So What Do You Do When You’re Living In Limbo?

Our current listing agreement for selling our house ends today. It has now been two years since we first put our home on the market and, like most things in life, I could not have foreseen it taking this long. (For those who are new here, we are selling our home to get out of debt, then to pursue a ministry opportunity in Israel.) It is a weird place of limbo we are in - trying to purge and downsize to be ready for a move, but still having to function in the life we are in now. I have regretted several things that have succumbed to our purging while other things bought for our new life are collecting dust. My home does not even look homey to me, as I have gotten rid of anything extra that I could, and it looks lonely and bare.

Our tax assessment lost $40K in this last year, tempting us to freak out because we will only purchase with cash from here on out. Assuming the selling price is affected, that $40K just cost us greatly. I said tempted because we have not freaked out yet, but you cannot trust that ol' flesh, you know. It simply means that we will end up living in the bus longer than planned and likely be able to afford only an earth bag house when all is said and done. Mr. Visionary and the children are thrilled about this option and go around calling us the Dirt Bag Family. Me? I flip-flop between terror and adventurous enthusiasm about living in the bus with eleven of us and I still cannot figure out how the earth bag house won't be full of mildew. (I don't get how wool diaper covers work, either, but I love them, so we'll see.)

Our future plans seem very far away and I spend a lot of time asking Father about what we should be doing now. It appears to be a season for preparation in some way, but in what way? We have the last of our cows sold or in the freezer, the goats and chickens have been gone for some time now and I cut off the electricity at the barn. Lots of closure.

Our home fellowship has all but disbanded, so we have our Shabbats free to spend praying and studying as a family, which is good and bad. The busyness of hosting the group kept us from having time to think about our future too much, but our newly quiet Shabbats have stirred the questions awake again.

Do we list the house again, or wait until Spring? Is YHWH limited to the "good season for selling"? Do we make it For Sale By Owner, or find another realtor? Our old realtor marketed it as a gentleman's estate, but we think it should be marketed as a home for a large family. (How else do you show a house with eleven people living in it?)

What do we do, Father?

How many, many times we have repented and grieved over ever getting a mortgage! We truly are in bondage - not free to go where He calls when He calls.  He will redeem even this situation to grow us and to bring glory to Himself, for sure...but the regret is painful. Praise YHWH that His mercies are new every morning.

I'm just sayin'...I don't have any answers for what to do while living in limbo, except to continue to seek His face and thank Him for this season. The While I'm Waiting song from Fireproof has been on our lips during this season, but even that is a partial answer. "I will worship while I'm waiting, I will serve You while I'm waiting"...can still be personalized into specific answers to specific questions, but I suspect that the answers to what we should do during this season will only be apparent after the season is over and we're looking back. Hindsight, you know.

Sweet Home Jerusalem

This will not appeal to everyone, but then again, neither do I, so it works to post it here. As a Southern girl, and one who prays for the peace of Jerusalem, this really hit the spot. Who knew a Skynyrd tune could be redeemed in such a cool way? I like it. HT: Lillian

Lyrics (to the tune of Sweet Home Alabama):

Eagles wings keep on flyin'
Carry me home to see The King
Singing songs about my City,
Jerusalem you're in my dreams
And I'm gonna sing, yes. (RIFF)

Well I heard the UN talk about her
But a Jewish boy won't drink this brew
Uncle Sam please remember, that
"Jerusalem won't be split in two!"

Sweet Home, Sweet Jerusalem
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet Home, Sweet Jerusalem
L-rd I'm coming home to you.

We're all waiting for Mashiach (OOH OOH OOH)
You can bet he's coming soon
We'll all be dancing in Jerusalem
And we'll all be singing the same tune
Now that's the truth

Sweet Home, Sweet Jerusalem
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet Home, Sweet Jerusalem
L-rd I'm coming home to you.

(SOLOS)


The wise men of the Holy City
They've been known to pick a song or two
They help my soul when I'm hurting
They give me joy when I'm feeling blue
Now how about you?

Sweet Home, Sweet Jerusalem
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet Home, Sweet Jerusalem
L-rd I'm coming home to you.

Sweet Home, Sweet Jerusalem
Where the skies are so blue
Sweet Home, Sweet Jerusalem
L-rd I'm coming home to you.

A New Normal

As much as I'd love to say that things are back to normal now that Momma has left the couch, I am realizing that is not quite accurate. There does seems to be a new normal developing, though. It seems to be the usual plan after any season of crisis-mode living, and with my fickle nature, it is good. I kinda like change.

During my time of being less than 100% available, the children have stepped into new roles of greater responsibility. That is not the kind of thing I want to un-do by jumping back into my old role too quickly or too fully. The mention by others of relieving the children from some of their added responsibilities during this season was only momentarily tempting, as I would not dare relieve them of all of the self-respect and healthy pride in what they learned to accomplish. I realize that contrary to what my opinions may have been early in parenting (about other folks' children, of course), my children, rather than being burdened by the added responsibilities, have been freed. They are now walking in beaming confidences that would not have been theirs outside of this opportunity to grow under pressure.

The children have benefited through their own amazement of what they could actually do, and Mr. Visionary and I have benefited through knowing our children better. It has helped tremendously for Mr. Visionary and I to remember what the learning curve looked like in our own lives. I learned to time meals properly so that it all came out ready at the same time by having cold vegetables while still waiting for the meat to cook. Mr. Visionary learned to manage the woodstove properly by waking up cold many mornings. There is always a learning curve, and always a bit of pain (to varying degrees) in the learning. The larger the lesson, the worse the pain. We learned that debt is a curse by losing our home and filing for bankruptcy many, many years ago. How much kinder to our children to allow them this season of learning while still at home.

Mr. Visionary was 14 when he got his first pocket knife ~ our oldest sons were each 8. I was 18 when I touched a sewing machine for the first time ~ our oldest girls were each 6. Were these hard and fast rules that guaranteed when a privilege would be granted? To the consternation of the children younger than the eldest of each sex, the answer is, "No." We studied each child and judged when was the right time for each of them, for each opportunity. Do we know better than our parents did? Maybe not, but we sure know our kids better. Our giving them plenty of chances to grow or to fail while at home is evidence of not only our love for them, but our love for them that is greater than our love for perfect results. Lessons learned when you are 10 are not as traumatic as the ones you learn at 25 while you already have a family to support. Ask us how we know.



Not only can our ten-year-old Engineer run the log splitter and load the woodstove, he has learned to keep the porch wood box filled at all times so he will not have to fill it during a freezing monsoon cold rain. Not only can our big girls plan prepare a meal from scratch without any assistance, they have learned to begin preparations early enough to have dinner before breakfast bedtime. All this without telling, without nagging and with far better results. Mr. Visionary and I do not as much telling these days. We explain and encourage, we supervise and watch from a distance, but we allow the children to learn the lessons for themselves. They are allowed to do things at their ages that we would never have been allowed to do. They are learning lessons early on that we desperately wish we had been allowed to learn early. They are allowed to fail...to fall flat on their faces...and with more explanation and encouragement, to rise again.

Because the security of home is a good place to learn.

Note to my Children: You guys did well. You rose to the occasion, took on the challenge, brought glory to YHWH and made Mom and Dad incredibly proud. May what you learned during this season stay with you forever, and may you use it to honor YHWH as you bless your families in the future.

Somewhere In The Middle

In the comments a few days ago, someone made a statement that has been bothering me ever since. Since "Things-I-think-about-when-I-can't-sleep" is always good fodder for blog posts, and because I just don't feel comfortable letting the statement just dangle out there unanswered, I will now attempt a justification response.

When Melanie said, "I am not sure how you do what you do", I had several reactions. My first was to be frustrated that I may have, by only giving snapshots into our life (a drawback inherent to blogging), led folks to believe a storybook account of our life. The second was to think, I know exactly how you feel.

The Momma in me has to warn you explicitly about assuming too much. Don't read too much between-the-lines about the lives of anyone...especially online. I can't write about everything, and even if I could, I wouldn't air our dirty laundry in so public a forum. Case in point, allow me to ask some questions. Is my laundry caught up? Do I yell at my kids? Is my husband happy and well cared for? How does my garden grow? And most importantly...is it well with my soul?

Truth is, you can't know from just reading blog posts. I have several dear friends with whom my relationship is conducted primarily via computer. Even with extensive e-mail and phone conversations ~ even they ~ can't truly know about our life. The view from a blog is comprised of no more than multiple peeks through a fence's knotholes, and it is not a reputable source from which one may draw a complete picture. All of that is to say, I am not doing all that much. Especially now.

I am currently prostrate on the family room couch. My head is pounding, my mouth is constantly watering with oh-please-can't-I-just-throw-up anticipation, and I can only type a couple of lines at a time before I have to stop to let the dizziness subside. Meanwhile, my family is fending for themselves. My eleven year-old daughter made dinner alone, while helping me entertain the Littles. For the past several weeks, I have only been able to be up and about for (at most) an hour at a time before I feel so sick I need to lie down. This is not the stuff of Super Woman, whoever she is.

I have however, made the same statement ("I don't know how you do all you do") to many women over the years and thought it about still more. Anyone with more children than myself, at whatever number of children I currently had, I automatically assumed was handling all things well, with abundant grace and tea parties, as well. I just knew that their sinks, laundry hampers, and trash cans were empty before bedtime each night, their meals were well-balanced, colorful and healthy, their husbands were enraptured at all times, their children rose up each day and called them blessed, and since they had regular devotional times, YHWH loved them more than me. I knew it. I have been a Mom-To-A-Few, and looked up to the Mommas-Of-Many. I am now somewhere in the middle...a Momma-Of-Many, sandwiched between the  folks looking to me, while I look to the Mommas-Of-Nations. The truth, which I eventually discovered somewhere along the way, was that I couldn't assume too much...although I still haven't learned to walk in this truth at all times.

As I lay here now, I am less than 36 hours away from being the hostess of a family of thirteen. While Mr. Visionary would say that my house could - possibly - use a little "picking up", my inability to see in shades of grey tells me that it is a wreck. I will need to prepare three meals a day for 22 people for at least three days. I have a minuscule amount prepared, and no great ideas for the rest. And yet, here I lay, unable to function any better at present.

The Momma who will visit is soft spoken, loving, patient, kind, beautiful and has been pregnant many times. This is not the sort of woman in front of whom I want to appear to be a sissy. And yet, even with all the self control I can muster, I am not a hero, either. Will this Super Mom of Eleven (whom I greatly admire) understand? Has she ever been laid up with morning sickness? Surely she was always prepared when company was coming, and surely her house was always orderly. Surely. I know this because I have seen knothole versions of her life. And if the knotholes look like that, I can fill in the rest for myself.

Or can I?

Thinking Outside Of The Mop

When my girlfriend called to force me into submission blackmail me offer her family's services in our preparations for some friends visiting, I caved willingly accepted their help. I know her family, and have seen them in action before... they work really hard. So when she and her four teen daughters showed up this morning to help us get not only caught up, but ahead of the game, I was quite relieved.

Because I admire how skillfully and happily her children work, I am also all ears when she dispenses any advice on this subject. I want to learn all I can from folks who have good fruit in the areas in which our family is hoping to produce the same. She apparently has a much better grasp than myself on the concept of making a job fun, for I can tell you I never considered her method for getting help with mopping floors before.

Perhaps I should have been concerned when the first thing she told the kids to do was to go put on some play socks. Or even when my friend told me, "Just don't look, Julie," as one of her girls had all my children laughing hysterically in the mudroom. But after they left, the children asked me if they could, "Do what we did to the mudroom floor... to the kitchen floor?" Not 100% sure what I was getting myself into, but being really impressed with the look of the mudroom, I consented.









I now have a long list of children who have volunteered to clean the kitchen floor for me... any time I want.

A Fly On The Couch And Lessons In Parenting

We should have crises more often. They can be very encouraging. Folks that have sane, quiet lives may never have the opportunity to be encouraged in the way I have recently. Of course, they may never have the need to be encouraged as I have needed, but still.

The first several weeks of morning sickness were not the most exciting of days, but they were manageable, and I was able to function with relative normalcy. I was beginning to think that the dandelion tincture I had been taking to help clean up my liver before the next pregnancy had worked. Gleeful that I might make it through this season unscathed, I was rather taken aback as I rounded the next corner. Apparently I rounded said corner only to run smack in to a wall.

From my perspective as a couch vegetable these past few days, I have been surprised by some gaps in my parenting (was the four-year old always this good at talking her way out of trouble?), and tickled pink by others (when did my ten year old become so good with the baby?) My dizziness and nausea from being pregnant and my fatigue from nursing while pregnant left me a good excuse no other option but to be the proverbial fly on the couch wall. Sometimes I was able to give instructions, other times I could only be at the mercy of whatever training had previously taken hold.

As I watched the children manage their work and help each other, I realized that this was a definite step above the workings of normal life. This Mom's-out-of-commission emergency has allowed my children to rise to the occasion and grow to a new level. Their head knowledge is getting some practical, hands-on experience and I can see their individual and collective self respect increase. I am also watching as their level of respect for each other is growing.

Tonight, because all hands were on deck and needed in other areas, our eight year old son (you know, the middle child, who the experts say is supposedly left out and ignored), made dinner. I laid on the couch and read him the instructions, as he made Sue Gregg's Salmon Quiche alone. When the children asked (as they always do) what was for dinner, I proudly announced that the Dreamer was making it, and they should ask him. When the shock wore off, it became obvious by the children's expressions and exclamations that this boy had just risen to a higher level in their estimation. Wow, he can make dinner? Yeah. He can.

I think he was as shocked as the rest that he really did it. In the midst of a great need (we were hungry), this guy just added to the list of things he can manage well. With three capable child-cooks older than him, If I hadn't been sick on the couch, he may have never had the opportunity. I'm not a big fan of feeling this yucky. I'd gladly avoid it if there were a way. But this I can tell you with certainty: If I had to go through this ten times over, I'd do it... just to see the children look at my Dreamer that way.

And to see him so beaming in pride. You did good, Buddy. You did real good.

Beginning A Journal

My ponderings over the last few weeks have led me to begin a journal to correspond with the beginning of the new year. After praying about exactly what type I would like, I chose this plain, hardbound book with unlined pages, and am almost giddy thinking of all the potential it and the year hold. I wanted to share with you the first entry I made in the journal, in case you, too, have been feeling led to begin one.

Being that this is my first attempt at keeping a journal, perhaps I should be nervous. Will I actually do it? Will I find this book in a cluttered box three years from now with no other writing save what lies here? Or could this be the first day that my life has a permanent record? Will these pages be the encouragement that I one day look back upon to know that my life was not spent in vain? I cannot know any of these answers now. I can only apply that tiny spark of hope to the tinder of this book and feed it with whatever there is within me of commitment and diligence to see it through.

Although this journal will house my thoughts, my feelings and my ideas…I dedicate it to the glory of YHWH alone. I pray that He will use it as a tool to help me find Julie, and in the process, know Him better. Whose I am is not in question ~ I have given my life to the One who gave it to me. Yet, there is a softly nagging question regarding who I am. I am Phil’s Bride and my children’s’ Momma to be sure, (and blessed I am to be such), but anything else seems to have somehow been lost along the way, assuming there ever was anything else. I am content with my role in life, but wonder if I can bring more of myself to it. Are there skills, abilities or inspirations lying dormant within me that, unearthed and nurtured, could bless my family and bring glory to YHWH? Have I buried my talents in the dailyness of life? These things remain to be determined.

There’s more, too. I want to remember. So much of my early years of motherhood and wifehood are lost forever…because my mind lacks any resemblance to a steel trap. How I long to go back and recapture those days when all my people were small, and soak it in ~ and remember ~ forever. In the fleeting moments of Now, I recognize that, lest it be written down somewhere, I am unable to recall all that happened last week, much less the last few years. I may not be able to recapture all that has transpired, but I can begin today, recording as-it-happens, all that is to be seen from this Momma’s knothole.

From the perspective I have, here in this linear reality called time, the year ahead is empty. YHWH is there, and knows the end from the beginning, but I have yet to walk there. I cannot tidy the mess of emotions about the coming year into a neat bundle. Some, like the fear of the unknown, are unruly, and must be coaxed into submission. Others, like the thrill of new beginnings, must be tamed so as not to outrun YHWH’s timetable. Yet, eagerness, trepidation, determination and uncertainty are carved deeply into my walking stick as I trudge forward to see what lies ahead...

Welcome, 2008. May you be filled with all that YHWH has planned.

Although I am unsure if and how I will fit journaling into life, I believe that even the thought processes and promptings that brought me to this point will not be in vain. Progress is good, when it is for His glory. So here's to blank pages, blank calendars and new beginnings!

Don’t Get Mad…Get The Camera

This morning Babydoll climbed up to the kitchen sink and began splashing gleefully in the oatmeal pot that was soaking after breakfast. The picture doesn't do justice to the soggy oatmeal floaters that flew in each splash, and truly the mess was minor compared to what I have experienced with my boys in the past, but as I ran for the camera, I was transported in an instant. Those bittersweet feelings of deja-vu and the passage of time mingled together to catch in my throat.

I know you've had them too. I remember how hard they could be in the early days ~how I often wished I could just cry, and often ~ often ~ did. When the children are all Littles and no Bigs, things can be harried, hustled and more than you can keep up with. One turn of your back and trouble can lead to hours of clean up time for the Momma. I know. I remember.

One thing I learned when my first four were all under four, (and I think it came from Martha Sears from the Baby Book) was the concept of, "Don't get mad, get the camera." When the Littles get into trouble of the I-can't remember-when-I've seen-such-a-mess variety, I'd quickly (as long as they were safe in the midst of the mess) run to grab the camera and record the moment for proof posterity. It was a sanity (and testimony) saver time and again.

I didn't remember every time, but I remembered often enough to have a slough of (now) comical pictures to help me remember that season. There was the Literary Lady and the brand new tube of ruby red lipstick and the Engineer who dumped the five pound bag of flour on his head... both caught on film to crystallize the memories. The too-cute shot of the Dreamer who had a quirky habit of dipping his head into the toilet every chance he got and the boys who unloaded a 25 pound bag of spaghetti noodles onto their bedroom floor are proof that boys are not girls. They help me remember a season when I was running so hard I had little time to soak up the memories. I was just trying to survive.

The times I did not get pictures, are memories not as clear...the memories' edges are fading and curled...threatening to fade into obscurity. Regarding the three dozen eggs liberally-but-carefully crushed and scattered throughout the kitchen, I can barely remember the culprit without promptings from the children. There is no picture to take me back. I remember the day during my fifth pregnancy that I awoke from a first trimester induced accidental nap on the couch to sounds of water running and tiny voices saying, "Oh, no... you're going to drown him!". There is no picture to show what I passed on my way to the bathroom voices. Nothing to show the entire box of cereal and a gallon of milk all over the kitchen floor and glitter sprinkled on every horizontal surface of the ground floor. I found the "big kids" (at their ages then, the term is used loosely) washing the glitter from the feet of the Dreamer in the bathroom sink.

Not only do I wish I had a picture, I wish I could revisit that time. To return more mature, more disciplined, more patient...more cognizant of the importance of living IN the moment. Knowing that I cannot... I do the next best thing. I encourage you.

When the going gets rough...don't get mad. Take a picture. One day you may wish you had.

A Hard Day In Town

So, we were in town some today. The kids were great...it was the other folks who encouraged me to stumble. Father saved the day just before I blew my testimony. He's good that way. I submit this not as an example of righteousness, but as proof (only those who do not know me in 'Real Life' need this) that we all fall short. Even then is Father faithful to intervene.

Minimum Wage Cashier: "Wowee!. How many you got there? Y'all trying to catch up with them folks with, what is it, fourteen? "

Me (on the inside): "No, but maybe I can raise enough voters to outnumber folks like you. I have a long way to go based on how many times I've heard that statement just this week."

Me (on the outside): "No,Ma'am, but those folks sure are blessed. Aren't they?"...while smiling and shaking my head, 'Yes'.

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

Navel-Pierced Goth Girl passer-by: "Ick. I'm glad it's you and not me."

Me (on the inside): gritting teeth..."Honey-Child....me, too. Me. Too."

Me (on the outside): Smiling satisfactorily and looking at my brood...."Thank you, Sweetie, I am, too."

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

Complete stranger: "Don't you know what causes that?"

Me (on the inside): "Sure, I went to public school. I was taught it by complete strangers when I was nine, just like everybody else."

Me (on the outside): Forcing myself into a beaming smile...."Sure...and I know WHO causes it as well. Isn't the Lord GOOD to have blessed us with each of these children?"

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

Smart Aleck Complete Stranger: " Don't you guys have a TV?" (inferring that the only two activities in all of life are watching TV or procreating) ...with a doofus, proud-of-himself chuckle.

Me (on the inside): " Father, remind me again why it is inappropriate to smack his saucy face?"

Me (on the outside): Looking puzzled and walking away..."I'm surprised that someone would rather watch TV."

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

Upon seeing an acquaintance at the store, he replays his conversation with one of our Smart Aleck relatives...

Acquaintance: "So, how many kids have Phil and Julie got now?"

Relative: "I don't know...I haven't seen them in a few days." (cue the uproarious laughter here)

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

Sweet Old Lady Complete Stranger: "Oh! Are they all yours? How wonderful! You are so blessed...I was one of twelve, too."

Me (on the inside): "Thank you, Father, for your mercy. I really needed this right now."

Me (on the outside): With a deep sigh and looking visibly relieved..."Yes, the Lord HAS blessed me. And I'm blessed by your comments as well...thank you. Thank you so much."

Thank you Father...there is a remnant that understands.

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.

Good News, A Pile And A Party

As I begin this post, I feel led to remind you, gentle reader, that it takes a certain level of humility to engage in full disclosure in such a public arena. What I am about to share, I do because I feel compelled to in order to encourage and inspire others to tackle the difficult areas of their lives. Well, that, and...I'm just really excited to have this accomplished!

For far too long now, since about the New Year's Flu, I have had on my sidebar a goal of eliminating 80% of the contents of our attic. On a seemingly unrelated note, our schoolroom/playroom was converted into the Yard-Sale-Waiting-To-Happen Room back in February. When it became probable that we will have a house full of overnight company next month, I realized we'd better get busy on the attic and the yard sale, to clear up the extra space in the house. I really couldn't procrastinate any longer.

So without further ado, I present to you the before, during and after shots of what will henceforth be known in our family as the Attic Attack. Starting early, before the attic did it's impersonation of an oven, first on the agenda was to empty the attic so we wouldn't have to work in the heat. Here's what the attic looked like before we began:

Mom stayed in the attic and chucked lowered boxes, etc. down to the boys, who neatly stacked piled the attic contents in part of the family room. The good news is that by the time we got the attic emptied, it looked like this:

The bad news is, the Family Room looked like this:

After blocking the TV, the front door, and two couches in the process of emptying the attic, we sorted and purged most of the attic contents. A little forethought allowed us to tie a rope onto Mom's leg before attacking this pile, in case she didn't make it back out. After several hard days of keeping the kids out of the junk boxing and bagging, we are happy to announce that we got the Family Room (and the entire house) back in shape in time for Sabbath dinner on Friday night.

Note to Self: Remind kids of this process before next trip into town. And myself!
Note to my Children: Yes, we will be having a party to celebrate. Just let me catch my breath first.

No Man’s Land

Where we go doesn't matter. The crowd we're with seems to have no bearing on it as well. Wherever we manage to find ourselves, our family is an oddity. Wherever we go, whether in the world or the Church, we do not fit in with the folks around us. Two recent experiences have ingrained in me that there's only one place to call home, and that place isn't back on our farm.

On a recent trip, we had the opportunity to meet with a fellowship that is very careful to observe and obey all that the Lord has instructed. Many of them were farmers, most of them had large families. I was looking forward to making new friends and enjoying some fellowship. Since it is not everywhere we go that the kids can be with other kids who milk cows and share bedrooms, I was hoping they, too, would enjoy the chance to fellowship.

Unsure of what to expect as far as dress code, I was sure my tried-and-true conservative outfit would serve well. I wore my almost-to-the-ankles full black skirt, my bright pink sweater set, and my trusty black Mary Janes. I am pretty conservative about clothes ~ but apparently not conservative enough for this crowd. The combination of my uncovered head, eyeliner and lipstick must have screamed, "brazen Egyptian hussy" to them. I was road-blocked out of multiple conversations, apparently because anyone who looked like me, couldn't possibly know anything about what their life was like. "And what is someone as worldly as her doing with seven children, anyway?"

On the other hand, last night our family spent way too much money to go downtown in a major city for a "Christian" concert in a "Christian" church building. Again unsure of what to expect, I wore the same tried-and-true outfit. It didn't fit any better in this crowd. The country bumpkin surrounded by (Ick!) children was contrasted here with the tight pants, push-up undergarments, dyed hair and manicured nails of city life. The looks said, "I wonder if she's even wearing shoes". The actions said, "Let's not get close enough to find out".

It is pretty popular these days to claim we all worship the same God, but I believe that is blasphemy. We do, however carry the same book (don't get me started on translations). While actually reading it would be helpful , feeding on it would certainly be better. After all, He has exalted His Word above His name.

The same chick, in the same clothes, with the same children fared no differently in either place ~ too hootchie for one, too frumpy for another. In earlier days I would have been angry at the treatment we received. I would have been offended that someone would judge the book of my life by it's cover. Yet now, I am grateful for the reminder to love no matter what. Teach me, Father to have no respect to persons...no matter what they look like on the outside. Teach me that while fruit inspection is good, the packaging may look different. Ingrain this lesson in me while the wound is still tender.

And let me never forget this feeling...

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.

Room Cleaning By Grace

I know practical. I am a boring, no nonsense kinda gal. Although I can usually get the job done, there is often much to be desired in my fleshly modus operandi. I assess the bottom line and trudge in headlong without noticing or caring about the people in the process. But I am learning ~ or rather, the Holy Spirit is teaching me that every step in the journey IS the journey. And practical is not always best.

I like need order, too.  I used to think I was a control freak, and, while not discounting that completely (Mr. Visionary made me say that), I have learned that most some of this is just the way I am wired. I can't handle visual cacophony with my mental processing ability intact (I can't think in a mess). All of that is to say that I like things neat. Even with seven children, this desire has not abated. It hasn't materialized either, but that is another matter.

My old method in getting the girls to clean up their room was to come in and elbow-to-elbow with them, help them find order, fussing all the while, focusing more on the job than the little hearts. Partial enlightenment came, and I changed this method to: "If you can't keep it cleaned up, you can't keep it". That wasn't being mean, just...(here's that word again)...practical. If they couldn't keep it clean, they must have had too much stuff, so I'd help them get rid of stuff. Originally this method was met with weeping and gnashing of teeth, but over time, as they realized they never missed the extra stuff, the girls came to love getting rid of more stuff. It really was easier, they found.

But there are times now, even with very little clutter, that it is still a burdensome task for them to keep things orderly. Through praying for an idea to help my ladies, the Lord led me to a plan that blesses them even more than my help with the cleaning (although they still welcome this act of service). I came in today following the usual plan, "When the timer goes off, whatever is not in it's place goes in the bag", when the Lord whispered to me to rearrange the furniture. Huh? I didn't really get it, but I obeyed.

I made a few little changes here and there, only moving pieces that Mr. Visionary would approve of our moving without his help. A new doily, a new plant, and some of my Valentine's roses...and my girls were blessed. Oh, so blessed. It inspired them to feel good about their room, it encouraged their femininity, and if not giving them a new lease on life , then at least a new lease on their day. Smiling and encouraged, they flitted about, making their own changes, adding their own new touches, and the whole matter was concluded in half the time as usual.

These are good girls who sometimes get weighed down by their burdens. I don't need to add to it by being so practical. (C'mon, Mom, remember what it feels like. Weren't you feeling this way just yesterday?) Dawn is right, people and relationships  really are more important than everything else.

Thank you Lord, for letting blind eyes see... One. Moment. At. A.Time.

Seeing The Good

I am always, no...frequently reminded by Mr. Visionary that I never see the good in a situation. After almost 17 years of marriage and many circular conversations, I have learned to not argue this point . My casually mentioning the fact that said visionary does not allow extremist words from myself the antagonist, as these words are inaccurate black and white descriptions of pictures dappled with black, white and (gasp) grey, can be risky. Anyways, he's right. So I am making a concerted effort to discipline myself to see clearly 'whatever things are lovely' in my daily life. Hence the new category I have added, 'Seeing The Good'.

I had my first opportunity to put the category (and the hopefully de-scaled eyes) into use this morning. Our family is in the middle-to-end of our second stomach virus since the first of the year. Last night, as we realized that Little Napoleon had yet to succumb, we planned to keep him home from church with Mom, who is currently enjoying the virus, 'just in case'. We awoke to find that during the night, that when the virus began it's work on Little Napoleon, that the Engineer woke up with him, put N in E's bed, and read Amelia Bedelia to him. Further down the hallway, Literary Lady was awake, and no doubt led by the delights of fine literature read aloud, checked on the boys. She got a hot water bottle for N, tucked them both in, and went back to bed. Neither the Mommy nor Mr. Visionary were any the wiser until daybreak.

My children care for one another. They serve one another sacrificially, and they do it with a happy heart. Do they fight? Of course. Do they want to strangle each other at times? More times than I would like to deal with. But they also love deeply. And it is lovely.

Thank you , Lord, for eyes to see.

Self Talk

I surely would have thought the days of women swooning were over. What with the 1960’s having done their upheaval and corsets, too, being a thing of the distant past, fainting was, in my humble opinion, only for the overly dramatic. Recent events however, have caused me to rethink my position.

Not having bounced back from this stomach virus quite as quickly or as well as Mr. Visionary and the children, my felt need was rest. Still quite dizzy upon standing, I was hoping to be horizontal most of yesterday, and school was conducted from Mom’s bed.  Queasiness was making the thought of preparing food less-than-delightful, so when our dear friend (who is now even dearer) Miss Elizabeth brought us soup for lunch, my gratefulness to her and the Lord abounded.

Lunch over, and naptime graciously looming on the horizon, a knock at the door alerted me that perhaps my plans were changing. Greeted by a large mass of raw-and-dripping meat, I learned that Old Mr. Clark had been hunting.  His I-come-bearing-gifts grin alerted me that perhaps I should delegate the ‘stroll on over to the back of the truck’ to the boys. Neighborliness having gotten the better of me, I helped him hang our gift-deer in the woodshed and managed to stomach a few instructions about how to proceed from here, all the while purposing to not look the thing in the mouth.

After watching the Flower Child scratch the horns and coochie-coo at this dangling dead deer, I knew I needed to call in reinforcements. A frantic plea to Mr. Visionary to get home speedily, a cold washcloth to my face, and a parenting-by-speaker-phone conference with Dad and the boys to “not talk about it to Mom” were stop-gap measures to tide me over until said help arrived. With instruction from Old Mr. Clark, Dad and the kids skinned the deer after dinner, but the rest (cutting, packing) was left until this morning. Before breakfast.

There’s been a lot of under-the-breath muttering in my house recently. When Mr. Clark left, I was reminding myself that ‘the blessings of the Lord, it maketh rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it’.  When I pined for that nap that was not to be, I repeated, “…as thy days, so shall thy strength be”. Overheard just this morning: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me…I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me… I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me…all things. ..I can do this…I can do this…even (gulp) this…”

Before leaving, Old Mr. Clark mentioned one last thing,"If any strangers show up and leave you deer, I sent 'um. I told four or five of my buddies that y'all wanted venison".

Suddenly even those last nine pounds of pregnancy weight seem surmountable.

Look, She’s Doing It!

A rumpled brow, a furitive glance behind each shoulder...then 'the question'. With obvious trepidation in their voice and fully expecting the worst, they ask, "What do (gulp) the children think of her?"

If these folks could be a fly on the wall in my home...

"Hurry up you guys! Everybody come quick-she's doing it!"

From every corner of the house, seven of us scurry to the scene, dropping everything in an effort to witness Babydoll's smile. As we jockey for position, striving to be directly in her field of vision, we hope that this priceless-but-fleeting grin will reappear.

In our family, there is an eight-way tie for who is most qualified to be president of her fan club, eight contenders for the Who-Can-Make-Her-Smile award. The prize is the smile itself.

It is not unusual for the entire family to stand encircled around this Blessing enthralled with her every breath, as the rest of life slips into suspended animation. It can wait...We have taught our children that if this is not our response to such an event, that there is something very wrong.

What do the children think of her?

Our children have been taught to think God's thoughts after Him. "Lo, children are a heritage of the Lord: and the fruit of the womb is his reward" Psalm 127:3. This means every child. Not just the first child born to wealthy Americans with established careers. The blessing extends to the seventh child...or the fifteenth. The circumstances do not fulfill or negate the blessing.  "The blessing of the Lord, it maketh rich, and he addeth no sorrow with it" Proverbs 10:22. A child is a blessing simply because He has declared it so. My children understand this better than the average adult. 

And that understanding deepens with every smile...

"Y'all come quick...she's doing it!"

No More Pick ‘n Flick

The rules have changed. And no child in my family is the least bit disappointed. Under normal circumstances, the words, "OK kids, we have a new rule..." are met with groans and downcast faces. This new rule however, has been met with nothing short of elation.




In our family, Rule #146 has always been,




"No picking your nose in a public place (such as the family room or kitchen table)"

followed closely by Rule #147 which states,

"If you must pick, you must flick (i.e. no eating nasal products)".

In light of recent scientific discoveries, and our family's conviction that healthy living is a form of good stewardship, our rules have changed. It appears that a scientist in Austria, Dr. Fredrich Bischinger, a lung specialist, has determined that folks who pick their nose and eat the dry remains are strengthening their immune systems. He said, "The nose is a filter in which a great deal of bacteria is collected, and when this mixture arrives in the intestines it works just like a medicine."




Based on this evidence, we can add to the list of practices which immunize our children every day. We know that breastfeeding, letting our children roll in the dirt, and now, nasal snacks are all included in the category of healthy living.




Out with the old, in with the new. The new Rule #146 reads,

"If you must pick, you must lick (BUT NOT AROUND MOM-under penalty of death)".

The new Rule #147 reads,

"Never pick and lick when cleaning out the chicken coop."





Even healthy living has its limits.

Cookies for Santa

There are times when I am unsure if I am dreaming. Did I hear it or did I imagine it? In the early morning hours before I awake, I am half listening for it, half savoring the last few minutes of slumber before it comes. It always comes. Without respect for the day, the season, the temperature...it comes. At exactly point eight millimeters from my ear, at precisely 90 decibels, (a full hour before I desire to be awake),  Little Napoleon startles me awake  every morning by whispering, "Mom, can I have a snack?"

While this forced discipline of waking early is technically helpful, ( I do need to get up), let the record show that it is not my preferred method of waking. A more propitious ceremony for my tastes involves waking with the sun gently shining on my face, snuggling with Mr. Visionary, and slooowwwwly slipping into coherency. In silence. Although this is (*sigh*) not the life of a Momma, and the rest of the family has to be fully awake before even thinking about food, this little tike is ravenous the second his eyes open.

Enter cookies for Santa-my "great" idea. While our family does not participate in any of the sweet stories, storybook legends blasphemous teachings about Santa Claus, we have drafted, tongue-in-cheek, this euphemism about the plate of cookies. Each night before bed, I will set out a plate of non-perishable snacks (crackers, fruit, raisins, etc.) and a drink on the kitchen table. My plan involves Little Napoleon waking in starvation mode, and going directly to the kitchen to savor this snack, this "first breakfast" before the real breakfast is served. This would conceivably give me time to get ready for the day, meet with the Lord, and have a clue what will be for breakfast. Besides, I cook better when fully dressed.

There have been a few glitches in the plan, that have been easily remedied. First, I occaisionally often forget to leave the snack on the table. One morning of being jolted out of a dream cures my memory issues temporarily. This forgetfulness has built-in consequences. The second detail to accomodate is that Little Napoleon has acquired a trusty sidekick in the person of Doodle. So I leave a snack for two. Problems solved.

The last dilemma to settle is that when I do remember to leave the snack, at exactly point eight millimeters from my ear, at precisely 90 decibels, Little Napoleon startles me awake every morning by whispering, "Mom, is it OK to eat my snack?"

Even with no sleep, I'd rather wake to this little voice than an alarm clock any day.

Free Advice and Infants

I love free advice. Especially when it comes to infants. All those folks who bombard me kindly offer and explain the 'proper method' for raising a baby do me a great service. I imagine they have no idea what a valuable commodity their words of wisdom have become in our life.

I do not actually follow their advice of course. I am fairly picky about my sources. Unless it is basic Biblical principles being shared, I just smile sweetly and thank the offerer kindly, promising to "remember that". In cases of methodology, I do not take advice from anyone with fewer or younger children than my own. Nothing personal, but when I do more laundry in a day than an advisor does in a month, their advice is less-than-helpful.

Besides, if after seven times I have not figured it out, there is obviously a learning curve too steep to for me to surmount, and the advice would be wasted anyway.

Just this week I was encouraged to, "Give dat baby a sucker and strap her in a highchair". The fact that "dat baby" is only three weeks old and cannot hold up her own head is apparently irrelevant. I also have, in the past, been urged to give a 2 month old infant a chicken bone to gnaw on. My Grandfather swore that he always did that with my Dad, and that he turned out fine. The whole thing sounds way too similar to that 'Your-Dad-Has-Brown-Hair-Because-Of-A-Diaper-Accident-While-I-Was-Busy-Watching-Football' story. No thanks, Pop.

All this great advice could be a product of simple geography. Where else but in the Southern U.S. might I find a young mother to assure me that a slice of fatback was by far the most effective pacifier for a little one? I get a little weak in the stomach just remembering the end of a jiggly white slab rhythmically moving on her toddler's lips. But she was right-revolting as it was, it did appear to be a good pacifier.

To alleviate any guilt I might otherwise feel from not putting into practice any of these sage approaches, I utilize the words of wisdom in other ways. Whenever we need some stress relief, or someone is crying, all I need to do is whisper to Mr. Visionary that somebody needs to get that child a chicken bone. The snickering over the chicken bone (and retching over the fatback) lightens the mood tremendously. I told you they were a valuable commodity-we just added to our family repertoire of 'inside jokes'.  

Now we can prove two scriptures in one fell swoop. "Where no counsel is, the people fall: but in the multitude of counselors there is safety" Proverbs 11:14. "A merry heart doeth good like a medicine" Proverbs 17:22.

Did I mention I love free advice?