Mother’s Day

The social media version of Mother’s Day tends to mirror the Hallmark version, don’t you think? Picture perfect photographs of flowers and families and sumptuous meals. I’ll be the first to admit that I actually do enjoy everybody posting what is good and beautiful about their lives. Shouldn’t we all do that? Shouldn’t we love to share the good stuff? And that’s fine as long as it’s honest.

But, how was your Mother’s Day? Seriously. How was it?

And how was mine?

Well, I don’t know about you, but mine was decidedly imperfect. And … soul filling and beautiful in all its imperfection.You see, I didn’t have just one day this year. I had a whole weekend. And it was full of work. Hard, physical, dirty work outside on our little farm. No sitting around giving orders making gentle requests while I was waited on.

No, we all mucked in together.

And I wouldn’t have traded the sweat and the dirt for anything.

I will be up front and say that I don’t love Mother’s Day as a holiday. I miss my own mother terribly. I want so badly to call the florist and order the arrangement of daisies and yellow roses that she so loved. But she’s been in paradise with Jesus for over a decade now. No floral arrangements to send. No phone call. No card to post in time for the USPS to get it there before the day. I struggle on Mother’s Day because of all the baggage inherent in the current version of the holiday and the baggage in my own life. I struggle on behalf of all of us well-meaning but imperfect mothers, and I struggle on behalf of so many women who cannot have kids and so desperately want them. (I’m not blind to how privileged I am in that regard.)

Fast forward to the present: I am the mother of one child, the stepmother of six children. I’m also the mother-in-law to six, grandmother to 21, great-grandmother to two. Blended families are hard, as anyone who is in one will attest. Hard. And also … astonishingly amazing.

To my surprise, I realized this Mother’s Day that the way to my heart is wide open when our kids are helping … their Dad do the things he cannot do on his own. Those of you who know me in person know that my husband has only one arm. He lost his right arm in a farming accident when he was 27 years old — and now that he’s about to turn 67, he’s been without that arm far longer than he had it. You would also know that my husband is tenacious. He is intrepid. He doesn’t quit. But he’s in his mid-60s and his muscle strength and his dexterity are not quite what they used to be.

I’ve noticed that his frustration with the natural decrease in his ability has become much more pronounced than it was in the earlier years of our marriage. So when our kids and grandkids come alongside to help him accomplish the hard work on his much-loved farm, my heart is full.

I need to tell you that I got a heaping helping of that heart-fullness this weekend.

Two. Whole. Days.

On Saturday some dead trees had to be taken down. The scene: my hubby is working on the ground, with two sons up in the “man lifter,” sighting the angles and figuring out how best to get the trees down without damaging the many fences that rim our garden and yard. It was “touch and go” more than once, there was some damage to the fencing, but I was mighty impressed by how well they managed the complexity of the situation.

I laughed when my teenage grandson started singing the chorus to Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ On a Prayer” as his father and uncle began cutting into the thickest part of the main trunk of the biggest tree that had to come down.

I must admit that the five-strong chainsaw symphony nearly drove me batty throughout, but I could not miss that the grandsons had an absolute blast helping to break down the fallen limbs, and that they learned a lot in the bargain.

Two grandsons compacting the branches and twigs in the trailer.

Sunday? Still a ton of branches and debris everywhere and all at once. There were chain saws that didn’t work. Grandkids that needed naps. And then our daughter-in-law reacted badly to medication and passed out in the driveway. Her tears later as she apologized for “ruining” my Mother’s Day just absolutely broke my heart. “No,” I said. “No, no, no. Don’t ever think that. We are family.”

I’m about as imperfect a mother/stepmother/mother-in-law/grandmother as there can be. I’ve made so many mistakes, but I have tried to be honest. To boot, I haven’t always succeeded at that attempt at honesty — I’ve got as much misplaced pride as the next person, I guess. But I love them all fiercely, and watching them work with their Dad is especially sweet to me.

I finished this Mother’s Day of 2023 in one of my favorite places — in our backyard by the fire (fueled by all that debris from the felled trees, or course). I relished the warmth of the glowing coals, watched the sun fade in the west, listened to the evening birdsong. And thanked God for this life this Mother’s Day, and for the hope of all that is still to come.

A Christmas Memory

(with respect to Truman Capote for his truly exquisite story of the same title)

The last Christmas of my childhood was in 1973. I was 15. I’m not asking for sympathy when I say that, but rather, I hope, that my reminiscences will in some way help others move through the incredibly powerful Holiday memories that can still stop us in our tracks. Face your memories. Learn to love what was/is good and then gently process those things that have burnt your soul in one way or another. We identify so deeply with our childhood, and then have to grieve what wasn’t good, finding a way to move on to health and wholeness.

Onward as best we can, shall we?

My brother and I were fortunate grandchildren, a fortunate nephew, a fortunate niece. That was before our family splintered apart.

We were my maternal grandfather’s only grandchildren. Three of his four children were married, but only my mother had babies. Grandpa Newark, as we called him because Newark is where he lived, loved kids. He loved his own kids dearly and he loved his grandchildren just as dearly. Christmas Day didn’t really start — for me — until he and Aunt Viv arrived from Newark in his beautiful aqua blue Chrysler (with the wings and the push button gear shift — guys, really!)

Grandpa always gave us money for Christmas — a crisp, new $10 bill in a money card. But that wasn’t why we loved him. Yes, the cash was unusual and appreciated, but he clearly loved spending time with us, and that’s what made it so special. As for Aunt Viv, she always gave us expensive gifts that she’d shopped for from the Hahnes department store in downtown Newark; the classic white box with the iconic glossy red lid was so special! A memorable gift for me was the creamy, soft white mohair sweater that she gave me that last Christmas of my childhood. It was my first grown-up gift, really — a classic and flattering sweater. In those days, Aunt Viv got me.

My parents were pretty poor, but we still had a nice Christmas even when we were tiny kids. When I was very small, we would walk up the long gravel driveway early on Christmas morning to the home of my paternal grandparents — Grandpop and Grandmom “Up The Road,” because that’s where they lived. There we’d find breakfast and real Christmas stockings hung on their brick fireplace. We didn’t have stockings at home — we didn’t have a fireplace or money, so Mom left that to Grandmom. Mom was quite ingenious, actually, at making Christmas for us. Some of our requested gifts came from our grandparents, some from our honorary aunts and uncles (the honorary aunts being my mother’s dearest friends: Mary, Miriam, and Doris). If not for Aunt Mary, I’d never have had a Barbie doll, dresses, and a case. If not for my paternal Grandmom, I’d never have had the Mattel Fun Flowers Factory (remember those?). Aunts Miriam and Doris supplied additional doll dresses and the colorful flannel “granny” nightgowns that I so loved. Do you remember the Sears Christmas catalog? We were encouraged to look through and mark those things that interested us — Mom then went to work with modest requests, I think. And bless her for it, because in addition to making a nice selection of gifts for us, it made gift giving easy for those who loved us.

The best part of the day, though, was Christmas dinner. We ate early — about 1:00, if memory serves me. Mom managed to cook a turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and vegetables all in her little kitchen with the tiny gas stove. Thinking about it now, I’m pretty sure our entire three-bedroom bungalow was no more than about 900 square feet — so you can imagine the small size of that kitchen (no dining room). Dad would put both leaves in the Formica kitchen table and we all crowded around. Mom’s special china and “good” silverware were laid out beautifully on the white damask tablecloth, a family heirloom. Good tea in the china teapot, poured out into china tea cups after dinner; china cups that I still have. Apple, pumpkin, and lemon meringue pies for dessert. Mom wasn’t a super great cook in general, but she made a mean apple pie. To this day I can taste it. And I still have one of her heirloom pie plates.

And after Christmas dinner? A long walk. Long. We had a small house but lots of property due to being on my Grandpop’s farm. We needed that walk, believe me. We’d stuffed ourselves at dinner. The grownups were in grave danger of a tryptophan food coma, and we kids needed to run off steam, so out we went, no matter the weather. Up and down the driveway and down the sides of Grandpop’s fields. And then? We kids played with our presents in the living room while Mom and the Aunts put together the Christmas Day supper in the kitchen. Cold turkey sandwiches, leftover stuffing, potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce, and — of course! — pie! A cold but flavorful feast spread out on the kitchen table. Heaven in the early Christmas evening. Not just because of the food but because we were all together, making do with whatever was left from the earlier, more formal dinner. To this day, I don’t have many specific memories of those suppers but I do have an incredibly strong impression of warmth, camaraderie, and the cessation of family drama for the time being.

All this is to say: I hope that there are Christmas memories, no matter how small, that will see you through what can be a difficult season of the year. I miss my parents, grandparents, and aunts and uncles most at this time of year. Why? Because this was one time when family drama was put on the back burner. As a child I may not have known the specifics, but I knew tension when I saw and felt it. We all do. If your golden memories aren’t from Christmas, I sincerely pray that you can live off them anyway, that there are nuggets to cling to and that will shine a light on you and for you now, in this season.

At the bottom of all of this is the truth of the Incarnate God, Jesus the Christ of God. The church turned a pagan holiday – Saturnalia — into an opportunity to celebrate the birth of our Savior. This is a celebration that we have done and continue to do … together … all these centuries later. It is so important that we have done this … together … over thousands of years. If you don’t know this Jesus, my Jesus, I invite you to look well past our current culture and find the true Jesus of Holy Scripture: Wonderful Counselor; Mighty God; Prince of Peace; Risen and Coming King. He reconciles every human being to the Creator God, in tender mercy and pure justice. He’s waiting for you now; please don’t wait any longer to give Him your allegiance. The God who came to earth to live as a human, to dwell with His creation and His creatures, is the God you can count on, even in the midst of human tensions and terrible memories. No, He’s not a fairy Godmother who grants all our wishes. He doesn’t even operate as our human sensibilities think He should. But He is absolutely faithful to the end, and no other human can give you that, my friend.

Message me. I’d love to talk.

And I wish you happy memories, however small, to feast upon this season. Let them fill you up and then burst out to others.

To borrow from Charles Dickens, I say this well known line: “And God bless us, every one.”

Christmas hearth 2022

The World Gets Quiet

November.

In farming circles, this is the time of year when the abundance of harvest gives way to fallow ground. Farm equipment and workers are stilled, moving inside for maintenance and repair. Bare ground and brown stubble are everywhere in evidence. And the world gets quiet.

November’s lowering skies perfectly suit its empty fields.

I have loved this feeling of peaceful completion ever since I was a child growing up on my Grandpop’s farm. It’s more than merely a winding down, more than an accomplishment. The year is nearly over. But the holidays and the new year are still a season or two away yet. Snow must fly. Cold winds must whip our cheeks and chill our bones.

In the meantime, the fields rest. We rest. What is, perhaps, ironic is that this feeling would be largely absent without the hubbub and the harvest that comes before. It is the contrast that makes the moment so moving. Striving ceases. The growing darkness of the pre-solstice period rules our everyday, for it is not yet the season of Christmas lights and cheer.

This quiet is needed. We’ve run full tilt through summer, glorying in long evenings spent outside. We’ve accomplished project after project, fueled by daylight. We’ve reveled in October abundance and pronounced it all good. And in November, before the crush and fun of the annual holiday season begins, we enjoy the quiet.

Fallow field
cc-by-sa/2.0 – © N Chadwick – geograph.org.uk/p/5364243

sh’ma

How many of you remember ordering books from the Scholastic Book Club? I loved those thin catalogs of newsprint paper passed out every so often during the academic year. My parents didn’t have a lot of money for extras, but frequently I could find affordable items in the Scholastic catalog and would be allowed to order one precious book.

In the 7th grade I purchased The Endless Steppe by Esther Hautzig. Published in 1968, the book is an account of Esther’s formative years spent in a Communist Party labor camp in Siberia, to which her family was sent in early 1941. Esther was about 10 years old at the time of their forced relocation. Her account of the next five years of her life, arguably five of the most important years of a child’s life, was riveting to me for I was much the same age.

It must be noted that Esther and her family were Jews who lived in Poland. Although their relocation by the Russian communists actually saved them from the Holocaust, the labor camp experience took a terrible toll on their family. They did not return to their hometown of Vilna, which was eventually overrun by the Nazis, until after World War II ended.

The violent uprooting from all that Esther had known as the beloved child of a prosperous family, the terrible living conditions and grinding poverty endured in Siberia, the loyalty to family and faith, all of that touched and moved me. I admired her courage and initiative in the face of it. I read her book so many times during my adolescent years that the binding eventually fell apart. The lessons learned have stayed with me.

But let me relate to you what was, for me, the most stirring moment of Esther’s book: an account of young Esther walking home from (if I recall correctly) her job, and finding herself in a terrible Siberian blizzard. Likely you already know that the weather in that part of Russia can be harsh and dangerous. There is a reason why it is still an infamous location for their labor camps.

This storm that Esther found herself in was bad. She did not have the choice to remain at her place of employment to wait out the blinding blizzard; she had to walk home. And the storm nearly took her. Not only was she walking against gale force winds and snow, she lost her way and could not find their house. Darkness was falling and she was very late. As she battled the elements and wondered where she was, the wind brought a sound she feared she’d never hear again: her mother’s voice. To her utter amazement, she heard her mother calling over and over again through the wind and the storm, “Sh’ma, Israel! Sh’ma, Israel! Sh’ma, Israel!”

As Esther put it, her mother, with ferocity and instinct, had turned herself into a human homing device, searching for her daughter with the great prayer of Israel: “Sh’ma, Israel!” In English: “Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is one!”

I’m crying as I type this, for those words are the precious call of God on the hearts of His own.

We live today in turbulent, intolerant, frequently downright nasty times. We may not have to walk through blinding weather, but we certainly are living through stormy circumstances that threaten to defeat us. But know this: God is still the Lord. He still calls through the storms of this earthly life to each of us, a divine homing device guiding His children to Himself.

Sh’ma, Israel!

mine all mine

Spent a cold Sunday afternoon watching the movie Sweet Home Alabama, starring Reese Witherspoon. After watching all the credits, I realized that the movie is 20 years old this year! Where did THAT time go?

I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed Sweet Home Alabama the very first time I saw it. The acting is first rate and the story line resonates. Yes, it’s an enjoyable romantic comedy, but more importantly, this time viewing it I realized that it’s actually about owning your past and coming to terms with it so that you can move on.

Granted, not all of us have felonies on our record by the time we’re 18 or blew up banks at the age of 10 (as did the main character of this film). I can happily say that about myself anyway. But we all have completely cringe-worthy episodes of varying degrees in our pasts. Admit it. It’s not possible to be human and not have made mistakes. Lots of them, actually. And it can paralyse us so terribly.

I grew up with parents who expected us to be perfect, or so it seemed to me. I realize now that they had their own very deep-seated issues from their childhoods — both grew up during the Great Depression and were impacted, one way or another, by World War II. Both grew up in times when the stakes were extremely high, when one childish mistake — like breaking a dinner plate — could cost their parents more money than they had available at the time. Both endured abuse, one way or another. And while they did a lot better than their own parents did, they were, well, difficult.

I was taught — again, so it seemed to me at the time — that any bad or even not-so-good thing I did somehow negated everything that came before. For example, did I bring home a C in phys ed? Yes, many times, actually. And then every A on that same report card became somehow … less than.

Enough of that kind of influence and eventually you find, as an adult, that relationships and careers are a constant source of anxiety. Mess up once? Every good thing you did before that, every good characteristic that you brought to the situation, is annihilated. You become worthless, and other people don’t want you any more.

It’s exhausting. And unnecessary. And not at all what is taught in Scripture. (Okay, here we go with some preaching — but remember that I’m preaching to my own heart as much as to anyone else.)

Look at King David. Look at the Apostle Peter. Both used mightily by God AFTER their monumental screw-ups. After David raped Bathsheba and had her husband murdered. After Peter denied being a follower of Christ. These are huge issues. But God heard their contrite hearts and, most importantly, did not hold it against them.

We’re promised in the Psalms, by that very same, very flawed King David, that God remembers our sins no more. That when we acknowledge our mistakes and crummy choices, He throws them as far as the east is from the west. Recall that the earth is …. round …. and you get the idea of how far the east really IS from the west.

So while both David and Peter experienced real-life consequences from their catastrophically poor choices, those actions, those sins, weren’t held against them by God.

Back to Sweet Home Alabama and coming to terms with your past — in fact, owning it. Can I own mine? On my good days, I say yes, yes, and yes. I can trust that God threw it all away and looks on my face with nothing but love and approval, the most loving and patient of all parents. And on my not-so-good days, especially after some mistake or other, I wonder if I still can keep going forward.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change …. and I cannot change my past.

My word for this coming year is “expansive.” Why? I think it’s because I have spent too many years contracting more and more tightly within myself so as to make as little impact on the lives around me as possible — you know, in case I make a mistake. Being expansive is a broad theme (maybe that pun is intended), and it implies a lot of things: relaxation, grace, mercy, slowing down, thinking deeply, listening carefully, making space. And definitely it implies trusting. Trusting God, trusting myself, trusting my people, trusting the process.

And owning that which was and is mine. Freely. “Take my yoke upon you, for My yoke is easy and My burden is light,” says Jesus. It’s the very best exchange for that which is mine all mine.

Onward …..

new year

So long 2021, and may your memory be buried deep alongside that of 2020.

I suppose the irony is that 2021 saw my best year of business yet — a staggering 46% increase in sales over 2020. That’s a lot of dolls, my friends. A lot of happy hours spent in my sewing studio. A lot of happy hours spent at the local markets and craft shows. I ended the business year with a profit and some truly great memories.

But 2021 also saw a lot of grief and aggravation. And I’m not sorry it’s over. It’s the year we lost the grandson we never got to know. It’s another year we couldn’t see our daughter and son-in-law in Canada. It’s the year I returned home to New Jersey to bury my aunt’s ashes on a hilltop in the family cemetery. It’s another year of people getting sick and dying from Covid. Another year of impossible divisions in the fabric of our nation. Another year of disappointment in the Church (writ large) in America.

Where do I go from here? Onward, of course. There is no other choice, and I’m not sorry about that either. Onward into deeper relationship with Christ. Onward into continuing Bible study. Onward into better balancing my information-junkie habits with the need to rest and reflect and just be. Onward into my husband’s retirement (slated for July of 2022!). Onward into life.

Onward.

Join me?

Amy Grant Christmas Music Day

It’s been almost 18 months since my last blog post. Eighteen months since our beloved pup, Charley, passed away. It’s been a long and mostly sad time, and I haven’t felt one bit like blogging. In the blighted year of 2020 we lost a young friend to suicide and despair, and we lost our Charley. And then we lost my aunt and my stepmother, both to dementia. We also lost a grandchild we never had the opportunity to meet, and we lost touch with friends due to the Covid pandemic. We lost. We lost. And we lost again. It seemed like the losing would never end.

Thankfully, I sense the season is changing. We’ve sustained no losses for the last 11 months, and these days that feels like some kind of record.

So, today — the day after Halloween — is Amy Grant Christmas Music Day in my home sewing studio, where I create stuffed dolls for children. I’m heading into my busiest and most stressful season with my doll business, and the pressure to provide enough inventory for five craft fair days within a three-week period is enormous. These are big shows, with hundreds, potentially thousands, of people coming to buy.

Thus Amy Grant Christmas Music day, which ushers in the very best and most joyful of the Christmas music season. If you’ve never listened to her “Home for Christmas” album from 1992, you are missing out big time — it is a classic and, simply, the best.

I actually start listening to some Christmas music in September, as I begin to prepare for the busy season, but I keep it low key — Christmas guitar, Christmas harp, etc. for ambiance. Christmas “wallpaper music,” if you will. As of today — it’s full out, my friends, and every. single. Christmas. song. that I love to bellow at the top of my lungs is on the playlist.

I started this entry reflecting on what a sad time 2020 was for us. And I’m going to say here and now that 2021 hasn’t won any awards for being the happiest year either. But God is good. By His good design, the seasons do change and black clouds have a habit of blowing away.

And here we are, listening to Amy Grant Christmas music.

In Memory

He was just four weeks old when he came to us, one of a large litter of extra-large puppies that an exhausted mama pup simply stopped nursing. My daughter-in-law called me in tears to ask if we could take our designated puppy two weeks early. Of course I said yes. And so Charley came home to us. He never quite got over that first glitch — always needing to be near us and frequently “nursing” on his dog bed all throughout his life.

But he was all heart, our Charley. All heart.

He watched over the grandchildren as they played. He went so far as to kill our rooster when it ran after an unsuspecting child in our yard one Mother’s Day. He didn’t mean to kill it, but he wasn’t going to have it attack a child either.

One early morning Charley came to get me out of bed, and he wouldn’t stop fussing until I got up and followed him to the TV room, where my husband lay on the couch so deathly ill that I immediately drove him to the ER. Charley knew, and he knew just what to do.

He loved to play fetch, only slowing down this past winter when, unbeknownst to us, he started his final battle with the kidney disease — or perhaps it was cancer — that finally took him today. We will never know because we didn’t want a post-mortem done. That he became seriously ill was enough to know. That there was no hope was evident in the blood test.

Charley had large, expressive brown eyes. He loved to “boop” us with his big black nose. He tattled to me when Daddy didn’t provide him any of the delicious leftover steak that was being put away in the refrigerator. He vocalized whenever Tim and I embraced. He barked at every delivery driver that ever came to our door. He loved his friends, and everybody was his friend.

Two weeks ago he developed a mysterious abscess on his back paw. Out of nowhere his paw swelled up to twice its size within the space of about four hours. I was so freaked that we called the after hours vet on a Saturday night to have it seen to immediately. It took a few days of antibiotics and a surgical lancing and draining, but it healed. The cause was unknown, and after it healed, Charley seemed to be back to his old self. But then he became listless. Finally he wouldn’t eat. 48 hours of strong antibiotics yielded a brief rally, but then he sank down even further. The vet did a blood panel and found kidney failure.

During that one miracle day that he rallied, he ate scrambled eggs with gusto and got himself up on the couch for a while. As I was reading before bed, he came over to greet me with a ‘boop’ before settling down in his usual sleeping space on the floor immediately next to my side of the bed. I hoped we were on an upward trajectory.

But it was not to be. He was much, much worse the next day, and our options went down to just one. Euthanasia.

So tonight I’ve wandered around our little farm, seeing Charley in every vista and around every corner, hearing the jingle of his collar as if he were really walking with me. Of all the dogs I’ve had in my life, Charley will stay deep within me. I was his Mama, and that was that.

Goodbye, Charley.

Good boy.

Such a good boy.

anything

Been reading an excellent book by Jennie Allen, titled Anything. Read this book. Really. It will change your life and your faith. It will give you perspective. Just read it.

It’s a radical thing, to surrender every aspect of your life to God’s will and purposes. As Allen points out, we want to live a normal, comfortable, average American life and still live (and exhibit) a real faith in God.

But truly, if we follow Jesus, life on this earth is very frequently anything BUT normal, comfortable, average. It is messy. It is chaotic. It is harder than anything we can imagine at times. Yet it is perfectly planned by the God who loves us and calls us for His purpose. And it is the only way to live a life that is truly satisfied and fulfilled while here on earth.

Nowadays we allow our perspective to be wholly shaped by our culture, by what the mass media says it should be, by what even our fellow Christians say it should be. And thus we easily fall prey to doubts and fears that have nothing to do with what God really wants for us or the relationship He desires with each of us. Those doubts and fears keep us from even seeing His purpose, let alone walking it out.

My life in the last year has certainly been messy. Beyond messy, actually. Abrupt job change. Serious business and financial uncertainties. Serious relationship upheavals. I have sought God, but I have frequently not believed or trusted Him. I have let my circumstances dictate my perspective of His love and goodness, instead of interpreting my circumstances in the light of what I know to be true of His love.

I recently prayed :  “Our God and Father, You desire to do good to and for us. You desire our fellowship and surrender. But I have lived in unbelief and denial and shame in many places, essentially throwing Your gift back in Your face.”

God’s response to me rose as smoothly and clearly as anything I’ve ever heard from Him: “My child, your sins are forgiven as soon as asked. My call on your life is so you may be as close to Me as possible at all times. Together we will tell the Good News that will set everyone free if only they will accept it. I love you. I made you. I have a plan for you. I accept you because of your faith and not because of your works (although I do love your works too). I planned your jobs, both the beginnings and the endings. I planned your businesses for you. It’s all a journey, and you are never alone. I will always be with you, no matter where you go. I know your doubts and your fears, and I grieve that you suffer with them when you don’t need to. Your doubts and fears accomplish nothing – cast them off and trust Me for the journey!”

This journey. This life.

Anything, Lord. Anything.

cherries

Those of you who know me also know that for many summers I would be out of town for work for five weeks. I am now semi-retired and no longer hold that job, and this is the first summer in 19(!) years that I am at home.

Amazing what you can find out when your life changes that drastically.

I found out that our little farm is a total joy now that I have regained the strength and stamina to work outside.

I found out that I like running errands with my husband instead of the ‘divide and conquer’ approach that our busy lives used to require.

I found out that chickens love strawberries.

I found out that we have two pie cherry trees in our yard.

Now, how did we live in this house for five years and NOT know that we have two (two!) cherry trees? Because we were away during cherry season every year — we would leave town before there was any fruit on the trees and return long after it was gone. We thought those two trees were some kind of ornamental shade trees that bloomed for a few days in the Spring.

Imagine our delight in finding fruit this year and then further discovering that these are pie cherries.

Yesterday my husband and I spent about an hour together harvesting the ripe cherries, and there are still many more to go! Canning commences soon, and I’m planning this winter’s cherry cobblers already!

To me, these cherries, these newly uncovered treasures, are a symbol of a life that has become more intentional. I’m no longer working full time, chasing a ‘career.’ I’m not out of town on a business trip every month or so. I don’t accumulate frequent flyer points anymore.

I’m home.

Home to enjoy slow evenings in our bucolic backyard, meals on the patio, Bible Study in the shade. Home to harvest strawberries and make strawberry jam. Home to gather the herbs before they bolt, drying them for freshest flavor through the winter months. Home to laugh at the antics of our chickens and dogs and horses, to enjoy the births of two foals and to get to know them as they grow. Home to watch the rest of the garden growing at a prodigious rate, anticipating the harvest of potatoes, corn, beans, squashes, and tomatoes that is to come.

Charley cooling off in the underbrush. Because fur coat.

I didn’t know how terribly stressed and rushed I was until it all came to an abrupt end. And when the dust cleared, I realized that I now have the privilege of living my dream. For me, home is the place that I belong (and I don’t say that to imply that every woman belongs at home – I’m saying that for me, and me only). It turns out that canning and freezing, providing good and nourishing food grown in our own garden, are passions of mine. Good health and helping people recover theirs is a passion. Learning as much as I can about our amazing bodies and how they respond to nutrition and environment is a passion.

It turns out that my former job was not a passion.  Even though there were many aspects of it that I  enjoyed and many people involved whom I really liked, in the end it was a j.o.b.

God is faithful. Romans 8:28 tells us that all things (ALL) work together for good in the lives of His followers. I was forced to make a very drastic change, but God turned a seemingly negative situation into what is arguably one of the most positive changes of my entire life.

That was brought home to me in vivid and glorious color yesterday when we discovered the cherries.

Where’s your place? What’s your dream? Discovered any cherry trees lately?