When Even the Coffee is Bitter

You know it's going to be a challenging day when you're grumbling before you even open your eyeballs. When it's day three of rain and drizzle and warm spring like weather, but you know it's only December and a long way off until real warm spring like weather. When you meet the youngest on the landing of the stairwell because he's up already, too, bouncing and ready to go. And the other son has been up for an hour and a half (again) and has already done his day's work and is ready to talk and practice adding suffixes to adjectives, all before you've even started the coffee pot that has now peetered out to the point that it takes twenty minutes to make a batch of black brew.

So, in my impatience and desperation, I pour a cup half-pot and settle with drinking really strong coffee. Yeesh! A morning person I am not. (Remember that, Scott, if we ever do get to come and vacation at your farm: No picking on the house guests before they've finished their second cup of coffee!) Well, actually I am a morning person, if this old farmhouse is quiet and my brain can finish it's God thoughts and the phone doesn't ring and there's plenty of cream and sugar.

"Only those who have known sorrow and suffering can have fellowship with those in affliction," is the quote from the book The Faith of Billy Graham that I happened to flip open to this morning. Interesting, considering that my thoughts and prayers this morning centered around this verse:

Philippians 3:10-11 "I want to know Christ and the power of His resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in His sufferings, becoming like Him in His death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead."

I have been trying to wrap my brain around that verse for quite some time now, even before Trent died. I can't honestly say that I have truly, at my core, really, really ever wanted to endure great suffering. At my core I am really a wimp. But, as odd as it sounds, and as I have watched others suffer, and have seen a glimpse of the grace poured out on them, I have longed for that grace; especially the knowing of Christ in that way. But knowing Jesus Christ that way only comes about through the fellowship of sharing in His suffering. And this fellowship goes beyond me, all the way to God's glory, and only God's glory.

"Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we boast in the hope of the glory of God. Not only so, but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us." Romans 5:1-5

That's another verse I have been pondering for the past near 10 months, because it is not enough to suffer for only MY perseverance, MY character, MY hope, MY fellowship with those who are afflicted, MY, MY, MY. It has to go beyond . . . beyond me.

And this verse points to that beyond, all the way to Jesus; our hope is in Jesus alone. I don't know how, I can't see it clearly, but somehow the suffering we are called to in this life produces in the Christian the hope of Jesus making this all right one day; and beyond right, all the way to glorious; His glory shining in a way that we can't begin to fathom. Our eyes turn to Him in a way that they would not be able to without suffering. And His Spirit brings endurance, and grace, and faith, and mercy, and joy, and hope one day at a time, often one moment at a time.

I've found myself in therapy this week. Therapy for me is putting my hands to a pitchfork or a hammer. What I build is usually not pretty and always far from perfect, let alone level; there is a reason why I build on the back of the forty. All year I have hardly been able to even get up the gumption, let alone had the physical strength, to even pick up a hammer or a pitchfork. But this week I did. So I cleaned out the much overdue goat barn, and Cole and I mucked out the chicken coop and started preparing the kidding stalls for next month. And then Traci stopped over and we laughed and talked God and she held boards and swung a hammer with me and we built a hay feeder for the goats. And I think she appreciated the therapy, too.

And then the thought struck me . . . that last night, eons ago it seems, I was dreaming about spotted goat kids and farm plans and preparing kidding stalls and there were five kids playing in the haymow. The haymow that I can barely go up to, the thoughts that keep on coming, trying to paralyze me from trusting God and living in His good plans.

"Can't I just pitch a tent here, God, and stay on this mountaintop?" I asked Him. I've never understood Peter so well. (Matthew 17:4)

"Let's not go down, keep me in this place of safety and trust, God. Don't let the thoughts invade, or the peace flee, or let me be consumed with here and now; keep me in the palm of Your hand; delight over me again; pour out Your grace until I get there, too." If I let them, the thoughts do invade and the lies swirl and I am consumed again with the sinking of despair and I lose sight of my sovereign God's hand. "Let's just pitch a tent and stay on the mountaintop, God. I don't want to go down there."

But I go where He leads, and I take the good days along with the hard days. I pray more on the hard days, I know Him more on the hard days, I hold on tighter and look harder for eternity on the hard days. And on the good days . . . I smile, and my prayers turn to rejoicing, and I long for His glory to shine more, and I hold on tighter yet and look harder again for that eternity and His glory that will be revealed only greater because of suffering. And then I remember that Trent is in heaven . . . heaven . . . so I quit my whining and drink my coffee.

 

I am a Goat Farmer

I am a goat farmer. Plain and simple. I find great pleasure in being in a stinky barn mucking out stalls. Big bellies, hours of assisting does in labor, and slimy afterbirth covered hands holding a new kid thrills my soul. Raising bottle-calves with that goats milk, and then watching those steers grow into large, healthy bovines is right up there with tending to the goats. And then there are the chickens: the farm fresh eggs, the cackling hens, and the job of shutting a little chicken ramp on a cold wintry night to keep them all warm and toasty inside their fancy coop brings a smile to my face like not much else can.

But I've realized that maybe I am too simple. Maybe I am too easily satisfied. I have found in the mornings that I am having an increasingly harder time trying to worship this God I love because I can't even begin to imagine Him appropriately; I can't fathom His greatness; I can't go beyond the little box I continue to put Him in to take in His grandness. I get stuck. What words could there be to describe Him?

My mind goes to Scripture to try to identify just who He is: King of Kings and Lord of Lords, the great I AM, Wonderful Counselor, Savior, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. I don't know how to encompass a God like this into my little brain and my little world, and then find words to honestly praise Him in a way that is fitting to His majesty. A God, who while sovereignly running the entire universe from time's beginning to time's end, comes down to my bedside to hear the lamenting and crying of my heart and my little pleas, and then responds by reminding me of what He says in His Word:

"The Lord your God is with you, He is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing." Zephaniah 3:17

I think of my son being with this God, this God that I can't contain or begin to see the depth or beauty of, and I find myself not even being able to long for Trent to be back today. So I attempt to praise God more as I'm down there on my knees; to praise this God who gives strength, His strength, and mercy to His children for whatever He calls them to endure until we do see Him face to face.

Cathedral Ceilings and Looking for the Cross

Words seem to have failed me lately as I haven't been much in the writing mood. I think with the holidays I have switched to survival mode~ it happens every year between deer hunting opener and New Years day. A stretch of time filled with too much adrenaline, sugar, parties and expectations. One year we scheduled a week long family vacation to the Bahamas during this busy season (yes, that's me on a white sandy Bahama beach), but since we can't afford that every year I tend to go on a mental vacation instead. And I notice it's not just me, either. All around me people give up their normal routines to try to cram too much fun into just a matter of days. We spend too much money on things we don't need and think those things will really satisfy us this time, and then we schedule too many parties with all the people we were too busy to spend time with the rest of the year.

I have fallen into a bit of a pity-party mode as the firsts without Trent come slamming in one right after the other. And, as I tend to go the physical route when the emotional route is too hard, I have been pondering things like tearing out the kitchen ceiling and creating a vaulted bead board cathedral theme. I have a sister that likes to tear things down (like walls) when life gets a little consuming, so I pretty much have convinced myself that between her and I (and Cole) we could tackle this project and complete it before December 25, or at least before my birthday on the 31st. Yes, just a bit of anxiety kicking in here. That's why I write, that's why I farm, that's why I take 332 pictures at any given event, that's why I buy old farmhouses; it makes dealing with the anxiety just a bit easier.

So, onto my other ramblings . . . ramblings that woke me up before 6:00 a.m. and almost made me get out of my warm bed and start the coffee pot to enjoy the quiet house and ponder eternal truths.

I've noticed that we live in a cross-less Christian culture. There is a lot of talk about Jesus, a lot of hype about Him, and a lot of books and entertainment sold about Him, but there's not a lot of pointing to the cross. Our pastor made the interesting comment yesterday that the gospel is only the gospel when the cross is pointed out. The cross represents our sin; an issue that nobody seems to want to talk too much about. We like the fact that there's a heaven to look forward to one day, but not so much the thought of our sin or the price paid so that we could go there.

For years I have asked the question about any given sermon, book, article, etc.: "Who is it about? God or me? Who did I learn more about? God or me?"

Most of it seems to be about me. And "me" likes it to be all about "me", but since God said He wouldn't share His glory, and as I realize who "me" really is, there is only one conclusion: it really is all about God.

So now I've added to my search "Is the cross pointed out?"

The cross that Jesus hung on, the cross that God ordained before the creation of the world, the cross that points out sin, the cross that we are called to carry every day as believers walking in this foreign land. The ugly cross, the bloody cross, the shameful cross. The beautiful cross, the joy that was seen beyond the cross, the cross that meant the enemy was defeated. Is that cross pointed out?

Not the pretty cross that we wear around our necks or dangling from our ears. But the cross that means we know who we are; we know that we are sinners saved only by grace. We know that our God has good plans for us, that He doesn't make mistakes, that it will all glorify Him. The cross that reveals it was our sin that held our Savior there, and put Him there in the first place. The cross that means we know this God, really know Him; know His Word, and believe it enough to obey it.

Easy believism runs rampant amongst professing believers. But God won't accept easy believism on That Day. I've watched (not too seriously, but it's always there) the media, and what is popular in America's Christianity, and what books are selling. What I find is that the gospel is lacking. People still want to believe in their works and their presumed own worth for acceptance. But only the cross, and what Jesus did on it, provides acceptance.

I had a dream. I love it when God sends me dreams about Trent. I find my soul trusting God, but at the same time my arms and my heart longing for Trent to be here. I continue to fight the battle to not trust my deceiving heart, but rather to trust God's word (Jeremiah 17:9).

In the dream we were just at my sister's house; just "being", just being normal. And Trent was there, and I was thrilled that he was back, and I wanted to never wake up. As he held one twin cousin in a headlock, though, he looked up at me and through his smile he said, "Mom, you know I can't stay here. I don't even want to stay here."

But I want you here, my heart cried. And my soul cried out at the same time, knowing God never makes mistakes, trusting Him more than my heart, more than the pain. I know Trent, I know. And he had those long Ken-doll locks, not the spiked hair, and his smile was still the same, and I can almost hear him giggle even now as I type this and see his eyes twinkle. So I cry and I pray and I force the words to come out, and then when they do I let them flow with the tears so that I can feel again instead of being numb and I can pick up my own cross, gladly, and set my face as flint towards God and His ways for the joy set before me.

And I still may go do a search on how to vent peaked ceilings and wire can-lights and measure how much extra bead board we have sitting in the pump house and then make another pot of coffee and see what Traci is up to today because that's just the way I am.

Critters, and Baby Critters

It's that time of year again: time to start the incubator. My Mom always laughs at me for having all those chicks in my basement in January, but in the middle of a cold Wisconsin winter it becomes my sanity some days. The timer has been set for a trek out in the cold to check for fresh, still warm chicken eggs every 45 minutes or so throughout the late morning/early afternoon in the hopes of getting enough to fill the trays in the next few days. This year we have all Light Brahma's; other years we have had a little bit of various breeds of chickens. The Brahma's have been my favorite with their brown eggs, beautiful plumage and feathery feet, so they won out when we were scouring the chick adds nearly a year ago.
The other babies that we are looking forward to soon are the goat babies. I knew this would be a tough winter to get through anyway, so I purposely planned for January babies as a diversion. But January didn't seem so cold in August. Five of our older does are due mid-month, and are looking appropriately plump. They are enjoying back rubs and petting, which is a pretty good indication that the dates are correct. The younger does will be due in March and April, and will be our first kids sired by Jacob from Brenda's farm. Brenda's does are all due starting in just a week, so be sure to check back on her often. If you are anxious for new kids now, check out Tonia's new little ones. Her buck is a brother to our Jacob, so I will be excited to see if we get some of those spots, too.

Therefore . . .

Therefore we do not lose heart.

Though outwardly we are wasting away,

yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.

For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us

an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.

So we fix our eyes not on what is seen,

but on what is unseen.

For what is seen is temporary,

but what is unseen is eternal.

2 Corinthians 4:16-18

I'm thinking this will be my new verse to memorize, or maybe I'll have Alexis write it out in calligraphy and put it in a frame to hang on the wall, or I could have it tattooed on my other ankle. "Light and momentary" being the key words, as well as "glory and eternal", and then there's "seen and unseen". With the holidays, and all the new firsts, those things have gotten harder to remember lately. I think these are the day's all those kind people warned me about nine months ago when the hope was still so fresh and eternity didn't seem so far away; it now seems pretty far away. So, I pray harder, cry more, and hold on tighter. In desperation I call on my prayer warriors, only to find out that they are already responding to God's urging to go to their knees to hold me up in prayer at this time; just another testimony to God's never-ending provision. So I pray for them right back. Light and momentary, glory and eternal, seen and unseen; holding on tighter to my Savior's hand until I see Him face to face for myself.

Hiding in God

"For my thoughts are not your thoughts,

neither are your ways my ways,"

declares the Lord. "

As the heavens are higher than the earth,

so are my ways higher than your ways,

and my thoughts than your thoughts."

Isaiah 55:8

I have forgotten that the past few days. I have forgotten the vast distance between my thoughts and God's thoughts. Somehow, I fell into the trap of thinking that I knew best, that I could control my little universe, that my plans would work better than His.

"Sometimes God comes down and asks great things of His people; God puts us on a course of His own choosing." I wrote the words down during the sermon at church on Sunday, and have come back to relish them again today. The pastor was talking about Mary when the angel came to tell her that she would be the virgin mother of the Son of God; definitely not a path of her own choosing as a young teenager. Her response? "I am a servant of the Lord, let it be as you said." Luke 1:26-38

Not sulking, not defeat, not defiance. Humble obedience. Total trust.

God offered me an invitation to the thirsty this morning by bringing me to Isaiah 55. And I am thirsty for Him; so thirsty. "Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy? Listen, listen to me, and eat what is good, and your soul will delight in the richest of fare. Give ear and come to me; hear me, that your soul may live." (Isaiah 55:2-3)

Hope; I forgot about hope. Hope beyond today, hope beyond pain, hope for eternity. The mail-lady delivered a little book by Joni Eareckson-Tada this week called Hope . . . the Best of Things. In this inspiring little booklet, she writes about Christians being called to take up our cross daily and follow the Lord Jesus (Luke 9:23). But her cross, she says, is not her wheelchair; it is her attitude towards her wheelchair. Ultimately, her attitude towards God for putting her in that wheelchair.

Ouch.

My cross is not that my son died; my cross is my attitude towards God for working out His plans which included my son dieing at age twelve. "His ways are higher than mine," He reminded me, "higher than the heavens are from the earth." I can't see eternity. I can't see the ripple effects of one boy going to heaven. I can't see beyond the pain some days. But God has let me choose: my ways, or His ways. Ultimately, there is no choice, other than to see that I have taken my eyes off of the cross, off of Jesus, and that I have resorted back to trusting in my own ways.

. . . if you honor it by not going your own way and not doing as you please or speaking idle words, then you will find your joy in the Lord . . .

Isaiah 58: 13b-14a

Jibberish to one who does not know the Lord; overwhelming peace to one who looks forward to the coming of the Lord Jesus and that day when salvation will be revealed and our King will reign, defeating His enemies, including death.

Seek the Lord while He may be found; call on Him while He is near.

Isaiah 55: 6

Blessed is the man who does this, the man who holds it fast. . .

Isaiah 56:2a

A Winter Wonderland

Winter has officially hit in Wisconsin. The temps have begun to consistently drop, and again we are crazy enough to be convinced into thinking that thirty degrees above zero is a warm front. There is fresh, clean snow on the ground to lure us into dreaming about ice skating and sliding. Hibernation mode seems to be setting in as well, with thoughts turning to books, quilts, and hot chocolate with cool-whip and sprinkles on top. Winter's not so bad: there's Christmas and birthday's and lots of good food. Everyone is settling in here for a long cold spell; critters and people alike. We'll hope to stall off any thoughts of spring for at least a couple more months when all those seed catalog's start filling the mailbox and our minds begin to think, once again, warm thoughts.

Now . . . if somebody could just convince this little Indian boy that it really is time to put the shorts away!

The Tears

Tears intermingle on cheeks as the holiday season continues. It's hard to tell whose are whose as we cry together over Christmas stockings and broken ornaments that remind us that there is brokenness in our family this year as well. Usually only one of us is down at a time, graciously allowing the other one to be able to comfort. But when Cole started pulling out the decorations, Rob and I both lost it. I'm not sure why we try to hide the tears from the kids, or each other for that matter. We all miss him. Micah was brave enough to say it out loud, "I wish Trent could be here." Me too, Micah, me too. But God knows best . . .


And then the talk turned to the funeral somehow. It's good to hear the younger kids talk about it: talk about their brother's funeral, talk about their brother. But it's so very hard at the same time. "I don't know if they put plastic under his shirt or why he felt so hard, honey; hey, Dad, he was wearing a shirt the same color as yours; it barely looked like Trent with that short hair, and remember, Mom, how you got your hairspray bottle and spiked it up?"

I remember.

Tears and laughter, it's what we've been doing for over nine months. And it seems to be getting harder, rather than easier.

The battle is harder; but God continues to be ever more gracious. It is His battle, after all. He will hold us up, no matter if we think there is no possible way that we can endure yet another day, another memory, another event, another holiday. Life goes on; we either choose to live it or we die ourselves.

The decoration search continued.

My Christmas stocking was no where to be found in the midst of the others, and then I remembered . . . It was only a few short weeks after Christmas, and my stocking had never gotten put back with the rest of them because of those Ande's mints I had been indulging in. Cole found it on the chair next to my bed. Actually, I knew it was there. Maybe I have been rationalizing, on some level, that if that red stocking never got moved from where it was over nine months ago, then that night when Trent opened the door and crawled on my bed to give me one last kiss goodnight would never get moved from my brain, either . . . maybe.

Contentment

Laying in bed expecting sleep to come, and realizing that the odds are against me thanks to that big cup of tea I drank at 4:30, I crawl out from beneath my warm covers to let the barking dog in . . . a good excuse to write and get these thoughts out of my head.

The thoughts of being content in God, and God alone. I know I am supposed to be, and I long to be, but too often I catch myself, again, looking here and now for that contentment.

I see it running rampant in my children, too, with the Christmas season approaching. For as much as we think we are not training them up to seek their treasures here, they still have their own lists of what they hope will ultimately make them happy: dolls and electronic gadgets and remote control trucks to replace the one that survived less than twenty-four hours from last week. Always more, always longing for something else. Maybe the lists are so long because, deep down, we all hope the "next one" will fulfill the ultimate satisfaction we seek on some level; the ultimate satisfaction that is only found in Jesus Christ when He reigns.

I have been pondering heaven again lately. First, the fact that Trent is there. Just that thought alone makes me pause. I have to stop what I'm doing, literally, and can't even go beyond that realization sometimes. He's there. My son, my Trent, is in heaven. He's still Trent, and he's in heaven, knowing what I can't begin to imagine, knowing what Jesus looks like, knowing God spirit to spirit, in heaven. He made it, he's there.

What I have been pondering, after I get over that fact, is that even in heaven our souls are incomplete. Better, by far, with no sin and being in the presence of your Savior, but still incomplete. As our pastor pointed out, and as I read in Revelation, the saints are crying out "How long, Oh Lord?" We were created to be complete with both soul and body: there are no bodies in heaven for those who have died. They, too, are waiting for Jesus to return to make all things right again; including receiving their resurrected bodies. "How long, Oh Lord?" we cry with them as we wait for Him, too.

In the past nine months I can hardly get my thoughts off of heaven and God. One foot here, one foot there; loving my children here, loving my children there. Trusting God for all of it. And the sweet Word of God, oh, the sweet Word. I feel the need to marinate in it, to soak it up by my whole being. It is powerful, and convicting, and life changing.

Eternity. Just imagine: eternity. There is no end to that word. There is an end to our lives here, but not to eternity. We put so much stock into this life, so much is invested here, when really, we should be investing there. What would it look like if Christians lived with eternity constantly on their minds? If we lived wondering, even expecting, what if today was the day we would enter that eternity, and see our God?

I feel like I am just waiting . . . waiting for eternity, or for Jesus to come back and make it all Right.

The Tears of the Saints

. . . and as she stood behind {Jesus} at his feet weeping,

she began to wet his feet with her tears.

Luke 7:38a

How many tears would it take to wet a man's feet? To wet them enough to require the need of wiping them dry? And how humble must one be to bow and dry them with your own hair? And how great must be the sins, and the awareness of them, to cause all those tears in the first place?

I've cried; but never enough to wet more than my own face. I've wept over my sins; but never before a room of mocking men. I've knelt before my Savior; but never have I kissed his feet.

"Now which of them will love Him more?" Jesus asked.

Simon replied, "I suppose the one who had the bigger debt canceled."

"You have judged correctly, " Jesus answered.

I weep this morning because my debt was cancelled. I weep this morning because I haven't wept enough before. I weep because I have never seen it so clearly; because there haven't been enough tears shed; because my debt is the bigger debt; because my Savior chose to cancel my son's debt.

Who will love Jesus more?

The one who had the bigger debt canceled.

On the Radio

"You are my witnesses," declares the Lord, "that I am God."

Isaiah 43:12b

Another amazing opportunity has presented itself to share about God. A couple of months ago Renee, from TailSpinFarm, sent me an email telling me that her husband, Scott, was the host of a Blog Talk Radio program, Christian Devotions Speak Up! She wondered, if by any chance, I might be interested in sharing our story of God's faithfulness in our lives on the show.

Of course I would!

More emails followed which introduced me to this guy who might as well have been another pesky brother-in-law, questionnaires were filled out, books were sent east, and Renee has even decided to join us on the big night.

And now the big night is tomorrow!

Tuesday, November 29, 2011 6:00 p.m. EST at Christian Devotions Speak Up!

Please pray for me, friends! Pray for those who will hear the testimony of our good God! Pray for salvation and changed eternities and that I don't pass out or stumble over words or the phone battery dies or, or, or . . .

So Long Porks!

OurCrazyFarm is officially pigless as of this morning. The last of the pigs were shipped, without any troubles {thanks God!}, and some lucky patrons will soon have their freezers full of farm fresh pork. We went big in the pork department this year and raised eight pigs, in two separate batches. They were raised off of cheese and whey, along with left over garden goodies. Eight pigs, averaging a minimum of 250# each, equals a lot of cheese! Normally we don't like to keep pigs in the Wisconsin Winter as we are not set up with cold weather provisions, so it was good to see them go before the elements turned too harsh. Hibernation mode is setting in here, and having one less thing to do for chores in the snow is fine by me.

Not So Little Boys

I realized the other day that we are almost past the little boy stage at our house. These poor last children of big families; they are destined to be the babies forever. My baby sister was over for Thanksgiving last week~ yes, she's thirty-something and her baby is older than my baby . . .

I love the little/big boy stage; the age of innocence and joy in simple things. Their out of diapers yet not quite to the ornery stage yet, and the Dollar Store still thrills as well as the simple joy of sitting next to Mom at movie night. "I'm just comfortable with you, Mom" is going to ring like sweet music to my ears for quite some time. And this morning, after venturing down the stairs still in his PJ's, "Well, nice to see you Mom!"

And his latest, which none of us can convince him otherwise, is the fact that he has been chosen to become the next Power Ranger. So stay tuned, maybe he knows something we don't.

Just Stand

And after you have done everything; just stand.

from Ephesians 6:13

Just stand. Or lay. Or get on your knees. Sometimes there is nothing else to do. And as a "doer", doing nothing is the hardest thing in the world. So I {fitfully, anxiously, nervously} just stand.

Anxiety hits hard, and at unexpected times, like at 5:30 a.m. after Rob has already gotten out of bed and the dark is dark and the thoughts won't quit. What if God isn't there? What if eternity never comes? What if I am swallowed up today by this reality? What if the whispers of the enemy are true? Why can't I remember the rest of that verse about God being faithful and that Jesus is really coming back one day?

Just stand.

Although I feel withered, and beat, and tired and bent, I will still stand. Just stand. Stand firm in the Word, firm as the battle rages, firm as the shame heaps from within and my arms and my whole being feel weak; I will stand firm in my Savior's tight grip.

As Elijah (1 Kings 19), I resort back to simple rest. Food, coffee, a bed and a book. A needed respite from the world that continues to invade with it's never-ending demands. Rest for my weary soul, rest to fight the battle again, rest to remember the Promises.

I wait for the peace again, the calm in the storm. I wait to be renewed. I wait for the comforting whispers from a voice not my own. "Never will I leave you, never will I forsake you."

But as for me, I will always have hope. I will praise You more and more. My mouth will tell of your righteousness, of Your salvation all day long, though I know not its measure. I will come and proclaim your mighty acts, O Sovereign Lord; I will proclaim Your righteousness, Yours alone. Though You have made me see troubles, many and bitter, You will restore my life again. My lips will shout for joy when I sing praise to You~ I, whom You have redeemed.

Sweet Promises from Psalm 71

The Farmer's Wife

Being the farmer's wife comes with certain privileges. Sure, you might not get to do all the fun stuff like driving the skid steer and loading the pigs, but you always get the front end on bull banding day. You have to be a true-blue farm girl to appreciate the benefit of that little detail.