English??

Yesterday I cut Big and Little P's hair and O-Dog kept asking asking asking if he could get a haircut too. I gave in (not knowing how to cut white boy hair) and the result was quite... white trash. Then this morning he put on a knock off Gerrard jersey (that I ironically got while in Africa) and I thought, 'AHA! He looks like an angry fan!

pointing the finger

"I will tell you just one case of suffering of a family that I know personally. A brother entered prison on account of his work in the Underground Church. He left behind a wife with six children. His older daughters of seventeen and nineteen could not get a job. The only one that gives jobs in a Communist country is the state, and it does not give jobs to children of "criminal" Christians. Please don't judge this story according to moral standards; just receive the facts. The two daughters of a Christian martyr - Christians themselves - became prostitutes to support their younger brothers and sick mother. Their younger brother became insane when he saw it and had to be put in an asylum. When years later the imprisoned father returned, his only prayer was, "God, take me to prison again. I cannot bear to see this." His prayer was answered and he was jailed again for the crime of having witnessed for Christ to children. His daughters were no longer prostitutes, as they received jobs by complying with the demands of the secret police - they became informers. As daughters of a Christian martyr, they are received with honor in every house. They listen and then they report everything they hear to the secret police. Don't just say that this is ugly and immoral - of course it is - but ask yourself if it is not also your sin that such tragedies occur, that such Christian families are left alone, and are not helped by you who are free."

-Tortured For Christ, Richard Wurmbrand, pg47

the woman at the well

background here

title schmitle

My two oldest nephews and I were playing a game last week that I often find myself continuing to play alone because I'm a dork like that.

Fill in the blank:

You know you live in the ghetto when ___________.

Some of the funnier answers given were:

• You know you live in the ghetto when there are more pit bulls than people.
• You know you live in the ghetto when you own more broken cars than working ones (and they're parked in your yard).
• You know you live in the ghetto when you aren't sure if that boom was an illegal firework or an illegal firearm.
• You know you live in the ghetto when lock downs are more common than fire drills at the local schools.
• You know you live in the ghetto when your son suggests that he paint a sign warning drug dealers that his mom will call the police if they keep dealing drugs here.
• You know you live in the ghetto when your dads truck gets tagged and you, recognizing the tag, go to school the next day and ask the tagger to apologize to your dad.
• You know you live in the ghetto when the sounds of spring are cars rattling from an overdose of bass rather than birds chirping.

Anyone else got a suggestion??



*After re-reading my disoriented and, admittedly, far too personal post, I want to make sure that no one misunderstood my relationship with my dad. The father and son that I spoke of had a rather unhealthy relationship - one that never evolved as the son grew older. The father treated his son like he was two and so the son acted like he was two (give or take a few years). I adore my dad, and don't question his adoration towards me. However, there is a part of me that wishes that I was nine again so that I could follow him around and take trips to the dump with him. With my brain I understand that this is bizarre and would lead to a really unhealthy Raquel. My dad always has been a really really important person to me, beyond him just being my dad. I hope that you read (phonetically as in red) the sentence as pertaining to the entire context, but if you didn't, then hear me when I say that I adore him and I adore our relationship.

I am SO deep

Last night I had a nightmare that Miss F got her hair wet while she was swimming and her braids came out.

Scary stuff.

Pray the Devil Back To Hell

Helplessly watching Liberia continue to experience unrest from afar, this is a good reminder that action is what shuts the mouths of those that gorge themselves on confusion.

I'm so sorry

I feel like I'm going to puke

I'm so sorry.. God please forgive me. Help me to forgive myself. I can't even type
I can't think straight.

I have a good friend who's Sikh. He and I hit it off instantly about three years ago. He's probably old enough to be my dad and he acts like my dad most of the time. Damn I feel tremendously stupid.

He watched us adopt and knows my heart well - this life that God gave me spoke to him. He's asked me so many questions about Jesus and I KNEW that his heart was ripe. With pride he told me about, and introduced me to his son and his wife. We're friends, right?

After I got back from Liberia, I've felt busy and consumed with stuff here. I stopped reaching out but my heart knew that I ought to. I excused it. I excused my not telling him more about Jesus because I didn't have the time. But God knows my true motive.

My husband just called me and our friends 17 year old son died. Stabbed to death at the park. I SHOULD have done so much more. This regret is something FIERCE. I should have done more. It was his only child and that man loved him. Crazy loved him in a way that made me wish I had the same relationship with my own dad.

Things could have been different.
Would have been different.
if only...



EDIT: please see note here

big whiner

I can't stand hearing other people whine. But since you and I haven't broached the conversation on whining yet, here goes... (plus you can't actually hear me so that weird noise isn't necessarily even a point to this one sided conversation.)

So yesterday we got a call from the neuro that Big P's med level in his blood stream is too high. Too high as in substantially over the limit for a child his age and build. So, that would leave the logical human being to assume that we ought to probably lower his dosage or change the medicine since he still seems to have breakthoughs. However, the nurse told me that the neuro wants to UP his morning dose. I politely offered my logical insight to the nurse who told me that she would call me back.

Which she did.
But the doc still insisted on increasing the dose.
Okeedokee. That sounds like a good idea? But, truthfully, I don't know jack about this whole deal and one would assume he's the expert so I submitted to his position (in theory, not in practice as of yet).
So then (like hours later) I was reading the Wall Street Journal (keep the nerd comments to yourselves) and the FDA is attempting to get Big P's medicine (along with 10 others) black labeled for users high tendency to COMMIT SUICIDE while taking the drug.

Now, as logical human beings, we would assume that our neuro would have informed me of that as being a possible side effect (regardless of the stupid label or not debate). Or the pharmacist, for that matter. You know how you get those print out thingies every time that you pick up a prescription? How about mentioning on there that you might find your kid dead one day so keep an eye out for depression (in the least?).

But that, my friends, I fear that would be far too logical.

An open letter to the ice cream man

Dear Ice Cream Man,

How do you make it through one day without repeatedly stabbing your eardrums with a popsicle stick? For sure, your patience far exceeds my own.

Much Respect,
Raquel
(You know, the lady with all the kids. You practically park in front of our house everyday... Remember me now?)