Chosen

But you are a chosen people,

a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God,

that you may declare the praises of Him

who called you out of darkness into His wonderful light.

1 Peter 2:9

 

 

Life has been a whirlwind of cross country meets, orthodontic appointments, replying to Craigslist adds and home school lessons. The impending threat of cold weather on the horizon has us living in limbo between hoping that we might actually be able to get the house moved and enjoy a lake view before snow flies, or being content to settle in for another long winter at the farm. That wouldn't be so bad either as this old farmhouse is well insulated and has a wood stove to boot. Compared to a the new/old farmhouse we're looking at, with probably next to no insulation, we might appreciate being here come January.

 

But our hearts are already at the new place, stolen by the peace that envelops us every time we visit. Alexis reminds me that it probably has more to do with not having a kitchen sink full of dirty dishes rather than the place itself fulfilling us. Yes, my wise young lady, probably so. All we have to do at the new property is to lounge on the discarded lawn chairs and gaze at the lake view.

 

We've never had to wake up there to the realization that has become our life for the past two and a half years. The battle has not had to be conquered yet on that soil to call God's ways right and perfect, to call death a lie, to force truth to reign over emotions. The enemy has not prowled there, seeking to destroy with the thousand-and-one reminders of a son whom we long to be where he used to be. The woods hold no memories that cause a flood of tears, no overgrown trails that are too painful to walk. There is no dining room table to recall where salvation took place, no empty desk full of school books that were intended to be finished, no empty wall where a near-teen-age boy used to lie in his bed waiting for a kiss good night.

 

I allow the thoughts to twist with their torturous pain, ripping through my heart. Wallowing in them. Knowing the hurt on an intimate level. Knowing there is nowhere to escape it. It consumes as it threatens to choke out any hope.

 

"But you are a chosen people," Peter wrote so long ago. "A royal priesthood, belonging to God, to declare the praises of Him who called you out of darkness into His wonderful light. Once you had not received mercy, but now you have received mercy." (From 1 Peter 2:9-10)

 

My mind wrestles with the chosen part. Going back to the beginning of First Peter, the apostle says that we are chosen according to the foreknowledge of God the Father. A God whose ways are higher than mine, higher than the heavens are from the earth.

 

Chosen, then, to suffer. Chosen to endure grief. Chosen to extol the glory of God through a trial I cannot endure on my own. Chosen to be refined by the fire. Chosen to sort where my affections really lie. Chosen to have my eyes pointed heavenward. Chosen to lose all in this life for the hope of the next. Chosen to be poured out. Chosen to reveal absolute weakness for Christ's incomparable strength to shine through. Chosen to know a taste of God's agony, to know what it is to give up a son. Chosen by a God who is faithful and true.

 

Chosen, so that above all, I would be granted the power to be able to declare the praises of Him who called me out of darkness into His wonderful light.

 

 

Oswald Chambers

Oswald Chambers says, "Paul’s words have to do with our being made servants of Jesus Christ, and our permission is never asked as to what we will do or where we will go. God makes us as broken bread and poured-out wine to please Himself. To be 'separated to the gospel' means being able to hear the call of God. Once someone begins to hear that call, a suffering worthy of the name of Christ is produced. Suddenly, every ambition, every desire of life, and every outlook is completely blotted out and extinguished. Only one thing remains — 'separated to the gospel.' Woe be to the soul who tries to head in any other direction once that call has come to him."

Quoted here.

Daring to Draw Near

Again on our home school schedule, right at the top, is the daily requirement of Bible and prayer. It has been there as long as there has been a school schedule in our unscheduled lives. But this year I have chosen to torture the children and really require that they pray. Not just crossing it off the list, or quick praying before we eat, or passing the prayer basket, but to dive deep into conversations with the Almighty. To make it worse, they have to do it sitting next to their brothers and sisters. And, harder yet, most of them aren't saved.

The pull came out of a personal desire, a need for an accounting in my own prayer life which has leaned more towards the Jonah side: fleeing from God rather than drawing near. Numbness is easier than the constant tears, so I've chosen that route rather than bowing before my Creator; traded wooden floors and humbleness for a comfortable recliner and cup of coffee. Mornings are hard enough. Conquering the flesh, getting to gratitude for a son in Heaven before my feet hit the old wooden floor has been something that I've too easily passed over. And, because of that choice, find myself heading straight towards apathy. Holding God at arm's length rather than daring to draw near.

Personal prayer with God alone is powerful, but as Scripture says, where two or more are gathered Christ is there as well (Matthew 18:20). Corporate prayer breaks down walls that we easily hide behind when our eyes are wide open, and especially when we live together twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, with no escape from each other than the occasional cross country practice. Our battle weapons get dull when we don't refuel with honesty and by drawing deep from God's well. My greatest desire is to see God glorified through my children, and that will only happen when my children are truly satisfied in Him, so I have set off on a determined effort to train them up and give them the daily habit of authenticity before their maker.

Have you been there? Real, raw, spiritually naked before God?

Lately I find myself not even needing to tell God my heart, not faking the hurt, because He knows. The searcher of hearts knows. My sister reminds me that I am right where He wants me. Right now I don't like where He wants me and He knows it, so there is no point of denying it. Not in anger pointed at God, but honest, lay it all out on the alter, sort it out, hash it out for the ten-thousandth time until joy in God's plans becomes my honest joy. But the majority of that starts with prayer. And prayer is hard work.

After the giggles around the kitchen island, God lead the kids and I to begin our prayer session with acknowledgement of who He is. As children who have been raised in church events their whole lives my kiddos know how to start and end prayer. "Thank you God for this, and heal so-and-so, amen." How pathetic. They know they're not saved and God knows that they're not saved. We think we fool Him. We think those piddly prayers honor Him. But He says that He hears the prayers of the righteous, that honesty is what He desires, that only those with faith please Him (James 5:16; 1 Chronicles 29:17; Acts 17:11).

So we started at the beginning: Who is God?

We all thought we knew. But when our answers are only based on what Scripture says about who God is, it starts to put things into perspective. Eyes closed, five voices getting solemner by the moment, claiming the claims of Jesus Himself. Rather than starting prayer with "thank you" we started with acknowledgement. How hard that proved to be, to break our own rote prayer style that has been acceptable to our lazy selves for so long.

That prayer session revealed much- our doubts as well as our own self righteousness. Pride boiled near the top, but sweet voices longing for eternity were mingled in as well. Prayers spanning between an eight year old boy to a forty year old tired mother revealed where our hearts really are.

Day two brought the discovery of a book on the shelf of our home library by John White called Daring to Draw Near. It is full of insights on prayers that are recorded in Scripture and how God is revealed through them. Not a how-to-pray book, but a peek-at-God-through-prayer book. What an amazing concept: to turn prayer into being about God rather than about us!

If my children can get past the torture concept, past the giggles, and God chooses to reveal Himself to them as they dare to draw near His throne I will give them all A's. And God, Lord willing, will have created a few more powerful warriors for His kingdom.

When Hope Survives

CreateSpace has been my friend this summer. They have this wonderful feature where you can get a proof copy of your un-finished manuscript printed for about $5.00, cheaper and easier to handle than printing nearly two hundred pages on my archaic printer. I have been plugging along on my devotional, When Hope Survives, grappling with concepts like this revelational thought that popped into my most recent pity party:

We look here for temporary substitutes to replace God

which ultimately only bring discontent, depression and despair.
 

The pitiful things that I replace Jesus with condemn me in themselves.
 

Real joy is found only in God.

The key to joy, then, is to look to Him alone.

Not exactly what I've been doing lately. Hence the reason why writing the theological parts for the book might be a bit of a struggle right about now. The cloud of discontent, worry and grief have overruled lately.

The recent triggers: a little brown leather ball and a different seventh grade boy in a white and purple jersey. Another home school year with only four names on the schedule again. Those baying dogs in their boxes in the back of the old beat-up hunting trucks that continue to pass by on our quiet road. The next fifty years of my life to look forward to with everyday beginning with the thought that my son is not here to enjoy them with and battling to sing the praises of God for that. Fighting my flesh to call this good, seeking God's ways rather than mine, reminding myself to rejoice in the blessing of suffering.

Some days I honestly can rejoice. I am able to keep my focus on eternity, realizing the gift of having my eyes opened to it. Looking around watching so many people living carnal lives, only desiring the next recreational excursion or new toy rather than looking forward to Christ's return when we will marvel at Him, when His glory will be revealed, when our souls will be fulfilled in His presence, when the accounting of our lives will be reckoned and the grace of God will be shown for how it carried us. The gift of suffering becomes clearer, then, as I realize that it brings with it the desire to focus on eternity.

The book is still a long way off from being worthy of publishing, even self publishing. I pray for the words to write, but fear writing them at the same time. To attempt to permanently describe God, a black and white representation of the Almighty... it's a scary thing. I tread upon the responsibility with great respect and patience.

But then at the same time I feel the need for it to be finished. Now. I see the desperate need for a reminder of hope. I see grieving mothers, friends, and people I've never met (besides myself) needing to be redirected back to the promises of Scripture, back to Jesus, back to the gospel, back to the source of joy. Not just for those grieving a child, but those walking any road of suffering. Trials consume a person. Blinders need to be removed so that hope can shine forth. The truths of God penetrate the darkness.

So I continue to pick up the proof copy, continue to edit, edit, edit and wait for the perfect words to flow when it's God's time.

 

To Realize

I've come to realize that it's my own lack of faith and distrust in God's good plans that disgusts me the most.

A View with a Lake

It's ours! A view with a lake!

I'm not even sure where to start this post. Maybe back to a couple of Fridays ago when we paid {cash} for a teeny, tiny parcel of land which will {Lord willing} soon be called home. Or back to that sermon that started the conviction of the gluttony that we have felt entitled to for so long. Or way back two and a half years ago to the discontent that began after Trent went to Heaven and I realized first hand that none of this stuff goes with us. Either way, wherever I start, it all ends up at the same place: a teeny, tiny parcel of land which will {Lord willing} soon be called home.

The excitement really started a couple of months ago when Rob came home with a little slip of paper that he had torn off of the bulletin board at work advertising some lake view property with a home that was cheaper than what we could consider having to spend to send our firstborn to college. Immediately we both envisioned no mortgage payments, no below zero chores twice a day, real vacations without running home to water animals and the prospect of pouring even more into raising our kids for the few remaining years that we hope to have them here without Rob working two jobs to feed them.

Unfortunately, it turned out that the house was literally a two room shanty. If there had been any way to salvage it I would have moved right in, but things like foundations matter to Rob, so we started our quest for other affordable living arrangements. Lo and behold, it soon came to our attention that there was a beautiful old farmhouse scheduled for destruction if the land owners couldn't find somebody to move it off of their property. Since I'm a sucker for old farmhouses we went to look at it... and fell in love. The big porch sold us immediately and has blinded us to the tiny dining room, graffiti walled kitchen and broken windows.

Soon, we set to work putting in an offer on the land and contacting banks and construction workers to see if we could make a go of the rest of the project. On a whim I put the farm up for sale on Craigslist and soon we were fielding emails and phone calls with showing after showing following. Next, we made a list of every possible material possession we could part with, including all of the livestock, and started receiving more Craigslist emails and phone calls. As the big finale we hosted a garage sale and sold out nearly by the first night.

On the day of closing for the land we showed up with cash in the bank and giddily signed on the dotted line. Then we went out and did a happy dance and breathed a big sigh of relief.

Now we impatiently wait for the rest of the contractor bids to come back and the final details to get finished to move the house. Two serious lookers are going to get back to us about the farm this week hopefully, and more people keep on emailing asking for more details so that they can start living their own dreams.

A home with a lake view. A place to rest, a place to regroup, a place to invest into what really matters. I can't wait.

A Bit of Advice

There is probably a good reason behind the old adage about those who are grieving, the ever popular response of, "I don't know what to say, so I won't say anything." Even as a grieving mother I stand guilty as charged. Too often I have kept my mouth shut, too, because there really aren't any right words to say. But to all the Christians out there, let me offer my advice on what truly not to say:

*Don't turn the grief back to personal emotions, instead turn it to Christ.

*Don't wallow with said mother in the now, but rather, change her focus towards the glory to come.

*Don't discredit the feelings, but point out that they are feelings; point out the truth of Scripture, the truth of eternity, the truth of Jesus.

*Feel free to give that poor, unsuspecting, grieving mother in the midst of her pity party a good, swift kick in the behinder. I have a sister who is very good at this, and very unafraid to do it. Wham! "Get over it! Open your eyes! Heaven is a far better place to be. Jesus saved your son, He even showed you that He saved your son. Get out there and fight for more souls."

*Then let that poor blithering mother melt into a pile on the floor right before your very eyes until her tears stop. And next week, do it all over again.

***********************

 

To all those who have been brave enough to point me back to Christ in this trial,

my unending thanks.

 

 

Football has become a part of our lives again. Not being much of a sports family, that alone is a big deal. Traveling to town four times a week for practices and games makes it a bigger deal. Sitting at the edge of the practice field, and even before then, sitting behind the steering wheel in the mini-van, causes new waves of panic attacks. I still look out on the field and expect to see Trent. Then I look to see Cole, hoping he's not under a bunch of seventh and eighth grade boys on the bottom of a tackle pile.

"A lot of the things that we ask you to do won't make any sense right now. But trust us. Everything we ask you to do has a purpose." What sound advice from a middle school football coach!

I should have expected to see the hand of God at that back field, but I guess I was looking the wrong way again. He still pops up, capably doing His work without my assistance, on and off the field.

I am reminded that Jesus set His face as flint towards Jerusalem, towards the waiting cross, all for the joy set before Him, His longing for glory greater than His longing for comfort and ease. Here we go...

Home School

Yeesh. Homeschool. Who's idea was this anyway? For the twelfth year I am again attempting to formulate the perfect schedule to both foster my children's creativity and further their academic growth while at the same time not driving each other crazy or causing total meltdowns several times a week. It's a tough balance.

And for the third time in a row I'm trying to make that schedule again without one of my sons' list of required courses on it. His name is still on there every week, including the adorning stars and capital letters: **Trent- HEAVEN** I'm sure that none of my curriculum shines the teeniest light to what he's learning now.

A first for me this year is attempting to compile a high school manuscript. Given that I've spent most of the last three years crying rather than accurately recording curriculum means lots of digging into boxes and totes looking for names and publishers and dates. Then there's the scoring issue. As a typical homeschooler we work on a mastery basis rather than constant testing. If somebodies not getting something we switch gears and learn the concept a new way, if they understand it they pass. No A's or F's, just pass or fail. But I doubt the one's who will care about high school transcripts will appreciate that method.

And then where do you record the news that your daughter's brother died in the middle of her high school career, therefor algebra was never completed in grade nine since grief ruled all? And do you list grief somewhere? Social studies? Life skills? An elective? Graded? Pass/fail? 1/2 credit, whole credit?

This whole losing a child thing gets so complicated.

What I Love about Small Towns

 

Small towns are wonderful. I've lived in one my whole life. Everybody knows everybody, and everybody knows everybody's business. Our immediate neighbors include a conglomeration of one of our kids' youth pastors, an obstetrical nurse who helped deliver both of our boys, a once removed (maybe twice) something-or-other shirt tail relation nephew's ex-wife turned friend, a long ago bus driver and the vacation Bible school friend's little brother who now has his own little ones.

 

These charming people represent our rural world and make us feel safe and loved. Any time we hear a car rumbling past on our quiet back road we know who's going where and why. So, it surprised us that it took nearly a whole month for our names to once again be the hub of the local café. The townsfolk are all flustered over our news: we're gonna move.

 

Yep, we're selling the farm. Lock, stock, barrel and even the goats. One friend called all flustered when she heard that our new destination was two hours away, another was so worried that she hiked right over to get the gossip straight from the horses mouth. There are those who want us to justify giving up the American dream of raising every morsel that goes into our mouths, but there are also those who have applauded our bravery. Either way, it remains the same, we've been able to keep the secret for over a month.

 

In all reality, there was nothing yet to tell anybody, so it was funny when we started to hear the rumors of our move before we knew if it was going to happen. It still might not happen as no papers have even been signed yet. But the cat's been let out of the bag, and yep, the farm is for sale.

 

Any buyers? We'll make you a good deal.

 

Expect in the near future (if I am not busy packing) some posts about the willingness to give it all up. If God had chosen to move me half way around the world I would have been just as happy, but He has so far chosen to lead us just a few miles up the road to probably an equally sanctifying place: a tiny little acreage squished between some unsuspecting neighbors. But He did throw in a lake view and potentially a big covered porch. Thanks God!

 

So that's the short and sweet version. If I ever see clear of cleaning for one more showing I'll wax and wane a bit longer.

 

 



If I Never

If I never have to chase another steer through the soybean field it will be too soon. These three have been training for the Olympics obviously and can now sail over every pasture fence we've worked so hard to install these past few years. They are banned to a dry lot with four foot high wooden fences and a hay bale until that truck and trailer can come to load them up later this week.

Farm Girl

Without Fault

 

 

To Him who is able to keep you from falling

and to present you before his glorious presence

without fault and with great joy.

Jude :24

I've been sicker than a dog all week. Another splendid side of grief I am finding. Even two and a half years later my body's resolve to fight anything other than the constant barrage of spiritual and emotional attacks is low. Illness strikes with a vengeance and sends me to bed, or the doctors office, more often than ever, revealing yet again another result of the curse of so long ago. Being in bed, feverish and hacking away, leaves the household to go awry. I made an attempt to rule from under the three quilts I was huddled under, but it just wasn't the same.

At the low points seems to be when God moves. The weakness that the apostle Paul so often talked about is where glory shines the brightest through our lives. I hate that weakness. I hate the face-to-face honesty that is found in it. Total dependence on something outside of myself. The tears flow too freely as well as the first ammunition of protection: anger. Stupid this and stupid that, until I only have God left to accuse. Stuffing is the wadding over the cannon ball that eventually ends up exploding, so I try to balance it all. But then there are the tears; too many tears. The headache kind of tears, the smearing all over your face and sopping wet t-shirt kind of tears. It's unbelievable where they all come from and what simple things they come over.

I said goodnight to Rob last night. He looked at me strange. "What did you say?" he asked. Just goodnight. "I thought you said 'Goodnight Trent.'" The look, after twenty-four years, after two years, the look before the tears. I remind myself that eternity is going to be a long time. I pray for all of my children, for all those God has given me to love, that they would be there. That they are those who have been called and loved by God, that they have this testimony in their hearts.

Sin weighs heavy in these weak moments as well. It blares its resounding siren in my soul, reminding me of the depth of depravity that I am capable of. Revealing the expanse between sinful me and a perfect, holy, glorious God. An expanse so wide that one slip may be all it takes to turn that love into eternal separation. How I wander so easily from the promises I am not sure. Fear maybe, or too many voices echoing over the years. A healthy respect of a glorious God who isn't kidding, perhaps.

"To Him who is able...."

The words penetrate the pain. "To Him who is able." My eyes have been looking the wrong way again. This is not a performance test. This is not about me. None of it. It is about revealing God. Revealing Him who is able, Jesus Christ.

In this weakness God's word has gone forth. I have noted since the beginning of this grief journey that when the word of God, especially the gospel, is being poured out is when the attacks seem to hit the hardest. I should not be blindsided by the connection anymore, but I still am. Trent's story, or rather, God's story of Trent's life, has been shared umpteen times these past couple of weeks in various ways. As a mother, as a vessel of God, as a spokesman for His gospel, I press on to share it with as many as possible. God makes it too easy sometimes. As I wallow in my pity party in bed, He is doing glorious things through words that He ordained to be wrote many months ago.

He is able. Yes, Jesus is able.

The next part of the verse, "able to keep you from falling and to present you before his glorious presence without fault and with great joy" covers every false whisper of the enemy. I just finished reading in 1 John 2:1b-2a, "But if anybody does sin, we have one who speaks to the Father in our defense- Jesus Christ the righteous one. He is the atoning sacrifice for our sins." The combination throws a powerful punch. Combined with John's encouragement that belief in Jesus Christ promises the reality of eternal life brought more tears. Always tears these days.

Tears over the washing of my own sins that I have no excuse for before a holy God, but more so, tears to realize that Trent has been presented before the glorious presence of God, escorted by Jesus Himself. Brought before Him without fault and with great joy.

A few months after Trent's accident the thought terrorized me that when we die we immediately face judgment, not the refining fire of judgment of our works that Paul describes in First Corinthians 3:12-15, but the salvation judgment of Hebrews 9:27 where we stand before God face to face to give account as to what we did with the testimony of His Son, Jesus Christ. I long for a glimpse into this eternal realm where sins are as if they never were, where justice comes through scarred hands, where the Savior died for His very creation. To understand glory. To look upon it, unblemished. Ushered into the very courtroom of God with great joy. The thought of my son having walked that walk overwhelms me.

The pressure seems to continue that it's time to get over with grieving. But I never want to get over longing to be where my son is, longing for heaven, longing to be where there is no fault, no sin, no fear. The privilege of being given this suffering is to be able to share the hope of the Savior who made the promises. I battle to hold on to it above anything else in this world that so easily consumes. I strive to keep my eyes heavenward. To live seeing eternity as a reality, not a distant possibility.

The illness, the pain, the weakness, the intense grief of a mother's breaking heart are the necessary requirements for revealing the facade of what surrounds us. They all point toward what really matters: eternity. Eternity and where we will be found before this glorious God when we arrive there.

To the only God our Savior be glory,

majesty, power and authority,

through Jesus Christ our Lord,

before all ages now and forevermore!

Amen

Jude :25

 

To Beat a Dead Horse

Victory. Today I had a taste of it. The relief of immense pain, a glimpse of the hope to come, laughter and smiles. I wake up now and my immediate thought is no longer that Trent is in heaven. My immediate thought lately has been "why is that bird singing at 5:45 a.m. again?" At night I make the choice between sweltering hot or a morning solo, shutting out the cool breeze or leaving the window open. Most nights I've chosen the heat. After a couple of swipes at the snooze button I realize I am awake and thinking about the events of the day: kids to get on that big yellow school bus, chores that need to be done, which rows need to be weeded in the garden....

I realized tonight that I wrote those words over a month ago. Then I realized that it's been nearly as long since I've written anything authentic. Stuffing has been the menu choice of the emotions as of late. I am feeling worn-out in this grief journey by other people's opinions. Or, rather, my opinions of what I think other people's opinions are. I can't stomach the game of small talk anymore. To bring up your dead son, or not bring it up, is exhausting. And I'm just plain tired of processing this. Tired of it all, actually. Of always hurting. Of always trying to theologically sort everything. Always defending. So I've just kind of shut down.

And attempted to go through the motions of living.

I literally look up every once in a while and force myself to remember Trent's presence in our home. I hate it that I can hardly conjure it up. Where he sat- the seat is not so empty anymore. Seeing him lying on the living room floor in his sleeping bag for movie night. The open wall where the bunk bed used to be. The hand on my back. Him asking for Mom. Kickboxing. Smiling. Kissing and popping noises. That giggle that always made you laugh with him.

That's why I stuff. If I don't, the avalanche of tears begin. Instead, I steadfastly resolve to wait for eternity. When I look around, I go insane. I am tired of reading theological fluff of people who have never suffered. The actresses rendition of Corrie TenBoom tonight in the Hiding Place movie spoke my heart. I hate this, too. Please, Jesus, please carry this when I can't.

Those pictures. I forced my children to smile. Literally forced them. It cost them an extra weeks worth of chores plus cleaning out the barn. Their rebellion for not wanting to take pictures without their brother either. One obedient child, who's heart showed even as she plastered on the smile, broke down afterward. Sometimes this feels like too much. Too much to ask of a mother.

The lies are so subtle: this isn't worth it, there is only the bottomless pit of the pain that the hand of God won't reach so far or stretch so wide or hold so much. Give in. Let go. Quit yapping about all this Jesus stuff.

If I would only run to Him.

And quit fearing man.

Clenching to the Word. Waiting patiently. Loving the promises instead of doubting them.

Satan likes to mock Christ's saints. I see him dancing around Jesus in the gospels, tempting, taunting, so alluring.

Back to the word. Back to the truth. Standing solid.

One day every knee shall bow, every tongue confess that Jesus is Lord. One day it will be made right. One day eternity will begin.

I'm not remembering that victory of a month ago tonight. God has been teaching me weakness instead. Showing me a taste of just how weak I am. Making it all be by only His strength. Pitifully, I still fight. Wanting to be the strong one, strong enough to endure anything. Stubborn and bullheaded, instead of submissive and patient. My head is about bloodied beyond recognition for how many times I've beat it against His sovereignty.

He holds me in the end. When I quit thrashing. He is there. Bottling every tear. Calming His child. Pointing me again to what matters: Jesus. Only Jesus.

Oh Mercy!

 

We named the new Jersey heifer Mercy. No other name seemed to fit. It may have had something to do with the fact that I expect both of us will need quite a bit of extra mercy if the time ever does come to attempt to milk her on a daily basis. She has mostly just been enjoying her easy life of grazing on green pastures for the past couple of months since bringing her home, but the time came to gentle her if we were ever going to do it. Rather than me risking life and limb I called in the pros: two young nephews who have a reputation for being Cow Whisperers.

 Thankfully they were the first ones to rub her all over.

They even broke her to ride, in case, you know, I get the crazy idea to ride her after I'm done milking her.

She gave them a little run for their money, but all in all she proved to be just what we had hoped for with a Jersey: calm, sweet and docile.

Since Mercy proved to be so easy the boys decided to gentle Thomas the big steer. 

 

He now thinks he should get a hug from me every day, too. Every day until I eat you, Mr. Thomas.

 

God is Still Good

There is a frog lost somewhere in this old farmhouse. Presumably, it is under the kitchen cupboard that is awaiting its final piece of trim, but who knows. Grace informed me that the big leopard they caught (all for my benefit so I could take Fair pictures, hence the child-like logic that it's really my fault) escaped its vase and yarn cage which was placed on the countertop as of yesterday evening. This morning- no frog. I just smile. No sense of being rattled, it will emerge in due time.

Since I've last posted two toddlers in our surrounding little communities have left this world. I've found myself teetering between numbness and a deeper insanity than I already thought I had entered into. My own questioning of the sovereignty of God shocked me more when I heard the news of their deaths than when my own child died. I reason it that God gives grace and understanding when and to whom needs it. These are not my children to grieve. I can go to bed not remembering their smiling faces or hearing their sweet voices or picking up the toys and dirty laundry they left behind as physical reminders that they were really here amongst us.

God is still good, even in this. He is still sovereign. He still reigns from His throne, working out His perfect plan. I hold on to the truths of Scripture as I cry tears from a never ending well. Tears for the journey ahead of these mothers. Tears in longing for Jesus to return. Tears because even though they were not mine I still grieve their precious little lives. Tears so that I feel something.

Please pray with me today for the family of Isaiah Thies as this broken family attends a funeral for their son: pray that the gospel rings out loud and clear, pray for salvation, pray for peace, perseverance and great trust in a mighty God. Pray that Jesus comes soon.

The Busy Season

We wake up tired these days and go to bed even more tired yet. The sun starts shining earlier, and sets later, and our bodies believe that they have to keep up with it. As long as that orbiting ball of fire is making its trek across the sky we assume that there must still be time to finish one more project.

The last of the seven bottle calves are close to being weaned. The vast difference between the couple months of their births making the red and white steer appear tiny in contrast to its more mature counterparts. The Black Angus are dwarfed under the Holsteins tall, lanky forms, their growth appearing outward rather than up.

There are still five does milking, with a total of thirteen goats in all. Too many bucks make up the lot of them, with one Craigslist reply away from reducing our herd. Soon it will be weaning time for the kids as well, which puts another item on the never ending list: more goat fencing.

Our young replacement pullets are thriving, and the new clutch of Silkie chicks are protected well under the wings of their possessive momma. One little black fluff ball doesn't realize it is a Light Brahma mix  that was adopted into the Bantam family when we snuck some extra eggs under the broody hen. Soon it will tower over its siblings.

The garden is growing weeds faster than edible plants it seems, and if we don't catch up on our daily barrage we may just have to give up. Using all manual labor, busy hands digging deep in the sandy soil to remove pesky roots, makes for buff muscles and nice farmers tans.

Several new fruit trees are growing well- four peach and another pear, plus some Saskatoon blueberries that the deer seem to have acquired a taste for which continue to remind me that tree fencing needs to be wrote on that list as well. We are attempting blueberries yet again, hoping for a freezer full of them one year. There may be at least a taste for everybody in a few days if we can keep the birds away from them.

Overall, it's been another season of missing. Intensely missing my son. Longing for eternity to begin.

Almost too tired to even grieve, the pain still refuses to end. Flashbacks enjoy popping into my weary brain lately, attacking when I have little resolve to fight them off. The balance of living before the accident and after is continuous. Life goes on. A mother's heart doesn't want to. Joy is rarely ever bereft of the longing. Laughter only hides the scar, still too fresh to ignore. Somehow living here, longing to be there. Finding purpose in one more calf bottle, pulling one more weed, storing up one more treasure, praying one more prayer for all these young souls that surround me, hoping for hope, waiting for what is not yet.

I continue to be reminded that the year of the Lord's favor will come. He will:

"Provide for those who grieve in Zion-

to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes,

the oil of gladness in the morning,

and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.

They will be called oaks of righteousness,

a planting of the Lord for the display of His splendor."

Isaiah 61:3

1 Thessalonians 4:13-14 tells me to not grieve like those without hope, or even to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope. I believe that Jesus died and rose again and also that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him. The familiar words almost become rote in my tired state. I have repeated them so often that it becomes hard to make them exciting lately. I pray for God to wake me up to the gospel again, remembering those same words being uttered just before the accident.

Eternity.

I stop and ponder the word again. Eternity. Going insane wondering what Trent is doing there, wondering why mine is taking so long to begin. Wondering what to do in the meantime. Begging that my children would all be found there in Heaven together.

Wisconsin Wood Ticks

Male wood ticks have "suspenders."

Female wood ticks have "aprons."

Farm life includes lots of creepy crawlies, and this time of year the most popular creepy crawly around our neck of the woods is the wood tick. Free ranging chickens help control them in the yard, but continuous body checks are still required. When our kiddos were little we stumbled across how to identify if the crawling buggers were male or female, which made the scream fests over picking them off a little easier to manage. Now, instead of freaking out at the sight of eight brown legs, everybody gathers around to look for suspenders or aprons before escorting the pests to their doom of the swirling toilet.

The Sovereignty of God as it Pertains to Calves and Farmwives

After pondering the deep truths of Scripture, watching an encouraging message via the worldwide web from titans of the Christian faith, talking to Alexis about my amazement over the intricacies of God's working through His sovereignty while mixing calf bottles and drinking one cup too much of coffee, I finally walked out the back door to start chores, only to discover the dry lot gate standing wide open.

With. not. one. young. bovine. in. sight.

The sinking feeling of despair was bolstered by my wise cracking teenage daughter who was quick to repeat her mother's wisdom, "Well, God's sovereign, right?"

Right.

Two months and too many bottle feedings flashed through my brain in an instant. I considered my options: crawl back into bed and wait for Rob to come home and deal with it, or humble myself before the neighbors who have already had to witness our horses in their yard this Spring and the whole herd of goats in the middle of the road last week. I chose the latter. Back up to the house to put on some mascara and some mud boots, then we grabbed the keys and hopped in the truck.

Being too early to eat crow pie we just made a quick jaunt down to the South neighbor, perusing the East neighbors field along the way, before we decided to turn around and check out the high grass beyond our own soybean field. The little buggers were found in the cool shade of the tree line, leaving their little cleft toed imprints in the soft dirt as a clear trail to follow.

Yep, God's sovereign alright. But sometimes I wonder what the benefit is of a forty year old farmwife running through the soybean field chasing after five black and white steers.

Puppy Love