Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me and I in him. John 6:56
A year ago, when my then twelve-year-old son, Zack, asked me, right before Communion, if he could drink the consecrated wine, I was caught like a deer in head lights. There’s a strong line of alcoholism that runs through my husband’s family tree, and mine. That heredity thing scares me. I was hoping I could postpone any alcohol passing my kids’ lips for a very, very long time. But here I was with just a split-second to make my decision.
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My son, Mason, was in the Middle School production of Madagascar, Junior this past weekend. During the months of rehearsals leading up to it, he kept complaining that there was too much singing and dancing, and not enough acting. Consequently, he and his friend had decided they wouldn’t be doing drama next year.
Jocelyn had to turn a two-liter soda bottle, and herself, into a famous person for a project at school. She chose Queen Elizabeth II. She also had to research the Queen and share what she learned with the class.
Mason suffered a deep disappointment last week, so deep he went to a dark and angry place because of it. We all just backed off and gave him his space to work through it.
When Jocelyn was little, she was incredibly easy-going. Yet, every now and then, there’d be these meltdowns that came out of nowhere. When I say “meltdowns,” I mean she would sob and sob, inconsolably. Nothing I did helped. I finally would have no choice but to put her to bed, even if it were two o’clock in the afternoon.
On Friday, I took my kids to see the light that was installed at the 