The Toddler and the Allium: A Parable

Well, we're already gearing up for our third week of school...

I don't know where the summer went. Wait, scratch that--I know exactly where it went. It went to North Dakota, then South Dakota, then South Dakota again, then Montana... with about a million hours spent on Wyoming highways. And to Home Depot a couple dozen times so we could paint most of the main floor of our house.

Regardless, it went too fast. And as I sit here wondering who put me in charge of the education of these four little goofballs and if it's May yet, I find myself praying for flexibility. No, not the do-the-splits kind--although I guess that would be pretty neat too--the resilience kind.

The allium kind.

We bought our house four years ago last month. When we moved in, the grass was alive and the trees were flourishing--and that was about it. We had no idea what the spring would bring in the yard and front flower/weed bed. That first spring in our house was a glorious surprise. The front bed exploded with flowers that looked exactly like big purple fireworks on a long, straight stem. Google informed me that they were alliums, and I loved them.

Last fall we had to dig up the whole front bed to replace the (non)retaining wall. I salvaged as many of the allium bulbs as I could, with every intention of replanting them. (Maybe I'll finally get around to it this fall... as of right now they're still sitting in a pot in the garage.)

I didn't take a picture of this year's May snow,
but I took a picture of Colette all bundled up to play in it.
She was not a fan.

But lo and behold! This spring up popped at least a dozen alliums. Despite the total upheaval of the retaining wall project, many of the bulbs survived and bloomed right on schedule. Which means, of course, right in time for our annual May blizzard.

That has been the story every spring. The alliums shoot up and blossom, and then we get a heavy spring snow.

But you know what? They don't care.


They bend and bow under the weight of the snow. All seems lost and frozen and destroyed. But then the snow melts, and they go on blooming. Sure, some of them are no longer exactly vertical, but they shrug off the snow and go on being glorious and lovely and springy.

one of my darling allium AFTER the snow melted

On the other side of the flexibility spectrum is Colette. For the last six or so months she has been quite... particular... at bedtime. Some nights more so, some nights less, but in general things have to be exactly right for her to settle down and go to sleep. And of course, the crucial details change from night to night--and sometimes in the middle of the bedtime routine.

Her water bottle must be placed just so.


She must have this blanket and not that one.

She wants a particular book, but she wants to turn the pages randomly back and forth.

The blanket must be covering her feet but not pulled tight around her.


She needs her doll. Her doll must fold her hands while we say prayers. I must acknowledge that her doll is praying with us.

She doesn't want me to pray.

She wants me to say prayers again.

She needs another drink of water.

mornings are rough when you fight bedtime
(it was milk, promise)

She wants me to sing songs. I start with whatever was her favorite last night, but no--she wants row row. So I start singing "Row, Row, Row Your Boat." She changes her mind and wants uppabove. But halfway through "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" she asks for moon.

You get the picture. I can't even learn and anticipate her demands because they're different every night. This has been going on in roughly the same form for almost a quarter of her life. It has made for many long, frustrating bedtimes. Of course I acquiesce to the little sleep-tyrant, because my mothering motto is "whatever it takes." And that is especially true when it comes to sleep!

After a month or so of the ridiculousness we did start pushing back, and she has gotten much better. She is slowly learning to adapt to conditions that are not exactly to her liking, my sweet, strong-willed little girl.

Colette's bedtime antics forced me to realize something: I am not an allium. I am very particular, strong-willed, totally arbitrary toddler who wants things HER WAY OR ELSE.

this is a perfect summary of her personality:
my fierce, sweet little warrior-princess

When the snow storms of life crush me (or, honestly, even just chill me a little), I don't wait them out patiently and spring back up as best I can to get on with blooming. I cry and scream and kick and yell "NO" and demand something different. Which works about as great for me with God as it does for Colette with me.

I am so far from weathering the storms of my life with consistent trust and patience. But this has been my prayer through the summer and especially now as we begin working our way through the school year. The first weeks have been crazy. Good, but so hard. And I'm already so tired. I feel like the smallest thing is enough to totally derail me--mentally and emotionally. But I know I just need to let go. Adapt. Adjust. Stop wishing it could be some other way right this moment. Be present.

So. Here's to trust, not tantrums--child-like, not childish. Lord, not my will, but yours.

New Beginnings

I'm excited--and somewhat trepidatious--to announce the commencement of a new project.

I'm starting a new blog.

Don't worry--I will most certainly be keeping this one. And I hope to be much better about posting pictures and stories of the kiddos--as well as other miscellany. Thanks to the encouragement of some friends and the guilty realization that my negligence has been seriously depriving friends and family of their regular dose of my crazy children, I have firmly resolved to post here more often. You know, more than quarterly.

But.

I have long felt torn between the desire to write more about Scripture and the faith and a certain hesitancy to try to mix my plain ol' mommy blog with more professional or academic pursuits. It just didn't seem to fit. A motherhood-inspired reflection on something faith-related, sure. A treatise on whether or not Moses actually wrote the Pentateuch, not so much. (Not that I will be writing any treatises, but you get the picture.)

In the past few weeks the desire to write more on Scripture and put it out on the interwebs has grown, and so I'm just jumping in. Because otherwise I will plan and dream for six months, and it will grow to something huge and glorious in my dreams (okay, it already has), and then I will talk myself out of actually moving forward.

So here we go.

I humbly invite you to join me in this adventure at Broad and Deep. (And any feedback in this new endeavor would be most appreciated!)

Daybook

Just popping in to say a quick hi and breaking all the blogger rules--no explanations, no promises, no pictures. Are there blogger rules? Like, you have to explain if you come back after a long/unexpected absence, and you have to set goals and tell the whole internet about them to keep you accountable (then offer more explanations when you fail to meet those goals anyway), and always post pictures because posts without pictures are boring and un-pinnable. Is "pinnable" a word? "Pinable"? There's another rule to break...

Whatevs. (And that IS apparently a word because "the computer guys" didn't put a squiggly red line under it, as Michael would say...)

I've missed blogging, but I didn't feel like I had much to say. Especially not after pushing through a rough couple of weeks to meet a deadline at the end of August, recovering for a month, then surviving (mostly, I'm not quite done) another crazy two weeks for the next project. Maybe I'll do a post about all those projects... next year...

But I was inspired and motivated by Bobby's  Weekly Writing in October link-up, especially when she suggested that if we needed something to get us started we could just go with a daybook kind of post. I can do that! I think I can I think I can I think I can... Chug chug chug, puff puff puff puff...

What, you don't randomly start reciting children's books in the middle of conversation?

So, with no further ado, currently I am:

reading
The Anne books, for the zillionth time. I'm on Anne of the Island and almost cried last night when Anne refused Gilbert's proposal. These are books that truly get better every single time, and I just have to read them in autumn. (Michael would tell me I don't "have to," I just really want to. He told me that the other day when I needed coffee. Good gracious.)

Also trying to read Augustine's Confessions. Because I'm ashamed I've never read the whole thing, and every time I read a passage from it for something else it is so beautiful and moving. I'm thinking this is one area where it's not really the thought that counts...

praying
This prayer from St. Augustine:

Breathe in me, O Holy Spirit, that my thoughts may all be holy. 

Act in me, O Holy Spirit, that my work, too, may be holy. 

Draw my heart, O Holy Spirit, that I love but what is holy. 

Strengthen me, O Holy Spirit, to defend all that is holy. 

Guard me, then, O Holy Spirit, that I always may be holy. 

Amen.

And Psalm 131:

O Lord, my heart is not lifted up,

my eyes are not raised too high;

I do not occupy myself with things

too great and too marvelous for me.

But I have calmed and quieted my soul,

like a child quieted at its mother's breast;

like a child that is quieted is my soul.

O Israel, hope in the Lord

from this time forth and for evermore.

I just "discovered" this psalm and I am totally taken with it. Maybe because I feel like I'm almost never quieted and I am usually occupied with things too great (or at least too much!) for me.

listening

For Colette to wake up. Because teething. Ugh.

around the house

My parents moved in last week! Yes, moved in to stay. No, they're not in poor health (thanks be to God). Yes, we actually just all wanted to live in the same house. There's more to it than that--but it deserves its own post. You know, next year.

We put a lot of (pretty minor but very time consuming) work into the house and yard this summer getting ready for a refinance. And it totally paid off (hahaha, I'm so exhausted look how funny I am). But there's a lot more to do, starting with redoing the retaining wall along the garden/weed bed in front of the house--because the current wall is not doing a particularly good job at retaining and consequently the porch is sinking and starting to pull away from the house. No bueno. So that's next on the list, along with finishing (because planning totally means we've started, right?) the necessary remodeling to turn the basement into a bedroom and living room instead of one giant toy room.

watching

NCIS with Alex. We're almost caught up on Netflix (we took a semi-unintentional hiatus a couple years ago and fell off the wagon). This is some serious relationship-building stuff for us, because if it weren't for NCIS we would probably never have gotten married. Also deserving of its own post--I don't think I've ever told the story here. Man, these daybook things are fantastic for generating post ideas! But remember, no promises.

enjoying

October. It's my favorite. 

Watching Colette's personality and sense of humor continue to emerge. When she's really tired but happy she does this thing where she just shakes here back and forth until she starts leaning and wobbling all over the place. It's hilarious--until she smacks you in the nose with the back of her head.

Watching Michael learn and grow this past month of homeschooling. I love his curiosity (mostly), and watching his mind work is just a delight (mostly).

Listening to John Paul talk--he sounds so much older than 2 1/2. Last Thursday was a really rough morning, and at one point I had gathered all of the kids around me to try to hug all of them at once after having yelled at all of them for--I can't even remember. So rough. But I was crying and apologizing for yelling, and JP just looked at me and said "Is okay Mama. No woozles." Because apparently he thought I was crying because I was scared of the woozles.

Seeing Liam transition from toddler to big boy. He's almost four, so I guess he hasn't really been a toddler for almost a year. But suddenly he's seeming so old. He can be so sweet and so thoughtful, and also so mischievous and so creative. And his delight when he answers a question or sounds out a phonics exercise is the sweetest.

Dabbling in genealogy. So far I've traced ancestors back to Scotland in the early 1700s, Cape May, NJ in the early 1700s, and France and Switzerland in the early 1800s. And I'm pretty sure there's a direct line to William the Conqueror, because I remember reading some of the documents one of my uncles put together when I was in high school and then trying to impress some history-nerd friends with it. If I remember correctly they failed to be properly awed by my distinguished lineage.

And with that, I should probably do the dishes and fold some laundry* before bed. I mean, before Colette needs her 9pm snack, to be followed by her 10pm snack, to be followed by her 3am snack, to be followed by her 5am rise-and-shine routine. Or at least that's how it went last night...

*In the interest of full disclosure, I refused Alex's offer to clean the kitchen and won't let him help me fold the laundry, because those chores are my chance to watch Netflix and as long as there isn't an imminent deadline I would generally rather do them myself. They're almost as much of a luxury as a chore, however bizarre that may be.

Check out the other weekly writings at Revolution of Love, and I'll try to be back here before next Saturday--maybe even with pictures! (Oh wait, no promises!)

Life: Not On My Terms

Not that it ever has been, of course. But sometimes it's easy to forget I'm not totally in control.

Spring Break 2007:
mojitos at the Opera Bar watching the sun set over Sydney? totally on my terms

One of the beautiful (and terrifying and messy) things about motherhood is that it constantly reminds me that I'm not really in control. I'm in charge of nearly everything, but I'm not in control.

Side note: one of the joys of that magical moment of Daddy getting home from work is that there is someone else to make a decision! To be responsible for something! To be in charge!

For all the decisions I make in any given day I still find it somewhat shocking how little of my life is on my terms. You’d think I’d get used to this. Maybe someday I will, but it is not this day! Four and a half years of motherhood haven't cured me of that particular delusion yet.

And really, the biggest (and totally uncomfortable, upsetting, shocking) piece of it all is, that life isn’t on my terms. You see where this is going, I’m sure.

Surprise!

Okay, not a surprise per se, because yes, we do know what causes that. But definitely not part of our plans at this point. And that was hard for me, because they were really responsible, good plans. Plans that we prayerfully formed around some significant health concerns on my part, among other things.

And it was also unexpected because we did everything right NFP-wise. After a lengthy discussion with our Creighton Model instructor all we were able to determine is that we apparently have the dubious distinction of being in that 1-3ish % (depending on which study you look at) for whom the method simply doesn't work the way it is supposed to. For some reason it's really important for me to throw that out there. We were using an actual, scientific, effective fertility awareness method (not the rhythm method) and we were using it correctly--but sometimes even that doesn't work. Look for further reflections on our experience with NFP at some future point because I have already been trying to write this post for several months and if I wait until I have figured out how to say everything I want to/feel like I need to say then I will never finish it!

SO. Pregnant. Surprised. Upset. Scared. Anxious. That's where I was when we found out in early March. We told family and a few friends and asked for prayers, but that was all. I wasn't ready to talk about being pregnant, especially not in a public setting like social media, until I found some peace with this situation. Let me be clear, we loved this baby even during that first week in March where I was sure I was pregnant but refusing to take a test because then there was still a chance that this was just a really bizarre cycle. I didn't want to be pregnant right now but I loved and wanted this specific child. Complicated? Maybe, maybe not. Never tell a pregnant woman her emotions don't make sense... but you probably knew that already! (Or anyone, for that matter... "You are emotional AND irrational" is not likely to be helpful in any situation, amiright?).

finally took the plunge and announced Baby #4
on Instagram and Facebook for Mother's Day

It took the entire first trimester and then some for me to come to terms with being pregnant again. Even once I had started to feel a little more excited and a little less scared, I didn't know how to start talking about this baby publicly. It wasn't just mourning the loss of my own plans and letting go of my anxieties--I felt guilty for being pregnant. And especially guilty for being pregnant and not being 100% thrilled about it.

I know so many people--family, close friends, acquaintances from college, blog friends--who are dealing with infertility and/or are grieving the loss of a child. And then here I am over here, just wishing I could somehow manage to wean one baby before getting pregnant with the next. How could I announce this new little life within me in the face of so much pain and suffering? Even more--how could I talk honestly about this pregnancy and my own struggles with it? I determined almost right away to offer my sufferings, major or minor, physical and emotional, for those struggling to conceive or grieving the loss of a child. But could I even say that to anyone? Would it just seem like salt in the wound?

I don't know. I still don't entirely know. But as time goes on and I round the bend into the 3rd trimester, it has started to feel a little ridiculous to have total blog-silence about this baby. So, here we are at 28.5 weeks, announcing the not-quite-imminent arrival of Baby #4 in November. And we are thrilled--really and truly--even as I wonder on a daily basis how I am possibly going to survive another 11ish weeks of this.

Oh, and by the way--Mama's getting reinforcements and we're all pretty thrilled about that too ;)

Living like I used to dream...

I've been meaning to write this post for over seven months now... I feel like if I don't get it out now I'll never get around to it.  Goodbye, perfectionism.

"Don't Get Comfortable" by Brandon Heath was one of my favorite songs my last couple semesters of college.  My favorite line is, "I am gonna show you what I mean, I am gonna love like you've never seen, you are gonna live like you used to dream, this is your new song."

This was my theme song.  For a good chunk of my senior year of college I knew that I would be moving to Sydney (yes, Australia) after graduation to get my PhD in neuropsychology.  I spent my spring break that year in Sydney visiting a couple schools and scoping out my future life.  I was so sure about this next step that I only applied to my top school.  Backup plan?  Who needs a backup plan?  I had the whole thing planned out, down to what I would post as my Facebook status announcing that I had been accepted to the school and would be moving to Australia: "Ashley is about to live like she used to dream."  Yep--we're talking waaaay back in the day when you had to write your Facebook status in the third person unless you wanted it to just look dumb.

And then my application was rejected.  When I got the rejection letter in the mail I immediately went out and bought an international calling card so I could call the admissions office to see if there had been some mistake.  They said I didn't have enough research experience to be considered for the program.  It sounded like some information might have gotten lost in the translation from American to Australian, because I was pretty sure my semester spent on one research project should be enough to get me in the door.  I said I would send more information, and they said they would take another look when they received it.

A couple weeks later I got another letter.  Nope, still not accepted.

Fast forward a couple months, and I'm planning on moving to Denver to study for my MA in Scripture.  A bit of a paradigm shift, but I had nothing better to do (seriously, that was how I felt about it).  I was excited about the program (learning Greek!!!), but I wasn't sure I was going to like Denver.  I mean, it's not Sydney.  So how could I ever really like it?

Fast forward to the end of my first semester.  I'm ready to move back to Nebraska and finish my degree via distance education.  But I guess I'll finish out this first year.

Fast forward to the end of January.  Some girls I'm in Bible study with are headed out to an Irish pub for some live music with friends from high school/college and invite me to join them.

Fast forward to the next January.  I marry the guy I met in that pub.

Fast forward to the next January.  We have a baby.  Etc.

Fast forward to now.  It sure doesn't look like what I was dreaming about my senior year of college.  Heck, it doesn't look too much like what I dreamed about ever.  I always wanted to get married and have a family.  But I never spent my time dreaming about that year and a half we would live with my husband's parents while dealing with a schizophrenic housing market.  I never dreamed about those last, awful, stubborn 15 pounds of baby weight that just wouldn't come off, even after all most nine months, dang it!  I never dreamed I would have two babies who needed me so desperately multiple times a night every night for months and months.  I dreamed about the beauty and joy of marriage and children--I didn't spend much time dreaming about the pain and the sacrifice and the dying-to-self bits.

But you know what?  I am living like I used to dream--I just didn't know how to dream big enough.  Good thing God doesn't limit us to our own dreams.  Good thing He dreams so much bigger for me than I can dream for myself.  Good thing He didn't give me what my poor little misguided 22 year old heart desired.  Thank you God for unanswered prayers (but not the ones I'm praying right now, because clearly I know better now... right?).

And all the joy and beauty that I did dream about doesn't even begin to compare to the real thing.

So I'll keep dreaming.  And I'll keep praying that God teaches me how to dream.  Because nothing brings more peace in the end than allowing God to conform the desires of my heart to his (but ohmygoodness is it a painful process sometimes).

There, that wasn't so hard.

Night Prayer

Parenting WIN: Michael starting out Night Prayer on his own with "Father, Son, Holy... Assistance" (close enough to "God, come to my assistance") and then whispering every fifth or sixth word of the Salve along with us as we sing.

Parenting FAIL: Me snorting as I try to hold back a laugh in the middle of Night Prayer whilst watching Michael go cross-eyed and puff out his cheeks like a blowfish in an attempt to blow his nose all by himself.  Man I wish I had a picture of that...

I fell in love with the Liturgy of the Hours the summer after my freshman year of college while on mission trip with FOCUS in Peru.  Okay, to be precise I fell in love with Night Prayer, because it was short and we prayed it in English.  We prayed Morning Prayer in Spanish and it felt about 12 times longer than it actually was.

Madrigal, in the Colca Canyon somewhere high above Arequipa, Peru

It wasn't until much more recently that I fell in love with Morning Prayer (in English).  But I prayed Night Prayer pretty faithfully all through college and beyond.  Alex loved it too, and somehow it was just a natural transition--I don't even really remember it as a conscious choice--to start praying it with Michael as part of his bedtime routine.  (It was probably a matter of us generally being too tired or forgetting if we waited until we were about to go to bed, and Michael's bedtime was a convenient compromise.)

It has been such a wonderful thing for our family.  There are certainly nights of "No pray! No pray!" and Michael singing and doing gymnastics or just whining through most of the prayer.  But there are also nights (like tonight) where he does his best to say the psalms and prayers along with us.  And I know that he's absorbing even more than we can see as he hears the same psalms and prayers night after night and week after week.

Praying Night Prayer together has been such a blessing to our family, along with our nightly rituals of storytime (we're finishing up The Hobbit... not sure where we're going to head next... suggestions?) and songs.  I can't wait until Liam's bedtime lines up with Michael's a little better.  Right now Liam goes to bed right about when we're all eating supper, so we haven't figured out a joint bedtime routine yet.  Soon!

What are your favorite bedtime rituals--from your parents, or with your own children?  I'd love to hear!

Happy Birthday to Me!

Sunday was my birthday.  I got to spend the day with five of my favorite people in the whole wide world: my  amazing husband, my two beautiful boys, and my wonderful parents.  It was glorious.

picture stolen shamelessly from my dad's blog

On Sunday Alex and I also went under contract for a house.  THE house.  The house of our dreams; the house of our prayers.

This morning we had our inspection.  The house needs some work, and we're excited to make it our own and give it the TLC it needs.  We were thrilled that there was nothing too drastic; there is some mold in the attic which needs to be addressed before we move in, but nothing that can't be taken care of.  If all goes as planned (please oh please keep praying for us!) we'll be homeowners in early August.

And you guys... this house is on a corner.

God is good.

Within Your Wounds Hide Me--Some Thoughts On Suffering

The seeds of this post have been simmering for a while now (?! hello, mixed metaphors... blame the preggo-brain and lack of sleep from, you know, being pregnant, plus the toddler's night terror Monday night).  I was all set to finish it up and post it two weeks ago, quite appropriately on the feast of St. Rose of Lima.  But instead I guess I was supposed to take some time to actually work on practicing what I was pondering.  But it's still all true, so here goes (finally)!

The Anima Christi is one of my favorite prayers.

Soul of Christ, sanctify me

Body of Christ, save me

Blood of Christ, inebriate me

Water from the side of Christ, wash me

Passion of Christ, strengthen me

O Good Jesus, hear me

Within Your Wounds hide me

Separated from You let me never be

From the evil one protect me

At the hour of my death call me

And close to you bid me

That with your saints I may praise you

Forever and ever, Amen.

At different points in the years since I've learned this prayer, different lines have been particularly close to my heart--a focus on my need for sanctification and cleansing, a desperate plea for Christ to be my strength, etc.

At this particular moment in my life (aka, motherhood), the most poignant line in this prayer for me is "Within Your Wounds hide me."  I've always thought this line was beautiful, but more recently I really stopped to think about what I was asking when I prayed it.  Asking to be drawn into closer proximity to the Wounds of Christ?  To be be ever closer to Christ... on the cross?  And therefore closer to the cross--this probably means I have to embrace my crosses more, right?  And I was reminded of a quote from Blessed Mother Teresa that my sister shared with me years ago:

"Pain and suffering have come into your life,

but remember pain, sorrow, suffering are but the kiss of Jesus--

a sign thatyou have come so close to Him that He can kiss you."

I remember thinking when I heard that quote... I'm not sure I want that kiss.  I should want it, I want to want it, but... (I also remember thinking, as I often do, that Dene' is so much holier than I am!)

Fast-forward to motherhood.  Chronic sleep deprivation is a kind of suffering I never even imagined.  Constantly being asked to deny myself and take up my toddler--although full of unexpected blessings, it's also full of unexpected suffering.  Being pregnant?  Surprise!  Pain and suffering can be found here, too.

So in meditating on letting Christ hide me within His Wounds, I realized that I really need to try to do a better job of offering up my suffering, instead of just whining about it (although I did garner a considerable amount of sympathy from that post...). 

A dear and wise friend once said that the closer we draw to the cross of Christ, the closer we are to one another.  Allowing myself to be hidden within His Wounds also keeps me close to others who are suffering.  You'd think it would have already occurred to me to offer up the (minor) sufferings of my pregnancy for those who can't conceive or are having difficulty conceiving, especially since there are some very near and dear to my heart who are struggling with this.  But it occurs at one particularly grace-filled moment (usually connected with Mass or actually taking time for Morning Prayer) and then quickly escapes my mind in that frustrated, tired, uncomfortable moment when I need it.

But, if you can believe it, I found a new(ish) patron saint just when I needed her!

I've loved St. Rose of Lima ever since my mission trip to Peru with FOCUS during college.  I had a vague recollection that she practiced some pretty severe penances during her life, but I was reminded during Mass on her feast day two weeks ago that one of her habitual mortifactions was to deprive herself of sleep and pray and work instead--and when she did sleep, it was on a bed of rocks and broken glass.  Yikes.  While I'm quite positive that I'm not being called to give up any dramatic amount of the precious sleep I'm still getting (although it would probably certainly do me good to get up 15 minutes earlier for some quiet time before the sleep tyrant  agent of my sanctification starts his day), I figure St. Rose could definitely help me bear my involuntary mortifications with a bit more grace.

It was while I was in Lima that I first saw a crucifix on which our Lord's wounds were portrayed as more than just a few trickles of blood at his hands, feet, and side.  I was particularly struck by the wounds on His knees.  Why those particularly wounds should have made such a strong impression I don't know--and I don't remember if the reason was readily apparent to me then.  But now when I think of that image I see it as a call to prayer--and at this point specifically a call to offer up my sufferings more faithfully.

So that's what I've been trying to do these last two weeks (while waiting for the magical combination of time and motivation to finish this post).  Don't worry--I'll still be complaining plenty (and Alex is a saint for bearing the brunt of it).  But I'm hoping to at least offer up a quick prayer begging to unite my sufferings to Christ's before mentally composing a whiny incoherent blog post at 2am while I am inexplicably and maddenly awake.