MooBee

because being prepared means more than just crossing your fingers.

2012-02-11T15:18:00.000-08:00

(January newspaper column for Central Oregonian)

The irony of the big-snowstorm-that-never-happened in our county last week is that I was so totally prepared for it! My friends in other hard-hit areas are still without power, and began running out of basic essentials after only two days. But, here I sit with a small arsenal of food and supplies and no big storm to put it all to the test! Oh well, I can always give you guys the run down of my all-for-naught efforts, in case you haven’t already thought of them yourselves.

Most people who live a rural lifestyle are conditioned to stock-up more than normal, because traveling to town isn’t a daily routine. I’m still amazed, though, at how many folks don’t see the need for emergency preparedness stating, “There’s a Grocery Outlet just down the street and Costco never runs out of toilet paper!” Remember Y2K, and all the media-hype about possible interruptions in food distribution and on-line-gaming? Well, my neighbors in Portland at the time knew I had extra cans of tuna fish tucked away and said they were all planning to come to my house if things got ugly. This meant I had to keep going back to the store for more cans of tuna! That experience, coupled with living through a handful of California earthquakes as a child, served to shape my deductive reasoning skills in such a way that I try to avoid running out of dark chocolate and always keep a bottle of Excedrin around just in case I do. After all, I still reside in an earthquake zone.

Should that snow-pocalypse, or any other disaster, decide to visit our area I’ve listed below some items that I consider to be prudent. If you want to call me paranoid, go right ahead, and then get busy chipping away at your own list! Because, whether you face a season of hard economic times, an extended power outage or unexpected guests from out-of-town, I’ll wager some beef jerky that you’ll be glad you did.

First, while the power is still on, visit www.redcross.org where you’ll learn that only 12% of Americans are actually ready for an emergency. So, now might be a real good time to consider doing just a little more than crossing your fingers! The Red Cross has a general kit list that would suit any household or business, and if you had even half of what they recommend you’d be miles ahead of the folks whose backup plan includes looting the nearest Best Buy.

Suggested basics:

Water (lots of water!), non-perishable foods (freeze dried or canned items, grains, beans, rice), favorite beverages, manual can opener, flashlights, batteries, hand-crank radio, propane, gasoline, candles, lighters or matches, tin foil, first aid kit, extra medications, personal hygiene items, vinegar, household liquid bleach, insurance policy numbers & birth certificates, chargers for phones, outdoor tools, nails, plastic sheeting, duct tape, work gloves, dust masks, zip ties, ammunition, hunting equipment, camp stove, backpacks, multi-purpose tool, two-way radio, whistle, boots & warm clothing, pet supplies, baby supplies, a survival handbook, non-hybrid seeds for gardening, board games.

Adopting arms out-stretched in Powell Butte

2012-01-02T11:33:00.000-08:00

(below is my Dec. 27, 2011 column that ran in our local newspaper. Support this wonderful family, won't you?)

It’s the darkest day of the year and it feels like the sun will never rise! I know it’ll show up eventually because I can see and hear the evidence everywhere; distant, glowing pink mountain peaks and robins diving against my window in a drunken, juniper-berry stupor are all proof that the sun is on its way over the horizon and all I have to do is sit back and wait. Elsewhere, I’m drowning in a cacophony of year-end tasks that will seemingly never get done without my coaxing. Thankfully, making the sun come up each day isn’t one of them.

I know I’m not the only person who feels stretched to the limit in this season of cold, dark nights preceding the lengthening of days. There are others too who are being pushed beyond the furthest edges of themselves; enduring pains and pangs that every one of us, if asked, would rather make numb until it’s all over. But that’s not always possible, is it? Ask any mother who has endured childbirth without an epidural and, although she will testify to the discomfort, she will never say it wasn’t worth it -- because something beautiful was born.

There are several families in Powell Butte who’ve been enduring a labor of sorts while waiting patiently for their newly adopted children to come home. The process can be excruciating and exciting all at the same time, and the long airplane ride to meet their little loves across the ocean is probably not unlike riding on a donkey across a desert while nine months pregnant. I’ve observed these families leap for joy and flail in discouragement as the twists and turns of court dates, paperwork, visa approvals and airline reservations come and go. But, when all is said and done, their experience ends up being just as it was meant to be only they are stronger, and humbled beyond words at the miracle of it all.

You and I can help make the journey a bit easier for one of these adoptive families by showing up in Powell Butte at 9 a.m. on New Year’s Eve for a 4-mile run/walk. The funds raised will bring four orphaned brothers home to their new forever family in Central Oregon. Register and get all the details at www.freaufffamilyfun.blogspot.com.

The calendar and the earth’s axis tell us we’ll be seeing more daylight than darkness now. So too will some children on the other side of the world as they wait in hopeful expectation for the loving arms of their new family to reach them.

In the fullness of time, the Christ was born so we can be adopted. Gal 4:4-7

All of this makes us even more certain that what the prophets said is true. So you should pay close attention to their message, as you would to a lamp shining in some dark place. You must keep on paying attention until daylight comes and the morning star rises in your hearts. 2 Peter 1:19

Being thankful isn't rocket science

2011-11-22T16:30:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday of the year. I like it for its simplicity and lack of elementary school parties and programs. It makes me happy just being with family and friends, enjoying good food, and watching my favorite sport on television; all while those closest to me are gushing with gratitude that I did not make them eat Tofurkey, like that one time back in 1998. In my defense, we were living in Portland, Oregon and My Man was suffering through a short-lived vegetarian phase and (am I right ladies?) sometimes we women will go to ridiculous lengths to support our man!

One of the reasons why Thanksgiving is so treasured is that deep down we all know it’s not just the day before the insanity also known as Black Friday. Thanksgiving was our nation’s first official holiday and set the tone of gratitude and strength that has been our country’s trademark ever since. And, while some would argue that we are at great risk of forgetting our humble roots, I believe that we are still walking on a firm foundation, lain by our forefathers, that keeps drawing us back into lockstep with the whole universe...whose megaphone proclaims, day and night, the ultimate goodness of God.

As a matter of fact, we could all list several things we are thankful for every day of the year and we’d still only scratch the surface of all that makes us truly grateful. I dare you to try it. In fact, I dare you to write it all down for a whole year! Like one of my favorite authors, Ann Voskamp, did in her book “One Thousand Gifts.” The tricky part for most, though, is giving thanks for absolutely everything, because it’s not in our human nature to be thankful for the bad stuff, or the things we determine, in all our decades of wisdom, to be bad. But really, what would happen if we also gave thanks for the hard things, the difficult days, or even the tragedies in life? It wouldn’t change the fact that those things are painful, but it might change our ability to bear them, because instead of agreeing with the lie that we are omniscient all by ourselves, we would instead be coming, on bended knee, before the only one who actually is. And, guess what? He knows how it all turns out! The end result of this simple practice of living thankfully, no matter what, could be a deep and abiding peace that surpasses all of our human understanding. Could it really be that simple?

Experiencing "church" beyond the sermon.

2011-10-26T16:49:00.000-07:00

How blessed are the citizens of Powell Butte, to have a great big church sitting right at the center of their community. Thousands drive past it every day, hundreds flock to services there each week, and countless souls contact the office seeking comfort from the mighty prayer battalion of ladies, whose knees will wear a hole right through the carpet on your behalf any hour of the day or night.

It’s an anchor of sorts for those of us who live here, and would be sorely missed if it were one day gone. It’s also a religious institution that is by no means perfect, or immune to the pitfalls associated with cluttering-up the simplicity of God’s love. But, get to know the flock that gathers there, and you will quickly realize that these people have chosen to connect with one another through their flaws, rather than impress each other with supposed perfections.

My favorite example of this is the one day each year when the doors of the Powell Butte Christian Church are flung open wide for Lord’s Acre Day and the community is invited to partake in the abundant harvest of a bountiful year gone by. Whether it’s potatoes and pork from the neighboring farms, patchwork quilts hand-sewn with love or the assortment of pies churned out by a kitchen that never sleeps. It’s all there for the taking and is accompanied by music, games and a feast fit for a king! This, to me, is “church” at its finest; all God’s children gathered under a beautiful cathedral of blue sky, where fellowship is spontaneous and carries on for hours while accompanied by a soundtrack of grace and mercy without expectations. All this, and a banquet supper that rivals any wedding I’ve ever been to.

Gatherings of this kind seem to be breaking out all over the place lately. Tom Alexander Day took place at the Powell Butte Charter School recently and, oh, what a glorious celebration of true servant-hood that was! A week later, most of Crook County showed up to raise a barn of sorts for Jere Breese, who reluctantly looked on with strength and humility, as others eased the yoke of cancer’s indiscriminant burden off his family’s shoulders. And this is how “church” gets done. For each other, with each other, learning as we go from one another, in a continual ebb and flow of giving and receiving. No rituals, no pulpits, no beginning or end; just a body of people moving from one venue to the next, bearing the image of the One who created them, and arriving with a basket-full of bread, wine and table salt fit for whatever service or celebration is at hand.

For any one church to pull off all these events would require a massive financial and logistical team and would probably have the board of elders turning in resignation letters over all the chair stacking and un-stacking. But, when a community responds, in whole or in part, as the spirit moves, no matter the day of the week or the time on the clock, it appears effortless to the throngs that show up simply because they were invited to the table, not to hear a sermon, but to experience one.

Lord’s Acre Day takes place on Saturday, November 5^th in Powell Butte beginning with the 5k walk/10k run at 9:00 am followed by a BBQ, auction, live music, and of course, there will be pie and coffee in the church annex!

Sweet Ruby's Sacrifice

2011-09-27T20:12:00.000-07:00

My friend Ruby is certainly not the first and probably won’t be the last, but truth be told there aren’t as many like her as there used to be. This woman, who said “I do” decades ago, and has committed every day since to living out that promise, has been a sweet and steady helpmeet to her man through the joys, sorrows, wide-open spaces and minefields of life. Her husband, Tom, once carried the mantle of Father, Pastor, breadwinner, mentor, counselor and teacher (among others) but, he’s had to lay down some of those tasks in recent years because the murky shadows of Alzheimer’s insist on clouding his once razor-sharp mind.

As a result, Tom and Ruby had to pick up their entire life here in Powell Butte and move to a new life closer to their loving and able-bodied daughter; a sacrifice that is probably neither comfortable nor especially easy, for any of them. But, it’s a change that many baby-boomers are having to face, in an age when many of us spend more time and money moving away from family than we do planning for the eventual care of our aging parents. And then, everyone is shocked and unprepared when the phone call comes that help was needed months ago!

Tom and Ruby are among the lucky ones, though. Their family has been on the scene and ready to help long before it was even necessary; faithfully monitoring the wellbeing of their parents, providing that delicate balance of support and independence, and then, lovingly, coming alongside Ruby when her knees began to buckle under the load.

Ruby is, hands-down, the kind of woman I’d like to be when I grow up. Her years of service and kindness to the many souls who came through the doors of our church have given her an aura of strength and honor, not to mention a well-earned crown of silver to match her husband’s. Gentle, life-giving words come from her mouth rather than bitterness or complaint. And, although her husband was often the one standing in the place of recognition and leadership, she wasn’t just a wallflower, but a teacher in her own right, regularly setting aside her own needs for others with a quiet strength and determination.

The quality I most admire about Ruby, and the one I’ve had the privilege to witness most over the last few years, has been her ability to courageously stand up and say, we are not meant to walk this road alone or rely solely on our own stubborn strength. Rather, she has demonstrated the true meaning of what it means to lay down one’s life for another, by removing pride from the equation and allowing her friends to step behind the veil we all so vigilantly uphold in the name of personal space or privacy.

So, Ruby’s still walking, arm-in-arm, right next to her man, albeit a little less steady on her feet than before. And she’s navigating a new landscape of shadow lands with him that’s probably harder than she ever dreamed. If he forgets his name, she’ll remind him and, true to her nature, she will continue finding new life by laying down her own.

Leaving breadcrumbs for when we stray.

2011-08-24T12:36:00.000-07:00

Lately I’ve been thinking about breadcrumbs. No not the irritating ones that stick to my bare feet when teenage linebackers raid my kitchen, but the lifesaving kind from the storybooks of my youth. As children, we knew intuitively that those breadcrumbs were crucial to the outcome, and that once our favorite character found the right trail of clues, all would be well again and the story would have a happy ending.

So, maybe it’s that I’m at that age where more stories about biopsies than newborn babies are coming through my mail-box, but it’s causing me to notice that the further we stray from that childlike wisdom that tells us to turn around and follow the path back home, the more confusing life can get because we give more attention to voices in the dark shadows telling us to “go here” or “like this,” “do what feels good” or “follow that.” And this circuitous journey can often make navigating the difficult stuff of life a lot harder and more painful than it needs to be.

Friends and loved ones who are in the midst of adversity right now have shown me over and over that it’s the church pews and the prayer chains that stand the test of time; those yellow-brick-road stepping-stones that, whether the mortar is still fresh or worn thin from overuse, provide a path back to what is true. There’s just something about being human that causes hope to return when we remember what’s important; tracing our way back to the basics of why we were created and by whom.

So, why the breadcrumb analogy, you ask? It’s because I keep thinking about our youth. Many of us grown-ups were taught by former generations how to return to the simplicities of faith, hope and love in times of plenty and in want. But whom are we relying on to pass along truth to Lady GaGa’s Little Monsters of generation next? Let’s never stop asking that question! And, as the new school year begins let’s point our young people in the direction of the fantastic few who are offering some of the bread that forever satisfies. In my community, the folks who run The Landing and those brave souls who are starting Young Life for teens deserve our financial support and applause. As do the countless families like my friends John & Karen Robinson who have elected to set aside time spent on the couch reading a good book to serve instead as foster or adoptive parents for kids who just need a haven from the storm. These mentors are pointing our young people toward a path that will, in all likelihood, keep them far away from the back roads of mediocrity and M.I.P. citations. But, most importantly, they are showing by example how to build a trail of manna that will lead those same kids out of the wilderness should they ever find themselves there.

Weird science.

2011-07-07T16:23:00.000-07:00

Finally! The day has arrived when it’s time for my seasonal application of Reynolds Wrap to the skylights above the bed. I know it sounds cheap, but have you checked the cost of window treatments lately? Trust me. Tinfoil is the best bang-for-your-buck! Provided you have good insurance in case you fall off the barstool that is gingerly perched on top of the king size bed where you teeter on your tippy toes with scotch tape in one hand and foil in the other, as you crane your neck and lean slightly backwards to reach the skylights that cover the vaulted ceiling. In hindsight, the gymnastics were worth it because the room was instantly 20 degrees cooler and I promise I wore a helmet. Plus! Oh guess what else? I’m fairly certain that my new reflective windows have singlehandedly changed the flight approach path of the jumbo jets that insist on using my house as a landmark to line themselves up with the runway several miles away. So, in addition to being able to roast a small bird in mid-flight, I might be able to deduct the cost of the foil from my taxes as part of the noise abatement protocol for our farm. Never mind, my Husband’s in politics. I better eat the dollar.

What a rhubarb plant taught me about community.

2011-05-24T21:32:00.000-07:00

The season of “way too many sunflower seeds rattling around in the washing machine” is almost over. Because, of course, the sun has decided to come out! And who plays softball (or watches it) when the wind stops howling and the rain and snow stop falling sideways? Not me! That’s who. I LIVE for being soaked-to-the-bone in the first 15 minutes of a game so I can shiver for the remaining two hours. There’s just something so…so…“Portland” about it, don’t you think?

The ladies down at the Church are grateful for the end of softball season too, because, they say, that once the sun starts shining, the rhubarb can finally ripen! And they mean business, because their tight pie-baking schedule begins when the rhubarb comes on in April or May or (God help us) June, and doesn’t end until the morning of the annual Lord’s Acre Sale the first Saturday in November.

So, as providence would have it, Softball Girl and I set aside school books the other day and headed to the church’s big commercial kitchen for some real-life lessons in home economics imparted to us by some wise elders who are preserving the endangered art of wearing an apron. I felt a little sheepish walking into that circle of rhubarb-lovin’ women who were literally dancing around the kitchen with sacks of sugar and illegal amounts of butter, so I confessed right away that it took me three long years to kill the massive rhubarb plant we inherited with our farm (there, I said it). Three years of pulling, hacking and starving that stubborn beast into extinction! Why, you ask? Because I don’t like rhubarb, that’s why. But perhaps I was hasty in my decision to kick rhubarb out of my life since I learned a few things in that big happy kitchen, not the least of which is that rhubarb, when mixed with lots and lots of sugar and baked in a light and flaky pie crust, tastes a little bit like heaven.

And then it hit me! That big, bushy rhubarb plant that used to sit smack in the middle of my garden, threatening to take over everything, is not unlike the community I’ve chosen to live and invest in. Confused yet? Hang with me, dear reader. I once had a neighbor tell me she was looking to move from Powell Butte to Sisters where there was more “COMMUNITY”. And there was just a hint of sourness to her comment too. I’ve never forgotten that conversation; in fact it caused me to take a hard look at my own understanding of what community is, particularly as it relates to the Church that flourishes just down the road from me. It’s not perfect (because people aren’t perfect). And sometimes it’s regarded (by those who don’t partake) with bitterness, because they just don’t like it. Or, most tragically, they’ve somehow been sickened (or wounded) by ones who have yet to acknowledge their own plank-filled eye.

Just know this. Community rarely has anything to do with compatibility, but it has everything to do with humble people who think more about others than themselves. We can neglect the community that sits right in our own backyard and buy into the lie that it’s ignoring us right back. Or, we can make an effort to tarry there and sow through the tunnels of bitter judgment toward an eventual harvest of warm acceptance…where we just might be surprised by the sweetness of it all. But remember, relating to people, like making rhubarb pie, can be messy! So wear an apron.

A boy, a tree and a list of to-do's.

2011-04-25T17:21:00.000-07:00

The sun is shining, Father Wind has finally stopped to take a breath, and I can hear a pivot clicking away somewhere in a nearby field. Writing on this glorious spring day has proven to be a challenge, because my youngest boy begs me to come help turn his tree fort into a Forest Ranger Station, so he can practice being a fire spotter. And who can say no to a tree and a vision for something bigger than oneself? Well…Jesus, that’s who. So, I better respond to the invitation and get out there; just as soon as I finish this list of important, albeit random, things to do this week:

First, the ladies at Church will be having their Annual Tea on Saturday. They go all out, too, with things like scones, chocolate, clotted cream, and little sandwiches - all my favorites, but me and girlfriend here will be introducing the speakers and such so it will be hard to eat and MC at the same time. Need to remember to bring some tupperware.

Also on the same day, it’s the Get On Track Fund Run at the local high school. This event will raise the dollars necessary for the kids in our County to participate in track and field events this spring. I would totally be there except I’ll be stuffing my face with the aforementioned scones and clotted cream, but I am so proud of our amazing student athletes who continue to raise their own funds to play EVERY sport, EVERY season, EVERY year, probably until Jesus comes back.

Our area also has the coolest new website, www.centraloregonfoodnetwork.com. It details all the farmer’s markets that will be kicking into high gear pretty soon, as well as the plethora of local producers, some of whom will let you work on or own a share of their family farms so you can take home fresh, organic food to your own family! It’s called Community Supported Agriculture and it’s catching on. Check your area too and make local habit.

Lastly, there’s no greater message about hope, and an intentional love that is stronger than death, than the one you’ll hear in churches everywhere this Easter season. So, get out there and find yourself one, pronto!

That’s it. I’m done bossing everyone around now and off to help a boy who is waiting patiently in a tree.

Drop the remote and step away from the Internet!

2011-03-24T17:50:00.000-07:00

So, does everyone agree we’re living on shaky ground? And we pretty much have been since the beginning of time, have we not? Question is: what sort of fault line are you straddling at this very moment? Uncertain medical tests, a job lay-off, a prowling virus that gives no warning before attack, or perhaps whether or not to purchase a Geiger counter; the list never really ends, does it? But, let’s not forget that the list of good and right things that are happening in the world never ends either! So, I’m posing the following question today to all ten of my readers…Are any of us helping anybody else by scouring the Internet for the next sensational video of the tsunami in Japan, or by setting the DVR to record every episode of Fox News? Really. Do we subconsciously think that enlightening ourselves by witnessing horror upon horror from every camera angle counts for something? The evening news would have you believe that information is power, but the incessant gathering of it can just as easily become an escape from ever really helping those who could care less which news agencies have the best footage of loved ones being washed away.

It’s an every-day struggle to step away from the television or the computer and choose instead to seek out more productive ways to spend our time. It’s a battle, but one worth fighting and winning, my friends. Because the church down the street still needs items for its food pantry. Quilts still need to be crafted for the orphans in Africa. The Little League coaches are delighted to have an extra pair of hands to shag balls, and The Landing could probably use some adult tutors or cookie bakers to help with all the teens dropping in for respite each day from a tight-fisted world that would prefer to devour their young souls...one Charlie Sheen episode at a time. And for these seemingly mundane acts of kindness to carry on in the midst of chaos on the other side of the ocean is a good thing for humanity - demonstrating trust and belief, which are precursors to joy.

My thoughts are not an attempt to down play the seriousness of world events that are tragic to be sure; but let’s be honest, the only thing that wringing our hands with worry does is delude the body into thinking it’s taking some sort of action. And where’s the power in that? Fear, at its core, is an ingrate whose only goal is self-preservation and comfort – which happen to be the very opposite of faith.

So, while the mountains will always shake before the One who created them, and no amount of rebar or technology will God-proof our magnificent globe, you and I can exercise our free will by tossing aside the remote on our way out the door to find a paving crew that’s already hard at work laying down their lives one simple act of kindness at a time.

Looking for the best seat in the house!

2011-02-22T20:05:00.000-08:00

The little ladies at church were huddled over a table the other day assembling sack lunches for the homeless. I was struck by how small some of the older (and wiser) women looked. Mind you, they’ve grown smaller, perhaps in stature, since I first met them years ago, but most certainly not in spirit. As a matter of fact, some of them are spiritual giants - waging (and winning) prayer wars on behalf of anyone who calls with a request for help in this topsy-turvy world.

Later that same day, I observed my young daughter enjoying the snot out of the snow-pocalypse that had settled into our desert region. Her biggest concern of the hour was whether or not there would be enough milk for hot chocolate following her sledding expedition with big Brother. She had a face full of snow, the wind whipping through her hair, and a smile as big as the sun. Fast forward a few hours, and she’s on a volleyball court with the same demeanor: wide-eyed, jumping like crazy and killing balls with all the gusto that her four-foot-something frame will allow.

I find myself floating somewhere in between these two worlds all too often these days. My forty-plus years and overbooked schedule don’t qualify me to belong in either camp, but my heart yearns for both. What I mean is that there seems to be something beneficial about the perspective that comes with being small in size and humble in spirit. The youth seem to have a corner on the market of living like the whole world is the Grand Canyon and they are but a tiny bird soaring through with no particular destination in mind. It’s as if, by default, they’ve decided to be fully present in the moment because there’s not much they can control anyhow. Likewise, the Church ladies sit small around their quilting table and are not preoccupied much with attitudes of self-importance. They help one another and gracefully receive help with a gratitude that seems genuine, lifting hands in praise for something as simple as a positive bone density test!

So, when did I grow too old to live this way…and how much longer until I can get there again? My mind is so easily preoccupied with things like, how to make the day decently productive when a snowstorm shuts off the electricity, or whether the teenagers have eaten anything healthy lately, and who tracked all that mud into the mud room?

Thus begins my journey toward finding a place where the oil jars of joy will never run dry. The very young seem to have a particular vantage point that allows them to experience deep contentment while throwing a ball back and forth or watching an anthill, and the very old are also zeroing in on the prize when they exchange the cares of this world for an easy chair and an attitude of thanksgiving and prayer.

Perhaps that’s why, throughout history, the best vantage point from which to view life is on bended knee.

Getting a formal education at the state capitol.

2011-01-26T12:36:00.000-08:00

It’s been years since I’ve walked the hallowed halls of the State Capitol Building in Salem, but during a recent family trip there, I realized that not much has changed. Pantyhose are still uncomfortable, the pecking order of legislative members still reminds me of high school, and there are, in fact, times when my FFA immersion in all things parliamentary procedure actually comes in handy. The Capitol is also still ornate and beautiful, with stories of Oregon and her founders etched on white marble walls, water-colored murals that whisper of the heroes who triumphed to tame and populate this rugged land. I tried to teach my kids about their Oregon roots before we departed so they could appreciate things like; riding in a heated SUV with power ports, and traversing the Santiam Pass in mere hours instead of spending days in a horse-drawn wagon bumping along the frozen Oregon Trail. Although, something about their attitudes before, during and after our journey, tells me they might have actually preferred the rigors of a dusty wagon train.

First, let me back up a few weeks to when I began the painstaking and arduous task of finding formal attire for the boys, a dress for myself, and (good lord) something that would cover the midriff of my pre-teen girl. For starters, you probably already know that Central Oregon isn’t exactly Armani central. Second, it’s next to impossible to get the kids in my house to wear anything but denim and a t-shirt that says “I Bleed Blue,” “Rimrock Volleyball,” or “Man-Up!”

Meanwhile, I began working overtime to convey to my precious offspring the formal significance of the event we were about to attend and that the people we were going to honor in Salem are important government officials. Not only do they have massive budgets to tackle and trim and important committee hearings to attend. But they have to wear dress clothes all day! Every day! However, despite my knowing that the leaders of our great state deserve the highest honor and respect, there were moments when I would turn to my husband and say “I’d like to see YOU try to find a suit for our football playing son whose shoulders are as wide as a door and whose waist is the size of my ankle!” And furthermore, “I don’t even LIKE shopping, unless it’s for a new pair of running shoes or Fat Baby boots!” At this point My Man would place his hands gently on my shoulders and say, “Your eyes look kind of crazy,” which is psychology speak for stuff needs fixin’!

Nevertheless, the coats, the ties, the shiny shoes and pantyhose were purchased and packed. On swearing-in day we were all up early to allow extra time for any wardrobe malfunctions and, after wolfing down some bagels in the lobby of the hotel, we were off to the Capitol for a long day of pomp and circumstance.

The kids did remarkably well, only tugging at their neckties on a few occasions. They were polite when introduced to others, made eye contact and firmly shook hands like they’d been taught. They listened attentively as the harmonic voices of the youth choir filled the chambers with perfectly pitched song. (And, yes, those kids looked just as uncomfortable in their starched robes as we felt in ours.) Then we all stood at attention as the State Police Honor Guard in full regalia marched to present the American Flag in perfect time and then escort to the podium our newly elected Governor … who was wearing none other than his signature blue jeans.

Beer And Pretzels With The Queen!

2011-01-05T15:47:00.000-08:00

Note from the author: today’s offering really has nothing to do with anything but should rather be viewed as just a side note providing full disclosure as to my particular brand of lunacy.

Sometimes I’m hit right between the eyes with how absurdly simple my life is. Frankly, it’s not a topic I think about a whole lot until I catch a glimpse, via the ever-widening media lens, of how other people live. Other, more sophisticated people. Like, say, the Queen of England and her soon-to-be-married grandson, William. The contrast between their lives and mine is the stuff reality television shows are made of to be sure.

So, they’re planning this little shindig across the pond that perhaps you’ve heard about? You know, The Royal Wedding? And, while the bride-to-be’s family hails from Durham County in England, I can’t help but entertain a thought or seventy about the contrast between Kate Middleton’s pending lifestyle and the one I live here, in my beloved Crook County, Oregon. Case in point: if I were Miss Kate’s Mum, I just might ring up the Queen (because Her Majesty probably doesn’t text) and invite her out for a little pre-nuptial coffee date at the Book & Bean, just so we could get to know each other better. After all, we’ll be spending holidays together from now on, right? And, since I’ve heard it’s always good to rehearse ahead of time what one might say in the presence of royalty, here are a few questions I’d be working on while cleaning the chicken coop:

1. “My friend Julie manages the Ross Dress-For-Less in Bend. Do you think Scotland Yard could close the store for an evening while the bride’s maids shop?

2. “Will the Pastor at Westminster Abbey make us put chairs away after the service? It’s such a fellowship buzz-kill.”

3. “Your Majesty, the commemorative wedding china is beautiful and all but…a tankard? Really?!”

Behold my restraint: as I resist the temptation to holler “BEER ME!” And since saving the most important question for last is sometimes a good negotiating tactic...

4. “Now, about the orphans in Africa. How many of them do you think we could fit into Buckingham Palace for a huge birthday party in honor of the late Princess Diana?”

In all honesty, I’m sure I would rise to the royal occasion and behave myself for the sake of the Crown. But, as I watch an intensely difficult 2010 for so many give way to an even more uncertain 2011, my one wish for the newlyweds is that they will learn something Henry David Thoreau once said, “I make myself rich by making my wants few.”

So, now seems like as good a time as any for a royal blow out wedding, don’t you think? And commoners like me will have jolly-good fun celebrating from afar as we go about our quiet life, aspiring to mind our own business and work with our hands. All the while being ever so thankful for a front row seat in front of the telly! Because, Lord knows, after writing a post like this one, I probably won’t be getting a royal invitation.

A Few Of Our Favorite Things!

2010-12-17T21:29:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas Everyone!

Here's a few of our favorite things.

In addition to the ever-growing, always entertaining children pictured above, here are few favorites we stumbled upon in 2010. We are happy to share the list below. But as for the children, we are keeping them all to ourselves for as long as possible!

Favorite Books:
Crazy Love by Francis Chan

Radical by David Platt

Heroes For My Son by Brad Meltzer
Coming Back Stronger by Drew Brees

Favorite Kids Stuff:
Fraboom

Hero by Mike Lupica

Favorite Oregon State Representative
Mike McLane (R) District 55

Favorite Health Foods

Glee Gum (no aspartame!)
Chia Seeds
Kombucha Wonder Drink

Favorite Music
Natalie Closner
Julie Hoy
Beckah Shae

Thanksgiving Happens, In Good Times and Bad.

2010-11-24T15:21:00.000-08:00

So. November was a big, big month in our house because it meant we got to watch almost the entire state of Oregon turn red. By which, of course, I mean that people everywhere donated blood during the Red Cross Civil War Blood Drive.

OH! Did you think I was talking about the elections? Yes, they were momentous too, but let’s not trivialize the importance of saving a life by discussing politics (other than to say, “GO BEAVS!”).

This eventful eleventh month of the year is a combination of bitter and sweet for our household. We should be lighting candles on my Mother-in-Law Patricia’s birthday cake; and, oh, what a gift this particular November would have been for her! Instead, the same table around which we gather for meals, harvest parties, heated political debates and an occasional flying pea, is the same table where medications and medical bills were strewn mere months ago and meetings with hospice took place along with tearful prayers as she lay dying in the next room. It’s hard to comprehend how this contrast between the mundane and the sacred can be at once comforting and overwhelming all at the same time…and all in the same place.

But isn’t that the way of it? We march daily around the family meal table savoring moments of joy, hoping like mad that it’s enough to help us endure the sorrow that could come if we have the courage to allow our hearts to love another. And yet, our culture beckons us to carry on as if we’re promised Disneyland around every corner, giving us the thumbs-up sign as we forsake and outsource much of what home was created for. And in our desperate need for distraction from that which might be difficult, we turn to the latest gadget believing that it will satisfy. Well, I got news for you, it won’t.

No doubt, there are times when we all feel as though we cannot possibly face another Goliath on our own. The international news is bad, the national news is worse, random acts of violence are on the rise, and what phone call did you receive yesterday? Turn the pages of history and you’ll realize that all of humanity has marched around its share of Jericho’s, so it should be no strange thing to realize that in this life we will have trouble. We will suffer.

An invisible transaction occurs, however, when the ever-present difficulties of life bring about patience because patience brings about proven-ness which, in turn, ushers in hope, and that, my friends, is what causes love to pour out of our hearts! It’s love that leads people to take crazy risks like giving of their time and resources to help others, whereby all parties involved experience the deep joy of being truly satisfied, even in the muck and mire of hard times.

Now, I don’t know what that sounds like to you, but to me it sounds like Church! And I find it more than a little interesting that, in ancient times, the first churches were in homes and the family meal table also doubled as an altar.

Sometimes You Got To LEAN Into It!

2010-11-06T14:06:00.000-07:00

(In celebration of another successful Lord's Acre Day in my hometown, here's a re-post from last year's event.)

I watch her cross the finish line a full two hours after most runners have gone home; her body working hard for every step because her brain scrambles instructions to her uncooperative limbs. She used to run 26.2 miles in as much time as it is now taking her to walk three! With one leg straight as a board and one hand curled uselessly near her shoulder, she walks three miles, holding tight to her granddaughter; the same three miles that barely warm-up the able-bodied volunteers working the time clock and refreshments at the finish line. The same three miles that required four years of intense therapy for this Broken One after her mobility-robbing stroke.

Runners take off and come back, some burning up five miles or more like it was nothing. They pass The Broken One as they leave and again as they return, giving her a thumbs-up or an encouraging word; completely unaware that, months earlier, she ripped that advertisement for the Lord’s Acre Run from the newspaper and made her children find Powell Butte on a map. The finishers ask about her once they’ve cooled off, had a snack and are ready to head for home. They scan the horizon for her silhouette, marveling again as her story unfolds through whispers and raised eyebrows. Are they wondering like me if, faced with the cross she bears, they would have the same determination, the same strength and courage?

Do some of them feel on the inside the way she looks on the outside, I wonder? Broken, twisted, barely able to function? Do some wish they could pull the covers back over their head each morning for a myriad of despairing reasons? Are there others whose paychecks come in discouraging fits and starts or whose livelihood has been interrupted all-together?

As I serve cool water to another thirsty runner, I look up and my eyes follow another friend by the name of Rachel as she jogs by; savoring the cool morning air with her kids. Her body: waging an invisible war against some chump-of-a-breast-tumor and reeling from the chemo cocktail being dumped into her veins. But you’d never know it by the thankful radiance all over her face. (This young Mama ran again this year -- this time CANCER FREE!)

And then I remember that, in my own life, thankfulness often requires a healthy dose of determination. It’s hard to count blessings when my mind is pressed and under the impression that it’s all about ME. I need to look up and take notice of those nearby who are rising from the ashes of frustration and battle so I can follow their footprints toward hope! And once I do that, the fog clears and the determined fighters I long to emulate come into focus; high school volleyball players who defy the odds of youthful inexperience to win another state title, football players who hang up their battered helmets and head for the mat or center court with renewed vigor, the military families whose only medals are worn inside their chest, and whose very survival here at home demonstrates to the rest of the world what an invisible monument looks like when its made of strength and quiet perseverance; all these things go unseen unless I make the effort to look through a different lens.

I wish my word-lens could show you in living color what the finish line of that Lord’s Acre Run looked and felt like when The Broken One finally crossed it. Hundreds of people turned their attention from the infamous Lord’s Acre feast that was coming out of the BBQ pits; their buzz of conversation at once went eerily quiet. And when the stop watch stopped counting and our arms shot up in the air, signaling that she had crossed over, the crowd went wild; hearts exploding with joy and voices celebrating her victorious demonstration that whether broken in body or broken in spirit, we can always choose to lean into thankfulness.

Living for the Breath-Taking Moments.

2010-10-23T12:02:00.000-07:00

One of my Boys of Fall done-fell hard on the 40-yard line. He knocked the other team’s running back into next week, but his wrist got mangled in the mayhem and didn’t make it out of the dog pile in one piece…more like four or five pieces actually.

So, he’s out for the season. Which, for a 7^th-grader, isn’t a career ender, but the questions still come…in the dead of night, as he fights off each wave of pain. “Why this, Mom? Why now?” I’m half-hearted brave as I attempt to answer the impossible mysteries of life’s imperfections, running back to promises I’ve rehearsed a million times about heartaches big and small that must pass first through a much bigger hand before touching our lives. Reminding him (and me, myself and I) of our family mantra that, no matter what, we get back up and press on.

Where once I used to fly from the sidewalk to whisk my children out of harm’s way before a barreling car could shatter all our lives, I now find myself having to swallow hard that same instinct to fight when some 185-pound man-child with facial hair and an Adam’s apple wants to make mincemeat out of my babies on the gridiron. I may be smiling on the outside and answering Dan Tooley’s “WE ARE!” with a hearty “CC!” but inside my heart is stretched to the limit and diving out-of-bounds somewhere behind the stadium in a desperate attempt to grasp the facemask of God so I can remind Him, in no uncertain terms, of how unequipped I am to navigate the minefield also known as a Mother’s heart. And most Friday nights this leaves me feeling like I’m on a direct flight bound for crazy with a layover in berserk!

If I’m the only Mother who feels this way, please don’t tell me, because I take great comfort in thinking I belong to a sorority of sisters who all have their eyes glued to the back of whichever jersey is drawing the heat, chanting silently for that boy to “get up, get up, get up!” after each helmet crack and shoulder pad pop, only to truly take a breath when his butt is on the bench and all limbs are in tact and moving. (Sorry son, I really don’t wish for you to be on the sidelines of life, it’s just that those moments are the only time Mommy can catch her breath!)

Thankfully, somewhere in the midst of my death grip on grace’s ankles, I remember all the times I’ve chased my boys (and one tough-as-nails girl) off the couch and onto a 4-wheeler or up into a tree house. And that no amount of bubble wrap or hovering will guarantee the safety of any of my kids, dang it!

But the truth about this faith-life (and, really, is there any other?) somehow hits home when Rhett Smith runs 93-yards for a touchdown at the Washougal game or the Rhoden family brings a touch of class to our stadium by donating an archway that speaks loud of tradition, strength and a future. And I’m reminded that life’s not about the breaths I take, but the moments that take my breath away.

Not So Random Acts of Kindness.

2010-09-23T12:27:00.000-07:00

If you missed last weekend’s simulcast of Beth Moore, do not fear! I took copious notes because, as usual, she was talking RIGHT. TO. ME (and the friend sitting next to me, who can thank me later for not blowing her cover!) Also, as usual, there were about 17 things that threatened to keep me from attending AT ALL. Like, how, before I even woke up a kid was standing over me saying “Mom. There’s another bird in the wood stove. Mom. Mom. MOM!” And, yes, as usual, My Man was on orders at the air base for a-week-and-a-freaking-half! Which means that the gate across the driveway that completes the gazillion dollars worth of fencing, that keeps our dogs from leaving the ten sprawling acres we’ve deeded over to them, fell off its hinges again…as usual.

However, despite the fact that I KNEW we would soar gigs and gigs over what our internet service provider allows us each month, I handed the teenager and his charges the instant watch pass code for Netflix, and off I went to hang with my BFF Beth. Don’t be judging me now, because that would mean she was talking RIGHT. TO. YOU, too!

After about thirty seconds of listening to Beth, I was kicking myself for not bringing all my kids, all their friends, and all their friends’ friends, because her sermon was all about KINDNESS, and here’s her explanation of why. Exhibit A: we live in a mean world. Exhibit B: Sooner or later we all open our mouths. She went on to share that kindness is not the same as weakness, kindness is not just an action but a disposition, kindness wears down when we do, kindness looks pain in the face, kindness can save lives, kindness has good memory, and kindness craves an outlet.

The point that grabbed me the most though was her assertion that kindness leaves a legacy. Case in point: there are Biblical accounts of the unusual kindness that the Apostle Paul experienced on the Island of Malta (Acts 28). And “coincidentally,” just this month, the UK-based Charities Aid Foundation conducted a survey that ranked Malta in first place with regards to the largest percentage of the population (83%) giving money to charity. Now THAT’S a Legacy!

Every fiber of my being hopes that my own little legacies will grasp, live out and pass on the truth about kindness as exemplified by the ultimate Philanthropist and Author of Kindness Himself. I’m mindful, however, that my steadfast resistance to the suppressors of truth will not be tolerated. Particularly by those who believe in things like serendipity or inventing their own personal truth to create a seductive new spirituality that is offensive to no one and welcoming to all. We’re bombarded with this mantra by the pied pipers of daytime television (whose primary mission is to O.W.N. everything), and it leaves a bad taste in the mouths of people who refuse to settle for moral relativism. Sort of like Beth’s closing story about the time her Mother-in-Law replaced the family’s traditional Thanksgiving feast with turducken, which is a dish consisting of a de-boned chicken stuffed into a de-boned duck, which itself is stuffed into a de-boned turkey. And who wants to partake of that?!

I'm nodding YES to the coming spin!

2010-09-03T08:49:00.000-07:00

The people that work for me (a.k.a. my teenagers) are slathering the thirsty deck with a long-overdue application of stain. I’m way past the point of caring if it’s done proper and perfect, resting instead in the satisfaction of a job well done by hands-in-training that try their best. The challenge lies in keeping my gaze on the beautiful wood that drinks deep, instead of allowing my eyes to wander up the house walls of cedar siding that tower overhead with parched envy. We’ll save that project for another day (or perhaps another year) because the warm summer days are getting shorter and I can feel the approaching spin cycle also known as September coming on.

With the agitation of overlapping football, soccer and volleyball schedules heading my way, I guess I have no choice but to follow the snowbirds to Arizona...

Oh WAIT! That won’t work. I still have kids at home who need clean clothes, dinner, a prayer and a pep talk from time to time. And oh how thankful I am for that! Because, in a few years, this deck will be void of their chatter about football and overtime pay and the sprayer that keeps clogging.

And I'm gonna miss that.

And my deck won't be the only thing that's thirsting for their attention. My heart will be too. In fact, I can already feel my very central place in their universe shifting. But as I move to a more peripheral orbit in their lives I'm also finding that the view is beautiful from here too.

"If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask Him!” Luke 11:13

Chillin' With My Peeps at the County Fair!

2010-08-23T15:26:00.000-07:00

After the hogs were washed squeaky clean, the children had to wash the pig slop off their own selves and get fixed up for their showmanship class. Bonus points were given to all cute little girls with braids! Not really.

After the braids came the duds. Do you know how many plastic garbage sacks it takes to keep each set of show clothes clean for the Peeps? TOO MANY, that's what.

Just a little more primping so the hogs will look their best for the judge. Wouldn't want any wild hairs to rob us of a blue ribbon.

Then, it's off to the show ring! I won't share with you the details of what happens when a show hog gets nervous or stressed in the show ring. Let's just say that it can be a little messy. And...and...STINKY.

Sometimes there was the thrill of victory!

And other times there was the agony of defeat.

And then there was plenty of plain 'ol hangin' out and trying to beat the HEAT!

And THAT, my friends, concludes your pictoral tour of the County Fair. See ya next year!!

How to wash a pig at the County Fair.

2010-08-05T20:25:00.000-07:00

Okay! We're here! We all made it in one piece to the County Fair! The pigs are still alive and settled into their cedar-lined pens at the fairgrounds. Did I mention that it's hotter than blazes? There's also a big forest fire raging somewhere nearby and the Department of Environmental Quality has issued a warning about the air quality. I sincerely hope the DEQ doesn't send any of their marshals into the pig barn for heaven's sake. They would shut this whole affair down in a New York minute!

Here's a few pictures-worth-a-thousand-words for your viewing pleasure:

First, you give your prize pig a bath! And yes, this is DESTINY FREEZER making her debut on the world wide web. 'Aint she purty?!

Funny how the boys always seem to talk the girls into washing their pigs too.

Sometimes, even pigs forget to wash behind their ears.

But when they are all clean, they get a BIG HUG!

And sometimes a KISS!

Ten True Things About My Life On a Farm.

2010-07-23T17:00:00.000-07:00

Here are a few things you need to know:

1. We weighed one of the 4-H pigs today. And, in case you're wondering, this is an essential part of raising livestock for the County Fair. Because there are rules. Like, for example, the market hog cannot weigh less than 220 pounds if the 4-H member who has worked their tail off all summer wants to sell said hog at the auction. Seems fair doesn't it?.... NOT.

2. SO, the pig weighs 230 pounds and we still have 12 days until the County Fair. Whew! The other two pigs are much larger so we aren't worried about them in the least. Other than the fact that we want them to stay healthy and alive.

3. Unlike pig #4 who has already gone to that great and glorious white air-conditioned box in the sky. He had a hip condition that sometimes happens when pigs grow too fast. Or something like that. And anyway he didn't much care for walking and walking is sort of required when a pig is being shown at the County Fair.

4. We shot the pig ourselves. Well, actually our friend Jesus (pronounced: Hey-Seuss) did it for us. And then we loaded that hog into the back of his Suburban so he could take it home to Mrs. Jesus who will make the most amazing tamales you've ever tasted! But, don't worry, Jesus had a really big tarp in the back of his Suburban. And we scrubbed that pig thoroughly before he was loaded.

5. I wonder if the makers of the Suburban would like to feature our family in a commercial about how versatile and tough their vehicles are?

6. Probably not.

7. But, never fear! Each kid still has a pig to take to the Fair. When it comes to popsicles and 4-H animals, we've learned to always buy extra.

8. Princess Peep's pig is named Destiny Freezer.

9. The other two pigs are called Billy Bob Joe Pickles and Quagmire.

10. A few months ago when it was still winter, Destiny Freezer took a gigantic bite out of the big red apple that, much to her surprise, turned out to be a heat lamp! Thanks to her curiosity the entire pig shelter burned to the ground. All of the pigs survived, but their heat lamp privileges were revoked.

11. Bonus thought for the day: Living on a farm is somewhat like the Garden of Eden.

So sweet I could eat them up!

2010-07-09T17:03:00.000-07:00

We've had a few more visitors to the farm recently. Some wee ones and their adorable Mama came bearing gifts of homemade granola and the most amazing muffins! We, in turn, gave them the full farm experience; collecting eggs from the hen house, walking in grass up over their heads, gusty winds that sucked the breath right out of the baby's lungs, etc. But somehow every time I mentioned mucking out the horse stalls or pig pen the three-year-old would just look at me and ask "But, why?" Then the Mama would tell him to "Google it" and we'd move on to the next thing.

And boy am I glad they brought their Mama! Because, I think I have completely forgotten how to take care of babies! For starters, they get up really early. Of course, I'm all for getting up early, but I've become accustomed to being able to do so BY MYSELF these last ten years. The good news is, they drug their Mama down to the barn at least three times before the crack of dawn to do chores and bring just seventeen more carrots to the horses...all before the coffee pot even clicked on! The farm animals must have thought they'd hit the Breakfast Diner jackpot! And, let me tell you, that Mama is made of some hardy stock to be able to perform at such a high level, sans caffeine.

Next, I was shocked by how many times a three-year-old can ask "but why?" in the span of a minute. I have a vague memory of my own babies doing that too, but now I'm the one who is asking the teenager "Why?" and "Who is that pretty girl you were talking to?" and "When can I expect you home?" as I hang on his every one-word answer.

Lastly, I was again reminded of what a blessing children are. To watch my young eleven-year-old interact with and help our wee visitors was delightful. It came to her naturally, as if she was created to care for and nurture those younger than herself, instead of texting or surfing the world-wide-web. Funny thing is, she was wiped out by the time our guests went home! I guess her stamina needs a bit of tuning before her own journey into Motherhood begins.

The bottom line is this. We are blessed beyond measure to live in this place. Sharing it with others is the icing on the cake. And every time we do so I'm reminded that THIS is why we keep that sweet, fat pony around that no one else can ride but the visiting babies. Perhaps Little Big Fat Pony would be a tad slimmer if she ate like her wee riders do.

Banana Peanut Butter Muffins (gluten free)
4 very ripe bananas
1/2 cup peanut butter
1/4 cup honey
2 eggs
1tsp vanilla
1/2 cup coconut flour, sifted
1/2 cup unsweetened coconut flakes
1/2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp baking powder
1/4 tsp sea salt

In mixer bowl, beat together the wet ingredients.In another bowl, mix together dry ingredients.

Add the dry ingredients to the wet and mix well. Coconut flour absorbs a lot of liquid, it may take a couple of minutes to do so.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Use a silicon 12 muffin pan, or put liners into regular 12 muffin pan. Bake for about 30 minutes - check at 25 mins, they get overdone rather quickly. Store in refrigerator if will eat within a few days, otherwise freeze some of them.

But Jesus called the children to him and said, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these." Luke 18:16

Weathering Change the Cowboy Way.

2010-06-30T22:08:00.001-07:00

You think I’d know better than to write about something as controversial as the Central Oregon weather right now. But June-uary or not, here it goes!

Folks who live where I live for very long soon figure out that it’s breezy here; sort of like camping in a wind tunnel most days. I used to think it was only gusty when the weather was changing, but the last few wet and wild months have blown my theory to bits because the wind continues to howl, as if purely for its own amusement. And, as much as I try to become accustomed to the hair-raising mistrals, I am NOT amused.

One of my neighbors appears to be embracing the gale because he’s erected one of those wind turbines to generate electricity for his home - the opportunist. But WAIT! If you’re partial to caffeine and whip cream like me, then you NEED to know that the merciful tempests have seen fit to blow the long-overdue Sippin’ Sams Espresso Hut into our little town! And, although I can’t quite picture my good friend and long time resident in these parts, Cowboy Bill, sidling up to the drive-thru window to order a venti-nonfat-no-foam-no-water-six-pump-extra-hot-chai-tea-latte, I just might wrangle his hide out of his favorite booth at the Country Store and make him take his sweetie Marcella there for a date! Because he’s always telling me what an adventurous bunch he and his posse of cowboys are! When you see him there, Stetson in hand, studying the vast and colorful menu, you’ll know for certain that a new wind is a-blowin’ here! And see him you will, because I’ve been working on my goat-tying techniques!

In reality though, my friend Bill is about as easy-going as they come, but I’d venture to say he’s spent years perfecting his roll-with-the-punches demeanor. Would that we could all do the same, because you and I both know “other” people who worry too much, don’t we? And these “other” people, young and old alike, fight like the dickens against any winds of change that ruffle their feathers, don’t we? I mean, don’t they?

Of course it’s not pleasant when friends are moving away to find work, or when stock prices fall, or the creature comforts that once brought contentment no longer satisfy our searching souls, and the church of the American Dream runs headlong into our Creator’s original intent. Almost daily, my own doubting heart threatens to be blown and tossed like a wave at sea rather than press into the work of believing for which I was put upon this earth to do. Which has me thinking it may be high time we tack our headstrong sails windward instead of jeopardizing the mainmast, my friends.

People like Cowboy Bill make it look easy, with no dramatic flailing about when the winds whip unexpectedly and un-beckoned. But he probably didn’t get that way over night. Journeys like his are marked by the day-in-and-day-out decision to practice “unity in the essentials, freedom in the non-essentials and love over all” (Augustine).

So, if you’re paying attention when that blowing-in-the-wind moment comes, and you see the veil lift and catch a glimpse of the saving answer that lies behind a life like his, grab it! Hold on tight and never let go!

When Family Comes A-Calling.

2010-06-21T11:17:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I got a phone call from some darling relatives from My Man's side of the family tree. They were going to be traveling through our neck-of-the-woods and were hoping to stop for a visit. When I suggested meeting them somewhere for lunch, they politely asked if they could just come on out to the farm because apparently they are faithful readers of this here blog! And, could they please come and see the set and the stunt doubles and the burn barrels and, of course, the pigs?!

What a delightful reunion we had! Even though I'd never met them and My Man and Sis-in-Law hadn't seen them since they were youngsters. It was a bittersweet and healing visit all at the same time. Because Papa and The Grammy should have been there visiting with us and in a way it felt like they were. Our new best friends looked through old photo albums with us and shared stories from back in the day.

We were instantly long-lost Cousins who hadn't seen each other in an age and the sting of being too young to have lost two parents was soothed for a moment by the reminder that we will all be together again in heaven for eternity!

Where I plan on sitting The Grammy down with a fresh pot of coffee and forcing her to fill in all the dates, names and places in all her photo albums!!