Echo Farm

 An extraordinary night finds me alone in my house. I haven't been alone in my house since Covid hit our country 9 months ago. I have been with my family. Constantly. I say that tonight I am alone, but I should clarify that I am only bereft of people, not animals. Covid has turned my lovely, Georgian home into a muddy farm. And I am thankful. 

Rowan kicked off the spring by planting 2000 pumpkin seeds. A 40 row garden went in next. 

We built a barn and Rose got a pregnant cow. Rowan began raising, butchering, and selling chickens.

We got a piglet.

Geese were added to protect the chickens and barn kittens were secured to keep the barn in order.

Turkeys were someone's bright idea and 6 of them gobbled in the field. 

I started to go a little crazy and wore overalls and straw hats every day in the summer.

I have had many dreams in my lifetime but I'm pretty sure this was never one of them.

But I try to take what comes, listen to my kids ideas, and if at all possible, help them make those ideas happen. Sometimes, like when the cow tries to trample me, I think I may have gone too far. But then, nothing really bad has happened yet and our bacon tastes great. We are not completely self sufficient, but close. We eat our own meat out of the freezer, drink our own milk, crack our own eggs, and saute our own veggies.

Rowan and Rose are the driving force behind everything. Dave comes home from work and helps when he can. Grant just shakes his head and mutters that we only got him frogs. Avonlea is always willing to help between her school and work, but almost everything falls on Rowan, Rose and me. Rose and I get up every morning to milk. I strain and play dairy maid while she cleans stalls and sees to ducklings, rabbits, chickens, and kittens. Rowan feeds dogs, meat chickens, geese, turkeys, and quail. I go back out and give extra milk to animals who had 5 gold stars for attitude and obedience and then I distribute pumpkins (although we sold hundreds, we still have a few (hundred) left over). The chickens and the cow love overly ripe pumpkins ripped open for them. I love feeding and nurturing so we are all very happy. 

We named our farm, Echo Farm. I believe that the words we say and the actions we do will live on through our children and echo down through the generations. This summer as my mom, Avonlea, and I weeded the garden together and Rose and Rowan wandered by feeding and walking animals I knew that none of us would ever forget the sound of this particular echo. That my mom, who sacrificed time and money we didn't have when I was growing up, so that I could become a dancer, enabled me to sacrifice my time and dislike of dirt and dirty animals so that my children could realize a dream. 

Maybe having a farm was never a dream of mine, but whoever said we have to only make our own dreams come true? This echo of sacrifice started long before me or my mom. It started with our Father God and it is echoing still in this world. Echoing in places we'd least expect to hear it. Like in a barn. 

Although maybe, that's the most natural place in the world to hear it. 

Merry Christmas.

The Nine Days

Rose came into this world on a rainy morning in April. She was pink and beautiful and precious. Dave was in the room and so was little Avonlea. Avonlea was six at the time, nine days from her 7th birthday. She had prayed for years for her sister Rose to be born and I thought she might want to be in on the action in the delivery room. 
As she held her new sister, I asked her, "So what did you think of little Rose's birth?"
She thought for a moment before replying, "It was very....private."
Later that day, I had the realization that in 2020, for nine days, I would have 4 teenagers. Rose would turn 13, and 9 days later, Avonlea would turn 20.
Of course at the time, I didn't really believe that day would ever come. If they grew up that would mean that I'd have to grow up, and I had no intention of doing so. I loved my babies being babies. I loved kissing soft little faces, holding grimy hands, and listening to their hilarious thoughts. 
Sometimes I wish life was a book that I could read as many times as I liked. The chapters have flown with adventures and heartache, laughter and pets, and it's 2020. 
Last week we ushered in the Nine Days.
Dave and I had made all sort of plans. We were going to Hawaii, a Victorian Tea House, a hike, 2 restaurants, etc. It was going to be a huge party, a celebration of 4 teenagers, all of whom we think are absolutely amazing people. But alas, COVID19. 
So the Nine Days that would have been spent in celebration are spent in isolation.
During the Nine Days we found out that the government ran out of money for small business loans and we had to lay off all our employees. Our business is considered essential but we do our business to "non" essential businesses so we had no work. 
Rose had kind friends who drove over and sat on blankets 6 feet apart from eachother to celebrate her day. Her grandparents stopped by with a present. We went on LOTS of walks with the dogs. We played games, did puzzles, went to a protest, prayed, and watched old movies. But the Nine Days looked nothing like I envisioned it looking. 

This is what a birthday party looks like during COVID19. We are doing a Bible Study. 

One of the things I did during the "stay at home" order was read through all my old journals starting with my marriage. I was constantly being surprised in my journals. Marriage was way more work than I thought it was going to be. Babies were surprisingly challenging. Homeschooling was alarmingly unvaried. House cleaning never ended. But even though so many things were not as I had anticipated them being, I still dove right in and enjoyed what I could and endured the rest (like diapers). 
So with the Nine Days. Another chapter. Another journal entry. Another surprise that I wasn't expecting but that I dove into anyway, thanking God for the good and enduring the rest (like Rose's zoom ballet class for 7 hours a week). 
I woke up this morning and knew the Nine Days were over. Twenty years ago I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. It was as if Dave and I had planted an unlabeled seed and we've had such pleasure in watching her become herself over the years. Avonlea is a delightful surprise and she has bloomed in extraordinary ways. 
I'm pretty sure my kids haven't stopped surprising me and life isn't done surprising me and I guess I should just dive in and enjoy what I have to endure because this is it. And I suppose the biggest surprise is that the kids have managed to grow up....but I haven't.

Before

After

Before

After

Before

After

Enjoy the Show

Friday night was opening night of the Nutcracker.
This was Rose's fourth year performing.
Our whole family stood in line an hour before curtain and finally got seated in the middle, five rows from the front. 
The first half was flawless and intermission came with only minimal suffering for the brothers. 
The first number of the second half the stomach flu hit. Literally. It hit the floor of the stage and froze the dancers mid move. The curtain closed quickly and Dave and I exchanged amused glances over the heads of our children who were seated in between us. A man behind me muttered about "low income productions" (I wonder how a bigger budget could have kept her from vomiting?). Someone in front of me suggested just dancing over it.
My friend Amy, sitting across the aisle, hopped over to me and we started to laugh. 
After all, it wasn't our kid. 
But I'm pretty sure the director wasn't laughing. The stage was cleaned, ballet shoes were disinfected, and before you knew it, the dance went on.

When my head hit the pillow that night I thought, raising adult children is exactly like that.
For almost 20 years, I've been the stage director. I absolutely take my cues from God, but more or less, I'm in charge of the daily decisions. I've scheduled dentist appointments, trimmed toe nails, flashed biology termed flash cards. The foods they eat, the type of bedding they sleep on, the kind of deodorant they use, and whether or not they have clean socks have largely depended on me. I've given my life to this job of mothering. I've researched everything from allergies to cat litter. I've felt the weight of the responsibility of my choices. I've prayed. And prayed some more.
But now I have two adult children and my role is changing. I've done my job well and they know what they're about. They want to see me in the audience cheering them on, watching with wonder and delight as they dance through their lives. I know there will be moments of vomit on the stage, moments when catastrophe comes and the dance freezes mid move. And I can trust that the director has it under control and that the dance will go on. God is the one who has always been in charge, and now, it's just that much more obvious.
It is a hard transition from backstage to audience, a transition I am still maneuvering. But I have hope and a God who loves to teach me and stretch me in new ways. There are days when the enormity of this change engulfs me and I thrash about in fear. Fear for my children (it's a scary world out there) and fear for myself (will I still exist without children depending on me???) But God reminds me again, what I often forget, I haven't given my life to this job of mothering, I've given my life to HIM. That won't change no matter if I'm sitting behind or in front of the curtain. 
And after all that work, I have every intention of enjoying the show. 

We to Me

My daughter comes home in 23 hours. I have not been in her presence for 5 long months (22 weeks to be exact). Seasons have come and gone and there's been an ache that runs through all their beauty.
I always cut my I-teeth on Avonlea.
We've been preparing for her arrival home, planning surprises and Rowan looks at me and says, "You know that by the time I come home from college, you'll probably forget to pick me up at the airport." I exclaim that I'll be just as excited over him and make a mental note to carefully write down his flight times, because he has a point.
But there was 18 years with Avonlea, all chock full of her quirkiness and laughter. There's just no one like her in the world.
She had a wonderful semester in New Zealand. She said "yes" to whatever people invited her to do (thank God she was at a Bible College!). She ran a 4K (in jeans), learned to ride a unicycle, learned to play volleyball and basketball, led English Country dances, and wrote amazing papers. She met all kinds of interesting people and grew so much in her faith. I am so proud of her.
She entered the tunnel of "we" becoming "me". When she left, she thought in terms of "we". She was a portion of a whole, the "whole" being our family. When she got to school and people asked her questions about what kind of movies she liked, etc. she'd reply, "We like...". Inevitably that got weird and it slowly changed. Of course she's still a beloved part of our family, but she is forming her own independent me-ness, and it's good. We're certainly not about to ride unicycles as a family unit, however, her me-ness expands our family not contracts it.
When I got into bed tonight I said to Dave, "I don't think I can sleep, Avonlea is coming!"
I realized later that I had said those same words 18 1/2 years ago when I was trying to get some rest as my labor was starting. We give birth to the same child several times over in our life. We feel the labor pains and we disregard them in the joy of creation. Our lives adjust to the child's arrival, their growth, their challenges, their passions. Various internal parts of us grow pregnantly round and stretch taut. Our children metamorphosis and change utterly and end up almost unrecognizable. Almost.
Today a poem that I wrote when she was born came into my mind.

Her cry broke the silence
a thousand years thick
Time fell like rain
frenzied and quick
A life wound up tight
has now been let go
What direction will it jettison
is what we none know

Well now I know. She jettisoned toward truth and beauty and music and nature and ultimately toward her creator God. She is a blessing, and I would go through the birth process again for her in a minute. And I probably will.

My daughter comes home in 22 hours.
I always cut my I-teeth on Avonlea.
There's just no one like her.

Trusty, dusky, vivid, true

She was 6 at her first piano recital.

I sat in our church sanctuary with my family and watched her pound out her simple song and I had absolutely no idea that I had just buckled my seat belt for a journey.
12 years later I am sitting in the same sanctuary listening again to her play.

There are differences. It's not a simple song and she doesn't pound. My dad is no longer sitting with us. Avonlea is taller and sweeter. The journey that I didn't know I started is coming to an end and there is an element of shock, as if a sudden stop informed me of how fast I had been traveling.

Avonlea leaves for Bible College in New Zealand in 2 weeks.

I will miss more things than I can chronicle, but near the top of the list is her music.

I can remember when we told her she could take harp lessons. She didn't gush but she came into the kitchen later and said, "I'm not saying much because my heart is in my throat." That's Avonlea's chronic state. The spoken word that solidifies her heart is difficult for her to express. Her fingers take the place of her vocal chords. She plays her heart on the piano and harp. It's always sweet and lovely and often playful. When I'm hurting or upset, her music is a hug and calm words. When I'm grumpy her music is cheerful and I can't help but caper. Her music draws cats onto her lap and people into the room.

Like Avonlea, her music has just always been there. Always, an important part of my life, my day.
My mother reminds me I'm building a legacy.
My pastor reminds us that we're building a cathedral, not just a square stone.
My mind reminds me that I gave Avonlea to God long ago and that this next step is natural and healthy.
But my heart doesn't acknowledge any of these things!
My heart just loves her and wants her near!!!

Last year when I was planting my rose garden, Dave brought home a rose for Avonlea. It is called the New Zealand Rose. It has more blooms than any of my other roses. The scent of it is amazing. Somehow, the rose bush is comforting me right now. I am allowing her to bloom somewhere else. Other people will be given the scent of her laughter and music and Avonlea-ness. I know she will bring joy and healing and wisdom to those she meets because she loves Jesus and follows Him with all her heart.

I know she will have adventures that she will bring home to our dinner table to make us laugh.
I anticipate the delight she will experience learning more about God's Word.
I want to see her bloom full and lush and velvety.
Even in the hurt of letting her go, gratefulness is greater.
I thank God for a daughter that loves Him.
I thank God for Avonlea.
These have been very precious years.

Avonlea and Grant June 2018 recital

Glorious Autumn

There are times when I lay on the floor of my bedroom, curled up in a patch of sunlight, half delirious with the brightness of fall leaves and half suffocated by the suffering world around me.

There are days when I spend hours outside in glorious autumn, planting bulbs, brown, egg-shaped personifications of hope.

There are 43 autumns behind me now, lived out in Alaska, California, England, Oregon and Washington. Yet every single autumn I am surprised by the beauty of this world.

I have spent 43 years watching God move in my life, seeing His goodness, testifying to His grace. Yet every single time He shows up I am surprised by His love.

Last night I said goodnight to the kids at the bottom of the stairs, I turned and quickly walked through the dark office to get to my own much desired bed. My mind was on Saturday's dress fitting for the Nutcracker. Obviously absorbing. The next thing I knew something slammed into me. Hard. I flew back several feet and landed flat on my back with a force that brought a scream and sob simultaneously.  I was stunned and in pain.

After Dave got me to my feet (ah I could still use my legs, good sign) I realized that I had run into the half open door. The solid wood had pushed my glasses into my now swollen eye and propelled me backwards with the same force I had been moving forward. I had walked into a door...don't only old people do things like that? My tailbone took the brunt of it and is now officially elderly.

God has this same effect on me. I move through life swiftly, thinking, planning, organizing my days, and I run into the God of the universe. Sometimes He stops me gently, and sometimes He's a door in the dark. Sometimes I lay on my back longer than I need to, insensible to what's going on. Other times, I'm up and thankful for the direction, for the halt. Maybe, like last night, I hobble to bed wry and bruised and humble. 

But the overwhelming fact is God shows up. He cares enough about our lives and our circumstances to interact with us. He is unpredictable, yet consistently faithful. 

Tonight, the rain rolls down the windows of my home. The trees drip leaves of red and yellow. Avonlea plays the piano and sings and a gray cat walks into my room. I am again overwhelmed by the beauty of life. But the heights reflect the depths and I also think of the suffering of the world, of people I love, and of my own burdens and I lift them up to God. I remember that I am not an exception. This good God who shows up and guides and helps me will also be present in the lives of those in need. 

To live hope is to take a prayer, an action, a word and bury it, bulb-like, in the hard ground; to revel in the glory of autumn is to prepare for the beauty of spring .

Avonlea's Graduation

When it comes right down to it, I'm a sentimentalist. I don't try to be, I just am.

So I approached Avonlea's high school graduation with fear and trembling. Granted, Avonlea's personality doesn't encourage sentimentality. She is silly and quirky and a bit of a bubble but STILL she's my first born and she was graduating. Sniff, gulp. 

She had a really hard time with the tassel making her cross eyed. Bubble.

We decided to do a home school graduation where Dave and I would talk to her on stage for several minutes and then she would respond to us. There were 11 graduates total and I knew that this had the potential for a full out sob fest. 

Avonlea with four of her graduating friends. I had just said something funny.

When my friend Dayna moved to North Dakota I gave a little talk at her farewell party at the church. I made it too nostalgic and got teary and promptly forgot the end of the speech. (Which, unfortunately, was the best part). So I learned my lesson and knew that if I got emotional I'd end up not saying what I wanted to. So we decided to make it funny.

Lord knows, with Avonlea, it wasn't too hard. The hard part was trying to narrow down her exploits to mock. I wrote out both my part and Dave's and he added his own personal touch at the end. The result was laughter and a memory of joy. 

I thought I'd include our talk here so that everyone one who wanted to come, but couldn't, could laugh with us.

Our Graduation Talk to Avonlea.....June 10, 2017

Me: Avonlea, I've never told you this before, but your dad and I established certain criteria to determine whether or not we should keep you.

Of course there were the general baby qualifiers, big eyes, fat thighs, etc. But what it boiled down to was " Will this child make us laugh?"

So since you had the eye/thigh thing going on we kept you around to see if you produced mirth.

Dave: Do you remember when you were seven and I took you up to your grandma's attic? I told you not to step on the insulation. You were obedient and you didn't step on the insulation, but you did sit on it. You went bottom first through the ceiling I lunged and caught you by the ankle. Your only comment was "Now I have something exciting to tell my children!"

You were expensive and destructive, but you were funny.

Me: And when I took you into the dressing room with me at a nice clothing store and in the quiet of concentrated shoppers your little voice popped out, "Wow mommy! Your legs start out so small at the bottom and get so big at the top!" I grinned and admitted that though you were embarrassing, you were funny.

Dave: When you took your first communion at church and before we could stop you clicked plastic cups with us and said "Cheers". You were sacrilegious, but you were funny.

Me: And when our house was filled with your music, when the days were lived to the melodies your fingers produced on the harp and the piano, When your harp music would coax the animals to you and you'd play with a parakeet on your shoulder and a cat in your lap. You were talented, but even in your talent, you found a way to be funny.

Dave: When you spent the majority of adolescence in the woods seeking birds' nests and strange fungus. You'd come home with your twigs and moss sticking out of your wild hair and burrs stuck to your camo. We'd look at you and say, she's crazy, but she's funny.

Me: So the decision was unanimous.

Dave: And we've never regretted it.

Me: Thanks for all the laughter Avonlea. Homeschooling you for the past 17 years has been a joy to me. Your have taught me more than I taught you. Thank you for being my guinea pig and allowing me to try eyery conceivable curriculum on you. You are scholastically well rounded. Thank you for staying patient and loving me even when I was a crazy wild woman. Your sweetness always calmed me. Over all the achievements that we celebrate today is the core that really matters, you love Jesus. We thank God for the gift of you Avonlea. We love you.

Dave: From the day you were born I committed myself to being the best father I could be. And though I failed many times I thank God for His help in raising you. He has truly blessed me beyond measure to see you through the last 17 years become increasingly more responsible, independent, and most importantly have a faith in Jesus Christ you have called your own. May your faith in God grow and flourish becoming fully dependent on Him in all circumstances. May you follow Him with abandon not based on feeling but based on commitment in the God you trust. I am proud of you and love you very much.

Avonlea is going to be around this year working. She was accepted at Capernwray Bible College in New Zealand for the 2018-19 school year. So I'm still able to keep my chin up and tell myself I have her for 11 more months. 

We were at a light. Pretty sure.

I'm so thankful to all of our friends and family who have contributed to Avonlea's life these past 17 years. So many of you have demonstrated Jesus in tangible ways and she is close to Him because she was close to you first. We were so blessed by everyone who celebrated with us through presence and presents. Thank you.

And now we move into the next chapter....(I can feel the sentimentality starting to tingle) Bible school, then marriage, and finally grand-children...and it seemed only yesterday she was toddling around in diapers...I need to go blow my nose.

The Usually Unusual

I believe late summer always finds me extremely random.

It's some strange combination of too much sun, too much time to think, and lots and lots and LOTS of time with my kids. Whom I love. Even when they whistle. Even when they whistle songs that don't exist outside of their heads. Even when they are 15 and still mispronounce "legend" by phonetically saying "leg end" and leave me thinking tibia while they are talking Sleepy Hollow.
See what I mean...random.

I have to record a story right now because it needs to take it's place in the halls of our family history. But I'm warning you...do not continue reading if you are faint of stomach.
You may (or may not) recall that we went to Hawaii in April. Well we left a pregnant cat at home. With my mom. I gave my mom implicit instructions on how to deliver Persian kittens. Persians need help cutting the umbilical cord and delivering the placenta. I told her whatever she does, to NOT LEAVE the cat once labor started because they will let their kittens die if they don't have help. My mom took all this in with a half skeptical half terrified look. I assured her she's make an excellent doula and began to pray.

We got a frantic call in Hawaii that the cat was in labor and when Mom tried to help the cat bit her and broke skin. So she said something like this on the phone, "I'm bleeding. I hate that cat. I'm going to the store to get band aids. I hate that cat." And I wanted to say DON'T LEAVE THE CAT, RECONCILE, there are Band-Aids in the cupboard. But seeing as how I was laying on the beach and my mother was bleeding I wisely said, "I'm so sorry mom. You go get band-aids."
Let's fast forward over the part of this story where she came home to 2 dead kittens. She sent me a picture of the one live one and I had to ask..."Mom is that a dead kitten in the background?" Oops, 3 dead kittens. The good news was that about a week later she found another live one also.

Fast forward to last week. It was Grant's first week home from Trinidad and we celebrated by having friends over. On Monday and Wednesday, several groups of people came to play. Avonlea mentioned at various times during the week that people didn't want to play dress up because it smelled in the dress up area. Finally Mom commented that she thought the cat had pooped on a little pink costume. So later on Wednesday, after all our company left, I grabbed the offensive costume and had Avonlea throw it in the washer. When I opened the washer after it was done, I almost fainted from the smell. I took out the clothes and there was the poop, still solid after a round on sanitize. What had this cat been eating?? I scooped it up with paper towels and found myself looking at a kitten. Or what was left of a kitten. From April. Oops, 4 dead kittens.

Can I just say that this was one of the grosser moments of my life, and if you recall, I have four children, so that's truly saying something.

I don't really feel like writing (or eating) any more after that. But if I did...I'd tell you about my time on the hammock down on the island at the cottage. I took off my glasses and looked at the world, blurry and beautiful. Suddenly I felt like I was blurry, indistinct. I melded with the waving leaves and the laughing brook and the birds flitting all about me. I must have melded for quite a while because when my world came back into focus, I was looking at Rowan yielding a machete (it was actually a stick, I was still fuzzy). He said with concern, "You have been gone for so long! I came to rescue you!" Totally worth putting my glasses on to see each freckle on that precious face.

See I kept writing and I started eating trail mix, too, so that kitten story must not have been that bad.

On Sunday, the people who sold us the cottage came by it to meet us. I officially have new FAVORITE PEOPLE. It was amazing to talk to them and hear of God's faithfulness over the years and how He honors a Godly heritage. We were so encouraged and again recognized God's hand in leading us there.

Next time I write, it will be from a place of school and order and schedule. And I will live a whole year before I have the time to be random again.

This is a good thing.


Photos by Avonlea unless she's in the picture