point I remember envisioning myself committing copious amounts of handcuff worthy material. Most to all of which involved lighting things on fire with my apple juice as lighter fluid, and using the coupons to feed the blaze. True, that particular liquid may not be the scientific equivalent of propane or gasoline, but in the moment, while clutching my $ 1 dollar gallon of Juicy Juice, I seemed to think that it was no only perfectly logical, but also perfectly just. I would be the Robin Hood of this land...or at least this line...and rightfully give people back what was taken from them. Their Wednesday night.

Alas,what could I do but watch in horror.
Reason somehow sunk in. I'd come that far. To engage in crimes of arson would surely not have brought me any closer to my end goal. So instead, I stood. Rendered helpless by the pregnant coupon queen and her money saving ways.

While it is true that restraint showed it's face to some degree and I may not have set the store a-blaze, I will say that the evening came to a close with what I would like to refer to as a less than koshir moment.

Blame it on the late hour or perhaps even on the jealousy that her bill ended up being just as much as mine...
Whatever the case may be or the reasoning behind it, you can rest assured that I took all my pent up anger about the entire evenings events and used it to fuel one of the most hard core, soul shaking, earth shattering...

eye roll/sigh combination that the likes of this town had ever seen. I also accompanied it with a slam of my cinnamon sticks into the bagging area. True, she may have ventured off at that point. But I know she must have felt it. Even the overseeing self-check out clerk could feel it. Oh yeah. He didn't say anything, but he knew. This lady had just been served a slice of "You've GOT to be kidding me" pie. And I did NOT give her a discount.

Booh.Yah.

Not all those who wander...

Whenever I've been in difficult situations that I would like to quit, I often find myself bitter and muttering the mantra, "I don't belong here". It's an age old,emotive cry that musical artists and authors have expressed over the years. Anyone that has been in circumstances like a taxing job environment or a new school,for example, have most likely felt that same painful sense of "not getting it" or "not fitting in" that usually rears it's ugly head through anger and isolation.

In the past, I have used it as a way to separate myself from the problem's origin, and in so doing, excuse myself from any responsibility or disappointment. If I don't belong here, then it is not my burden to bear. In essence, I give myself a "get out of jail free" card.

Lately, however, I've been learning that just as the rules apply in that of Monopoly, so do they hold true in life in the sense that I have been giving myself passes I am not at liberty to give. In fact, if I truly am the Christ follower that I profess to be, I cannot be looking for ways to avoid adversity for myself or the ones I love.

It's true. I don't belong here. I have a Home in eternity being prepared for me at this moment even as I write this(John 14:3). But just because my citizenship is elsewhere, does not mean that I'm allowed to "check out" of my temporary state when things get tough. And they will get tough. I live in a fallen world of sinners of which I myself am one. A sinner saved by her Savior, but a sinner nevertheless.

So it's because I don't belong here that I am called, rather commanded (Matthew 28:19), to stay the course so that others can come to know the same glory that their Creator has waiting for them as well.

Yes, I may be an alien in this world, but this does not mean that I am without a mission. And it's the times when I am tempted most to turn my back on the call, on the job, on the individual, on the location, that He asks me to remain. And in the remaining, perhaps have one more person realize, that they don't belong here either.

Terms of Endearment

This is my Bumblelina.
When she laughs, the world is perfect.

A Day for Fathers.

Dad,
I just wanted to make sure that I told you, to make sure that you knew,
how much I love you. And how proud I am that you are my Dad. The older I get (yikes!), the more I am aware that what you and mom have given to us in our lifetime is not only a gift, but a rare one at that. Beyond the fraternal wisdom or maternal care, you both point to something more. Someone more. And that is one of the reasons you are such a great Dad. Because you've never claimed to be perfect. You've always only ever shown the way to the One who is.

Happy Father's Day,Dad.
Love,
The Eldest and your fellow word lover.