Unrelated Items of the Day

I'm happiest when I'm singing. (not performing.)

In candid, honest self-evaluation, I see that I'm not fiery or passionate. I'm obsequious and careful, looking out to make sure I squeeze through life with as little of the following as possible: 1. effort 2. discomfort 3. mayonnaise (I don't like it).

Started my final semester of school (as far, at least, as I know) today. Taught two classes. Not wide-eyed freshmen this time: cynical juniors and seniors, in varying business majors, who will learn (I will make them) how to write appropriate, clear, coherent emails, memos, and cover letters. Boring? Yes. BUT I made a few of them laugh today (I was younger than they thought I would be) and also I am pretty sure I'm the Hot Teacher. I definitely got checked out. Foolish boys. I will wield my beauty to make you use correct APA formatting. (Ugh, APA formatting.)

Got home tonight and took out the trash and was accosted by my neighbor. Understand this about my neighbors: they are a family of five-- mom, dad, daughters-- who moved here from New York so the parents could attend Bible school. The oldest daughter, 15, is out of control, and the middle one is right there with her. The mom has begun clinging to me and my roommates with a sort of determined desperation, since we are, from her perspective, what she wants her daughters to be.

Lex, Vic and I have all tried to spend time with them. We've prayed with them and for them, hosted movie nights and baking parties. Sometimes more enthusiastically than other times. We're all busy. We all have full-time lives and these girls have problems that go beyond an after-school special sort of fix.

Today the two oldest girls ran away after fighting with their mother. Not the sort of running away that entails planning and packing--they ran out in a snowstorm without coats or shoes. I prayed with Cathy (mom) and washed the dishes and cleaned the bathroom while she waited for the cops and cried. I imagined giving the girls a piece of my mind when they came back home, teaching them to respect their mother, inspiring them to change like in all movies about rebellious or under-privileged high-schoolers ever. Instead I had to leave to pick Vic up from work. As I write this I don't know whether or not they're home yet. I scrubbed the bathtub because I didn't know what else to do, except keep praying.

I can't do anything for this family, even though I can identify several problem spots. The husband doesn't back up his wife on discipline, and her discipline, such as it is, is erratic and tends to be little more than shouting and complaining. Over the past few months she's come over a few times, looking to us for guidance. No parents are perfect, and those girls are theirs. I can't step in and try to fix it. I know some of what needs to change, but I can't dispense child-rearing advice to a woman twice my age. All I can do is pray that those girls come home. That they know the Lord. That they allow Him to change their hearts. And that I allow Him to use me to minister to them in any way I can. To be candid, I would rather not. These sorts of situations make me intensely uncomfortable. But their well-being, and their need, trumps my comfort. Time to get out of the bubble.

I don't know how to get through to them. But I have to trust that the conclusion of my relationship with this family depends on Christ.

Bring them home safely, Father.