That Impossible, Worrisome Cardinal

 

"Bang"...

10 seconds...

"Bang"...

10 seconds more.

"Bang."

This past spring into the summer, a female cardinal spent much of it's morning (and sometimes well into the afternoon) flying into the window.

We never were quite sure why she decided to spend much of her time doing such an obviously painful exercise; but every day she came.

Her male friend was always on a branch of a nearby shrub,

watching her constant confusing crashes.

  It often began at sunrise:

we were awakened by the thumping since she never stayed at one specific window, but would migrate to different windows around the house.

I felt so sorry for her.

She seemed so determined on this self-destructive path,

adamantly sticking to her chosen occupation of trying to accomplish something...

but nothing more than pain seemed likely to happen. 

I would wander over to the window and tell her to stop it, and she would while I stood close by in her view, but as soon as I walked away, her thumping would begin again.

"Crazy bird.  Don't you ever get hungry or thirsty or want to build a nest and have baby birds?

If you would just fly away.

 Why don't you do something with your life besides waste it banging your head against the glass." 

 I finally gave up and pursued my own course of actions for the day.

And then just like that, it hit me.

Isn't that what I do?

I've been reading Hebrews and I just came to chapter 11 this past week.

I've stopped to soak in the verses a bit more,

studying each person mentioned in the Hall of Faith.

It's funny because I like to read some verses from the Old Testament and some from the New Testament, and my reading in the Old just took me through the story of Moses and the escape from Egypt.

I also recently heard a sermon about Jacob that exposed how full of turmoil his life was:

the loss of three of the people he loved the most, all dying rather close together in time:

his wife, then his father, and then (it seemed) his favored son;

the plight of being a single parent to his sons Joseph and Benjamin,

the sorrow of losing a child; having a daughter raped; and having treacherous,murderous, shameful sons;

but he still trusted in God.

And then there was Enoch,

and Noah,

Abraham and Sarah.

People, ordinary in life's journey, sometimes experiencing hard trials,

but choosing to have faith in God despite everything that bumped into their way.

"But without faith it is impossible to please him: for he that cometh to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him."

Hebrews 11:6

We like to worry about things, we humans.

We worry about money and having enough.

We worry about out kids: their frustrations, their stages of life, their health, their futures.

We worry about our relatives, ourselves, our own futures, our own health.

We just worry. It seems to come easily.

My farmer and I are selling our farm, and we have moved to my in-laws farm.

It was the right thing to do, we know it for so many reasons and the peace God gave us about the move made it clearly the right path.

But our farm hasn't sold.

Not yet.

Months have gone by and the time slot that we expected things to work out is getting longer than we'd like.

Worry works it's way in like a drifting breeze of smoke,

just a touch at first, but steadily making it's presence hard to ignore.

We beat our heads against the glass of it, thinking, 

somehow,

that our worry will do something with our fears;

will demand a response other than pain and discontent.

God calls us to have faith,

to do right and glorify and thank Him

and trust that He will carry us through anything we may face

because His wings are a much safer place to be than our own.

 

 

I'm not sure if that cardinal is still greeting the morning windows at the old farm,

but it's been nice to get a few extra minutes of sleep since we left her.

 

I hope she finds whatever it is she's looking for,

for her sake and for her patient red mate.

 

 

 

The Reason for Disappointment Summed up in One Word.

"You know why it bothered you, don't you?"
my friend asked.

Her voice on the phone promised an answer,
one I was curious to hear.

Had she come upon some secret that I had missed til now?

"Expectations," she said.

"You had expectations of what would happen;

you expected it to be different."

It was so simple,

too simple,
and definitely not what I wanted to hear.

Blame would be much more comforting;

pity would offer temporary condolence;

but disappointed expectations?

"If you don't expect anything,
you won't ever be disappointed."
I could feel the conflicting humor in her truth.
It was what I needed to hear and as a true friend, she knew that.
It woke me from my self and stirred my thoughts.


It is the way of expectations.

Violet put 30 eggs under the duck who was feeling broody and had decided to nest.

It hadn't started out that way.

There had been a dozen or so,

but she wanted more ducklings and chickens and saw the sitting duck as an opportunity for more.

Nothing hatched.

All of the eggs had to be thrown out because double-decker eggs in a nest cannot get the proper attention, heat, humidity that they need;

or so found out that momma duck, spread as wide as she could get herself to go

with no tiny chirping to reward her patience.

Violet expected that more would be better,

the apple didn't fall far from her mother's tree;

but contentment with enough is far better than the emptiness of unnecessary more.

I sent a book to a literary agent.
I had written and rewritten it 2 dozen times til I thought it was good.
I had spent months working on a few possible illustrations for it,
hoping they were good enough.



I have heard the stories, taken to heart the warnings of rejections,
but when my answer,
 "Not unique enough,"
 came for something I had put so much of my heart into,
the expectation crashed hard;
the hurt and tears were more than I expected...
because I had expected rejection,
but just not the intensity of the pain of it.

 

Two years ago I made the garden and planted a few of them.

Two years I have watched them, watered them, weeded them, spread their trailing vines to increase their numbers.

We had a few samplings last season, but the increase of flowers and drooping green fruit this year has not gone unnoticed.
Daily I visit that small patch of garden,
admiring the growing fruit that those plants have in their possibilities.

Not to have expectations would be to take the soul out of the work.

All of it has been done to cater to great expectations.

I don't expect a crop failure, but it very well could come.

The chipmunks may come back;

the squirrels may decide to tear out the bushes in search of whatever it is they recklessly decide to dig for;

the chickens may discover the taste of juicy redness;

my 4 year old (who seems to be going through a stage of terrorizing my expectations) may execute her sense of undercover mischief and gobble up the whole patch when it sits just nearing it's prime.

I know the answer I hear on the phone is right.

I know I have to give my expectations to God and take whatever comes,

good or bad.

I know that trials increase faith,
that rejections and disappointments can be the stepping stones to better attempts,
modified goals,
sweeter fruit.

I am just hoping that this patch will avoid calamity and bring fullness of joy:

 because sometimes expectations are fulfilled,
and those times are sweet happiness.

 Deep inside, when the issues are weighed, the truth is:
without occasional disappointed expectations,

the hatching of a dozen ducklings wouldn't seem enough,
the long-awaited title across the front of a book wouldn't be as graciously humbling,

the berries from an anticipated patch wouldn't taste as sweet,

gratitude wouldn't have a chance to blossom...

because isn't that the way we seem to work?

It certainly seems to be the way I do.

I'll tell you for sure when I eat some strawberry shortcake,

because like it or not,
I just can't seem to keep those juicy red fruits out of my dreams.

Hope deferred maketh the heart sick: but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life.
Proverbs 13:12

The full soul loatheth an honeycomb; but to the hungry soul every bitter thing is sweet.
Proverbs 27:7

By humility and the fear of the LORD are riches, and honour, and life.
Proverbs 22:4




Sharing at:
Kellyskornerblog.com
Homestoriesatoz.com
Savvysouthernstyle.net
notjustahousewife.net
Wearethatfamily.com
Wise-woman-linkup

Thanksgiving: Just Words.

Have you seen them?

I have countless friends on facebook who have taken up the November monthly challenge of posting a statement of thanksgiving each day.

"It's a simple thing," I tell myself.

"Everybody is doing it, so I guess I don't need to.

It is just a few words...

random moments of gratitude.

What is it worth, really?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"Is he still bleeding?  Is that normal for a cow's horn to bleed that long," I ask my farmer.

The steer had broken his horn on Friday and on Sunday, there was still a steady dripping coming from it.

"Yes, they can bleed a lot," he responded from the side of the trough where he was distributing hay.

He'd dusted some blood stop powder on it, but it was still a nasty mess.

Normally, we'd chase him into the headlock and try to get something wrapped on it,

but we had a bull (the result of a fowled clamping attempt when he was younger)

in that pen and it was a pretty risky business to try to get the bull out of there to work on the wounded-horn steer.  We figured the horn's bleeding would stop.

Monday, the steer was lying out in the field and didn't look too well.

My farmer decided to call the vet in the morning on Tuesday as he was still looking pretty forlorn.

When the vet arrived, it was looking as if the steer was in pretty bad shape.

He commented on how the steer's gums and the pinks in his eyes were pale,
like he was near death.

The vet said he had never heard of a cow bleeding to death from his horn,

He checked him for worms, and, although he had some, it was not a bad case.
His blood showed he was anemic, which pointed to blood loss being the cause.


It is hard to watch an animal suffer.
It is hard even when it is an animal that is destined to provide meat.

When you get animals as babies and bring them up:
have to keep their pens cleaned out,
keep their water fresh,
feed them twice each day,

fertilize the hay fields,
buy the hay seed,
plant the hay,
pray for rain to make the hay grow,
mow hay,
rake hay,
ted the hay,
pray the rains will stay away until the hay is baled,
bale hay,
move the hay
stack the hay,
and then feed the hay...

it is a consuming process.

However, there is nothing like watching your animals grow,
enjoy their meals of hay,
watch them stroll out through the green pastures of summer.


Care-taking brings a unique delight.

Certainly the time and commitment
and the money wrapped up in the whole process
makes for a relationship with these animals that is dependent upon each other.



"Will he make it,"
I ask the vet, not sure that I want to hear the answer.

"It is a 50/50 chance.  He has pretty severe anemia."
He explained to me something about the red blood count and some numbers I didn't understand.
He said something like
"35 is normal.
6 or 7 is at death's door.
This steer's number came out at 9.
It isn't looking good, but he does have strength still,
and we've done what we could."

 

It is never good to feel like there is only a 50 percent chance of hope.
Half of the time, he would die.
Half of the time, he would live.

I am more of a high-hopes kind of person.
High hopes are easier on the mind.

I don't like half-hopes.

 

I trudge down from the barn, looking up into the clouds and thinking a prayer.

Sometimes it seems strange to live on a farm and pray about animals,
rain for the harvest,
longevity for the equipment,
strength and time to get it all done,
the constant battle against the curse of sin on nature.

 

 Still, with all the verses in the Bible about farming, ripe fields,
gardening and vineyards,
I remind myself that God cares and understands.






The next morning, unsure of what will be found in the barn,
I opened my Bible next to my breakfast and skim over the words in the passage for that day.
I come up to these words:

For every beast of the forest is mine, and the cattle upon a thousand hills.

 I know all the fowls of the mountains: and the wild beasts of the field are mine.

 If I were hungry, I would not tell thee: for the world is mine, and the fulness thereof. 

 Will I eat the flesh of bulls, or drink the blood of goats?

 Offer unto God thanksgiving; and pay thy vows unto the most High:

And call upon me in the day of trouble: I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me.

Psalm 50:10-15 (italics added)

Thanksgiving.

Just a few words?

Maybe,

but not in God's eyes.

Thanksgiving is a sacrifice, a rich offering of acknowledgement that God is good,

no matter what the circumstances that might be at the moment,

no matter how full the pot of luxuries 

or how meager the crumbs of shifting securities...

God shares that He owns everything.

Nothing surprises God.

Nothing is out of His knowledge or domain.

He doesn't rely on the sweat of our own work,

the blood of our bulls:

it is not what God wants.

He does it all

for good.
 

He wants our thanks...

when hard times turn out with good results,

and even when they don't seem to to us.

 

"Nov. 21: Today I am thankful that God owns the cattle on a thousand hills...

but He cares about the one in our barn...

and I am thankful that this time, 

He gave him strength to live and moved him out to pasture again with the others."

The Healing Balm.

Like a heavy, damp blanket, the weight of it swallowed me.  My eyes looked up, but the tears blurred my vision.  I swallowed, and it seemed as if my tongue had tied itself in a knot.  In the pit of my stomach, a gnawing pain seemed to me as if it would eat through my whole being, and in a way, I wished it would and be done with it.

There have been a few times in my life when I experienced this.  I have run into people who, when the subject comes up, casually say, "Oh, I have never felt that.  I have never had anything to be depressed about," as if the insatiable grip of this horrendous captor can actually be chosen somehow.  It isn't a wandering tramp that one invites in for tea.
 

No, not at all.

The occasions that I found myself suddenly facing the drowning feeling of depression were not my choice.  A couple of times, they were consequences of my own actions. The other was totally out of my control: a bout with infertility.

To those who have experienced depression, it is not a light topic.  Those who dismiss it as such have never battled it's breath-removing, heart palpitating crashes, like a javelin thrust through, not seen in coming.  Pain is hard to live with.  Abuse is intolerable.  Depression is merciless and overwhelming.

When I found myself paralyzed in it's grip, begging God to help me from that place of heaviness, there was a path of solace I found to lift me up.  It was God's answer to me, His calm in the storm, and once I found it, when the demon of depression fired on me, I brought myself to it's seat and forced my fingers to move.

 It was my piano.

Through tear-filled eyes, my hands would reach for the hymnal.  It often didn't matter what page I opened to.  Hymns have a way with the soul.  They reach through the sickness and spread their words of wealth; but not just the words...the melody that clothed them, the two working together, like fire and wood, to warm and cleanse and stir to life the parts of the soul that felt as if they were bleeding.

Music is incredible.  It wakens.  This tool we so easily have in our lives can be the honey in our hives, the salt in our broth.  It is more powerful than we realize.  We choose everyday what we will do with it.  We have 24 hours in a day, 1440 minutes each day to fill with something.  The choice of what to bathe our soul with is not a small one.

I spent countless hours rumbling my fingers up and down the keyboard during those dark spots, an instrument I am not thoroughly trained in, but the effort and time built chords and drifted my soul out of the hold. Like medicine, it healed and let me get up from a place I thought would swallow me up.  Like Saul with his bouts of overwhelming terror, the music David strummed on his harp vanquished his moments and brought peace.

I was thinking of the gift that music is the other day when I heard my child singing.  Sometimes empty, pointless words are fun and great for a smile, but I realized I needed to find some more music to embed words that may someday come back to help them, words with salve for their souls.  Making a place for worthwhile music is a gift that never stops living.  I am thankful for the balm of praise.  It is a priceless medicine.


 Here is one hymn I loved especially during those times where I was sinking.

1. Does Jesus care when my heart is pained
   Too deeply for mirth or song,
   
   As the burdens press, and the cares distress,
   And the way grows weary and long?
   • Refrain:
     Oh, yes, He cares, I know He cares,
     His heart is touched with my grief;
     When the days are weary, the long nights dreary,
     I know my Savior cares.
2. Does Jesus care when my way is dark
   With a nameless dread and fear?
   As the daylight fades into deep night shades,
   Does He care enough to be near?
3. Does Jesus care when I’ve tried and failed
   To resist some temptation strong;
   When for my deep grief there is no relief,
   Though my tears flow all the night long?
4. Does Jesus care when I’ve said “goodbye”
   To the dearest on earth to me,
   And my sad heart aches till it nearly breaks—
   Is it aught to Him? Does He see?

Oh, yes, He cares, I know He cares,

His heart is touched with my grief;

When the days are weary, the long nights dreary,

I know my Savior cares.

I love this one, too.

The Shunning.

I had a dream the other  night.

I woke up feeling like my stomach was twisted up inside.

It seemed so real, but so ridiculous, too.

I dreamed that my mother was shunning me.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He sits there staring at me.

He watches every move I make.

I wiggle my toe, and he instantly turns to see what is there.

I curl  my tongue and whistle, just barely letting the noise slip through my lips.

He sits up, his head tilting to see what I might mean.

I smile.

His tail wags.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Now if you know my mother,

you know the last thing she could ever do is to shun somebody hurtfully.

She might feel angry at disrespectful people and I suppose she would ignore you to a point if she felt you were mocking her or being rude,

but if you come to her and talk,

she would never shun anybody.

But her daughters?  There isn't any way possible she could shun us.

I feel very loved by my mother,

my mother-in-law as well.

They are both the most loving, kind women I know.

Both of them will not tolerate evil, but they will always love people.

In my dream, it hurt so badly when I tried to talk to her and she turned and walked away.

Funny how a dream can seem so real, and the internal pain can be more painful than physical pain.
I have no idea what caused this bizarre dream; maybe I shouldn't eat almonds before bed.

It made me think of the Amish, with their religion, how they shun those who leave the faith.

It doesn't sound like much, but that moment in my dream was so unbearable.

What a harsh reality.

More acutely, it made me think of Jesus,

the rejection of God turning His back on Him when he was on the cross for those hours of darkness.

Jesus words were not,
"Why must I bear this pain?"

but instead the verse says,

"And about the ninth hour Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? that is to say, My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?"

Mt. 27:46 

That forsaking, that feeling of being shunned or turned away from by the one you love,

the one whom He had never been without,

the harsh reality of what hell would be,

and he suffered it for our sins...

if you have ever felt that terrible pain of being shunned by somebody you love,

the thought is too immense to imagine Jesus' pain.

It seems silly for me to even be talking about a dream or the loyalty of dogs

in the same discussion with the death of Christ,

but I am sure He knows my simplicity and the intent of my heart.

After all, I sometimes wonder if Jesus didn't ever scratch the neck and say some kind words to a tired donkey,

or if he sang along when He heard a bird's song,

or scratched the chin of a cat rubbing at his feet,

or patted the head of a faithful dog companion lying on the floor in his carpentry shop before he left to complete his ministry on earth. 

He was there in the beginning at the creation of the dog 

and knew he would become the best friend of many.

He knew that in a dog was a picture of devoted loyalty,

of never shunning the ones he loves. 

 

We tend to be hurtful, us humans.

We say things in anger or when we don't understand situations.

We judge each other, criticize, hold grudges, spew thoughts that may be hurtful because we don't see the pain of the person whose ears they fall on.

We shout out from our own little box

while the rest of the world stands in a different place,

and if our words aren't wrapped in the packaging of 1 Corinthians 13,

it is harmful, no matter what the words may be.

Sometimes, it is those of our own faith that we are hardest and most critical of,

as if the Holy Spirit cannot direct without our pointing fingers and banging fists.

It can bring pain.

It may be shunning.

If only we could bathe our words in love before we said any of them.
I wish I could: the mastery of the tongue.

Perhaps if we did,

we'd be like that dog sitting by my feet:

kind, trusting, waiting, watching patiently,
protective of his family.
 

They love in their friendly silence.

Perhaps that is why they are man's best friend.

Sharing at:
Themodestmomblog.com

My Colorful Treasure.

She is the kind who sees you finally take a seat on the recliner after a long day of the ordinary,

and she has to scurry right over and climb up next to you and sink sandwiched between the recesses of that recliner's cushions and your lap.

She's the kind who sees you walking to the barn and races up beside you so she can slip her hand into yours and walk together with you.

She's the kind who can't pass the CD player in the living room without pushing the "on" button,

sending the warmth of gentle music choreographed with her own graceful dance.

She's the kind who gives too many dog treats to the puppy and takes the time to scratch the old dog's belly.

She's the kind who helps herself to the cheese sticks in  the refrigerator door, but rarely does so without also grabbing an extra for her brother to eat.

She's the kind who wants the same books read to her every night and notices when you change up a few of the words.

She's the kind who watches people and seems to know everything that is going on.

She's the kind who always notices first when her Daddy is home from work and races out to ride on the gator with him.

She's the kind who has to take her vitamin first thing in the morning EVERY day, and she won't leave you alone until that necessity has been completed.

She's the kind who thinks the solution to finding the largest earthworm ever is to pull it in half and share it with her brother.

She's the kind who falls the hardest, cries the loudest, and laughs like it's nobody's business.

She is the kind who insists on graffiti with 'washable' markers...

that never truly wash off,

(even on lampshades).

She's the kind who makes you sigh the largest sigh of relief when she finally goes to bed at night...

and in a strange, unexplainable way,

you wish she would just stay this way forever and that the days would not pass by so quickly...

well,

except maybe without any magic markers.

She is the treasure of being a four year old.

She is my colorful treasure.

Sharing at:
Themodestmomblog.com

In the Eye of the Beholder.

His face was bright as I filled his cup.

He lifted it to his lips, closing his eyes and swallowing the orange liquid as if he were drinking an ice cream cone: pure bliss.

"Ooooo, I love orange juice," he said with a liquid mustache.

I suddenly felt a twinge of guilt.  We rarely bought orange juice.  Luxuries like that seldom made it into the budgeted grocery money. I wished we could have orange juice all the time, and he would have the joyful acquaintance with this cup every morning.

The grocery store has special sales of drastically reduced items each week with one of their coupons,

limited usually to one of the item.

It is an enticement to get shoppers to visit, I suppose.

This week, it happened to be orange juice.

A carton made it into our refrigerator with eager eyes watching.

As I thought about it later, I began to question in a different perspective: are we the ones who are deprived, or are we the ones who are actually privileged to possess something only tasted by those who embrace the contentedness of simple "limitedness."

I remembered going out to eat with a family once a while back for breakfast

and when the orange juice came out, their little girl said,

"I am sick of orange juice.  We have it all the time."

She had no idea in her little mind how unappreciative she sounded,

especially to orange juice loving ears.

I began to wonder.

Is it really the "rich" who are privileged,

or are they the ones who are missing something.

By giving every indulgence to our children,

everything that we felt we didn't have or should have had as children,

are we creating a better person?

Everyday luxuries become commonplace to the one whose tongue is spoiled to its taste.

The person who sees treasures in simplicity will find a life full of unexpected enjoyment.

The spoiled tongue must wait for rare, expensive moments while plodding on in daily trivialities:

a cup of orange juice to one is a treasure in a cup to another.

I do not consider us poor by any means.  

We are well cared for and have abundantly more than we need;
I am certain my kids have lots of "spoiled" attitudes that pop up,
as does their mother.

I still have to think, though, that it has to be considered that often blissful appreciation is worth waiting for a coupon to experience,
more often than not.
It develops the sense of how really precious every good gift is in our lives.

"Better is an handful with quietness,
than both hands full with travail and vexation of spirit."
Ecclesiastes 4:6



Linking to:
Raisinghomemakers

Themodestmomblog.com

A Box from Home.

Apricots.

An Apple.

Pretzels.

Nuts.

A few fresh cherry tomatoes from the garden.

 Granola bar.

Some cookies.

They are place into that stained, square-foot compartment in random fashion,

apricots cushioning the apple from bumping and damaging its skin.

There is still room for the main course:

usually the leftovers from dinner.


I hesitate over the colorful crew and think a little prayer over them,

a prayer for my husband's day tomorrow,

something I try to remember to do as I pack his lunch,
although sometimes in my weary hurry to get to bed,
I forget.

But I shouldn't.

 He has to eat his lunch away from the comforts of home:

the kitchen table and chairs,
the sound of birds and the rooster crowing,
the atmosphere of home.

It is a quick few moments over his future day,

a recognition that he is away at work
so that we may enjoy a satisfying lunch in a home we can call ours,
sitting on chairs that have the price tags removed.

A small prayer for a large duty,

greatly appreciated although not nearly thanked enough for it.

A small thing,

a packed lunch with the power to change the world,

or

at least,

hopefully his.

Linking to these Blog Parties:
Themodestmomblog.com
Theprairiehomestead.com
Btweennapsontheporch.net

When "It's Not Fair," Came to our Library.

"Here, now read this one.  This one isn't too hard."

Violet's power of delegation was obvious as she handed him a book.

She had rummaged through the teetering tower of books and sorted them in order of reading level,

as he reassigned the books according to his interests.

Dinosaurs, sea creatures, and any reptilian form were sure to push out the others.

She had turned the timer on, one for him and one for herself as they worked to mark down the minutes in their summer library reading folders.

The first few days of the reading folders brought much appreciated silence to my world.

It waned as the days passed, but still, there was a much more concerted work effort with the reading minutes this summer.  

He was proud that he could read;

and he liked the worlds that he met on the pages of those early hot summer days.

When the summer days grew cooler and the sunburned noses were replaced by the end of summer's fading tans, we turned in the minutes and then waited for the results of the reward drawing prizes:

the more minutes read, the more chances to win.

The call finally came: Violet and Lillie had each won a prize.

My heart sank.

How would I tell my boy, the one who had strived with an awakening zeal for the rewards of aiming at a goal, that his hard work had not been rewarded as he had hoped.

How would I tell him that his little sister who had not even spent one-third the time he had

was getting the prize he wasn't.

My mother's heart said, "Get him a prize, too."

But my "hard facts of life" side said,

"Will life always be fair for him?  When he wants, will he always get?

When he works, will he always be praised and fairly rewarded?

When he loves, will he always be loved back?"

Do I help him through a hard lesson, or do I build a often not-reciprocated sense of
"I deserve, " in him.

I told him on the way to pick up the prizes in the car.

I knew the outburst of tears would be better to hear in the truck than in the silence of the readers at the library.

I explained to him the joy that can come from being happy for somebody else,

that working hard and knowing you did a good job while having a good attitude anyway,
even when somebody else gets the reward,
can be a form of winning, too,
one that is far better than a toy prize.

He didn't like it.

He liked it even less when we all headed back to the special room filled with all the waiting prizes, and he watched as his sisters were handed their parcels.

He said he didn't like it.

I said I understood but that he needed to work on his attitude even when it wasn't easy.

He did.

He worked to wipe away his tears as I reminded him of the times where he got things that his sisters didn't, like the fishing trips with Uncle Alex, the dessert Daddy let him finish off,

the bedroom he has all to himself.

He started to see that fair is not what is always going to happen,

but that sometimes it goes in his favor, too.

I knew it would take years to really grasp the meaning of letting go of "fair";
a lifetime for most of us.

 As we stopped at the charity store to pick up the old bread for our cows,

the kids visited the toy section.

Mr. Mouth was teetering at the top of the shelf,

one of Levi's favorite games he had played at his grandmother's house,
and one we didn't have.

It came home with us,

because even though the lesson of "it's not going to always be fair"
 was one I know he needed to learn,
the minutes of tears in the truck and our discussion of it would be enough this time.

After all, I am still his mother.

And everyone knows a good round of Mr. Mouth can pretty much shift anybody's bad day
into a good one.

Same Mess, Different View.

My kitchen for the last few weeks...

well,
it isn't pretty.

"You bit off more than you can chew."

It's a common enough phrase, but what if it feels more like sometimes is,

somebody threw the pie into my face,

no, threw four pies into my face,
one after another,

and then handed me a napkin to clean up the mess.

It all has limited life,

counter life to be more exact,

or floor life.

It is a race against the ever breeding fruit flies,

the power of the invisible spatters of the creeping corrosion of mold.

 

 None of it will wait long.

It all demands immediate recognition and care.

And yet, still life goes on.

The little humans demand constant feeding and care.

Somehow, three square meals are supposed to go into their little bellies,
although with as much as they eat, they don't seem so little.

The big human needs his meals as well.

The magnificence of a pristine kitchen is a dream that only those colorful magazines

and homes where the people live somewhere else all day long must possess.

Someday I will have a kitchen that doesn't look like a zookeeper's workshop.

The son calls from the other room.

His dinosaur domino kit is frustrating him and he wants some help.

The oldest is beckoned to fill in for the steamy, sticky-faced kitchen maid.

The assortment of single socks that Violet has weeded out of the clean laundry for me waits in a pile.  Without their missing mates, she leaves them on the couch unsure of further direction.

  The couch wears a temporary "slip cover" since the other has been forced to take that trip to the mountain in the basement where the washer forever trudges through it's daily spins.

 Other sorted and folded pieces await their final trip up the stairs.
Little bodies are limited in their hauling abilities, so this rests on my shoulders.

I groan at the thought.

 Craft projects litter the ironing board...

while others cover the table.

 The molding fruit is sorted and tossed; the good is cooked,

stirred, a hot and tiresome job with the many others still looming and silently shouting,
"Process ME!  Process ME!"

 

The fruit is then dumped into the bag to drip,

splattering sticky purple drops in precarious heights hinged on thin legs.

 

I sigh.

Messes, messes, everywhere.

How does one ever conquer.

Then I see this.

And I realize that maybe my view of things should be...

different.

Maybe my view is spoiling the fruit that is all around me.

A garden that produced well so that we will have food for the winter as well on our tables today, yesterday, and tomorrow.

 

Organic peaches an Amish woman was willing to sell for a reasonable cost:

an unexpected happiness.

I had given up on ever finding organic peaches.

 Food for supper:

most of it we have grown ourselves,

but just the fact that we have food for supper,

something not everyone in the world has,

is something to give thanks for.

 A kitchen:

I have a kitchen:

I have a stove that works,

I have electricity to make it work,

I have counters to work on,

a floor to stand on,

I have food to cook,

I have the ability to cook.

It may not look beautiful all the time,

but it is.

My kitchen is beautiful.

 I have kids who want me to help them

who like for me to play with them.

They create things

 and that is far better than sitting idly and having to be entertained by somebody else in a digital box.

 Their messes are temporary schools of learning that will someday turn into something useful

and if I squint really hard, they are actually colorful.

The tiny pieces all over the floor

are plastic raindrops of colorful happiness.

(Okay, that may be slightly overstated about the ones on the floor,

especially when I step on them and have then sticking to my bare feet;

but pretty colors: yes, I can say that.)

 

The kids do help and do their part;

they do their jobs, what they can.

 And we do have

 socks to keep our feet warm...

even the mixed pairs I occasionally find on my feet,

when necessity demands.

 We have clothes to wear and keep us warm,

a sizable assortment of them, actually.

 We have special treats, like berries that Levi loves to eat

and are so good for him,...

and the syrup they make will be a great treat in yogurt
and on pancakes.

 

They are bottled up treasures stored away for a time when I don't feel so overwhelmed in the steam of the kitchen.

A harvest of thanksgiving in September is certainly better

than having to 'beware of  grouch prosesing' in the kitchen.

Sometimes, I get lost in the steam of life's hot oven,

but there is a better way.

"Thou are good, and doest good;

teach me thy statutes."

Psalm 119: 68