I'm a bad blogger.
I've said it before, I know. But I really, really mean it this time.
Bad.
Bad.
Bad.
But happy!
Tomorrow's my 39th birthday. I felt like a princess today at school. (Perhaps a matronly princess, not quite queenly.) As with all birthdays in my tiny Christian school, our administrator announced, "We have a birthday today!" at our school opening. Of course I was expecting this. We celebrate every single birthday and half birthday for the summer folks. We always do this after our pledges to the American flag, the Christian flag and the Bible. We do this after we've sung a patriotic tune and prayed. What I wasn't expecting was the din of clapping and whooping and hollering that echoed in the gym. As I walked up to the front, I felt such love. I hugged my dear friend as she handed me the card. I could feel my heart swelling with joy. Then the birthday ritual began, the great singing of the Happy Birthday song with a few Wooooos tossed in for good measure. My own personal second grader, Camden, was the loudest, out-singing everybody. Still, I could even hear the ultra cool seventh graders singing to me. Me! And to think I was terrified of the big kids when I arrived here a year ago.

God has blessed me beyond my wildest dreams here at this school, in his ministry. A few years ago I thought I'd never teach again. Too much No Child Left Behind (No Child Gets Ahead). Too many days spent practicing for tests. Too many bubbles to fill in. Too many statistics. Not enough time spent learning how to read and write and think. Not enough focus on what children need to learn. Not enough faith that we could do it for the right reasons. Not enough support.

I've come to realize that God has blessed me with a gift for teaching young children. I may not have all the answers, but I know how to find them. I know where to go to read the latest research on teaching reading and writing, developing number sense, drawing and singing and playing and being a 6-year-old in this big wide world. And today God patted me on the back with the voices of these children and their teachers. He reaffirmed my life's work. I am a teacher. I make a difference. I am where I belong. And daggonit, even the 7th graders like me.

I remember where I was 6 years ago today when I first heard about the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center.
Mrs. Casey pulled me out into the hall from my suburban middle class 2nd grade classroom. She quietly let me know that a plane had just crashed into the World Trade Center. They didn't know why. They didn't know anything else, but that the crisis team was letting teachers know. "Don't tell the children," she said.

After I dropped the kids off for lunch an hour or so later, I met the other teachers in the lounge where a TV had been plugged in and tuned to NBC's Today Show. We sat dumbfounded. The art teacher was crying. The other second grade teachers were in shock, eyes glued to the TV. Before long, most in the classroom-turned-staff room were in tears. Then, our lunch period over, we dried our eyes, put a smile on, and retrieved our classes. We acted like nothing had happened. Some parents arrived to pick their children up early that day, and we allowed them to go. We sent the rest of the students home in a perfectly normal dismissal. Then we quietly packed up our things and made our own way home to our own children, husbands, families.

The sky was a clear, bold blues blue - a perfect late summer day with low humidity and puffy clouds. Nothing appeared wrong in the heavens. Then, as CNN played for hours on end, we gradually learned that, indeed, everything was wrong.

Now, 6 years later, OBL is still alive, threatening America and Christianity. I don't have a clue if the war is the right thing or the wrong move. I don't have any answers. I don't even know who to vote for to find the right answers. All I have is prayer. And so I pray to God for wisdom, strength, courage and a holy boldness for America. We will never forget.

The Steelers beat the Brownies tonight 34 to 7. Cool, huh?


Of course, I didn't see the game. Instead, I've been home with two sick youngins while Curt played Bear Scout at the local Scout Reservation Camp Conestego this weekend. He had a blast. I had a quiet weekend running to the pharmacy to get antibiotics and praying I don't wind up with strep throat like them. I felt sorry for them, too. Especially in the middle of the night when Benjy awoke in tears whenever he coughed and when Camden spiked his fever and could barely walk. Pitiful things. They're so strangely still and quiet when they're sick. So unlike the rambunctious boys they typically are.


So, instead of watching the Steelers and eating Curt's homemade chili, I made beer meatballs and beer bread and watched Sprout all day. Our favorite: Jakers. Those sheep are a trip. And, yes, the beer flavored the meatballs and bread but completely burned off the alcohol. So, nobody was flying around this house tonight. :)

Blog?
What's a blog?
Since I read Harry Potter and the Ghostly Hallows, I haven't blogged. I've read plenty... Reading With Meaning, About the Authors, Growing Readers, First Grade Writers (all school literacy books for teachers - no surprise there). I've also managed to read some Lee Child crime fiction novels and more magazines about country primitive decor and scrapbooking than I can count. So, let it be known that I've been a bit busy. Yes, that's the ticket. But, I haven't even considered blogging. Until now.

Kristen emailed to ask if I'd fallen off the earth. Mom wants to know what's happened to the blog. That's it. I don't think anybody else reads me. But hey, 2 for 2 is not bad. So, the blog is back. For now. :)

School has been back in session for 2 weeks. And, naturally, I had to call in a sub today because Benjy has a croupy cough. He's on a steroid now that he refuses to take. HOW IN THE WORLD DO YOU GET YOUR CHILD TO TAKE MEDICINE HE REFUSES TO TAKE??? Benjy's gag reflex is so strong that he can throw up anything within a minute of ingesting it. And though we tried to coax his medicine down his throat, he ran to the trash can and spit it out, then gagged out everything else. Yuck. I'm calling the dr. tomorrow to ask for advice. Benjy's one tough cookie. And he's going to school tomorrow as far as I know.

I took this pic at the Colonial Arts and Crafts Festival last weekend. The boys were enjoying some fresh-squeezed lemonade and a funnel cake (yum!!!) in 90 degree temps. Aren't they so cute?!

Camden's first Boy Scout summer camp was "SWEET AWESOME" in the words of my Cub.
He and Curt spend the weekend camping, hiking, fishing, boating, swimming, shooting, eating, crafting, learning, and sleeping. I'm sure I've left out something, but that seems to be the jist of it. On top of all that, Camden picked up a bit of respect. Imagine that.

On Sunday night we were invited to the family dinner and closing campfire ceremony. Camden and Benjy raced to hug each other when we got there, and then Camden walked his little brother around the campfire ring and nature shelter, telling him softly of all the cool things he did. It was sweet. For all the racket these two make when they're NOT getting along, they sure do love each other.

I had this theory growing up with my sister Michelle: siblings fight sometimes. Mom always insisted that if she'd had a sister growing up, she never would have fought with her. She liked to say this when she was sick and tired of listening to us bicker. Michelle and I loved each other, but we could disagree heatedly and often. Still, we were solid, paired as sisters and friends for life. I told Mom that if she'd had a sister growing up, she would have fussed with her because that's what sisters do!!! Now that I see this in my boys, I know it's true. I guess you can't be that close without a degree of "I'm right and you're not...It's mine and not yours...You're a big baby!" Then, always, in the next breath, we were best pals again, spreading our Barbie dolls across the room, using library books to make giant mansions for them to play in. This lasted a good while until one of us would tease, "My Barbie is better than yours."

You know the rest.

I may not be able to take a permanent vacation, but this picture will do until next year.

10 favorite things about my three day trip to the beach in no particular order:

1. A Thousand Splendid Suns - I couldn’t get my nose out of this book. And so I finished it in three days!
2. My iPod - and my favorite tunes at the end of my earphones
3. Jodie - catching up shouldn’t be so much fun!
4. Evelyn’s salsa - recipe to come
5. Hushpuppies - really good hushpuppies. Melt in your mouth gooooood
6. Old friends - nobody’s really changed. Just the stories and situations. But friends are still friends. Again, catching up is the best part.
7. Naps
8. Phone calls home - nothing makes you miss family like being away.
9. A new purse - Life IS Good!
10. Sudoku - completing four puzzles without cheating.

Oh yeah, and number 11 - outdoor showers!

At this time Sunday night I'll be on my all-girls vacation in Holden Beach.
Ahhhhh.
Poetry.






































I'll take lots of pictures
of my friends that I've
missed
terribly
since we moved from
Virginia in 2003.
I'll take a shot of my newly
manicured toes on the
sandy beach.
I'll sleep in and go to
bed when I
please.
I'll eat
fried balogna sandwiches on
WHITE bread.
With lots of
pepper and
tomatoes from farmer stands on the
side of the road.
I'll finish reading the first book in
The Yada Yada Prayer Book series.
I'll start the new book
A Thousand Splendid Suns.
I hope I finish it in
3 days.
I'll pump my tunes through my
iPod.
I'll take
outdoor showers.
I'll promise not to
double dip
Evelyn's salsa.
And I won't.
I'll use
sunscreen, buy
T-shirts, swim in the
surf, learn a new
song, do a
load of laundry
(because I just can't stand
dirty clothes).
I'll laugh till I hurts.
I'll eat hushpuppies
dripping with grease.
I'll thank God for the
blessing
of
friends.
And I'll miss my
boys.
But I'll buy them each a
cool
T
shirt.

I used to be the kind of mom who swore her children would never play with guns.
Or watch Sponge Bob.
Or make farting noises with their hands under their armpits.
I was so sure my children would not grow up to be so devilishly boyish.
And if not for the sheer joy of motherhood, I would have won.
Now, they play with water guns, nerf guns, storm trooper guns.
They play with pirate swords and light sabers.
They watch Sponge Bob the movie, the TV show, and rerun after rerun after rerun of recorded episodes.
And they make farting noises with their hands under their armpits.
I don't think they've turned out quite so bad, though.
They are cute.
Devilishly cute.
And they are nice.
They love God, Jesus, and let us not forget Mary, as Benjy reminds me every night in his prayers.
They care about the earth and about science and about doggies and minnows and bunny rabbits and birds.
They're boys through and through.
Right down to their Underoos, running around the backyard stalking imaginary bad guys and stopping here and yonder to take a sip from their guns.

This is our new Karate for Kids member. Camden tested last night, performing his 17-step form with no help. He nailed his jumps, his pressed uniform made crisp popping sounds with every strike and kick, and he ended standing straight and tall, proud and obviously pleased. Camden and two other Tiny Tigers were promoted and it was a big, big deal. :) Nothing could have hidden the excitement on Camden's face when he was called to stand up and receive the promotion. He raised his hand for permission to speak and then blurted out, "And Karate for Kids gets to get the biggest ATA bag there is!!! My dad already has one for me!!!!!" All eyes fell on a very blushing Curt, whose attempt at bribing his son to practice his form to perfection was outed in front everyone. Well, we call it "behavior modification" around here. Whatever the name, at least it works.

I took nearly 70 pictures tonight of US on the back porch, the quintessential summertime family evening. Here's nine of my favorite shots. (Isn't Emma just wonderfully adorable in this shot of her?!)

Major storms blew through here tonight while we were out to dinner. We went to my favorite local restaurant, the Red Star Brewery where the seared sesame tuna makes my tummy do backflips of happiness. Anyway, we were there when the radio played its beeeeeep beeeeeeep beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep emergency warnings alerting us to the pending doom. The boys and I walked over to the window to watch as the winds blew over potted trees and the waiters ran around frantically scooping up the cushions from the patio chairs just outside the main entrance. Then the lightening began to dance around the city and the thunder rumbled overhead. The lights flickered only a couple of times, but we were safe and sound, happy in the promise of good food.

Camden sat in sophisticated silence as he munched on his pizza. (Yes, I just said that.)Benjy talked the ENTIRE time he was eating his chicken fingers, having a grand conversation with his 11 Star Wars guys that he brought with him in a red plastic cup. These two were total opposites tonight. Camden was so excited to go to this restaurant. He calls it the Train Station because that's what it is - a partially converted train station where Amtrak still picks up passengers and drops them off twice a day. This is Camden's version of a "fancy" restaurant. Nevermind the relaxed, casual elegance and homebrewed beer inside. This wannabe for president of the United States took a bubble bath and put on his amazingly handsome blue oxford shirt with his clip on presidential tie and khaki pants and he was ready. He looked just like Alex P. Keaton from Family Ties.

In contrast was Benjy, a smiley face shirt about three sizes too large and camo shorts from Target paired with his green Crocks. A little ragamuffin who might at best hope to sleep on the White House lawn one day. It wasn't until they were nearly finished with their hot fudge sundaes from McDonald's an hour later that these two actually resembled each other. Ice cream dripped down Camden's tie and shirt. Hot fudge was smeared all around Benjy's mouth and his yellow smileys had a patina of chocolate. They both giggled and pretended to fight half of the way home. They playfully poked at each other, pinched each other, tickled each other, stuck their feet in one another's faces. And still they laughed and and sang and howled. All Curt and I could do was crack up at their silliness, the utter UNpresidentialness of it all. Someday when my son's president and I'm staying over at the White House, I'll have to remember these days. Now, I'm wondering which one will actually be presidential material.

The hookie dookies are a little two-person acrobatic trick my sister and two friends and I came up with when we were kids. One person lies on her back, legs straight up in the air at a 90 degree angle to the floor. Another person lies on the person's feet facing the floor so that the feet are on their tummy. Is that clear as Mississippi mud cake? Not terribly original, I know, but a fun little way to pass the time when you're around 7 years old.

Well, the hookie dookies were hands-down our favorite thing to do next to disco dancing to the funky beat of the Bee Gees and KC and the Sunshine Band. The best place to do them was in Kim and Karen's basement on the orange shag carpet right beside the hobby horse. It was always better to be on top, sort of like soaring atop an amusement park ride at the county fair but cheaper and only a tad less thrilling. Somehow, decades after Kim and Karen moved away and Michelle and I grew up, I have never forgotten the hookie dookies. (Nor the bootie bill for that matter, but that's another story for another time.)

Camden spent his toddlerhood climbing up on our feet for hookie dookies, pretending to be an airplane or Buzz Lightyear. Benjy does it now. Only he isn't satisfied with mere jets. His solid little 40-pound frame sits propped on my feet like a mini Hindenburg. He holds my hands until he's ready to let go, then he thrusts his hands straight out to his sides and then quickly grabs for my hands again. In all, he's perched on my feet hands-free for maybe 3 seconds tops. This is the essence of the hookie dookies, but it's not the highlight for him. It's what comes next. "Mom, do the snow walker!!!" Here, I have to add a new step to the basic hookie dookie - I have to somehow move my feet back and forth with his tummy balanced on them while moving my hands back and forth. I look like a beached snow walker on its back with its back legs tied together. Benjy is howling at this point, oblivious to the awkwardness of this ordeal. He's deleriously happy playing snow walker. He's Luke Skywalker. He's got the force, Man!

And that's the magic of the hookie dookies, I suppose. They're kinda timeless.

My summer vacation has begun.
Now, to start on my things to do list:
* Reread The Art of Teaching Writing by Lucy Calkins
* Be a better observer of life and take pictures of the cool things I observe
* Start a journal, not just here, but a real paper journal with room for doodles, art, painting, and sketches
* Finish my rag rug for the bathroom
* Make a rag quilt from Benjy and Camden's flannel baby blankets
* Scrapbook again
* Paint and collage a few canvases - no idea what of, but it's just so much fun

OK, that's it for now. Wonder how much I can get done tomorrow......

Memorial Day, 2007
Camden: Can we go to a cemetery today to put a flag on a soldier's grave?
Curt: Sure.
Camden: OK. Let's go now.

What I have learned in first grade:

Today is our last day of school, the last day of my first year at my Christian school with 12 first graders. I had a wonderful year. And it had so very little to do with school stuff. Instead, if was God stuff.

* I learned that if I keep my eyes on God, then I will know what to do in my classroom.
* I learned that God has gifted me with the ability to teach, and that I am using that gift in my school for Him.
* I learned that the better we are at using God's gifts, the more the enemy wants to squish us like bugs.
And that's exactly what could have happened this week. But we were so in tune with God and his blessings. We never gave the enemy a chance to slip in and take our focus away from God's work. We met every challenge with God's word, praised him even when we were beginning to feel weary, and rested in the peace of knowing whose magnificent side we were on.
* I learned that even when life hands you letters such as the nasty one handed to me this morning by a former parent, God holds us up, gives us safety, and promises to be greater than this world. Not even this letter filled with hatred and bitterness can move me from where God has placed me.
* I learned that when I need Godly people around me, God puts them there. Mrs. K. and Mrs. M. were both right there today when I read this letter. They both reassured me that I am exactly where God wants me to be. And I know they are right. God has blessed me immensly with ALL of my sisters in Christ. He has placed me in this school and given me the ability to be a great teacher. I intend to live up to God's plan for my life. Thank you, Jesus, for your peace.
* Psalm 4 (New International Version)
1 Answer me when I call to you,
O my righteous God.
Give me relief from my distress;
be merciful to me and hear my prayer.

2 How long, O men, will you turn my glory into shame?
How long will you love delusions and seek false gods?
Selah

3 Know that the LORD has set apart the godly for himself;
the LORD will hear when I call to him.

4 In your anger do not sin;
when you are on your beds,
search your hearts and be silent.
Selah

5 Offer right sacrifices
and trust in the LORD.

6 Many are asking, "Who can show us any good?"
Let the light of your face shine upon us, O LORD.

7 You have filled my heart with greater joy
than when their grain and new wine abound.

8 I will lie down and sleep in peace,
for you alone, O LORD,
make me dwell in safety.

There are three and a half days of school left this year.
Wow.
First grade has FLOWN by. For both Camden and me. I'm getting a bit puddly thinking about losing this year's first graders to second grade. They're a special group - funny, wise, crazy, and they get my jokes! That's a BIG deal, if you know my jokes. (There's a reason my Virginia friends called me Rose - as in "Golden Girls".) Yes, I'm getting kind of sad. I love this bunch of kids. They're truly my FAVORITE class. Ever.

Benjy's preschool graduation was tonight. Well, his graduation from the 3-year-old class to the 4-year-old one. :) I was so proud of this little guy. He clapped, smiled, even hammed it up a bit. He sucked his thumb for good measure. He was adorable. Benjy.

Camden seemed proud. He wore his "wedding suit" despite the 80 degree humid temperature. He seems excited about coming to my school next year. I hope he loves it as much as I do. I pray he grows in his faith as much as I have.

Oh, that reminds me. My friend Sandy sent this to me today. I rarely read forwards. But this one really grabbed me. Read and think.

A young man had been to Wednesday night Bible Study.


The Pastor had shared about listening to God and obeying the Lord's voice.




The young man couldn't help but wonder, "Does God still speak to people?"



After service he went out with some friends for coffee and pie and they discussed the message.


Several different ones talked about how God had led them in different ways.



It was about ten o'clock when the young man started driving home. Sitting in his car, he just began to pray, "God..If you still speak to people speak to me. I will listen. I will do my best to obey."



As he drove down the main street of his town, he had the strangest thought to stop and buy a gallon of milk.

He shook his head and said out loud, "God is that you?" He didn't get a reply and started on toward home.

But again, the thought, buy a gallon of milk.


The young man thought about Samuel and how he didn't recognize the voice of God, and how little Samuel ran to Eli.

"Okay, God, in case that is you, I will buy the milk." It didn't seem like too hard a test of obedience. He could always use the milk. He stopped and purchased the gallon of milk and started off toward home.

As he passed Seventh Street, he again felt the urge, "Turn Down that street."



This is crazy he thought and drove on past the intersection.



Again, he felt that he should turn down Seventh Street.



At the next intersection, he turned back and headed down Seventh.



Half jokingly, he said out loud, "Okay, God, I will".



He drove several blocks, when suddenly, he felt like he should stop. He pulled over to the curb and looked around. He was in semi commercial area of town. It wasn't the best but it wasn't the worst of neighborhoods either. The businesses were closed and most of the houses looked dark like the people were already in bed.

Again, he sensed something, "Go and give the milk to the people in the house across the street." The young man looked at the house. It was dark and it looked like the people were either gone or they were already asleep. He started to open the door and then sat back in the car seat.


"Lord, this is insane. Those people are asleep and if I wake them up, they are going to be mad and I will look stupid." Again, he felt like he should go and give the milk.


Finally, he opened the door, "Okay God, if this is you, I will go to the door and I will give them the milk. If you want me to look like a crazy person, okay. I want to be obedient. I guess that will count for something but if they don't answer right away, I am out of here."


He walked across the street and rang the bell. He could hear some noise inside. A man's voice yelled out, "Who is it? What do you want?" Then the door opened before the young man could get away.

The man was standing there in his jeans and T-shirt. He looked like he Just got out of bed. He had a strange look on his face and he didn't seem too happy to have some stranger standing on his doorstep. "What is it?"

The young man thrust out the gallon of milk, "Here, I brought this to you." The man took the milk and rushed down a hallway.

Then from down the hall came a woman carrying the milk toward the kitchen. The man was following her holding a baby. The baby was crying. The man had tears streaming down his face.


The man began speaking and half crying, "We were just praying. We had some big bills this month and we ran out of money. We didn't have any milk for our baby. I was just praying and asking God to show me how to get some milk."

His wife in the kitchen yelled out, "I ask him to send an Angel with some. Are you an Angel?"


The young man reached into his wallet and pulled out all the money he had on him and put in the man's hand. He turned and walked back toward his car and the tears were streaming down his face.

He knew that God still answers prayers.



This is so true. Sometimes it's the simplest things that God asks us to do that causes us to be happy, if we are obedient to what He's asking for us to do. we are to be able to hear His voice more clearer than ever if we just listen. Please listen and obey He will bless you (and the world) as the young man who followed his call. Phil 4:13

Things that have blessed me this week:
* Benjy being four years old. Wow.
* sunshine and sitting on the back porch
* a boss who lets me drive all the way back home to retrieve an upset little boy's backpack because he really NEEDED his Star Wars Guys
* Camden's draft of a letter to his karate instructor asking to be on a special team in class
* Curt's safe arrival back home to us
* My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Picoult
* losing 4 pounds

Grandmomma Gibson taught me how to crochet when I was a tweenager. She would drink her umpteenth cup of coffee while I nibbled on Peppermint Patties swiped from her covered crystal candy dish. Her cigarette would lay smoking on the edge of her crystal ashtray. I swear that thing must have been as big as a dinner plate. We'd rummage through her stash of yarns, taking forever to choose the perfect colors for our newest projects. I always chose some multicolored skein because I thought it was just so fancy. The colors didn't matter; it was just the way that they blended from one color smoothly into another that spoke to my heart.

Grandmomma taught me how to crochet a chain, loop its ends together and make circles and granny squares out of that. She taught me how to make a really long chain and then go back and forth across it stitching rows and rows and rows. I could make straight rows and curvy rows and even eye-pleasing nice and graphic zig zag rows. Grandmomma taught me all of that. I made lots of granny squares when I was younger. I almost made an afghan once. Or twice. Every now and then as I grew up, I picked up my size G crochet needle (the very same pink metal one Grandmomma bought me) and began a new project, only to grow impatient with it and put it down, misplace it, and then forget all about it for years and years and years.

Recently I spotted this rag rug tutorial over on Craftzine's blog. I fell in love with this rug and had to have one for myself. Now I knew positively why I have been saving old pajama bottoms, shirts and pants I could never, ever part with. (The cooler the fabric, the more convinced I was that I could do something with it some day.) On Saturday I went to JoAnn's and bought myself a size Q crochet needle then came home and cut up my old raggedy clothes. As I wound the strips of cloth into balls I remembered Grandmomma teaching me how to do this with yarn. I was always fascinated with how quickly the balls of fibers grew as I wrapped and wrapped and wrapped the string.

By evening, I began my rug. The tutorial mentioned using a single stitch. Grandmomma didn't give her stitches names. She taught me a chain and some complex set of ins and outs that made one giant stitch. I have no idea what it's called, but I chose to use that one in my rug. It's only as big as a chair pad right now, but it's a perfect oval in shades of lilacs, peaches, yellows and pinks. I think the pinks are the same shade as her eyeglasses. Grandmomma would be so proud.

When this rug is finally finished (hopefully before this time next year) I'll put it in my bathroom, where the evening sun washes the walls in its brilliant light. I am convinced that this project is my next BIG ART THING. What scrapbooking was a few years ago, this rug is now. I'm not fooling myself. I know I won't crochet for the rest of my days. Probably just every now and then until I'm sitting in an old folk's home waiting for Camden to bring me a smile of Benjy to plant a blueberry kiss on my cheek. I know I won't forget how to stitch across the rows or around the granny square. I'll be making these moves with my hands long after I've lost my memory for what I had for breakfast. While I may lose my passion for it in the years ahead. I'll never forget this gift from Dad's mom. Thanks, Grandmomma.

The Hokie Nation

I can't tear myself away from the TV news. CNN, Fox, NBC, whatever channel is covering Virginia Tech. Whichever talking head is there, on the campus when I turn on the TV or turn from a commercial. If I'm not watching television, I'm at roanoke.com or planetblacksburg.com or all over the web searching for Nikki Giovanni's closing remarks from Tuesday's convocation. I am on overload.

Yesterday I came home, exhausted from our longest day of standardized testing. I crashed on the couch with the remote control in my hand and a heating pad on my back. I watched until I was saturated with the news, with the names of the victims and the face of the shooter, the images of mourning, praying, questioning, chaos. I had to go to bed to put an end to the loop of the latest news running on the back of my eyelids. Then I felt so horrible for those for whom the loop will never stop. I just want to be there. I want to be home.

Curt and I miss Roanoke right now. We're incredibly homesick. We see pictures of places we've been, addresses we know, even a reporter from The Ronaoke Times who was visible on network news footage of a press conference. We see traffic moving along US 460, a glimpse of the familiar limestone buildings of the VT campus, and the familiar of clashing colors of orange and maroon. We see home.

I'd feel powerless if I didn't believe so strongly in the power of prayer. So I pray fervently. I thank God for Virginia Tech, for the students and staff who made it and for the lives of those who did not. I thank God for the prayer vigils, for the spontaneous recitation of The Lord's Prayer at the convocation and for "Amazing Grace" sung at one of the vigils. I thank Him for the doctors and staff in the hospital on that horrific day, for ministers striving to reach out to a community in shock and in mourning. I thank Him for hope.

And I send my petitions, too. I ask for peace for the victims, peace for the students and staff and faculty. Peace for a campus and small town that is supposed to host these crowds only for football games. I pray for wisdom for university leaders and police officers and restraint for the media that they maintain the dignity of all. I pray for a great revival to come where the name of Jesus Christ will lift us all in the hope and belief that we will, in the words of Giovanni, prevail.

Go Hokies.