tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77765923642106937402024-03-14T00:02:02.682-05:00This Moment Contains All MomentsKatiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.comBlogger152125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-46066947021540218262011-08-30T17:55:00.005-05:002011-08-30T18:11:50.564-05:00all my fountains<span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">She was hard to miss in that neighborhood, dancing atop an egg-covered sidewalk, temperatures so high she just knew an omelet was soon to appear beneath her feet. As I pulled to a stop in front of the sign on her street, she knelt for a moment to examine a runny yolk then allowed the stillness of the air to lead her swiftly through her yard, the browning grass snapping as she began to leap about and land in one small patch and then another. She curtsied to a royal audience only she could see and lifted her chin to the sky, blond curls escaping from the knot at her neck and settling around her head like a veil on a bride. With a spin, she skipped to the shadows of the brick wall supporting her house and, bowing low, knelt to pick up a small umbrella lying in the grass.</p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">
<br /></p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">With the determined march of what can only be described as a woman on a mission, she made her way across the driveway: goggles on her head, shoes missing from her feet, and a nod of acknowledgement ready for the lady retrieving mail next door.</p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">
<br /></p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Her parade led her to a lone sprinkler spitting out sustenance, a metal head bringing life to a dying ground. She bent her knees in the direction of the spout and thrust the umbrella between her and the sun. In one long jump, she pounced and moved beneath the stream, pink plastic shielding girl from water.</p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">
<br /></p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">I watched as she stared up at the waltz of the water flitting across the top of the umbrella. Small fingers traced the reflection of each droplet as they gleefully slid off the edge and into the puddle awaiting their arrival. As the puddle rose and covered her toes, she twisted the umbrella’s crooked handle and allowed the dome above her head to collapse before her eyes.</p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">
<br /></p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">She let out a surprised squeal as the now-forgotten shield rolled to the curb, and the water from above began to fall on unadorned shoulders. She loosened the fists that had formed when the first cool drop hit her skin and lifted her fingers toward the source. As her little hands tried to grab hold of the liquid raining on her, her body carried her forward, wanting to be as close as possible to the fountainhead.</p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">As I drove past this little girl, wet curls flat against her scalp, I saw her close her eyes, unaware of all that was around her, until a moment came, when she opened her eyes and saw someone else that would benefit from the spray of water. Running toward him, she giggled and tried to explain what it felt like to stretch to the heavens and let refreshment come, to accept the incoming of water, those little drops of grace.</p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">
<br /></p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 19px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); ">
<br /></span></div>In this season of life, caught up in this Texas-drought, it only takes a second glance to find another person who seems to be walking through dry lands in search of a spring, a pond, any place with fertile ground where they can bury their roots. We’ve become a sea of thirsty-souls, dry throats begging for just a bit of something to quench our need. Yet instead of scratching to find the source, we throw up umbrellas and stare at the sun, wondering why we can’t feel the rain.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 16px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">
<br /></p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Now, with a new semester starting, I can’t help but wonder what I’m holding over my head: what I have now that I believe will satisfy me, and what I don’t have but hope will fill me. If I stood outside and stared at the heavens, would I feel the rain, or have I become comfortable under my umbrella? Am I holding my friends, my family, my job, my academic achievements, my successes, my failures over my head and expecting these things to actually end my drought? Am I dragging around a longing for more money, a future husband, a diploma, a trip to a beautiful country, and believing that once I have these things then I’ll feel the breathtaking sensation of water on my face? Or have I set down everything holding me back and thrown myself in front of the metal sprinkler?</p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">
<br /></p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">Jesus, You said that if anyone thirsts, he should come to you and drink. We're so thirsty, Lord, and sometimes I think we're so dehydrated we barely realize it. Help us realize that You alone are the source of all that we crave, and the sweet water that we've been hunting for. Take hold of all that we are currently holding onto and give us the strength to leave it on this dry earth, so that we may close our eyes and dance in the sweet rain of Your presence. It is You who refreshes us, you who are called the Living Water. And we want more of you. So much more. Open the heavens, Lord. We’re in need of some rain.</p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">
<br /></p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; "> </p><p style="text-align: justify; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; ">“How precious is your steadfast love, O God! The children of mankind take refuge in the shadow of your wings. They feast on the abundance of your house, and you give them drink from the river of your delights. For with you is the fountain of life; in your light do we see light.” (Psalm 36:7-9)</p></span></span>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-67260201837239724962011-06-28T16:43:00.022-05:002011-06-28T21:02:07.413-05:00<div style="text-align: justify;">Someone reading this has just received that one piece of news she prayed would never come. Someone reading this just felt a final push that has sent her tumbling over the edge she's held onto for so long. Someone reading this just swallowed a sob, a wish to return to the moment before the ground started breaking below her feet. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Someone reading this just needs to know there is Another Someone out there who understands what she's feeling. Someone reading this just needs to feel that she can curl up next to Another Someone and lean on Him and collapse in His arms. Someone reading this just needs to trust she can count on Another Someone to hold her close and never let go. Someone reading this just needs to believe now - when all seems broken, and everything hurts - that Another Someone has not stopped loving her with the deepest passion and cannot help but feel every ache that's breaking her heart. Someone reading this just needs to realize that Another Someone, steady and stable and sovereign, is waiting for her to fall at His feet and find out He is Comfort. and Peace. and Joy, even now. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Someone reading this just needs to look beyond her current circumstances and fix her eyes on Another Someone, the One who hears and responds to the whispered prayers she cries to the heavens:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><div><div><div style="text-align: justify;">"Heart of my own heart, <i>whatever </i>befall, </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Still be my vision, O Ruler of All"</div></div></div></div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-64948749148703384972011-06-20T10:21:00.014-05:002011-06-20T11:05:08.245-05:00church camp<div align="justify">It’s here. You might have seen the effects of it yesterday morning, maybe the week before that. If it hasn’t happened in your town, don’t think it’s not coming. It’s coming. It <em>is </em>coming. And you’ll probably go along with it. You’ll probably even send your little brother and sister off with everybody else. So young. So innocent. But wave good-bye because they will never be the same.<br /><br />What am I talking about? Church camp.<br /><br />Ohhh, yes. It’s all fun and games until the passion-filled worship nights start, and then your friends start crying and you start crying and everybody’s crying and suddenly you realize you’re a terrible person who needs Jesus. It’s true. You need Jesus.<br /><br />Then you wake up Friday morning, grab your stuff, head home. And you are SO pumped about going back with a clean slate. You walk around hugging everyone and giving high-fives to strangers. It doesn’t even matter that your bus broke down in the middle of a Texas summer, or that you’ve sacrificed your personal space to be around like, 150 teenagers singing “Don’t Stop Believing” in a vehicle that no longer has A/C. It doesn’t even matter. You just love Jesus, y’all.<br /><br />And then you get home, and you unpack, and you go to sleep, wake up - but today is different, it’s going to be different - you go to sleep - SUNDAY! YEAH! - go to sleep, wake up - and then Monday rolls around.<br /><br />The alarm goes off, and you’re back to work, back to class, back to life. And some of the enthusiasm has rolled off, but you want your life to be different. What you experienced was real. You got a taste of this huge God, a beautiful Savior, and you want more.<br /><br />But what was it that drew you in? Your precious Jesus, suffering on a tree? Your Redeemer, who had on his head not a crown honoring His majesty, but thorns cutting His skin? Your Master, who had on his hands and feet not gold to represent His inestimable worth, but nails piercing His flesh?<br /><br />What was it that caused those tears to start to flow when the worship kicked in and the speaker began to pray? You closed your eyes, and instantly, the weight of who you were and what you had done was pressed on your shoulders. You felt almost nauseous as you realized that you had tried so hard to succeed, but even your best attempts had failed you. All around you the noises began to fade, and you heard the story of a God who sent His beloved son to the world “to reconcile to Himself all things... by making peace through His blood, shed on the cross. Once you were alienated from God and were enemies in your minds because of your evil behavior. But now He has reconciled you by Christ’s physical body through death to present you holy in his sight, without blemish and free from accusation.” (Col 1:20-23) And you could barely wrap your mind around it, but suddenly you saw the beauty of the cross: you did nothing, and you didn’t deserve it, but the blood of the Son of God covered your failures. And you couldn't help but cry out for strength “to continue in your faith, established and firm, [so that you] do not move from the hope held out in the gospel.” (Col 1:23)<br /><br />But now it’s Monday.<br /><br />Oh, “God, hold us to that which drew us first, when the Cross was the attraction, and we wanted nothing else.”<br /><br />That was missionary Amy Carmichael’s prayer. In her book, <em>Gold Cord</em>, she told about a time when her fellowship in South India greatly required more human help. She wrote to pastors “asking if they had any women wholly devoted to [her] Lord and separate in spirit from the world who were likely to be free for such work.” Their response?” ‘Not only have we no women, but we do not know even one woman of the kind you want.’”<br /><br /><em>Ouch.<br /></em><br />Amy Carmichael led a group of Indian girls, called the “Sisters of the Common Life.” These were girls who had experienced that Thursday-night-at-church-camp moment and had seen the Cross, but instead of going back to what they had known before, what Christ had saved them from, they continued “seeking to live a life of unreserved devotion” to their Lord.<br /><br />“When a soul sets out to find God it does not know whither it will come and by what path it will be led; but those who catch the vision are ready to follow the Lamb whithersoever He goeth, regardless of what that following may involve for them. And it is as they follow, obedient to what they have seen, in this spirit of joyful adventure, that their path becomes clear before them, and they are given the power to fulfill their high calling. They are those who have the courage to break through conventionalities, who care not at all what the world thinks of them, because they are entirely taken up with the tremendous realities of the soul and God.” (Bishop Bardsley)<br /><br />I keep wondering what would happen if an Amy Carmichael of this generation asked our church pastors for “women wholly devoted to our Lord and separate in spirit from the world.” Because many of us have definitely had a moment where we've realized our need for Christ and recognized what His death and resurrection meant. But... now it’s Monday. How would your pastor respond? Would he say shake his head sadly, and say, "Not only have we no women, but we do not know even one woman of the kind you want"?<br /><br />Please, God. "Hold us to that which drew us first, when the Cross was the attraction, and we wanted nothing else.”<br /><br />It's only through the grace of God that we are drawn back to the foot of the Cross, and we must continue to diligently seek the One who called us, asking Him to keep us there.<br /></div><br /><br /><div align="justify">The Sisters of the Common Life signed the following confession of love, which I pray will be what describes our day in and day out moments, not just the highlights from a few nights at camp, now that we belong to Christ.<br /><br /><em>“My vow.</em><br />Whatsoever Thou sayest unto me, by Thy grace I will do it.<br /><br /><em>My Constraint.</em><br />Thy love, O Christ, my Lord.<br /><br /><em>My Confidence.</em><br />“Thou art able to keep that which I have committed unto Thee.<br /><br /><em>My Joy.</em><br />To do Thy will, O God.<br /><br /><em>My Discipline.</em><br />That which I would not choose, but which Thy love appoints.<br /><br /><em>My Prayer.</em><br />Conform my will to Thine.<br /><br /><em>My Motto.</em><br />Love to live: Live to love.<br /><br /><em>My Portion.</em><br />The Lord is the portion of mine inheritance.<br /><br />“Teach us, good Lord, to serve Thee more faithfully; to give and not to count the cost; to fight and not to heed the wounds; to toil and not to seek for rest; to labor and not to ask for any reward, save that of knowing that we do Thy will, O Lord our God.” </div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-69675300503677251932011-02-16T20:42:00.017-06:002011-02-16T21:49:47.543-06:00a letter to juliet<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigraIyncnvgoVVr7wUXAlUT6NvItwjzZFwirc0FtQzl4ZWNRX6I9FQY1Hel3_5iD1rM-uCDRV4IjqlbJkeI6qEmks5pwJHjb5_Z4lF82A7ZnrFTh-JXUF471xSGxq-h98izbP2-OFZdBBK/s1600/tumblr_kqn9heJot91qzdx8ko1_400.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 189px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574499115878791282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigraIyncnvgoVVr7wUXAlUT6NvItwjzZFwirc0FtQzl4ZWNRX6I9FQY1Hel3_5iD1rM-uCDRV4IjqlbJkeI6qEmks5pwJHjb5_Z4lF82A7ZnrFTh-JXUF471xSGxq-h98izbP2-OFZdBBK/s320/tumblr_kqn9heJot91qzdx8ko1_400.jpg" /></a>She’s a girl who’s always moving: it’s what makes her pauses so profound. When you’re walking beside her, and you notice she’s taken a beat to process what’s around her, you know the next phrase out of her mouth will be the one that changes the tempo.<br /><br />The day was beautiful. Large puddles on the ground reflected the sunshine through the naked trees, a painting of the remains of winter and the promises of spring. She, sixth grader Juliet, was bouncing along beside me, her blue eyes sparkling like the water on the ground until she stomped and sent the ripples running for dry grass.<br /><br />She stopped for a moment as we walked along the trail and looked up at me. She complains about being too tall, but she’s still not able to look me straight in the eyes without lifting her chin. “If you know why, can’t you just tell me?”<br /><br />She’d been talking about the way they make her feel. The populars. The ones that she’s not <em>envious</em> of and would <em>never</em> idolize, but the ones that leave her tongue-tied and guarded. The ones that always leave her feeling like an idiot if she stands there, and a loser if she speaks.<br /><br /><em>So what</em>? I asked. <em>So what if they think you’re an idiot? What’s the worse thing they could possibly think about you, and what’s the worst thing that could come of them thinking it?</em><br /><br />She blinked. “I don’t know. I just don’t want them to think I’m stupid.”<br /><br /><em>So? If they think you’re stupid, what happens then? Why does it matter what they say?</em><br /><br />She stood still. “I don’t know.”<br /><br /><em>Do you think if you knew </em>why<em> their opinions matter so much, you could find a way to feel free?<br /></em><br />She kept walking but glanced up at me again. It’s what she wants. To feel free. To know peace. As soon as the word came out, we both recognized the chains wrapping her up, messing with her mind, leaving her frustrated, intimidated, tongue-tied, insecure.<br /><br />She pulled at her hair until the right words finally came out. “I hate feeling like this.” She stepped around one last area of mud and squinted up at the sky. The sun fell slowly through the trees and cast shadows on my car in the corner of the lot. Her hand caught on the car door, and she hesitated before climbing inside.<br /><br />“What would you do?” On top of the dashboard, pinks and oranges swirled together and stretched across a sky which seemed to go on forever. At the end of the road, she shut my car door and said good night. My heart instantly started speaking the prayers my mind longed for as her pony-tailed head followed the pinks and oranges straight into the dark.<br /><br />Dear Juliet,<br /><br />Don’t you ever for a second doubt your worth. Not for one second. Not because you couldn’t think of anything to say when one of your populars asked you a question. Not because you’re thinking there’s a good chance that they’re right: you really are an idiot.<br /><br />What they say or think about you does not determine your identity. The more you treat these people as a mirror which reflects who you are, the more fragile you become. Your entire personhood is left for them to decide. Doesn't that explain why you're feeling so insecure right now? But don’t run from people and start digging into your soul to try to find yourself. It’s tempting, but going on an <em>Eat, Pray, Love </em>soul-search will only leave you empty. And possibly 20 pounds heavier.<br /><br />So, here’s the deal: it doesn’t matter so much who you are, but Whose you are.<br /><br />Really let the next words soak in.<br /><br />Ezekiel 16:6 says that the Lord “passed by you and saw you wallowing in your blood, [He] said to you in your blood, ‘Live!’ [He] said to you in your blood, ‘Live!’” We’re a mess on our own. I mean, we are literally wallowing in our own blood. What an awful image. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. On your own, you’re a terrible person. A sinful, selfish person following the course of this world. Don’t get offended. I’m the same way.<br /><br />[But God], being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which He loved us, [even when] we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ – by grace you have been saved – so that in the coming ages He might show the immeasurable riches of His grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus. (Eph. 2:4-5, 7)<br /><br />Ephesians 1:3-10 says that the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ chose us in Him before the foundation of the world. In love He predestined us for adoption as [daughters] through Jesus Christ, according to the purpose of His will, to the praise of His glorious grace. In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of His grace, which He lavished upon us, in all wisdom and insight making known to us the mystery of His will, according to His purpose, which He set forth in Christ as a plan for the fullness of time, to unite all things in Him, things in heaven and things on earth.<br /><br />There’s your identity. Right there. Did you catch it? “In Him.” Not through others’ approval. Not within yourself. In Jesus Christ.<br /></div><div align="justify">You're so loved, amiga. Personally. Intimately. Jeremiah 31:3 says that the God of the world loves you “with an everlasting love.” In Zechariah 2:8, He calls you the “apple of His eye.” (Zechariah 2:8)<br /><br />Let those glorious truths sink in. It's not an exaggeration. I'm not trying to make you feel better. This is real. You may not be the most popular person on your campus, but what does it matter when Psalm 45:11 says that the most powerful, wonderful Being to ever live “desires your beauty.” He desires your beauty. Doesn’t that make you the happiest girl alive?<br /><br />Last thing. You asked what you should do to find freedom from the insecurities that are holding you captive. In other words, here's how to survive sixth grade: </div><ul><li><div align="justify">Hope in God. (1 Peter 3:5) CRY out to Him. Spend all of your free time on your face if that’s what it takes. Find out who He is. What He’s like. What He’s up to. Praise Him when He reveals something awesome. Write out your worries and fears and thoughts and hopes and dreams in prayers and tell the God of the universe that you don’t know what to do with them. Trust that He does. And know that He hears you. It’s cool to have your prayers written down in a notebook, so that you can see the incredible work He’s doing in you. Guess what….In a few years, you will look back and be overwhelmed by how your God set you free from these insecurities that seem bigger than life right now. He who began a good work will be faithful to complete it. Believe it, girlfriend. And trust me. You’ll be surprised the joy that comes when you’re not focused on yourself, but rather, the One who put the stars in their place and still considers your feelings. </div></li></ul><ul><li><div align="justify">Memorize verses to meditate on when you’re doubting who you are and worried about what others think. As soon as those thoughts start to creep in, speak the truth to yourself and know that you are adored by The Truth. </div></li></ul><ul><li><div align="justify">Study the Bible. Pursue wisdom. I realize you’re now picturing yourself with gray hair, but just stop. “The wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, open to reason, full of mercy and good fruits, impartial and sincere.” (James 3:17) </div></li></ul><div align="justify"></li>There’s so much more I want to share with you, but this is a lot already. I love you, Juliet. More importantly, the Savior of the world is crazy about you. Never forget that.</li> </div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-18653943618791242042011-01-28T18:20:00.008-06:002011-04-14T15:43:44.474-05:00the most extraordinary things seem to have come over the household.<div align="justify">“Don’t you babysit every afternoon? What are your kids like?” </div><p align="justify">That’s one of my favorite questions. My time is split between two families: one with little boys and one with older girls. Are there ANY words in the English language that overlap to describe both groups? </p><p align="justify">The first house. The bus arrives and drops off C2, a 4th grader who takes his time getting to the door because every leaf which lines the path must be annihilated. He walks past me without a word, wanders to the pantry, flips on his X-Box. I ask if he has homework and get a grunt. I turn around to close the front door, turn around again, and he has disappeared. I call out his name and ask about his day, and all of a sudden, sixty pounds of spunk fly at my waist and shove me into the couch. </p><p align="justify">The second house. My keys twist around my palm as my fingers feel for the correct size and shape that fits this door. Right as the key slides into the hole, the door flies open and a happy 6th grade girl greets me with a smile and several hundred stories. Before I’ve turned around to close the front door, I know what happened during her day, what happened during her yesterday, what happened during her yesterday’s yesterday, what she plans for tomorrow, what makes her happy, what makes her sad, what she has to do for homework, what the guy on her bus two rows back and one over said about her neighbor’s best friend’s friend, and how upsetting it was when her teacher talked to her new best friend’s old best friend and asked if her new best friend’s feeling better. (She’s not.) </p><p align="justify">She tells me about her classes and her teachers and her friends and her friends’ parents and her sister and her parents and her parents’ parents. She analyzes the complexity of each relationship with the insight of someone much older than her twelve years, and I sit on her kitchen counter and wonder if she’s been reading parenting books again. She talks about the arguments she’s recently had with her sister and her parents and worries about the quiet kid who’s ignored by the (air quotes) popular crowd. She says she wants to be nice to everyone, but sometimes she just gets annoyed by the girl who is always trying to steal her position as first chair bassoon player. </p><p align="justify">She takes a breath. </p><p align="justify">She wonders what Jesus was like as a teenager. Jesus, who was the earthly son of two parents that definitely did not understand Him. Jesus, who was fully God but also a human pre-teen at some point. Jesus, who must have been tempted to throw the fact that His parents were imperfect in their faces. Jesus, who must have been tempted to question His parents' judgment and rebel against their authority. Jesus, who must have been tempted to roll His eyes and ignore their requests. Jesus, who must have been tempted to complain about His parents to His friends and dishonor them by mocking them behind their backs. Jesus, who must have been tempted to return to heaven and escape the discomfort of a cramped home owned by people who were not well-off. Jesus, who must have been tempted to be annoyed, cold, lazy, discontent, grumpy, jealous, proud, insecure, unsympathetic, and on and on and on and on. Jesus, who must have been tempted to fight with brothers and sisters that did not believe in Him. (Can you imagine what THAT would be like? Literally eating breakfast with the Son of God?)</p><p align="justify">But He didn’t sin. Not once. His family did. But He did not.</p><p align="justify">He lived in submission to His parents and His teachers and every other human authority over Him. “It would have been easy for Him to just walk away from it all. </p><p align="justify">“But He didn’t. </p><p align="justify">“While Christ was on earth, at any time He could have returned to heaven and resumed the throne and His rule as part of the Godhead. He never ceased being God. He only laid aside His powers. It was a choice He made to submit Himself to the Father and live in total obedience. In John’s Gospel, He says, ‘I lay down My life that I may take it again. No one takes it from Me, but I lay it down of Myself. I have power to lay it down, and I have power to take it again’ (John 10:17-18). </p><p align="justify">“Jesus could have said, ‘I’m stopping this whole thing and going back to heaven. I can’t continue to live under these people and their decisions.’” (K.P. Yohannan)</p><p align="justify">But He didn’t. </p><p align="justify">And a really cool part (for us imperfect people who struggle with submission), Jesus “humbled himself by [becoming] obedient to the point of death.” (Philippians 2:8) Jesus didn't die on the cross until He was 33. Year by year, day by day, hour by hour He humbled Himself in obedience to God, His Father. In every choice and thought and action, He surrendered His will to His Father's, until He was finally obedient to the point of death at age 33.</p><p align="justify">It's <em>not supposed</em> to be a snap-deal. What. A. Relief. In Jesus' life, He matured over time. As our own relationships with God progress, we become more obedient; we surrender our desires and emotions and longings to Him. One moment at a time. We trade what we want for what God wants and are thus obedient to HIS will. We start to exchange our fame for His: it's why we were made. Our lives proclaim the glory of God and the glory of the cross of Christ.</p><p align="justify"><em>Jesus, the more I think about Your life, the more blown away I am by who You are. You hold the entire universe together, and You personally understand everything we go through. “For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but One who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin.” (Hebrews 14:15) As we go through the normal routines of life and chatter away about what we consider important, please put Yourself at the forefront of our minds and hearts and conversations. Let us not forget what Your life means for us. Lead us, Lord. Let our lives also be marked by utter obedience to God. Lord, we </em>need<em> You. Not only are You the perfect example of how to live, but You are our Savior who we can’t live without. Thank You for your guidance, Your mercy, Your patience…. And thank You for your grace; it truly is all-sufficient. We love you, Jesus. We are not unaware of your greatness.</em></p><p align="justify"><em>Jesus, “...though [You] were in the form of God, [You] did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but made [Yourself] nothing, taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, [You] humbled [Yourself] by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Therefore God has highly exalted [You] and bestowed on [You] the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.” (Philippians 2:5-11)</em></p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-39970550839076636462010-12-24T13:16:00.009-06:002010-12-24T13:41:03.014-06:00merry christmas!<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_qbU8ynHq-EqiVgkY55jWG-AmUmRSxxKcUJ0kkRaZ7MAaP3Xecf_UHESCS6fwnnIdORf3JBgcyqz6sF_-XiLT5mdkWLcOYgnat9wpjUF9K5TXG-CrANGjtPdX99SZgNkXhGQA_yecYyMj/s1600/df.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 243px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 145px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5554334374821376002" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_qbU8ynHq-EqiVgkY55jWG-AmUmRSxxKcUJ0kkRaZ7MAaP3Xecf_UHESCS6fwnnIdORf3JBgcyqz6sF_-XiLT5mdkWLcOYgnat9wpjUF9K5TXG-CrANGjtPdX99SZgNkXhGQA_yecYyMj/s320/df.jpg" /></a></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"Who is a God like you, pardoning iniquity and passing over transgression for the remnant of his inheritance? He does not retain His anger forever, because He delights in steadfast love. He will again have compassion on us; He will tread our iniquities underfoot. You will cast all our sins into the depths of the sea." (Micah 7:18-19)<br /><br />"And He shall stand and shepherd his flock in the strength of the LORD, in the majesty of the name of the LORD His God. And they shall dwell secure, for now he shall be great to the ends of the earth.<br /><br />And <em>He shall be their peace</em>." </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br />(Micah 5:4-5)</div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-32641245634404687752010-12-05T09:59:00.017-06:002010-12-05T11:59:07.676-06:00sweetness in the sour - lyme disease diagnosis<div align="justify">For those of you who have been praying for my health for so long (thank you!), here's an update. We're coming up on four years since my cluster headaches began and are somewhere in the middle of my eighth year with acute migraines, but I have never been so aware of the faithfulness of God and His power to sustain and keep a girl together. Yesterday, I tested positive for Lyme Disease; a disease which, YES (!! happy dance !!), can be treated. The doctor who has stuck with us for the last 19 years believes this is the answer to most of my pain. </div><br /><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">Over the years, we've seen doctors all over the country and and have thought a lot of different diagnoses and treatments were "the answer." Of course, this one may fall through as well, but it feels so good to hope, you know? </div><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">Last night, after my mom started talking with friends who have fought their own cases of Lyme, we discovered that just one month of antibiotics would probably not get rid of my headaches. Once symptoms become neurological, and if you've had the disease for a long time, it may take two years before they go away. Those 'two years' began to feel like an eternity as another cycle of cluster headache episodes kicked in around 4:30 yesterday afternoon. The idea of knowing I'd keep experiencing that kind of pain was so overwhelming, I started crying when a waiter asked how I was doing. <em>I'm fine.<br /><br /></em></div><div align="justify"><em></em></div><div align="justify">This morning, I woke up to the words of Psalm 125: "Those who trust in the LORD are like Mount Zion, which <em>cannot be moved</em>, but abides forever." Who do I trust? What do I long for? Where is my hope? In doctors, in the dream of a pain-free life, in my<em>self? </em>As long as my trust is all over the place rather than in God alone, I'll not only move, but experience has shown that I'll completely fall apart.<br /><br />"I don't know when this season of pain will be over. Maybe, in God's grace and wisdom, He'll say, 'Enough!' and banish the pain within the hour. Or maybe He'll say, 'Enough!' allowing me to step out of this long-disabled, deteriorating temporary housing into my 'building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands' (2 Cor. 5:1).<br /><br />"In the meantime, these afflictions of mine - <em>this very season of multiplied pain </em>- is the background against which God has commanded me to show forth His praise. It's also that thing that I am to reckon as 'good and acceptable and perfect,' according to Romans 12. God bids me that I not only seek to accept it, but to <em>embrace it, </em>knowing full well that somewhere way down deep - in a secret place I have yet to see - lies my highest good.<br /><br />"Yes, I pray that my pain might be removed, that it might cease; but more so, I pray for the strength to bear it, the grace to benefit from it, and the devotion to offer it up to God as a sacrifice of praise. My strength in prayer these days is scant - I'll confess that. So for all the concentration I can muster in prayer, I must not dissipate it in seeking physical blessings only. Rather, I must spend a good portion of it seeking spiritual growth and praying for Christ's kingdom to go forth into this dark world. For such prayers are a way for me to know God and to know Him deeper, higher, richer, wider, and fuller - <em>much </em>fuller than if I comfortably cruised through life in my wheelchair.</div><div align="justify"><br />"To this point, as I pen this chapter, He has not chosen not to heal me, but to hold me.<br /><br />"The more intense the pain, the closer His embrace."</div><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">(Joni Eareckson Tada, <em>A Place of Healing)</em></div><br /><div align="justify"><em></em></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"Those who trust in the LORD are like Mount Zion, </div><div align="justify">which cannot be moved, but abides forever.</div><div align="justify">As the mountains surround Jerusalem,<em> </em></div><div align="justify"><em>so the LORD surrounds His people, </em></div><div align="justify"><em>from this time forth and forevermore</em>." (Psalm 125)</div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-77304960802600766022010-12-01T13:23:00.022-06:002010-12-01T14:42:34.869-06:00and a lovely thing she is, too.<div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;"><em>On the first day of December, a fourth grader said to me</em> . . . </span></div><br /><div align="justify">"I can't find my scorpion." </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify">---</div><p align="justify">But let's rewind. The story begins with an abandoned tub of butter. (It always does, you know.)</p><p align="justify">Late one afternoon, a worn out bus driver weaved through the last neighborhoods of her daily route and yanked the brakes in front of a house with white pillars and bright Christmas-colored ornaments hanging above the door. To the right of the driver’s window, one smushed nose stared out at the sweet elderly man scooting down the street. As the nose backed away from the window and the sun shined through the glass to display the resulting print, the nine year old (C2) I babysit, passed in front of the bus and hopped onto the sidewalk. As he bypassed the nest of leaves stacked on the stone walkway, it became obvious he was up to <em>something</em>.<br /><br />“Did he bring it?” <em>Hey, C2.<br /><br /></em>“Hey. Did he bring it?” <em>Did who bring what?<br /></em><br />An answer worked its way to the front of his mouth but appeared to get stuck at the end of his tongue, as C2 picked up a tub of Country Crock butter and peeked inside. “Guess what kind of pet’s in here?”<em> Oh no</em>.<br /><br />He walked into the house keeping the container steady and placed it on the coffee table. With the alarming tap of plastic-containing-critter against wood, the race to build a habitat was on. “Katie. Go to the computer and find out what kind of food it eats.”<br /><br />As I walked from one side of the house to the other, C2 took off running. He sprinted up the stairs and slammed a few cabinet doors then latched onto the banister and slid down and spun in circles around one very dizzy kitten and flung open the back door and jogged back and forth, back and forth looking for sand – “NO SAND?!” – and waved as he ran back inside and back upstairs and then finally sat down and looked at me. “So, what does it eat?” I read to him from the website, and he nodded. “That’s not a problem.”<br /><br />He went back to his pet – <em>What’s its name</em>? “Corpus.” – and I dug through drawers for the cotton ball that C2 planned to use to hydrate Corpus.<br /><br />I soaked both ends of a Q-tip with filtered water and listened for the shuffling of my mini-arachnologist. “I would watch where you step. I can’t find Corpus.” <em>Ohhhh no</em>.<br /><br />I looked down at the carpet and saw it: the sand-colored scorpion crawling into the kitchen.<br /><br />C2’s gaze started at my elbow and slid down my forearm to my finger to the floor.<br /><br />“Oh, fudge.”<br /><br />He crouched down, but that critter had tasted freedom, and heck, he was going to get it. As the two of them square-danced on top of the tile, I snapped pictures. The flash of the camera startled them both: “You’re not going to show my mom, right?” Seconds later, Corpus landed in his container. </p><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 255px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545797075577682562" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp9UoVPBOBYJoh-6u8ypTaf54QhILBj97A1atkOr0bmaq0nbiS_FNxUpsjSs_ZqPcZxdWkeMCZ8fVQksSqHarU1JjCEdxVoNv-29QrP9kP3REpR2YsP0iacsOju2Z6VSf47q6jR7uo8diX/s320/1.jpg" /> <p align="justify">As we sat on the couch and stared somewhat incredulous at how well the scorpion blended in with his surroundings, C2 explained that he found the escapee while he was hunting during Thanksgiving. </p><p align="justify">Oh, Thanksgiving, you have left so many reasons for gratitude: the discovery of “the coolest thing ever,” the joy which comes when a potentially poisonous arachnid is no longer loose in the house, the duct tape that keeps a lid down, and the awe of a nine year old boy completely amazed by the handiwork of our Creator-God, whose birth we’re celebrating this month.<br /><br />---<br /><br />Okay. So it's not as pleasant as a partridge in a pear tree. But it's a scorpion from under a log. That has to count for something.</p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-90095725272279442012010-10-22T12:20:00.000-05:002010-10-22T12:22:13.355-05:00proverbs 19:21<div align="justify">Many are the plans in the mind of a man, </div><div align="justify">but it is the purpose of the LORD that will stand.</div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-7626138574805816672010-10-17T13:37:00.019-05:002010-10-17T19:40:44.489-05:00abo[lit]ion.<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOxT70vdGFEQ5WdPBEKVb7CVy31YE6s6bSRJeN368fO0fxHGbR97iMLTt_9Tf63iW4PKQhwvN8eSo_ZI-ctLw6Y3gNFn5Lroz2hh-cEUagvQ5PbFqZfgZBjFMYt1SqQ8E26_wPENuWzaT/s1600/human-trafficking1-640x480.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 127px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 115px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529174340979381522" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOxT70vdGFEQ5WdPBEKVb7CVy31YE6s6bSRJeN368fO0fxHGbR97iMLTt_9Tf63iW4PKQhwvN8eSo_ZI-ctLw6Y3gNFn5Lroz2hh-cEUagvQ5PbFqZfgZBjFMYt1SqQ8E26_wPENuWzaT/s320/human-trafficking1-640x480.jpg" /></a>If you stick the words "human trafficking" into a Google news search, you might just kill your feed reader and fry your brain sorting through the hundreds of articles. To save you an afternoon, some crucial pieces from the week (October 9 through October 16) are listed below. Be forewarned: once you're aware of what's happening around you, you'll want to do something about it.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify"></div><li><div align="justify">Bill Hillar is a retired U.S. Army Special Forces colonel and the inspiration for <em>Taken</em>, a film about a man’s efforts to rescue his daughter following her abduction. Unlike the movie, Hillar’s daughter didn’t survive. <a href="http://www.theworldlink.com/news/local/article_49b26b87-9ba6-51b5-8924-bd1140e2c8c0.html" target="_blank">According to Hillar's keynote speech,</a> </div></li><blockquote><p align="justify">· Two ways to fight the [the modern-day sex and labor slave trade] are through education and informing legislators of the need to change laws to prosecute pimps and employers, rather than the victims.<br /><br />· The crime is so lucrative that drug cartels are switching to selling women.<br /><br />· Someone can buy or sell a quantity of drugs or a weapon only once. They can buy a female over and over again.<br /><br />· The average age of sex slaves is 12, although in some foreign countries even infants are for sale.<br /><br />· During the world cup in Berlin, politicians rescinded a prostitution law and imported nearly 30,000 prostitutes.<br /><br />· This said, victims often are prosecuted when they have run-ins with the law…. It’s a problem because they aren’t prostitutes – they’re victims. Prostitution indicates choice.<br /><br />· Where do the 80,000 pedophiles come from? They come from this country, the United States. </p></blockquote><li><div align="justify">"They sell illusions, they sell dreams. It's no surprise that people fall for all kinds of attractive offers from abroad pyramid schemes, lotteries, Nigerian letters [...] It's all good salesmanship." (<a href="http://news.err.ee/b2e8c4f1-f90d-4dc8-9f45-3ca7ff11b1c4">Eda Mölder</a>) What happens after a person falls prey to these lies? </div></li><blockquote><p align="justify">· They may be trapped into marrying an immigrant whose intention is to get visa entry into the EU. Dozens of <a href="http://news.err.ee/b2e8c4f1-f90d-4dc8-9f45-3ca7ff11b1c4">Estonian women </a>have been lured abroad in recent years.</p><p align="justify">· Others may be abandoned after a month or so. According to an <a href="http://arabnews.com/saudiarabia/article160533.ece?comments=all" target="_blank">Egyptian activist</a>, about 900 children born to Egyptian women and Saudi men are left following "misfar" marriages. The article defines this type of union as one "contracted so that a woman may join her 'husband' for the period of time he travels in a foreign country.'" 90% of fathers leave the children born out of such relationships.</p><p align="justify">· Some victims are forced to work at restaurants - <a href="http://www.longislandpress.com/2010/10/09/feds-smugglers-profited-from-forced-restaurant-labor/" target="_blank">including a Chinese buffet in Patchogue</a> - at below minimum wage and live in squalid conditions controlled by their smuggler.<br /><br />· Victims may have their <a href="http://www.torontosun.com/news/world/2010/10/15/15699886.html">kidneys removed and sold</a> to foreigners for up to $200,000. </p></blockquote><li><div align="justify">Many types of exploitation exist, and many types of people are used to fill demand. </div></li><br /><blockquote><p align="justify">· Children are the most vulnerable. For example, children in <a href="http://www.voanews.com/english/news/africa/east/decapua-east-africa-trafficking-12oct10-104783624.html" target="_blank">Kenya</a> have been subject to sexual exploitation and domestic work and are often lured by the promise of school. In Tanzania, children have been trafficked for street begging. (This week, British police found 103 <a href="http://english.hotnews.ro/stiri-regional_europe-7919828-beggary-network-anihilated-london-police-found-over-100-romanian-children.htm" target="_blank">Romanian</a> children - including a 3 year old - who had been instructed to steal on London roads.) Children have also been employed in hard labor on farms. Child prostitution also occurs: <a href="http://www.dailyevergreen.com/story/32770">Seattle</a> is currently listed as first in the U.S. In <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/canada/manitoba/story/2010/10/14/man-child-sex-trafficking-micro-brothels.html#ixzz12RRfworK" target="_blank">Manitoba</a>, child victims of sex trafficking are held captive in "micro-brothels" controlled by gangs. (For more information on the sex trafficking of children, check out <a href="http://www.speroforum.com/site/article.asp?idCategory=34&idsub=127&id=41703&t=Ending+the+sex-trafficking+of+children+should+be+a+world+priority">this article by Rev. Shay Cullen</a> published on Friday.)<br /><br />· Young women are generally targeted for prostitution. <em><a href="http://www.dailyevergreen.com/story/32770">The Daily Evergreen</a> </em>writes of a need for reform in this area:</p><blockquote><blockquote><p align="justify">- A "disgusting aspect of all of this is how desensitized prostitution is in today's society. Humantrafficking.org states that the word pimp in today's culture refers to someone who is cool, rich, and successful with women. The reality is that a pimp is a slave owner who takes advantage of the vulnerable. It is a grotesque term.... As a culture, we must change this perception if anything is to be done about how these women are treated."<br /><br />- "These girls are usually taken from foster homes or from households where they were already abused. Then a grooming process is started where the pimps seduce the trapped young girls to fall in love with them. For girls from broken homes or those who never had one, it is easy to forgive a few bad traits just to have someone care."<br /><br />- "Then the abuse begins. It starts with emotional trauma, being told that they are worthless. It escalates to physical violence where they can be beaten within an inch of their life. The point is to bring a message across, that they are property and if they try to run away their owners will find them and hurt them." </p></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><li><div align="justify">In case you were wondering...<br /><br /></div><blockquote><p align="justify">· <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/canada/manitoba/story/2010/10/14/man-child-sex-trafficking-micro-brothels.html#ixzz12RRfworK" target="_blank">Benjamin Perrin said</a>: "Craigslist has been called the Wal-Mart of child sex trafficking." (Canada)</p></blockquote></li><blockquote><p align="justify">· <a href="http://www.croydonguardian.co.uk/news/localnews/8448084.BLOOD_MONEY__Sex_advert_newspapers_face_prosecution/">Blood Money</a>: In the UK, "editors and publishers are likely to find themselves in front of a judge if they refuse to stop running sex ads which are later found to be linked to human trafficking."</p><p align="justify">· <a href="http://www.mysinchew.com/node/46541?tid=14">Human Trafficking Blacklist</a>: Malaysia was added after seven immigration officers and two officers were detained. This is not a new problem. The 2009 U.S. State Department Trafficking in Human Persons Report records that "Malaysian immigration officers sold [Burmese refugees] for about $200 per person to human trafficking syndicates operating along Thailand's southern border." The traffickers demanded ransom which victims were unable to pay; the victims "were sold for the purpose of labor and commercial sexual exploitation." On Thursday, <a href="http://www.thesundaily.com/article.cfm?id=52911">Home Minister Datuk Seri Hishammuddin Hussein</a> announced: "I wish to remind all officers and staff who are entrusted with safeguarding all entry points of the country to carry out their duties and responsibilities with integrity. Do not betray the country to pursue material wealth." </p><p align="justify">· <a href="http://tribune.com.pk/story/61081/human-trafficking-89-most-wanted-criminals-backed-by-politicians-involved/">Islamabad: Most Wanted Criminals Backed by Politicians:</a> "Human trafficking has been a lucrative business worldwide, but its gravity dawned upon Pakistan as Federal Investigation Agency (FIA) intercepted over 40,000 persons at the Pakistan-Iran/Afghanistan borders since 2005." Director General FIA, Wasim Ahmad said that action is being taken against the immigration officials allegedly involved in cooperating with human traffickers.</p><p align="justify">· <a href="http://ftsblog.net/2010/10/12/banksy-depicts-slave-labor-behind-the-simpsons/">The Simpsons</a>: A video featuring a redirected opening sement caused quite a stir: "Asian laborers toil in unsanitary, dangerous working conditions, under ground, behind barbed wire, drawing the animation cells of the cartoon, stuffing Bart Simpson dolls and putting together DVDs. [Street artist] Banksy, no doubt, was making a dig at the fact that The Simpsons’ animation is partially subcontracted to studios in South Korea—a cost cutting measure for 20th Century Fox." </p><p align="justify">· <a href="http://www.state.gov/g/tip/rls/rm/2010/149474.htm">The Path Forward</a>: Luis CdeBaca, Ambassador-at-Large, Office To Monitor and Combat Trafficking in Persons, gives a speech at the University of Luxembourg on the Global Fight Against Human Trafficking.</p></blockquote><li><div align="justify">Check out the abolitionist featured this week in the <em>New York Times</em>: Suzanne Daley showcased Romania's leading advocate for the victims of trafficking. Iana Matei, a psychologist by training, has been "pulling young women out of the hands of traffickers" for more than 10 years. </div></li><blockquote><p align="justify">· In 1998, she answered a police call to deal with three young prostitutes. She said, "I was annoyed until I got there and saw these girls. The mascara was running all over their faces. They had been crying so hard. Journalists had been there and made them pose. And they were minors. They were 14, 15, and 16. But no one cared."<br /><br />· Matei "does little to disguise her disgust with legal systems around the world that fail to take trafficking seriously enough. 'When these guys get caught, they get what? Six years? Maybe. They destroy 300 lives and they get six years. You traffic drugs, you get 20 years. There is something not right.'" <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/16/world/europe/16romania.html?_r=2&ref=global-home" target="_blank">(Read more of Iana Matei's story on the <em>New York Times'</em> website.)</a><br /></p><br /></blockquote>On October 12, FM Droutsas gave a <a href="http://www.mfa.gr/www.mfa.gr/Articles/en-US/13102010_SB1247.htm">speech</a> at the Foreign Ministry conference on "EU Policy and the National Action Plan for combating Human Trafficking." He ends by saying,<br /><blockquote></blockquote><blockquote><p align="justify">"Ladies and gentlemen, if I could single out one basic message from today’s conference, it would be this: </p><blockquote><p align="justify">"We cannot and must not relax our vigilance. What we say and do will never be sufficient as long as the exploitation of human beings by human beings continues. We cannot have a clear conscience and we cannot be proud of the achievements of our culture as long as this phenomenon continues to exist. </p><p align="justify">"Our country's goal is to be among the leading players in the international campaign for confronting modern forms of slavery. Our goal is not simply to meet our commitments.... </p><p align="justify">"Our goal is to be a frontrunner and - why not? - a model." </p></blockquote></blockquote><p align="justify">In the midst of all of this, let it be true that our "eyes are ever on the LORD, for only He will release [our] feet from the snare." (Psalm 14:15) "The Maker of heaven and earth, ... who remains faithful forever .... HE upholds the cause of the oppressed and gives food to the hungry. The LORD sets prisoners free, the LORD gives sight to the blind, the LORD lifts up those who are bowed down, ... The LORD watches over the alien and sustains the fatherless and the widow, but He frustrates the ways of the wicked. The LORD reigns forever, your God, O Zion, for all generations." (Psalm 146)</p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-19853174741045653112010-10-14T15:34:00.023-05:002010-10-15T09:49:29.981-05:00chim chim cher-oo<p align="justify">During the months before school opened its doors and released its children to sunshine and sunscreen, the search for cool amusement gave way to the hopeless nurturing of spring fever cases. The virus began spreading like Silly Bandz throughout local elementary school, and all hopes for its containment vanished as the Houston-heat grew Houston-hotter. Thoroughly ignorant of the contagious nature of the disease, little boys stuck their heads out of backseat car windows and opened their mouths, contaminating carpool lines as they belted out Lady Gaga’s “Ale(-Ale-Ale-)jandro.” The fever passed through families, and children sought shelter in their neighbor’s homes, irrationally afraid of visiting <a href="http://sosayitsomehow.blogspot.com/2009/10/oh-yes-definitely-view-halloo.html">grandparents</a>. </p><p align="justify">This kind of irrational behavior became a common symptom among the infected. Upon exposure to the disease, one nine year old admitted a severe craving for fish oil supplements. After placing a capsule under his tongue, he immediately expressed a need to retrieve an item left right outside of his home. However, the record shows that the child walked beyond his backyard gate, across his driveway, and under a tree before attempting to swallow. He then fell, knees to the earth, and began to dig a small hole. At this time, the vitamin was projected from the child’s mouth into the hole, covered with dirt, and marked with a dying daffodil. The child returned to the house empty-handed, refused to comment on the incident, and never acknowledged the four large kitchen windows which bore witness to the entire event. </p><p align="justify">On a similar evening, a game began in the traditional way: laughter could be heard throughout a cul-de-sac as eight children ran to hide. However, no one is certain what happened between the counts of one and one hundred; a rash onset of the fever is suspected. The filed episode reported that when the seeker, Kid 1, opened his eyes and cried out, “Ready or not…,” he also found Kid 2 standing in front of him, hands over his eyes. Kids 3, 4, and 5 were lying flat, squished together like sardines, in the bed of a truck parked in front of a nearby house. As Kid 1 looked for the rest of his hidden friends, Kid 6 left his spot behind a tree to chase a squirrel. He picked up a soccer ball and threw it in the squirrel’s path. The ball smacked the hood of the truck and set off an alarm which was later reported several streets over. Kids 3, 4, and 5 sat up in confusion. Kid 7 was startled by the noise and stood up from behind the trashcan where he was hiding on the other side of the street. His sudden movements knocked the trashcan over and sent it rolling down the driveway. When it reached the bottom of the driveway, Kid 8 (<em>litter</em>-ally) rolled out of the trashcan. </p><p align="justify">Neighborhoods who experienced the epidemic also reported unnatural amounts of string cheese consumption, several occasions where backyard swing sets were turned into water parks, and a couple of disillusioned victims changing the words of “La Cucaracha” to “Ra Mochalaba.” </p><p align="justify">Vaccinations have not been created, but studies have found that several months of vacation between the months of May and August aid even the most severe cases. The start of school in August has been shown to encourage the reappearing of minor symptoms, but all traces of these particular instances have disappeared at the arrival of football season, pumpkin spice lattes, winds in the east, and mist coming in.</p><p align="justify">"Can't put me finger on what lies in store, but I fear what's to happen all happened before."</p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-70360854639899037572010-08-01T16:00:00.004-05:002010-08-01T17:02:08.475-05:00make me Thy fuel"From prayer that asks that I may be<br />Sheltered from winds that beat on Thee,<br />From fearing when I should aspire,<br />From faltering when I should climb higher,<br />From silken self, O Captain, free<br />Thy soldier who would follow Thee.<br /><br />From subtle love of softening things,<br />From easy choices, weakenings,<br />(Not thus are spirits fortified,<br />Not this way went the Crucified)<br />From all that dims Thy Calvary,<br />O Lamb of God, deliver me.<br /><br />Give me the love that leads the way,<br />The faith that nothing can dismay,<br />The hope no disappointments tire,<br />The passion that will burn like fire;<br />Let me not sink to be a clod;<br />Make me Thy fuel, Flame of God."<br /><br />- Amy Carmichael, <em>Mountain Breezes</em>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-21821719747923947762010-07-20T21:12:00.005-05:002010-07-20T21:20:28.353-05:00the ideal woman<div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpj5EEx566LT90IJ_6S5CAO6r1OuD4LEyEMvxPNM9ynZMDDQhMR3ORpvPlPIMAYRMs-YTO2r5R6Dlg3KfiL_GpMyCVJhpU_VTCGh0bcwcbGAPZniJqV2d4SkP-0oR3jXfSwTTrCwC4UX-b/s1600/7VFLukdwjqgny296oZCc3zC0o1_400.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 295px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 134px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496178206261961554" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpj5EEx566LT90IJ_6S5CAO6r1OuD4LEyEMvxPNM9ynZMDDQhMR3ORpvPlPIMAYRMs-YTO2r5R6Dlg3KfiL_GpMyCVJhpU_VTCGh0bcwcbGAPZniJqV2d4SkP-0oR3jXfSwTTrCwC4UX-b/s320/7VFLukdwjqgny296oZCc3zC0o1_400.jpg" /></a>"Here we have a picture of God's ideal woman... Faith in God that sees beyond present bitter setbacks. Freedom from the securities and comforts of the world. Courage to venture into the unknown and the strange. Radical commitment in the relationships appointed by God.... This is the woman of Proverbs 31:25 who looks into the future with confidence in God and laughs at the coming troubles: 'Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the time to come.' Ruth is one of 'the holy women who hoped in God... [and did] not fear anything that is frightening' (1 Peter 3:5-6). It is a beautiful thing to watch a woman like this serve Christ with courage…. Whatever else the great women of faith doubted, they never doubted that God governed every part of their lives and that nothing could stay his hand... Nothing - from toothpicks to tyrants - is ultimately self-determining. Everything serves (willingly or not) the 'purpose of him who works all things according to the counsel of his will' (Eph. 1:11). God is the all-encompassing, all-pervading, all-governing reality."<br /><br />-John Piper, <em>A Sweet and Bitter Providence</em><br /><br /><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">(originally posted on the <a href="http://www.girltalkhome.com/blog/the-christian-woman">Girl Talk</a> blog) </div></div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-82991534628453911802010-06-05T09:47:00.022-05:002010-06-05T10:03:26.852-05:00our first game is called 'well begun is half done'<div align="justify">Yes, it’s true, and I'm sorry: this blog <em>has</em> been without babysitting-esque stories lately.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqztIqxJaq4eVKqcrmTMgctRYhmlJj346ezoBV_INGeJ9aBjFSKLQ8S1UD3iusLpU_BE-dojR1DpTqXoQgV0s3Bko7L_2Irsi3Xc5nQpt9BYyry8bhOKm2QgqAT4zQx5jKkE_e2WGQ073c/s1600/DSC_0398_edited-1.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 140px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 371px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479302232432167586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqztIqxJaq4eVKqcrmTMgctRYhmlJj346ezoBV_INGeJ9aBjFSKLQ8S1UD3iusLpU_BE-dojR1DpTqXoQgV0s3Bko7L_2Irsi3Xc5nQpt9BYyry8bhOKm2QgqAT4zQx5jKkE_e2WGQ073c/s400/DSC_0398_edited-1.jpg" /></a>Yesterday around noon, the phone rang at the exact moment a few blonde hairs appeared below the kitchen window. I ran the phone outside as C2 hopped from one rock to the next along the edge of the flower bed and then plopped down in the mud. He tucked the phone under his ear and began to dig.</div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify">“Hello, sir? … No, sir. … What am I doing? … Oh, I’m planting a sunflower, sir.” </div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify">C2 passed the phone back to me and continued to poke at the dirt and make room for the plant he uprooted (ahem) from the creek in his neighborhood. He stuck the long roots into the bottom of the mini-pit and shoved gravel around its perimeter to help it stand. The length of the flower made its head unusually top-heavy, but the core remained firm. C2 stood up and shook his head, dirt flying everywhere, and marched back into the air conditioning.</div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify">An hour later, we walked back outside, and he paused to check on his prized plant. The top fourth of the sunflower drooped toward the earth. As my little gardener crawled to examine it, I asked him what he thought the problem was. He lunged for the hose to rehydrate the flower and then stopped and looked up at me.</div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify">“I don't know. Maybe it’s in shock.” </div><div align="justify"><br />He nodded then knelt back down to tend to his project. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">So, why has my blog lacked <a href="http://sosayitsomehow.blogspot.com/search/label/nanny%20diaries">Nanny Diaries'</a> posts? I don't know. Maybe it’s in shock.</div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-30355725827965899552010-06-02T09:05:00.021-05:002010-06-02T11:13:01.592-05:00peter pan nightmare<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6moHF5CqQxdjrJ6HuoRD7f2YlJMC3ldRurOrvhI-onqmVl67dOrPIaqShpC_pWlX8msiOE8tGJsO1l_a8ofgqCmiukxZuJ4Qse7WEJeOpFGCETdksia0wT0k-ZFCuF3ij8mXN3ze31zGx/s1600/260xStory.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 167px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 197px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478200840627882594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6moHF5CqQxdjrJ6HuoRD7f2YlJMC3ldRurOrvhI-onqmVl67dOrPIaqShpC_pWlX8msiOE8tGJsO1l_a8ofgqCmiukxZuJ4Qse7WEJeOpFGCETdksia0wT0k-ZFCuF3ij8mXN3ze31zGx/s320/260xStory.jpg" /></a> <div align="justify">Mick LaSalle, film writer for the <em>Houston Chronicle</em>, wrote an article about the perception of age as portrayed by actors in movies of today compared with those of yesteryear. If you read a hard copy of the paper, you might have skipped past this easy-to-miss piece on the back page of the entertainment section. LaSalle begins with commentary on modern movie releases and ends with a hard critique of our culture. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div><div align="center"><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(Is his analysis correct? </span><a href="http://apps.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/life/main/7029389.html"><span style="font-size:85%;">Read the article in its entirety.</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;">)</span> </div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">LaSalle begins by saying, "We're seeing this more and more in movies, not actors playing younger than they are but rather actors playing their age — middle age — as a time for beginnings. Look at the <em>Sex and the City</em> women, who are in their 40s and 50s playing women in their 40s and 50s, yet their whole atmosphere is young, and their whole story is one of constant renewal. There's no sense of settling down or turning from the world." He goes on to explain why for certain reasons this is due to perception: Baby Boomers and Generation Xers set the cultural agenda; and then he shows that for other reasons, this goes beyond perception: modern stars tend to take better care of themselves.<br /><br />LaSalle then moves on to his final, and most important reason:</div><div align="justify"></div><br /><div align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"</span>There's a refusal to get old</span> — <span style="font-size:130%;">to some degree it's <em>a refusal to become mature</em></span> — <span style="font-size:130%;">that's just part of our culture</span>. . . . <span style="font-size:130%;">Adulthood just isn't what it used to be</span>."</div><div align="justify"><br />"In fact, when I see movies like <em>Sherlock Holmes</em> or <em>The Losers</em>, I wonder if we're not lost in some Peter Pan nightmare, in which adult characters can behave like children and yet no one seems to notice. </div><div align="justify"><br />"Let's be fair to the past. Gardner may have been practically an old woman at 41. But in <em>The Killers</em>, at 23, she was more of an adult than most of our current actresses will ever be. Gable may have been an old fat guy at 47, but at 31, in <em>Red Dust</em> (1932), he was a man. Not a young man. A<em> man</em>. He was a year younger than Ashton Kutcher is today. </div><br /><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">"Kirsten Dunst is 28 — the same age as Greta Garbo in <em>Queen Christina</em> (1933) — and yet she's still an ingenue. At 32, Hilary Swank tried to act the femme fatale in <em>The Black Dahlia</em> (2006) but seemed like a girl playing dress-up. Meanwhile, Jane Greer — perhaps the sexiest, slinkiest and scariest film noir heroine of them all — was only 22 when she filmed <em>Out of the Past</em> (1947). And Jean Harlow was only 26 when she died. She was a woman from her first appearance onscreen. </div><div align="justify"><br />"Perhaps it takes a Depression or a World War II to put miles on people's spirits and make them seem older. By comparison, later boomers and Generation Xers have lived their lives in unchallenging times. I'm not complaining — that's a good thing — who needs calamity? Who needs to feel or act old a minute before it's necessary?<br /><br />"Yet I wonder: Maybe we're seeing in our buoyant, middle-aged stars <em>a representation of our own consciousness</em> — the unclouded consciousness of <em>a people who have evaded life's deepest and most meaningful lessons</em>.<br /><br /></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><p align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">"That would even be worse than aging, </span><span style="font-size:130%;">to go through life and miss the point."</span> </p></span>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-89115960610974537312010-05-22T09:04:00.004-05:002010-05-22T09:07:06.823-05:00<div align="justify">"You hear, O LORD, the desire of the afflicted; </div><div align="justify">You encourage them, and You listen to their cry,</div><div align="justify">defending the fatherless and the oppressed, </div><div align="justify">in order that man, who is of the earth, may terrify no more."</div><br /><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">-- Psalm 10:17-18.</div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-68827986951811007582010-05-03T10:25:00.025-05:002010-05-03T17:51:29.028-05:00the "s" word.<p align="center"><object width="400" height="220"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=7168434&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1"><br /><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=7168434&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="400" height="220"></embed></object></p><p align="center">(<a href="http://vimeo.com/7168434">Top 10 Facts About The "S" Word</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/freetheslaves">Free the Slaves</a> )</p><p align="justify"><div align="justify"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8jl4oEuQjSTRxw9lJB1JbwTM5h9s0DeBKsbm-j6UI1irO-nxOf5ULgk_S0_IO4SlxKoBeXvyOK5CazvSbkJhmpbafD_hrju5QtbCFDODC3R2wcxz3uh43WM3Yeocdrh-IRDxnWOKaEHbb/s1600/malehandwithbarcode.jpg"></a>Certain words have haunted me for weeks now, words that came from a magazine <a href="http://www.texasmonthly.com/preview/2010-04-01/feature3">article </a>I read over a month ago. To be honest, I don’t subscribe to the magazine, and when I went back this morning to grab the link, the article had been removed for those who aren’t paying readers. But I’m not here to promote the original work; if you can get past both my voice and the authors and let the content speak, you will be better off.<br /><br /></div><div align="justify">“Imagine you live in a country riven by war or poverty or both. There is no work. There is not enough food to feed your family or money for medicine when someone gets sick or injured. Education is nothing but a pipe dream. If you are a woman, your value is even more tenuous; you have probably been beaten or abused in some other way by a father, a husband, or an employer. You’re smart enough to understand that this life promises to be the only one you will get. It will last for another thirty or forty years, with no improvement. And that will be it.<br /><br />“Then one day someone says he can help you escape to the United States, where you can be free and make plenty of money for yourself while supporting your family back home. Well and good, but who has the money to get there? No problem – you can escape on the installment plan. All you (or your parents, if they are sealing the deal) have to do is sign a contract that promises to pay back the money you have borrowed by working for the agent’s connections in the U.S. at a restaurant or a factory. The going rate is about $30,000, which sounds like a lot of money, but in America everyone gets rich. And so you sign, ignoring a clause that says your family will be held responsible for your debt if you cannot pay it.<br /><br />“You get on a gigantic airplane – most likely you’ve never flown before – and land in a brand-new country where you cannot read the signs. If you have any identification documents at all, they are phony ones that you paid a fortune for back home, most likely adding to the debt you are already trying not to worry about. Someone picks you up and drives you away, and leaving the airport, you catch a glimpse of your future: teeming freeways, skyscrapers so tall they block out the sun, shopping malls that would dwarf your entire village. Your new ‘boss’ buys you lunch, and you cannot believe the size of the portions put in front of you. <em>All around you are people who want for nothing.</em><br /><br />“While you are in this state – dizzy, disoriented – your boss takes you to a place that isn’t a restaurant or a factory and tells you to unpack your few belongings in a dingy back room. He tells you that this is where you will work to pay off your debt. You will be a prostitute, he explains, and by the way, you will be charged for room and board while you are paying off that $30,000. When you protest, he beats you, starves you, or keeps you awake for days on end. Then, just to make himself clear, he holds up a picture of your son or your parents or your sister and tears it in half. Or maybe he just says, ‘We hear your father has a bad heart.'<br /><br />“At that point, your predicament becomes very clear. You do not speak or read the language. You do not have a cent to your name. You have no idea where you are in this vast country, and you have no way of finding out because no one lets you go anywhere alone. What do you do? Most likely, you do what you are told.” (<a href="http://www.texasmonthly.com/authors/mimiswartz.php">Mimi Swartz, </a><a href="http://www.texasmonthly.com/preview/2010-04-01/feature3">"The Lost Girls", </a><a href="http://www.texasmonthly.com/"><em>Texas Monthly)</em></a><br /></div><div align="justify"><br /></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify">It's Monday; I would imagine it's an ordinary one. You wake up wrapped in clean sheets in an air-conditioned bedroom within a perfectly cooled house. You turn off an alarm clock, click on overhead lights, and hop into a hot shower (where, I imagine, you hang out a little bit longer because it IS another Monday). You most likely saunter down a carpeted hallway and eat breakfast with the talking heads from CNN; maybe you're listening, maybe not. It’s not like the world issues they analyze will actually affect you this morning. (Possibly they will, but probably not.) I imagine you jump in your car and speed through the drive thru at Starbucks (settling for the smallest size drink because we are in a recession, you know), fully conscious of the inconvenience that parking and walking-in creates (not to mention the horrific traffic experience that occurs on the freeway with a 10-minutes-late-departure). You probably make an appearance at class or work (in the cute new shoes you bought over the weekend) and mention how the days off passed by so quickly. At this point, you probably remember that you are working your way to a better life, so you close Solitaire on the computer and work a little harder. I imagine you end your day and head to the gym (possibly, but probably not) and drive home and cook dinner and call a friend and check Facebook (from your iPhone while you cook dinner and talk to a friend) and study a little longer and curl up in your cozy bed and wake up to face Tuesday morning.<br /><br />This (for the most part) isn’t meant to be a guilt trip. (Geez, I just made myself feel guilty, and I know already that this post really does have a greater purpose!) I follow most of the above routine myself. I'm not even sure if I am capable of forming a coherent sentence without the smell of coffee (preferably Dunkin Donuts – yes, please) wafting into our study. Not to mention that my biggest complaint today has been a fever-driven headache: with a few steps and a few Tylenol, that pain will disappear. I’ve been able to sit at a desk surrounded by textbooks and type out essay after essay to the soundtrack of family members who want me to succeed. But back to that headache, if it was to get worse, I could always make a quick trip to see a doctor or visit a local emergency room with little effort. And then everything would be fine again, or so I’d imagine.<br /><br />The American dream…<br /><br />And we’re at ease. We’re safe. We’re free.<br /><br />Right? </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">"<em>All around you are people who want for nothing</em>."</span></div><div align="justify"><br />The article estimates that between <strong>14,500</strong> and <strong>17,500 people</strong> are trafficked into the country each year. 25 percent of all trafficking victims in the U.S. end up in Texas. Many sources claim Houston, my hometown, as the leading trafficking site in the U.S. because of its international airports and its central location with highways between Los Angeles and Miami and between the U.S. and Latin America.<br /><br />The land of the free…<br /><br />And my neighbors are suffering. They’re held captive. They’re put up for sale.<br /><br />At what point are we going to look past our pretty, “perfect” lives and take note of what is actually going on… 10 miles from our houses? 5 miles? 2 miles? I’m not against the suburban lifestyle; I’ve been out here all my life. But the apathy scares me. It’s insane to deny trafficking is happening or pretend there’s nothing we can do to stop it. If our brothers and sisters were the faces stamped with a price tag and sold online, would we sit still and hope for the best in their situations? Did you notice the average price in the video?<strong> $90.</strong> Can you believe it? We often spend more than that before noon. What if the <a href="http://sosayitsomehow.blogspot.com/search/label/nanny%20diaries">kids we babysit</a>, the ones whose lives are interwoven into ours, were kidnapped and traded for $90? Would we still do nothing?<br /><br />“According to ECPAT (End Child Prositution, Child Pornography and Trafficking of Children for Sexual Purposes), as many as <span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>100,000 U.S. Children</strong> are forcefully engaged</span> in prostitution or pornography each year. <span style="font-size:130%;">Approximately <strong>300,000 U.S. children</strong> are at-risk.</span>” (<a href="http://love146.org/">love146.org</a>)<br /><br />If anything has been learned from slavery in the past, it is that change does not appear overnight. Step 1 simply involves becoming aware. You have to know the problem in order to solve it.<br /><br />Step 1 complete.<br /><br />Before acting, before anything, we need to humble ourselves before our sovereign ruler and trust His will for our lives. He still reigns, and He still is the One we serve. (Isaiah 61)<br /><br />"Blessed is he whose help is the God of Jacob, whose hope is in the LORD his God, who made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them, who keeps faith forever; who executes justice for the oppressed.<br /><br /><em>The LORD sets the prisoners free</em>;<br /><br />the LORD opens the eyes of the blind.<br />The LORD lifts up those who are bowed down" (from Psalm 146)<br /><br />I’m hoping to slowly post what I learn as I work through stacks of research and wrap my mind around this problem. It’s an enormous issue. However, it can be solved. Did you catch what the video said? <strong><em>Twenty-five years</em>.</strong> </div><p align="justify"></p><p align="justify">Let freedom ring . . . . </p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-90513675357780820362010-05-03T08:51:00.003-05:002010-05-03T09:05:08.629-05:00episode 25 / episode 26 / episode 27A Poem for Caleb:<br /><p align="center"><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/S6ePRSzlWHg&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/S6ePRSzlWHg&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object></p>Senioritis:<br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/PkWpj0t20bQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/PkWpj0t20bQ&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object></p>The Future Decided:<br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/9wVT0lF806k&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/9wVT0lF806k&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object></p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-22493022810410416312010-04-03T12:54:00.008-05:002010-04-05T10:29:03.764-05:00reason #49.<p align="justify"><span style="font-size:130%;">“A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic – on the level with the man who says he is a poached egg – or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You can shut Him up for a fool, you can spit at Him and kill Him as a demon; or you can fall at His feet and call Him Lord and God. But let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about His being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.”<br />- C.S. Lewis, <i>Mere Christianity</i></span> </p><p>So, why did He suffer and die? </p><p><strong>Reason #49 … so that He would be crowned with glory and honor:<br /></strong>(The following is from John Piper's <i>The Passion of Jesus Christ </i>)<br /></p><p align="justify">“But we see...Jesus, crowned with glory and honor because of the suffering of death.” (Hebrews 2:9)</p><p align="justify">“And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every other name.” (Philippians 2:7-9)</p><p align="justify">“Worthy is the Lamb who was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing!” (Revelation 5:12) </p><p align="justify">“The night before he died, knowing what was coming, Jesus prayed, ‘Father, glorify me in your own presence with the glory that I had with you before the world existed’ (John 17:5). And so it came to pass: He was ‘crowned with glory and honor<i> because</i> of the suffering of death’ (Hebrews 2:9). His glory was the reward of his suffering. He was ‘obedient to the point of death…. <i>Therefore</i> God has highly exalted him’ (Philippians 2:8-9). Precisely <i>because</i> he was slain, the Lamb is ‘worthy… to receive… honor and glory’ (Revelation 5:12). The passion of Jesus Christ did not merely precede the crown; it was the price, and the crown was the prize. He died to have it. “Many people stumble at this point. They say, ‘How can this be loving? How can Jesus be motivated to give us joy if he is motivated to get his glory? Since when is vanity a virtue?’ That is a good question, and it has a wonderful biblical answer. </p><p align="justify">“The answer lies in learning what great love really is. Most of us have grown up thinking that being loved means being made much of. Our whole world seems to be built on this assumption. If I love you, I make much of you. I help you feel good about yourself. It is as though a sight of the self is the secret of joy. </p><p align="justify">“But we know better. Even before we come to the Bible, we know this is not so. Our happiest moments have not been self-saturated moments, but self-forgetful moments. There have been times when we stood beside the Grand Canyon, or at the foot of Mount Kilimanjaro, or viewed a stunning sunset over the Sahara, and for a fleeting moment felt the joy of sheer wonder. </p><p align="justify"><b>"This is what we were made for. </b></p><p align="justify">"Paradise will not be a hall of mirrors. It will be a display of majesty. <i>And it won’t be ours.</i> </p><p align="justify">“If this is true, and if Christ is the most majestic reality in the universe, then what must his love to us be? Surely not making much of us. That would not satisfy our souls. We were made for something much greater. If we are to be as happy as we can be, we must see and savor the most glorious person of all, Jesus Christ himself. This means that to love us, Jesus must seek the fullness of his glory and offer it to us for our enjoyment. That is why he prayed, the night before he died, ‘Father, I desire that they also, whom you have given me, may be with me where I am, to see my glory’ (John 17:24). <i>That was love. </i></p><p align="justify">"‘I will show them my glory.’ When Jesus died to regain the fullness of his glory, he died for our joy. Love is the labor – whatever the cost of helping people be enthralled with what will satisfy them most, namely, Jesus Christ. That is how Jesus loves.”</p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-12372169718080247822010-04-01T16:01:00.005-05:002010-04-01T16:07:44.675-05:00episode 22 / episode 23 / episode 24St. Patrick's Day:<br /><p align="center"><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/HhOsdLqTQFU&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/HhOsdLqTQFU&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object></p>A Look at Real Love with Richy Fisher:<br /><br /><p align="center"><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/juoxtDytQZw&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/juoxtDytQZw&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object></p>A Big Announcement:<br /><br /><p align="center"><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/zQwzSjT6cyI&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/zQwzSjT6cyI&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object></p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-70439030982964114882010-03-11T13:31:00.015-06:002010-03-11T14:02:37.238-06:00what did I tell ya? there's the whole world at your feet.<div align="justify">It’s been over a month since the last Nanny Diaries post. I apologize. In all honesty, it seems like every time I sit down to write an interruption alwa –<br /><br />“KAAAATIE, how much longer?”<br /><br /><em>29 minutes and 57 seconds</em>.<br /><br />“How long has it been?” <em>3 seconds</em>. “Are you sure?” <em>Would I lie to you</em>? “No.”<br /><br />– and I’ve been trying to keep a record of my adventures with my kids, so I could tell you some of our stories, our moments.</div><div align="justify"><br />“Wait, how old are you again?” <em>Eighteen</em>. “I thought when people turn eighteen they do bad things and get arrested and go to jail.” <em>What?! Where did you…. Hold up. C2, focus for me, okay</em>?” “Okay. “So, how much longer now?” <em>READ</em>.<br /><br />C2 squints at me and props his book up on the coffee table. The light from the ceiling fan hits the shiny surface of the page, and the outline of a highly uncommon, African snake bounces off the glass. I turn back around in my chair, close my eyes, count (5, 4, 3, 2). “Hey Katie?” <em>Hey, C2</em>?<br /><br />“How much longer?”<br /><br /><em>28 minutes and 11 seconds</em>.<br /><br />“No way.” He hops up and stands underneath the microwave. “Oh yeah. You’re right.” <em>Thank you.</em> He wanders from the stovetop to the sink to the pantry. <em>Hey mister, if you don’t sit down now, I’m adding time to the clock</em>. He skips back to his exotic reptiles.<br /><br />He sinks to his knees and presses his bare toes against the base of the couch. The cat waddles over and curls up on the pillow behind his head next to Pancho, C2’s favorite stuffed monkey. Behind the pillow rest two remote controls lying in perfect parallel lines, one product of the slightly OCD, after-school routine he’s established for himself.<br /><br />Over the last seven months, our time together has molded into a slightly predictable pattern: the bus drops off my kiddo clad in his Peyton Manning jersey at the same time everyday; he takes his shoes off and tosses a sock at my head; I interrogate him about school and miss-what’s-her-name from the back of the bus; he tosses the other sock at my head; and he wanders into the kitchen, back into the living room: “I like to watch TV in peace after a hard day of work.” <em>Okay, you’re EIGHT</em>.<br /><br />A few weeks ago, my kid wandered straight into the house: no frogs in hand, no stopping to attack zombies. He wandered in and smiled at me. (<em>Uh oh</em>.) The first sock landed on my shoulder but without the chatter which normally accompanies it. I began questioning C2 about life (think soft-core Jack Bauer), but he shook his head and didn’t respond. <em>What</em>? He began an elaborate combination of sign language and charades until I understood: he lost his voice. I followed him into the kitchen to check for fever and to find out if his throat hurt as well; he reached for a pad of paper and jotted down: “no, voice only.” He kicked off his (extra-quiet) half-hour-in-peace in the usual way: the wooden doors separating the kitchen and the living room closed, and my little mime bounced out of sight. As I pulled out homework, I listened to Candace yelling for her mom, and I heard my child as he jumped on the futon. (<em>That’s right, C2, I know what you do in there</em>.) As Phineas and Ferb said goodbye to the Lake Nose Monster, the wheels of C1’s bus wheeled to a stop. Like clockwork, the front door slammed shut, his backpack hit the floor, and the tennis-shoe-shuffle grew closer and closer to the shut wooden doors. (5, 4, 3, 2) “Wow, C2, why are you watching that?” C1 dived for the remote, and from behind closed doors, I mouthed “STOP, C1” at the exact moment as my voiceless C2 in the next room. Wait a minute. My textbook hit the kitchen bar, and the wooden doors flew back open. <em>Child, I thought you lost your voice?!</em> He grinned. “Oh, yeah.”<br /><br />Moment.<br /><br />“KATIE!” <em>Yes</em>? “Katie… you’re not reading.” <em>I know – I’m working on a story</em>. <em>C2, you’re not reading either</em>. “Yes, I am!” <em>If you’re talking, you’re not reading</em>. “Nuh-uh, I AM reading.”<em> If you want to keep talking, you can read aloud</em>. He considers this. “How much longer?”<br /><br /><em>12 minutes</em>. He turns the page.<br /><br />At the end of the last month, in the bathroom down the hall from the spot where he’s reading, C2 and I sat on top of the counter, cross-legged, staring at the mirror, waiting for nearly 45 minutes. C2 had his finger in his mouth, squeezing a little white tooth that dangled from his gums. After telling stories about how he was going to get a string and tie it to the door, he lowered his hand from his mouth and showed me a tight fist. His fingers opened gently, slowly, and his big brown eyes flashed from confusion to horror to utter glee. He called his mom and, later, ran to the door when his dad walked in: chin tipped toward the sky, tongue in the new hole, smile stretched as wide as his cheeks could manage.<br /><br />Moment.<br /><br /><em>C1, I can see you</em>. His floppy-haired-head pops up from behind the kitchen counter. <em>Go sit down</em>. “I didn’t ask!” <em>I know, kiddo. And guess what... you’re almost done</em>. He walks past the TV’s black screen and kneels down one last time.<br /><br />A week ago, he begged me to watch a fictional documentary he had seen the night before on Animal Planet. We curled up on the couch, and as the scenes became graphic, we started talking about aliens and space and heaven and Jesus. “I’m going to go into space and fly to the end of it to see what’s there. I want to fly to the very top.” <em>You’ll fly and fly, but God created billions of galaxies out there. He spoke and the stars and the planets and the world all lined up and were stretched way out there. He’s THAT powerful, and He still knows and cares about you and me. Cool, huh</em>? He looked up at me and out the window.<br /><br />Moment.<br /><br />“I CAN’T TAKE IT ANY LONGER!! I CANNOT TAKE IT. What does the clock say?” </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"><br /><em>3 minutes</em>.<br /><br />I don’t know. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be in this place, within THIS moment. However, I want each story captured and recorded, so I can look back and say: Look where we’ve come from. Look what my God has done. Look at how He’s worked HERE and set THIS thing up; look at how He’s changing us. Look at who He is. SEE IT. KNOW IT. It’s real. HE’s real. That one time, when we thought it couldn’t get worse, He was there; He was comforting. And then when we were giggling so hard we couldn’t stand, He was there; He rejoiced in our joy. He spoke that joy into existence. It’s HIS. And when it hurt, when the pain was so bad, He was there; He understood. He was with us: our rock, our comforter, our healer, our refuge, our God. And we’ve seen what He’s done, and we don’t know what’s to come… but He’ll be there again. And again. And again. And we’ll give Him all of our moments.<br /><br />“…. KATIE, what does it say?”<br /><br /><em>10 seconds</em>.<br /><br />Moment: when C1 tackled C2 and accidently tore off a scab from a previous injury. Moment: when C2 then commanded that I take a picture of the blood dripping down his leg to show his mom, so C1 would get in trouble. Moment: when Andy (the newly adopted, deaf, 3-legged kitten) stopped running for the dark corner under C2’s bed every time he approached and, instead, started falling asleep beside him. Moment: when C2 took the phone I handed him and screamed bloody murder for no apparent reason. . . . Moment: when C2 climbed the fence in his backyard and fell into the neighbor’s yard. Moment: when he started singing on the other side of the fence. Moment: when I wondered if it was really necessary to walk around and ring the neighbor’s doorbell to retrieve him. (Just kidding) Moment: when C1 completed his first science fair (and placed). Moment: when C2 wiggled his finger at me and whispered that, you know, he didn’t reeeally think it was important to show his dad the picture I took of him attacking C1. Moment: when we lost a neighbor kid in the house and found him 20 minutes later in a closet by himself. Moment: when C2 zoomed down the stairs with a tiny, wooden airplane in hand and then zoomed right out the door. Moment: when he looked over his shoulder to make sure I was behind him: “You should see what it does with a BIG gust of wind!” Moment: when he skipped ahead and turned around one more time to double check that I was watching before he let go. “Ready?”<br /><br />Only through Your wonderful, beautiful, scandalous grace, Lord, will I find the strength to trust You with the moments past, with the moments I’m in, with the moments to come. Let my every moment contain all moments, let each one be wrapped around Your will for my life, let all bring You glory. Jesus, I’m so ready.<br /><br />You are the One who holds my life and my kiddos. You are the One who sustains us. You are the One who created laughter, story, moments. You are.<br /><br /><em>5, 4, 3, 2, 1</em>.</div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-41806409420935250812010-03-11T07:39:00.005-06:002010-03-11T14:04:38.443-06:00episode 19 / episode 20 / episode 21A Talk Show with Derek:<br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><object width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/2dA3RG-w3pc&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/2dA3RG-w3pc&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="295"></embed></object></p><br />Personal Problems:<br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><object width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/aqw827kAUtY&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/aqw827kAUtY&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="295"></embed></object></p>Caleb Needs Your Help:<br /><p align="center"><object width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/BX6FL6RRD-c&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/BX6FL6RRD-c&hl=en_US&fs=1&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="295"></embed></object></p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-71481900147555043842010-02-21T16:55:00.004-06:002010-02-21T17:01:37.728-06:00episode 18: pirates(Check out <a href="http://www.facebook.com/#!/video/video.php?v=1373260572510&ref=mf">Episode 17: Old Skewl</a> on Caleb and John's <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/what-is-your-problem/121254351777?ref=ts">fanpage</a>.)<br /><br /><object width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/rOm4nrOftWg&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&hd=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/rOm4nrOftWg&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&hd=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="295"></embed></object>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-18673908175618076262010-02-17T08:23:00.005-06:002010-02-17T08:31:37.391-06:00surrender, surrender<div align="justify">"Father, I want to know Thee, but my cowardly heart fears to give up its toys. I cannot part with them without inward bleeding, and I do not try to hide from the the terror of the parting. I come trembling, but I do come. Please root from my heart all those things which I have cherished so long and which have become a very part of my living self, so that Thou mayest enter and dwell there without a rival. Then shalt Thou make the place of Thy feet glorious. Then shall my heart have no need of the sun to shine in it, for Thyself wilt be the light of it, and there shall be no night there. In Jesus' name. Amen."</div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"><br />- A.W. Tozer, <em>The Pursuit of God</em></div>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7776592364210693740.post-76108175760327717742010-01-30T08:47:00.001-06:002010-01-30T08:48:39.391-06:00episode 16: muzik<p align="center"><object width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/PLnXw2b8ENw&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/PLnXw2b8ENw&hl=en_US&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x006699&color2=0x54abd6&hd=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="295"></embed></object></p>Katiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11499050369168416410noreply@blogger.com0