What I want for Christmas. (Louise)

My Christmas Wishes are as follow:

1: My siblings to not argue, 
2: The privilege to wear makeup. 
3: To be taller, 
4: That no one would tease me.
5: So that no one would call me as follows: Weezer, Squeeze, Captain Squeezo, Tweezer and Beezer. 

These are the wishes of Miss Louise Bowling, the second oldest of the Bowling children. 

A Ten year old's view of Christmas

FYI: this Christmas is my tenth one in MY LIFE.
This Christmas the requests are as follow:

        I.            A Kindle (or any other portable electronic reading source.)

      II.            Harry Potter Lego Hogwarts:  (See the following link) http://shop.lego.com/enUS/catalog/quickViewProduct.jsp?productCode=4867

    III.            New DSi games. (NO STAR WARS!)

    IV.            To paint my bedroom Mint Green ( A request of both the Bowling Girls)
  V:     A Cell Phone.
  VI:    To not go to Middle School. (I've heard stories about Middle School, Bad stories.)

Splinters

Took Garrett and Eliza to Kaleo the other day to celebrate its 25th anniversary. Started the afternoon with a walk of the property with Rush, Remus and Dozer, telling stories of days gone by. Crossing the foot-bridge as we headed back to main camp, Garrett did what all kids do: run his hand along the length of the bridge until a sizable splinter set in. Splinters create more fear than pain. A truly painful event overwhelms fear, while splinters are defined by fear. 

"Show him," Eliza begins the conversation. Garrett hesitates; finally revealing a sizable piece of Kaleo history embedded in his palm. "No stress, kid. We'll get it out," as we head up the steps past the Worship Center and towards the Nurse's Quarters, as I did countless times throughout the summers of 1995-1997. 

Every few steps we stop to talk through the process: Yes, it's going to hurt a little bit. No, it will not hurt a lot. Yes, I can get the splinter out. No, I won't cut your hand off in the process. Repeat.

We enter the infirmary, and while I search through last summer's supplies for tweezers and wet-wipes, Garrett is hunched in a chair, continuing through the same questions. "It'll be alright," I comfort him, letting him know what I'm about to, am doing, just did. "Here is is," I surprise Garrett as I hand him the splinter in all its faded glory.

I hate confession. It is healthy, wise, necessary... but I avoid it if at all possible and let the shards of sin fester. Is it going to hurt? Yes. A lot? No. Can you heal and forgive? Yes. Will you cut me off? No. Repeat. I hesitate, and slowly climb up on the infirmary chair to let God heal and change me through confession, finding that the fear was greater than the pain, and grateful for God's patient response to my reluctance.

sok

Is it focus, or lack thereof

After a late night adventure with Dad and Eliza (in the car at 10:30pm, asleep at 10:45, in bed at midnight), and the morning spent at church, Garrett was burnt, just barley functioning, ready for a nap.
"Upstairs, and directly to bed," mom ventures, in what seems to be clear instructions.
Twenty minutes later, as we hear a door open and close, Maggie finds him in his floor playing with Legos. "To bed with you," she shoos him under the covers, head on pillow, lights out.
Ten minutes later, finding him up again, Maggie's patience begins to get tested. But as evolving parents, we try reason, "Garrett, you are very tired, you are grumpy and are crying too much. You need to go to bed. Garrett, (we assume that starting every sentence with his name helps Garrett realize that we are specifically talking to him), you went to bed late last night, were up early this morning, and will be up late tonight. Tomorrow is a school day, and you need some rest. I want you to get in your bed and go to sleep. Do you understand?"
"Uhm, yes."
Three seconds pass.
"Mommy, I have a question." 
"Yes"
"Can I get up and play?"

Focused Prayer

Evening hours and dark. Emily, Louise and Bowling-mom are readying themselves for prayer. Various requests are presented, but the ideas quickly run dry. "Mom, I don't know what to pray for," Louise states.
"Well, this is Christmas time, and there are lots of people who don't have family to spend time with, or who are struggling with money and cannot buy their kids presents. You can pray for them," mom leads.
"And you can pray Nathan Musgrove. He looked sick today at the Nutcracker," Emily adds.
So the prayers begin, and the three girls in turn beseech.
Upon completion, Louise adds as an afterthought, "Jesus, please take care of Nathan Musgrove." At which point, Emily responds, "What's wrong with Nathan Musgrove?" Apparently, not enough to remember.