Sigh

Ugh - I know. You're just totally unmotivated at this point to even direct your internet browser to this address aren't you? The last post was about RABBITS. And I never gave a shout-out to my MOM for heaven's sake. I don't even have any pictures with which to amuse you (unless you are easily amused and would appreciate pictures of the bed we will soon be attempting to sell on Craigslist). Life is just piling up on us over here. We're starting to get the sense that we're overcommitted (yes, if you know us well you're chuckling because somehow we always end up doing this to ourselves). I've been trying lately to be intentional about committing my ways to the Lord (Prov. 16:3), prayerfully considering each day what it is God would have me do with my time rather than what I think is best, trying to learn flexibility in the process. I know all too well that there aren't enough hours in the day, so what is going to be the wisest way to use the ones I have? This week some of my hours have been spent at the Take Care Clinic with Ben (ear infection), at the car dealer (broken door latch - my, how I take for granted having doors that close and stay that way!), partaking in a surprise celebration for one of my most treasured friends, planning a service project for Sunday, working, etc. etc. {insert many more random activities, some amusing and some pressing, here}. We're looking forward to a little bit of a breather this weekend: a short visit with my parents, a party with friends (RAIN, RAIN STAY AWAY!), serving with fellow CenterPointians on Sunday, and spending a few days in the Dells with my in-laws. But stay tuned because you just never know how God is going to test this new flexibility thing I'm trying on.
And, ok, I lied. Here are a few pics of the fam from Mother's Day (but hey, if you're interested in that bed, let me know).

You Know You've Seen Too Many Disney Movies When...

Last week James was mowing the lawn (you know, that loathsome activity our boys are not yet old enough to have forced upon them?), when suddenly six baby bunnies leapt from a hole in the ground and scattered. He gathered the bunnettes then gathered the boys and I to check them out as he placed them gently into a box lined with grass, into which they immediately began to burrow. Nervously, I hovered over the box.
I immediately started looking around for the mommy, kind of envisioning a Bunnicula-looking creature darting toward our jugulars in defense of her kids. When no such animal appeared we started speculating about what to do with these six little balls of fluff. James insisted that they could not, in fact, be kept in our backyard (though the boys and I tried in vain to convince him it would be really cool), and as I pondered driving them to the forest preserve and letting them loose, the only image that filled my brain was of a mother bunny leaning over her empty burrow weeping giant rabbit tears into a hanky, her little cottontail shoulders quivering with grief.
Luckily the Internet, oh glorious device of knowledge, assured me that rabbits of about the size ours looked to be were ready to be out on their own and that, in fact, around this time the mother abandons them so they are forced to do just that. (Heartless coney!) So we boxed up the bunnies and did, in fact, drive to the forest preserve. We took turns naming each rabbit and then watched them dart off into the grass (James and I praying that a hawk would not at that moment plummet from the sky and cause untold amounts of trauma in our children).
Now we tell stories to each other about Bartholomew, Sir Hopsalot, Lucky, Johnny, {makes bunny face}, and Bunny Louwerse living life adventurously out in the woods and ponder how they fill their days: holding races, facing and overcoming obstacles together, meeting new animal friends. And trying to overcome the guilt that slammed into us when the mom came back and sniffed around the burrow for a week afterward. I swear she had a hanky.