On Sunday mornings, the Baptist church would send a bus through the neighborhood where they lived and she sent her daughter to church with many of the other children.

Before long, Briscoe looked out her window and saw two women talking to her daughter on the playground. She immediately ran them off with loud and abusive language.

They were her daughter’s Sunday School teachers.

A few weeks later, they knocked on her door and asked if they could pray for her.

‘I cussed them out and told them to get off my porch’ she said.

Then the women offered to babysit whenever Briscoe needed help. She told them off again. Then they invited her to children’s programs at church and she refused.

‘Those women were relentless, [emphasis mine -erin]‘ Briscoe said. ‘Finally, they asked us over for a meal and we went. Soon I was in a car with them and they led me to the Lord.’

Finding Jesus didn’t make the problems of the world go away for Briscoe. There was a lot of damage inflicted in 30 hard years.

But a little more than a year of Theophostic Prayer Ministry has led to a devotion to both her God and the girls who she wants to rescue from the streets.

Briscoe was not content to let becoming a prostitute be her story. She has turned the page and now works with church groups and other organizations to try to help those who are still living that life to get out.

-full article at the Augusta Gazette

“A modest man who did not court celebrity or praise, Mr Ritchie would spot would-be suicides from his home and slowly walk across the road to them. At the cliff-edge he would simply smile and ask them, ‘Can I help you in some way?’ More often than not the quiet approach worked, though on some occasions he risked his own life by physically restraining the more determined from making their final leap.

” ‘You just can’t sit there and watch them,’ he added. ‘You’ve got to try and save them.’ ”

-full article at The Independent

Number One: I like Lavinia. Leave Matthew and her alone.

Number Two: I am so tired of the Mrs. Bates storyline. Will you leave that alone as well, please?

A sleepy Daphne is sitting next to me on the couch, watching “Sesame Street” with as much interest her little body can muster. I credit Jason Schwartzman in his cameo as a magic chef.

Next up: “Rushmore.”

me: Mia, am I your favorite Mommy in the whole world?

Mia: Um, I guess I’m not really sure…

Every time my parents come in town, as well as every time we visit my parents in Tulsa, we eat a lot.  A LOT a lot.  My parents, my sister and her husband, Hubby and I all love good food and new restaurants so we try them out.  And since my parents are always sweet enough to foot the bill, they buy us the appetizers and desserts and wine that Hubby and I would not normally splurge on.

During one of these all-out YumFests a few months ago I looked at the gorgeous piece of chocolate cake in front of me and sighed before blurting out, “It will take a lot of time on the treadmill to work off these calories.”

My sister’s face got very serious as she responded, “Erin, don’t be one of those people.”

I try very hard to not be one of THOSE people–the ones who obsesses over calories and exercise and the scale–but I’ve nearly always been one.  I was always one of the tallest in my grade, nearly the first to get breasts and hips and extra weight in puberty.  I remember standing in the hallway in 4th or 5th grade and looking at my shorter and skinnier friend Nicki, wishing that I could be shorter so that I could be skinnier.  As if one equaled the other.

I’ve never been overweight but I did come to understand social ideals right as Kate Moss and Calvin Klein’s cK one female models were androgynous, void of the breasts and hips and weight my pituitary gland had lavished on me.  At school, all my friends were a size or two smaller than me.  At home, my sister carried the skinny genes of my mother, not the muscular genes of my father that my body fashioned itself after.

So calories (well, fat grams in the 90s) and the scale have always been at the forefront of my mind.  Not the exercise, mind you.  I would let my mind be consumed with thoughts of the skinnier, happier girls around me but rarely exercised to take care of the problem.  It was easier to sit in my frustration than do anything about it.

Finally a few years ago I gave it up to God.  I didn’t want to torment myself with foolish notions that just because she (whoever “she” might be) was skinnier than me she was therefore happier than me, or even worse, better than me.  So every day, every time a ridiculous thought came into my brain about how I needed to lose weight to be happier, I prayed that God would take it away.  Because I don’t want to spend my time obsessed with food and calories.  There are better things to fill my thoughts.

My sister caught me at a bad time when she reprimanded me–the pregnancy weight from Daphne hadn’t gone away yet, I’d just joined the gym to get healthy and find the body I remembered.  And those calorie counters are everywhere.  Right in front of my face in bright red numbers on the treadmill that I use, calories per serving listed on most foods I put in my mouth.  It’s hard not to get caught in the this-many-calories-in, this-many-calories-out mindset.

Hayley was good to remind me of who I don’t want to be.  I don’t want to be a lady that the maid on Spanglish maid fun of, the ladies who are so muscular and fat-free that they look like they don’t have fun.

I will continue to be the mom who eats ice cream with her kids and drinks a beer at night with her husband, all while eating sensible portions of healthy and yummy food throughout the day.  And a couple times a week I will push my body through exercise and enjoy its changing shape and becoming stronger.

Which is kind of what I don’t want to be doing.  I want to be frugal and happy with what I own, but my winter wardrobe only slides easily into summer, not perfectly.  Lots of cute dresses fill my closets, but they are thin and require leggings to be appropriate in public.  And while I love layering in the fall and winter and spring, SO HELP ME, I will not layer when it is 100 degrees outside.

I have cute skirts and skirts that have hidden shorts sewn underneath–just like Little Missy!–but I don’t have tops to go with them.  Once upon a time I did, but those days are long past.  The weight I gained while pregnant with Baby Chickadee never went away.  Apparently it’s here for good.  And you know what?  I don’t really mind.  I’m going to continue not gorging myself on food, I’ll continue to work out when t-ball schedules and Hubby’s work schedule align, but otherwise I’m the weight I’m going to be.  Which means I had to buy new shirts, new shirts that aren’t so stinking tight as the ones I already own.

I decided to head to Gap because I’m tired of shirts from Old Navy and Target and Wal-Mart getting stretched out after one season, then having to buy more.  With Gap I spend more but they last a long long time.  Well what do you know, but both times I went to Gap I got mega bucks off.  I bought lots of t-shirts and tank tops and paid less than $6 for each of them.  That’s cheaper than Target.

Then I bought an adorable sundress from Wal-Mart that I don’t need but it’s LINED which means I can wear it on its own when it’s really hot out.  I haven’t committed, though; it’s still hanging in my closet with tags on in case the buyer’s remorse overtakes me and I have to return it.  But it might be a keeper.

And that’s my summer fashion.  That should be it for me.  I figure if I stay honest with you about  my purchases then maybe I won’t buy as much junk.  Confessing to you keeps me frugal.  My husband thanks you for that.

My friend Jayme used to have a wonderful blog that she has since deleted–Facebook is her new blog–but on it one time she posted this verse from Exodus 32: “But Jacob replied, ‘I will not let you go unless you bless me.’ ”

That verse comes to mind a lot as I wrestle with God, as I try to figure out my life and what He wants from me and why, as I search for Him, does He allow my mind to be weighed down by insignificant frustrations?

Monday morning God and I wrestled.  Mostly it was me crying to Him for help because I could feel myself sliding down my well-used slope of frustration and anger and depression.

And I will not have it.  That is not the life I want.  I refuse to let myself be encumbered by the unnecessary trivialities of this world.  That’s what yesterday’s column is about.

Late summer/early fall I sat with my dear college friend Amy and talked dogs.  We both wanted a new dog and felt it was important to have a pure breed so that you know exactly what you’re getting.  Mutts are fine, but when you have tiny babies in the home you don’t want any surprises in the personality of your family pet.

Hubby and I decided on a boxer.  At dogluvers.com boxers’ top traits are listed as very friendly and affectionate.  Perfect.  Also they need very little grooming.  Super perfect.

So I watched craigslist for boxer puppies and signed up at nextdaypets.com to be contacted by boxer breeders.  Man do those people want a lot of money for boxer puppies.  Maybe it’s that way for all breeds, but yowza, they want lots of cash.

Through craigslist I found one litter in Oklahoma and when the lady sent me pictures they looked suspiciously like pit bulls.  Ain’t no way we’re getting a pit bull, no matter how nice Cesar Milan says they are.  Even if Augusta didn’t have a rule against owning them within the city limits.

Then I started checking the Kansas Humane Society website on the off-chance a cute little boxer might make its way there.  One day I found two three-month-old boxer mix females just after Hubby got home from work.  We rushed to check them out.  One of the girls was already being looked at so we went to a room and played with the other one.  She was cute and we took her home.

We have no idea what she’s mixed with.  For a while I thought maybe German Shepherd but now we’re joking she’s part boxer, part great dane.  Because our dog Molly is enormous.  Right now she’s eight months old and Hubby read that boxers can grow until they’re eighteen months old.  That girl will eat us out of house and home pretty soon.  Good thing she’s sweet or we’d be in trouble.

From Hayley’s blog:

So I kind of debated about whether or not to write this post because it could be a tad controversial, but then I decided that I feel strongly enough about it that I’d like to talk about it. And Todd said it was okay.

Sara Kruzan met her future pimp when she was 11 and he was 31. When she was 13 he started pimping her out twelve hours a night, 7 nights a week. When she was 16 she didn’t see a way out of her situation, so she shot and killed her pimp.

She was tried and found guilty, and sentenced to life in prison without parole. She’s now 32 and a model inmate who’s about to receive her associates degree.

A number of people are now working to get Governor Schwarzenegger to grant her clemency before he leaves office. Today, December 16, is a day some of those people have designated as a day to use social media to get the word out about Kruzan and get as many people as possible to petition Schwarzenegger. So, I’m doing my part on my little blog. If you have a blog or are on the Twitter or the Facebook, please consider blogging or tweeting or status updating about Kruzan. This is an article summarizing the situation, and here’s a petition to sign. The Facebook page has lots of suggestions on things to do to help Sara. Thanks.