Death and Taxes

It was breezy, hazy under the new summer sun.
The water sparkled, gulls called shares greedily when they spied a fisherman, the rumble of small motors echoed over the expanse of the bay.  I inhaled the fishy smell of the dock and peered up at my husband over the two year old's warm blonde head.
A sharp intake of breath beside me made my spine straighten.
"I got one!"  The seven year old gasped unbelievingly.  He jerked on the line; the pole bent against sudden tension.  He started to reel in quickly, prancing in a rather ungentlemanly excited jig.  "I got my first fish!"
Daddy laid a big hand on the small quivering shoulder.  "Ok, ok.  Slow down.  Steady."  
Gavin focused.  He cranked the handle methodically.  We watched for the flash of scales beneath the dark ocean.  
Suddenly the water parted in perfect shimmering circles.  A very unwilling fish broke the surface.  It hung, suspended, dripping, from the monofilament line.  A seagull wheeled overhead, nasally voicing approval.  Father bent over son and held the squirming fish so young fingers could extract the hook.  And there it was.  Flopping, ungainly, silver scales foreign against the worn paint of the dock.  Gasping silently.  Fish don't cry.

The two year old pulled back against me, uncertain.  Everyone was so excited.  But he watched wide-eyed.  Witness to something new - the first death.  Is this right Mom?

They took the catch to the beach.  Gutted, cleaned.  Then to the kitchen.  Fried in butter, salt.  Consumed proudly.  Full of fresh protein, boys raced off to the sand to dig holes for the tide to find.  Ben pulled himself over to the window to watch a moth trapped on the wrong side of the clear pane.  He reached for it.  "Butta-fwy!"  The crumpled insect left a dusty trail against the glass.  Little conqueror had vanquished his conquest.  He poked at the lifeless wings, then looked up at me innocently.  "Mom, hewp it."
"Ok."  I quietly scooped up the remainder of the bug and flipped it quickly out the door into a bush.  "Ok, bug's outside."
Satisfied, he pulled himself under the table to get a kiss from grandma's little dog; the moth's sudden demise was dismissed.

Reeling 'em in.

In the New Living Translation, Psalm 29 calls us "heavenly beings."  We are "sons of God."  The "real" part of us isn't from around here.  It hails from heaven.  It is eternal.  Forever young.  Death to a soul is a foreign concept.  Souls don't end.

And yet we're in these bodies that degrade with time.  My two year old doesn't know that yet; he's still discovering how much this limited body can do.  It's all exciting.
It can feel kitten fur.
It can move fast.
It can taste ice cream.
It can feel the exhilaration of a mud puddle, the warmth of a deep bath.
It can interact with other bodies, and tickle and laugh and snuggle.
He doesn't know how much it can't do yet.  And I don't mean just because he has a wheelchair or can't feel his toes.

Perhaps he just chalks up pain and physical failures to immaturity or the fact that mom wasn't there to be an extension of his limbs.  He doesn't know his body's not invincible.  It's not like his soul.  I don't think he understands mortality.  He's so busy living that death doesn't have any weight yet.

I hope I am never too comfortable with death.
Video games perpetuate it.
Movies glorify it.
Even newspapers dull my senses to its commonness.
But it doesn't mean I should ever just accept it.  Death, sin, taxes, degradation and dirt are part of earthly existence, but our actual existence is so much deeper, longer, more purposeful...  I hope I always question, humbly, like my toddler, "Is this right?"  

Oh, I'll still kill ants with abandon if (ok, when) they dare cross the threshold of my kitchen.  And spiders...  But they don't have souls.  They were made for this world, and to the dust of it they return (or at least to the depths of my trash can.)  And if I can get my manly little sons to do the deed, believe you me, I will.  Death is a natural part of reality.  For now.  But we won't always live in the "now".  We'll live in eternity, where there will be no blood, no pain, no fear.  No death.  

A wise man once realized he had desires that nothing in this world could satisfy.  He concluded that he must have been ultimately made for a different world.  He was C.S. Lewis, a staunch atheist, who lived through World War II.  Eventually though, he turned to Jesus, the Heavenly Man, to fill that hole.  Nothing else would.

We're not from around here.
I've gotta remember that.

But I'll certainly enjoy the fresh meat while I am here.  This physical body should eat well as long as I have sons around.  There are certainly worse things about being mortal.

Proud little mortals.

Days that Don't

That week was simply hard.

Deadly bombing in Boston.

Lethal explosion in Texas.

My husband didn't get the expected promotion.

The kids were cranky and unruly.
The toilet clogged.
Vacuumed up my engagement ring.

And mud season started.

Life was dirty, messy, incomprehensible.  Plain old muddy, inward and out.  

At bed time, the five year old burrowed down into his blankets on the bottom bunk.  "Mommy," he confided, "Dark is scary.  Why does God have to be so invisible?"

I've asked that myself.
Where was He when my father was diagnosed with cancer in his forties?
Where was He when my son's spinal cord was being irremediably formed in a bubble outside his fetal spine, rendering his lower legs feelingless for life?
Where was He when I lost my temper after praying all morning for patience?
Where was He as my son's clear eyes gazed up searchingly into my face that evening?

I breathed out slowly, trying to shush the harried voice in my head urging me to close the bedroom door and move on to the dirty dishes, the muddy floor, a moment of quiet with my husband before our own bedtime.  This was bigger.

"Well... God is so big.  He is so real.  I think He must be even more "real" than our bodies could handle.  Maybe if we saw Him all the time, it would just be too much... I don't really understand it myself."  I finished lamely, brushing his fuzzy head.  "We'll have to talk more in the morning."

The next day, I dished out scrambled eggs and waited as the fight over favorite forks subdued to quiet munching.

"You know how you were so excited the day of your birthday, you felt like it was too much joy to keep inside?  And when you scraped your hands and legs all up and told me the pain was too much... You guys are tough, but you can still hurt..."

He nodded.  Even little superheroes know they're not invincible.

"And eventually, this body will get old.  You'll need a new one.  I think that new one will be made to handle all the joy of heaven, and it will be able to handle seeing God."

"Like this body is just for practice?" He seemed to follow me.

"I think so." I agreed.  "What we do matters now, but I think it will all be just a shadow of a dream compared to the real life we get to live next."

"In that next life, I want to live in a red jello house."  He happily told me a favorite thought.  "And my real body will be able to eat it, and bounce in it, and not get sick from eating too much sugar all the time."

And there went the conversation.

For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.
2 Corinthians 4:17

The phantom pain of missing feet doesn't distract from the raw emotion of losing limbs to a bomb.
The hypothetical promise from insurance companies hardly lessens the ache over lifetimes of built memories suddenly leveled in Texas.
The crushing pain of loved ones irrevocably gone barely loosens its grip long enough for those families to take another breath.
It is hard, unimaginably heavy.  The pain seems interminable.


I breathe in the warm scent of sweat and sunshine on my two year old's hair as I scoop him out of the sandbox.  He gazes longingly at his brothers racing their scooters on the pavement.  It aches to watch him begin to realize he can't move like them.  We strap him into heavy metal braces and he stands, defying gravity, for a moment.  But the weight of his own body is too heavy for him to bear alone for now.  It is hard.  It will be, his whole life long.
Yet it is all "but for a moment."

Someday, I know, that unbearable weight will be but a memory compared to the gloriously free body he will be running around in.  Life will be so clear and beautiful.  So real.
And it won't be like looking through rose colored glasses.
Even from a red jello house.
  

Oreos and granola

There I was.  Barefoot and pregnant.  Grinding my own grain.  Dirty children everywhere, playing with sticks.  This was yesterday.
It's happened.  I've turned into a hippy.

I didn't mean to.  I didn't want to.  But it struck me the other morning as I washed my hair with baking soda and cider vinegar and thought through the homeschool morning plans - I'm really starting to go granola.

Maybe it's not too serious yet.  I mean, at least I do still wash my hair.  And I do buy boxes of macaroni and cheese.  And drive a relative gas-guzzler.  And daily interact with my Keurig.

I think it was reading about fluoride-in-water debates that put me over the edge.  From much of what I can find, it's toxic to ingest, Hitler used it to keep prisoners docile, it's illegal to dump into rivers, and causes a lot of dental discoloration, particularly for children.  But many towns put it in drinking water and toothpaste, at least they have since the end of the world war when we had a surplus of the stuff.  I've always been told it was good for you; but if all - or any - of this discrepancy is true, then I'm disturbed by the conflict.
And that's just one.

Yes, I know there's a lot of misinformation out there.  There's a lot of doom and gloom reports and conspiracy theories.  And it would be easier to just pass the blame for personal health and wealth difficulties onto large, faceless organizations.

This blog isn't meant to be political.  It's not a foodie blog.  There are plenty of those out there, and I've been known to read them.  But it's not always theological or philosophical.  This is tidbits of my life and lessons I've learned along the way, particularly through mommyhood.  Recently, more and more, I am disturbed rather than placated when I read about mass production and political control of the basic necessities of life.  Assembly lines have their place, after all.  But when it comes down to genetically modifying grain and corn that I want to feed my kids, making it less digestible and nutritious, all in the name of greater output and income for mega companies like Monsanto, eh, it's disheartening.
I want to trust the FDA to tell me food is safe and wholesome.  I want to rely on the CDC to supply safe and effective vaccines and medicines.  I want to believe my government has the interests of its people at heart.  I want to...
According to the Bible, which I hold as my highest authority, my body is the temple of God.  Ultimately, I answer to Him for what I do with/to it.  My children are my responsibility to raise physically, mentally, and spiritually.  Not the government's.  And I am supposed to be wise with my time and a good steward of my resources because I'm quite sure He has made them and then given them to me.  I don't hug trees, I teach kids to climb them, because I'm not particularly worried about a sustainable earth.  He ultimately plans to make a new one anyway.  I'm not out to blame politicians or corporations if they don't look after my health and wellness as well as I would like.  It's my job, not theirs, when it comes down to pointing fingers.

Homemade something or other.

So I'm making my own yogurt today and planning my garden.
After I showered this morning, I sprayed the bathroom fixtures with white vinegar to clean them and make them shine.  When Ben scooched himself in to see what was keeping me, I let him attempt the spray bottle, because I wasn't worried about him getting it on his skin (though he did smell a bit funny till it dried off.)
Making up a fresh batch of deodorant and grating soap to make into laundry powder are still on my list, perhaps after the kids are in bed.
The microwave is used more for a time keeper than a food-heater.
I grind my own grain and am looking for a good place to buy old grain versions that haven't been genetically altered. (If anyone knows where to buy einkorn grain in bulk for less than a fortune, send me a message!)
I compost.
I use the clothesline all summer.  (Clothes just smell fresher.)
Coconut oil is my baby's diaper rash treatment, I fry my eggs in it, and slather it all over my face every day.  (And I do keep it in separate containers for each of the above uses.)
Supper will involve hamburger from local, pasture-raised cows (probably as meatloaf.)
My oldest son is spending the afternoon helping Grampy build a chicken house so we can all have fresh eggs in a few months.
I'm researching ways to deal with a low functioning thyroid to figure out what causes it and what's the best way to fix it.
Edible cultured things grow on my countertops.
The hand soap in the pump by the sink - I know what's in it, because I made it.
In the past month, I've learned to render lard and make dishwasher soap.
I'm wading through mounds of vaccine debates.
Essential oils have a special place in my cupboard.
The two year old actually likes getting his cod liver oil.
I think about making magnesium oil in my spare time.
I'm willing to fight a bit to have a natural birth rather than schedule a c-section for my baby as long as we're both healthy, even though the last child had to arrive surgically.

I'm not militant about it all, at least not yet.  We bought Doritos for my four year old son's birthday this past weekend, and dyed his scrambled eggs so we could have green eggs and ham.  (FYI, bacon doesn't dye well.)  I still shop at big box stores for toilet paper.  I still buy disposable diapers.  (Gasp.  I know.  That's real life.)  There are Cheerios in the cupboard.  I occasionally pull out the bleach if there's been a particularly nasty event in the bathtub.  I like nice shoes.  I only let my legs grow fuzzy in deepest, darkest winter.  And I will never convert to carob over chocolate.  You can quote me on that one.

So among the au naturale folks, I'm far too commercialized to fit in.
Among those of the current culture, I'm far too out of the loop to commiserate with their daily life.      

I will fight you if you try to give my baby soy-based formula after he's born.  I think that stuff's horrendously terrible, especially for newborns.  But if you are over for lunch, you may see a horde of children eating store-bought frozen chicken nuggets.  It happens.
In fact, I'm going to go dig out the Oreos and milk so my 4 year old and I can have a treat before his brothers come home from Grampy's.  Double stuffed.  Times like that are every bit as important to me as eating spinach from the backyard garden.  At least the milk is from grass-fed, local cows...

And then I'm going to make granola.  

Of Mice and Women

There comes a point in a mouse's life when he must choose.  Life?  Or my good chocolate?
Apparently, for more than a few, this is a conundrum.
I understand the difficulty in this decision.  The dark call of chocolate is often stronger than reason.  But as I am bigger, and as I pay for this house - albeit old and full of cracks - and as it is, after all, MY good chocolate, I'm trying to be helpful with their decision making.
The traps are clearly marked.  There are trails of droppings leading right to them - and then stopping.  The smell of death (by chocolate) hangs in the air around the petite contraptions.  They've been used and reused.  They are the old fashioned, classic, cheap and obvious little mechanisms of a quick ending that have been used for generations of mice.  So either they just don't learn, or they just consider a demise with their faces smushed into their favorite delicacies worth it.  I'd believe it, either way.

It's not that I have anything in particular against mice.  They're rather cute, really.  And yes, we've seen Ratatoulle, and I commiserated right along with the rest of the couch audience for the Parisian sewer rat with the refined restaurant taste.  Thanks for personifying rodents, Disney.  A year ago, there must have been a local litter that was braver than most, for several of the little tykes ventured out into the kitchen in broad daylight.  My kids' pounding feet didn't deter them from peering out from under the stove.  They had big eyes and ears and clearly guilty looks, like any pet that's been caught with their paws in the cookie jar.  But it was untimely for the little fellas.  I had just discovered something had indeed gotten its little mitts in my little bag of chocolate Easter eggs.
I connected the dots.  Lots of little brown ones, in fact.
It added up to little sympathy.  
Within a week, my brave husband had surpassed his previous hunting records.  He even caught two in one trap!  I cleaned out the cupboard, and for a while felt a modicum of control over my little kitchen kingdom.

Caught red-handed.

But that was last year.
Recently, I got cranky when I had to throw out a cereal box.
I sighed when I had to dispose of the cocoa powder.
But then my husband had to chuck several coffee k-cups for the Keurig machine.
That was the last straw.

The mice in my house are going down.  Again.
Why can't our unwelcome dinner guests have cheaper taste?  Keurig coffee?  Really?  Can't they just stick with the old Folger's can in the back of the cupboard?  And why not the Hershey's cocoa powder; must they really choose the new can of Ghiardelli that makes brownies to satisfy a pregnant sweet tooth?  How do they even know?  Are they doing it just to spite me?  They seem to know.  We usually keep natural types of peanut butter in stock.  Peanut butter is generally a wonderful, sticky, aromatic bait to use.  But they don't like it.  Not in this house.  We had to go out and buy them their own jar of classic Skippy.  The rodents now have their own special food sitting in my cupboard!
I hope they feel special.
And I wish they didn't have such refined tastes.
They eat more of my chocolate than my kids do!
That's all going to change.  And no, it's not happening by me sharing more of my private Lindt stash with my children.  Conversely, I plan to share less.  With everyone.  Four footed beasts in particular.  My brave husband will defend me.  (It works great, by the way.  I discover traces of the little thieves and he does the dirty work.  I love marriage.  It keeps my chocolate and coffee sacred.)


So live long and prosper, mice.  Somewhere else.  And learn to eat Hershey's, while you're there.

The Lonesome Ranger

"Can you help me?"  She asked.
I turned from the gas pump at the question.  It had been directed at my back.  An older lady stood there, a couple plastic shopping bags in hand.  I raised my eyebrows.
"I need a ride up the road."  She answered my unspoken words, nodding behind her vaguely.
It wasn't the way I had planned to go.  My oldest son was in the back seat of the van, the other three were home where grandpa was holding down the fort.  We were headed home from wrestling practice; my head was full of supper preparation and remembering to stop by the post office before it closed.
I may have sighed inwardly, wishing at the moment I'd picked a different gas station, or hadn't lingered an extra five minutes chatting with the other boys' moms.  But I know how God engineers these things; you don't say "no."  Not to Him.
And not to her.
"Ok," I smiled wanly.  "Hop in."

Have you ever prayed that prayer - the one asking God to use you?  That one when you realize that you are happiest and most blessed when you do what He wants?  I am dimly aware of the cost of that prayer.  But I pray it anyway, purposefully, when that deep soul hunger stirs up the need for refreshment.  My usefulness feels dulled, like an old knife.  I need sharpening.  And I am aware that the dull blade must feel the friction of the sharpening stone if I am ever going to be trusted to cut a tomato again.
I like tomatoes.  So I had prayed.

My happy place...
(photo: Christmas Beeler)

She pulled herself heavily, awkwardly, into the passenger seat as I closed up the gas tank.  She did look tired.
We started off.
"Where do you need to go?"  I asked, eyes on the road.  She was hard of hearing; I repeated myself.  She said she lived about 20 miles away.  If I took her home, it would be an extra hour before I got back to my own.  On we drove.
I heard her story.  On her way home from a round of doctor appointments in the big city several hours south, her car had broken down.  It was now at a garage here in town; should be fixed by morning.  But it would be getting dark soon.  She was by herself.  We kept driving.

I asked about her life; it sounded very lonely.  She had a cat.  She had worked difficult physical jobs until caring for her aging parents had become her primary labor.  They were gone now.  Siblings were far away.
She asked about mine; I had to yell the basics several times.  Four boys.  A husband.  Homeschool.  All of those were foreign to her; but she sounded envious.
I tried to imagine her quiet world.  I talked about God being with me all the time; taking care of me.  I talked about having a church community.  She said she used to go to church, but the people weren't very good.
"No," I agreed, "People aren't good.  But God is.  And He loves to change people.  We are works in progress."
I don't know how much she heard.  She was quiet.
As I dropped her off at her door, I took a deep breath.  Didn't Jesus say walk the extra mile?  I breathed again.
"Do you have a way to get your car tomorrow?"  I asked, half-knowing the answer.
"Well, I"ll figure something out."  She responded.
"You need a ride?"  I pressed.
She looked at me; was I volunteering?  "I do."
We exchanged phone numbers.  I drove home.

The next morning, I dragged all four boys to the toddler's physical therapy appointment.  We did some grocery shopping.  I finally mailed that letter.  We ran home to have lunch.  The lady called to see if I could still come.  I said yes.  The meal dishes piled on top of the breakfast ones in the sink.  Wet laundry sat in the washing machine.  I forgot to switch it to the dryer.  School would have to wait till later that afternoon.  We all piled into the van and headed off to the lady's house again.  The two younger ones fell asleep before we got there.  She pulled herself into the seat.  I headed back the way we'd just come.
"Which garage was it again?" I asked as we approached the big city.
"Oh," she said, "They called after I talked to you...  It won't be done till Friday...  But I still have some errands to run so I thought we'd get those out of the way."

My heart sank.  I pursed my lips and started to pray.  "I figured You wanted me to help her out, God.  I'm going out of my way to help.  But she's just going to use me.  I get that she's lonely, but can't You find someone else to spend time with her?  This isn't fair!"
Clouds rolled across the sky, slate gray and heavy.  The van was quiet.  "So you're going to need a ride back after you've done your shopping?" I said a bit icily.
"Well, eventually," she responded, shifting her weight on the seat.  "You could certainly do something else with your children while I'm in Wal-mart...  I was thinking of stopping by the grocery store too; there's a storm coming, you know..."
Oh, there sure is, I thought.  I could feel it pushing my eyebrows down.  But I'd committed to this, even though I had assumed it would be a one-way trip.  I still couldn't just leave the woman stuck in a parking lot.  "I'll drop you at Wal-mart, but then I'm taking my kids to their grandparents' house." I hollered so she'd hear me.  "They don't need to drive for hours for a shopping trip.  I'll be back to take you home in an hour."
She seemed pretty happy as she hauled herself out of the car.  I glowered at her back.  The little ones stirred awake.
Thankfully, both grandparents had the day off and were more than willing to keep all four kids for an impromptu visit.  The boys dashed off to their various stashes of toys; I hopped back into the moist-smelling van.

The quiet would have been nice.  But the weather in the car was still lowery; thunderclouds collected over my head.  I wanted to be home, reading on the couch with my children while bread baked in the kitchen.  I did not want to be driving needlessly around for hours.
"She's right," I complained to God. "People aren't nice.  They aren't good."
There was silence above the hum of the old van.  Then a line from a scratchy old recorded Paris Reidhead sermon popped into my head.  He had been complaining about being a missionary in Africa. He'd found the people to be cruel, pitiful, and unreceptive to his message of love and hope.  In his frustration he'd wondered why he should even bother with them.  And God had answered him.
"You're right, people aren't good."  God had responded to him.
"But I love them.  And I endured the agonies of hell to save them."

"And, Stephanie," I felt Him add gently, " I love you, too."

A tear sprang in my eye.  Perhaps another hour out of my life wasn't so much to ask.

You sure you want a ride?

She was waiting at the door when I got back.  She hadn't bought much.  She was anxious to get home to see if she'd left her phone there.  It was missing.  "Maybe after we find it, then we can finish getting my groceries."  She said.
"No, I need to get home to feed my kids." I responded, wondering at her audacity.  But my anger had dissipated.  All I saw now was a desperately lonely woman.  "Let's get you home."
We chatted more on the ride back to her house.  She talked about diets and pills and how hard it is to even want to cook just for one person.  I thought about the lentils and rice I had wanted to make that evening and how hard it is to cook if you're not home to do it.  But I smiled sympathetically.  I'd probably live on white bread and chocolate if I was alone.  No, I couldn't even fathom it.  We talked more about God and how life-changing it can be simply to read the Bible.  I mentioned some local churches I knew, and gave her a phone number to an organization that I knew for resources and making local connections.  She put it in her pocket.  
Her phone was at her house.  The relief spread over her face as she popped back out the door to show me.  "So maybe I can call you on Thursday night about getting my car on Friday?"  She asked.
"I can't keep doing this."  I responded apologetically.  "I helped you shop all afternoon, when I thought you needed an emergency ride to get your car.  but Friday I have to do school with the kids and some other things we've planned.  I don't just drive all the time."
"Well, I'll call you Thursday and see if you can."  She replied, not put off.
"Good bye."  I said, and shut the door.  

I hugged my kids close when I got back to them.  Life alone would be so quiet - too quiet.  My naturally introverted self would drive me literally to distraction.  I would grow so selfish, so stuck in my ways, so terribly unforgiving.  I am not good; all by myself would not be better.  
Worse still would be life without God.
That would be truly alone.
What a horrible emptiness, not knowing Someone is always looking out for me, always available to talk, always desiring my company.
He actually wants to be with me.
I'm so glad someone explained that to me once, so I never have to be alone.

Was it a risk to pick up a stranger?  Was I wrong to do it?  Twice?
She wasn't dangerous.  She had legitimate need.  And she asked.  I'm pretty dense, but how could I turn down such a need presented to my face?  I've felt it, once when the car wouldn't start in the grocery store parking lot, my kids all with me, and the driver sitting in the vehicle opposite mine refused to pop his hood to help when asked. I even had the jumper cables.  Did I look menacing - a five foot tall pregnant woman with a minivan?  It is humbling to ask; it is worse to be rejected.  Perhaps I was put in that time and place for just such a purpose as this.

I wish I could say this story tied up nicely.  I wish I could say that the end result justified my being taken for a ride.  A happily ever after would be great.  I don't have one for you this time.

She did call again.  I had a doctor appointment for my youngest and we were behind in schoolwork for the week.  And I was out of gas.  I told her I'd pray for her and hoped she could find a ride, but it simply couldn't be me.
I don't know the end of the story.  Probably I never will.  But I'm glad I didn't say "no".
I'll leave just have to leave the final chapter to the great Author.
He's a better Writer than me, anyway.

Spring fever

If you've wondered, yes, we are still alive and I haven't completely abandoned blogging.
I just turn into a vague, discombobulated, sleepy hermit during early pregnancy.
But this too shall pass.

It's finally March, the snow outside is mixing with mud. I'm finally in the second trimester of pregnancy, and the fog of exhaustion and nausea are lifting a bit.  (Sorry I haven't blogged regularly; every time I sit down, I tend to fall asleep...)  January and February were mostly about hunkering down and surviving school, the cold, and early pregnancy.  The days are finally feeling a bit longer; there are garden plans in my head.  We can see the end of some schoolbooks coming in just a few months.
Hope.  Freshness.  Newness.  We can feel it.

Cold.  But fresh.

Saturday started early.  The boys were playing with battery powered bugs.  The three year old watched nonchalantly as his wiggled itself under the fridge.  He was calm until he realized this was a one way trip.  All four boys and I crouched around, trying to free it with the yard stick.  Fail.  The bug vibrated mindlessly in the dark recesses of the dust bunny/lost magnet realm for an hour.  Thank God its battery wasn't bigger.  We'll rescue him.  When daddy is home to move the fridge.  Someday.

The boys went out to stomp in slushy puddles for a bit; but it was cold and drizzly; they didn't stay long.  The puddles came inside with them and Ben dragged his pant legs unconsciously through them. The idea of Ben's wheelchair out in that muck isn't pleasant, but I'm sure he'll crave the mud experience like any other warm-blooded male two year old.  I'm avoiding it as long as possible.  I don't relish the thought of mopping tire tracks in my dining room.
We just got handicap parking plates for the van.  With the new baby coming, Ben's going to have to become more independent by necessity.  That boy's gonna have some great arm muscles by the time he's in preschool.  And probably beat everyone at arm wrestling by the time he's in kindergarten.  I think he's so cute.

I vacuumed.  The boys spent time drawing up blueprints (in Crayola orange) for their dream houses.  Gavin thoughtfully included a clean-up robot in his.  I said I'd definitely come visit.  Henry discovered, to his delight, that if you rub a marker repeatedly in the same spot, it will soon break through the paper.  He made lots of holes through to the table before I made him move on to a new project.  Ben skipped the paper entirely and just decorated his ear.  So glad they invented washable color.  There is brilliance in the world.

The two oldest did the dishes after lunch.  They aren't ecstatic about this new development.  It took a while for me to work up the gumption to make them do it too.  Their laundry-folding, dishwashing, general cleaning skills are not up to the par yet that allow me to do less.  I still pre-scrub the tougher pots and have to clean up soapy puddles after.  But perched on stools, shirts off, the two of them make my heart swell proudly.  The sponge fights are worth it.  How cute is a man who does dishes and vacuums, after all?  I hope these efforts result in happy daughters-in-law and grandchildren for me in about 20 years.  

The three year old turns four in April.  That means he's getting close to a sad milestone: giving up naps.  It won't be an overnight transition (or over-afternoon), but they all seem to need it less at this age, and have trouble getting to sleep at night if they nap too much after lunch.  It is sad; I need it more!  Am I always pregnant and exhausted when another one gives up naptime?!?  (Yes.)

We got to see the baby via ultrasound a few weeks ago.  They'd already checked out his DNA and ruled out a few possible disabilities, but Spina Bifida, the one to which we are apparently more prone, isn't a chromosomal abnormality they could check.  So it was nice to see his spine in grainy black and white video.  It looked fine (though we could easily miss something in the early days, so it ain't over till the fat lady, uh, goes through labor.)  He's due in August.
I think I can feel him moving this week.

The minions were hungry by mid-afternoon.  A nameless five year old poked through the pantry on a cracker search.  When I walked into the kitchen, every single drawer and cupboard below four feet was wide open.  He did find crackers though.  He generously shared the nearly-empty box with the two year old, who dumped it to see just how full it was.  I wondered what had possessed me to vacuum before bedtime.  Absolutely illogical.

What started out as an innocent sword fight quickly escalated.  The pirate got clobbered by Luke Skywalker, so he took his light saber and wouldn't give it back.  The six year old, who'd been minding his own business, pulled out a semi-automatic nerf gun and decided he would settle the dispute.  Boys literally started climbing the walls as all out war broke out.  A nerf bullet stuck to the ceiling fan.  I tripped over a pirate hook on my way to kiss a battle wound.  I wondered what it was like to have girls.

It seemed like a good night to grill something for supper.  There were only a few problems.  It was half snowing, half raining on the grill.  My husband wasn't home to man it, which is of course half the beauty of grilling, in my opinion.  And the back-up plan was chicken soup, which is challenge to barbeque.  Leftover chicken and some stock went in a pot with a bunch of vegetables, then a bunch of volunteers came to help make some muffins.  They always appear out of nowhere when it's time to mix up muffins.  On the floor, Ben sat on the muffin tin proudly and waited for me to try to fill it.  Henry snuck frozen blueberries out of the batter.  Shiloh stole the ladle for a drumstick before I could use it.
Supper was a little late.

 I cleared the table, with moderate help, but decided to ignore the 2.4 smashed muffins underneath it until later.  Blueberry smeared cheeks indicated the need for baths that night.  Most pajamas were stuck in the laundry mountain downstairs, I realized as the first two wet boys filed into their room clad in towels.  I raced down and dug out mostly matching sets for each kid as the two youngest hollered that the bath was getting cold.  Minor scuffles over who was wearing whose underwear finally subsided.  We went back downstairs for story time just as Daddy came through the door.

I've been reading Deuteronomy recently and my husband has just started reading The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe aloud to the boys in the evenings.  (He's been waiting years for them to be old enough to appreciate The Chronicles of Narnia.  I'm dubious we're quite there yet...)  As these stories swirl through my head daily, they resonate with me.  Moses led a young nation though desert wilderness for forty years.  And I think our winters are long...?!  That is a long wait for the hope of spring.  In the Narnia books, the land is currently under a cold cruel curse.  It's always winter there; always winter, but never Christmas.  I can sort of commiserate.  The last couple months have seemed endless.

Peek a boo

Books, brushing teeth, prayer and bedtime.  I bid them good night and took a deep breath as the door glided closed.  Quiet ensued.  Well, sort of quiet.  Ben continued to chatter, hoping someone from the bunkbeds would engage with him.  Henry, who'd had a bit of a nap, obliged for a while.  I heard them playing peek-a-boo through the crib slats for the next twenty minutes.  But I was busy chasing down vagrant markers under the desk, sweeping muffin crumbs, and resisting the urge to just sit down near my husband while he ate his late dinner.  
The hushed babble over the monitor calmed as I finished the dishes.  I scooped a bowl of ice cream and settled next to my husband.  He was looking at weather reports.  Snow, rain, snow and rain.  Mud.  I swirled chocolate and vanilla on my spoon as I thought about it.  But mud means that Spring is coming.
Something tickled in my tummy as the sugar hit my bloodstream.  I smiled.
Newness is coming.
Soon.




    

Nursery for heaven

I hugged my squirming babies and breathed in the scent of innocence and dirt.  I sniffled over the chopped carrots and garlic.  Onion was nowhere to be seen.  I hollered at a child to clean up his mess for the 7th time and sighed with pleasure at the simple fact that he was there to holler at.  My heart ached to think of the mommies and daddies who were in the midst of planning Christmas presents and activities over the weekend for their little six year olds.  Activities they'll never do.  Presents they'll never open.
"Why, God, why?!?"
The world seems dark and hopeless.  The value of life decreases daily with the legal murder of babies in the womb.  They have little hearts pulsing real blood by six weeks old.  Life blood.
Children wither away from neglect or abandonment in some countries.  For some there isn't enough food to sustain their growing bodies.  For some, terrible war signifies the cold end.
And dark red stains cold linoleum in the quiet halls of a school in Connecticut this morning.  Life blood.  Irremediably spilled.  Life done.

I have such plans for my children.  I hope that they will grow taller than me (not tomorrow, but soon.)  I want them to master riding a bike without training wheels.  Camping under the stars with Daddy.  Knowing their multiplication tables.  Reading chapter books for fun.  Staying up too late with their friends.  Driving a car - well.  Learning tact.  Cutting a straight line.  Cooking.  Doing their own laundry.  Treating girls like princesses.  Holding their first paycheck.  Graduating.  Bringing home the woman of their dreams to meet the parents.  Giving me my first grandchild.

But perhaps they won't.  Perhaps these are just my plans for my sons.  Perhaps God's plans for them will be complete sooner than I expect.  Jesus welcomes little children into His arms everyday, saying, "Welcome.  I'm expecting you."  Even then He holds the pieces of the mother's broken heart tenderly in His hands and abhors along with her the evil that caused the end.
To Him, it isn't a life cut short.  It is simply the end.  Complete.

For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.  
Jeremiah 29:11

Rather than "hope," some versions render it "an expected end."

We cannot surprise God.  We cannot get away from His ultimate plans.  I think I can sometimes.  Jonah tried.  Even in the bottom of the ocean, surrounded in the darkness by gastric juices and partially digested fish, God was there.  David wrote about it.

My frame was not hidden from You, when I was made in secret, and skillfully wrought in the lowest parts of the earth.  Your eyes saw my substance, being yet unformed.  And in Your book they were written, the days fashioned for me, when as yet there were none of them.
Psalm 139:16

God has planned out every second of our lives.  It is written and set in stone.  Six day's worth for some.  Six years for others.  Sixty for others.  Each life, prepared in advance.   Each life, purposeful.  Each life, precious.

There's an old Puritan prayer the Pilgrims likely knew at the inception of our nation.  It was the cry of my own heart early this morning.  But they said it better.

O God, I cannot endure to see the destruction of my kindred.
Let those that are united to me in tender ties be precious in thy sight and devoted to thy glory.
Sanctify and prosper my domestic devotion, instruction, discipline, example,
that my house may be a nursery for heaven.

(From page 209 of The Valley of Vision, A collection of Puritan prayers and devotions, edited by Arthur Bennett.)


O that I would treat every day of my and my children's life with the same purpose and preciousness that You intend, Lord!