The Elves in the Hood

I really should be cleaning or here's a novel thought...sleeping. It is afterall the wee hours. But, these little gear-turning elves in my brain will not quit working. Guess we know they're not with the Union.

Many of you (like I'm talking to a crowd here) know that I teach a teen girl's Bible study in one of the local projects here in Huntsville. It's been about six years now and I finally feel as though I've won the trust of most of my students, which trust me, is no small accomplishment. One even calls me her godmamma. They are the reason I can't shake the elves tonight.

They live hard lives in broken-down homes, daughters of disfunction. Most of the fathers are gone. They want to do what is right, but they have so few examples to live by. Sometimes I feel like they are broken cisterns and every week I come with Living Water. I pour the water into the cisterns, but because of the cracks and fisures the precious water leaks out and, by the next Sunday, they are completely dry again as though water had never passed through them. It is frustrating to the point of clothes rending or hair uprooting. But, I love them as Jesus loved the woman at the well.

Right now, two of my girls are pregnant. Both due in February. One is 17. The other is 12. No that was not a typo. She is actually the second 12-year-old students I have had who has found herself pregnant. I can understand the 17-year-old, at least a little bit. So far, her boyfriend has stuck by her. She is a realist. She knows babies are hard, wake-you-up in the middle of the night, keep-you-from-having-fun work. I wouldn't say she's ready. What first mom is? But, she's got a good head on her shoulders and she'll do all right. The 12-year-old. Well, she's 12. And that, in the strange economy of the inner city, makes all the difference. Her mother plans to raise the child as though it were her own, while pretending that the baby is her daughter's sister. It's certainly not the best scenario. I would prefer that she place the child for adoption. But, it's not about what I prefer.

This all brings me back to the elves and the endless acrobatics my mind does to try to get to the bottom of it all. Why do the father's leave, act like they were a million miles a way when the deed was done? Why do the women allow themselves to be treated in such a base, inhumane manner? Why is poverty acceptable? Why do they pass around their babies like they're blue jeans? Why isn't education the great bridge out of poverty like it was for me?

I'm no anthropolgist (though I wish I was), but I've been conducting my own little anthroplogical study these last few years, filing away little bits of information here and there hoping for a break through. I've read that some theorize that the prevelance of male infedility in some black communities can be traced back to the days of slavery, when a married slave could be sold to a plantation 100 miles away from his family. He might never see his wife again, and so would be left with no choice but to be unfaithful to the first and take on another. Well, that may be so. But let's be honest. That happened 150 plus years ago. And unless you believe in some sort of Clan of the Cave Bear race memory garbage, it's just not okay to right off the generation-destroying behavior of a large segment of society because of the mindless mistakes of men who have been dead for five generations. Others would say that the tendency to sample several women at once goes back much further to their ancestors' African, tribal days when poligamy was a symbol of status and prestige. And again, I say, rubbish. Do descendents of slave owners seek to preserve the tradition of soul-owning today? Do the great-grandchildren of the Nazis have a right to unfurl the Swastika and shreak, "White Pwer!" How about the many tribes of Papau New Guinea who were totally into canibalism? Would you excuse them for trying to barbecue your mother because it's a tradition they've known for generations?

No! You'd say cut the evil thread. Be gone with it. Bury it in the deepest pit in the deepest cave in the deepest ocean. Look to the Truth that fills the pages of the Bible and start your new life there. Do not use what some mindless master did to your great-great-great grandaddy ruin you and those around you. Do not use culture, or tribal traditions that fly in the face of God's commands as a crutch. I cannot tell you what a difference it would make if just five men in the community where I work would bend their proud knees before our merciful God. Their example would shine like the chrome on the tripped-out, lime-green 1976 Chevy Impala I saw crusing through the neighborhood the other night. Lives would be forever transformed. Souls saved. Girls valued. Cisterns mended. Elves silenced. Oh..that it would be so. Father hear my prayer.

Turning into Grandma

I figured if I waited long enough to post, the fall background on my blog would once again be in season. And so it is, almost fall...and I haven't posted since, ugh...March? What is wrong with me? Oh, I know. For the last five months or so I've been totally void of inspiration and since I'm really weird about my writing, I just didn't want to post a useless, "this is what's going on in Sarah's mundanley busy life." But, the guilt is crushing. I just hear the word "blog" and a choir of accusing voices assemble in my head, crying out in one shrill voice, "why haven't you blogge d lately? What's the matter with you? Don't you have anything to say to the world?

Well, yes. I have lots to say and that's the lion share of the problem. So much to say, so little time to make sure what I say is actually backed up by facts and is semi-coherent.

But the voices must be silenced so I can go to bed. And if I have to write out my schedule for tomorrow, by golly that's what's going to end up in the blogosphere.

Maybe a little update on my life wouldn't be so awful? Everyday, I feel as though I becoming more and more like my Grandmother. All-in-all that's a good thing. My Grandma Virginia was my favorite person in the whole world while I was growing up. She wasn't like today's Grandma's with their trendy haircuts and boot cut jeans. No, my Grandma was of the blue-haired breed. She didn't really have blue hair, but she did have it set every week at the local beauty shop and never washed it on her own. At night, she protected her unchanging, perfectly rounded curls with a silky-pinky cap she called a Babushka. Like her hair, the cap never changed. That was probably why I loved her so much. She was imovable, predictable--the exact opposite of life with my mom. But, that's another story. Let's stick with grandmothers. Polyester was miracle material according to my grandmother, an expert washer-woman who favored anything you could spray down with Stain Guard. Virtually indestructable and completely unbreathable, designed in the zootiest patterns imaginable, my grandmother's entire wardrobe contained a hefty dose of the stuff. And I promise you that the same pair of pants she wore to my Baptism, she was still wearing the year I graduated from high school. Unchanging, I tell you. And we loved her for it.

Grandma was also really frugal. I say frugal and not cheap because she was generous with her church and family, which tells me that she wasn't at all cheap, she just knew the value of a dollar. Something that I'm sure was forged in her as a young girl growing up in the Great Depression and a quality completely missing in today's generation. She could find 101 uses for a used cottage cheese containter and heaven forbid you ever throw out a pair of snagged panty hose in her presence. You might as well be throwing away a rosary! She was also a voracious coupon clipper. And heaven help the clerk who argued with Grandma over an expiration date or product description. They might as well get out the white flag, because she wasn't backing down. Which, finally brings me back to this feeling that I am turning into my Grandmother. No, I haven't quit washing my hair or started dumpster diving for used panty hose, but I have been clipping coupons. I know, my "dork factor" just increaded a thousand percent. But, it's actually theraputic. Just knowing that I'm doing something tangible to help save our family money makes me feel a little more like that impossibly perfect chick in the Proverbs. Afterall, I have no idea how to make coverings for my family and I wouldn't know the first place to look for wool and flax.

The best news in the world

Today, when I woke up, it felt like any other day. The alarm clock blared, the baby fussed, Cameron jumped into bed stealing my covers, and my bladder insisted I get out of bed or else...Just another normal day.

Until, I sat down to check my morning email. I gasped. There was an email from Bob.

I've not written much about my trip to the Far East. I suppose, I didn't know where to start. There were so many memories, details, lessons learned, emotions. But, with the arrival of Bob's email and the precious news contained within it, I guess it's time.

After 30 hours of mind-numbing travel, we had finally arrived at our destination--an airport of sorts on the outskirts of one of China's greatest industrial cities. Our mission was subtle. Make friends, build relationships, and then, share the gospel. I was a bit leary at first. How do you just drop into a country, that speaks a language of which I nor my teammates knew nothing, and buddy up? It was actually much easier than I would have ever imagined. We had two things working for us--we were American and we spoke English. Everybody, it turns out, in this buzzing city of dark-haired humanity, wants to know more about life in America and how to correctly pronounce their "v's".

Within two days of simply standing in the stairwells of the 30,000-student University and a few nerve-racking speaking engangements in packed-out classrooms, we had friends aplenty. People wanted us to name them American names. I exhausted all my favorite names and had to revert to doling out the names of aunts, uncles, and grandparents. Some asked us to name their siblings too. Some who had chosen odd names like Tree and WalMart we felt obligated to rename. As the days slipped by, a few friends began to nuzzle their way into our hearts. We spent hours half speaking, half signing with them in the parks, all of which reminded me of Gorky Park, in the amazing restaurants where eight people could eat well for $18, on the steps of their ancient temples, and in the streets as we walked from shop to shop.

At the end of the day, Kristie and I would retire to our efficient, little hotel rooms to wipe away the sand swept into our nostrils and ears by the ever-approaching Gobi desert. We would talk like school girls about the people we had met and how God was working in this person or that person. We were amazed by the "openess" and "eagerness" of those we encountered and we hoped that they would have ears to hear and that the Spirt of God would shape our words into arrows that pierced through the language barrier and into hearts. Everyday we awoke to a new adventure and the annoying clanging of the local junk collector beating on a garbage can lid.

There is so much more to tell. But, I better bring things back to Bob or I'll never quit. I met Bob about four days before we were scheduled to leave. His friend, a medical student, introduced us in the massive three-level cafeteria at the University. Over fried bean curd, we talked about America and my boys. Of his family and his grueling studies which only allowed for a few hours of sleep each night. He was from the south, near Shanghai. He asked my why I had come all the way from America to such a far-flung city. I told him I had brought good news with me, of a Kingdom without end, and a Savior who loved him so much He died for him. He responded that this Jesus of which I spoke was not for Easterners, only Westerners. I assured him nothing was further from the truth and reminded him that Jesus was born in Bethleham, in the Middle East, or better said--the middle of the world, where east and west meet. This made him exceedingly happy as did the entire gospel.

From that point on, we spent as much time together as his studies would allow. I came to see him as my little brother. Like so many in China, he was an only child. A sister is something he had always longed for and I was glad to step in, even if it was just temporary. As the days passed, he began to share more of his personal life. On our last day together, he shyly leaned across the table and whispered in my ear, "Did you know I like boys?" Yes, I knew but my heart sank all the same. I was glad he felt who could share his darkest struggle with me. But, I knew this would be a great stumbling block for him. The words of Jesus flashed through my mind, "If anyone wishes to come after Me, he must deny himself, take up his cross daily and follow Me." Would he be willing to crucify that sin, his most beloved on the cross? Or would he be like the rich young ruler and go away from the Source of Life grieving because the cost was just too high to count?

Our last day pounced on me like a lion. Where had ten days gone? How could I possibly leave this place and the people I had come to love? What would happen to Bob? We spent our final day picnicing with a legion of friends--30 or more. As we walked to our destination, another Gorky Park, we picked up food from the outdoor markets that lined the streets. In keeping with Chinese tradition we would buy enough to share and in that way, have a potluck of sorts once we got there. Some brought their insturments. They wanted to sing Christmas songs and Aaron, a North Korean, began to play Oh Susanna on his clarinet. It was all very sureal and I almost started crying right then and there. "Oh Sussana, don't you cry for me, I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee." How did this boy, who grew up under the iron gaze of Communism learn Oh Susanna or Silent Night, for that matter? We sang along and then, slowly dispersed, exchanging hugs, emails, and promises to keep in touch. But a few special ones remained. Those who had been with us from the beginning. Saying good-bye to them would be much harder. They wanted to see us off at the train station, but our host family said it would only make it harder.

Already, I was a ship wreck and I still hadn't said my good-byes to Bob, who had to be in class during our going-away picnic. We would eat one last dinner together. Our waitress insisted that we hadn't ordered enough vegetables and wouldn't turn our order into the chef until we did. But even that, didn't make me laugh. I don't remember much about what was said that night. Instead I was keenly aware that time was slipping by and that I may never see my precious friends again. What would happen to Bob when I was gone. Would he keep reading the Chinese Bible I gave him, would he go to church like I told him to? Or would he be one of those seeds Jesus spoke of, choked away by the cares and riches of the world or burned by the scorching sun?

I cried big, wet, snot-inducing tears as we drove away. Kristie assured me, "Bob is in good hands." I wasn't ready to let go, but really I didn't have much of a choice. After-all, I did have a family at home who I loved dearly and needed me. And besides, Kristie was right. The Chinese church survived beautifully during the Cultural Revolution, without a single outsider. God didn't need me. He could have reached Bob in a million different ways, but He loved me so much that He allowed me to be part of His plan. I was, for a moment, his sacred vessel through which He poured out life-giving water to a thirsty soul.

Read on just a few more moments to see where we are in the story. I'd say it has a happy ending, but it's not an ending at all. It's really just the beginning...



Hi Sarah:
I’m with great happiness to write to you here--Harbin of China and I hope you can read this overdue letter. I have been longing for hearing from you, yet I didn’t try to connect with you about which I feel ashamed and I wish that it can offset our long time isolation.
It happened just like yesterday that we met in a party-like forum and become ocean spanning friends. What impressed me profoundly is not only your kindness face and warm heart but also your sayings about our great Father and the precious Holy Bible which you give me. It is you, Sarah, who grow the field in my heart with the great seed of God’s life. I really appreciate that a lot.
A great piece of news which I can’t wait to tell you is that I believe in God at last. In fact, I accept God as my Father in the end of last year when two very nice aunty send me the gospel and make me touched.
Things taken place afterward are plentiful and wonderful. I take part in meetings regularly with a great many siblings, all of whom are God’s offspring. Communication is momentous and I have been experiencing a lot in Father’s family. I began to introduce our Father to others who are still living in Satan’s world. Reading the Book of Books makes my holy life stronger and I believe that it sure will be strong enough to overcome Satan and live in God’s kingdom at last.
Sarah, I miss you and your lovely boys very much. Praying for all your families every single second and looking forward to your writing back soon!

P.S A few of my recent pictures and more later. Bob

Laundry Day at Grandma's

I think, if it were not for guilt, I would never get anything done. Like say...updating my blog. I have my gradmother to thank for the guilt complex. She was a master at it and wielded vast and well-planned guilt trips on even the youngest members of her family.

Speaking of Grandma. I've been thinking a lot about her lately especially since I'm about to finish up this year's writing class by having my students write their family history, or at least parts of it. Not wanting to be left out, I thought I would blog about one of my most vivid childhood memories. It involved Grandma and laundry.

Mondays were always the same at Grandma's house. That was one of the things I loved most about Grandma Ginny. She was as predicitable as the ten o'clock news. And Mondays, for time immemorable, had been laundry days at the white-sided house on the hill where Grandma, Grandpa, and their two youngest boys lived.

The morning started early, around sunrise give or take a few minutes. She would let me sleep until Sound Off aired on the AM station that constantly blared from behind a pile of empty cottage cheese containers in her cluttered kitchen. When I heard Gordy, the host of Sound Off, come on the radio I knew it was time to wake up. After downing a bowl of Total doused in sugar to make the cardboard flakes tolerable, we would go from room to room gathering up wayward socks, grass-stained baseball pants, Grandpa's sweaty old thread-bare undershirts, Grandma's polyester work pants, and countless pairs of underwear into an old wicker basket so frayed I was sure it would fall apart if she added one more dirty item to the pile. But, like the sandals that didn't wear out for forty years while the Israelites roamed the desert, that laundry basket endured throughout my entire childhood. If she had another laundry basket, I never saw it. It was, in my mind, almost miraculous.

After the laundry basket was full, we would trudge down the perilous, open-backed wooden stairs that led to the basement--an odd mix that included a well-worn pool table, my uncle's extensive beer can collection, a working fruit cellar, a toilet that I was terrified to use because it stood in the corner completely exposed to the rest of the basement, my Grandfather's tool room, and in the middle of it all sat three enormous, white enamel wash basins. Of course, she had an automatic washer and dryer, but they usually sat neglected in the shadow of the great enamel tubs. Grandma insisted they didn't get the laundry clean and avoided the new-fangled contraptions at all cost.

She would start by taking the hose from the wall and filling up the first tub. I would stare into the pooling water, anxious for the first tub to fill. Sometimes, Grandma would trust me to move the hose to the next tub. I hoped that today would be one of those times. As the water approached the ancient water line inscribed around the tub, I would timidly ask, "Grandma, I'll be careful can I move the hose?" With a nod, she would answer and I would carefully slip the hose from one basin to the other taking care to spill as little water as possible. Waste was a mortal sin in my Grandmother's eyes.

Once all three tubs were full, Grandma would pull the worn Ohio Wash Company washing board out from behind the first basin where she always kept it. To the untrained eye, Grandma's basement was an out right mess, but she knew where everything was down to the last tack. Then she would walk across the room and pull her secret weapon off the shelf--a candy box filled with homemade soap. With her cracked, red hands she would break off a chunk of the honey-colored soap and return the box to the shelf. The chunk was no bigger than a strawberry. Surely, I thought, that little bit wouldn't clean all of the dirty clothes moldering in the laundry basket.

First, Grandma would dump the entire basket of laundry into the soak tub. In my five year-old-mind, it seemed unseemly how Grandma's enormous brazziers and Grandpa's stretchy, old underwear would mingle together in the murky water. With a determined glint in her hazel eyes, Grandma would reach down for the first offender--one of Grandpa's greasy old undershirts-- yank it up with a snap, and slap it onto the rusted washboard. Then she would call for me to come hold the board, my least favorite part because it shimmed and moved so that I had trouble keeping it in one place. My Grandma would clutch the soap in one hand and plunge the garment deep into the water with the other. After she was satisfied that she had drowned a satisfactory number of germs, she would slide the shirt onto the board where it would get the real treatment. Methodically, almost angrily, she would slide that shirt up and down the ridges of the board paying special attention to the yellow sweat stains under the armpits. Her soap didn't lather much, but it was powerful. After about three minutes of intense scrubbing, slapping, sloshing, and examining, she would fling the shirt into the rinse basin and set her determined eye on the next victim in the soak tub. All morning long this went on, until it was time to wring out the laundry or if you are German like Grandma was, it sounded more like "wrenching."

This was the highlight of laundry day for me for I was the one who would stand on the other side of the wringer--two moving rollers that squeezed every last drop of moisture out of the clothes--and catch the flattened garments and place them into the wicker laundry basket. I must have been ten years old before I figured out that no one actually had to be standing there to catch the laundry--that gravity would have done its work just fine without me. None-the-less, I spent five years of grandious bliss, catching laundry and lovingly setting the distorted pieces into the miraculously resiliant laundry basket.

It was time now, to lug the basket outside and hang everything to dry on the clothesline. But, that's a story all of its own.

Conference Notes: Repentance

Here we go again. I have background issues--I can't seem to remember how to change mine! So, leaves it is, probably until next fall when they'll be appropriate again. Why does this stuff have to be so complicated? Two posts in a day may seem a bit ambitious, but the last one was really for fun and this one is more of a compilation of other people's ideas. People, far smarter and theologically-inclined than me. The rest of the post comes from the preaching at the True Church Conference, which took place last weekend at Grace Life Church in Muscle Shoals, AL. Speakers included, my most favorite, rock-the-pulpit preacher of all time, Voddie Baucham, Jeff Noblit, the African Spurgeon Conrad Mbewe, David Miller, Irish-fireball John O. Sims and the slightly scary Paul Washer. Being the obsessive compulsive note-taker that I am, I am pretty sure that these highlights are accurate and rightly interpreted. The overall theme of the conference was genuine, God-wrought repentance. We'll start with Voddie, who spoke of brokeness. Brokeness, he said, is the appropriate response to sin because sin stains and scars. Throughout his message, he referred to Psalm 51--David's time of brokeness and restoration after his sin with Bathsheba. Although the whole message rocked, the main thing I gleened from it is that sin creates memories that stay with us, which is actually a good thing. We are not created to forget our sin, as many in Christendom would like us to believe. He likens forgetting our sin to someone who has forgotten that fire is hot. He et such a thing would go around burnt to a crisp. He gives three reasons for remembering our sin. One, if we forgot our sins we could never testify to the grace and mercy that God showed us when he forgave that sin. Two, we wouldn't have a warning system to remind us not to do that particular sin again and finally, we'd have no way to rejoice in our victories because we wouldn't have any idea what we were rejoicing about. It is important to note at this point, that we shouldn't dwell on our past sins either. There is a tremendous difference between letting the past rule your life and letting it guide you and encourage you when temptation arises. He also got all bent out of shape at the way some in the Evangelical church portray Jesus today, and rightly so. He castigated the Shack, and what he called "the sissified, needy Jesus" painted by preachers at the pulpit, so-called Christian authors, and contemporary Christian musicians. Instead, he said he preferred the Jesus described in Revelation 19:11-16 who rides on a white horse to judge and wage war. On his head are many diadems, out of His mouth He wields a sharp sword so as to strike down the nations, and He treads the wine press of the fierce wrath of God. On Him is written a name no one knows except Himself and on His robe and thigh is tattoed: KING OF KINGS AND LORD OF LORDS. Quite a contrast between the squishy, wishy won't you please be my friend Jesus and the One who promises to return some day soon to take His children home and then tread the winenpress of God's fierce wrath. Somebody's theology is messed up. Care to guess whose side I'm taking? He went on to explain that brokeness is the right response to sin because of it what it cost Him. "How could God crush His own son on the cross and let you slide? It's UNTHINKABLE." Many years ago as a young believer I struggled to accept that there was only one way to God, or at least I questioned its fairness. But, after realizing that God killed his only Son, so that miserable sinners like me could not only be redeemed, but also be adopted as a daugther into God's family, it seemed perfectly reasonable. It's His world, His sacrafice, His offer--to question Him or worse, to have the audacity to say you don't like His way is foolishness. He also pointed out that if we are not broken over our sin, it hinders true God-worship. Anything short of brokeness is akin to the Israelites in Isaiah who burdened the Lord with their vain offerings and displays of iniquity in His solemn assembly. And possibly my favorite jewel: "Without brokeness all we have is an apeasement of the tyranical old man" (or old woman depending on your gender). Mine is such a wretched nag and I will be so glad to be rid of her one day. Okay, this took a lot longer than I thought, so I will add more when I can grab a few of those elusive moments.

SNOW!

Sometimes you gotta love the South. Sometime during the wee hours, a light dusting of snow fell upon our city. As we awoke, news of accidents and cancellation blared on the radio. From the sound of it, a blizzard of Siberian proportion had descended. Church was cancelled. If people could make it to Kroger, I'm sure they'd find all the milk and bread had disappeared. The children woke up in a state of glee, quickly throwing on a mis-match of gloves, hats, and the warmest shoes they could find. The saucer sleds we had pilfered from family in Iowa, were pulled off the highest shelves and they were off to play in a half of inch of snow.

They scraped the snow off of the patio furniture and pool lining, anywhere it could be found, and wadded it up into snowballs. After they literally scraped our yard clean, they ran to the neighbors for a fresh supply. I thought, with pity, my poor ones, they are so happy with so little, at least in the snow department. They listen in rapt attention as I tell them of my childhood when we would burrow tunels through snow drifts, make snowmen six feet high, and play king of the mountain for hours on snow hills pushed into place by mighty snow plows.

The sun has melted our morning fun. We thank God for the dusting and a day off from the busy-ness of life.

Crazy Obedience

So, I've pretty much lost my mind. Ha! you say. She lost it long ago. That may be so, but this time it's really gone. Read on....

About a week ago I received an email from my childhood friend, Holly. We've known eachother for three decades and in a lot of ways I feel like we're sisters. She's not a spiritual sister yet, but I'm waiting for that beautiful day. In the email, she shared that her oldest daughter was about to fail the 7th grade and was quickly slipping into complete rebellion. I've known this for a while. I can see it when they come stay with us during the summer. Holly is a single mom trying to hold her family together while she works three jobs. She is flawed, but she loves her girls. What options does she have? Private school? Sorry, no vouchers for her or the tens of thousands of other parents in this country who need options. Homeschool? When would she work? Girl's Town? If there's such a thing, I think you have to be really bad before they'll put you there.

After a few more email exchanges, an unwelcome thought began to form in that witless brain of mine. You say you love her. Would that be the agape version of love, the one we're called to have in Galatians 5:22 and I Corinthians, among other verses? The kind, as I just taught in my girls Bible study two weeks ago, that gives without expecting anything in return, the kind that looks out for other's needs above my own, the kind that makes you do things you would never do in your right mind? Ugh...I hate it when God throws my Bible studies back in my face, as if to say, "you talked it up now can you walk it?"

Well, I thought, searching for an excuse to say no, I'll pray about it. Give it a little time and He'll let it go. And if all else fails, I'll ask Joe. He'll put his foot down and that will be the end of it. Afterall, I have to submit. But, wouldn't you know it. God just would not stop harassing me about the whole thing so I had to revert to Plan B and bring it up to Joe. And you know what he said, "I think that might be a good idea." Gasp...what? You're not going to say, "no way! Are you crazy woman? Don't you already have enough to do?" No, there was none of that. All my manipulative tricks came to naught.

So, here I am staring at the very real possibility of bringing a rebellious, foul-mouthed, angry little girl into my home. I think that the whole thing is crazy. I don't do girls. They whine a lot and use up all the hot water. I have managed to run a Hannah Montana, Ambercrombie & Fitch-free home for 12 years now. What will come of us?

What always comes from obedience: suffering, trials, hope, joy, perseverence, growth, life....Here we go. Stay tuned.