We’ve had a week of grey clouds.  And some *snow*.

It’s that weather where the only option of footwear for school is (according to Bryant): clunky winter boots that get muddy and are hard to run in, rubber boots that have no traction and mean cold feet, or tennis shoes, which are cold and wet by the end of the day.

It’s that weather where you don’t even think of washing your vehicle or cleaning the inside.  That weather where opening the van door means muddy hands.

Alec is far away in Wisconsin where he went to help his Grandpa combine corn.  It is raining there.  And we miss him.  A lot.   I wonder if he is remembering to wash behind his ears and do his schoolwork and help Grandma with the dishes.

(Okay…the snow and Alec being gone are repeats from my last post.)

On my to-do list today is sorting out rotting carrots in my cold room.  Again.  I don’t know what is wrong that they are already rotting.  Do you know how bad rotten carrots smell?  But if I don’t sort them, the whole humongous crop will be lost.

There are a lot of places I would rather be today.  Somewhere warmer and greener and drier and *sunnier* would be lovely.  Somewhere where I didn’t have to sort carrots or freeze up the last of the summer’s tomato crop ripening on the garage floor.

* Somewhere like heaven would be nice.*

I long to grow up and realize that I am a farm wife.  That I live in northern Alberta and snow in October is common.  That mud is a part of spring and fall and wet summers for us.  That I may never live in a place that’s warm in late October and has a paved driveway.

I think of the long winter ahead.  If I think of it too long the darkness envelops me. If I let myself I can almost feel the black hole of depression clutching me in its ugly grasp.

It’s going to take a lot to get through this day.

A lot of cheery songs, a lot of gratefulness, a lot of true and beautiful thoughts.  A lot of looking into little faces and seeing what my purpose is.  A lot of cozy lights and hugs and smiles.  And a lot God.

And you know what?  It’s going to be a good day. 

Despite baked oatmeal in the laundry basket.

We woke up to snow yesterday.

At noon I said goodbye to Alec for 12 days and to Dan for a day and a half.

I ran over someone’s cat.

The power nozzle quit on the vacuum cleaner.

The pipeline company dug an enormous dugout in the field across the road.  It is an eyesore.

There are jackets and winter coats and dirty mittens and wet shoes and rubber boots in our crowded entry.

The disk broke down before the garden was worked and I am afraid that I am sentenced to a winter of looking out at cornstalks and broccoli plants and huge gone-to-seed swiss chard plants every time there is a chinook.

Liesl has a cold and was up something well over ten times during the night the night before last.

She and Andre flooded the bathroom last night just messing around.

Bryant is whining and wishing he were older and could go on on outings with the 7th grade boys. His asthma is bothering him and he is really wheezing.  I feel sorry for him.

BUT….

The school children had a fun picnic in the snow at the lake yesterday.

The house is cozy and clean(er).

I had the best uninterrupted 8 hours of sleep that I have had in what feels like forever.

It’s Saturday and really I can do with this day pretty much what I wish. 

Thanks to my sister in law’s recipe we made some of the best creamy caramels I have ever eaten last night.  Without a candy thermometer.  And no, candy making is not my strong point.  I don’t remember when I last made candy with my children.

And Dan comes home tonight.

I thought this little weekend might be fun.  No worries about cooking.  No pressure to go away because I have my five to tow along.   Bleak and ugly weather.  No pressure to do stuff outside. 

But when I crawled into bed alone last night I changed my mind.  Because it’s cold and lonely there without Dan.   And then I thought about all the ladies whose husbands are gone trucking all week because jobs are scarce.  And evangelist’s wives who say goodbye to their husbands for many weeks out of a year.  And many, many other women over the world who go to bed alone even though they are married.  And I know how blessed I am.

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Just loving these verses from 2 Timothy:

“If we died with Him, we will also live with Him.

If we endure, we will also reign with Him.

If we disown Him, He will also disown us.

If we are faithless, He will remain faithful, for HE CANNOT DISOWN HIMSELF.”

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Mom used to say that there were three kinds of people in life:  the Shirkers, the Workers, and the Jerkers.  I know well where I fit.  I am a Jerker.  I go from one big event to the next.  Oh…I can work.  But when the big event is over I crash.  When there is nothing that Has to be done so often Nothing gets done. 

And this has to change.  Because I have dresses to sew and corners to clean.  I am functioning in a necessities-only mode. 

The post I wrote my heart out on that crashed the other morning had to do a lot with things like discipline and schedules and planning.  But right now I don’t have the discipline to start over on something heavy.  And it just doesn’t fit into my unscheduled day.

I am going to wow Dan for his birthday this year.  I bought tickets for an event in Edmonton in early December.  I had permission from him to do this, but he has no idea what we are going to do.  Edmonton is six hours from us, so it will be quite a little weekend for us.  I am so excited.  I have never done anything very special for Dan.  We can be decidedly unexciting when it comes to romance.  For once I thought it would be fun to do the planning instead of expecting him to come up with something good.  He is looking forward to it just as much as I am.  I want to keep it all a secret.  I will just give him the address to the place and make him drive us there.  And of course we will plan to stay overnight in the city. 

Classic Luci moment:  I cleaned the office window the other day.  After carefully looking at how I took it out I washed it and went to put it back in.  It Would Not Go Back In.  No matter how hard I tried.  I finally gave up and went on to other things.  Then I thought about what a dumb cluck I am and how Dan so often has to rescue me from the Window Dilemma.  I talked to God about this and asked Him to Please Help me get the window back in.  With renewed courage, I went to try again.  To no avail.  I am a blonde with dark brown hair. The only reason I can think of for this unanswered prayer is that it keeps humble.

You know, I’ve read before that the very things that can draw you to a person before marriage can get under your skin later.  I could see this in things like ladies who can’t get the windows back in after they remove them.  The scatter-brained cuteness of being helpless about things of a Putting Back Windows nature is not so cute when you are tired and come in for a break and the wife needs you to return windows to their rightful places before you relax.  But Dan is a good man and did not berate me for my ignorance.

(I CAN put most of the windows in my house back in, but there are a few that are tough or require a special technique.  And even Dan had a problem with this office window.  But of course he figured it out.)

I took a few shots of the children on Sunday.  I wish Shannon or Becky would have done it.  Then the colors would be crisp and Bryant wouldn’t have a glare on his glasses…and the poses wouldn’t be stiff.  But so be it.

The children are up and eating caramels for breakfast.

Are you a Shirker, a Worker, or a Jerker?

And do you put your windows back in without help?

You saw her on Sunday, the day of the big Thanksgiving meal at church.  She was wearing her black dress and tan crocheted sweater with the strings that tie to close it.   She taught the preschool class and bravely looked after her benchful of children through the sermon.  She had her turkey nicely done up and the gravy all made before she came to church and she even baked a ham for good measure.  She accepted graciously the compliments on her turkey dressing. 

The euphoria of another weekend of delightful company had not yet worn off when she packed her bread and grape juice and white cloths and went to communion and enjoyed the candlelit service with her down-to-earth little church group. (Power was out, folks. Not a new trend, though it might be a good one.)  She said a grateful “Thank you, Jesus” as she ate the bread and drank the wine…er…grape juice.  (Doesn’t bread and wine just sound more poetic?)  And she meant it with all her heart.

The happiness was still with her on Monday morning when it was a holiday and she sat in her chair and cuddled her children and read Facebook at 9 a.m. even though her house was messy and the laundry was not yet started.  She relaxed again at 11 a.m. when her nephew came for coffee. (Thanks for stopping, Reuben!)  They talked about cars and Bible school and traveling.

This same lady helped her busy husband who was spending his holiday farming.  She took him to the fields several times throughout the day and even pulled (what felt like) a huge trailer behind the pickup on one occasion. (albeit not loaded)

And then somewhere along the line on that Thanksgiving Monday the lady grew tired.  And she grew cross.  She spilled milk in her van when she rounded a corner too fast.  Her black dress and her boys’ dress pants came out of the dryer terribly wrinkly for noreasonatall.  The wind had been howling all day and suddenly she couldn’t bear another minute of it.  She grumpily hung towels in her basement at 8 p.m. and felt inadequate over her lack of schedule and efficiency and discipline.  Her children seemed especially rowdy that evening and she just couldn’t handle them.  She didn’t even care.

And how she dreaded Tuesday.  Sewing circle day at church.  Herding everyone dressed and combed and shoed and carrying bagspackedwithtoys out the door by 8:40.  Seven to ten noisy preschoolers fighting and screaming and running while the moms tried to keep them quiet because of school happening below them in the church basement. 

And if she had been a cursing person (like Job in 3:1) she would have cursed the day she was born.  She would have cursed herself for being hypocritical.  For being fickle enough to get upset over spilled milk and wrinkly clothing and a not-quite-perfect husband.  (Because she was free of boils and there were people in Chile who were trapped in a mine and her life was so good and so easy.)  She might even have cursed female hormones that made her cry with joy over the beauty of a sunset and then bawl ten minutes later over a house turned upside down.  And she would have had a few words to say about the Mennonite tradition of sewing circle too.

Because this lady remembered singing Victory in Jesus in the darkness at communion the night before and feeling every word.

She also remembed a recent talk with her husband when she asked him what one thing she could change that would please him the most and he said what she knew he would … “Smile more.”

And she knew she had messed it all up already.  Because her smile was long gone.  And as she sadly picked pastry out of the carpet at 10 p.m. she wondered about the Lady that She Had Been.

And then she realized that the Lady She Longs to Be is hiding deep within The Woman that She Is.   And that all is not lost because her Father is going to give her another day to practice her smile.

And the long Tuesday at sewing circle actually went okay.  The children did some fighting, but they also played some of the cutest games.  And the conversation and the coffee was good.  And as she cut the colorful blocks that might someday brighten a dark, cold Romanian home she saw the beauty of the Mennonite tradition.

And that night she had a smile for the husband and her “Thank You, Jesus” was sincere.

And she knows that tomorrow she might frown and cry and feel like cursing. (And if this worries you, remember Job, Jeremiah, and Jesus.)

But because of HIM she’ll make it through.

(And for what it’s worth, though it doesn’t really fit with this topic….”If your family is still intact, if you’re still very much in love, if you’re still communicating, still supportive, still laughing and playing together, you’re an exception rather than the rule.   Our tired, tragic society needs you.” -Charles Swindoll-)

 Our house has seen a lot of babies in the past 12 years.

And in the whirl of nursing and Huggies and Curious George and laundry and life, I wonder if some little heart is falling through the cracks.

And now some of the hearts aren’t so little anymore.  Today we sent a 6^th and 7^th grader to school.    And tagging along behind was little Mr. 3^rd. 

ThEsE are the ones that I sometimes worry about:

 There is Alec, who so wasn’t into pictures on the first day of school, so I won’t post the one I took of him.  I should know better than to line the poor children up by a tree and make them pose.  Then again….this is how we make memories.

Alec:

Quiet and artistic.

Loves everything about machinery, especially farm machinery.

(Here is a picture Alec took last night.  I think he’d like it if he knew I was posting it on my blog….much more than a photo of him, anyway. J)

Emotions close to the surface, feelings buried deep.  (I know that doesn’t make sense, but it’s true.)

Hardworking and dependable when it comes to farming and piling lumber.  Somehow it’s just not easy to get into folding clothes and washing dishes when you have “another life”…

Idealistic perfectionist about so many things.  Deep longings.   High expectations of everyone.

Intelligent.  Good student.  But bulking heavily about all things related to school right now.

This young man who can glower so effectively across the breakfast table…

Is he really mine?  Ah yes….I see it in his melancholy nature.  I see it in the high standards he sets for the rest of us.  I see it in the quick bouts of anger and then the remorse that follows.  I see it in the turmoil that adolescence is wreaking in his life.  (I had very rocky adolescent years.)

And I love him.  But right now I sometimes feel lost at how to show it.

And I have a hunch that he’s going to be a fine gentleman someday.

And then there’s the daughter.  The perfect one.  That’s what her brothers say.  She is a Very Good Girl.  Obedient.  Well-mannered.  Conscientious.  Sensitive.  (ok, too sensitive quite often)  Neat and clean.  Kind and responsible babysitter.

Sometimes when I comb Victoria’s thick, straight, almost-black hair I wonder too if she’s mine.

Get this:  She loves to sew.  And bake.  And do crafts.  She has been begging me to let her sew on the machine since she was seven.  And at 11 years she can almost put a simple dress together alone.  (minus sewing in the sleeves and zipper)  I think I sewed my first dress at 13 and it was done with many tears and much, much ripping out of crooked stitches and things-put-in-backwards. 

This girl is the one I don’t like to talk about too much because I’m afraid people will think I’m boasting and feel things like:  “Am I doing something wrong because my daughter rips her clothes and has no interest in sewing and doesn’t bake independently?”  (You aren’t.)

Oh…she truly Is Not Perfect.  Maybe there are troubled years ahead.  And she won’t be reading this, believe me.

I am thankful for her.  I don’t want to take advantage of her.  I hope she is always sweet and caring to those less fortunate than herself.  I don’t want her to become a performance oriented person.

And Mr. Bryant:

Enthralled with all things creepy and crawly.

He’s the one who said to me the other day while digging potatoes:  “What if I become a Pentecostal preacher, Mom?”  After which I launched into a nice speech on how denominations aren’t what matters to God.  It’s true hearts who have faith in Jesus Christ and  love and obey Him.  And how what we really want for him is that he follows God’s voice.  (But couldn’t you just be a charismatic Mennonite preacher, child?  J­)

He’s still 8 enough to say things like, “Do earthworms go to heaven?”

He loves to ask silly questions that he already knows the answers to just to annoy someone.

And he gets a huge bang out of little chants like “I’ll never marry a teacher and I can tell you why.  She’ll blow her nose on cornbread and call it apple pie.”  (The fact that this was taught to him by a Mennonite preacher who recently visited our house bothers me.  Maybe Pentecostal would be the way to go.)

One trait of Bryant’s that I love is his insight into the deeper meaning behind an allegory or fantasy tale.  Like The Chronicles of Narnia, which he knows almost from memory thanks to story tapes.

Bryant is the romantic.  I’ve noticed he’s especially fond of listening to the proposal parts of Little Women on tape.  Of course.  They’re my favorites too.

Bryant is not as scholarly as his siblings and Just. Cannot.  Spell. Yet.  But he loves to read, so I’m happy.

Wildly imaginative but often complaining of boredom.  Very tenderhearted.  That’s our Bryant.

I know in my heart that I love them equally, though I get accused of being unfair sometimes.  One will say that the Good Girl is the favored one.  On the contrary, I spend a lot more time trying to keep him happy than her.  And then she feels like she gets jumped on for things that the boys get by with.  *Sigh*  This is not a work for sissies!

And these are the three left at home, who still demand enough attention that I’m not quite so worried about them falling through the cracks.

(Natalia, the fashion-conscious who wanted me to help her make a flower and put it around a little hair bun like the photo she saw in the flower-making book.)

(Andre of the dirty face and Lego loaders who wanted his picture taken when the others had theirs.)

(And Liesl the neatness destroyer, who wanted to cuddle up on the floor for a few short moments while I combed my hair and later was found on the table when it was set for lunch.  Yes, she’s wearing the dress she wore to church yesterday.  I will change it.  Very soon.)

All I can do is love the six of them.  And pray that God will fill in the gaps and mend the cracks my own neediness/failure creates in their lives.

And they have a great dad who cares for their hearts, so I think they’ll be okay.  

(If you are coming to this post from Facebook the title out there is supposed to read *Preacher* not Teacher.  I could change it here but not there.  And I wrote most of this on Monday and didn’t finish up till Wednesday.  Hence the baby wearing her church dress.  It is changed today.

Tonight at sunset I stopped by Kevin’s grave.

Man, I miss that guy.

No more big grins or belly laughs from this fellow.   No more quad rides or sled rides with Uncle Kevin for the children.  No phonecalls saying he is going to swing by.

I don’t like to think of his beautiful new headstone being covered with snow.

I don’t want to remember the fall of 2007 when that ugly tumor started to grow again.

I don’t want to think of that day when he was sitting at our kitchen table and could no longer fill out his deposit book for the cheques that came in for his logging business.

And that day not long after when he couldn’t write his name anymore.

Kevin, is it really three years already since your life and ours started to change so fast?

And yet it seems like you’ve been gone forever.

Death and loss are so void of beauty from earth’s perspective.

 I wish I could say with assurance that your death was not in vain.  So far I haven’t really seen a lot of good come from it.

And this is a really silly thing to pray, but sometimes I still do it:

“God, just take good care of him, please.”

And tonight I know that the God of the trees silhouetted against the amazing sunset skies will do just that.

And I understand anew that it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

It’s a rainy day.

The house is bereft of company after over a week of guests.

School starts next Monday.  (Yes, we are ONLY a month late.)

There is a lovely container of minestrone soup in my fridge for supper tonight. (Thanks, Laura!)

The washer is going.

Focus on the Family’s dramatized version of Little Women is being played loudly.

Lego is the rage of the day and the livingroom floor tells the tale.

Victoria’s piano music is sounding splendid from downstairs.

My baby just brought me a pair of shoes six sizes too big and begged me to help her put them on.

And I feel like blogging.

I could clean the freezers.

I could cut out a dress for Victoria’s first day of school.

I could go through the stuff in my overflowing closet.

I could bake up a storm for the next company weekend.

I should clean out my purse and diaper bag.

I could pick my cabbages and shred them up for sauerkraut.

But it really IS too muddy to dig potatoes, carrots and beets.

And why is it that I think I DESERVE to be lazy today?  September has been crazy and I should be using this day to do something that has been neglected for way too long.

And I don’t have nice tight little thoughts to blog about.  So probably I shouldn’t try. 

But here’s some characteristic randomness of life around here:

I try not to stress over cooking, but still I do.  It’s not my strong point, but I try to do it well.  There is a lot asked of us cooks, especially us little Mennonite ladies:  We all aim for soft bread and moist roast beef and fresh-tasting green beans and creamy coleslaw and lump-free potatoes and tasty gravy.  

And so…I heave a happy sigh when I sit down and the food is okay, my guests are enjoying it, and the coffee is perking.  It’s definitely one of life’s joyful moments.  Especially after one of those less-than-ideal Saturday nights where I was crying tiredly into the dishwater at 11 p.m. because I didn’t manage the day right and there was way too much left to do after supper on Saturday night.

Hospitality is a passion of mine.  I enjoy spur of the moment guests-and I don’t nearly always bake my own bread.  But sometimes it’s fun to do the big old traditional meal and use the china and feel like I’m keeping up with my mom, a lady who hosted many tables full of company and always made it a special occasion.

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The other night in church Natalia took my face in her hands and whispered with shining eyes, “Mom, I just can’t WAIT to see God for real!”  This coming from a girl whose personality I sometimes describe as “prickly”….a girl who for some reason doesn’t like to pray aloud by herself…this was another happy moment.

The mail last week brought me a very generous gift certificate for Salido’s Salon and Spa in an envelope addressed to Luci Peachey and just General Delivery instead of our personal box number.  With a letter that read “You deserve a good pampering.  From: Someone who knows the value of a good massage!  Highly recommended is the Hot Stone Massage.”

Of course the first person I asked about it was Dan.  He says he wishes he had something to do with it, but unfortunately, he doesn’t.

I am beside myself with wishing that I knew who sent it so I could thank them properly.

I sometimes lie in bed and dream of massages as I try to fall asleep, the tautness in my neck and shoulders creeping up into my head and giving me a powerful headache.  Dan is a good back-rubber, but he has his limitations.

And while I am anxious to try out this wonderful gift, I am also unsure about massage etiquette.  This is little Mennonite me again.  I’ve never been in a salon. 

I have thought often of massages.  Incessantly at times.  You might laugh, but I just cannot imagine spending that kind of money “when there are starving children in the world.”  (How often I return to my mom’s old sayings.)

I am excited and nervous about using this incredible gift.  And if the giver is any online friend, all I can say is THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart.  I promise to enjoy….  And I do wish you would reveal yourself.

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After losing the nicest brother ever to a brain tumor over two years ago, my walk of faith has been faltering at best.  I really, really struggle with feeling loved by God and truly loving Him in return.  I’m trying lately to see His love in the small things.

-Like yellow leaves.  (We don’t have the deep reds and oranges and pinks of Pennsylvania and Ontario.  But our yellow is deep and true.  Next to a blue sky it is breathtaking.)

-And my baby learning to say “uh-oh” and “amen”.

-And people.  Sometimes the blessings from people come in the most unexpected packages.  This was my Facebook status for today:  There have been some pretty special people in and out of our house in the past weeks: an ex-Amish man and his family who speaks powerfully of the blood of Christ and has a heart for people, the scary-at-1st-impressions pastor from PA who blessed us with good messages and had a howl with our children, and the ever so brave little family from Ontario who is moving to the boondocks to teach school for us.  Love them all!

-And crispy sweet Alberta carrots.

-And a half-hour of fight-free Lego playing.

-And Andre’s delight over a new pair of camo pants.

-And a daughter who loves to bake and sew.

-And gift certificates for massages.

-And going out for pizza on Saturday night.

These are the things that help get us through the mud the rain brings.

-And the babies that dig in deodorant and scribble on armchairs.

-And the dust behind the stove.

-And two incidents in one morning of Totally missing the toilet bowl.

-And the clutter on the green desk and in the garage that I just don’t know What to Do With.

-And the sadness of seeing a person dear to us turn away from God.

-And the drudgery that I can’t quite shake off about the endlessness of Work to Do.

-And the weariness of wrestling with a 16 month old through a week of church every night.

-And the very current screaming that I am hearing as Liesl comes close to Natalia’s carefully organized toy corner.

And that’s all from our house for today. 

I love Dorcas Smucker’s Life in the Shoe and her thoughts for today about writing inspiration: “All you have to do is write one true sentence.  Write the truest sentence you know.” (Actually this is a Hemingway quote, but Dorcas used it today so I’m giving her the credit.  She gave credit to Hemingway.)

My true sentence for today:  I am tired of working and I want to sit down in a clean house and burn a scented candle and have coffee with a kindred spirit.

Exciting, eh?  Very inspirational.

My thoughts consist of a lot more than my narrow, often overwhelmed state of life, but you wouldn’t know it, would you?

I don’t even like that word. OVERWHELMED.   I don’t want to be there.  Where is the sweet peace and rest Jesus promises?

I am so ashamed at how my peace of mind and happiness is so tied to the cleanliness of my house.  Because the house is never seldom clean these days, I am never rarely happy and peaceful.

My standards of cleanliness aren’t even high anymore.  They have lowered with every baby.  They have reached rock bottom with 3 preschoolers who never stop making messes. 

Do not get me wrong. Please.  When I look into the beautiful brown eyes of my children I realize how incredibly blessed I am.   They are my life.  I am enjoying them.  Right now.  As they are.

But when they grow up I know I won’t miss finding 4 torn book covers in one day.  I won’t miss scrubbing crayon marks off the walls and pee off of the floor around the toilet.  I know without a doubt that I will miss the little people who tore the books and scribbled with the crayons and missed the toilet bowl.  I know it!  I will long for these days when life was simpler and the questions were easier to answer and the love came more naturally.  That’s what you all tell me anyway.  (And God knows I need that reminder. Often.)

But tonight a sparkly bathroom, a shiny kitchen, an orderly livingroom and a candle would be heavenly.  

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I am looking forward to having company this weekend.  The large family coming doesn’t scare me at all because they are so warm and friendly and I know things don’t have to be perfect for them.

What does scare me is the evangelist from Pennsylvania who comes on Monday for a week of meetings.  I can just imagine him downstairs studying and hearing the wildness up here that life sometimes entails for us.  We are working on not one, but two (sometimes three) screamers right now.  I don’t remember the first three screaming much.  Probably mostly because we took the time to train them at a younger age.  And they weren’t so close together, so the fighting was at a different level.  My youngest two have this new thing lately of just bellering when their path is crossed.  Very ugly.  Can’t stand it.  Determined to get on top of it.  But it’s still in the p.r.o.c.e.s.s.  Will the screaming be cured by Monday night?  I doubt it. 

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 I tried to change the theme on this page because I think this black and white is kind of hard to read, but I can’t figure out how to change it.  I’m amazed that I actually figured out how to pick a theme four months ago when I joined Xanga.  And I totally forgot what I did.  I would take some quick tips from someone who is feeling kind enough to take the time.

 We are home from the summer reunions and weddings and plan to sit tight right here in Bay Tree, Alberta for the next few weeks/months/years.

One of the hardest things about living way up north is that if we go anywhere it’s so far.  There’s no picking up for the weekend and going off to see the grandparents.  My parents live 12 hours away and Dan’s are 30 hours.

One thing my mom never warned me about was what traveling with children involves.

It bears no resemblance to vacation.

After 50+ hours in our packed minivan the wilderness stretch between Whitecourt and Grande Prairie feels nigh to unbearable.  Dan and I are valiantly trying to be calm, cool, collected parents but everyone else has given up on manners of any sort.  And the calm cool and collected is wearing very thin too.  The clever things we brought along to entertain have totally lost their newness.  Everyone is in the well-we-might-as-well-sit-back-relax-and-be-miserable-mode.

“There’s a chewed-up Skittle on your back. Disgusting.”

“If everyone would keep their shoes on the messiness of this van would be extremely diminished.”

“MOOOOOM!!!  He’s TOUCHING me!”

“Hey, someone chewed on MY paper cup!  I’m not using this thing again.”

Our children are basically good travelers.  All except for #6.  She fights it all the way.  I declare that she cried one-third of the time on the road, but maybe it just seemed that way.  Nothing distracted her, despite attempts from 7 people to keep her happy.  Talk about frayed nerves after a 30 hour straight-through-stint to lovely Wisconsin.

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The fresh-out-of-training policeman in North Dakota was one thing.  I really think it was his first time to give a speeding ticket.  He didn’t look a day over 18.  He was doing his job and Dan certainly didn’t argue the fact when the young cop told him that he was doing 80 in a 70 mph zone.  (Don’t forget, folks, that this is North Dakota, where the speed limit is often 75.)  The $50 ticket was surprisingly small and it helped us watch the speed zones as we entered other unfamiliar towns.

B.U.T…….the letter with a picture of our sporty mini-van and the words “On 22-Aug-2010 at 16:51:47 a vehicle bearing an Alberta licence plate number ****** registered to you was recorded speeding by the town of Whitecourt….” was another matter.  Here the recorded speed was 90 km/h in a 70 km zone.   Dan and I can’t remember which one of us was driving.  It doesn’t really matter.  The Bay Tree pastor and his wife do not have a good track record by now.  And $124?  I guess I like North Dakota better than Alberta.

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Somewhere between Alberta and Wisconsin I lost one of a pair of my favorite brown flats that I had worn to church the Sunday morning we left.  It was riding under my seat and must have fallen out in the shuffle of in and out that happened every 3 or 4 hours as we traveled southeast.  I miss it.  And the question is:  How long will I keep it before I throw it away?  Is there a possibility that some service station owner might have our address from our credit card and mail it to me?  Or some restaurant waitress might remember the family who stopped by with a cute baby and a tired mom and try to track us down?  It is so highly unlikely that I think I’d better throw it away soon.  One shoe just doesn’t cut it.  Besides, it’s probably by a wheat field in Saskatchewan at a place where we changed drivers.

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I will not regale you with all the details of our last two trips southward.

(At a UFA in Alberta)

One was just the 800 mile stretch to southern Alberta for a Peachey family reunion. 

Being at two family reunions this summer was interesting.  Our families couldn’t be more different if they tried. 

(I am quite in love with this photo that my brother in law took of my favorite man and 4 year old…unbeknownst to them, of course.  That Dennis is  sneaky with his camera.)

Their size is definitely a factor.  My family is twice the size of Dan’s.

The Peacheys get together for 2 or 3 days at a time from all over the place.  A handful of us still live up North.  Others are from southern Alberta, Saskatchewan, Idaho, B.C., Virginia, and Missouri.  Other times I would have added Belize, Grenada, and Romania to that list, but we’re all back to a fairly boring existence in the USA and Canada again.

When we get together we sing a lot.  We talk a lot.  We drink a lot of coffee.  

We are very diverse in our ideas and beliefs.  In the past that has caused some very heated discussions and arguments.  Anymore, it seems like we are all getting old and mellow.  We have accepted the differences and know that as hard-headed as many of us are, there’s not a lot of point in trying to convince someone to change their way.  But that doesn’t keep anyone from stating their own opinions.  Loud and clear.  It doesn’t keep anyone from telling someone what book they need to read or the latest speaker that they should listen to.

(The lodge where the Peacheys hung out for 3 days.)

(View from the lodge)

(Playing human Dutch Blitz)

I love my Peachey family very much.  With them I can laugh and cry and generally be myself, though I always feel a little like the dense one with a group of intellectual minds.  With the Peacheys I feel like one of the quiet, calm sisters.

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The Martins are another cup of tea.  1800 miles away in Wisconsin, they treat us like royalty when we come home to the farm.  It’s a straight week of good food and family togetherness with the Martin bunch.  Because three of the five children in Dan’s family are single it’s a lot easier to all sit around one table.  We number 20 in all right now.

The Martins are more soft spoken and careful of each other’s feelings than the Peacheys.  With them I feel quite bold and outspoken.  And very talkative.

We usually visit Wisconsin in the wintertime, dragging boots and coats and school books along.  It was a special treat to visit in beautiful August this time.  As I posted on Facebook, it was a time of many memories for me.  I just wanted to stay and teach school and watch autumn come to the north woods of Wisconsin again. 

We had some great times on a hay ride, in the produce patch, around the campfire, and canning peaches.  And I can’t forget shopping in Eau Claire with my sisters in law and nieces.

Mr. Todd the bishop is playing the harmonica above, in case you are wondering.

The children absolutely love their Martin relatives.  No other grandparents are so giving.  No place is quite as much fun as Grandpa’s farm.

Grandma loads us up with cheese and Lebanon bologna and peaches and late/early birthday gifts when we leave.

On our way home we stopped in southern Alberta to see my parents and attend a wedding of the son of some very good friends that we had in Belize.  I don’t have photos of the wedding (which was very beautiful) because I forgot to give the camera to Victoria, who likes to take pictures better than either Dan or I.  I will say that the music was fantastic.  The great Ginger Good even sang her famous “Oh Happy Day” solo.  And it was great, great fun to connect with all kinds of people from Belize and Missouri and Oregon and everywhere else that the Mennonite network takes us.  My sociable soul was delighted for one long and happy afternoon and evening.  Except that I felt OLD when I talked to my former students who have done things like teach school for three years and go on tours with fancy choirs.

Because my parents had other company overnight, we spent three of our four nights in southern Alberta with Bruce and Kathy Maldaner.  These two were part of the very “in” group back in Maranatha days and I was half afraid of them when I was 18.  But somehow having children and living in the West and Facebook and lots of other things have made us friends in the last years and we had such a good time.  (Oh–they were nice back in their day, too.  I just had preconceived ideas about them which were happily shot down once I learned to know them better.)  They recently built a big, beautiful new house and they treated us so well.  The highlight of our time was forgetting that we were 36 and eating bacon-wrapped chestnuts and pizza done on the grill and cappuccino flake icecream at about 1:00 a.m. one night after the children were all sound asleep.  And not to forget the sparkling raspberry juice that Bruce opened with a flourish.  We laughed at crazy things and talked a mile a minute and forgot for a few hours of the ten children we were responsible for. 

(Bruce made us some really good daquairis (or some fine name which I’m sure I would also mispell) before all the kiddoes were off to bed.  They were kind of like slushies.)

Our children had a great time with theirs too.  One morning when the boys came in for one of Kathy’s elegant (I kid you not) brunches, they said they didn’t know if they were hungry….they had filled up on wheat kernels. 

I could tell you more.  About supper with one of my very favorite cousins in Fairfield, Montana.  About the buffalo museum and pioneer village in Jamestown, ND.   About a vanload of eight driving along through the desolation of the prairies.  About the elderly ladies in Rugby, ND, who stared unashamedly at us when we stopped for breakfast after traveling all night, tumbled our ragamuffins out of the van, and entered the café.  These same ladies were so friendly and complimentary as they passed our table on their way out. “What a lovely bunch of children.  So well-behaved.  That’s how we raised our young-uns.”  Gratefully that was after I had combed my girls and myself.  They must not have seen the toys that fell out of the van when we opened the door or the scowls on the 12 year old’s face when he was trying to get his little sister out of her car seat.  They must not have heard the 3 year old proclaiming loudly that he didn’t want to eat or heard the 4 year old complaining about how sick she was feeling.

I could tell you about the conversation that Dan & I inevitably have after we leave larger communities of Mennonites.  I talk about what it would be like to live at a place where there are 20 ladies to houseclean the church instead of 5.  He talks about sharing the preaching with two other ministers.  We talk about our dreams for our own little church.  He reminds me of how more people just create different types of problems than the ones we have.  And so on and so on.

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Another thing my mom never told me was how much dealing with clothes goes on when you take a trip with 8 people.  Maybe we don’t wear the right kind of clothes.  Maybe we try to pack too tightly. (Do Not ask me about the ongoing argument between myself and Dan about whether we need to take a luggage carrier on our family trips.  When will I EVER learn that men just don’t like to be pushed and the harder you push the firmer they stand?)  Anyway, it felt like I was forever putting things in the dryer to dewrinkle them when we were traveling.  And here at home there is still a washbasket full of deeply creased clothing that I need to take care of.

Home is good.  The change was wonderful.  I should be feeling all renewed and ready to face the jobs that are lying all around me more numerous than the sand of the seashore.  Instead I feel like staring out the window.  And napping.  And spending precious hours online.  I really need to take my undisciplined self in hand and get a grip on real life again.  But I feel helplessly unable to do that.

So…it’s home to the laundry, the dishes, the tin can stilts, the couch houses, the toilets that I’m responsible to clean.  It’s home to huge cabbages in the garden.  To a short, hot, dry summer turned to a cool and rainy fall.  To a month ahead filled with company and church cleanings and revival meetings.  BayTree is known for its uncoventiality and a case in point is that we are not starting school till October 4.  Yes, you heard right.  Our teacher is coming from Ontario and making the big move across Canada.  He has a business to wrap up and a family to accompany him and he won’t be here till late in September.  And yes, we are waiting for him to arrive before we start school.  I don’t like the feeling of being behind before we even begin…but so be it. We will just plan to have school until the 2^nd week of June.   At least I have some more time to do what needs to be done before my best helpers go off to school.

Sometimes when I post on Facebook or blog I write away and then I think “Who really cares about this stuff anyway?”  There might be a faithful few of you who stuck this out—people like my dear mother-in-law in Wisconsin, for example. 

Having said all of the above, I have a load of wash that needs to be dried, a baby who needs a bath, and 200 other things that need attention.  I should really have done this in a Part I and Part II post like my friend Audrey who took a trip west and is blogging about it.  Instead it is in this one huge lump.  But so be that too.

Someday soon I am going to write a nice topical blog that actually has a title and goes somewhere definite with its thoughts.  But until then, my life seems to be a clutter of things that I want to share.  Sometimes it’s a bunch of random nonsense, niggling away at my peace of mind until I write about it.

(I have noticed in my browsing of Xanga that a lot of bloggers have quit updating.  A lot of them end in 2009 sometime.  Maybe they just eventually cover a lot of the things they care about and then quit writing. )

The narrowness of my fears and worries sometimes makes me shrink. 

Things like stains in clothes.

And too much broccoli in the garden. 

And what it will be like to drive our (very full) brown minivan all the way to Wisconsin, with its small knocked in piece on the front bumper where the cows that got out somehow managed to bash it in.  (I don’t want to drive it into the parking lot at Northwoods Mennonite Church.  But then again…I don’t have to.  Dan can do that. J)  

When I post I worry about sounding too frivolous for “my age and position in the church”.  (That last quotation is one our humorous bishop of the past said his wife would remind him of.) 

But when I want to get serious I worry about sounding too pious.  I’m afraid I’ve become cynical of pat answers and nice clichés in the past, and that now colors how I view what others say or write.  It is not a gift to automatically shut someone off because you feel “you just cannot relate”.  Because sometimes those people have good things to share that can help make your life better.  And even though I may not be at the point where they are in their walk with God, they really mean what they say and live it. 

(And someday when I grow up I will learn not to worry so much about what people think of me.  It’s truly a ghastly thing.)

Other small and narrow worries/fears include:  The weedy lawn.  The stripes in the wallpaper not lining up in the renovations we are doing on our rental house. (I so hate things like that!)  Do we have enough decent clothes around here to attend a wedding in September?   What did our singing actually sound like to the neighbors at the funeral we sang at last week?  Do my children eat too many cookies?

And Then….I hear about the mom of 5 (ages 1 to 9) who died of cancer recently.  I just cannot bear the thought of what it must be like to say goodbye to your children and know you are leaving them for good.  And that dad and his children? I can’t fathom where they turn when they wake up to a morning with no mother.

I read of fearless Christians in China.

I think of my friend with her high maintenance special needs child.

I think of people battling the horrors of addiction.

I ponder the ugliness of poverty, hunger, and AIDS.

And I see my worries for what they are.  I Am So Blessed and I Am So Grateful when I sit and down and Really Consider my Life.

Switching gears:

I am passionate about compassion.  I am passionate about people not feeling left out of a circle of friends.  I feel deeply for the underdog.

Recently my big and opinionated family put together a book for my parents’ 50^th wedding anniversary, full of photos and memories and tributes to my mom and dad.  (It is really a cool book.  Looks just like a “real” one and has the story of Mom and Dad’s pioneering days in the West.)  One of the themes that came out strongly in that book was Mom’s emphasis on looking out for others.  As my sister Carol so aptly put it, “Mom was most intolerant of intolerance.  She looked down severely on those who looked down on others.”  This lady was the classic snob of all snobs.

I am so grateful to my mother for this teaching!

But I think I’ve carried it too far.  I often assume that just because someone is good looking or popular or smart they are snobbish and unfriendly and would never consider being my friend or look out for someone who feels lonely and downtrodden.  And I can be so wrong in those assumptions.  Gratefully so. 

I read today how Paul says he doesn’t run like a man running aimlessly, nor fight like a man beating the air.  Somehow that aimless running and beating the air describes me lately.  I love the word Grace and have learned so much about it by watching the man in my life live it out, but still I struggle.  I am waging a constant battle against negative, pessimistic thoughts.   Yes, I know the battle is not mine, but still I have to choose the good!  I long to know God intimately, yet my prayer and praise is often a forced thing…kind of what feels like an aimless beating of the air. 

Still I cling to Him.  Because “He cannot lie” (excerpt from a verse in Sunday school today) and I choose to believe His promises.   I wish that belief was not such a struggle for me.

On Friday I bravely bade my loaded bean patch and messy house goodbye, packed up The Six, and went to watch the Fall Fair parade in our town.  I went with my sister-in-law turned-niece Lori and her nieces and nephew, our children’s cousins.  (If you don’t understand that relationship, you can read my post on Gravestones and Grief.)  The parade was a fun one.  (Like Lori said, over fair time everyone turns cowboy.)  The children loaded their bags with way too much candy.  On the way out of town I almost checked in at a little hotel.  Its sign said: Clean. Quiet.  Comfortable.  Free Internet.  

So unlike what awaited me at home.

 But this verse has been going through my mind and I pressed onward.  “She looketh well to the ways of her household and eateth not the bread of idleness.”   

This verse has actually been hounding me.

This is what we’ve been doing around here.  Those are yellow beans.

And if you actually made it this far on this long post you are a true friend.  Andre(3) still rocks in his blue-green chair and the song has switched from the Hallelujah Chorus to Onward Christian Soldiers.

And just a few tips for moms:  Do Not allow your children to mix up flour and water and play with it on your front porch on a hot day.  The sun bakes the many drops that dribble out of the bowls and renders them nearly un-removeable.  (if indeed that is a word) 

And Do Not allow them to chew black gum called React.

The voice of experience is speaking. 

And now the load is off my mind.  And it is on yours.

 Dan & I had our 14^th anniversary on the 10^th.  We did not celebrate as we would have dreamed of, with at least one night away,    But we did go to a quiet dinner alone. We got groceries and shared a piece of blueberry pie.  And drove home at peace with each other.

I love the man I married very much.  The “nice fellow from Wisconsin who studies hard and sings well”.  (My inscription on the back of the photo I gave him as a little girl from Alberta facing the wide, wide world of social life at Maranatha Bible School 18 years ago.  Oh my.  I cannot BELIEVE it has been that many years.)

I love him for sticking with me through those tumultuous years of indecision.  I just did not like him.  I fought it hard.  Not a Wisconsin dairy farmer! 

But somehow I couldn’t shake him off.  His kindness, his strength, and his persistence kind of got to me.

Eventually I agreed to give the thing a try.  Every time I tried to list to my friends or myself my reasons for not dating Dan I came up speechless.

But dating itself was a rocky time.  I was up and down like a wave of the sea. 

Still he stuck with me.

And I love him.

It was a good day that I married him.  I have not regretted that day.

He also saw me through the ugliness of new-wife jealousies, some years of depression, and the birth of six babies.

He is still strong and kind and persistent. 

It has been a good life.  Not the life of my lofty 18 year old dreams.

But I love and respect this man with the nicest brown eyes you ever saw.  And the biggest heart.   He shoulders a lot of responsibility.

Husband to me.

Dad to the six he loves so well.

Pastor of our little church.

Employer to three men.

Beef/hay farmer.

Businessman.  Book keeper.  Bill payer.  Toilet fixer.  Feet warmer on icy nights.  Steak griller and pancake maker.

And of course I would do it again.  God knew I needed my Dan-the-Man.

I only pray that I can give Dan the acceptance and affirmation that he has been so faithful in giving me.

(Yes, the photography lacks, which is what I get for always buying cheap cameras.  Our 8 year old took the bottom shot and that is a clothespin right above Dan’s head.)

I also pray that we’ll celebrate many more anniversaries together, Honey.