A Summer Lesson

 I finally silence my cell phone as the text tone rings incessantly.  My dear aunt is posting pictures to all the grandkids.  The photos are nostalgic items from my grandfather's yellow farmhouse, for she is cleaning it out.

It has been a truly marvelous summer, exceeding my expectations.  Almost none of my summer goals are checked off, but somehow that's okay.

In June I attended my grandfather's funeral.  Living just down the road from him most of my childhood years, he is a constant in my memory.  Always there, always around, always showing up.

Two months ago, when we got the news, the grandchild/cousin text circuit was incredible.  We grew up together with him as patriarch.  Memory after memory ringing out the truth.  He is gone.  His memory is fully alive.

Before summer exits, before I receive the bolo tie I claimed from yesterday's photos, can I share what really matters to me?  Can I share what will stay alive always in me and what I've inadvertently passed on to my children without even trying?

I was ten or eleven when his first wife, my grandmother, lay dying from advanced cancer.  I loved her passionately.  I loved her so much my grades suffered that fifth grade year.  I was troubled by her pain, by her inevitable death.

It was not just me that loved her though.  During an afternoon on one of the last days of her life, I said my goodbyes to her silently failing body.  She lay in a hospital bed near the top of the stairs of the split level farmhouse.

I left the room and stood in the hallway; in the in between.  On one side was the kitchen where she'd cut my hair, fixed fabulous meals, and let me play barbies.  At the other end was the doorway into her death.

My grandfather walked out of her room and blurry eyed, ran into me.  He grabbed my shoulders, his body shaking with anguish, and then wrapped his arms around my little body.  He held me sobbing for a lifetime.

For sure, the embrace lasted less than a minute, but the impact it left will outlive him, and outlive me.  In that moment of his unrestrained grief released in my presence, his tears were a river, rushing through me, his oldest grandchild.  The river's intense rushing left me with a vision for a marriage like his.  I didn't even know the vision began.

True love, you see, is real.  True love is lasting.  True love means great gain, and great pain.

I witnessed the real deal marriage, where separation by death is the only option, and death comes only with a serious fight to remain alive and together.

My grandfather was a quiet man with a song at the right time and a quick wit when you thought he wasn't paying attention.

His commitment in marriage was loud, lasting, alluring.

Seeing something that good showed an impressionable preadolescent something to look for, strive for, wait for.  Without saying anything.

Grandpa's death this summer helped me to see what an incredible gift he gave me.  I have a great inheritance.  Divorce in our family is extremely rare.  My parents, aunts and uncles, siblings, and cousins have chosen strong and lasting marriages.  We've received a good legacy.  It's not perfect, but it's good.

Sometimes I think creating a legacy has to be complicated. From Grandpa I learned it just has to be real.

Real Visions

It's funny how twenty years later I still reach to the back of the toilet to flush.  Somehow, the toilet in the bathroom attached to my childhood bedroom was installed with the flusher on the back.  It tricked a lot of guests.

My parents have redone the bathroom, and probably ten years ago they put in a new toilet with the flusher in front.  But still, in the middle of the night or in the bright of the day, I relearned during my visit to Washington last week to reach for the front.

Home is like that--ingraining into our minds patterns, behaviors, and memories.

It was a joyous visit this spring.  For indeed spring has come there, the daffodils beginning to fade, the tulips in full glory, and the lilacs just starting to flower, their delicious fragrance still withheld.

Four of my kids and I visited family and friends in Washington.  Brian was in Peru and Conner stayed in Williston to attend school and thereby not have to retake his classes.

We happened to come when three of my dearest friends were moving or have recently changed up their new country homes. The space, acreage, and promise of new things, right at the dawn of spring brought much joy to our lives.

While we were there we had a couple hours of downtime, and I asked the kids which old haunt they'd most like to visit.  They chose Daffodil Hill and our old house.  I was reticent to visit our old neighborhood, fearing the lure of the street would cause us to look up old neighbors and put us behind in our time commitments.

Daffodil Hill a few years back

They insisted and so I caved, with the caveat that there was no getting out allowed.  We paused at the old place, turned around at the dead end where Dean had posted signs saying No Parking and Please Pick Up After Your Dog.

Next to the signs were the grapevines we'd transplanted and my dad taught me how to prune.  No one's pruned them since I had three years ago and their wild look choked my heart.

How many children from the neighborhood had paused in the early fall heat to try a grape, first when they were unripe and then again when full of sugar?  Will they still produce with such lack of care?

The hedge and the apple trees were equally as bad, unruly and shouting for attention.  Instead of the blue corduroy curtains hanging in the far bedroom there were gaudy brown taffeta panels.

The last thing I noticed was the pick up truck parked atop our sidewalk we created to enter through the side door instead of the front.  In such a small home, it was a wonderful addition so that the main entry did not get bombarded by constant use from the seven of us.  The front door was reserved for our many guests coming in and out.

Because of the pick up truck I could not see the roses I'd transplanted, carefully tended, and tried to fight aphids from every summer.

We drove off, eager for the next visit to my sister's, and the old house was forgotten.

Later, days later, I conjured up the image of the pick up truck again.  If it was on top of the sidewalk, then it was also on top of the five lilac bushes I'd planted.

My vision was for large, fragrant lilac bushes to flourish in the full sun, providing a bit of privacy to us from the park next door and beauty for others.  I was going to put a hidden bench there as the lilacs got bigger.

Four of those lilac bushes were picked out personally--one by each child (Tim being a baby and not caring much)--at the Hulda Klager Lilac Gardens up in Woodland.  We'd visit the gardens every spring, sometimes with friends and sometimes by ourselves, and smell the hundreds of varieties of lilacs cultivated and offered for our enjoyment.

The sale at the gardens was buy three, get one free.  Each child besides baby Tim picked their favorite.  I used a little of our tax return money for the purchase and took them home.  We made little stones with each child's handprint to put next to their lilac.  I planted them alternating--dark purple, light purple, dark purple, light purple.

Then I transplanted the other lilac in our yard.  The one some people brought us shortly after we'd moved in, telling me lilacs love lots of water and shade.

I stuck it in the shadiest spot and poor Bill next door walked over to faithfully water it every day while we were on vacation.  It hadn't grown much.

Lilacs actually thrive in sun.  Tim's lilac was much happier next to the others.

Now they are squashed by an old pick up and my vision will never be more than that...a vision.

That's okay, though painful.  There are lots of visions in that yard that are there because they. actually. happened.  Memories of little toddlers running about, planting gardens together, watching things grow, chasing squirrels, playing basketball and football and tag.

Times of getting stir crazy and being "Rain Runners."  Sometimes a child or two would run around the house fifty times and come in drenched.  Times playing capture the flag or sitting in the middle of the street watching the fireworks with neighbors. Those are the visions I will hold on to.

I'm thankful the lilacs are squashed and the plants untended.  It confirms the truth: it's not my house.

My beloved friends are making new homes right now.  They will have visions of what things will look like in the future. They will propose projects and improvements.  Some will come to pass and others will not.

Greater than all these, I have a vision for them, for me, for you.  A vision of our children and teens being raised in righteousness.  A vision of hearts revived with the truth that God loves them and their response is a life given over to His leading.

I can hear their adult selves sharing stories with their children from their childhoods.  I can see them pointing to the sky and telling them this was not all an accident.  I sense them whispering words of hope and wisdom and love into hearts yet unborn...a hushed truth that they are forgiven and accepted because of Jesus.

I pray over their places but even more so, their lives--for the visions that they look back upon, the memories that really do take place, that they will be able to say "the boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance."

"I Don't Have the Patience For That"

This title is a common response to the answer to what I do with the majority of my days: homeschool.

I've been trying to think about what it really means to not have patience for something.  Because my immediate thought is often "neither do I."  Unless it's been a particularly good day.  Then maybe I am pridefully smug.  That's very rare. (The part about a great day, I'm sure I have pride issues way too often.)

I can tell you that I keep at it, even though I don't feel I have the patience or organizational, disciplined character to educate my five offspring marvelously.  I also sometimes go to Walmart on a Saturday afternoon even though I don't have the patience for it.  Sometimes I drive in rush hour traffic (though that's not much of an issue here in Williston), or call my health care provider even though I really don't have the patience to wait to talk to someone who won't know how to answer my question.

And so I think in two directions:

1.  Have you thought through your child's education and are you doing what you are convinced is best for you, your child, and your whole family?  If so, great.  Then just say, "I've thought about homeschooling but don't think it's the right fit for our family."  I get it.  I've been there and will be there again.

2.  Do you make decisions on what you have patience for?  I'm not sure that's the best test for how to make commitments.  I don't think I would have had children in the first place if that was my criteria.  I probably wouldn't have gotten married, though I do have an amazing man who doesn't test my patience much, only supports me.  I wouldn't do many of the things I've chosen to do.

Patience is a fruit of the spirit.  It requires growth and time.  More growth and time for some than others, and I lean in the some category.

And so, this is not at all a post on whether you should homeschool or not, but only a challenge to our cultural thinking.

As Christians, we believe Christ's "divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness."  (2 Peter 1:3)

Let us make our decisions not on what we think we can handle, but on what Christ calls us to do.  For if He calls us, we can do all things through Christ who strengthens us. (Philippians 4:13)

Some decisions we get to make by faith--and then we can see God come through for us.  Some situations He allows into our lives without our input.  Either way, he is faithful to strengthen those who hope in Him.

How to Hang your Goals

Every once in a while I get smacked in the face with a reminder that I should think about how to bless my husband.

I think about how to school my kids, how to train my kids, how to inspire my kids, how to feed my kids,what to read to my kids, whether I should help with this or that opportunity, or contact this or that person about such and such.

But blessing my husband gets left behind.

Right when I was thinking about this he said something about really wishing we could get the Core Values Banners of our church hanging back up in the sanctuary since he was going to begin a series through those values again.

The problem was that last time they were up they kept collapsing in on themselves.

I thought, "That's what I'll do to bless my husband!"

I started by finding the banners.  They were up in the attic.  Then I unrolled the banners only to find out they were sticky and there were fold creases every six inches where the previous people rolled them around a light weight board.

I took them home.  I got really busy and they sat behind my couch for awhile.  Someone stopped in and told me about cleaning products for the stickiness.

Our housemate at the time and I brainstormed how to get the creases out.  We rolled them the other way and I put them back behind the couch.  Then I got busy again.

Week 2 (or was it 3?) of the Spiritual Value Series was coming up.  My friend from Washington was coming to stay and I still had this guilt about still not blessing my husband.

The Saturday afternoon she was here we took a couple of hours to work on the banners.  We started by engineering them so they would NOT collapse in on themselves again.

The idea of rolling-them-the-other-way-to-get-the-creases-out had not worked.  We tried idea number 2.  Towels and irons.  Here my dear friend traveled all this long way to see me and I had her ironing plastic banners on the church floor.  In futility.

We put them away until later.  Hanging them would be yet another challenge as they would be about 20 feet in the air.

I began to wonder if the banners would ever hang again.

Later that week, deep into a Thursday night, (for we had to wait for worship practice to end) a young, wonderful couple met me at the church and we began to hang the still sticky, creased banners.

I borrowed a large ladder from our neighbor who is building a house next door to the church.  I blew the dust off the other large ladder from the church shed.  I carried them in with my strong arms.

Since I've been working out somewhat consistently, the amount of push-ups I can do has escalated tremendously.  Why would I be doing all these push-ups if not to carry large, heavy ladders around the neighborhood and into the church?  So when kind, thoughtful men look at me and ask, "do you want some help?" I honestly want to reply, "do you know how many push-ups I can do?"

Once again I've lost the idea of blessing my husband and now am only thinking about how cool it is that I can carry ladders around.

The young couple would not allow me to climb the ladders and work on the banners.  I am elderly at thirty-eight compared to their twenty-six years.  Which is fine, for even with all my push-ups and planks and squats, I'm still pretty clumsy.

After lots of duct tape and fishing wire and trial and error and re-dos and up and down ladders and "now that side is too high," we finally called it done.  Josh carried the ladder in the dark back to the neighbors.

My husband came over and we sat in the sanctuary, the four of us, looking at the Spiritual Values banners and sharing and praying.

The goal was reached:  By week 4 of the 5 week series, the banners were hanging!

They are not perfect.  The process was nearing ridiculous.  I look at them on Sunday and I see all the work it was to get them up.  I see the faces of the many people who helped.  I see the danger of precarious ladders and hot irons.  I see willingness and a common goal.  And a desire to bless.

I see the good values I can cling to this year; every year:

Gathered Worship
Communal Formation
Spiritually Nourished Children
Word Driven Devotion
Missional Presence

Looking into 2016, remembering the episode of "hanging the banners", I can count on this as I create new goals:

Every worthy goal will take determination, and in the reaching it, will come with struggle and story.

Even upping my push-up count.

Living on a Prayer

This academic year marks my first year parenting a high schooler.

An underlying feeling of anxiety has pervaded my days, my soul, my mind, my heart.  Can I do this?  It is sort of like that feeling expecting mothers get a month or so before the baby is due to arrive.  I've changed my mind, I'm not sure I can go through labor.  But it's too late by that time.

Now I am birthing him out into independence from me and Brian.  He has so much to learn, to be prepared for.  What if I fail him and he moves out into the wild, tumultuous world desperately wishing his crazy little mother had remembered to teach him x, y, or z?

I was sharing my fears with a wise friend who was stuck listening to me while we were on a quick, twelve hour road trip in which we rode a ferris wheel.  Her questions brought me full circle to remembering.

Fourteen and a half years ago Conner was born.  Brian and I were living on a prayer.  The government covered our the medical costs for the birth because we were in a very low income bracket.  Brian had two more years of seminary ahead of him, and I wasn't sure how my teaching job could support us if I had to pay for childcare.  And I wasn't sure I was supposed to put him in childcare all day, everyday.

So even with all the anticipation of meeting our new son, there were questions lingering...what is going to happen to us?  Will we be able to provide for this new, vulnerable life?

The day, or rather, middle of the night came when he chose to arrive.  I held his precious six pound body fiercely, albeit gently, in my arms and looked at his perfect form.   I knew then, I just knew, that even though I didn't deserve God's care over my life,  God would help us provide for our baby.

He has.  Abundantly more than I could have asked or imagined.

Within a week of finishing his first year of school, Brian was offered a two-week job to help with a lighting project.  As that was finishing, he got a call  to consider a paid internship at our church which would include flexible hours and experience required for his masters degree.

Within a week of me terminating my teaching job (which was VERY hard for me to do, having no plan for how to replace that income), our apartment managers called me and asked me to interview to be the assistant manager, lowering our rent to about $200 a month and allowing me to keep the baby with me.

Over and over I saw God provide for our needs as we put our faith in His provision.  I seriously could go on and on and on.

Now, as I'm looking forward with fear, I'm also looking back.

 My anxieties are rooted in a failure to remember.

God remembers us...all the way back to the rainbow he set in the clouds in the time of Noah.   He wants me to remember Him; the ways He's worked in the Bible, the ways He's worked in the lives I've encountered, and the ways He's worked in my own life.

We discover him in our stories.  We experience life, the story we inhabit, as if we are walking backward.  The future is completely unknown.   We see the present through our peripheral vision, through a kind of fog.  Only the past has some clarity, and that clarity increases with time.  
                                                                                       A Loving Life by Paul E. Miller


We're still living on a prayer, for that is the best way to live.  But it is a prayer backed with evidences and answers to many other prayers. Evidences of a faithful God.

Gruesome Reality

Last night our dwarf hamster, the one prophetically named Chomper, was caught chomping off sweet Bright Star's head.  You can imagine the emotion running through our children's hearts as they processed this disaster.  It was wrong.

Lately my mind has been processing different pictures of brotherhood portrayed in the Bible.
The first example early in Genesis was uglier than our hamsters.

Two brothers, raised by parents who literally walked with God:
Abel with a pure devotion to God, Cain not so much.
Cain allowed the difference to fester, brew, congeal,
Until all the inward angst manifested itself in innocent Abel's corpse.
The first murder, martyr, lifeless man.  Death promised now present.
What did Cain feel afterwards?  Learn?

Then a picture of hope:

Two young, ruddy, handsome men.
Both with much promise.
Both with sincere hearts.
Hearts each continued to keep right before God.
One was the king's son.
The other, only a seventh son of a shepherd.

So when the king wanted to kill that shepherd boy,
The king's son Jonathan
Scorned his right to become king,
Protected his friend, his covenanted brother,
Because he knew David was God's chosen.
He gave up the kingdom, his own life,
For God's plan to prevail.

Cousins John and Jesus,
both promised sons,
but John says,
He must become greater,
I must become less.
And dies for his righteousness.

So I pray for myself and I pray for all
the brothers and sister under my roof:
Let us too, become less,
Allowing Christ to reign in us.

For we are a kind of firstfruits of
All He created.
We, as Christ-followers, can display
The beginnings of the new earth,
When children can play by a cobra,
When a lion will take a nap cuddled with a lamb,
When dwarf hamsters can live together in safety.

Would You Rather....

Lying down next to her, talking before bed, she asks me a "would-you-rather" question.  "Mom, would you rather break your leg or eat candy for the rest of your life?"

The answer seems pretty easy.  I explain to her how eating candy for the rest of my life would make me more miserable than breaking my leg and being in pain for just a little while.  She adds okay, fruits and vegetables, too, not just candy.  Still....

I think, though, what kind of a leg break?   Clean, quick, cast and then six weeks later good as new?  Or would it be a shatter, multiple surgeries, isolation in my bed healing for two years, pain in my leg from then on?  Would it financially devastate us?

Maybe candy would be better.

I ask my cousin, and she wants to know how much longer she's going to live.

We don't always get to choose.  Even if we do, we cannot really know the implications or full scale of the choice.  Those things we think we can evade happen.  Maybe it's raising children alone, something you never thought would happen to you.  Health struggles.  Relational pain.  Accidents.  Unemployment.  Financial strain.

This past weekend I took all the snow pants, boots, and heavy coats out of the closet and put them in a bin in the basement.  As I washed and folded and stuffed, I felt the struggle, near trauma, of my first winter in North Dakota.  It hasn't been easy for me.  I'm not a cold weather girl.  Definitely not a subzero for months kind of person.  Definitely not.

Also there's the heart-healing.  The tearing away of my life as I knew it has been painful.  There were many nights, especially the first few months, where I would cry myself to sleep, picturing my little nephews' faces and feeling jipped that I don't get to be a part of their everyday lives anymore.

Or going on walks by myself, a lack of good friends or good conversation to stimulate and inspire me.  Podcasts have become my companion.

I miss our family rhythm, our friendly, involved neighbors, our outings and fresh produce and good deals.  Maybe I find too much joy in a bargain.

I close the winter bin, trying to snap the lid.  The scabs from all that tearing are still there.  They are healing.  Some things can't be rushed, though.  I have to submit to the healing process.

I guess in a way, I've chosen the leg break.  I didn't know what I was getting in to, but I believed that it was best.  Saying yes to Jesus is always, always best.


"Consider it a sheer gift, friends, when tests and challenges come at you from all sides.  You know that under pressure, your faith-life is forced into the open and shows its true colors.  So don't try to get out of anything prematurely.  Let it do its work so you become mature and developed, not deficient in any way." James 1, The Message

Finding Beauty

My eleven year-old and nine year-old boys joined a swim team this year.  We thought this was a good idea since it is so very chilling to think of taking them out for exercise every day here in northern North Dakota.

The pool is a block or so from our home but still I pick them up because walking home in freezing weather while wet is not smart.

It seems that in this small town (relatively, compared to towns in general, not towns around here, around here it is rather large).  Anyway, in this town, it seems that most activities involve required parental "volunteer" hours.

For my oldest's school, it is 40 hours of volunteering for the year or you pay extra.  For the Sea Lions swim team, it is earning $150.00 of booster bucks or you pay extra.

So last night I set out to earn $80.00 of those bucks.  By cleaning the pool.  I will tell you that this town is in the process of completing a gigantic, state-of-the-art community complex complete with an Olympic size swimming pool.  When it's ready, the pool a block from our house may be the next place the firemen a block away from it on the other side pick to practice on.

Have you ever seen a building on fire in -10 degree weather?  I haven't, but I saw a picture of one after it had been sprayed by water.  Weird.  Ice on it till the spring thaw.

What I'm trying to say is that the pool is falling apart.  Literally.  I swept up many pieces of black something that looked like building material of some sort.

Right before we started cleaning my dear, dear friend whom I miss so much sent me a picture of her view of Mt. Hood.  And told me she wished I was there.

As I swept the boys' locker room, picking up underwear and dirty band aides, the contrast held in my mind, and I felt I had the raw end of the deal.  Someone somewhere wanted me in a beautiful setting.

The evening progressed and I found myself next to a mom squeegeeing off the deck of the pool.

She has five kids.  I asked their ages....three boys out of the house, one younger boy still at home and an eight year-old daughter adopted from China at age five.

Her eyes glowed as she told me about her daughter, about how they'd had four healthy children and so decided they'd help a very sick child this time around.  She was twenty-two pounds and five years old when they brought her to the states.  To this town. Open heart surgery helped her survive and thrive the past two years.

But just before Christmas she spent thirty days in the hospital with complications from the surgery.  Her mom's face shined love as she spoke about how wonderful it was to be with family and out of the hospital for Christmas.  About how she didn't know what was next but she was so happy to have her daughter.  The doctors are talking heart transplant.

As we completed our work and I walked back out into the frozen world I realized God had given me a picture of beauty, too.

As amazing as Mount Hood is on a clear evening, sun setting behind lighting it up, it can't compare with the beauty of sacrificial love.





Addendums for gracious reader-friends:

This is of course not to say I wouldn't be extremely happy to sit beneath Mount Hood again sometime.  Preferably soon.

I realize that this post has quite a few rabbit trails that I would normally make into their own posts.  In the interest of time and desire to impart all my thoughts on you, I'm cramming them all together.  Feel free to research apartment fires in subzero temperatures for yourself, consider overseas adoption, ponder the beauty of being loved, or check out Williston's new ARC (Area Recreational Center).  

Happy New Year!

Lies and Grace

We sat in the front row this year.  All the kids had a clear view.
It was our church's annual Thanksgiving and Baptism service.

I believe it is the first one we've sat all the way through.
I watched other moms go in and out, relieving little children of their energy in the foyer for awhile.
But I wasn't with them this year.

We've entered a new stage in which we can sit through an hour and a half service.

The music was wonderful and my heart was filled with praise and thanksgiving.  But there was a voice in the back of my mind that challenged my worthiness to praise.

With the change of family stage comes new hurdles.  I stood next to my eleven year-old and thought about how he might think I'm a hypocrite.  Now that he can sit through a service, he's also been privy to my imperfections.  He's experienced my sin too many times to count.

Can I really praise God with these little people next to me who know how badly I can behave?

We sit and listen to testimonies of God's power to reach into hearts and change them from selfish to selfless.
We witness God's power in drawing those who've been lost to Himself in creative, supernatural ways.

And I think maybe it's fitting...that my kids don't have a perfect mom.  That they daily see how much she needs Jesus.  That even when you're raised to follow Jesus from a young age, it doesn't make you any less in need of His forgiveness and grace.

That voice, the one saying I've lost my temper and don't deserve to praise.  The one saying my kids have seen me so ugly in sin that to smile and sing praises is nothing but a farce.

That voice leaves out the part about God's part.  The whole reason of baptism.  That we are baptised into Christ's life.  The One Perfect Life.  That we are raised to praise Him in His resurrection because He beat death.  Won the battle with the liar.

I remember my own baptism and how every day, though I sin, I ask for forgiveness.  From God and those I've wronged.

I pray that, because of my imperfections, not of in spite of them, my children will also come confidently before the throne of grace in worship.   That they will be content to live a life of humility and freedom devoted to Christ, without the burden of perfectionism.

God's grace,  never depleted, always growing.   A gift to be thankful for.

Can I Measure Up?

Once again I got in line, some people in front of me and others behind.

It's a horrid line to be in.  The place it leads to brings pride and despondence, both.

Because in some ways I'm not so good.  I don't have a home full of order or pizzazz.  I don't have perfectly behaved children.  They need haircuts and their clothes don't always match.  Sometimes they say and do the wrong things.  Lots of times I fail to train well, to lead them correctly or prepare them for what lies ahead.

Yet in some ways I seem all right.  The neighbor kids in the apartments come inside and look around...."Wow, you have a nice house."  My children don't normally curse or perform mean actions against others.  They're pretty smart.  Sometimes they say amazingly wise and insightful things.  By God's grace, sometimes I get a glimpse at beauty growing in them and me.

Pride and despondence.

Neither from God.

I hop out of line and return to the well.

Where I'll never measure up but it's okay.  I don't need to.  There's no one behind me and no one in front of me.

Only worshiping Worthy Jesus,the God-Man-Who-Measures-Up, Who obliterates all lines.  

I drink His living water.

He fills me with hope, humility, wisdom, love, righteousness.

Back in the place I belong.

Cherry Pit Conversations

We work together in the breezy shade of a large locust tree.  Silly thoughts and actions, reminders to stay focused, deviations to dump the unusable flourish.

The words change course as the work picks up the pace.  One asks if my life would be better if I hadn't had children.

"NO WAY!", I respond adamantly.  I list my three greatest gifts in order...Jesus, Brian, my children.  I could continue the list, but those are the top three.

Then Raleigh, as he leaves with a net to catch a damsel fly under the guise of dumping the pit bowl, asks how I could love others if I was supposed to love God with my whole heart.

Good question.

I share a story about when I was pregnant with him and I had a nagging fear I wouldn't love him as much as I loved Conner.

My fear was not realized.  As I held my second born in my arms, I had MORE love.

Love's not a commodity, like cherries, that we use up.  We don't have to dole it out in equal portions.  It's just as we love, we get more love.

I start singing the Magic Penny song.

"Love is like a magic penny,
Hold it tight and ya won't have any,
Lend it, spend it and you'll have so many,
They'll roll all over the floor!"

His question lingers in my mind, though.  Loving God with all my heart.  It requires trust that in doing so, I can love others, too.

It must be so, for the command doesn't stop with loving God wholeheartedly...the second greatest is to love my neighbor as myself.

The second command assumes the truth about love...lend it, spend it, and you'll have so much more.

The boys ask for the song again and then move on to other topics.

Like whether I'd go in a monster cave if I knew I'd be eaten.  And can damselflies fly if they've been submerged in water?

The cherry pitting continues for a little while longer, but something eternal happened too.

Jam-Making Miracles

We snagged the morning yesterday to do some strawberry u-pick.
It took under an hour to fill up nearly five buckets.

The berries sat on the counter all day.  I dreaded the moment I would dive in and start the jam-making process.  Mess, chaos, frustration, a hurting back...I could see it all (because I've done it before)!

I've been praying, though, this past week or so, for the wisdom to bring out my children's potentials, for the ability to create order, for focus, for clarity in breaking projects down into small, doable parts.  These are skills I seriously lack; they make me stress and panic and sweat and yes, sometimes scream.

After dinner Brian took off for a meeting.  I knew it was time.  I brought everyone in from playing in the perfect evening weather.  We put on aprons and I started delegating.  It was about 7:00.

I put three cutting boards on the table with a container of strawberries at each spot.  A large pot and a compost bucket sat in the middle.  The potato masher went into the pot.

One helper stayed in the kitchen and helped me measure sugar, get containers, stir, mash, and wash.  The kitchen helper rotated as stem-cutters finished their containers.

By 7:50 the strawberries were jam, nearly all the dishes but the last were clean, and the table was tidy.
We even had time to read The Grey Lady and the Strawberry Snatcher by Molly Bang, thankful the Strawberry Snatcher hadn't come to our home!

Brian walked in at 9:00 and said "Wow."

He knew, more than anyone else could ever, that a jam-making miracle had taken place.

Never, never, could it have happened by myself...only God can give skills and wisdom in organization to someone who just doesn't have them.  He hears and He answers prayer.

Though the evening had a brief moment of frustration, I could see God there with me, helping us, encouraging my heart, and so I give Him praise.

The Flip

I sit on the couch any given morning, the patter of children not yet heard.  I draw back the curtains, pour coffee, pray, and read.

Lately I've been watching the house across the street being flipped.  After a foreclosure, the purchaser at auction is revamping it for resale.

In one day the color changed from purple-blue to sandstone.  The trim moved from periwinkle to deep earthy-brown.  The door went from white to eggplant-brown.  My eyes adjusted quickly, as the change was beautiful.

Still, the yard.  Our former neighbor loved gardening and planted much.  But the last two years of neglect showed in an overgrown, weedfull, mish-mash landscape.

We watched with astonishment as a landscape team came and worked for two days.
My husband said, "I want them to come and do that to our yard."

Neat, orderly, visually satisfying.  I've never seen it lovelier.



I haven't seen much inside, but I'd guess it's the same.

It's a total flip.

So I sit on the couch in the early morn, and I read in 1 Corinthians 6:

"Do you not know that the wicked will not inherit the kingdom of God?  Do not be deceived:  Neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers, nor male prostitutes nor homosexual offenders nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God.  And that is what some of you were. But you were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God."


The house across the street is a picture of the miracle I so often forget.  A miracle of a changed heart.  Before Jesus, I was dirty, rundown, neglected, dark, and deceived.  But I was washed clean, purified, made holy, given good standing before God.  All because of the life of Jesus living in me.


I think that's an incomparable flip.

Text from 1 Corinthians 6:9-11, bold mine.  Photos from Aunt Lorna of the cherry orchard in bloom.

The Greater Goal

Goals.  Yesterday was a reminder to me.

We (the kids, my mom, and I) had just returned home after a morning of errands.  We had groceries to unload and my sister and nephew were here to say goodbye to my mom.

Just a few minutes after we got home my mom's friends came by to pick her up and take her away for the weekend.

Six kids.  Three women.  Two friends.  Groceries.  Quick goodbyes.  Lunch time.

How to go from chaos to eating lunch is nearly like preparing to climb Mt. Hood.

So after a half an hour of spinning my wheels, it felt like, God broke through to me.

Two children were fighting and crying about the injury during the argument.  One child was sobbing wildly on the couch because Grandma left.  The three year-old was probably in the middle of the street, and the fifth was attempting to make sandwiches for everyone while creating a huge mess in a kitchen filled with bags of groceries and library books.

I pulled one child away to a side room and we started talking about what was going on.  As we finished I began to help him see where we needed to be going.  My mind was on getting lunch on the table, so I purposed to say that the goal was lunch.  Now.

Instead my mind changed directions and I heard myself say..."my goal is to...teach you all to love God and love each other."

Oh yeah.  That's right.  As much as I'd love order and calm and peace and joy, the reality is those qualities only come by choice.  They don't naturally happen.  (At least at my home they don't.)

But the goal is there, and it's the choices I make in the chaos that will determine whether we arrive or not.

I wish I could say we quickly got lunch together and peace ensued.  Not so.  Lunch ended with a talk on lying and considering others before ourselves.

It's a battle.  A daily battle.

Fixing our eyes on the greater goal.

Library Find Friday for Children: Sibling Kindness

It's rainy but there are so many good books to read that it's okay!  Right?

 

Dogger
by Shirley Hughes

This book captured our hearts the first time we read it.  It's now wayyy overdue and I must part with it.  One of the themes that made me love this book is sibling kindness.

There are so many books that seem to encourage or at least give example of sibling rivalry or selfishness.  For me, it seems like these things come naturally and I don't need a book to give the children more examples of this kind of thinking.

But in Dogger the brothers and sister give inspiration.  Sharing an ice cream cone with his baby brother, understanding when someone was sad.

In the story the middle child, Dave has a special stuffed dog named Dogger.  The beautiful illustrations and words show Dave's special affection for his Dogger.

"At supper Dave was rather quiet.
In the bath he was even quieter.
At bedtime he said,
'I want Dogger.'
But Dogger was nowhere to be found."

The story turns to revolve around a school carnival and the lost Dogger.  Through some interesting circumstances Dogger is found, but in order to be rescued Dave's big sister chooses to sacrifice something of her own to get him back.



The Saturdays,  The Four-Story Mistake,  Then There Were Five,  Spider Web For Two
by Elizabeth Enright

This series of four books about four siblings is full of fun and joy.  I won't do a full review except to say we listened to these in audio book (from the library) and always looked forward to our next drive in the van.

Besides the fun story and creative household we entered, we also got to witness how the four children worked together, got along, thought of each other, and built great memories because of their kindness and love for each other.


 

Lastly, though not at the library or about sibling kindness, we've pulled out Patrick: A Heart Afire radio theater by Focus on the Family.  The two episodes dramatize the life of St. Patrick, missionary to Ireland.
You can download the two episodes for under $2.00 each.

Now, off to read to my little ones!

Any good sibling kindness books you'd recommend?

The Choice, Part II: A Letter

Each person in our family has to make choices, like Cain and David.

Many choices each day, some much larger than others.

While at the seashore one of us stole a pocketknife from a gift shop.

The deed was found out a day later.

The offender sent an apology letter enclosing the stolen knife.

A week later the choice to fix the wrong was rewarded.

I post the letter the child received in full below: (with permission)

Dear_______,


Thank you for the well-written letter and the return of the knife!  We all make mistakes.  However, it is what you do after you make the mistake that separates you from just making a  mistake or being a thief.  You decided to admit your mistake and take responsibility--well done!  I respect and appreciate that very much.

I am including in this letter a Sea Lion Cave Patch.  I want you to put it on your wall or somewhere you can see it every day to remind you that you took responsibility for your action--that is rare these days.  That is one of the most important first signs of a boy becoming a man or a girl becoming a woman--you did the right thing.  Our country would not have the problems we have right now if there were more people like you taking responsibility for their actions.

It is obvious your parent(s) loves you very much to help you write this letter.

I hope to see you back here soon as we would love to meet you in person.

 God bless!

The letter is a reward for doing right.  The letter is an encouragement to a weary Mama who wonders if  they'll ever get it.  The letter is an answer to prayer.  The letter is a reminder of an ever-faithful, never tiring God.

--Dayna

Favoritism

"For God does not show favoritism."

Romans 2.11

I had asked Him, before I started reading Romans 2 that morning, to show me something.  

I've been starting my journal entries, "Lord, hear me saying..."  and sometimes, later on, I'll write, "Lord, I hear you saying...", because He does share things.  And if I know what I'm saying to Him, I'm better able to hear what He's saying back to me.  It's powerful, you should try it.

Back to favoritism.  This verse, meshed between much discussion on Jews and Gentiles, hit at my heart.  At my insecurities.

For some reason my thoughts ended up back at the mall with a friend when I was a teenager.  It happened plenty of times...we'd go into a clothing store and the salesperson would walk up to that friend and ask if she needed any help.  I was completely ignored.

My junior year of college, her freshman year, we attended a Greek dance.  Yes, we were both Greeks.  A guy immediately came up to her and asked her to dance.  I was completely ignored.

The result?  Subconsciously I decided I must be really ugly.  

I gave sales people and unknown Greek guys a lot of power over who I thought I was.

For God does not show favoritism.

Who do I give power to?  Who do I trust to define me? 

Then there's the other side...when I am favored.  There's been plenty of those times, too.  

Using ASB Student Council to get out of class and teachers just winking.  Getting private information because of my position, not that I really needed it. 

The problem is, though it might feel good to be favored, I don't necessarily trust those who show favoritism.  Who knows when they'll change their minds and make someone else their favorite?

Not so with God.  He sees all.  He knows all.  He made all.

He has no favorites, for He is limitless in His love and grace and showers it upon all who will take it.

For me, it is a daily necessity to turn to Him.  To trust Him and to turn away from my natural tendency to find my worth in others' opinions.

...for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus.  Ro. 3.23,24

A Smattering of Scatterings

It's been almost two weeks since my last posting.  Not since last year, actually.

And since then the days have been full, as I'm sure yours have as well.  There's been rejoicing and heartache and much in between.

Brian and I got away for 24 peaceful, serene, uninterrupted hours for our 13th anniversary.   Someday I'll be inviting all the kids to come with us because I don't need any more quiet, but for now, sitting by a cozy fire in front of an enticing view was a wonderful gift.

While we were away my sister came and took our crib (with permission).  The washing machine tech. found a mini screwdriver in the drum, and my dad put gypsum all over our lawn.  We were the only house with what looked like a dusting of snow.

Thirteen years and the crib is gone.  So is my favorite serving bowl we got for a wedding gift from Sally.  I really liked that bowl, but alas, just before year thirteen someone bumped it and it broke on the tile floor.  We've spend more money than I ever want to know on mini screwdrivers in washing machines, paperclips in specialty toilets, and raisins in noses.  Do they count those things when they tally up how much it costs to raise a child?

But maybe this year our lawn will look a little better.

This is how it is...changes, challenges, hopes, and God in it all.

It is a new year, but I bring much of the old into it.  Yet I'm looking to God to continue to create me anew.
To root out rot and decay.  To fill me with life.

My sister and I are on a 30 Day Husband Encouragement Challenge and tonight my husband told me I could keep doing it for another 30 days.

Who doesn't like to be encouraged?  It reveals a lot about me, too.

As 2012 gets less new and more comfortable, I do pray I continue to change and grow more like Jesus.  That I fall more in love with Him and walk more closely to Him each day.

In all the smatterings and scatterings that make up these full days, may His Spirit fill and fill.

Setting up the Pins...And Knocking Them Down

I've been longing quietly, deeply, steadily, for a passion.
A niche.  A specialty.

You probably have one or two or more, so don't know what I'm meaning.  But maybe there's someone out there like me, who, when all is stripped away, is mediocre at lots and good at nothing.  Okay, and bad at tons of things.

I pray.  I've sought out possibilities.  I have dreams, goals, hopes to delve into a specific something.
The new year always brings it out in me.  Is it time now?  Can I move forward?

While jogging the other morning to Sara Groves, my mind and heart were spinning with thoughts.  Could it be that it is time to pursue?  Where would I fit it in?

And the song in my ears...Everyone, everywhere, some way, some how, setting up the pins, for knocking em down.

Yes, my life is full, I pray.  There are many different headings in the newspaper of my life.  Can I add just one more?  The one that will fulfill, give me a sense of purpose, importance, status?  To be sought after for a skill?

It might sound simple but it's really profound...setting up the pins for knocking em down.

My searching heart calms as the dust of desire settles a little...through the dreams and hopes I can see my course again.  It's not time.  It may never be.  And then again, there may be a "yes" someday.

For now, though, I think through the titles in my life.  The ones the Lord has placed there, whether or not they were of my first choosing.

In each one, there are many ways to improve.  Like I said, I'm mediocre at everything.

Can I be a better child of God?  You bet.

Can I improve in loving and serving my husband?  No doubt.

How about building a relationship with my children, training them, helping them, loving them, teaching them?  Of course.

What about the position at my church?  Yes, much more skill needed here.

How about as a friend, a writer, a daughter, a sister, a homemaker, a pray-er?  Okay, now I'm already overwhelmed and I haven't even added anything new.

So I let go...maybe my desire for something else is a cover for the lack of skill I have in all the areas I'm already working at.  

Setting up the pins and knocking them down can be quite the challenge indeed.

My grandmother had a working song
Hummed it low all day long
Sing for the joy to be found
Setting up the pins for knocking em down.

This is my life right now.  I'm to be faithful at this job before me.  To expect things to continually be knocked down...and to work, with the strength of the Holy Spirit, at setting em back up!

photos:  holiday photos from 2011