10 Haikus About Motherhood

Aug 3 2015

Here’s how I feel today: pfffttttttt.

So I wrote haikus.

I don’t know why those things go together, but they do.

Without further ado, here are:

10 Haikus About Motherhood

Got Out of Bed Late
Got out of bed late.
Big surprise. By which I mean,
No surprise at all.

Spilled Coffee
Spilled coffee on my
shirt on my way to work this
morning. Normal day.

My Kids Yell
My kids yell and yell
And yell and yell and yell and
Yell and yell and yell.

My Dog Licks Balls
My dog likes to lick.
Especially balls. My dog
Is a Ball Licker.

Chips
Potato chips break.
They’re fragile. Brittle. Crumbly.
Shrapnel everywhere.

Potato shrapnel
In my bed, on my couch, in
The carpet. Shards hurt.

I’d Like to Poop Alone
I’d like to poop a-
lone. I’d like to poop alone.
Lonely poop sounds nice.

Boys Pee on Things
Boys pee on things like
grass and trees and walls and floors,
bees and leaves and me.

Perimenopause
Perimenopause.
Not quite menopause, but FUN!
Night sweats are sex-ay.

I’m a Tired Mom
I’m a tired mom.
That’s redundant, isn’t it?
Too tired to count syllables anymore. Pfft.

And here’s one more, as a bonus, not about motherhood, but probably applicable, depending on the kind of day you’re having:

How I Feel About What’s Happening in Our Churches and Our (in)Ability to Love Our Neighbors as Ourselves
Balls, balls, balls, balls, balls,
Balls, balls, balls, balls, balls, balls, balls.
Fuckity fuck. Balls.

In conclusion,  pfffttttttt.

Love,

Signature

 

 

 

P.S. Please share your haikus with me, too. A bad haiku LOVES company, friends. It’s what Jesus would do. Pretty sure.

In Retrospect…

Aug 2 2015

In retrospect, taking 6 kids in 100+ degree weather in a non-air-conditioned vehicle for a 7 hour road trip isn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done.

On the bright side, it’s also not the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, and we invented the most fabulous on-the-go, do-it-yourself, totally-Pinterest-worthy air conditioning system while we were at it. Our system is called ICE EVERYWHERE — ice every damn where — and it worked! It worked!

Please don’t feel sad if you’ve never thought of that elegant solution yourself. It’s OK. You’re OK. Some of us are Pinteresty, and some of us aren’t, and we accept all comers here. As for me, I’m Pinteresty. Obviously. I mean, I even shoved ice in my hair, man.

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Because DEAR LORD, IT WAS HOT.

Just in case you’d like to create your own DIY Air Conditioning, I’ve created a step-by-step guide below. BECAUSE I CARE, friends. Because I care.

DIY Portable Air Conditioning
A Step-By-Step Guide

Step 1: Borrow a large passenger vehicle. We borrowed an airport shuttle from my father-in-law, but I imagine any bulky, unwieldy, beast of a van absent air circulation will do.
Step 2: When the vehicle’s owner notes the lack of air conditioning in said vehicle and asks if you’re really sure you want to borrow it, given the time of year, assure him you’ll be just fine without air conditioning. After all, you live in in a temperate part of the world and you grew up in Southeast Asia. Be sure to say things like, “Pacific Northwesterners are enormous wimps,” and “How bad can it be?” Scoff loudly.
Step e: Arrange for a 5 hour road trip. Make lots of potty stops and also sort of crash your borrowed vehicle into a coffee shop awning so it becomes a 7 hour road trip. I mean, you could just make a 5 hour road trip in 5 hours, but where’s the fun in that? Honestly.
Step 4: Bring a half dozen children. They needn’t all be yours. In fact, it’s better if they’re not all yours, because being responsible for other people’s children while you’re crashing your borrowed vehicle into coffee shop awnings and keeping them locked in a metal can in the blistering heat creates maximum enjoyment for everyone where the word “enjoyment” is replaced with “dear God, what have I done?”
Step 5: Decide that if this isn’t going to be The Worst Road Trip of All Time, you’re going to have to Do Something and Do It Quick.
Step 6: Buy a boat load of ice and twelve hundred dozen million frozen treats and tell the 6 children there’s UNLIMITED EVERYTHING. YOU CAN HAVE WHATEVER YOU WANT, KIDS. SHOVE THAT ICE WHEREVER YOU LIKE AND EAT ALL THE POPSICLES. HAVE A BALL!
Step 7: Giggle when they actually shove ice every damn where.
Step 8: Be supportive when they craft their own elegant, DIY air conditioning system titled Screw Pants.

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^^^The inventors of Screw PantsTM ^^^

 

In conclusion, take that, Pinterest.

Also, Screw Pants.

With love,

Signature

 

 

 

P.S. If you’ve ever wondered how to greet your neighbors when they come home from a 7 hour road trip with 6 kids in 100+ degree weather, wonder no more. THIS IS HOW:

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Cold beer. Cold Coke. Praise Jesus and people who really do love their neighbors as themselves.

On a Shattered Church, Sorrow, Sanctuary and Finding a Path Forward Together

Jul 27 2015

I sat on the patio on Friday night, barefoot with friends and some bottles of beer as the sun set on what we thought was an endless series of long, hot days, and the clouds rolled in for the first time in weeks. The air grew muggy anticipating the rain. We sighed, and we cried. We cried, my friends and I, and we mourned, and we gave our mourning as an offering, because we lost something on Friday, and when we lose things we cherish, mourning together becomes holy ground. A kind of worship. The rain coming seemed fitting, like the skies grieved and worshipped with us.

No one died, but hope did a little, on Friday. A little or a lot, depending on where you stand and whether the ones who hold the chalk drew you in or drew you out. I don’t like writing that hope died; it seems dramatic and melancholy, but that’s how it felt, like hope died. But maybe it just faltered. Yes; faltered may be what I mean.

I belong to a church which belongs to a larger group of churches, and on Friday our circle became smaller. Smaller on purpose, it seems, because on Friday we learned that a fellow church has been released from membership – dis-membered, if you will – because that church’s conviction that LGBTQ people will be welcomed and affirmed as full participants in their community is “shattering” to the whole, and our larger group of churches is “unable to embrace our current diversity.”

Another church let go. It’s the same story we’ve heard before. The same story across the nation. The same story across the denominations. Another church let go. “Released.” Not without thought. Not without nuance. Not without prayer. Not without kind, good people agonizing for years over an excruciating, impossible decision and making it anyway. It’s the same story. The same story still. This time, though, it’s happening in my world. My world, which I know is small, but is large in my heart and full of people who are now, ironically, shattered in order to stem the shattering tide. Shattered on the altar of preventing a larger break. Shattered in the hope of holding something together, but something that seems more broken now, and how do we hold broken bits together? How does exclusion keep enough pieces to repair?

Friends, hear me now; this breaks my heart. And hear this, too; it breaks the hearts of the people who are now excluded from our community and the hearts of the people who made this decision. It breaks the heart of Jesus. No doubt. No question. Heart-breaking all around.

As a Christian who loves Jesus and the Bible and is an LGBTQ ally, my position is, I suppose, clear. And so I was left Friday night with a Now What? Now what? Now that the broader group of churches to which I belong has let me know they’re unable to embrace our current diversity – in essence, unable to embrace me and what I believe – is there a place for me here? How do I stand with my friends who are displaced? How do I stand with my friends who aren’t? How do I love all my neighbors; those who are inside the circle of fellowship and those who’ve been removed? Do I rescind my own membership? Do I stay and follow Love’s lead from within? What do I do? And, most important of all, how do I let my LGBTQ friends know how very much they are cherished and loved? Adored for who they are; made in the very image of God? Not alone?

I sat in sorrow on Friday, and I wondered what to do – action oriented as I am, which is a particular fault of mine – and I felt Love whisper to my tired spirit. “The path is the same. The path hasn’t changed,” Love said, and I was comforted because I know what path Love meant; I’d just lost sight of it in my angst.

Whether we are invited to the table or sent from it, our path forward is the same for those of us who believe in a God whose other name is Love. The path forward is the same. Grace. Peace. Love of God and love for our neighbors. The recognition that all are our neighbors, all are made in the very image of the divine, and all are achingly, stunningly, beautifully human. The path forward is the same. Care for the broken-hearted. Mourning with those who mourn. Reaching toward the wounded. Creating safe havens. Embodying sanctuary.

The Church has sent people away again and again throughout its entire history. Again and again. Over foreskins. Over bacon. Over women and wine and water; whether and when women can have a voice; whether and when we can drink wine, no matter that Jesus said do this; whether and when we immerse or sprinkle ourselves with water as baptism as though baptism by fire isn’t an acceptable form or baptism by wilderness or baptism by exclusion or baptism by grace.

We argue, instead. We argue semantics and love. We argue, and again and again people are left – discarded by the churches that say, “You may have a place somewhere; it’s just not with us.” Again and again, people are left, reeling and hurt. And so, again and again, we get to choose our path.

Here’s what I choose, friends…

I choose to sit in the mud with the suffering. I choose to sit barefoot with beer on holy ground. I choose to sit on the patio with friends who are confused and wounded as the heat from the day vanishes and the moon rises and the clouds roll in. I choose to commune with the broken-hearted as rain follows months of sun.  I choose to journey with those who have been told they’re no longer part of the club.

Loving our neighbors comes with consequences. It always has. It always will. The Good Samaritan paid a price to help the man left on the side of road. A literal price in time and gold and forbearance as the wounded man healed. This price is nothing new, friends.

Our work together is to find hope in the middle of the hurt. To gather the wounded. To provide sanctuary and solace. To let the weary rest. To speak gently to the wary. To sit in the mud and the muck and the mire with the angry and sorrowful and those who are too numb to feel anything at all.

This is the work of God. This is the work of Love. To find those who’ve been excluded and to draw the circle wide again. To draw it wide and wider and to let them come in.

He drew a circle that shut me out–
Heretic, a rebel, a thing to flout.
But Love and I had the wit to win:
We drew a circle that took him in!

Edwin Markham

With Love,

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P.S. Coincidentally (or “coincidentally” for those of us who think such things aren’t always coincidental ;)), I’ll be at West Hills Friends Church — the church that was released from Northwest Yearly Meeting membership — this Sunday, August 2nd at 12:00pm to facilitate a conversation sparked by this blog post: The Church Isn’t Dying; It’s Being Reborn. We’ll be talking about Sanctuary, too. You can find the event information here on Facebook. I can’t imagine a bigger privilege than worshipping with my West Hills friends during this time, and I’d love to see you there. I’ll be there for their worship service at 10:00am, as well. Join me?

P.P.S. For those of my LGBTQ friends who are suffering from this decision, who may feel adrift or alone, please read these posts by my friends Mark Pratt-Russum and Gregg Koskela. You are loved.

On Being Hidey

Jul 22 2015

I’ve been offline for a while, traveling with my family and being generally overwhelmed and a little bit hidey. I’m emotionally under the covers, so to speak, and longing for a good book and a bathtub in which to lose myself for, oh, say, weeks and weeks.

It’s hard to know at times like this whether it’s simply too much going on that makes me hidey or if this is a resurfacing of the Depression Dragon. I’m shrugging my shoulders at you right now and mumbling, “I dunno,” ’cause I don’t. Not yet. Too soon to tell. The Depression Dragon may be waking, or I just may need to remember how to breathe.

When I get hidey, I usually want to stay hidey. It’s like an ever-increasing cycle of hidey-ness. I hide; therefore, I want to keep hiding.

Part of being hidey for me is listening too hard and too long to the voice in my head that tells me I have nothing to say, nothing worthwhile to contribute, nothing that might help others in their hidey-ness to feel less alone. I’m learning in my older age not to listen to that voice, though, because that voice is unkind and also a lying liar who lies.

So I’m just taking this one minute to throw this out there. To say, I’m hiding a little. And to wave at you from under the emotional covers… just with my hand outside the blanket, and maybe one eyeball. Waving and waving in the dark, even though this dark is of my own creation. And to ask, muffled by my covers, how are you? How are you, friends? Would you take just a minute and tell me if you’re hidey, too, or if you’re free and wild, or if you don’t know? I think, perhaps, if we all might bring our blankets to the party — the blankets we’re using to hide or the blankets we’ve discarded — that we could build a little fort here together. And maybe someone can bring a flashlight. And a good book. And a few pillows. And we might make a party.

This Isn’t a Real Post Unless You Need to Know, Like I Did, That There’s a Town in Austria Named F*cking. In That Case, It’s an Extra Real Post and You Should Read It Right Away.

Jul 11 2015

I’ve been offline for a while because I’m in Europe with my oldest kid thanks to plane tickets from my parents. THANK YOU, MY PARENTS.

We’re visiting our friends, Mark and Carina, in the Netherlands and making day trips from there. I met Carina through this blog years ago. She became my Dutch pen pal, and I love her times a million. In two weeks, she and Mark are loading up their four kids to come visit us in Oregon, proving she’s at least as nutjobby as me. Wheeee!

So we’ve been go-go-going for days hereabouts, and I haven’t made time in the scramble to write to you.

On the down side, I’m so tired I can’t think or move.

On the bright side, EUROPE.

Also on the bright side, CARBS. Dutch pancakes, Belgian waffles, baguettes, croquettes and beer for DAYS.

Also-also on the bright side, and this is the reason I realized I MUST WRITE YOU, I learned there’s a town in Austria called Fucking.

Ladies and gentlemen, there’s a town in Austria called Fucking.

Fucking.

A whole Fucking town.

THIS IS WHY WE TRAVEL, friends. Because WE CARE ABOUT LEARNING THINGS.

And when we learn things we can share those things with others.

Sharing time is a happy time, which is why I knew I had to tell you:

There’s a town in Austria called Fucking.

Furthermore, and I think you’ll agree this is a critical detail, there’s a town in Germany called Titmoning.

Titmoning, guys.

Pronounced tit moning.

And guess what? Guess what?

You have to go through Titmoning to get to Fucking.

I KID YOU NOT.

The 14-year-old boy child who lives perpetually in my brain rejoices. Hard. Also, he giggles and claps.

I mean, sure, there are other routes to Fucking. OF COURSE there are. There are other routes to Fucking; it’s just that Titmoning is obviously one of the better ways to get there.

This is, like, totally a conversation they have in Europe:

“What is the best way to get to Fucking?”

“Well, there are several routes, but I’d definitely go through Titmoning.”

Heh heh.

Mark says it only takes about 15 minutes to get from Titmoning to Fucking. Frankly, I think Mark may be a little optimistic, but what do I know?

In conclusion, this world is a wonderful place, and I’m very glad I get to live in it.

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P.S. I wish I’d had this information a couple years ago. Then when my kids asked me what fucking is, I could’ve told them it’s a town in Austria. Opportunity missed, folks. Opportunity missed.

P.P.S. There’s a brewery in Fucking. They make two kinds of beer: Fucking beer and Fucking Hell. This is important because it means, practically speaking, next time you want to give someone Fucking Hell, YOU LITERALLY CAN.

P.P.P.S. Lots of new people have been coming to the blog lately to read about Jesus — the Why I Quit Loving the Sinner and Hating the Sin post. I felt like I should maybe apologize to them for writing about Fucking, Austria, but then I realized they’re either a) Jesusy people with a sense of humor, b) non-Jesusy people with a sense of humor, or c) Jesusy people looking for other heretical things I say so they can discount all of what I say, and then I didn’t feel like apologizing anymore because there’s a win for every group in this piece! Everyone gets what they want! WIN/WIN/WIN! Which, like they say in The Office, is WAY better than a Win/Win.

P.P.P.P.S. You’re welcome, everyone. You’re very welcome.

The Church Isn’t Dying; It’s Being Reborn

Jun 29 2015

Every once in a while, I speak here as a Christian to Christians about Christiany things, and I invite the rest of you to participate because you’re always welcome here and always encouraged to pull up a chair to this table. Now because this blog welcomes a wild and wide array of people from all backgrounds, some of you have no interest in this topic, and that’s OK. No sweat. I’ll be talking again soon about pooping my closet or being too sweary or teaching my children to vandalize things and generally upsetting polite society; things you can, in other words, be dismayed I say in public. Hang in there! I’ll be back to delight and/or offend you again soon. Right now it’s the Christians’ turn.

Ready, friends? Alrighty, then. Off we go!

……….

Dear Fellow Christians,

I hear a lot of talk these days. A lot of talk. Talk accompanied by hand-wringing. Talk accompanied by agonizing. Talk accompanied by finger-wagging and distress and, well, even some woe. The Church, by and large — and I mean the universal Church here, the whole shebang, the big enchilada — is kind of, to be technical about it, FREAKING THE HECK OUT.

“THE CHURCH IS DYING,” we say. “The Church is almost dead.” And we get panicky and fearful because the Church is gasping for breath, and it’s on our watch.

It’s not last week’s SCOTUS decision to legalize marriage for all comers and the implication on a traditional view of Scripture that I’m talking about. Or not just that, since I’ve been drafting this post for a hundred, hundred years.

“THE CHURCH IS DYING,” we say, and we’ve been saying it for quite some time, looking for signs of deterioration and finding them everywhere.

“MILLENNIALS ARE LEAVING IN DROVES,” we cry.

“OUR NUMBERS ARE DECLINING.”

“Fewer and fewer people adhere to fundamentalist or even evangelical interpretations of the Bible,” we notice, and we’re right.

“THE PEOPLE IN THE PEWS ARE GETTING OLDER,” we see, and we wonder how to bring in the next generations.

“LOST,” we call people who don’t subscribe to our version of Church, as though we get to assign that title; as though we think we can know who’s lost and who’s found.

And I could cite examples for all of these things, but, frankly, I looked on the World Wide Webs, and — egads! — there are thousands of articles to choose from. Hundreds of thousands. WHOLE SERIES OF BOOKS where the freak-outs are happening. So, as a mama of five who works two jobs and has to choose some things not to do, I’m going to say, if you need proof, look it up. Google can help you. It’s what they do. It’s what they live for.

“THE CHURCH IS DYING,” we say, and we conduct polls and we read stats and we concoct fancy plans to lure people back.

“COME BACK,” we say, and people don’t. They don’t come back; not to church as we understand it, anyway, and we despair.

The Church, it seems, is on its death bed, and those of us who love Jesus – those of us who adore what the Church could be, as a Life-Giver and a Light-Bringer and a Love-Bearer – mourn.

But I want to suggest something to us.

I want to share a teeny, tiny thought.

I want to ask us to consider the idea that the Church may not be dying, friends; it may not be dying at all. The Church may be being reborn.

What if…?

What if this is true?

The Church isn’t dying. The Church is being reborn. 

Listen, friends. Listen. Listen to this little Whisper that sounds a lot like Hope.

The Church isn’t dying. It’s being reborn. The Church is being reborn as it has again and again throughout modern history.

Again and again, the Church is reborn.  

I mean, yes, the Church is a hot mess right now. A whole, big, emotional mess. We are not being kind. We are not being gentle. We are not exhibiting self-control. We are looking the Fruits of the Spirit in the eyes and hollering, “BITE ME, Fruits of the Spirit. BITE. ME.” Which, HELLO, is labor exactly. Birth in spades. BITE ME, Kindness. SUCK IT, Gentleness. I AM IN PAIN HERE, AND I AM DOING THE BEST I CAN.

Have you ever been in labor? Have you ever seen it? Imagined it, even? The pain, the agony, the ooey gooey mess; we are pooping all over that table, friends, while we labor and fight and push to bring about new life.

The Church isn’t dying. It’s being reborn. And it is a giant mess of a process, like birthing always is.

The Church isn’t dying. It’s being reborn, and there are people who don’t want to be in the room. They’ve disengaged. They’ve walked out. The process has been too painful. It’s been too much. That’s okay. It really is. Not all of us are built for labor or called to go through it. Not all of us can go through it after we’ve endured too much.

But some of us are in the middle of it. Smack dab. Called to labor. Called to engage. Called to do the birthing or to bear witness to it with all the gore and the swearing and the sweating and the slime. We’re called to labor with all the dedication and all the exhaustion and the risks in equal measure of triumph or defeat.

We’re called to labor because we’re driven to help New Life draw its first breaths. We’re called to labor because Love is pushing and kicking and straining to get out. We’re called to labor because we adore Love already, despite not knowing it fully, despite getting it wrong so often, and we’re called to labor because we know on some core level Love is always worth the agony.

The Church isn’t dying. It’s being reborn as Love again. We are abandoning fundamentalism, ironically to get back to the fundamental of the Gospel which is to Love God and ourselves and to give the gift of Love freely away, especially to those who are different than ourselves, because Love teaches us that those who are different are our Neighbors and our Friends.

We serve a God of Love, after all. We serve a God of Resurrection. We serve a God of New Life. And it turns out this isn’t a numbers game or a death game. This is a hearts game. A hope game. A faith game. A Love game.

Birth is beautiful, yes; A MIRACLE. And it’s gritty and grimy and ugly. Might I suggest this? That our exhaustion with the heresy of exclusion and the nitpicking of rule-bound faith is a rebirthing of the Church and not the killing of it?

Jesus has always been most present in the mess, friends. Born in the muck and the mess and the madness, divinity in the unexpected places. Why should we expect it to be different now? Where else would Jesus be found?

The truth is, I know less and less as the years go by; less and less, and what I do know becomes more deeply distilled into one message and one message only, which is this: Love God — or if the God name doesn’t make sense to you, too stretched out of shape by people trying to shove too many non-God shaped things inside it, then use God’s other name, which is Love; Love Incarnate. Love God. Love Love. Love the Author and Perfector of Love Itself. Love Love in its purest form, and then love each other from the outpouring of that Love. Love each other wildly and without limits. Full of undeserved, unearned Grace.

The Church isn’t dying; it’s being reborn. Again. As Love Incarnate. And that, my friends, is Hope.

With, it turns out, undying Love,

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P.S. Shel Silverstein already wrote this whole post in poem form. It’s called Invitation, and it’s one of the most Godly things I’ve ever read.

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So, friends, come in. Come in. Come in.

If you are a dreamer, come in.
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer…
If you’re a pretender, come sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come in!

 

 

The Importance and Meaning of Rainbows: An Essay by an 8-Year-Old Boy

Jun 27 2015

Dear Friends,

I came home from work yesterday to this.

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My dog dyed rainbow.

Given the SCOTUS ruling yesterday that made same-sex marriage legal nationwide, I thought my kids might be celebrating. You know, being timely! And up to date on current events! I don’t know how I thought they would’ve picked up that news from playing Minecraft all day, but a mama can hope her babies pay attention to Supreme Court decisions while she’s at work, can’t she? Then it occurred to me that the last time the kids dyed the dog, it was to paint flames down his sides, and I didn’t assume they were celebrating arson. So I asked them why they did it. Why did they paint the dog to look like a rainbow? Other than the obvious, of course; that they had a) paint and b) a dog. 

So we sat outside late at night as the heat faded and so did the sun, and we talked about rainbows. Rainbows and color. Rainbows and God. Rainbows and people. Rainbows and life and how we approach each other with compassion and kindness. And this morning, Cai, one of our 8-year-olds, sat down to write you this essay. Cai’s last essay here was co-written with his twin brother. It was about Penis Tendons. Because I told them, if they wanted to guest post on this blog, they must choose an important topic, spell words correctly, pay attention to sentence craft and structure, have a POINT and a conclusion, and it had to be about be about something that will improve the lives of others. So, Penis Tendons, obviously. Since then, they’ve tossed around the idea of guest posting again, but the writing muse eluded them. Until now. 

And so, because Cai asked, and because Cai has important and wise things to say, I give you Cai’s Essay on The Importance and Meaning of Rainbows. 

With love,

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The Importance and Meaning of Rainbows
by Cai Woolsey, age 8

Yesterday my brother Cael and me dyed Chip’s hair rainbow. Chip is our dog. He is friendly and nice but not always. He is white with curly hair. He is 9 years old and he barks for five minutes at a stranger but after that he cools down.

Our friend Kasey helped dye Chip’s ears and the top of his head red, and we used her hair dye.

We painted the dog because I thought it would be a good surprise on my parents, and I thought it would be a good look on Chip. We think it is.

Other kids should and shouldn’t dye their dogs. You shouldn’t dye your dog because if your dog doesn’t have white hair it wouldn’t look so good, but if your dog does have white hair it would look great, so then you should.

Let’s talk about the importance of rainbows. I dyed my dog rainbow because I like rainbows. They are full of beautiful colors that are all different.

In the Bible, the rainbow symbolizes new life. Do you remember the story of Noah’s Ark? The story of Noah’s Ark is about Noah and his family building a huge wooden boat, and God tells Noah to gather two of each animal and put it in the boat. His family gets on the boat with him and there is a huge flood that floods the whole earth. After the flood there is a rainbow and the rainbow is a symbol of new life and promise that God would never flood the earth again.

In America, rainbows symbolize that a boy and a boy can get married and a girl and a girl can get married if they want to. I think that it’s a good idea because if a girl and a girl or a boy and a boy are in love that they should be allowed to get married.

Rainbows are the most cool in science because you get to see that light is made up of the colors of the rainbow. All of the colors are very different and beautiful, and the rainbow is the most beautiful of all because it is all the colors together. It is just like God shining through us. We are all different and beautiful, and we’re even more beautiful all together.

I think rainbows remind us of the Fruit of the Spirit which is in the Bible, too. Those are love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, gentleness, and self-control.

Some people say rainbows are a girl thing. They are wrong because PEOPLE CAN LIKE ANYTHING NO MATTER WHAT.

This story is important because I hope that people will think differently about rainbows. Rainbows are for all people. They are about love and light and God and new life. You should never misjudge a rainbow; it’s like never judge a book by its cover. What you find inside is most important.

……….

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Cai Woolsey is 8 years old.

When he grows up, he wants to be a doctor because he likes being around people, talking to them, and helping them.

Cai likes to type essays while sporting pink and blue nail polish and wearing his shirt backwards on purpose. At age 6, he coined the phrase, “All the colors are for all the people,” a slogan he lives by today.