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

Remembering our Royalty

The days are dominoes. Slipping softly one after another or clanging loudly on top of each other aggressively. I am fairly passive in this process. My mold for each day, stuffing minutes like play-doh into the shape I want it to form, is gone. I tossed the mold at some point or maybe it exploded when the minutes became combustible. Entering the world of teenagers and middle schoolers has pretty much annihilated my game plan, and made me very very tired. I grab after laughter like ointment, the only thing that heals my chapped optimism, and I talk. I talk late to my boys. I see this world through their eyes and I feel the confusion and temptations that come with growing into manhood in this culture. I lay my time and heart out in mothering like I never have before and, yet, I can't guarantee anything. I pray for a faithful heart that doesn't grow weary.

Our new couch was a little bit bigger than I anticipated it being!

Earlier this week I found a few minutes to curl up on our new couch with a magazine. The door opened and I saw my mom come in. I continued to read until I sensed an undercurrent of excitement in the room. Now, I love my mom, but her undercurrents of excitement usually stem from things like discovering that peanuts are solely responsible for obesity in America. (MOM, what have I told you about clicking on those ads on the computer). So I hesitated to look up, finding the magazine much more safe. I lifted my eyes to see her fidgeting at the edge of the couch.
I braced myself but not enough.

"I just found out that we're related to King David."

Just found out? As in angelic messenger? As in an old genealogy hidden in a secret compartment in Grandmother's jewelry case?

"No, my sister got a new app on her phone that traced us all the way back. She just kept pressing the back arrow and there was King David!"

That's a lot of back arrows. I tentatively asked, "How can they know the lineage that far back?"

"Oh, they kept very good records of royalty." She swished back out the door and I could almost hear her purple robe trailing behind her.

I love this woman. I want to throw in the towel and howl and she's content with knowing that she's royalty. And she is, she is God's daughter, whole-heartedly, and she never forgets it.

She reminds me, that I too, am of the generation of faith. I have a cloud of witnesses who lived this life faithfully before me. I may or may not have the blood of King David running through my veins, but I do have the same Spirit, and so do my children.

So I smile and ruminate that the royal line wouldn't be intimidated by the tactics of the enemy.
I open my Bible, ready to form a new game plan.
I continue to lay my time and my heart out in mothering like I never have before and I have faith that the words and actions I lay on this alter of love will help shape a generation, one life at a time.

Later, I go upstairs to tuck in my little daughter and I can sense an undercurrent of excitement in the room. I try not to groan, but an undercurrent of excitement in Rose usually stems from things like telling me how many scoops she got out of the litter box that day.
So I braced myself, but not enough.

"When I start my period will you get me a bunny to celebrate?"

I tuck in the slightly shorter version of my mother into bed and get my royal self downstairs.

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.

My Thorny Rose

I am used to waking up when I want to. In other words, I'm spoiled.
This fall, Avonlea started public school. She had to be awake by 6:30am.
That meant to spend time with her in the morning, I had to be up by 6:30am.
That meant that if I wanted to exercise, I had to be up by 6:00am.
That meant OUCH.
But my daughter is more important than my sleep so up I get.
So sleeping in is reserved for an occasional Saturday and the sacrifice is so worth it.

But....last Friday.... I had nothing to be up for. A vast, unlittered morning to relax in bed with my Bible and maybe even breakfast. With a sigh of contentment I snuggled back into my warm bed and opened to the book of Luke.

That must have been some kind of cue, because in to my bedroom blew a Rose.

"Hi mommy. Do you want to snuggle?"
"Sure, come on up. Mommy's reading her Bible right now."
"Cool. Is Jakob coming over today to set up Rowan's drum set?"
"Yep."
(Jakob is the 16 year old son of my friend Natalie)
"I can't wait to see his eyes light up when he sees me."
"Um Rose, he's 16 and you're seven. You're like his little sister."
"No, I'm like his wife." She tosses her head and retorts, "Besides, I'm old for my age and tall for my age and some people think I'm eight."
I close my Bible.
She continues, "AND I have all my children named." She cuddles closer to me, "My first girl's going to be Annie."
Before I can express my gratitude for this honor, she rattles off the names of half a dozen other children that may or may not be a reality one day.
"Those are beautiful names Rose but you'll have to make sure your husband, whoever that may be, agrees with those names."
"No I won't. This is what's going to happen. I'll get married and get pregnant and then my husband will go to war, and I'll name all my children whatever I want."

Suddenly, sleeping in lost all of it's appeal. I was out of that bed with an energy I didn't know I possessed at that early hour.

I'll take 6am exercise to talking to Rose about marriage any day.
She is scary.

Waiting Thankful

Rose loves an outing.
A trip with Ma Glo inevitably means candy or a coloring book. Or both.
So she skips in to ask if she can go to the store with her Grandma and I nod a slow yes, prolonging her anticipation.
Ma Glo tells Rose that she'll just run down to her house to get her car and then she'll drive up to get her.
Rose gets her shoes on and slips out to wait on the porch.
I get lost on the Internet, reading someone's story somewhere about something. It obviously impacted me deeply. I was interrupted from that memorable something by a tragic faced child.
Her three words gnashed.
"She forgot me."
And then silence while I gasped for air and her eyes pooled.
"She never came for me. It's been so long. She forgot me."
Instinctively I knew that this was more than coloring books and candy, this was the longing of humanity, to be remembered. To be worth remembering.
And I spoke the words I needed to hear, "Rosy, Ma Glo loves you. She would never forget you."
"Then where is she!"
On cue came the sound of an opening door, "Rosy! Are you ready?"
Rose ran.


This Thanksgiving I am thankful for a God who doesn't forget us.
I am thankful that when I doubt this I can resource His Word that tells me, "Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! See I have engraved you on the palms of my hands;"  (Isaiah 49:15,16)
I am thankful that He promises, "Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you."
I am thankful that I was reminded by a little girl, that when my eyes start to pool and doubt gnashes deep, a Hand is already on the door knob waiting to open it.
And when He opens that door,
I will run,
because I have been waiting a long time.

Christian Barbies, Bandits, and Nameless Hamsters

If you've been waiting for a hamster update, here it is.
We love our hamster.
I'm not sure it's reciprocated, but we love him. Or her.
I am just calling him "hamster" because he/she is currently unnamed.
He was named Dumpling until I heard Rosy introducing him by saying, "This is our hamster Dumping."
She can't manage the "l" and I can't manage without the "l" so it is now just "hamster".
Grant really wants to name him Aragorn, but I can't manage that either. No resemblance whatsoever!

Anyway, in other news.
Rosy has a favorite song that she sings at the top of her lungs whenever it comes on the radio. It is entitled, "I Want To Live With Abandon." I thought this was very fitting because she does live with abandon. But as I listened closer to what she was singing, I heard this, "I Want To Live With A Bandit." Which I suppose would also be living with abandon. When I tried to correct her, Rowan piped up, "Yeah Rose, it doesn't say bandit. It says Band-Aid."
At which point I turned to the classical station.

Barbies have been boycotted at our house for several years because Rose plays rather scandalous stories with them (we have a Ken, who I believe is at the bottom of all the mischief). But somehow or another Rose talked me into letting her have some up at the cottage. I had Avonlea and her friend put duck tape swimsuits on them all and I thought all scandal would end with the duck, so to speak. I was wrong.
Two week ago when we were up at the cottage, Rose and I went for a walk. We rambled side by side on the trail above the woods and she said, "Mommy, I played a Christian story with my barbies today."
"Good Rosy, I'm so glad you're playing nicely." And then I had to clarify. "What exactly do you mean by "Christian"?"
"Well remember that story you read us in the Bible last week about David and Bathsheba?"
!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Duck tape was my only consolation at that point.
See what I mean about Ken?

Rose told me today that God has asked her to be a missionary to Africa. When I asked her where in Africa, she replied Turkey.
Either God has some geography issues or Rose needs her ears cleaned out.
Remembering the bandit incident makes me lean toward Rosy's ears.
But I'm thankful that she's called to be a missionary because it's so Christian. And because I don't think there are any barbies in Turkey (but there might to bandits).

I will leave you with a SMALL sample of a group of pictures I found on my camera.

I think maybe God's calling me to Turkey, Africa.

Generational Naughtiness

I've been missing this space. This white page...waiting....for black laughter and stories to dance across it. Iconic letters and captured picture moments and the record of a life lived. Cuneiform etched into brick. Words typed on a page. A life processed through fingertips tapping.

Today is my mother's birthday.
Last week she came to our life group because we were doing an India night. I wanted her to come share about the work she did there this summer at the orphanage. She came and sat in front of our little group and held up a big map.
She pointed out India and said, "It's right here next to the Bay of Ben Gay."
We all kinda cocked our heads, trying to remember why that didn't sound quite right. Dave piped up with a, "Are you feeling stiff or achy Gloria?"
At that I dissolved. She will never live that down.

So today we had the following text conversation.

Me: We've got all kinds of birthday crafts going on up here. You might need a bigger house
Mom: Would it justify a second story on this one?
Me: Remember your 73 now, you won't be able to walk up steps much longer
Mom: STOP! I can run thru a troop and leap over a wallllllllllll
Me: And afterwards you can take a swim through the bay of Ben-gay
Mom: U r so naughty

It's a little hard to wrap my brain around the fact that I'm in my late 30's and still being called naughty by my mother. Serious repercussions coming on this, can't I report her to child protection services or something? Oh wait, then who would do my dishes? Never mind. But speaking of naughty children...

Rose was in RARE form on Tuesday. Now those of you who have the pleasure of interacting with Rosy know that she is usually a wild card. There is no guessing what is going to come out of her mouth at any given moment. But on Tuesday she surprised even me. We had friends over and she came and planted herself in the middle of my tea party. I told her to go play and she asked if she could have candy. I told her no, she didn't need candy. She looked at my friend and said, "I have to cry to get candy. I just cry and they give me candy to make me stop. But I don't even cry anymore, I just go into the bathroom and put water on my face."
I was speechless. For one thing it's untrue, for another it's so naughty.

Where in the world does she get it?

Love Lets Go

Her bottom rests on the white tiles of the kitchen counter and her legs wrap round my middle.
She grapples with the weight of turning six.
"But I'm still going to live at home, right?"
"Oh yes, you'll stay with mommy for a long time."
"I'll stay with you forever."
As sweet as that sounds, I know it's not true and I correct it lightly, laughingly, "Oh no Rosy, you're too cute. Some day a man will come and ask your daddy if you can marry him."
Her concerned face relaxes, "Oh that's okay, Daddy will say no. He loves me too much to let me go."

For just a moment in that kitchen, time froze.
Her immature logic reasoned that love holds tight, love doesn't let go. But time has taught me other wise. For years my mental picture of love has been of uplifted hands, open, holding back up to God the blessings He has so lovingly given to me.
You give and take away. Blessed be Your Name.
And I know myself well enough to know the constant temptation of rolling the fingers oh-so-slowly palm-ward. The temptation to grasp. The temptation to lower the arm and pull the hand into my chest and utter that ugliest of four letter words; mine.
My heart will choose to say. Lord blessed be Your Name.
But I have also felt the consequences of those actions, of that word. And I've experienced the blessings of letting go, loving and letting go anyway. I choose the blessing.

So do many of you.
I think of my friend, who loves her God so much that she allows her three children, ages 11,13, and 15 to go to Africa and Russia this summer to serve Him.
I think of my friend who loves her God so much that she's willing to follow God's leading to a pastorate for her husband in North Dakota, transplanting her five children and starting a new life.
They choose to live the love that lets go.

The kitchen clock resumes ticking.
"Rosy, when the time comes we will send you off with joy. But right now, you're still my baby, and I'm so thankful for you."
"Yeah."
I pull her close, try to etch into memory the green eyes, the missing teeth, the blond bangs constantly in her way. Her smell of shampoo and earth and candy.
Because she's six, and I'll never live this day with her again.
Because I love her enough to let her go.

Together

Sometimes God brings people into your life who speak your language,
the individual dialect of your personality.
Sometimes we birth those people.
Rose knows, in her wisdom of five years, how to interpret me.
She understands the puckered lips, the wide eyes, the slow calm, "Uh-huh."
We talk about fairies and flowers and other things that no one else really cares about.
She makes me laugh like my dad used to make me laugh, with a surprised gasp and then a trill of laughter.
For example, walking home from the antique store on Saturday, we passed a person smoking a cigarette.
"Smoking is bad, right Mommy?"
"Yes darling, smoking is terrible for your body and God wants us to take care of our bodies."
"I know it's bad Mommy, but I think I'm going to do it anyway when I grow up. If you see me could you remind me that I'm not supposed to?"
Gasp. Laugh.

This morning I taught for three hours. I finally finished everyone up except Rowan who was still drawing a bat in his nature book. I slipped off to what would be called my "man cave" were I of a different gender, and started up my computer. I glanced at the clock and saw I had 20 minutes until I needed to make lunch. Perfect. Rose came in with a big smile and a bigger stack of books. Not so perfect.
"I thought you might want to read these to me."
"Rosy, mommy's been reading for three hours, I'm hoarse."
"I'll look at the pictures while I wait for you."

Hmmmm. I began typing but noticed out of the corner of my eye that she was fascinated by a picture in one of her books. I caught a glance of a huge dragon breathing fire at a little boy. I cringed, she's a sensitive soul, like her mommy, and gets nightmares from pretty much everything.
She turned wide eyes to me and said, "WHERE is his mommy!"

I pounced on her then. Holding her close I asked, "What are you going to become Rose?"
She answered, "A ballerweena. Maybe a princess." She caught my eye and said in her naughty voice, "I'm going to be a step-mother."
Gasp. Laugh.

I've never met a child who wanted to be a step mother,
who thought they were probably going to smoke when they grew up,
who wanted to talk to irresponsible mommies about letting their little boys play with dragons.

It's the language of absurdities and shocking statements and gasping laughter.
It's way easier than French.
And I love that in a world full of personalities,
two of us nuts landed here,
together.

Tonight I sang a song as I slid pumpkin chocolate chip cookies off a tray, "Ohhhh don't you know, we belong together, ohhhh."
Big hazel eyes looked up from the cookies and a little voice answered the question I didn't know I was asking, "Yes, I do know."
I know it, too.
We belong, here in this kitchen, in this life,
together.

Rose is Five and has Hair

This is Rosy and Bridgette.

When Rose turned one, we took her to the American Girl store to pick out a baby. Picking out, at one, means grabbing one and slobbering all over it. She slobbered on this one. Dave named her Bridgette. We joked at the time that Bridgette and Rose looked like twins. Bald heads, bitty nose, blue eyes.
Bridgette gets kissed at night and tucked in next to her mother Rose. Bridgette gets all the perks that come with being the baby's baby.

The night before my baby turned five I went into her room to kiss her before bed. She was already asleep, black fringe laying on white cheeks. I kissed her and Bridgette and then I had a bitter thought. They don't look alike any more. Rosy's eyes are green. The cartilage of her nose has taken definite form. She has hair.

See.

I couldn't help it. The tears started, splashing all over Rose and Bridgette. I kissed them one more time and went to bed, they were only a little damp.

I don't usually cry at birthdays...but when your last baby turns 5.....



Daddy and his girl.



Birthday kisses!

My Rose!

I love happy kids!

By morning my tears were gone and the day was spent celebrating life! After all, it's pure joy to watch Rose bloom...AND....no matter what, I'll always have Bridgette.







Pressed Daisies

Wednesday afternoon Rose and I went to Fred Meyers.
The boys were at piano and Avonlea was home with a fever.
We had an hour to spend and I had all the groceries I needed in the cart and had made my way over to the clothing section to browse.
An announcer over the loud speaker droned on about some product demonstration they were about to do and I swished intently through the 60% off rack. A little hand on my arm stopped my swishing.
"Mommy listen."
"There will be free gifts given to everyone who meets at the black and red stand by the furniture section in two minutes." (Note: furniture section is the opposite side of the store from the clothing section)
"Mommy! Free gifts! Please can we go?"
I laughed. "Rosy, mommy doesn't want to walk all the way across the store for free junk."
"Mommy, ppplllleeeaaasssee."
I turned the cart and power walked toward the furniture.
"THANK YOU MOMMY!"
There were three of us gathered round the black table listening to the infomercial on super absorbant towels from Germany. It sucked soda from a rug. It could hold 25xs its weight in water. Ect. Ect.
The free gift was a 2" by 3" scrap of this miracle fabric.
We walked away and Rosy bubbled, "Mommy, it was a show! Can this be my very own cloth? It can hold all that water and not even drip! I'm going up to my room when we get home and clean my table with it!"
Her enthusiasm made my day.
There are so many moments like this in a day. Just simple beautiful moments of sharing life with people you love. I think sometimes I look for the big things, the English balls, Christmas, vacations. Those things are the roses I cultivate. But surrounding those roses, are hundreds of wild boisterous daisies, waving happy faces. These daily things too, I want to remember. I want to acknowledge them. I want to enjoy them.
When Daddy came home Rosy gave him the details of the wonder scrap and he had to try it out for himself. There they squatted on the kitchen floor together, moping up water with the yellow rectangle, and mentally I picked the moment and pressed it into my memory.
A daisy with a happy face.
A daddy and daughter sharing life.

Rose

My blog's purpose is two fold.
The first purpose is to bring glory to God.
The second is to record the history of my family.

This story falls under the umbrella of both. I'm writing it because I want to remember. I'm writing it because I'm sad tonight and I want to laugh. I'm writing it because I want to always see her at 4, blond and lisping, utterly kissable and dear.

As Rose and I read through her children's Bible, I glean insight into her personality. She was beside herself when I read about Jacob and Esau, teary-eyed and mournful of the family rupture. Chapters later when Jacob was returning home, laden with wealth and wives and children, Rose was apprehensive.
"Esau won't forgive him Mommy."
Jacob kept sending gifts and Rose fidgeted, got up and sat back down, nervous. Finally they came face to face and Esau embraced his brother and she was incredulous.
And then, "Mommy, God could never forgive me like Esau forgave Jacob."
"Oh but He can baby."
And my Rose accepted Christ.

A month later saw us meandering through the desert with the Israelites. She was scornful.
"Oh not again! Are they still in the desert?"
But a hero emerged.  Joshua. He had a two page colored picture where he was holding out one hand to stop an orange sun and holding out another hand to stop a yellow moon. He had sandals laced up to God-only-knows-where. He was bronzed and armored.
Her hands clasped together and she lisped, "Oh Jothua! I love him!"
We were extremely excited for Bible everyday to see what Jothua would do next.

Then last week in the car she dropped the bomb.
"Mommy will you get me a Jothua?"
"Wh, wh, what do you mean?"
"To marry. I want to marry a Jothua."
We agreed to pray a Joshua in for her when Avonlea piped up,
"Who are you going to pray for, for me?"
"I'll pray for a David for you Avonlea. Someone who's passionate and has a heart after God."
Rowan was silent, he had his eyes on several little girls in Sunday School and Friday School and really didn't need my assistance.
Grant, however, spoke thoughtfully, "I don't really care who you pray for me to marry, just not that lady that looked back and turned to salt. Anyone but her."
He's never been fond of salt.

We are moving on now to the Judges of Israel. Rose thinks Samson is ridiculous and covers the pictures when I read about him. She has personality oozing out of her little lithe body and I am getting to know her by walking with her through the Bible. I am watching the Word of God change a 4 year old and it is amazing....and really funny!

Girls just want to have fun...

I've never had any desire to be blond.

 Because I really didn't believe they had more fun.

 But Rosy makes holding a fruit basket look like the epitome of joy.

 Posing for a picture a sort of euphoric Disneyland.

 Because she's just happy,

 And silly,

 And naughty,

And delightful.

She is a tough argument to beat, because she definitely has more fun than I do.

And that's saying quite a bit.