The Slopes

Yesterday, Dave took the boys skiing. 
It was a beautiful spring day and they had all kinds of dangerous, adreneline pumping fun. 
I stayed home and vacuumed and schooled Rose. Later, I took the girls on a stroll through an antique store and ended up at a restaurant for dinner. 
We all missed each other.
After having Avonlea away last year we are profoundly grateful for the times when we are all together. Because we know it's not going to last. Avonlea's year in New Zealand was the beginning of the end. Grant leaves in July for his year in New Zealand and Avonlea has boys circling the house like vultures. So the nights of Catan and movies and dinner around a candlelit table are expiring and therefore precious. But truly, they were always precious.

Dave said the weather conditions up skiing yesterday were interesting. At the top of the lift it was sunny with blue skies but as he skiied down the mountain it misted over and then began snowing! Different altitudes had different weather and he only had a brief time to marvel over it as he manuvered the hills and landed the jumps. 

I understood this. Conditions are constantly changing around here and I have only time to blink in amazement before my attention is demanded for navigation of the terrain.  A few weeks ago the kids were all in the office playing a game and I was cleaning up a desk and reading alternately. I went to get something and Rowan called out, "Mom, come back. You're the sunshine in the room." This random little comment stopped me in my tracks. Do I help decide the climate of their lives? Yes, I do. I wonder if they'll remember their childhood as tropical or polar? Probably both or somewhere in between. 

So I vacuum. I have the kitchen painted blue and the living room painted red (Dave wins again). A barn is going up behind Ma Glo's apartment. It will house a milk cow and Rowan's tractor. There is a big vase of tulips on the counter next to a plate of cinnamon coffee cake. As hard as I try to make their home beautiful and cozy, it's actually my heart and hands and smile that make the difference in their lives. I know I forget this. I get grumpy cleaning toilets and begrudge them the crumbs on the floor. But this counteracts the very thing I'm trying to do. Which is, make their lives beautiful, colorful, engaging and then point to the one who is the Creator of all creation. I've been manuvering this terrain for twenty years, through all types of weather. And although I'm tired, I realize there's no where to lay down. I'm still on the slope. 

There are days when I'm ready to check in my rentals, but there are also moments of exileration that encourage me to keep going. My adorable and shrinking, 79 year old mother, goes downtown to Portland every Tuesday evening to pray for homeless people in line for the free dinner. She braves the cold and dirt and occasional violence to offer people the love of Jesus. She mentioned to Rowan that sometimes people ask for Bibles but that she doesn't have any to hand out. Rowan gathered his siblings together and asked if they'd put their tithes and offering toward buying Bibles for Ma Glo to distribute. The purchased 600 New Testiments with commentary on how to become a Christian. 

Moments like that, when I see them loving well, I realize afresh the faithfulness of God. 

For faithful He is. In all kinds of weather through all different landscapes. He persistantly takes my world and shakes it up and teaches me to appreciate the changes instead of whining about them (even though whining is unfortunately part of the process for me). The changes change my life when I submit to His work in me. 

So today, I drop off kids at class, stop by the clinic for blood work, cut up watermelon for the ducks, make a pot of tea and read a book aloud to lunching children. I do these things in His Name for a kingdom I cannot see, but one I highly anticipate.

I know that we won't all be together forever on this earth, in this (clean) home, but I'm doing my utmost to make sure we're all together in another home for eternity. 
These are precious years.

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.

Our Week: Ducks, Morphine, and Photo Shoots

Rowan is again making the headlines in our home.
He has become the proud possessor of a duckling. He owns a black duck named Swift and Rose has a yellow quacker named Popcorn. Super cute and fun, Until Rowan didn't wash his hands well enough after cleaning the cage and came down with salmonella poisoning.
Our week, consisted of trying to determine why he was so sick and encompassed, one urgent care visit, one doctor visit, two ER visits, and finally hospitalization in a children's hospital. They checked for a huge array of diseases and infections which left us reeling from potential scenarios for our future and Rowan's future. Salmonella poisoning isn't usually hailed with glee, but in our case, it was.

Cutest culprits of infection ever

There were some beautiful gifts given in the process of all of this chaos and confusion.

Prayer. So many texts from so many dear friends telling us they were praying. Rowan recovered so much faster than anyone expected given the seriousness of his case, but I knew it was because he was covered in the prayers of God's people.

Bonds. As Rowan lay writhing in pain on a stretcher he kept calling for his brother. He burst into tears when Dave showed him a recent picture of them together on vacation. He kept repeating over and over, "God's got me. Dad and Mom have got me. Grant's got me." It blessed my heart to see how much he loves his brother.

Education. We had a nurse ask in the ER if Rowan was home schooled. We said yes and then Dave asked what gave it away. The nurse explained that most 11 year olds don't quote the entire Gettysburg Address when in duress. Right. Rowan also quoted the 24th Psalm and discoursed for a bit on his favorite civil war battle (Chickamauga). He was delirious with pain but what came out was what he had worked so hard to put in.

Our very sick little boy waiting for his CAT scan

Faith. Rowan wanted to listen to music in the ER while we waited for the results of a CAT scan. He chose to listen to Bethel's "It is well with my soul". A nurse commented that he doesn't hear that one much in the ER. We met some wonderful nurses and doctors who serve in a really hard setting with really sick people, yet they do so with such compassion and wisdom.

Pleasant surprises. On Friday we were told that our nurse, Jody, had won a nursing award. She was going to be featured in a magazine and have her picture in the lobby of the hospital up on the wall. She would be photographed with a patient and she chose Rowan. Rowan miraculously stopped writhing long enough to smile up at her while she took his temperature and stuff. Cracked.me.up. He's truly my son and photo shoots are not to be passed up NO Matter What.

Drugs. A shot of morphine gave Rowan much needed relief. He really liked the morphine and was later a bit irritated at the nurses who only offered ibuprofen and Tylenol. I woke up in the hospital Friday morning to Rowan's eyes boring into me as he stated, "I want more morphine." It was a good thing we had a lot of time together in the hospital because I was able to tell him every horror story of drug addiction I had ever heard. Pretty sure I got my point across as he refused Tylenol and ibuprofen after our hours long discussion.

Rowan in his hospital room contemplating escape

Home. We had some vague promises that we could go home from the hospital on Friday so when the doctor came in and said  Rowan's levels were too high for her to feel comfortable letting him go, we were both disappointed. But as soon as the doctor left the room, Rowan was more than disappointed. He was crushed. "I want my home. I want my dog. I want my brother. I want my bed. I want to go home." I tried to comfort him but he'd had it. He packed up his stuff and he told the nurse, "I am completely better. I want to go home." She listened to him. She talked to the doctor who agreed to do another blood draw. She found his levels so decreased that she was surprised and allowed him to go home. His face when he got here. His arms around his siblings. His hands on his dog. His smile and happiness and thankfulness filled my heart to overflowing.

So somehow, out of this crazy wild week, I emerged encouraged. Rowan slept 12 hours last night. He woke up weak and scrawny but so happy to be surrounded by the people who love him best. I hope all my kids always feel like that. That they know they have a place in something bigger than themselves and that our family also has a place in a bigger picture. I'm encouraged that even in the midst of all this mess God has got us, and my children know it. Praise the Lord.

Romance

The good news is I'm not walking into walls anymore when I try to go upstairs in the dark.

We are still moving in. Who knew it would take 6 months and many bruises? Not this little optimistic Eskimo. I thought I could do it in a week. Or so.

Dave started to help me put pictures up last weekend. You would think that after having 6 months to ponder where those pictures should go we'd be able to slap them up in a jiffy. I have made some bad calls.

Take the Lady of Shallot for instance. I love her. I thought I would love her in my bathroom.

But it kind of looks like she's trying to peek.

I'm not Lancelot and don't find this flattering. Or comfortable.

In other news...I went to pick the kids up at camp in July and came home with a puppy. Some women impulse buy shoes, I bring home pets. Pets that will someday be LARGE.

 But she's not large right now. She is the yummiest bear of a baby and her name is Pearl. The way I babble at her and cuddle her is proof that I should have had more children.

Two weeks ago we went peach picking. It was highly romantic. Almost as romantic as having the Lady of Shallot watch you take a bath.

Of course we couldn't eat the entire 26 pounds of peaches that we picked so we mixed them up with blackberries and made fruit leather.

Here is the peach/blackberry fruit leather before it went into the dryer. Doesn't it look like a big hearted swan??? I found this extraordinary and very romantic. Also possibly prophetic although I haven't figured out how.

Last week we went on our last summer outing as a family. We explored Fort Vancouver. It seemed symbolic (I think symbolism is romantic) that we step into the past before we step into the future.

Our future is this: Avonlea is a Senior and graduates this June. Grant started public high school. Rowan and Rose keep me busy as 4th and 5th graders at opposite ends of the education spectrum. Rowan wants to know everything because he wants to be President of the United States as soon as he turns 30. He eats up everything I can feed him mentally and asks questions that keep Google and I tight. Rose on the other hand has no ambition except to be a ballerina missionary. When questioned further she will tell you she wants to dance for Africans. But in general it's best NOT to question her further.

(She wrote a poem the other night that said "the moon is sining, all the stars sin together". She meant shine. She asked me if I wanted her to illustrate the poem. NO. No thank you dear, go practice your ballet.)

Dave and I's future is always together....for the romantic moments and the not-so-romantic moments. For the puppies and the starry nights (whether sinning or not)  and the morning fog. For the four lives that bind us so closely to each other and our God. For pumpkin patches and huckleberry picking and laughter.

A future built on a mountain of memories and a foundation of love.
So we welcome fall, I have a tingly feeling that it is going to be very romantic.

Braving the Mosquitoes

I once read in a book a scenario where a young man longs for Venice. When his dream is finally realized and he is cascading down liquid streets in a gondola...he is nearly eaten alive by mosquitoes.

I cocked my head, golden-retriever fashion, when I read this at the ripe age of 20. Was it sarcasm or cynicism? I have learned some in the last 20 years and I don't think it was either. I think it was just life. Just this side of Heaven. Just a longing for a garden pre-fall.

I remembered this little book tidbit last week when my head was throbbing. My whole entire life I have dreamed of having a grand piano. When I realized that we needed a piano at the cottage so the kids could practice while they're up there, I had a GREAT idea, which I sprung on Dave when we were driving up to the cottage. Why not buy a grand piano for our house and move the upright piano to the cottage. Win/win. Dave tried to tell me that we could save our backs and our bank account by getting a keyboard for the cottage, at which point I broke into tears. "But I've always wanted a grand piano," sob. My strength is obviously subtlety. My good, dear husband turned the car around and drove to the piano store.

And the piano came. Glossy and black and beautiful and loud. Yes, loud. Loud as in I can hear nothing else but piano. All day. I am learning to read lips. Loud as in Rose's piano teacher gave her an Indian war song to play and I hear the drum-like chords pounding in my head for long hours into the night. Loud as in, I break a sweat at the thought of Christmas music.

The kids love to practice on it, and I smile wry at the realization of this dream. If I could hear anything at all, besides Indian chords, I'm pretty sure I'd hear mosquitoes.

As I've mentioned in a previous post, Grant is 13 with a vengeance. I noticed the other day when we had friends over that he didn't participate in the sword fighting. Asked about it later he replied, "I tried to keep the warrior in." I have spent whole Bible studies learning how to make my son a warrior. I have read several books on raising a knight. But the mosquitoes are hungry these days and for goodness sakes keep.the.warrior.in. Let your warrior mature before he comes out to defend the innocent.

Rose and I home schooling together is another gondola moment complete with whining, bloodsucking insects. I love this child. I love home schooling. But something goes wrong when I try to combine the two. When Avonlea and Grant were little I used to ring a bell to begin school. They would come running down the stairs yelling, "Yay! School! What are we doing today mommy!!" (Completely legit here). This no longer happens. Rosy and I resemble wrestlers circling each other in the ring. I try to take her over her flashcards and she listens for "voices" which tell her the answers, giving math the atmosphere of a séance. The "voices" are more often wrong than not and I begin to lose my patience with the "voices". Why couldn't the "voices" belong to people who were good at math? Yesterday during flashcards as I inhaled deeply trying to keep calm and loving, Rose put her hand on my arm and said, "It's worth it mom." Mosquitoes galore in that moment.

Sometimes I can believe the idea that this life is all mosquitoes. But it's not. I actually made it to Venice. (Literally and figuratively) I love my family, my friends, my home. I love my God. There is beauty all around me. It's a little bit different than I imagined it would be, but that's what Heaven is for. It's foolish to think that life should be perfect, because if it were, what in the world would I laugh at?

And although it's humbling to hear it from my eight year old, Rose is right. It's totally worth it.

PS Rose passed "Little Indian Brave" and is on to "Beaded Moccasins".
I'm pushing for politically correct piano books.

A Risk Worth Taking

Rose wasn't supposed to be Rose.
I had my mind made up that my next little girl was going to be Quinn.
Quinn Anne to be exact and she was going to have dark hair and eyes and live the siren legacy I was bequeathing to her.
And then...years before I'd gotten pregnant with Quinn...Avonlea said, "I'm praying to God for baby Rose." I've never gotten to the bottom of where it came from. Did she like the flower? The carousal horse that she liked to ride whose name was Rose? Laura Ingalls' little daughter? I will never know.
By the time I did get pregnant again Rose was a reality that I couldn't shake. Avonlea had to live through another brother first (she broke down in the ultra-sound lamenting Rose). But finally, soon after Rowan (might I add EXTREMELY soon after) little Rose made her entrance.
Dave and I decided on a middle name and added with our last name, her initials were RSK. One letter away from a risk. That made us laugh and it felt vaguely naughty so we liked it because we never are really naughty so anything that even comes close has appeal.

We had no idea.

Rose is naughty enough for all of us and lives up to her initials.

I laughed out loud today at a memory. Rose was 2 and I was praying for her before she went to bed. My prayer was more a whine than a prayer as I was lifting up before the Lord all the terrifically terrible things my daughter had done that day with the intention of asking Him to FIX the child when I was interrupted by little hands across my mouth and big green eyes inches from my own and a little indignant mouth that said, "STOP TELLING DOD ON ME!"

So I have. I've stopped telling God about what was wrong with my daughter and started thanking Him for the little Rose she is.

I see a beautiful young woman emerging. She is loving and thoughtful and happy. She is loyal and scandalous and dramatic. She is a ballerina. She is an animal lover. She asks good questions and isn't afraid to let us know when our answers are unsatisfactory. She loves Joshua but rolls her eyes at Samson. She wants to be just like her mommy.

Summer is winding down and I will never live this particular one again. That's okay, because I've lived it fully, enjoying this family, my God, the beautiful world.... I let it go and look forward to the next season...

 Rose brought me out into the yard today to watch her throw up the soccer ball and kick it mid-air. She tried about 10 times, missed, and apologized for missing. Finally she said, "I know you don't have time for this Mommy, you can go."
I answered in all sincerity, "Rose I have all the time in the world for you."

Because this whole life is one big risk. Children, the greatest risk of them all. And since I decided to risk it I'm going to do so whole heartedly and love them with everything in me. I'm going to put my arms around them every chance I get. I'm going to make them laugh at every opportunity. I'm going to tuck them into bed and pray with them and share my heart with them. I'm going to listen hard. I'm going to say I'm sorry often. I'm going to kiss their daddy. And I'm going to do some serious talking with God about them (without tattling (much)).

All the time in the world is for right now, for these days.
I'm risking all I've got on them.



Please note, before you put me in league with Samson and roll your eyes at me, that school starts next week. We'll see how I'm feeling about all of this once I start trying to pound math facts in Rose's brain again.  Please remind me then of how much I like her right now.

Turning Outward

The candle in the middle of our table was purchased on one of our family trips to San Diego. I found it in a shop and loved the symbolism of it. Three boys and three girls, arms around each other, facing inward toward the light. Our family. I have kept it on our table always. Even...when friends told me it did not match my Victorian décor. Even...when friends told me it was ugly. Even...when friends told me it was pagan.
I simply don't care. I love it.

 When my children were little, I worked hard to make that candle a reality. I taught them as much as I could about the Light of the world. I homeschooled them and made our day revolve around the Bible and Jesus. We lived life together, arms around each other, facing the Light.

And then Avonlea went on her two month mission trip and my world and my heart felt cracked, severed, damaged. I struggled to understand and articulate WHY I felt like that, but last week I finally understood.

I was asked to participate in a survey about teenage homeschoolers. A man called to interview me and I was glad to glibly answer his questions. Some of them, were critical of home schooling and called for a defense of what I did. This too, I gladly answered, but some of my responses surprised me.

He asked me if I thought homeschooling was non-democratic because it only catered to the good of one family as opposed to the good of the community. I responded, "Oh it's what we learn at home that enables us to better serve our community and our world!" I proceeded to list the ways we interact as a family and individuals with the world around us. And as I described these things to this man on the phone, I suddenly had a vision of our family, facing outward.

It hit me why Avonlea's going on her mission trip had been so traumatic. She had broken the circle. She had turned outward. It was what I had prayed and hoped she would do, but it was a difficult transition, and it precipitated a general coup. Avonlea started public high school. Dave and I went to Haiti last month. Grant goes to Trinidad in July. We have a second Haiti trip planned with the kids. We are engaging the people God brings into our lives on a regular basis, not just in our home, and not just as a single unit.

We will still have times when we turn inward as a family. But more and more, our focus is outside these Victorian walls.
I want to live a turned out life.
I want to sit on the front porch instead of hiding in the fenced back yard.

I want to turn to the world with the light of God shining on our faces, arms around each other, three girls and three boys.

 

A Time to Say Yes

I'll admit. There were times when the concept of "18 years" overwhelmed me.
Not at first. Not when I held their soft, wet bodies for the first time.
But later. Around one and a half.
Eighteen years stretched out before me as a vast uncharted sea inhabited by diapers, Prom dates, pink eye, shaving, hide-and-seek, bubble baths, Algebra, and Barbie.

There were nights I remember falling to sleep with one prayer repeating itself over and over in my mind, "Oh Lord, tomorrow, let me be nice."
Because sometimes I felt that I had reached the summit of insanity by having four young children and attempting to educate them. And feed them. And keep their bodies sanitary. (Note I didn't say clean).
And the number kept me numb, eighteen years, eighteen years with each of them, on this uncharted, unpredictable sea.

I survived.
I learned to use a compass. I learned to notice trade winds. I became the essence of "nautical".
And I loved it.

Then Avonlea left for her 2 month mission trip.
It felt as if I had gone to bed 7 months pregnant and woke up not pregnant anymore. I knew my daughter existed, that she still was, but I had no tangible proof of it.
I felt like I had taken my 14 year old daughter, who legally I had until 18, and prematurely sent her off in a life boat alone.
I panicked.
What in the world was I thinking?

 My preemie was adrift.
Were her lungs developed enough; could she breathe on her own?
What if a storm came up and she was alone?
Her skin, was it ready to protect her little body?
Could she manage her oars, she only weighed 93 pounds?
Her eyes, were they ready for light?
And I couldn't know. Not for sure.
I got several letters and they only served to increase my doubt.
"Joel is so hilarious mom. He makes the funniest faces."
How do I interpret that? Is Joel a cute boy or an orangutan?

Then there was the letter who's back was covered only with the words to the whole song of "I love you a bushel and a peck." which I haven't sung to her since she was approximately four.
Was she telling me that she too, remembers. Was she letting me know her life jacket was on, that she was coping with the sea on her own?
The hardest part about all this was that I shouldn't be whiny or bitter (this is not saying that I'm not, just that I shouldn't be).
These babes watched me as I floundered in the sea of "many little lives". They saw my failures. My sea sickness. My dismay at being caught by storms I should have seen coming. They heard my prayers. They met Jesus through their Daddy and I. And they fell in love. With us first, and then with Him.
Because the Love of Christ compels.
So when my daughter said, "Can I go serve the Lord?" it would have been rather inconsistent to plead eighteen years.
There were times for "no". But I knew it was time for "yes".

So she left, went forward to tell people about Jesus, to help those in physical and spiritual need.
And I felt the vastness of silence.
I learned that the most terrifying sea is not always the sea in storm, but the sea in silence. Vast and lonely and stagnant. No shore in sight.
But there is a shore, I just don't know what it will look like, I can't see it.
She'll come home in a little over a week.
She'll have sailed alone, on her own. Without me.
She'll describe to me her experiences and I will employ every ounce of my imagination trying to experience them, too.
The same baby that metamorphosed to missionary in my arms, I will hold again. But differently.
Loosely.
Giving her space to splash about with her oars. Space to learn adulthood like I learned motherhood.
Space to grow up.

Grant told me recently that he's praying about going on a mission trip next summer.
"Would you be okay with that?" he asks me timidly. He's watched me all summer. Praying for Avonlea. Missing Avonlea.
"Absolutely Grant. Always go when God asks."
Because whatever boat He puts you in, He will teach you to maneuver.
Because whether the sea is stormy or stagnant, He is faithful.
Because I trust Him with this life's most precious cargo, my children.

Many years ago I stopped falling to sleep praying, "Oh Lord, tomorrow, let me be nice."
It has altered to, "Oh Lord, may they all love You, may they all love You, may they all love You..." It's the lullaby of faith, the splay of water on the hull, the heartbeat of new life; soft and wet.

First Gleam

Every morning we meet.

These 4 kids and their weary mommy. We spend an hour or so reading God's Word, memorizing scripture, praying for people, reading a  missionary story. Because years ago, when trying to define the purpose of home schooling my kids, I realized that the most important thing was that they left this house with a strong relationship and consuming love with/for Jesus.

And this morning, again, we met. Again, we opened God's Word and prayed and then we talked about inside obedience vs. outward obedience. And we prayed for our missionary. And today, it happened to be their sister. Avonlea is leaving this week to serve the Lord in the capacity He has called her.

Avonlea and her friend Gabrielle will be gone for two long months.

God has been so good to so faithfully lead our daughter. We are so thankful for the music and laughter and joy that she has blessed our home with. Oh we will miss her!

But we are so excited for this new adventure. For the path that God has called her to walk at this time. Just like all our treasures, we hold her with an open hand, knowing well how capable and trustworthy our God is.

"The path of the righteous is like the first gleam of dawn,

shining ever brighter till the full light of day."

Proverbs 4:18

Light

Lovingly, I watch them grow. Often with sorrow, more often with joy.

In January of this year I had to put Avonlea and Grant in an Algebra 1/2 class. I couldn't figure out the problems, I couldn't help them. They needed what I didn't have, a mathematical brain, to guide them. I found them a class on Wednesday mornings and all was well.
But Tuesday nights were tough. There were problems they couldn't get on the work they had to turn in on the morn.
Finally I told them, "Why don't you show each other the problems you don't get. Your brains are exactly opposite each other's so you can probably help."
Sure enough, every problem Avonlea didn't get, Grant did, and vice versa.

They worked together at the kitchen table. An hour passed and the sun descended.
And I realized that they had both surpassed me. They could help each other because I could no longer help them. They can diagram sentences that I can't fathom the mechanics of. They have both surpassed me in musical ability and can sight read way better than I can. They eat more than I do.
And as I watched them working, I felt as though I had nothing to offer them.
I lit the candle on the table. I lit it as light for them. I lit it just for the sake of beauty.

The paradigm shifted and I saw that this is always all I had to offer them.
Light.
The Light of the world resides in me, shines through my inadequacies, and illuminates the path my family walks.
If I think I have anything more than that to offer, anything higher to live up to, anything necessary that I lack, I am mistaken.
When I doubt myself, I remember the Light, and I aim for transparency.
Because He is always enough.

The Scent of Adventure

Two weeks into school and I was finished.
I hit the wall in September that I don't usually hit until June.
Not good.

I love home schooling my children. But what started out as a fun adventure had somehow morphed into a crazy Ben-Hurish chariot race. Through the years we've quadrupled our number of children that need to be educated, we've added several instruments (with lessons!), not to mention ballet, basketball, art, Spanish, Friday School, etc.

I sat Dave down, on the Friday night of the second week, and told him I was pretty much finished.
He was unsure of how to take this.
He thought maybe he should quit his job and help me.
This scared me into clearer thinking.
My thoughts were that we should chuck everything extracurricular.
Toss it.
Who cares that we've invested thousands of dollars into lessons? So what that we bought Avonlea a harp? Why does Craigslist exist if not for the superfluous harp?
Dave and I hit these thoughts back and forth rather like a lame game of badminton when suddenly, he scored. "How about asking your mom to help?"
The room pulsed with light for a minute as we paused.
My mom will be 72 next month. She still works full time and then some. Maybe she'd like to retire to my house? Hmmmmm.
"Yeah?"
Dave pounced on my uncertainty, "Go down and ask her right now." (She lives next door).

I went. I asked.
She replied, "Can you hold on for two weeks so I can give my notice?"
I fainted (in spirit if not body).

Apparently she was ready to retire, ready to jump in and help me out for a bit, ready for God's next adventure for her. However, I'm not sure who's in for the bigger adventure, her or I.

We are in our third week of togetherness. Rowan and Rose climbed into bed with me this morning and I inhaled and had an urge to throw them in the frying pan and saute them with some onion. Upon questioning I discovered that mom's been slipping them whole pickled garlic cloves. They eat them like candy at her house.

Last week she told me to clean up the Lincoln Logs and I had a crazy urge to tell her that Rosy spilled them and not me! Why should I have to clean them up! It's not fair!

She drove the kids to piano and sang Jewish songs in Hebrew at the top of her lungs the whole way home. The children were slightly traumatized and only agreed to go with her again if she gave them more pickled garlic. It's a vicious cycle my friends.

Rowan asked her if she was alive when Pompeii was buried. She wouldn't answer him. He was rather offended. "I still don't know," he said sadly.

All in all, I feel like this is how life was meant to be lived. The stories she tells, the songs she sings, the garlic she propagates, all add to the richness, the fullness, the aroma of our lives. There is a circular sense of rightness. There is a give and take that is generous yet careful of boundaries.

The wall that I was hitting has disappeared and life is a fun adventure again.
And I feel what I sometimes only know, that God loves me very much and he cares.

"Rosy if you get off of me I'll give you some pickled garlic!"