June 2008

Since we’ve moved we haven’t found a church. Of course a few of those Sundays were spent in the town we just moved from but the rest have been here. We took two Sundays off and the other two were at church.

The first church we went to is the Assembly of God church down the road. Not bad. It was Father’s Day Sunday so of course everything was different.

This Sunday we went to LifeChurch.tv. I loved it. I missed Praise and Worship because I was signing in one of my kiddos for Children’s Church (incidentally, I missed Praise and Worship at the other church also) but the message was awesome. God spoke to both myself and my husband and the people were friendly.

What was odd about it was the sermon was in video format. It was weird watching the pastor preach on tv instead of having a real live pastor in front of us. I was thinking of what a friend of mine had said, this format takes away preacher rock-style status. You know the kind, those that have to be around the pastor in order to feel good about themselves and brag about hanging out with the pastor and can’t see that the pastor is a person also.

I could see how that format would be helpful. I allowed myself about six months to get used to the idea before I could actually try it out. My husband on the other hand wasn’t as prepared as I was (although I did suggest he check out their website a week before we went…he didn’t). He was asking on the way home if it would always be in video. Um…yes, honey, it will. That’s the point. Then he brought up an interesting question…If the sermon is in video, then what’s the campus pastor’s job? What does he do? Hmm…I don’t know.

So. Does anyone know? Also, what are your thoughts on this new video format? Good, bad, or just plain different?

Let’s see…I met my goal. I lost weight…oops…no I didn’t. I gained 0.2 of a pound. I don’t really count that as weight gain so I’m happy with my progress.

Oh. By the way, that says 202.4. Not sure why it’s blurry but I’m tired and didn’t want to retake the picture.

Be sure to check out the other Ragamuffin Tops’s progress.

I have finally jumped on the bandwagon with Twitter.

Several of the blogs I read use Twitter and I’ve been a little curious about it. At first I thought it was ridiculous (as with anything that is new and out of the ordinary). I mean really, do I really need to post little sentences about what I’m doing? Come on.

Then I tried it. Oh. My. Gosh. I am hooked and it’s only been today that I signed up. Not only can I twitter from my computer but I’ve been twittering by text message. This is so much fun. I can post the little things that no one cares about yet there are people who will read it and follow along. Awesome!

Anyway, if you twitter or want to follow me throughout my day I’m at twitter.com/123pizza.

Also, you can now email me. Click on the Contact page and fill out the form.

I have just finished the best historical fiction book I have ever read. Incidentally, it would be The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory.

I read this because a) I have been wanting to read her for awhile, b) Best Friend bought the book so I had to have it also (petty, yes, I know), and c) I wanted to read the book before I watched the movie.

I thought it would be a quick, easy read. You know, a fluff book. Oh Boy! Was I wrong! I was wrong! I was wrong! (I may be petty but I can at least admit when I’m wrong.) Let me say it again…The Other Boleyn Girl is not a fluff read.

I enjoyed the writing so much that I had to look up the author, Philippa Gregory, and devour her website. I respect her use of the details to history without taking away from the story. I respect her work in women’s studies, which is an area of interest to me, and how it plays out in the book.

Philippa Gregory’s characters have strength and they have depth. When I was reading Mary I felt as though I were her. When I was reading about Anne I was Anne. For the time I was reading the book I was another Boleyn girl. When I wasn’t reading I was thinking about the book, the characters, and trying to find a way to pick it back up again to read.

I finally finished the book and was not disappointed. The book was captivating all the way up to the end. Now I have to get my hands on more of her books. I’ve been wanting to read The Virgin’s Lover so hopefully that will be next.

Thank you Philippa Gregory for sharing your love of history, women’s studies, and writing skills with us (especially me). Hey, I said I was petty.

I stayed with my grandparents a lot when I was growing up. They would watch my brother and I while my mom worked.

I remember raking leaves in the backyard. I remember running over to the park next door but most of all I remember playing in the sprinkler during the summer.

It was one of those sprinklers that start low on one side, sweep up in an arc, and then go down towards the other side, and back and forth. My brother and I would play for what seemed like hours jumping over the sprinkler or standing in the water’s path waiting to be sprayed with the water.

Sometimes we would wear our bathing suits but I think mostly we wore our clothes. Funny, I remember playing in the sprinkler, I remember Grandma and Grandpa sitting in their lawn chairs on the patio watching us, but I don’t remember what we wore while playing. I guess that wasn’t what was important. The important thing was we were having fun and making summertime memories although at that age we weren’t aware of the memories we were making.

When my eldest was younger, I would set up the sprinkler for him to play in. No go. He wanted no part of it. I would play in the sprinkler and show him what to do but he didn’t like it and wasn’t about to get in it. This happened every time I set it up so eventually I stopped.

When his younger brother was born and got a little older I tried it again. Nope. Little brother didn’t like water and eldest only wanted to play in Poppy and Grandma’s pool. I wasn’t going to take him to Poppy and Grandma’s so if he wanted to play in the water it would be this or nothing. He chose nothing every single time I set up the sprinkler. So much for passing down family traditions.

Now I have youngest and with it being summer I thought I would give it another shot. She loves it! She really loves it! I didn’t even have to show her what to do she just jumped right in and let the water spray over her. Even the boys are joining in on the fun.

I enjoy watching the kiddos playing in the sprinkler knowing that when I was their ages I had done the same thing. I even bought the same kind of sprinkler that I used to play in. I sit in my lawn chair just like my grandparents and watch my children play. I enjoy watching the smiles on their faces as they are racing the sprinkler or just standing there letting the water spray over them.

Summer is a time of fun and play so I want to know: what are some of your summertime family traditions?

It is time to play a Wild Card! Every now and then, a book that I have chosen to read is going to pop up as a FIRST Wild Card Tour. Get dealt into the game! (Just click the button!) Wild Card Tours feature an author and his/her book’s FIRST chapter!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

and her book:

Sydney Clair’s Season of Change

Authentic (March 1, 2008)

Pam Davis is an author and motivational speaker who views her charge as bringing the timeworn truths of Scripture to life. Pams candid teaching style not only enlightens but also entertains, leaving her audiences with a refreshed desire for the living Word of God. She lives with her husband, Steven, and three children in Fort Worth, Texas.

Visit her at her website.

Product Details:

Reading level: Ages 4-8
List Price: $7.99
Paperback: 80 pages
Publisher: Authentic (March 1, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1934068500
ISBN-13: 978-1934068502

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Chapter One

It’s going to be a bad day, Sydney Clair thought to herself. She snuggled deeper under the covers. Maybe if she stayed in bed all day, nothing would change. Her sister wouldn’t leave. She’d stay right here with the rest of the family, the way things had always been.

But she could already hear Penny moving about the room they shared, packing last-minute items and singing to herself. Sydney Clair pulled the pillow over her head.

It sounded like she was taking everything.

“Not the dancing clowns!” Sydney Clair removed the pillow when she heard the music box.

Penny smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m not taking the dancing clowns.”

Sydney Clair thought her sister was the prettiest girl ever. She blinked back tears, but Penny still saw them.

“I’m only a twenty-minute bus ride away, Clair-Bear. You can come visit anytime.”

Clair-Bear. It was a nickname her sister had given her when she was just a baby. She’d loved it when she was little.

Sydney wasn’t a very common name amongst her friends’ Susies, Vickys, and Lucys. Mother had named her Sydney in honor of her grandfather who passed away shortly before Sydney Clair was born. Now Sydney Clair appreciated the name more—and liked the uniqueness of it—but “Clair-Bear” still had a special place in her heart. Though, with Penny leaving, who would call her that now? And who would braid her hair for school? Who could she talk to about what was happening in her favorite book series? Who would walk down to the Dairy Queen with her for Dilly Bars?

Who would be her sister?

The family’s Plymouth station wagon meandered its way onto the University of Texas campus. Sydney Clair could tell Penny was practically bursting with excitement. She stared out the window, pointing to every statue and building on campus. “That’s Hogg Memorial Auditorium. That’s Austin Tower. You can see the whole campus from the top of it.”

Sydney Clair didn’t even pretend to be interested. But her dad slowed down the car and stretched to see the Tower. “Can you read the inscription?” he asked.

“And ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free,” quoted Penny. “Isn’t that a Bible verse?”

Mother nodded. “John 8:32, I believe.”

“Ding, ding, ding,” Mr. Wilcox chimed. “Your mother wins the prize.”

“And what might that prize be?” Mother asked teasingly.

“Uh . . . I’ll make dinner tonight,” Mr. Wilcox said.

“That means we’re having peanut butter and jelly,” Sydney Clair interjected from the back seat.

“Or corn chips and soda pop,” said her mother, laughing.

Mr. Wilcox pretended to pout. “You have no confidence at all in my cooking abilities.”

“I’m just remembering when you made me that birthday cake while we were dating.”

“Uh, oh. Don’t bring that up . . . ” Mr. Wilcox said.

“What was wrong with it, Mother?” Penny asked.

Mother turned her head to look at the girls. “He decided to frost it before he put it in the oven.” She began to laugh. “When he took it out, the whole top was charred black.”

“I didn’t know you were supposed to bake the cake first and then decorate it,” Dad said with a grin on his face. “And, bless her heart, your mother ate it anyway.”

“What you lacked in culinary skills, you more than made up for in charm,” Mother told him.

“I’m voting that Mother keeps her job of doing the cooking,” said Sydney Clair.

Sydney Clair tried to imagine her mother and dad before they were married. She knew they must have laughed a lot—because even now they were always joking about something.

Her dad pulled into a parking spot and shut off the engine in front of Penny’s dormitory.

“Here we are,” said Mr. Wilcox. “Bradshaw Hall.”

“Isn’t it beautiful?” said Penny.

“It’s very stately,” Mrs. Wilcox agreed, opening her car door.

All Sydney Clair saw was a boring brick building. She stepped out into the hot, dusty Austin summer, already feeling the start of sweat on her temples. Not only was her sister abandoning her to go to college, but she’d have to spend the next few hours carrying boxes up and down stairs.

“What’s going on over there?” Mrs. Wilcox asked. Sydney Clair looked in the direction she was pointing toward and saw a swarm of college students marching around in a circle waving signs. Some seemed to have relinquished themselves to the heat and sat lounging in small circles on the grass.

“They’re protesting bleached toilet paper,” said Penny. “Leah told me all about it. Companies whiten toilet paper with chemicals that can ruin our environment. It needs to be stopped.”

Leah was Penny’s best friend and an expert in everything.

“We should get started,” Mr. Wilcox said. He lifted a large box out of the back of the station wagon.

Sydney Clair kept watching the protesters. A young man, whose hair hung down to his waist and wore a colorful headband, seemed to be in charge. He shouted from the steps of a building, waving his sign high in the air. Like the others, he wore frayed blue jeans, and his feet were bare. “The land has taken good care of us—we need to take good care of it!”

The other protesters shouted back in agreement. “Right on, man!” “That’s right!” “Protect our planet!”

Sydney Clair’s dad broke into her thoughts. “If I’d have worn my hair like that, your grandmother would’ve never let me out of the house.”

Sydney Clair lost count of the number of times she climbed the three flights of stairs to Penny’s new room.

She still didn’t understand why Penny was so excited about college. The room they shared at home was twice the size of this one. She felt her eyes moisten thinking about sleeping in the room all by herself.

As Sydney Clair reached the third floor for the umpteenth time, Penny’s squealing voice caught her attention. “It’s so great to finally meet you!”

Sydney Clair turned into Penny’s dorm room and plopped down the avocado green beanbag she’d been carrying.
A red-haired girl. who wore a peasant blouse and a denim skirt, sat cross-legged on the bed next to her sister.

“Sydney Clair, this is Moonbeam,” Penny said. “My roommate.”

Sydney Clair quickly shoved aside the thought that she used to be Penny’s roommate. “Hi,” she mustered. She wondered what Moonbeam’s parents had named her brothers and sisters. Star? Planet? Galaxy? Were they astronomers?

“Peace,” Moonbeam said, holding up two fingers in a V-shape.

“What are your sisters and brothers named?” asked Sydney Clair.

“What kind of question is that?” Penny said.

“It’s cool,” said Moonbeam. “I have two brothers, named Jack and Harry.”

“Those names are pretty normal,” said Sydney Clair. “Why isn’t yours?”

Penny glared at her. “Sydney Clair!” she scolded.

“No sweat. Little Daisy here is curious,” said Moonbeam. “My parents named me Shirley. But I chose Moonbeam. It seemed to fit my personality better—y’know, who I really am. I shine in the midst of dark ideas.”

Penny nodded in agreement, but Sydney Clair thought it was just plain weird. Why was Moonbeam calling her Daisy? She liked the names Shirley and Sydney Clair better but thought it best not to say.

“You have to listen to this record,” Moonbeam was saying. “Have you heard of Jefferson Airplane?”

“No, but I really like the Beatles. And Peter, Paul, and Mary,” Penny said. Moonbeam nodded approvingly. “Their song ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’ is far-out.”

Sydney Clair noticed a guitar case in the corner. “Do you play the guitar?”

“I’m learning,” said Moonbeam. “Maybe someday it’ll be the group Peter, Paul, and Moonbeam.”

Sydney Clair didn’t think so, but she kept her mouth shut.

Another girl burst into the room. “Guess what, Moonbeam! We have a colored girl on the floor.”

Moonbeam quickly introduced Sydney Clair and Penny to Beth. “What room is she in?”

“Two doors down.”

“Didn’t the University of Texas open up to colored students several years ago?” asked Penny.

“Sure,” said Beth. “But this is my third year here, and I’ve never lived on the same floor as one before.”

Sydney Clair wondered what was taking her parents so long. She didn’t really like college life. But she knew she felt bad for the colored girl living two doors down. She hadn’t been exposed to a lot of colored people in her life. There weren’t any Negro families in her neighborhood. Only a handful of colored kids went to her school and they pretty much stuck to themselves.

“Well, I don’t have a problem with it,” stated Moonbeam.

“I do. And my mother certainly will when she finds out. She’s from Alabama, and things are different there,” said Beth. She started talking about some town named Birmingham and how the town residents set buses on fire that Freedom Riders were riding.

Sydney Clair wondered who Freedom Riders were. The whole thing sounded scary.

A knocking sound came from the hallway.

“Come in,” called Moonbeam.

A petite colored girl swung open the door. She wore a white blouse and plaid skirt. “Sorry to bother you. Can you tell me how to get to the library?”

Moonbeam started giving directions, but Sydney Clair noticed that Beth turned away and stared out the window.

Outside her car window, Sydney Clair watched the pink sunset fade into the Texas plain. It had been a long day, and she was tired.

“I hear some larger companies are coming into town. There will be some good-paying jobs opening up,” Mother was telling Dad.

Mother often talked about “larger corporations” these days, but Dad never seemed as interested. “And all those good-paying jobs will require a suit and tie,” he said.

“I think you’d look very handsome in a tie,” Mrs. Wilcox said.

Sydney Clair was still thinking about the university they’d
just left. The whole place seemed crazy and loud and chaotic.
Even as they’d pulled out of the parking lot, girls wearing flower wreaths in their hair waved signs saying, “Bring our GIs home!” She remembered the young man with the long hair. Yep . . . college was a far cry from the white picket fences of their quiet neighborhood, where walking to the Piggly Wiggly for candy was enough for excitement.

“Don’t you like the name Shirley better than Moonbeam?” she asked her parents.

Mr. Wilcox chuckled as he drove. “College students have their own way of doing things.”

“Especially in this day and age,” said Mrs. Wilcox. “I hope Penny does okay there.”

“She’ll be fine.” Mr. Wilcox patted his wife’s hand. “We’ve raised her well.”

“Do you think she’ll change?” Sydney Clair wondered aloud.

“In some ways,” her dad said. “She’s growing up. She’ll be learning new things, meeting new people.”

“I mean really change. Will she still be our Penny?”

“She’ll always be our Penny,” her mother said.

Sydney Clair was still missing her sister as she and her mother washed the dishes that evening. The sounds of The Dick Van Dyke Show wafted in from the next room where her dad sat in his easy chair with the newspaper. Her mother had made Sydney Clair’s favorite dinner—roast beef with mashed potatoes—but it hadn’t cheered her up much. She kept thinking of Penny at college.

“There’s only three of everything,” she said. “Three plates, three forks.” She handed her mother a sudsy glass to rinse. “Three glasses.”

“I guess things change,” Mrs. Wilcox said. “They’ll always change. Someday you’ll go off to college and move away from home.”

“Maybe I’ll just move into the playhouse,” said Sydney Clair. Her dad had built her a new playhouse over the summer. It was better than any playhouse she’d ever seen, and her friends Vicky and Ann had agreed. It had shutters that opened and closed, a little kitchen with a sink that held water, and even electricity for the light that hung over the table. Mrs. Wilcox often brought cookies or snacks to Sydney Clair and her friends, who regularly hosted tea parties from the playhouse. Inside the playhouse or out on the lawn in front—it didn’t matter. Mrs. Wilcox would often say, “You need to eat more than just tea and crumpets,” which were usually Kool-Aid and corn chips. But with Sydney Clair’s imagination, they were never just tea and crumpets. They were exotic concoctions from far off lands. Sydney Clair cherished her playhouse. Because it never changed, she thought.

Her mother chuckled. “Someday you’ll even outgrow the playhouse.”

Sydney Clair couldn’t imagine that.

Mr. Wilcox walked into the kitchen, carrying the newspaper. “Did you see this article, dear?” He handed Mrs. Wilcox the newspaper, and they started talking about some race riots that had taken place in California.

“Do you know there’s a colored girl that lives on Penny’s floor?” Sydney Clair said.

Mrs. Wilcox nodded. “Yes, and I hope your sister will make sure she feels welcome.”

“Knowing Penny, she’ll do just that,” said Mr. Wilcox. “Can I help you finish the dishes?”

“As always, your timing is perfect,” said Mother. “We just finished.”

“And I missed it,” Mr. Wilcox feigned disappointment.

“Someday we’ll have to get one of those new automatic dishwashers they have out now. We’d be done doing dishes in no time,” said Sydney Clair.

“I thought you were my automatic dishwasher, Sydney Clair.” Her mother smiled.

“I think she might need a tune-up,” Dad said. “She’s slowing down a little.”

“Maybe she needs some chocolate cake to get her going again,” Mother suggested.

Sydney Clair’s spirits lifted a bit. “We have chocolate cake for dessert?”

“We do,” Mrs. Wilcox said, her eyes twinkling. “And because I love you so much, I baked the cake before I frosted it.”

“Wow, what an interesting idea,” said Sydney Clair.

“I can tell when I’m being made fun of,” Mr. Wilcox said. “But I’m still sticking around for chocolate cake.”

Sydney Clair chewed on the end of her pencil while she stared at her calendar. Bo, the family’s golden retriever, brushed past Sydney Clair’s bare legs and curled up on a rug in the middle of the floor. Every day, Sydney Clair would write either “good day” or “bad day” to describe how the day had gone. All day, she’d planned that this would be a “bad day.” She mindlessly scratched behind Bo’s ears.

Boy, I’m really going to miss Penny,” she said. Penny’s bare bed, now stripped of its pink sheets, made the room look so empty.

Bo looked up at her with big brown eyes, as if he understood Sydney Clair’s sadness.

“At least I still have you to keep me company,” Sydney Clair told him.

Bo answered by putting his head on his paws.

Sydney Clair penciled “bad day” on the calendar. But then she thought about joking around with her parents, having chocolate cake, and talking to her mom about going shopping for school. I guess it wasn’t all bad, she thought. Sydney Clair jotted “mostly” in front of “bad day.”

“What do you think, Bo?” she asked.

The dog perked up and seemed to smile back in agreement.

I copy/pasted the entire post because I was afraid no one would actually click on a link and go there to read it. I read this article and since it gave me permission to post in on my blog I did.

People are hurting. Life is raw. Life isn’t always pretty. A friend of mine is publishing a story and I’m pretty sure it won’t make the Christian market because it’s not pretty. It is dark, raw, real. It shows us what we want to hide from.

Not too long ago I shared my story about wanting to die. I’ve also shared my depression. Now I want to share her pain with you. If I can somehow help someone by this post or any of the others I’ve posted then great. I’ve done what I need to do.

So here’s the post. Please take the time to read it and check out both of their blogs. Anne Jackson’s flowerdust.net and Lynse’s at lynseleanne.com

So here is what I wanted to share with everyone:

Addicted To Cutting and Self-Injury

Written by Anne Jackson on June 12, 2008 – 1:25 pm
my friend lynse wrote about such an incredibly personal struggle and beautiful redemption. personally, this is something i have no experience with, but i know with the amount of readers that pop by, maybe some of you have dealt with this or know someone who has.

lynse shares her journey about cutting. cutting (and other forms of self-injury) is defined as “a deliberate injury inflicted by a person upon their own body without suicidal intent.”

lynse gave me full permission to post the entire story, and i encourage you to visit her blog to encourage her and celebrate with her. also, i actually do ask that you repost her story…so many people suffer with this addiction in silence. i know lynse personally. i was honored to be in her wedding, and just from seeing her and getting to know her, i would never have guessed this was something she struggled with. chances are someone you know might be hurting themselves, too and you would never suspect a thing.

lynse writes:

To most the thought of harming yourself would be so outlandish that you would look at me like i was crazy if i told you that it makes sense to me.

I am choosing to write about this because there is such a need around this generation to bring light and truth to the fact that a lot of this generation is stuck in the rut of Self Injury. It is a painful place to be and takes a lot to get past. It is a dark place to get stuck. And as statistics are showing there are a lot of people stuck there.

So i want to share my story……

I started “cutting” when i was 13. I dont fully remember how i was introduced to it, but within a few days had taken root in my life. The pain that was so deep inside of me was killing me. i was allowing myself to die emotionally. It was a fight that i didnt want to take place but had no idea of how to stop it. It seemed meaningless to fight to keep them alive when i viewed them as the things that were causing me so much pain.

So my only solution to make sure that i was not dying totally was to hurt myself. To feel the pain on the outside assured me that i was still alive. That there was still hope. At least that it how it all started. It started out of my desire for hope. For some feeling to let me know that i was alive. That i could still feel something. That one day maybe i would feel again.

Soon it became an addiction. I had my way of doing it. I had my “ritual.” The when and how. within 2 months it had moved past the need for hope. My body and mind were addicted to the feeling. To the release that it gave me. My rage towards myself and other people had grown so much that i didnt know how to release it. And i thought this was a good way.

As time went on whether i had a bad day or not i had to cut. I had to do it each night before i went to bed. It calmed me enough to rest and go to sleep. (and about addiction, still to this day if i experience intense pain i get tired because my mind was trained to go to sleep after pain.)

I share this because i know that there are people who are in this rut. And honestly, it breaks my heart. because being on the other side of this “journey” for hope i have found that the only hope that there is is in Christ. I know, i sound super spiritual….but it is true.

The only way that i could figure that out was to get to the darkest part of my life. I was in such darkness. I had been cutting for 4 years and no one knew. I had a secret. And it was a dark dark place to be in. full of pain and the desire to get caught in hope that someone could help me. I was tired of the darkness. And the only solution i knew was to come clean. To get someone in my head and share the journey with.

This was key for me. To let someone in and know the pains and the hurts. I knew that if i let this remain in the darkness it would grow bigger and bigger. and the thing that once started in the search for hope was driving me further and further away from it.

The person i went to had no idea what to say. She often looked at me dumbfounded. the thought of doing that to herself was so absurd that she couldnt understand. But she listened. She was determined to help me in any ways she could, even though she didnt understand.

You cant wait until you understand to help someone. And this is what i see happening. So many people know people who self injure and are trying to learn why they do it. Each person has their story. And if you ask, i am sure they will share. It is a very dangerous thing to get into. You may not realize the roots that it can create in your life. But i would encourage you to share your story with someone.

But without sounding like a public service announcement, if you self injure or know someone who does please please please let someone in. Let someone into your darkness. It will hurt at first. It will be uncomfortable. It will be embarrassing. But if you live in the darkness alone your life will never change. Let someone in and bring the light into your pain.

Find your hope.

Want to know something funny? I’m the girl who started a weight loss program at church. The first session was great. I lost 10 pounds and was pumped. The second session…not so great. I decided part way through that I was in rebellion. I still held the meetings, did the weigh-in but let the others know that I was in rebellion and was going to eat whatever I wanted and wasn’t going to exercise.

I was tired. My husband was living two-three hours away and I was taking care of three children by myself. It was like this for six months until the kids and I were able to move here also. Yes, I was tired and I was in rebellion. I also gained back the ten pounds I had previously lost plus an additional twenty pounds. Not so good. Rebellion has consequences.

I am trying to get back on track. By living in the same house as my husband we are able to encourage each other again. (If I can only remember that he is trying to encourage me not criticize me.)

Measurable goal: Exercise three times a week for at least 30 minutes.

Yea! I did it! I met my goal again. I’m so excited. It hasn’t been easy with three kiddos underfoot and a husband who also wants to exercise. (I would think that would be easier but it isn’t. The last thing I want to do when hubby gets home is go exercise again or watch the kiddos while he goes. Selfish I know. I am a selfish person.)

Anyway, I met my goal and most days I actually exercised for longer than the required 30 minutes. I have been making small changes in my diet because if I change too much at once then I will fall off the wagon.

So let’s see…last week I weighed somewhere between 204.2 and 202.8 and this week I weigh…

Be sure to check out the other Ragamuffin Top’s progress.

About Joanna:

Joanna Weaver was voted the Most Promising New Writer of 1997 at the Mount Herman Writer’s Conference. She has authored Having a Mary Heart in a Martha World and written for publications such as Focus on the Family, Home Life, Aspire, and The Evangel. A pastor’s wife for more than eighteen years, she and her husband have counseled many couples, both those approaching their wedding and those struggling in marriage. The Weavers live in Montana and have taught young married classes and spoken on the topic of marriage throughout the northwestern United States.

About Having a Mary Heart in a Martha World:An invitation for every woman who’s ever felt she isn’t godly enough, isn’t loving enough, isn’t doing enough.

The life of a woman today isn’t really all that different from that of Mary and Martha in the
New Testament. Like Mary, you long to sit at the Lord’s feet…but the daily demands of a busy world just won’t leave you alone. Like Martha, you love Jesus and really want to serve him…yet you struggle with weariness, resentment, and feelings of inadequacy.

Then comes Jesus, into the midst of your busy life, to extend the same invitation he issued long ago to the two sisters from Bethany. Tenderly, he invites you to choose “the better part”–a joyful life of intimacy with him that flows naturally into loving service.

With her fresh approach to the familiar Bible story, Joanna Weaver shows how all of us–Marys and Marthas alike–can draw closer to our Lord: deepening our devotion, strengthening our service, and doing both with less stress and greater joy.

Joanna’s blog

Joanna’s website: www.joannaweaverbooks.com (Coming Soon)

Buy the book here

Blog tour schedule

My thoughts: When I saw I had an opportunity to review this book I thought it was a God send. You see, I’m a Martha and have never understood the story about Mary and Martha. Mary was wrong she should have been helping Martha so they could both sit at Jesus’ feet.

I’ve heard sermons and sermons on these two women and have read about them and still haven’t agreed with what I’ve heard or read. Martha wasn’t doing anything wrong and it wasn’t wrong of her to ask Jesus to have Mary help her. There were things to be done and Mary wasn’t helping.

That was my view until I read this book. This was the first time it clicked for me. Martha didn’t have to be doing all that she was doing. Martha could have been sitting at Jesus’ feet also but chose to go over and beyond the call of duty.

Honestly, my favorite chapter is Chapter 1. That’s when I had my “A-ha!” moment. It started to make sense and the rest of the book escalated from that pivotal moment.

We are living in a Martha world and unless we develop a Mary heart we will become frustrated, stressed, and unable to properly function. We need to learn how to set things aside so that we can sit at the feet of Jesus and allow him to speak to our heart.

Thank you Joanna for allowing me to review your book and be part of your blog tour.

Blessings to you all and may you have the peace of Mary in this Martha driven world.