A gem for my fellow trans-racial adoptive parents:
Blessings to you all.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Sisters and Brothers
"I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.'
...I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character...
...I have a dream that one day...little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers." ~ Martin Luther King, Jr.
The line about sisters and brothers always gives me pause, as it's literal reality in my house. Truly living as sisters and brothers sometimes looks like this:
These were taken Saturday. How sweet they were together, holding hands, giggling, conspiring to run straight back to the ride entrance for a second ride, a big brother protectively ushering his little sister onto a ride that would be far too scary to do alone, a sister, for no apparent reason at all, putting her arm around her brother while riding the flying elephants ...
And sometimes truly living as sisters and brothers looks like... well, if you have siblings or you have kids, you know! Living in community, large or small, brings misunderstanding and differences of opinion, after all.
Not judging by the color of his skin, but by the content of his character, politics, record and experience, I simply cannot vote for the current Democratic candidate for President.
Yet in principle I am beyond thrilled for the fact of his candidacy as a man of African descent. Injustice and racism of all kinds are not gone from our country and world, and never will be 'this side of heaven. What a joy, nonetheless, to have such a visible symbol of progress. I rejoice in and am so thankful for the movement in the hearts of people that has allowed this possibility to become reality in our country.
These are interesting times.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Warm, With Butter
Since I haven't really been posting lately, have no themes going and no blog "brand" to speak of, there's really no reason I can't just post a random recipe right now, is there? I think not.
As part of a little social studies unit we're doing about New England, I wanted to make something approximating Boston Brown Bread. More concerned with simplicity than authenticity, I chose to pull out a nearly forgotten recipe for Steamed Molasses Bread from my file instead of searching further, and made it today. It's been feeling downright fall-ish around here in the coolest August I can remember, so the homey smell of baked goods was well-suited to the day.
Oh, folks, it was delicious. Served warm with butter. Mmmmm.
Of course almost anything sounds delicious "served warm, with butter." It's a powerful phrase.
Try "Octopus, served warm with butter." Wait. Some of you may actually enjoy octopus to begin with. It's possible.
"Tree bark, served warm with butter." See? You at least considered it, didn't you?
"Earthworm, served warm with butter..." Ok, the phrase has its limits.
In any case, perhaps you might like to try this recipe, too. It's sweeter than a typical whole wheat bread, but not nearly as sweet as a typical pumpkin or banana bread. It's... different. And delicious.
The bread is made in a slow cooker, and requires some sort of pan or container that will fit in your slow cooker and hold about 8 cups. There are molds made specifically for steam baking in a crock pot, but I've never had one. A small coffee can is the mold traditionally used by many people, but anything that fits will do. (I have a square Pyrex dish that happens to fit.) This needs to be set upon some sort of metal rack, trivet or, as I've even done, a couple of spoons, in the bottom of the crock pot just to keep it off of the direct heat and allow steam to surround it. Get creative; you have something in your kitchen that will do the trick.
So then.
Steamed Molasses Bread
2 cups All-Bran cereal
2 cups whole-wheat flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup raisins (these can be optional for the raisin-haters)
1 egg
1 3/4 cups buttermilk (or add 1 1/2 T. vinegar to regular milk and let stand 5 minutes)
1/2 cup molasses
Place a metal rack or trivet in a slow cooker. Grease and flour an 8-cup mold.
In a medium bowl, combine cereal, wheat flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt and raisins.
In a large bowl, beat egg. Add milk and molasses, and stir to combine. Stir in dry ingredients, without overbeating.
Pour into greased mold, and cover with foil. Pour 2 cups hot water into slow cooker. Place mold on rack in slow cooker. Cover and cook on high 3 1/2 to 4 hours.
Remove from pot and cool 5 minutes. Loosen edges with spatula and turn out on plate.
And don't forget: Serve warm, with butter.
As part of a little social studies unit we're doing about New England, I wanted to make something approximating Boston Brown Bread. More concerned with simplicity than authenticity, I chose to pull out a nearly forgotten recipe for Steamed Molasses Bread from my file instead of searching further, and made it today. It's been feeling downright fall-ish around here in the coolest August I can remember, so the homey smell of baked goods was well-suited to the day.
Oh, folks, it was delicious. Served warm with butter. Mmmmm.
Of course almost anything sounds delicious "served warm, with butter." It's a powerful phrase.
Try "Octopus, served warm with butter." Wait. Some of you may actually enjoy octopus to begin with. It's possible.
"Tree bark, served warm with butter." See? You at least considered it, didn't you?
"Earthworm, served warm with butter..." Ok, the phrase has its limits.
In any case, perhaps you might like to try this recipe, too. It's sweeter than a typical whole wheat bread, but not nearly as sweet as a typical pumpkin or banana bread. It's... different. And delicious.
The bread is made in a slow cooker, and requires some sort of pan or container that will fit in your slow cooker and hold about 8 cups. There are molds made specifically for steam baking in a crock pot, but I've never had one. A small coffee can is the mold traditionally used by many people, but anything that fits will do. (I have a square Pyrex dish that happens to fit.) This needs to be set upon some sort of metal rack, trivet or, as I've even done, a couple of spoons, in the bottom of the crock pot just to keep it off of the direct heat and allow steam to surround it. Get creative; you have something in your kitchen that will do the trick.
So then.
Steamed Molasses Bread
2 cups All-Bran cereal
2 cups whole-wheat flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup raisins (these can be optional for the raisin-haters)
1 egg
1 3/4 cups buttermilk (or add 1 1/2 T. vinegar to regular milk and let stand 5 minutes)
1/2 cup molasses
Place a metal rack or trivet in a slow cooker. Grease and flour an 8-cup mold.
In a medium bowl, combine cereal, wheat flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt and raisins.
In a large bowl, beat egg. Add milk and molasses, and stir to combine. Stir in dry ingredients, without overbeating.
Pour into greased mold, and cover with foil. Pour 2 cups hot water into slow cooker. Place mold on rack in slow cooker. Cover and cook on high 3 1/2 to 4 hours.
Remove from pot and cool 5 minutes. Loosen edges with spatula and turn out on plate.
And don't forget: Serve warm, with butter.
Monday, August 18, 2008
A Few Thousand Words
Does this blog look abandoned to you? Cast aside and forgotten?
It may be neglected, but it has not been abandoned, despite appearances.
I simply have been lacking the time and physical and emotional wherewithall to write anything. I could flesh out that last statement with details, but that would require writing, wouldn't it? This almost could have been written by me. Almost. Far too many coherent sentences.
I've been popping in to visit blogs here and there, and look forward to writing here when I can. But for now, just to show that I'm still alive, posting a few summer pictures would count for something, wouldn't it?
They're worth-- what?-- around a thousand words apiece?
A Girly Girl with three brothers looks like this...
A brand new nine year-old & a mom sorely in need of a hair cut look like this...
A picture that really needs of a post of its very own might just look like this...
It may be neglected, but it has not been abandoned, despite appearances.
I simply have been lacking the time and physical and emotional wherewithall to write anything. I could flesh out that last statement with details, but that would require writing, wouldn't it? This almost could have been written by me. Almost. Far too many coherent sentences.
I've been popping in to visit blogs here and there, and look forward to writing here when I can. But for now, just to show that I'm still alive, posting a few summer pictures would count for something, wouldn't it?
They're worth-- what?-- around a thousand words apiece?
A Girly Girl with three brothers looks like this...
The Class of 2021 looks like this...
A brand new nine year-old & a mom sorely in need of a hair cut look like this...
A picture that really needs of a post of its very own might just look like this...
Ahhh...
summer! 
summer! 
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Go, Children! Run into the street!
Today, against every parental sensibility, we encouraged our children to run with abandon into the street. We do this every year, just after noon on the Saturday of the weekend that comes two weeks after Independence Day.
Today was the Borough Days parade, kicking off our local two-day festival. The parade is… oh, some might say rinky-dink. It features clowns, local politicians, a very small marching band, a couple of kids’ drumming and baton twirling troupes, a dance group (that somehow never seems to be, you know, dancing when it passes us, even though the route is less than a half-mile long?), and fez bedecked Shriners joyriding on their snazzy ATV’s, the kind equipped with an extra wheel in the back for popping wheelies. And, of course, the backbone of the parade: fire trucks and rescue vehicles of every size, shape, and color of the rainbow, all with horns blasting and sirens wailing. (Ok, so there are no violet fire trucks, but let me tell you that powder blue does make a fire truck look almost pretty.) And the best part! Many of the paraders throw candy in the direction of eager kids along the route. Hence the encouragement to my kids that feels so very strange coming out of my mouth. My kids react as if we never, ever, ever allow them to have candy except on this day.
Rinky-dink or not, we faithfully attend the parade every year. We kind of don’t have much choice. It passes right in front of our house. The arrangement actually has its advantages for those among us whose sensibilities are most offended by the rowdy vehicles, and tend to prefer watching the parade like this...
... and may want to move up to watch from the front porch. Or maybe from inside the house, near the window. Or perhaps may even prefer to retreat to the far interior of the house with their hands placed staunchly over their ears in attempted denial of the whole traumatic event. It’s good to have options.
The parade progresses to the end of the street, where the festival commences. Again, it’s nothing spectacular, but a nice something-to-do. There will be a talent show this year, along with a band playing each night, booths selling food or running games to benefit local groups, and crafters selling (?) their wares. Somehow these wares usually are comprised largely of anything that can be made from crocheted doilies or plastic grids stitched with yarn. I had no idea that there was a market for such things. While walking past them, I usually nudge my husband and hint that July is not too early to begin his Christmas shopping for me. Then I make triple sure that he knows I’m kidding.
The grand finale will be the fireworks in the park tomorrow night. I could watch them from a blanket in the park. I have a feeling, though, that I’ll be watching them over the trees, from an upstairs window, inside the house. Or perhaps I’ll even prefer to just read Fancy Nancy in the back room and try to forget about the whole booming thing. I'm sure Girly Girl will let me know what I prefer.
It’s good to have options.
Today was the Borough Days parade, kicking off our local two-day festival. The parade is… oh, some might say rinky-dink. It features clowns, local politicians, a very small marching band, a couple of kids’ drumming and baton twirling troupes, a dance group (that somehow never seems to be, you know, dancing when it passes us, even though the route is less than a half-mile long?), and fez bedecked Shriners joyriding on their snazzy ATV’s, the kind equipped with an extra wheel in the back for popping wheelies. And, of course, the backbone of the parade: fire trucks and rescue vehicles of every size, shape, and color of the rainbow, all with horns blasting and sirens wailing. (Ok, so there are no violet fire trucks, but let me tell you that powder blue does make a fire truck look almost pretty.) And the best part! Many of the paraders throw candy in the direction of eager kids along the route. Hence the encouragement to my kids that feels so very strange coming out of my mouth. My kids react as if we never, ever, ever allow them to have candy except on this day.
Rinky-dink or not, we faithfully attend the parade every year. We kind of don’t have much choice. It passes right in front of our house. The arrangement actually has its advantages for those among us whose sensibilities are most offended by the rowdy vehicles, and tend to prefer watching the parade like this...
... and may want to move up to watch from the front porch. Or maybe from inside the house, near the window. Or perhaps may even prefer to retreat to the far interior of the house with their hands placed staunchly over their ears in attempted denial of the whole traumatic event. It’s good to have options.The parade progresses to the end of the street, where the festival commences. Again, it’s nothing spectacular, but a nice something-to-do. There will be a talent show this year, along with a band playing each night, booths selling food or running games to benefit local groups, and crafters selling (?) their wares. Somehow these wares usually are comprised largely of anything that can be made from crocheted doilies or plastic grids stitched with yarn. I had no idea that there was a market for such things. While walking past them, I usually nudge my husband and hint that July is not too early to begin his Christmas shopping for me. Then I make triple sure that he knows I’m kidding.
The grand finale will be the fireworks in the park tomorrow night. I could watch them from a blanket in the park. I have a feeling, though, that I’ll be watching them over the trees, from an upstairs window, inside the house. Or perhaps I’ll even prefer to just read Fancy Nancy in the back room and try to forget about the whole booming thing. I'm sure Girly Girl will let me know what I prefer.
It’s good to have options.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Graceful
Have you met Katherine, who writes on her blog, Raising Five?
The name of my blog was loosely inspired by Katherine one day. She was asking her readers to let her know what kinds of things they were interested in, and what they would like to read about on her blog. In thinking about what really draws me to Raising Five, I realized that it wasn't in the subject matter exactly-- she writes mainly about her family life-- but in what is often plainly visible through it: grace. So many times when she describes how she responded (or should have responded--she keeps it real!) to an everyday interaction, I see it. That soul-expanding, life-giving , hopeful, heart-takes-flight release of God's grace, right there in the midst of everyday life. There it is! THAT's what it looks like, flowing outward, reaching into the mundane, touching others and drawing them in. (She's been at it again, simply and quietly inspiring me, with a couple of her posts this week.)
As I responded to her and typed the phrase "in real life," my brain simultaneously translated it to "IRL" in Typespeak, the native tongue of all hip modern keyboarders. ( That whole lexicon of text, e-mail and internet language deserves its own name, doesn't it? What should it be? And who gets to name it? Um, back to the post.) GRACE in real life-- "GIRL". Yeah, that's what this girl is after.
The grace and mercy that God offers, from ultimate salvation to the countless mercies bestowed upon us in love each day, are amazing. But his grace is also meant to flow through us, splashing refreshment, and inviting others to see and know God . What does that look like? What sometimes blocks both its reception and flow through me? What does it look like in perfect balance with discipline and justice? In parenting? In marriage? How do I receive and release grace in the midst of the roller coaster ride that is MY life? Ultimately it is God's spirit that produces and teaches me this, but he's long been in the practice of using object lessons, including ones sometimes found in others' blog posts. I recognize his teaching in the midst of them.
Beyond that, what drew me to the merging of "grace in real life" and the word "girl" is something I can't even articulate very well for myself. It has to do with the life journey I've been on. It's deep and meaningful, I tell you! But unraveling all of that might require a major online therapy session and far too many run-on sentences, even for me. I'll spare you, and stick with the half-baked explanation, ok?
So, GIRL. Grace in Real Life. Now, MY blog, instead of exhibiting the grace of God in full flow as Katherine's does, may be more likely to reveal God's merciful grace, as in, "If God can extend mercy and grace to THAT train wreck, surely He'll persevere with me."
Either way. May it be real and somehow show the real Him.
The name of my blog was loosely inspired by Katherine one day. She was asking her readers to let her know what kinds of things they were interested in, and what they would like to read about on her blog. In thinking about what really draws me to Raising Five, I realized that it wasn't in the subject matter exactly-- she writes mainly about her family life-- but in what is often plainly visible through it: grace. So many times when she describes how she responded (or should have responded--she keeps it real!) to an everyday interaction, I see it. That soul-expanding, life-giving , hopeful, heart-takes-flight release of God's grace, right there in the midst of everyday life. There it is! THAT's what it looks like, flowing outward, reaching into the mundane, touching others and drawing them in. (She's been at it again, simply and quietly inspiring me, with a couple of her posts this week.)
As I responded to her and typed the phrase "in real life," my brain simultaneously translated it to "IRL" in Typespeak, the native tongue of all hip modern keyboarders. ( That whole lexicon of text, e-mail and internet language deserves its own name, doesn't it? What should it be? And who gets to name it? Um, back to the post.) GRACE in real life-- "GIRL". Yeah, that's what this girl is after.
The grace and mercy that God offers, from ultimate salvation to the countless mercies bestowed upon us in love each day, are amazing. But his grace is also meant to flow through us, splashing refreshment, and inviting others to see and know God . What does that look like? What sometimes blocks both its reception and flow through me? What does it look like in perfect balance with discipline and justice? In parenting? In marriage? How do I receive and release grace in the midst of the roller coaster ride that is MY life? Ultimately it is God's spirit that produces and teaches me this, but he's long been in the practice of using object lessons, including ones sometimes found in others' blog posts. I recognize his teaching in the midst of them.
Beyond that, what drew me to the merging of "grace in real life" and the word "girl" is something I can't even articulate very well for myself. It has to do with the life journey I've been on. It's deep and meaningful, I tell you! But unraveling all of that might require a major online therapy session and far too many run-on sentences, even for me. I'll spare you, and stick with the half-baked explanation, ok?
So, GIRL. Grace in Real Life. Now, MY blog, instead of exhibiting the grace of God in full flow as Katherine's does, may be more likely to reveal God's merciful grace, as in, "If God can extend mercy and grace to THAT train wreck, surely He'll persevere with me."
Either way. May it be real and somehow show the real Him.
Monday, July 14, 2008
I'll Take My Holiday Weekends Boring and Uneventful, Thank You- Part 3, This Weekend, The End
I should have known that our address would earn a spot on the police blotter this weekend.
My husband was going to be doing some painting and projects over the weekend. (I'm sure the plan stemmed from my choice of cabinet handles one way or another.) So, to get us out of the way, I travelled with all of the children to my parent's house for a long weekend. Somehow there's just something about this scenario, especially when one of us is out of town, that invites "action". It's been the trend.
The last time one of us had taken kids down to my parents' like this, of course, was Memorial Day 2006. During our summer weekends, our family has encountered burglary and massive identity theft, an intruder in the house, an armed robber thought to be hiding in our little yard, a car crash in front of the house, a car somehow flipping onto its roof in our 25mph street, two men aggressively banging on the door at night asking for "bus money" (husband out of town, of course), and a neighbor pulling a gun during an argument as our family saw it all from very nearby on our back porch. Oh, and two floods, one while my husband was out of town for the weekend. (Did you know that appliances float?)
I am at least happy that I was the one to miss the action this weekend.
After a long day of working on projects Saturday, around 11:30pm my husband finished up, pulled the shades, and locked up. As he trudged upstairs to take a long, hot shower, he thought he heard some arguing outside in the front. He took a quick look through the peep hole in the door, but couldn't see anything, and continued up to the shower. Afterwards he came back downstairs to relax and watch TV. It was as he was sitting there in a tired haze that he became aware of the loud, rattling hum of many idling vehicles coming from the front of the house.
His initial peek through the peep hole revealed a glaring array of lights. He opened the door to find a host of police cars and ambulances immediately in front of our house, just steps off of our porch. He could see a woman in the ambulance and a man and boy standing a little way off, but he couldn't tell in the dark who they were.
Turning back into the house, he then noticed small lights and movement through one of the windows in the back of the house. He opened the back door to find our little yard crawling with police who were searching everywhere with flashlights. He switched on an exterior light for them, and asked what they were searching for. A gun, they said.
He went back to the front and stepped outside. Getting closer to the man and boy, he could see that it was a D, a 7 year old boy from up the street who comes over to play nearly every day, and his father. They told him that D's mom, Miss L, was the woman in the ambulance, and filled him in on what they knew.
Miss L had been riding the bus home from work when two girls in their late teens who were very drunk began harassing her. It was an aggressive verbal assault, and Miss L did talk back to them. The bus driver kicked the girls off of the bus, letting them off at the stop that is just steps from our front door. This was Miss L's stop, too,but she wisely decided to stay on the bus and let the bus driver loop her around to the grocery store stop. It would be a farther walk for her, but she figured that by the time she got back to the place she needed to get off, they would be gone.
They were not. They recognized her immediately, and started screaming at her. She tried to move to the other side of the street, but they came after her. Knowing that she wouldn't make it all the way down the block to her house, she sprinted through our neighbor's back yard to try to get into our back door for help. My husband did not hear all of the commotion as he was in the shower.
They started beating her with the handle of an umbrella and their fists. Then, one of the girls yelled at the other, "Just get the gun out of your purse, and shoot the *****! Just shoot her!"
I have to mention here that the very reason Miss L moved her family to our neighborhood a few years ago was that she had been shot in a drive-by and severely wounded in the shoulder in her old neighborhood. She thought our neighborhood would be safer for her family.
So, even more understandably than for anyone else, when she saw the one girl reach toward her purse, she went after her with full fury, pinning her between our steps and fence. The girl bit her severely, and the other continued to beat and kick her. Mercifully, someone had heard the screaming when it started, and called the police right away. They showed up then and, eventually, caught the girls.
Miss L needed stitches in her head, lip and arm, and was quite bruised, but she had no concussion or further injury. D and his father had no way to get to the hospital or bring Miss L home when she was done, so my husband took them. It was 5:30 in the morning by the time they all came home. Miss L is recovering, but angry.
I don't mean to glorify this kind of "action" by telling the stories. But life carries these kinds of danger. With the exception of extremes, it really doesn't matter who you are or where you live.
I don't know why, in addition to the violence that touches our city and church congregation, God has been allowing us so many direct brushes with this kind of action. I do know that there is purpose in what God allows, that he is faithful to us, and that, for right now, we are where we are supposed to be. That is enough.
I've heard it said that the safest place in the world is right in the center of God's will for you, be it a war zone or a convent. I've heard it stated that a believer walking in God's path for his life is immortal until the work God has for him is done. That's good enough for me. I'm not afraid.
My husband was going to be doing some painting and projects over the weekend. (I'm sure the plan stemmed from my choice of cabinet handles one way or another.) So, to get us out of the way, I travelled with all of the children to my parent's house for a long weekend. Somehow there's just something about this scenario, especially when one of us is out of town, that invites "action". It's been the trend.
The last time one of us had taken kids down to my parents' like this, of course, was Memorial Day 2006. During our summer weekends, our family has encountered burglary and massive identity theft, an intruder in the house, an armed robber thought to be hiding in our little yard, a car crash in front of the house, a car somehow flipping onto its roof in our 25mph street, two men aggressively banging on the door at night asking for "bus money" (husband out of town, of course), and a neighbor pulling a gun during an argument as our family saw it all from very nearby on our back porch. Oh, and two floods, one while my husband was out of town for the weekend. (Did you know that appliances float?)
I am at least happy that I was the one to miss the action this weekend.
After a long day of working on projects Saturday, around 11:30pm my husband finished up, pulled the shades, and locked up. As he trudged upstairs to take a long, hot shower, he thought he heard some arguing outside in the front. He took a quick look through the peep hole in the door, but couldn't see anything, and continued up to the shower. Afterwards he came back downstairs to relax and watch TV. It was as he was sitting there in a tired haze that he became aware of the loud, rattling hum of many idling vehicles coming from the front of the house.
His initial peek through the peep hole revealed a glaring array of lights. He opened the door to find a host of police cars and ambulances immediately in front of our house, just steps off of our porch. He could see a woman in the ambulance and a man and boy standing a little way off, but he couldn't tell in the dark who they were.
Turning back into the house, he then noticed small lights and movement through one of the windows in the back of the house. He opened the back door to find our little yard crawling with police who were searching everywhere with flashlights. He switched on an exterior light for them, and asked what they were searching for. A gun, they said.
He went back to the front and stepped outside. Getting closer to the man and boy, he could see that it was a D, a 7 year old boy from up the street who comes over to play nearly every day, and his father. They told him that D's mom, Miss L, was the woman in the ambulance, and filled him in on what they knew.
Miss L had been riding the bus home from work when two girls in their late teens who were very drunk began harassing her. It was an aggressive verbal assault, and Miss L did talk back to them. The bus driver kicked the girls off of the bus, letting them off at the stop that is just steps from our front door. This was Miss L's stop, too,but she wisely decided to stay on the bus and let the bus driver loop her around to the grocery store stop. It would be a farther walk for her, but she figured that by the time she got back to the place she needed to get off, they would be gone.
They were not. They recognized her immediately, and started screaming at her. She tried to move to the other side of the street, but they came after her. Knowing that she wouldn't make it all the way down the block to her house, she sprinted through our neighbor's back yard to try to get into our back door for help. My husband did not hear all of the commotion as he was in the shower.
They started beating her with the handle of an umbrella and their fists. Then, one of the girls yelled at the other, "Just get the gun out of your purse, and shoot the *****! Just shoot her!"
I have to mention here that the very reason Miss L moved her family to our neighborhood a few years ago was that she had been shot in a drive-by and severely wounded in the shoulder in her old neighborhood. She thought our neighborhood would be safer for her family.
So, even more understandably than for anyone else, when she saw the one girl reach toward her purse, she went after her with full fury, pinning her between our steps and fence. The girl bit her severely, and the other continued to beat and kick her. Mercifully, someone had heard the screaming when it started, and called the police right away. They showed up then and, eventually, caught the girls.
Miss L needed stitches in her head, lip and arm, and was quite bruised, but she had no concussion or further injury. D and his father had no way to get to the hospital or bring Miss L home when she was done, so my husband took them. It was 5:30 in the morning by the time they all came home. Miss L is recovering, but angry.
I don't mean to glorify this kind of "action" by telling the stories. But life carries these kinds of danger. With the exception of extremes, it really doesn't matter who you are or where you live.
I don't know why, in addition to the violence that touches our city and church congregation, God has been allowing us so many direct brushes with this kind of action. I do know that there is purpose in what God allows, that he is faithful to us, and that, for right now, we are where we are supposed to be. That is enough.
I've heard it said that the safest place in the world is right in the center of God's will for you, be it a war zone or a convent. I've heard it stated that a believer walking in God's path for his life is immortal until the work God has for him is done. That's good enough for me. I'm not afraid.
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