So She Comes Back…

I never intended to stop blogging. I just never could seem to get back to it. Life kept going. Little People needed loving, Big People needed it too, and there were always mouths to feed, faces to wash, chores to do...the details of life to see to. The thing about blogging, is that thankfully, the blog does not holler if you forget to feed it. The new fish in our house does not, either, which is why I suspect his days are numbered.

I actually never did stop blogging totally. I just never wrote it down. I often blog in my head as I go through the days. I silently mull over what things I would say to no one in particular if there were ever an arena to articulate them.  Most of the time what I would say is just complaining anyway, so I skip the leaving evidence writing it down part on purpose. I also  struggled with the question of audience in blogging. Who exactly is reading this and who exactly am I writing this for? The less I know about who is reading, the better off I imagine myself to be, that way I am not worrying who I will offend or what So-And-So will think of what I write. Regarding who it is for...well, while I would like to say very assuredly that I am writing this for 'the Lord', I suspect that it is really just for me. I usually feel better after writing things down, and for now, I am OK with that being the only reason.

A few months ago, after I was once again lamenting that I can never get everything done, a friend lectured exhorted me that there is always ample time in the day to everything 'that the Lord really wants (me) to do'. Ever eager (unfortunately) to latch on to a dose of condemnation and guilt, I saw this advice and raised it a bit. My self-imposed rules for what needed to be done before I could ____ (blog, paint my toenails, sit still and quiet for five minutes, etc.) never left any room for anything fun whatsoever. After finally (why did I not think of this sooner?) consulting Mr. Visionary about the question of blogging, we discussed how the To-Do List never ends and that my work could conceivably never be done. His advice? Blog anyway.

The truth is, there really are a few folks whom I really do like to have read here. Our schedule is so hectic, and I see Mr. Visionary so little four days out of the week, that I really like it when he catches up on my blog sometimes and then wants to discuss something I wrote. A post Holly put up a few days ago reminded me of the other audience I especially love - my children. I thought about how wonderful it will be for her children to look back at that video (and that post). The things you want to say do not always get said in the hustle and bustle of normal days in a large family. I want my children to be able to look at this (online now, but on paper years from now) and see what my thoughts were toward them. I suspect that there are parts of our life now -especially my thoughts toward them- that they just will not fully understand until they are Mommas and Daddies themselves.

So, without further long, drawn-out explanation, I'm back. I hope to be able to pop in more often now. And I'll be sure to give you an update on the family, the happenings, and  all the luscious baby chub around here!

It is perfectly alright to say, "Well I was wondering where you were!" And if you're reading this on Bloglines, I updated the sidebar finally - come see.

You Should Have Thought About That Before…

There is an unwritten rule that mothers of large families know. The ones who do not know this rule, figure it out on their own pretty quickly, as there are no shortages of situations in which it will need to be applied. Any stranger in the grocery store, most relatives, casual acquaintances, pastors, and even close friends can be the tutors to introduce a Mom to this rule. How helpful.

The rule states that a mother of many children, in any case where any circumstances related to bearing or raising children are less than the picture of textbook perfection and bliss, must remain silent. Such a mother may never utter so much as a syllable indicating the less-than-Utopian condition of her health, her family dynamics or her discipline struggles in auditory range of another individual save her husband. A sigh from such a mother is also universally understood to be an invitation for others to dispense prescriptions of ancient wisdom gleaned from years of watching Oprah and Dr. Phil. Said advice typically begins with the same sage statement.

"You should have thought about that before you ______."

The blank is left open for the advisor to customize the counsel to the specific situation in which the unsuspecting mother has left herself vulnerable. Before you got pregnant, before you had so many children, before you decided to homeschool, etc., are all the usual fillers of the blank. Although the assumption is that one could not have made such decisions with forethought, it does not appear that the advisors know how self-righteous and condescending these assumptions are.

Could it possibly be that I have somehow come through thirty-five years of worldly American culture (to include thirteen years in public school) unscathed unaware that there are ways to avoid pregnancy (i.e. "fix" what is not broken)? Unlikely. Is it possible that I could be unaware that there is a quick fix to any "accidental" pregnancy? With the world shrieking so fiercely about each persons' choices, and even the Church for the most part, accepting such an abomination, I would be hard pressed to miss it. To assume that either my choices are uneducated or my practices accidental is illogical. It couldn't happen in this culture. Not today.

I cannot speak for everyone who has a large family, but ours... I know. Let the record show that I did think about it before I did it. I counted the cost of pregnancy, labor, birth, breastfeeding, homeschooling, raising these blessings of ours, and every detail involved. What I found is that it is hard. It involves excruciating pain... backbreaking, toilsome labor day in and day out, often giving what I did not know I had to more people than I knew I could love.

Our culture is so selfish that it often surprises us to know that people still decide, even today, that just because something is hard does not mean it isn't worth doing. Let's not assume too much. The mothers of many children that I know are making this decision over and over again, even in the face of persecution from the ones who should be supportive. Most of us have to suffer in silence. Alone. It adds to the difficulty, but by YHWH's grace, it cannot detract from the joy.

The textbooks couldn't do that justice anyway.

My Un-Sweet Husband

It really makes me cringe. I know it isn't all that huge in the grand scheme of things. I mean really, what with global warming and all (right Mr. Gore?), it just doesn't rank up there in the top list of world issues. Being aware of this, I still reserve the right to vent a bit. On behalf of husbands (and sons over ten) everywhere, I am about to do just that.

Maybe I just have a warped sense of masculinity, or perhaps I have too much free time on my hands for thinking about gnats in eyes and all things irrelevant, but it sends a creepy fingernails-on-chalkboard tingle down my spine to hear women call their husbands sweet. We've all read the blogs with something like this in the bio, or seen e-mail signature lines proclaiming it - they're everywhere:

"I am a mother of three and wife to the bestest and sweetest hubby in the whole world!"

I am almost sure, if this were real life, that her next move would be to start coochie-cooing under his chin and making lipstick marks on his cheek. Now, we have all seen this process happen with Barney Fife, and as amusing as it was to watch on The Andy Griffith Show, (and as apparently effective as it was on Old Barney), it just isn't good ladies. Barney not being the picture of masculinity, we wouldn't want to use him as an example of what to do with real-life, real-men hubbies husbands.

I recognize that this is purely opinion, but I also suspect that, in a moment that includes no fear of repercussion in the form of wifely pouting, most husbands would agree that they do not appreciate being called sweet. Praise, appreciation, encouragement and affirmation... are all good and necessary. Done properly it can truly minister to a man, and they need this type of ministry from their wives above all people. I am not arguing the principle, just the method.

Especially these days, our culture is female dominated. Everything is focused on the woman in a relationship. When the relationship is faltering the perception and, indeed, proclamation is that it is because he doesn't communicate enough, he isn't loving enough, or he isn't meeting her needs. It it enough to make me sick on behalf of husbands in this country. For just once, in at least this once instance, girls, can we care about their side? (Yikes... I was trying so hard to make this a cute post.) I'm not busting anyone's chops, I just want to encourage us to think about our words, and realize that the wrong ones can be not just ineffective, but deleterious to our man's self image.

If we desire to compliment our husbands let's do it in a way that will actually touch his heart, not make him roll his eyes. You know how your older sons behave when you tell them they are "so cute" or "such a sweet boy"? Their opinions of such "compliments" do not change as they get older, they are just more subdued in their response. A word fitly spoken that honors his masculinity (and I'm not just talking muscles here) can be balm to his soul. Especially when it comes from his wife.

So, please compliment your husband. Respect him! Encourage him! Admire him! But whatever you do... please don't call him sweet.

Proverbs 25:11 "A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver."

Tinctures To Go

I hate memes. I do not mind reading them, mind you ~ it is fun to read other folks' ~ but I know me... if I started doing them, I would feel pressured by the things and feel as if I had to do it every week. I have enough real responsibilities without my adding imagined ones. All of that is to say that had I been doing the Works For Me Wednesday meme, and had today actually been a Wednesday, this is the sort of thing I would post.

Mr. Visionary was feeling under the weather last night when he came home from the old grind work. He had a stuffy nose, his sinuses were swollen and stuffy feeling, and his head was aching. He had felt fine until about mid afternoon, so after interrogating questioning him about his day and noting nothing out of the ordinary, I smelled a rat and figured a virus was to blame. I doused dosed him with tinctures, and sent him to bed.

When he awoke stuffy again, I gave him another tincture dose, but realized that, Dads not always having the luxury of staying home when they're feeling poorly, he'd be leaving for work in a few minutes. It was then that an idea struck me, a second-best idea, (the first-best was having Dad stay at home), in the form of portable tinctures.

Dunt dunt dunt dun... (How does one spell that drumroll sound the boys are always making?)





Cool, huh? Now all Dad has to do is mix this pre-measured dose with a little water to make it easier to get down, and voila! Healthy medicine to go.




I save vanilla bottles for just this purpose... the amber colored glass is perfect for maintaining the quality of your tinctures, and I won't mind if they get lost or broken.





Works for me, even if it isn't Wednesday.

Keeping Short Accounts

It really is freeing. Getting rid of all our superfluous stuff makes the days run smoother and creates a peace in me that is addictive. After a season of thorough decluttering, I want to always live like this! Without the follow-up step to decluttering ~ that of keeping the stuff out ~ I will surely not.

Our season of Teshuva is drawing to a close, after much soul-searching and house-cleaning of a different sort. We have, as a family, spent much time clearing the air, cleaning spiritual and relational slates through repentance. Those longstanding, nagging little things that haunt our spirits, weigh us down and beg to be brought into the light have been our focus - those 'little sins', never confessed, that hinder our joy in the Lord. Time alone does not make all things new again. Through writing letters, making phone calls, and having long heart-to-heart talks, we have sought and extended forgiveness, and, in the process, found restoration. The decluttering is done.

The question that arises now, is how to keep the decluttering done. We have made extensive new policies in our home to keep physical clutter from coming back in, but how do we keep spiritual and relational clutter from finding it's way back? Life happens...sinners collide, and offenses are a natural result. This forty day season of repentance has been rich for us, and, after this, our first year of observing it, we are unanimous in our desire to do it again. It was profitable for us to spend forty days focusing on getting right with our Father and our fellow man. However, I personally do not wish to have thirty-plus years of baggage to have to clear out again. My desire is to put a stake in the ground...right here...right now...and resolve to keep things current.

The answer for me comes in keeping short accounts.

There were several things that I had to make right that were small issues ~ things that I did not feel quite right about at the moment of occurrence, but had allowed to 'slide' instead of confessing and asking forgiveness immediately. Contemplating the wasted energy I spent thinking about these minor offenses over the years makes me ill. I have heard it said that the Holy Spirit will speak to you in a whisper, or, if you ignore Him, will eventually throw a brick at you. That you have a choice...obey the whisper or wait for the brick. I haven't meditated much on the theological aspect of that , or whether it is accurate, but it certainly is motivating. Looking back, I am painfully aware that I should have heeded the whisper.

Keeping short accounts is all about heeding the whisper. When the Holy Spirit convicts me of sin, my place is to immediately confess and repent. Whether I am angry, lazy, prideful or selfish, I need to confess the instant I am aware of the sin ~ the instant the Holy Spirit whispers. I have to force myself to drop everything ~ right that minute ~ and ask forgiveness. It is the best method I have ever used for my part in putting my own sin to death. It is also the most humbling, which I suspect is the reason it works so well.

"If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness. If we claim we have not sinned, we make him out to be a liar and his word has no place in our lives" 1John 1:8-10.

Just as surely as we cannot cleanse ourselves, Yeshua can. So the order of the day, today, as every day, is a walk of obedient trust...heeding His voice, obeying His commands, and trusting in His cleansing.

Because it is so good to be clean.

I’m Listening

Mr. Visionary and I talk a lot. He was born to explain, exhort and encourage. It is a gift. I was born to question, condemn and complain. It is not a gift, per se, it is...ummm...an inherited trait. In any case, we talk a lot, with myself usually asking questions, and he usually teaching. He is so natural in his teaching, that I often find myself having gleaned some deep truth from what he had considered to be casual conversation. This is where I am finding myself now.

We have a cozy loveseat in a sun-filled bay window in our room, and spend as much time there as life will allow, reading or chatting with each other, talking with the children, or doing our bible study together. When we aren't talking there, we do so at the kitchen table, or I stand in the bathroom doorway as he is getting ready for the day. In one of those casual chatting times this week, he was mentioning to me something he had recently shared with some young men. He was 'just talking', but I was listening. How many times the Holy Spirit speaks to me in apparently offhand ways! As is frequently the case, the second-hand advice I received from Mr. Visionary's conversation was a message to me from my Father.

Mr. Visionary mentioned that the fruit of the Spirit called self-control begets self-control and that the opposite is equally true. When we pride ourselves on being thin while lacking self-control in other areas, we are deceived. He shared how he at one time didn't feel a need to be self-controlled in the area of food because he wasn't overweight, but that Father showed him that it mattered. A lack of control in one area will migrate to another, he said.

Ouch.

That would certainly explain why a dark chocolate inclination addiction obsession and a tendency to be too angry too quickly are the sin issues with which I contend the most (or at least should contend the most). They are first cousins, related on the self-control side. Not my idea of a fun family reunion, I assure you.

So, I am listening...to my Father and Mr. Visionary, because the former often uses the latter to teach me.

And I have a lot to learn.

No Regrets

It must have happened when I was playing with Babydoll in the Red Clover field. I don't know if Babydoll or the puppies were the instrument that caused it to come out, but either is equally likely. It is thought-provoking how they have survived this long, through this many grabbing babies, many moves, and lots of living, anyway. But, to everything there is a time under heaven, and this was apparently the time.

I am a very plain kind of girl ~ I wear three pair of shoes, like solid colored clothes, and, had Mr. Visionary not intervened with an opinion of his own, would have happily lived life with a wardrobe consisting of simply black, white and khaki. Many years ago, nine to be exact, when Mr. Visionary surprised me with a gift of very special earrings, I was a little taken aback. They were beautiful, to be sure ~ oval emerald studs with a diamond at one end, and small ~ showing that he really knew how I loved dainty earrings. I was afraid to wear them because they were lavish and costly, and at first I didn't notice how dejected Mr. Visionary seemed as I left them in their luxurious little box. I was too proud of my thriftiness to be seen wearing such an extravagant delight, and besides, what if they got lost?

Yet they have been lost many times over the years ~ partly because my babies have seemed drawn to them, and grab at them often. Although it may disgust the Ezzos, my method of redirecting little hands was not always successful. So when I realized this time that they were gone again, my retracing my steps helped me determine where they were lost. The field of red clover wherein I was playing with Babydoll and some puppies at a friend's house was the most likely place. I'll not bother to go back and attempt to find the missing one, but not just because I think it would be futile.

There is a weightier reason.

Although not astute enough to pick up on it quickly, by my Father's grace, I did notice Mr. Visionary's downcast face over my not wearing the earrings. When I realized how it appeared that I was rejecting him and his gift, I determined to change. Within the month, I started wearing the earrings every day. If they got lost, then so be it. My darling's feelings were more important than some stupid earrings. For nine years straight I wore this pair of earrings, and no other, every day, resolved to enjoy them while they lasted. I praised Mr. Visionary to friends and strangers who commented upon them, and I thanked him hundreds of times over the years. In short, the reason I will not pine over their loss is that I enjoyed them while I had them.

I have no regrets.

In the last few years, it has been my ever increasing desire to live a life that I can look back on with no regrets. I want to be an old woman who rejoices in the fullness of her years and blessings, surrounded by family and friends. I am definitely not perfect in this regard. Those that know me are fully aware of my shortcomings in this area. But my desire, my heart's deepest wish, is to live today with the end in sight.

And if all it ever takes to learn this is a lost earring, broken china and crystal, a messy house, or dirty carpet, then it will be one of the least costly of any of the lessons I have learned am learning.

"See then that ye walk circumspectly, not as fools, but as wise, Redeeming the time, because the days are evil. Wherefore be ye not unwise, but understanding what the will of the Lord is" Ephesians 5:15-17.

Becoming Like Him

It didn't happen by accident. But happen it did, and the transformation has been profound.  I'm not saying that I purposed for it to happen by any stretch of the imagination.  I assure you that it was truly far from my personal aspirations or even desires for that matter. And while a psychologist may call it assimilation, the  Southerner in me would attribute it to the old adage, "If you lie with the dogs, you're gonna get fleas". Mr. Visionary would have me to understand that a more accurate explanation is found in Scripture as, "He who walks with the wise grows wise".

I don't even like the stuff. Sure, it smells good, and I don't mind a whiff of it every now and then, but I've never been terribly interested in putting it near my lips. Yet, when I caught myself yesterday drinking black coffee from Mr. Visionary's cup, and enjoying it,  I knew I was done in. I can recognize a nail in a coffin when I see one: the old me was gone, never to return. Interestingly, I was thoroughly content with that revelation.   I know it didn't happen in the beginning, as I was too busy trying to assert my independence from and (shamefully) superiority over said Visionary. But gradually, imperceptibly even, over the last eighteen years as I began to truly know my man, I have become like him in ways I never would have imagined.

As I pondered all the myriad of ways I have "assimilated",  I have surprised myself with the completeness of the transformations. When I met Mr. Visionary, I loved milk chocolate; he loved dark chocolate. His coaxing and cajoling not only won me over to the dark side, but I now care only for extra dark chocolate. Milk chocolate is as reprehensible as a lick of the sugar bowl to me. There are other areas, some subtle, some overt, in which  I have taken on characteristics of  my visionary. Chocolate and coffee are just the ones the children giggle about the most.


Even without my active participation, just being with him, desiring to please him (i.e. always having some dark chocolate in the house), and enjoying fellowship with him, I have become like him. No striving, just assimilation.  I can't help but notice the similarities between my becoming like Mr. Visionary, and my becoming like my Lord. As I have been with Him, as I have desired to please Him (doing those things which bless His heart) , and as I have enjoyed sweet fellowship with Him, I have become more like Him. No striving, just assimilation. I can't think of a more natural way to become more like my husband...or my Husband.

Or to fall in love with them more.

Worry, Tilling and Fussing

It all started when I killed my tiller. OK, so maybe it's not a mortal wound, but it doesn't exactly till, either. When the thingy that holds the roundy part in place fell completely off as  I rammed gently bumped the cinder blocks at the end of a row, I knew I was in trouble.

Having been raised in the inner city, and knowing little about gardening that I didn't read in a book, I keep quiet and learn a lot from watching my friends. When I noticed two weeks ago that my friend-who-was-born-with-a-hoe-in-his-hand, had his garden turned over, the "Aha!" moment came, and I knew that it was the appointed time. I still couldn't tell you the last frost date for my area, so I'll listen and learn when to sow my collards, too.

After killing breaking the tiller, my first thought was that my coveted outside time was over, and, after a winter's worth of being cooped up inside, this was no small matter. Crushed, I instantly started thinking of the steps involved in repairing the tiller: load up the tiller, spend half a day getting everyone shoed and jacketed, drive into town, find the part, escort seven children to a public restroom, then drag everyone home only to discover that I didn't get the right part. Then I was sure the broken part would cost thousands of dollars, have to be special ordered, take months to be delivered, and gardening season would be over before it ever got started at my house.

Once I caught myself and called this thought process by it's rightful name, Worry, I repented, and began to look for the bright side of not having the tiller available. My garden is not terribly labor-intensive, anyway. It is a raised-bed (read that: very soft soil) Square Foot (read that: very tiny) garden. I could always  just turn over the soil with a hoe. Even though tilling was kinda fun, it was still a little more like breaking a wild pony than I preferred. So this would be an enjoyable form of exercise with immediate tangible results (read that: instant gratification).

Anyway, I am the girl who is always lamenting about the ridiculous ironies in our culture. What sense does it make to get a desk job, determined to 'not work as hard as my parents did', then buy a riding lawnmower because you don't have time to cut grass, then a health club membership to 'get some exercise'?  It is like simultaneously running the air conditioner to cool air on a hot sunny day and the clothes dryer to heat air. Or driving to the park to take a walk. Or sending Momma to work to be able to pay for private schooling and convenience meals (and therapy because of the stress). Simpler is better.

So I pulled out my hoe.

About half-way through my methodical hand turning of the garden I started to wish I had never been so smug regarding the aforementioned inconsistencies. At our house, you lose any right to fuss about stuff that you aren't doing something about (read that: Don't talk the talk if you aren't willing to walk the walk). Just as I determined to suck it up and smile my way through to the end, Mr Visionary showed up with the exact piece needed to repair the tiller. When he had the thing perfectly fixed and tested in less than five minutes, I knew two things. First, my worrying had been way out-of-hand. The piece cost $.68, and was easily picked up on a routine errand while Mr. Visionary was already in town. Second,much as I would have liked to should finish it by hand,  I would have go against my high ideals resigned determination and use the tiller to finish the garden.

After all, I wouldn't want to offend Mr. Visionary.

The Dream

I was walking along, minding my own business, when it happened. Two Autumns ago, during my early morning driveway walk, I had my two partners: my gun (because of lions, tigers and bears) and my Walkman. The day in question, I happened to be listening to a Jonathan Lindvall tape ~ nothing unusual there, I often listen to a tape or music on my walks. I like to listen to something on the second lap so I can hear something besides my own loud breathing. It is a golden opportunity to listen to my choice of music at my choice of decibel, which at almost all other times are outvoted by the rest of the family. But I digress.

On said tape, Mr. Lindvall was discussing how he and his wife felt led to get completely out of debt , to include having no mortgage, and went on to discuss their method of achieving exactly that. Upon the first listen, I smugly dismissed the idea as super-spiritual, unnecessary, and not a possibility anyway, thank-you-very-much. We had just moved to this farm that spring, and had gutted, remodeled and added on to this house to make it just what we wanted. This house and farm were, for all intents and purposes at the time, my dream.

Enter the Holy Spirit. After several days of being either too lazy or too hurried (I will not disclose which), to get a new tape on my way out the door , I was stuck listening to said tape for about two weeks in a row. As I listened and argued with the tape day after day, the Holy Spirit nudged. Mr. Visionary was working five very long days at the time, and in truth, we never saw him. Saturdays were spent doing farm work from sunup until after dark, and Sundays were spent on church and naps (to help make up for the other six days), hence weekends were gone in a blink. I wanted my husband back, and we all wanted our family back. I was beginning to see that the mortgage had to go.

In the meantime, the Lord was also revealing to us a new dream ~ that of being able to have enough land to give to our children to help start them off better than we were started. Since our current farm is only fifteen acres, this dream would involve having a much larger chunk of property. And moving. I tried to remind the Holy Spirit that I had previously, proudly and loudly announced that I would not move from this house unless the Lord called us on the mission field. He replied with a question, "Did you get that from ME, or was that your big idea?" My wanting it to be the Lord's idea didn't count. It never does.

Providentially, the housing market in our area has skyrocketed. Our house is now worth twice what we paid for it three years ago, which is good news and bad news. We can sell it, and make enough to buy property debt-free...but not around here. We will need to move across the country to find land inexpensive enough, unless the Lord intervenes. We are praying for an opportunity to find land in our same state, as Mr. Visionary is an only child of aging parents, and my family has just this summer migrated back  to the same state for the first time in fifteen years (and who knew cousins could be so much fun!).

So, we're working toward getting our house finished (with a schedule like ours was, there was never time to finish all the remodeling), and putting it on the market this Summer, and saying goodbye to a mortgage forever. What happens next is in His hands. It is our goal...our dream, if you will. But the real goal is to always listen and obey what the Lord's will is for us. Speak, Lord, for your servants heareth...

Use the Walkman if necessary.




*I don't expect to agree with every detail of everyone to whom I listen. Use the Grocery Store Approach to Jonathan Lindvall, take what you can use, leave the rest. I don't necessarily condone everything he ever says, but I don't discount it outright, either. Remember the Bereans SEARCHED the Scriptures DAILY. We should as well.

Men Cooking Breakfast

The once-a-month opportunity for a morning of calm, peaceful "girl time" is not my favorite part. Compared to what we are used to, the quiet is actually a little disconcerting. As much as we enjoy our time alone for all things girly, we secretly (shhh...) are glad when our guys get home from their monthly Men's Prayer Breakfast and Workday.

Many men come up to me at church the next day, praising "how well the boys worked". I smile politely pretending not to notice the surprise on their faces when they mention it. While I am pleased to hear it, unfortunately, I am not able to put much stock into the opinions of those men. I have no way of knowing to which standard they are comparing my boys. Were it compared to the last lazy teenager they saw glued to a video game, I would not be impressed. The praise from the men at church is also not my favorite part.

My favorite part is hearing Mr. Visionary's account of how the boys fared on their workday with the men. Dad knows our boys and the standard to which they should be compared. His reports delve into their hearts, and their struggles against their own flesh. These guys are being compared by Dad to their past: did they work harder than last time (even a little)? Did they learn ever-so-slightly-more what it is to discipline themselves when they wanted to play instead of work, or be served instead of serving others?

As the Momma who is with the boys every-second-of-every-day, my view is far too microscopic to be accurate. I often wonder not only if my guys will grow to be doers of the word, but if they will ever be hearers. The picture I get from Mr. Visionary's balanced macroscopic view, however, is always encouraging. Dad's praise of the boys is definitely my favorite part.

I think my second-favorite part is that my guys get to see men cook breakfast once-a-month. Maybe they will learn that men cooking breakfast is a good and natural thing. Maybe they'll want to try it sometime at home.

Or maybe they'll just appreciate my cooking more. Either way, I win.

The Tradition Continues…

Tevye once said in Fiddler On The Roof, "And how do we keep our balance? That I can tell you in one word: tradition!" I know little (Ok, none) about fiddling on the roof, especially eight months pregnant, but I'll agree that tradition can be a good thing.

Our children started conniving about planning this evening several weeks ago. Much whispering and suspicious activity (studying cookbooks, cleaning the grill during free time, glue and colored paper bits found lying around) have marked their preparations. It has been a group effort, all focused around celebrating the marriage of good old Mom and Dad. This is a good thing.

They learned much about all the pieces that have to come together at exactly the same time in order to serve a meal. They practiced hospitality, they honored their father and mother, and they drank in the beauty of marriage.  

In serving us steak and themselves hotdogs, they learned that there are times to bless others with out reciprocation. When they entertained themselves so that Mom and Dad could talk quietly, they learned that life does not center around the children. When they burped M-O-M,  D-A-D and L-O-V-E, they learned to take advantage of our not being in the same room. (Ok, so I didn't say they just learned it.) This too is disgusting good.  

Here's to the first sixteen years. Sixteen years from now, we'll have some teenagers and some grandbabies. Life is good.

Our family began sixteen years ago today. To God be the glory!

The Chicken Castle

Few chickens have ever lived so well. Of this I am confident. Two years ago, when we moved to Old Paths Family Farm (our first farm!), we bought baby chicks. Fifty-five of them to be exact. Fifty beautiful Buff Orpington hens and five roosters. It is probably everyone's starter critter project. They are little (at first), and cute. What could be better? Chickens are to farm critters what radishes are for gardeners-a good first project. Their housing is generally simpler as well. A chicken coop is easier and quicker to build than say, a barn.

That is, unless you are married to Mr. Visionary.

I had fifty-five chickens living in an enormous makeshift cage in my mudroom for months waiting for housing to be built for them. "With housing so simple, what took so long?" you may be wondering. My Mr. Visionary was building no ordinary chicken coop, you see. Everything he does turns out to be more than I expected, more than I needed, and able to withstand hurricanes, floods, earthquakes, and even young boys. (Those of you with young boys will fully understand the criteria involved in that building code.)

The Chicken Castle, as we lovingly refer to it now that the ordeal is over, is a masterpiece. It is 10X14' on a concrete slab. It has 8-foot high sidewalls, vaulted ceiling, two standard steel walk-doors, a billion nesting boxes, and enough roosting posts for an army of chickens. Every nook of this stronghold is trimmed, caulked, or covered with wire. It has attached to it a 10X16', 8' high cage area with chain-link fencing on three sides and on top.

Our chickens free-range during the day, occasionally popping in to lay or for a snack or drink, then stay in their Castle at night to sleep. Once the door is closed at night (the opperative word being closed), it is an insurmountable fortress for any chicken predator. The only time we have lost any chickens have been during the day, when they are roaming about, or in the evening before we have closed the steel door. I have a feeling that most critters in the woods around here tell bedtime stories to their offspring about our Chicken Castle. And about their relatives who have lost their lives attempting to break in. I may have to check with Mr. Visionary on this, but at last count the roll was 1 fox, 2 raccoons, 6 opposums, and one wild dog who have lost their lives to Mr. Visionary's shotgun. With Charlotte's Web, Wind In The Willows, and Milo and Otis floating around in their memories, the kids are convinced that there is a Legend of The Chicken Castle being  recited to the young in animal land.

Once while working outside an overhead  shadow alerted us that a chicken hawk was flying by. Quickly, we visually scanned the yard for chickens. Not a hen in sight. After a brief panic, we checked the Chicken Castle. Our rooster, Chief (that's Head Rooster to you), had rounded up every hen into the Castle. Mr . Visionary looked poignant and muttered, "They feel safe in there, don't they?" I think I even saw a glistening in his eyes.

Yes, Mr. Visionary, they do feel safe there-you done good. You done real good.