Broken and Scary

 

Alexis informed me, after I'd mentioned calling one of her friends to ask a favor, that I'm "that scary lady that talks about Jesus all the time." 

"No, mom, I'll ask," she assured me.

I guess there are worse things you could be called by a seventeen year old girl. I guess I've lived so many years as the "scary lady that talks about Jesus all the time" that I find it odd when people don't talk about Jesus all the time. She didn't mean anything bad by it, it's just that she wanted that friend to grant us the favor, too, and thought he might not be so scared off by her.

A strange thing happens when your kids' friends turn into teenagers, they do get scared off by parents, and in all honesty, I get scared off by teenagers.

I was asked to help lead a small group of young ladies for a youth event this past school year. They also thought I was the "scary lady that talked about Jesus all the time." Nearly every Wednesday evening around 7:45p.m. found our little group sitting on the floor, me silently praying to be cool enough and have the right words to say so that they would hear me. Them trying to be too cool to pretend that they were listening, all the while with their eyes glued to me and this strange message of eternity, sin and a Savior. Given the fact that we actually confronted the concept that people really do die, like sons and grandmas, it made for some amazing conversations.

I wake up daily begging God to use me. If I'm going to be here anyway I'd rather be a vessel for glory versus indulging in the temporary glittering rewards that are offered in this world. Brokenness must be a part of that journey because that's where God has me most of the time. Broken and scary, quite a combination. But broken and scary for Jesus - the perfect combination.

How to Rebatch Goat's Milk Soap

 

I really thought that I knew how to make goat's milk soap. After three-plus years of consistently making it, it turns out that I still have quite a bit to learn. Although I have a tried and true lard recipe that I have tweaked to the point of being extremely happy with the results, I have been on a quest all winter to make an oil based recipe that I really like. Most of them turn out too soft or too slimy for my liking, and I just can't find that perfect recipe. Add to that experimenting with various scents from the tempting Brambleberry site, and you have the perfect scenario for botched batches of soap. My rack was getting pretty full of them, and after two more failed attempts this week it was time to get brave and attempt my first ever time of rebatching.

 

Since I am very impatient, I went with the microwave rather than the crockpot or oven method. I procrastinated long enough to check out various directions on the world wide web before I jumped in and finally just did it. Rebatching boasts the claim of being able to salvage nearly any soaping fiasco by magically remelting the mess and pouring it into your mold again. There are a few precautions because you are working with extremely hot soap, and of course warnings of active volcanoes in your kitchen is always a possibility. I wore gloves and goggles for safety, but four logs of soap later, rebatching isn't so scary anymore.

 

I started by finding a kiddo to help cut up the soap. We made two piles: one of larger chunks (1/2 inch or so) and one of smaller chunks for the imbeds. I tried to use the equivalent number of bars plus an extra to assure that the resulting soap would fit into my mold correctly. For me, that was 15 bars of botched soap to cut up. I had some Pearberry that didn't like the Titanium Dioxide that I added, some Plumeria that was castor oil heavy, and a couple of Lilac bars that had turned grey instead of a pretty purple, as well a couple of Oatmeal Milk and Honey bars that overheated. I saved the purple, greens and some tan/yellow pieces for my imbeds, the neutral colors all went into my glass mixing bowl.

 

 

As with any other soap making supplies, this bowl is now marked as "soap use only." I poured about 1/4 cup of canola oil on top (you can use any oil of your choice). Then I popped it into the microwave for 45 seconds, took it out and stirred. After a couple rounds at 45 seconds I decreased the time for each interval, the majority of them being 30 seconds each with stirring in between. You don't want to heat the soap too fast.

 



 When the soap started to look dry around the edges I added a little bit of water to moisten it back up. It will start to look like a squash casserole with big chunks.

 Once everything gets pretty hot and smooshed together, I added some Black Amber Lavender scent and my colored chunks and popped it back into the microwave for a couple more rounds, mixing again in between.

 

Then I plopped it into my prepared soap molds and set is aside to impatiently wait about twenty four hours before I cut it. Thinking that I had mastered this new art of soap making I went on to whip up three more rebatches of soap: Raspberry Patchouli, Drakkar, and Lilac and Lavender.

Wallah! Beautiful soap! It was still fairly soft when I cut it (maybe I added too much water?), so I will let it harden on the drying rack for a couple of weeks, but it already makes bubbles and smells so good.

Heaven on a Thursday Morning

What do you think goes on in Heaven on a Thursday morning? Certainly not laundry and washing down the front of the noisy washing machine, or waiting on grain to be ground or anticipating six more inches of snow to fall in May. Probably not school plans or drinking too much coffee or continuing battles with tween-ager wills, either. What goes on in Heaven on a Thursday morning? The thought stops all of the day's plans and makes me consider eternity and God for the umpteenth time. I fight back tears wishing Trent could tell me, wishing to know, pondering the reality that my brain cannot fathom. I come to a dead end, nowhere to even begin to imagine or reconcile the difference. Missing and waiting for another day, remembering to look up and wondering if this might be the day. Then I go back to my scrubbing, back to my coffee, back to the battle of desperately begging for the salvation of that strong willed child who is still this side of eternity and pray that she would wonder, too, about what goes on in Heaven on a Thursday morning.

Day seven hundred ninety-three

Day seven hundred ninety-three is the day that insanity hits. You may have thought that you were already there several times before this day, but you realize by the depth of the freshness of the emotions that you haven't been.

Day seven hundred ninety-three is the day that you switch from repeating the mantra of "I can do this, I can do this, I can do this" to really not wanting to do it anymore. The insanity part kicks in because you begin to realize that there is really only one option available: to live the rest of your life without your child.

The sun shines after a long winter, you actually smile inside and out, old plans are rejuvenated, and you even begin to dream again. Then the mere sight of the woods haunts you, annual vacations become thoughts of torture chambers, and the new spring calves make you cry. Insanity begins to sound better than the alternative.

I've heard it likened to the breaking of a colt. Until there is no fight left there is no real submission. Until I quit fighting God there is no real submission. On the outside I am functioning with the concerns of today, but my heart keeps longing to go back to Egypt like the Israelites (Acts 7:39). My heart keeps going back to two years ago instead of looking ahead.

As I wiped the dust off of Trent's picture I told him, "I'm not ready yet. Not ready to live without you."

And those pictures - the ones that drive you closer to that insanity with their beckoning questions of heaven and eternity. Constantly I wonder when mine will start and I will see God. Then I am reminded that Trent does see God, right now.

I sit down hard, dumbfounded, trying to wrap my brain around that concept.

I open my Bible and read Jesus' words about this eternal kingdom, Paul's words about the unspeakable glory of it, and John's words about the indescribable visions he saw. Our lives are as a mist, Scripture says, so on day seven hundred ninety-four I just try to figure out what is worth living for until the sun shines and dries up the mist and I get to see the Son.

It All Washes Off

I don't think there is anything quite so sanctifying to a marriage as chasing pigs together. A dozen or more swine, a great big muddy pigpen with two huts to circle around a few times, a stick in each of your hands and a big hole in your barn boots: what could be better?

For several years we have been raising pigs over the summer to supplement our freezer and the freezers of a few friends. There isn't much that beats homegrown, juicy pork chops or all that good pork sausage and bacon, unless of course it's your own homegrown, pasture raised T-bone steaks ... Mmm-mmm!

We were able to get quite a deal on some young feeder pigs earlier this spring, but it meant driving two-and-a-half hours one way and buying sixteen of them, which was a few more than we needed. But, being the frugal farmers that we are with the hopes that this year {it has to be this year!} the farm will come ahead, we jumped in with both feet and brought home a truck full of porkers. After raising them for a few weeks we put adds in the local paper and on good ol' Craigslist and soon were fielding e-mails and phone calls and hoping so-and-so farmer would actually show up this time with enough cash in their hands.

Somehow I escaped the major part of the chase for the first prospective buyers, but I was hanging around too close to the barnyard during the nice weekend weather and was caught wearing mud boots which meant I was the perfect partner to waltz around the pig pen a few times. Very rarely do I ever hear Rob come close to uttering profanities, but his lips came pretty close to quivering some choice words on Saturday evening - probably more so at his other half who had some choice words of her own before it was all said and done.

We finally sorted out the four pigs that were asked for on the phone only to have the young gentleman show up and ask if he could take five. Yep, we're not turning down farm sales. Luckily, he brought two friends to help with the chase. I was wise and hid in the barn.

Just as we got in the house to sit down to a hot supper and began wondering what we would do with one lone pig for sale, lo-and-behold there was an email wondering if we would want to trade a pig for a Nubian buck. I'm always in the market for a new buck, even when there are four others in the barn, so out we went again to sort out that one last spotted porker. A very happy farm wife went home later that night with a smelly pig oinking in the hatchback of her minivan.

Later, Rob came to kiss me good night, but hesitated, which is very unusual for him. "Umm, honey," he said, "have you looked in the mirror yet?"

"It's okay honey, it all washes off," I told him.

The Reality of Home School

 

 

This picture is  the epitome of our home school days: if something better comes along, forget the books and live life. "One more week, one more week, one more week," I keep repeating to myself, and I will (Lord willing, if not that will be okay, too) be done teaching first grade math concepts and basic phonic sounds. Yippee! The race is on between all the kiddos to finish their bookwork for the year. Many subjects have already been crossed off the list and some of them are down to the last few lessons before a summer break- can't wait!

The Prosperity Gospel

John Piper and the Prosperity Gospel

 

 

Waking up again in the middle of the night desperate. Desperate for God. Lying there acknowledging all the things that I use to replace Him, all the things that look like Christianity. Piper's words echoing through my brain, "God is enough. God is enough. God is enough." Years of falsehood shed in one YouTube video. Yet another removing of everything my flesh clings to that isn't God. The things that rise to the top surprise me, the first one I realized was my own trust in my knowledge of Scripture. What a fine hair to split in this whole heart revealing process God has brought me on. Verses are not enough, theology is not enough, fill in the blank is not enough. Only God is enough.

 

Esther





2012 Esther and her twins



Let us not become weary in doing good,

for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.

Galatians 6:9

February 15, 2013. That was the date I had wrote on the calender for Esther's due date. Over two months ago. Every day she was under scrutiny. Signs, no signs? We checked pretty consistently: swelling, ligaments, udder, anything? Looking at her big belly and trying to imagine the thoughts of God as He was designing His new creation inside that caprine womb. Maybe a sign, nope, definitely no signs.

Then a few weeks ago, once we had finally given up hope on the February due date, the signs started. Maybe next week, we said. Then, maybe tomorrow. Don't leave home, don't schedule anything extra, don't live lest she deliver those kids without us. Then the tomorrows came, and the signs didn't change. The middle of the night checks waned, then the middle of the day checks, too. The early morning races to the barn soon became solo walks of enjoying the scenery. Halfheartedly now we check on her in the middle of chores. I'm sure some day she has to have those kids.

Two years after Trent's death, a date that I hadn't had wrote on the calendar, I find myself much at the same place as with Esther. The anticipation has waned. I keep telling myself that heaven will come one day. I'm sure Jesus really meant soon when He said He's coming back. The middle of the night and early morning worship services have dwindled to hiding under the covers until I absolutely have to get up and face another day. The arms haven't been raised as much and the prayers have become pathetic groans.

Weary? Yes. Like Anna and Simeon in the gospel account of Luke, I wait {un}patiently for the day that I will see my Savior. I wonder how many weary days they waited. I wonder what they did in the meantime. Then I wonder at the overwhelming joy that they must have felt when the promise was finally fulfilled.

One day we will make that trek down to the barn and, Lord willing, there they'll be – kids more beautiful and intricately formed than we could have ever imagined. We will forget the long months and weeks of waiting, and we would have gladly made those middle of the night trips all over again when we see momma with her babies.

As we stew in frustration over “when will Esther have those babies” a miracle is taking its time to form down in her stall. The pain and hard work will belong to Esther alone, the price that she has to bear for it to be possible that there is such beauty for us to behold. Like when Jesus delayed before going to Lazarus' tomb, His glory is often times seen more divinely when there's waiting involved.

Lemon Poppyseed Goat's Milk Soap

Oooh~la~la!! This may be my new favorite bar!

It is certainly a new favorite design.

I am imagining numerous color variations and scents ...

the possibilities are endless.

Lemon Poppyseed Goat's Milk Soap, fresh out of the mold. Made with our new oil recipe (castor, olive, and coconut) which has proven to be a perfect blend for lots of sudsy bubbles, plus our farm fresh goat's milk and some poppy seeds mixed in for extra scrubbing power. What a fun, sunny looking bar!

How do you do that you're asking? Well, let me show you the trick.

At a light trace I separated my plain soap batch by pouring roughly 1/4 of the mixture into a pan and added some Poppyseeds.

Next, I added Fizzy Lemonade mica powder from Brambleberry into a couple tablespoons of oil and added it to my pail (with 3/4 of the soap) along with Lemongrass Essential oil. I mixed this concoction up to a heavier trace and poured it into my lined soap mold. Once it was starting to set up, I used my spatula to make some dips and curves.

Now comes the fun part. Before I started the soap I dug out an old pair of nylons, cut the toe off and used it to cover the opened end of my little plastic bottle of Black Oxide (yes, again from Brambleberry). I gently tapped the end of the bottle to lightly dust the yellow soap in the mold. It really doesn't take much at all.

Then I gently scooped the white poppyseed, unscented soap on top. I sprinkled a few more poppyseeds on top for looks and covered it lightly with saranwrap.

Since I have been having some trouble with overheated soap lately, I popped it in the freezer for an hour, then waited patiently until the next morning when I could finally cut it.

Love it!

I'll put it up on the sales page for pre-cured sales, but it won't be shipped and ready for use until mid May.

Total Trust

Trust in the Lord with all your heart

and lean not on your own understanding.

Proverbs 3:5

The round block of wood sits in the windowsill above my kitchen sink. The words “Total Trust” engraved in it as a way to pass the hours while Trent was at a friend's house for a weekend many years ago. I see it every time I fill up the coffee pot, every time I wash a dish, every time I look out over the farmyard to make sure there are no critters running around on the wrong side of the fence.

Total Trust.

Often times it convicts me to read those two simple words. It pierces my heart and makes me ask again and again, am I trusting? Total trust? Like the challenge course at summer camp, when they ask for a volunteer for the faith drop. Stand up on this ledge, now turn around, close your eyes and just fall backward. We've got you. Don't be scared.

I was never brave enough to volunteer. I'm not even sure if I ever had any vital part in the actual catch. Nobody asked me this time if I wanted to be the one on the ledge. God doesn't call out, seeking for courageous volunteers. He chooses you. He sets you up on that ledge and inquires, “Do you trust Me?” His loving, fatherly hands held beneath us all the time as we stand there, knees shaking, doubting the goodness of the very maker and sustainer of our existence. Once He asks, the rest of our lives are spent answering that simple question.

Total Trust.

Sometimes that round piece of wood changes its tactic and is not convicting, but rather encouraging. It's as if those two small words are whispering to my soul. Yes, total trust. Peace envelopes like a warm ray of sunshine, and for a moment a flooding of joy overtakes the heartache. The anxiety attacks stop and falling-off-the-ledge-trust becomes easier. Eternity feels closer. The promises are clearer. Desperate pleas turn once more into prayers, sorrow shifts to rejoicing, and a smile even forms from the inside. Eyes turned again to Jesus, towards a Savior who has this all in His hands and under His sovereign control.

Total Trust.

That's Not Funny

 

It's April 15th.

Two snowstorms later and there's enough snow on the ground to build snowmen.

We're not laughing.


 

And the Winner is ......

 

Thanks for playing along in the Goat's Milk Soap giveaway ladies!

 

Now, for the lucky winner of all that bubbly goodness....

 

DickyBird

 

Congratulations, Dicky Bird!

Your soap will be in the mail soon!

A Soapy Give Away

It's been a long time since we've done an OurCrazyFarm giveaway!

 

So, for all my bloggy friends, I've put together just that,

 and better yet, a soapy giveaway.

 

Because nothing says summer like cucumbers and melons,

we'll start with a bar of Cucumber Melon Goat's Milk Soap .

 

 And because winter refuses to go away, a bar of

Cranberry Pomegranate soap made with real Wisconsin snow.

 

 

And a bar of Oatmeal, Milk and Honey ~ no scents,

just plain ol' soap with some extra scrubbing power.

 

 

Plus I'll add into the soapy goodness some Goat's Milk Soap Laundry Detergent.

 

The rules are simple: just leave a comment.

 

If you want a second, or third, or fourth chance to win,

post the link to the giveaway on your blog,

Facebook, twitter, etc., etc. and leave another comment letting me know

(one extra comment for each place).

 

If you don't have a blog for me to get in contact with you,

please leave an email with your comment where I can reach you if you are the lucky winner.

 

And if you can't wait to see if you win or not,

our soap is for sale here.

 

 

 Contest will end on Friday evening, April 12, 2013.

Shipping limited to continental USA only.

 

Ready! Set! Go!

Spring and Ponies and Ramblings

Spring is in the air. The month of April has brought with it rain showers and even several bursts of snow, but we refuse to let go of the hope of green grass and sunshine. Grace has been so happy to finally be able to get out and ride Sassy again. Jumping is her sport of choice for this year. Not so sure it's mom's sport of choice, but the smile that never leaves her face while she's riding is worth the fear of her falling off.

Sassy continues to give her a run for her money, definitely living up to her equine name, but it's a good challenge. Two stubborn, feisty girls battling it out for who's going to be in charge. At the end of the ride they're both happy, one with grain the other sore muscles. Born fighters wouldn't be happy without a fight.

Grace got her hair cut. She hasn't had it this short since she was three years old and took a scissor to it herself. She's been begging for the transformation, and was thrilled to donate the cut portion to Locks of Love, happy knowing that somebody else would benefit from her beautiful gift. She's turned into a different girl in so many ways.

Horses are one of the harder parts of grief. There is only so much emotion and strength to go around, and some things are just too hard to revisit for the extra energy it takes to live them without your loved one. Too many memories to relive, and too hard to make new ones with the same horses minus one kid. Grace informed me that I haven't rode with her for over a year. So much is lost in grief, more than just your child who is gone, the ones here suffer for it as well.

I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of his resurrection

and participation in his sufferings.

Philippians 3:10a

The words finally made some sense when I read them again last night. I always wondered, who would want to suffer to know Jesus? It is such a backward way of thinking in our society of ease and pleasure. But the verse has haunted my thoughts for years, moreso of course since Trent's accident. To want to know Christ in His sufferings.

Then it struck me as I read it for the hundredth time: Without suffering we wouldn't know Jesus to the same degree as without it.

Poor Rob happened to walk in during the middle of my revelation. I sputtered at him, "You know how it was when we met Amos and Sue, and we didn't have to explain to them what it was like to lose a child to death on a ski slope? Do you remember that instant connection, regardless that we lived worlds apart? Remember the knowing, on both sides, without explaining to them what that suffering felt like?"

Yep. He knew.

That's what Paul means: to know Jesus in his suffering is like knowing Amos and Sue, or the many others parents we know who have lost a child. You don't have to explain what it feels like to receive that dreaded call, or to walk into an emergency room and see your child's dead body lying there, or how to choose what color of casket you want for the funeral. They know. They just know.

You don't have to explain tears for over two years straight. Or why you haven't answered the phone in days. Or why riding horse might be hard. They just know.

To know Christ in His suffering is to really know Christ. You can almost feel the whip He felt, and the shame He endured for trusting God. You know the tears He cried, and the hope He had. On some level, you set your face as flint towards eternity and the waiting glory just as He did. You begin to live as He lived, not for this world but the next, not for joy found here, but for the treasure found there.

And when you realize that it is all filtered through a Sovereign Father's hand you can even rejoice in it. The participation becomes an honor, just like it is an honor to wrap your arms around a newly grieving mother and try to point her to Christ. To repeat the promises to both her and yourself, willing you both to hold on and not lose hope. Looking forward to what's ahead, not looking behind, but trudging through the deep waters that God wants you to walk.

To know somebody in the trenches of suffering is to truly know them. There is no room for fake, no reason to talk about the weather, no Sunday smiles. There is only full exposure of the heart in sorrow. God is the searcher of hearts. He reveals through suffering, both our hearts and Himself. What a joy, then, to be sought out. What a joy to experience His grace. He disciplines those He loves. He wakes those up whom He loves.

Therefor, it is easier to say it again:

I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of his resurrection

and participation in his sufferings.

Philippians 3:10a

Why? Because I know there is much more beyond the pain of today.

Our citizenship is in heaven.

And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ,

who, by the power that enables him to bring everything under his control,

will transform our lowly bodies so that they will be like his glorious body.

Philippians 3:20-21

Another Easter

Obviously, our plans are not God's plans. (Isaiah 55:8)

Our plans were to enjoy a big family Easter celebration at my sister's house. God's plans proved to be different. A wide spread cold bug rapidly blazed its way throughout their home and scared all the aunts, uncles and even grandma away lest we, too, get the phobie just when the sun is predicted to finally shine on our Wisconsin tundra. I try to look for the good in the alternative, often amused as I ponder the "other plans" that God brings us. No doubt He has a sense of humour, and no doubt He answers prayers.

After lamenting to that same sister about another holiday to get through without Trent, all the while knowing that I needed to be a mother for all my other little dumplings who are still here, she prayed a Traci prayer, suggested I eat my chocolate bunny plus Trent's, then petitioned God to give me "a sugar rush that lasts all week and has you giggling about all sorts of strange things!  Ha!"

God did not fail.

Easter morning began at our house with my serenading the sleepy children with the song "He Arose!" He arose, He arose, Hallelujah, Christ Arose! Which was followed by a very sincere, wise-cracking eight year old who must have mistook my lyrics since he replied "I don't have rolls. You have rolls!"

Giggles. About all sorts of strange things. Ha!

Watching videos of Easter songs at church, checking on a couple of very pregnant goats and an expecting momma bunny, then making a batch of soap for a customer filled my afternoon. Leftover T-bone steaks for supper with a grumpy card game followed by snuggling on the couch ended the night. It was reported throughout the day that there were a few missing chocolate Easter bunnies. If not the whole, at least their long ears had disappeared. All this joy, and yet the ache never leaves.

A few things I jotted down to keep myself sane:

Our satisfaction should always be sought in God- any other attempts to fulfill it here (feelings, people, material possessions, experiences, etc.) will fail. For the Christian, this is the time of suffering, as evidenced by Jesus' life. He was the example. But like Him, we should trust the Father as we walk this hard road and look to the joy beyond the cross, all the way to Heaven and eternity. Pain drives us to our knees, to the Christ who satisfies. So many other things used to satisfy, now they all pale in comparison.

God's timing is not our timing. To Him a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years like  a day. I content myself with knowing that not a single tear, or another long night or the ache of my heart will be without great glory that is yet to be revealed. Glory not even worth comparing to these trials. I force myself to embrace the reality of eternity, of Heaven, of this temporary life. I strive to work for the food that endures to eternal life.

I am weary in the battle. My mind feels numb, by body is on auto-pilot. Just where God wants me: weak so that He can be strong.

(Hebrews 12:2; Romans 8:18; Colossians 1:24; 1 Peter 1:3-9;2 Peter 3:8; John 6:27;2 Corinthians 12:10)

The Harvest Fields

“I tell you, open your eyes and look at the fields! They are ripe for harvest.” John 4:35b

Too often, I forget to look up at the fields. My head downcast, or so preoccupied with “self,” or looking at somebody elses field, my own easily gets ignored. The glamor of a different ministry becomes appealing, maybe a stage somewhere, or a big platform, or being a missionary across the seas where I would be “super Christian” and be worthy of the title. Not the mundane of another day of home school in March with two feet of snow still left on the ground to battle through to do chores with a predicted high of only thirty-six.

In the midst of my pity party I am impelled to go back and re-read the words of Scripture:

“I tell you, open your eyes and look at the fields! They are ripe for harvest.” John 4:35b

I literally look up and see a teenage boy sitting at the island eating breakfast and reading his Bible. Either way, if even only for the sake of duty to cross it off his daily list, the living words are still being drunk in. I watch him for awhile, wondering where thirteen years have gone. I pray for him once again. No earthly desires top the list, only eternal ones. I beg God, please God, grant salvation to this son, too.

I am reminded of long-ago prayers whispered over sleeping children, standing next to their beds, touching their silent forms that were snuggled under handmade quilts. Prayers, particularly for Trent, that God would use his life in a mighty way for His glory. A prayer I didn't expect to be answered in the way that it was. A prayer that I am scared to request again. My words want to stay guarded before they leave my lips, frightened of what God may ask of me next. But He knows my heart. He knows the uttering of it, He has made the longing for His glory, no matter the cost, to reign.

Fear wants to sneak its way in – fears of what might be for their futures, fears even for this day, fears of more suffering. How quickly my eyes stray from the field where I have been sovereignly placed, stray from my Savior. Quietly, the thoughts of grace eventually calm the fears. I look back to the Bible and read the words again: Jesus answered [the Samaritan woman], “If you knew the gift of God...” (John 4:1) To truly know the gift of God compels me to endure.

In grief there is so much time spent trying to learn how to live without your loved one. Whether you get out of bed or not in the morning, it doesn't make a difference, they are still not here. Every event is met with a brokenness, a neon sign reminding you again and again that all is not right. There is a continuous aching in a mother's heart and arms that refuses to be comforted while your mind is forced to learn to live with the loss lest you literally go insane.

As much as I am learning to live with the loss of my son, I can't escape the continuous thought of Heaven. If Trent were just spending the weekend at his best friend's house, or staying with Aunt Traci for a while, or enjoying time at kid's camp I could associate with where he was. I would not doubt his “being.” Death is only an absence to those left behind, not to the person who died. Trent is still Trent.

As I sat in my recliner late one night last week, enjoying a book in the quiet hush of this old farmhouse, the startling revelation came to me: Trent is in Heaven. The thought nearly took the wind out of me. Tears soon followed as the reality was fresh yet again. The brevity of this life once more became glaringly apparent. The gospel of John reminds me over and over of Jesus' words, “I am telling you the truth,” and “Believe me, woman” echoing truth today while I sit drinking my coffee and crossing the Bible off my own list. (John 4:21)

So somehow I try to measure everything against that eternity. The short days here, the lives around me that God has given me the privilege of influencing, my own heart that has nowhere to hide. Like the Samaritan woman, though, (John 4) I quickly tend to change the subject, busy myself with the cares of this world, consume myself here in some new project rather than face the reality of eternal life.

Jesus met people where they were, even sinful women going about their daily duties. There was no prerequisite, other than brokenness, to feel his healing touch. Jesus meets me where I am today. He answers my prayers and renews my longing for His word, He breaks through my vitamin D depraved brain and lights the fire again so that rather than being lukewarm I may be hot. Rather than investing a little into eternity I may see the worth, as much as my human brain can conceive of the idea, of fully longing for redemption, longing for Christ to reign, longing for that glory that Paul talks about so often.

Snow Soap

Winter just doesn't seem to want to go away this year, so we decided to take advantage of the record amounts of snow that keep falling and make some soap with it.

 

Our latest creation: Cranberry Pomegranate Snow Soap with cranberry seeds

sprinkled in the white "snowy" tops.

 

{{{Beautiful!}}}

 

We tried a new recipe for this batch, which will hopefully become another favorite.

There are thirteen bars sitting on the drying rack that will soon be ready to sample~ can't wait!

 

 

A Doozey of a Kidding Year

 It's been a doozey of a kidding year so far, and we are only half way done. The vet's number will soon be on speed dial, and my yearly farm budget is already in the negative. It all started a few weeks ago when we received news of a positive CAE test on one of last years bucklings.  CAE has been a new experience for us, but obviously has been a part of the goat world for quite some time, and with many varying opinions on the handling of it. (FiasCo Farms has a great post about it here.) Since a majority of our goats are sold as breeding bucks, we made the hard decision to cull out two of the four does of that line, leaving two others who will be kept back with the hopes that we can successfully bottle feed their kids to prevent CAE and keep the line in our herd. The disease has essentially wiped out half of our milkers.

Next, after that crises had been dealt with, came our first delivery from Dixie, an older doe who would be retired after this years kidding. She delivered two beautiful, healthy kids, but had barely any milk. The little buck didn't make it past the second cold night. Then Asha delivered healthy twins, but again, the buck out of the set didn't know how to get back into his warming house and didn't make it through the first night. At about this point I felt like the worst farmer ever, and vowed to never have kids due again in February/March (forgetting all of the successful past years of raising babies).

Lucille's due date came and she started out perfectly. There were obvious early labor signs when I checked her before going to bed, so I brought her up to the old wood basement to deliver her babies in the warmth. She let me sleep a couple of hours each in between checks throughout the night, and even let me finish a cup of coffee before she got serious about pushing. Little feet soon appeared, although they were the back feet, but being they were in the proper position I wasn't concerned. Within two pushes I became very concerned when all of a sudden out came a monster of a baby, a second tiny baby buck plus her uterus all at the same time.

We hurried to make sure the babies were breathing and taken care of, took a big breath ourselves, and looked again to try to determine exactly what had come out and if it had gone back in yet. Nope. I headed upstairs and did a quick search on the internet for "prolapsed uterus" and verified my original thought. Yep, that's a prolapsed uterus. I called the local vet, only to find out that nobody was available and had to call the office further away. The nice vet at that office wouldn't be available for a couple of hours, but calmly proceeded to instruct me how to put it back in myself. Alrighty then. Good thing I had had my coffee already.

Following his instructions, I grabbed the extra bag of sugar from the cupboard and headed back down to the basement. As I was dowsing the uterus with sugar to reduce the extra moisture and trying to figure out how to pull the after birth off without breaking the buttons which could cause her to bleed to death, the girls were in the background vowing to never birth children. After a few meager attempts, in dreadful fear to push with my palms and not my fingers lest I burst a hole through the uterus, I called the vet back in defeat and scheduled him to come out after his current clinic procedure.

Baby number two, the beautiful spotted buck, wasn't doing so well. Momma was able to get up and allow the little guys to get some colostrum, but he didn't have the strength yet to nurse. We dug out a bottle and nipple and milked some colostrum, then worked on getting it in him. He struggled weakly throughout the night, sleeping in a basket between the girls who blessed me by babysitting and multiple feedings so that I could get some sleep.

The vet eventually made it out, gave us all an educational, hands on science day and expertly reinserted the uterus and stitched her up with instructions to watch her so that she didn't push it out again. Right, wrong or otherwise I kept the momma goat doped up on some pain killers/muscle relaxers that I had for when I put my back out over Christmas and anxiously checked her rear end for protrusions. By day number three she came out of her stupor and was obviously tired of being in the basement. She wasn't very pleased with us, either, when we had to remove the stitches, but we appreciated her fiestiness.

Both bucks are thriving in the barn as of chore time this morning. But now Dixie is in the basement with supposed milk fever, another new goat issue for us. She lost all of her milk, which leaves us bottle feeding her month old doe. Only three more deliveries to go . . .

PicMonkey Collage

I have discovered a fun new website to play around on called PicMonkey. There are oodles of options for transforming pictures, making collages and blog headers, and most of it is free {there are optional upgrades}.

On my agenda for the past couple of years has been the project of tackling the transformation of the upstairs hallway. The orange shag carpeting has been torn out for quite some time and revealed decent, although characteristically unlevel, hardwood floors. The old walls were repaired, then recently painted a neutral beige color and an appropriate border has been picked out and is just waiting to be installed. Family pictures were next. I have been purposely avoiding this part of the project. Part of me wants to see the walls plastered with all those smiling little faces, but the other part of me hasn't wanted to dig through the pictures to decide which ones to use.

Do you use all pre-accident photos, or acknowledge that life has been forced to go on and everybody else is two years older and use recent photos? Do you change them out every year, allowing the glaring reality that Trent's picture never changes to be the first thing you wake up to every morning? And then there's the actual event of digging through the archived pictures: the horse rides, the football games, the reminders of the breakfasts in bed that you never got a picture of.

Grief steals so much. More-so than just the person you are grieving, it steals your very self. It steals the mother, sister, wife, aunt, friend that you used to be. It drives you to the brink of insanity where you start to contemplate and wonder if just going over the edge of it would really be so bad. It steals even the ability to think rationally. You start to forget that this life is a mist and heaven goes on for an eternity.  Everything brings tears, even two years later.

The anniversary is over and Trent's birthday has just passed. Dear friends sent cards and emails, as well as called and visited. I cried over the ones who did, and the ones who didn't. The sweet, painful emotion of being loved well~ there are not adequate words to express how that feels.

I continuously tell God that I am so tired of crying. I can barely begin the words of a cohesive prayer anymore because all I do is lament and weep. There are no more words. My brain is exhausted by the work of searching out the glory of God in this (Proverbs 25:2NKJ). God knows my heart, He knows the depth of this agony. He has allowed a quiet hush to hover over me. A time of rest in my soul. A time of waiting as His work is being done. Simply "being" in Him. There doesn't always have to be answers to the questions.

So I went through the pictures. I relived life when there were five children smiling back at me on a computer screen all the way through life when there were only four. I sorted, debated, and created personal collages for each person in our family.

I chose the Roseman Bridge, where Trent's ashes were spread, for my collage. Pictures where I opened my hand and let go, let go of my son, let go of myself and my plans. Pictures of remembrance that mark in computer generated options my surrender to God, my attempt of the resurrection of an altar as the prophets of old used to build: an everlasting reminder of when God abundantly poured out His grace and along with it a great measure of hope. When He revealed Himself and allowed me to see and love Him more, and especially long for Him more, despite the great cost.

Oatmeal Almond Scrub Goat's Milk Soap

 Buy yourself a bar of goat's milk soap {{CLICK HERE}}!

Alexis and I have been having so much fun making soap! Between exciting goat deliveries (more on that soon, Lord willing), home schooling and the never ending laundry pile we have been able to whip up eleven batches of goat's milk soap in preparation for some upcoming Spring Craft Fairs. My soap racks are overflowing!

Almond is always a popular seller, so we made sure to make extra. Lots of folks like the Oatmeal Almond Scrub bar as well. We used our tried and true lard recipe which holds up well with the added oatmeal, along with 2 ounces of Brambleberry's Cybilla Almond scent.

At a light trace I poured about 1/4 of the soap mixture back into my oil pan, then added my scents and superfatted the original batch with the Castor Oil for extra luxurious bubbles and conditioning. Next I added some oatmeal, and mixed it back up to a thicker trace before pouring it into the mold.

The bottom layer turns that pretty brown from the Almond scent, with the plain white soap poured on top for some contrast, and a dash of cinnamon for an added dramatic effect. Beautiful!

Click Here For My Soap Making Tutorial

Terri's Goat's Milk Soap Lard Recipe~

15.2 Ounces slushy/frozen Goat's Milk

5.7 Ounces Lye

20 Ounces Lard

12 Ounces Olive Oil

8 Ounces Coconut Oil

2 Tbsp. Castor Oil

2 Ounces Scent/or as desired

  

Let the Soaping Begin

 

With kidding season comes an abundance of goat's milk. And an abundance of goat's milk means soaping time. After many requests to purchase soap last Fall, and more soap classes than I had originally planned on teaching, I discovered too late that I had underestimated the amount of milk I should have frozen.

 

With only four remaining precious bags of milk in the freezer, I have been hording them until my first doe freshened, even though we are down to just a few "nice" bars of soap left on the shelf. Now that she has, I feel the liberty to dig them out and start creating.

 

Except, of course, now that I have milk, I am short on supplies, so will have to wait until the nice Fed-Ex man pulls into my driveway with a big box of spring colors and scents from Brambleberry: Cucumber Melon, Plumeria, Cranberry-Pomegranate, the ever favorite Almond, etc., etc. There are a couple different recipes and designs that I have been wanting to experiment with, too ~ I can't wait!.

 

So stay tuned, and let the soaping begin!

Babies, Babies, Babies

 Our first baby goat of the year, born to Dixie.

A tiny, spunky little girl who has us hoping for a "doe year."

Two other mommas are due any day now.

 

 Cole's baby bunnies. Such sweetness!

 

Six baby chicks peeping in the basement,

enough to supplement our older flock of hens,

and more eggs in the incubator.

To Be Loved Well

Rejoice with those who rejoice;

mourn with those who mourn.

Romans 12:15

Amongst the overwhelming emotional pain of grief is the exact opposite: the flooding of love. When you spend so much time protecting yourself from feeling too much it takes extra effort to allow the love to seep in, too.  Both emotions can be as equally difficult to sort and absorb. Both leave you in tears, exhausted from the depth of them.

~An unannounced, surprise visit by a sister bringing treasures and kids with her.

 

~A niece whose love and encouragement hasn't failed to bless these past many months.

 

~New friends who are brave enough to talk to you about your son while your waiting for an appointment at the dentist's office.

 

~Old friends who don't forget.

 

~A policeman whom you've only met once at a faraway hospital, a meeting ordained perfectly by God, who remembers you in his prayers two years later.

 

~Wednesday night church ladies who hug and don't let go.

 

~And you, dear blog friends, who have walked in the trenches with me and keep reading my ramblings and sending your love through cyberspace.

The effect of your prayers has been felt. Smiles are returning. A glimpse of the victory to come is remembered. Lord willing, Monday will pass. It may even find me celebrating as the gamut of emotions have run their course and I can put it all in focus once again and realize that my son is in Heaven... with God... for eternity.

On the Hard Days

That day, when evening came, he said to his disciples, “Let us go over to the other side.”

Leaving the crowd behind, they took him along, just as he was, in the boat.

There were also other boats with him.

A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped.

Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion. The disciples woke him and said to him,

“Teacher, don't you care if we drown?”

He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves,

“Quiet! Be still!”

 

Then the wind died down and it was completely calm.

He said to his disciples, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?”

They were terrified and asked each other,

“Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him!”

Mark 4:35-41

Dates on a calender should not have the power to have so much control over a persons life. For nearly four decades I was able to enjoy the month of February. It always brought with it Valentines Day, chocolate hearts and cards, and the hope of warmer weather to come. Now the days bring paralyzing grief, a return of tears that won't end, and a flood of memories. I thought goat deliveries and baby chicks would help speed the days and consume me with busyness, but they have only proven to be too bitter-sweet to enjoy.

{Jesus} said to His disciples, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?” Mark 4:40

I've been reading through the gospels again, my second round in our ninety day New Testament marathon; my anchor of sanity, the words that keep my soul focused.

Do I still have no faith? Rob reminded me that having faith doesn't mean that you don't have tears. Heart wrenching, sobbing, curled up next to the toilet tears. Begging Jesus to meet you there, on that tile floor, so that you can get up, start the day and tend to your other children kind of tears.

The second year is harder, ladies. I've hesitated to write that since I know many of you haven't even finished the first year yet. Satan does a doozey of a job to thwart the plans of God and twist whatever hope is left after the first twelve months of grief.

The kids and I have been reading John Bunyan's book, The Holy War, this week (it's a required assignment, otherwise our children do not usually gladly endure sitting through fifty-five pages a day of Old English language). My eyes have been opened, once again, to the fact that there is a battle raging – a battle for souls. Night terrors, in a girl too big to be scared of the boogey man, only revealed it again. The power of prayer reminds us of who wins in the end.

Randy Alcorn, in his book Heaven, talks about the liar of all lies, the great deceiver that masquerades as an angel of light dulling our minds to the reality of eternity:

“Our enemy slanders three things: God's person, God's people, and God's place – namely Heaven.

What better way for the devil and his demons to attack us than to whisper lies about the very place on which God tells us to set our heart and minds?

Satan need not convince us that Heaven doesn't exist, He need only convince us that Heaven is a place of boring, unearthly existence. If we believe that lie, we'll be robbed of our joy and anticipation, we'll set our minds on this life, and not the next, and we won't be motivated to share our faith. Why should we share the 'good news' that people can spend an eternity in a boring, ghostly place that even we're not looking forward to?

{Satan} cannot keep Christ from defeating him, but he can persuade us that Christ's victory is only partial, that God will abandon his original plan for mankind and the earth. Because Satan hates us, he's determined to rob us of the joy we'd have if we believed what God tells us about the magnificent world to come....

Sitting here in a dark world, we must remind ourselves what Scripture tells us about Heaven. We will one day be delivered from blindness that separates us from the real world. We'll realize then the stupefying bewitchment we've lived under. By God's grace, may we ... clearly see the liberating truth about Christ the King and Heaven, his Kingdom.”

I wonder, as Jesus sat in that boat with His disciples – the God man who lived not by His own power but by God's, the maker of Heaven and Earth itself – how He had the patience to not rap these men upside the head. They had walked with him, seen the miracles, heard the promises. Yet, so easily, like us, they got flustered at the first test.

God seems to “step away” sometimes in suffering, and makes us depend on His Word alone. Is it sufficient? Will we hinge everything on it? Do we allow it to sustain us? The splitting of hairs is so fine, our sin runs so deep, our understanding of God is so shallow.

We demand of Him, “Give me grace, do it my way, don't let it hurt.” But the hurt reveals. It reveals what we cling to. It reveals that we have not fully surrendered to Christ as King and Lord, sovereign of all, over every aspect of our lives. It reveals that we really don't think He's capable when we are honest with ourselves; that He may not have a master plan in all of this.

But it wasn't until the winds were blowing the hardest, the squall was in its most furious state, and the waves had finally broken over the boat that the disciples bothered to wake Jesus, and in desperation cried out for a Savior.

“The honest cries of a broken heart are better than a hallelujah,” sings Amy Grant. Pain brings honesty that can't be faked. It brings an opportunity to cry out to God. It forces us to figure out who He really is.

Crying on the floor, begging for rather than demanding grace, acknowledging God's perfect ways, waiting for my Savior to quiet the storm, and longing like I've never before longed for Heaven … reminding myself that the glory to be revealed will not even be worth comparing to this trial (Romans 8:18) that this life is as a mist (James 4:14), that my days are numbered (Psalm 39:4), and that my God is fully capable to see me through to the end (Isaiah 46:4), even through the second anniversary date.

“Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey Him!” Mark 4:41

Hatching Chicks

Throughout the cold winter months there has been an old, rigged up microwave oven that sits on the cherry laminate floor right next to my dining room table. Its light blinking off and on, off and on, keeping time with the thermostat that was installed to keep it at a consistent, toasty 99.5 degrees. It truly is the latest in decorating style - every old farmhouse should have one. The cat even likes it, and has claimed it as a warm place to take his nap.

After three impatient weeks, and many sessions of turning eggs, it's so fun to hear the "cheep, cheeping" from the old brown box. The noise leads us to inspecting eggs looking for pip holes, and putting various ones up to our ears to listen for the little scratching sounds made by a chick gearing up for the battle to begin his life.

That battle has been a losing one around here lately. Our Light Brahma's must be too old to hatch healthy babies, as they have trouble getting out of their shelled domain. The plain Blacks have been strong, though, and we have been rewarded with a couple of fluffy chicks to add to the clutch of Cole's Silkies in the basement.

Today is Due Day for the first of the expecting goats. One of the does refused her breakfast of grain, which is a good sign that labor could be starting soon. Chicks, and kids, and if the beef prices have come down to reasonable rates, soon new calves. Such a fun, busy time on the farm.