I want to blog about….

-What it’s like to be turning grey-haired in a society where it feels like NO one goes grey anymore.

-How I feel about people bashing their conservative Mennonite background  (Doubt I will ever get brave enough for that one.)

-Why is my 8 year old son complaining all the time about not having anything to do?

-A livingroom covered with toy hay bales and the view of hay bales out my kitchen window.

-My youngest daughter seeming very spoiled lately.

-How I felt out of my element a few times at our Peachey family reunion because they are such an intellectual bunch and read deep books and my latest reading material consists of Facebook and Xanga.

-Is it normal for a 10 year old girl to have frequent bouts of insomnia?

-On the blogs I have been frequenting it is not cool to garden.  But I rather like my garden.  Sometimes.

-How Victoria turned up my “Simple Tips for Busy Moms” calendar for August 9th and it said you should keep a tube of lipstick near the door and if the doorbell rings unexpectedly you can quickly swipe some on.   Now that I will definitely be trying!

 

But I have not been posting much.  I am so tired.  Exhausted.  Beat.  Bushed. “Whupped”….as one of my friends would say.

 

From the beginning of my life as a mom I was determined that it would not become the normal Mennonite mom scenario.  You know the one.  Packing the diaper bag.  And the extra pounds.  And the drooling baby on the hip.  Toddler pulling at my dress.  Sitting in the nursery at church talking about teething and stomach flu and diaper rash.  Tiredly  nursing my baby and regaling my friends with tales of her night schedule.

 

Those ladies I vowed not to become have a new grace and dignity to me now.  I still don’t like the scenario, but there are times that I’ve lived it to a T.

 

When our cute Andre was born less than 16 months after his sister and then the sweet Liesl-girl came a little less than two years later our whole scheme of family planning went awry.  But I bravely determined anew that I would not be a whiny, complaining, exhausted mom.  God seemed determined to bless us with babies and I would be up to the task if it killed me.  These little people had no choice in their existence or the number they were in the family and I WOULD love them and take good care of them.  And in retrospect it wasn’t really that hard.

 

But the exhaustion could not be ignored. 

 

And tonight I am no longer tired from nursing a baby every 3 hours.  I am just tired from L.I.F.E. 

 

I am tired of the Cheetos bag lying open on the kitchen table from our grab-your-own Sunday night supper and the little hands that reach in to take one and crunch on it as a child walks through the house.

 

I am tired of the ache in my neck and shoulders that won’t go away today.

 

I am tired of shuffling children off to bed.

 

I am tired of having only five families to cover all the bases at church.

 

I am tired of not having time to myself even if I lock the bathroom door.

 

I am tired of hectic family trips.

 

I am tired of my Bryant’s complaints about boredom.

 

I am too tired to post clever things on Facebook and I even feel tired of reading the wide world of blogland.

 

I am tired of our summer (un)schedule.

 

And the 3 and 4 year old that I have loudly proclaimed about loving at this delightful stage?  I am soooo tired of their fights right now.  They are in a bad, bad mode of fighting, tattling, hitting, and screaming at each other.

 

I am tired of being so tired of night that I am too tired to get my undisciplined self out of my chair where I quickly-check-FB-before-bed-and-then-sit-online-and-waste-precious-hours-when-I-should-be-sleeping.

 

I am tired of my children.

 

Had I mentioned that I am tired?

 

But this scenario doesn’t please me any more than the church nursery one does.

 

 

On Saturday morning after a big week of vacation Bible school I took the lovely girl who came from Wisconsin to help teach VBS to the airport.  Grande Prairie airport is an hour and a half away.  We left about 6:00, talked the whole way, and had coffee and cinnamon rolls at the airport café.

 

 

Then we said goodbye and I headed out in our old brown minivan for home.  It was a beautiful Alberta morning and I soaked up the blessed quietness.  I sang and I prayed and I thought and I thought.  When I stopped at Wal-Mart in Dawson Creek for milk I tried on shoes, mosied through the nightwear, and bought a burrito at McDonalds.

 

I saw the sign for the number of kilometers north to Fort Nelson and I considered driving on….and on…and on. 

 

But I am a conscientious wife and mom and instead I came home.  To three little faces beaming at the door.   To a messy kitchen because a very good dad loves to make pancakes and sausages for his kiddoes on Saturday mornings.  To laundry and beans to pick and food to prepare.

 

And I had a good day.  A friend stopped in and we snipped beans and talked about losing brothers in death and her exciting job as an ACE teacher who travels the world.  I skipped Saturday night baths for the children and they went happily to bed without them.

 

I really don’t know where I am going with this post.  Except that I am really tired of being tired.  And on my drive home from the airport (in that stillness and beauty and feeling of closeness to God) I made a conscious effort to think of some beautiful things and be glad about them.

 

Like my clean kitchen window.

 

And my sister Linda who lives in Missouri.  I talk to her often on the phone.  And we got to be together for over a week this summer.

 

 

 

And I love my flower bed (very much).

 

 

 And these three girls who were at our house for supper the other night.

 

Janice and Mary Beth LaRochelle are the two blondes.  They are hardworking and fiercely Canadian.  Tough girls, but very good ones.  They milk cows and make cheese, bale hay and help with VBS.  Luci Miller is the girl from Wisconsin who lived with us last week.  She’s a sweetie too.  Dreams of writing.  Taught school for three years in Virginia.  So nice to have around.

 

 

I don’t often meet a Lucy whose name is Lucinda and who spells her name with an “i” at the end like I do.  Luci wanted to make a clay pot with Alberta dugout clay.  Bryant proudly helped her get some and she worked until late Thursday night to finish it.

 

 

We had a really good week of Bible school.  Attendance peaked at 39 on Wednesday.

 

 

And the other night after the program I stayed late at church to clean up because Dan was VBS superintendent and we are also on the schedule for August cleaning.  I told Dan that if he put the children to bed I would be happy to stay and clean up the VBS aftermath.  He came to pick me up later and we came home to a peaceful house.  Lying on the stand were Liesl’s little ruffly panties for over her diaper and her sweet Robeez shoes.  Made me realize how much I love her even though she is teething, throwing fits, and not eating right at all.

 

 

And the tiredness is not gone, but I know that a lot of my weariness is a good kind.

 

And how DOES a mom stay fresh and sweet and rested?

 

 

 The weather?  Hot, sunny, and dry. 

Marriage?  It’s good.

The children?  They’re doing fine. 

And the work around this place?  It just never ends. 

Always, always there is something to do.  Another load of laundry to bring in from the line.  A sippy cup to fill.  A spill to clean up.  A bath to give.  A question to answer.  A screaming child to quiet.  Jam to wipe off the wall.  A library book to rescue from the floor.   And always and always the food to prepare.

Sometimes it feels like I just muddle along all day.  Tidying up and putting away.  Wiping noses and high chairs and you know what else.  Running to the hay field to pick up Dan and to my brother’s house for milk.  Grabbing a few weeds when I get swiss chard from the garden.  No sense of accomplishment at a job completed, finished, and put away.

And that very muddling can depress me. Very easily.

That’s when the funniness helps so much.  When the craziness of life as a mom of six gets me through the tough and the mundane and the never-ending-ness.

These two, this Tillie girl and her brother Dre (Natalia & Andre, more correctly)-they add a lot of laughter to my muddling.

 

 

 

 

In church last Sunday Tillie wanted me to draw her an oval.  There had been a discussion about nobody having perfectly round heads at home just previously and I whispered, “Circles work okay for heads, you know.”  She responded with, “I’m not making a head, I’m making a toilet.”

This is the girl who was running around with her face covered with cherry juice last night and saying, “Mom, I can run like a princess.”  Which I discovered meant on her tiptoes.

And she only now learned to blow her nose at 4 years.  Along with that amazing accomplishment came the thought:  “Maybe if I blow hard enough I can blow my cold out and it will go away.”  (I wish, Miss.)

And she’s the one whose cup of happiness was full when I went with her for a little walk in the bush in search of some bluebells.  We finally found some, albeit drying up already.  “Ohh…I’m so happy,” she breathed.  “Tori sewed me a dress, Mom went for a walk with me, and I have a new purse.  I’m really happy!  But we do need rain.  Lots of rain.  But no thunder and lightning.  That scares me.”

And the new dress?  She tells her dad that it needs a hem and a handle–the zipper, of course.  And the dress is “too tall” for her (too long).  But because it’s long she can of course be a princess.

This miss was asking me how come flowerbeds are called beds.  “Why?  ‘Cause the flowers don’t sleep in them.  They stand up.  They really do whatever they want!”

Andre gets really,  really frustrated over Lego.  He told me the other day, “I’m making dis and it dis keeps broking!” 

He’s the guy who was pouring cup after cup of water on the cement pad outside the door this morning.  When I asked him why, he answered in his little deadpan voice, “Mom, dat’s fo da bugs to come in and den dey will die.”  (Drown, I guess.)

One night when we had hot dogs for supper he surveyed the table and said happily, “Dose hotdogs look so yummy.  I’m exciting about dat.”

When his brother asked, “Can you get me a kleenex please?” this little guy said, “Cud (cuz) you have a bloody?” (Head shake)  “Cud you have boogers?”  Yup.  Yeah, refined conversations our our specialty.

Tonight we were eating steak outside and Andre was banging his plate.  Natalia told him to stop and he told her it makes God happy when he does that.  Then he pointed his face heavenward and said, “God, does that make You happy?”  Whatever.

I know.  This stuff doesn’t sound as funny or cute to you as it does to me.  But it sure helps in making it through a long and overwhelming day.

Then there’s a new game going on here that’s called “Hickory Nutfledge”.  Do not ask me the origin of that name.  But the gist of the game is to run past the oscillating fan without it blowing any air on you and yell “Hickory Nutfledge” as you pass.  It all started with Bryant, who is 7.

Victoria (10) has always been curious.  Today she asked me the meaning of propitiation while doing her Sunday school lesson.  A few minutes later it was circumcision.  And later in the day it was “What is ammonia?” 

Her favorite saying lately (from the Rose Wilder books by Roger Lea MacBride) is:”What cannot be cured must be endured.”  She loves that one.

Victoria is also into speaking Openglopish.  (Which is simply English with “op” before every vowel sound.)  I’m kind of regretting telling her about it because it’s getting…well…annoying.  Now I know a little bit of how my mom felt when my sisters and I spoke and sang that silly language all the time.

We’re listening to Huck Finn 24/7 on tape.  (Bryant’s doings) I can’t believe my rather strict parents let me read that stuff.  Huck went to church and they “spoke about brotherly love and other such tiresomeness” and somewhere along the line I heard a snatch today where he realized that whether choosing good or bad you  usually end up with the same consequences and so resolved that from then on he would just do whatever “came the most natural”.  The tall tales and the superstition are craziness itself.  Twain must have been quite a character.

We had one little, two little, three little Indians running around today.  Running Buffalo, Running Elk, and Princess Blue Water. (The garish wall hanging in the background is the blanket I hung over the sunroom door to try to keep the livingroom cooler.)

 

Then there’s the little menace and her shenanigans.  The chief joy in her life at present is to eat tips off Crayola markers.  She goes for them like candy.  For real.  Bites the tips right off and sucks out the dye.  Not pleasing.  Especially to Tillie, who colors all the time and loves her markers dearly.  I bought her a new set recently because the tips were all going missing on the ones she had.  The Menace has started in on the new set now.  I have begun to punish her rather severely, but it is to no avail.  She WILL eat a marker tip when she gets a chance.  Jam is second only to markers.

 

The bottoms of my feet (especially the heels) are so dry and cracked that Dan uses them for a scratching board when he gets an itch in bed.  They are very ugly.  I see ads with beautiful sandaled feet and foot lotions and I wonder what they would do with me if I went to get a pedicure.  I paid the power bill at the bank this week and kept saying to myself, “Keep your heels down on your flip-flops, Luci!  Don’t let people see them.” (What is the likelihood that anyone was looking at my feet?  But I felt self-conscious, because I was especially observing feet that day and no one had heels that looked like mine.)

Alec is driving mowing or baling hay all day/every day and he loves it.  When I get grouchy about our lack of schedule and haphazard farm life this time of year, I really try to remember how glad I am to have a 12 year old son who has work that he enjoys that keeps him out of trouble.  The dollars he gets paid are adding up and Dan just loves working with him. 

And Dan?  He’s keeping three employees busy at the sawmill and running the farm and studying for sermons and grilling steak.  And when he comes into the house he has seven people telling him about Indians and princesses and the summer reading club at the library and the blinds that need to be hung in the sunroom. 

I cannot wait to see my favorite sister on Wednesday.  She and her family are coming all the way from Missouri and I haven’t seen her for over a year.  I say “favorite” hesitantly because I have five sisters and I love them all, but I think they understand.  This is the sister and I that were so close that when one of us needed to use the bathroom we automatically called the other one to come along for company.  (Back when we were about 7 and 4.)  We share a birthday and we’ve always been the best of friends.  I know she is special because I spent a good ten minutes in Extra Foods the other day looking for just the right kind of coffee to serve Linda and Steve when they come. (They’re both fine coffee nuts.)  I hope the Starbucks Latin America House Blend will please them.  It cost $9.29 for a very small bag.

And that

     Right there

         Is a slice

              Of my life.

  

There would have been a day when I would have thought that a photo of or a post about a gravestone was strange.  Unreal.  Morbid.

 

That was before I knew grief in the way I know it today.

 

This week Alec and Victoria (12 and 10) mowed and trimmed the grass in the little country cemetery just a few miles from home to prepare it for the burial of an elderly man from the community who passed away. They’re getting a nice little cheque for this community service and they’re excited about that.  They also came home from the job site with this news: “Mom, Uncle Kevin’s gravestone is in!It’s sooo neat.    It’s so ‘him’.”

 

And so…the next day I had to pack up and see this stone for myself.  I took two babies with me because they were begging to go and drove the three miles to Briar Ridge Cemetery.  I drove slowly.  The canola is yellow and the wheat fields are deep green.  The wild roses are blooming in profusion.  The wind was blowing fiercely, unceasingly.  There is a Something about this big country of ours in summer that is indescribable.  It’s a wildness.  A huge beauty that leaves an ache in your heart.

   

I planned to park the van for a few minutes and visit the grave of my brother. But I wasn’t prepared for the emotion of the moment.  I took a wide, shuddering circle around the gaping hole that was prepared for the upcoming burial and found Kevin’s headstone.  It replaces the small white plastic card that marked his spot for the past two years.

 

I think it’s a beautiful headstone.  If gravestones can be beautiful.  And somehow, the finality of those dates hit me again.  You just don’t ever expect to see an ending date on the life of your younger brother.  27 years and 10 months is just too short of a time to live.

 

 

 

I am not a grave sitter.  I have found little consolation in sitting by the grave of someone I love who is gone. There is nothing living there to tie me to them.  And though I seriously try to avoid such thoughts, cemeteries can bring on awful pictures in my mind of bodies in a decaying state.

 

But the gravestone and the canola fields and the huge wind brought tears.  Tears that wouldn’t stop and tears for which I was grateful.  I haven’t cried for at least two months over the loss of my brother.  And it’s true. Tears are healing.

 

I’ve posted several tributes in remembrance of Kevin on Facebook.I don’t want to become a stuck record in remembering him.We miss him, but of course we’re coming to grips with the truth that life goes on.

 

I also realize our tendencies of glorifying those who have passed on.  It’s natural.  We remember the good and forget the bad.  But the stories you hear about Kevin are true.  They don’t need embellishment to make them special.  I won’t try to sing his virtues to you.  But I can tell you a few things that might help you understand what I mean.

 

Kevin was a Dish Doing Guy.  He’d roll up his sleeves and display his muscled arms and dig in.  Mom & I were talking about this soon after he passed and she said, “Yeah, why do the guys who do the dishes have to die??”

 

Kevin climbed mountains, forded rivers, traveled extensively, ate with enjoyment, mountain biked, motorcycled, did the zip line thing, read the Word, created huge swings over canyons, camped, hunted, sang joyously, played with children, laughed with the elderly, hated conflict, grew up Mennonite, was baptized by the Baptists, wooed several girls, respected his parents, lifted weights, joined the “conservative” Mennonites for the last brief years of his life, drew pictures, built cabins, wrote poetry, was married in Pennsylvania, designed rock walkways, slept well, and grew bald young.

 

Of course Kevin wasn’t perfect.  But he lived a full and joyful life.  He taught us how to live—and then he taught us how to die.  Somehow he had a remarkable spirit of acceptance about what lay ahead for him.

 

 

When he was first diagnosed with a brain tumor I remember so well worrying about whether we might somehow lose our Kevin.  The one we knew and loved.  After every surgery, radiation treatment, and bout of chemotherapy pills he emerged the same person.  Still smiling that dimpled grin.  Still enjoying nature and adventure and children.  Perhaps a little more quiet and thoughtful.  Maybe a little thinner or balder.  But still loving life.

 

Until that ugly tumor overstepped its boundaries and the countdown began.  Those were the days of horror. The frenzied prayers.  The vacant look in his eyes as his brain started to shut down.  That muscled, healthy body wasting away.  The songs at his bedside, the ‘healers’ who anointed him, the natural remedies that were sought out by those who loved him, the days of hopes soaring only to be knocked flat, the difficulty breathing, the smell of death in his room.  They were long, cold, desperate, wintry days.  Days of praying for miracles one moment and begging that death would take him the next.

 

And then he was gone.  And the journey of grief began.

 

I don’t for a moment pretend to know grief to its fullest degree.  And I don’t have anything wise or wonderful or earth-shattering to add to what has already been said in the past about grief.

 

But grieving is teaching me some lessons.

 

Like the fact that everyone grieves differently.  There is not a prescribed way to do it.

 

Through grief the whole foundation of my faith in God was shaken in a way I cannot even explain.  All that I had been taught and all that had once seemed real was shattered.

 

I learned that God is big enough to handle it if we can’t talk to Him or read what He has to say for days and months and maybe years.  He can also handle it if we doubt Him to the lowest degree.

 

I hope I learned that pat answers just don’t cut it.  And that just saying “I’m sorry and I care” might mean a lot more than pious words of wisdom.

 

And that at the lowest point of grief, heaven may seem far away and even the thought of meeting someone you love there does nothing for the hurt of today.

 

Somewhere in the muddle of grieving and the last years of three babies coming much closer than planned, I also learned a few things about clean windows and flyspecks on the lights and an untrimmed lawn.   I am learning that people and relationships come before those things…and that people actually like me better if not everything is in order.  For in those months of the most intense feelings of grief, some of that stuff just Did. Not. Matter.  Not in the least.

 

And of course I experienced the old truth of the fact that while you long to get over the incredible pain it’s hard to truly release it.  Because in doing so you feel like you are being disloyal.  You are afraid you will forget.  That battle is so real to me today.

 

 

 

 

In a way it felt like we had to stuff our pain.  Kevin’s brave young wife remarried 11 months after she lost him.  She married Kevin’s nephew, which really makes some interesting family tree relationships.  And we love it that we didn’t really lose her because she’s still in the family.  But it’s awkward to spend a lot of time remembering when there’s a fresh new love finding its way.  We don’t want to be stuck back in the doldrums of grief.

 

So on that day of the cemetery visit and the tears by the beautiful new headstone….

 

I took my children home, grabbed a scissors, cut some daisies from my flowerbed, found a big vase, headed back to Briar Ridge cemetery, and stopped by the roadside to pick wild roses, yellow clover, and a bit of alfalfa.  I put these things together in a rather clumsy bouquet.(Wild roses smell heavenly and look beautiful by the roadside but always lose their charm when you pick them.  They’re wild and prickly and…well….Wild, I guess.)  This I placed by Kevin’s grave.

 

And I feel a freedom in my spirit.  Almost an excitement.  I don’t have a lot of good words about feeling like Kevin saw me doing this tribute to him—though I hope he did.  But somewhere in the wideness of the sky and the yellow of the fields and wildness of the roses I feel the confidence of Job’s words: “And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God.  I myself will see him with my own eyes…How my heart yearns within me.”

 

And I can only imagine Kevin’s joy as he experiences the truth of those words.

 

 

(Note:  If you are my Facebook friend, you may have already read this post.  I’m just getting started on Xanga.  It was originally a Facebook Note.)

I was browsing around on Xanga the other day and came across a lovely lady named Carmen. She looked so sweet, was a mom of 2, and wrote beautifully. But what really got to me about Carmen was a post that I read that had flower arrangements scattered through it. Positively charming bouquets. Elegant. Refined. And they were skillfully positioned beside just the right figurine or book or window. I could just imagine how easy it would be to be sweet and good with bouquets like that gracing the cluttered surfaces of my house. Instead, this is the norm for flower arrangements around here:

 

Now I love my children and I love their bouquets, but too often they grace a table that looks like this;

 

 

And so… I WANT CARMEN’S FLOWER ARRANGEMENTS!

I kept reading blogs. And I read a romantic one by a lady named Michelle who was celebrating her 8th anniversary. She was a great writer and her before-marriage story was so exciting, touching, and full of love. And judging by the many comments and views, it touched more than myself. And I thought wistfully of our own rather rocky courtship, full of indecision and agonies…on my part. If I don’t watch it, I can think: I want a love story like Michelle’s! Oh…I’ll take her writing ability too…as well as her photography skills.)

Speaking of photography, there are moms out there who do simply amazing photography. Just the right cute clothes to fit the scene. The candy store look. Or the beach scenes. Or the tea party poses. Or whatever. And I have a hunch that these are some of the same ladies that scrapbook every beautiful moment.

Because Xanga is my new reading spot, I marvel at the talent out there. I used to think that maybe I could (kind of) write. Just a little bit. Something that might interest a few people. But all of a sudden I feel not the least bit clever in that department. All my poignant thoughts that I once imagined were unique to me have already been said. And many more. Very cleverly. Very wittily. Very movingly. It’s unnerving.

I see people who homeschool and do cool things like colored lava experiments. Or have their children journal daily. And I think of my own rather high maintenance 7 year old who probably doesn’t get the stimulation he needs, is often bored, and sometimes plays brainless computer games.

I read Michael and Debi Pearl’s works and feel guilty that I don’t always “have my little buddy at my side while I work”. In fact, sometimes I sneak around so the little buddies don’t find me out in the garden and spoil the quiet.

My friend Laura from church is a gifted lady. She has a baby and a very active toddler and she’s taking an interior decorating course online. This lady does bookwork for several businesses and is known to do things like paint the church bathrooms herself…or buy and put together the cupboard we’ve been needing in the basement where we have school. Sometimes I sigh and wonder what Laura has that I don’t that keeps her so productive.

I hear of people who are memorizing a lot of Scripture with their children. And I worry if ours are getting what they need to face the world.

And always, always, my own dear mother hangs over me. This lady cleaned scrupulously every week–and taught her six daughters to do likewise. Our windows always shone. She didn’t waste a moment of her life online. She hoed and cooked and entertained and cleaned with vehemence. And in comparison I wonder if I’m lazy.

Then I get around educated, cultured people and I feel envious of their experiences and wisdom. I wonder how life would have been different for me if I had pursued my teenage dream of becoming an accredited teacher and traveling the world.

A simple trip to town can bring on Feelings too. Why is that lady blessed with straight teeth, thick hair, AND a nice figure? Just the other night in bed I was telling Dan that I just feel like God gave me a bunch of whammies when it comes to appearance. I won’t enumerate them.

And I look at my closetful of outdated dresses and wonder about things like why the latest Mennonite hairstyle looks good on everyone but me.

And there are the healthy ladies who keep themselves and their families far from the refined flours and sugars and white rice and french fries. And I think about the cheap pizzas I sometimes buy and the cookies this household goes through. And I wonder if we’ll all have cancer someday.

I visit my neighbor lady and almost hold back tears because her house is so skillfully decorated and classy. And she uses beautiful old antiques and paints it herself and it’s so restful and lovely. And I dream of taking down my old floral borders and painting things in beige and burnt orange and sage. But then I sigh because I wonder how I’d ever find the time. And how WOULD I keep my 4, 2, and 1 year old out of wet paint?

I may be a mother of six and a pastor’s wife and a teacher with four years of experience in private Mennonite schools….but some days my old ugly habit of comparing myself with others is still intact in a major way.

But when I look at it closely, it’s about as pretty as….let me see…the forgotten shrivelled carrot and bit of Ranch dip that I found in the sunroom the other day.

Somehow when I really analyze a lot of these Feelings they look like Covetousness. They look strangely similar to Jealousy. Self-Pity is in there somewhere too. And these things don’t look good on anyone.
Definitely not on me.

And I see in myself a really competive spirit.  A longing to Be the Best instead of simply doing my best.  Nasty feelings of frustration because I’m just not measuring up.

And so…I am constantly faced with decisions.  Simple ones, actually.  Like not staying in that mode. Not stewing in the muddle of wishful thinking. Being thankful and content.

I want to be teachable. Maybe I can learn to arrange a bouquet like Carmen. I can learn writing ideas from the clever Xanga blogs that people post. I can be inspired to learn more Scripture with my children and take the time do do something creative with my son.

But I’ve got to learn my limitations and realize also that my gifts don’t necessarily lie where someone else’s do. I’ve got to realize that I am me. That my life is where it is right now. That I don’t have time today to redecorate my house as I would like to. That God made me with a big nose and and thin frizzy hair and pronounced me good. That my love story is very sweet in a different way. That my windows might be dirtier than my moms. That sometimes spending time in online relationships really encourages me and is okay.

 

Best of all, I realize that the best gifts/talents I can covet are available to all because of God’s grace.  Like hospitality and patience and meekness and an understanding heart.

And why do I feel like I need to share this struggle? I’m not sure. Except that it’s so very real for me and I know that confession is good for the soul. And I also know that I’m not alone in these feelings. And like my husband says, most of his sermon ideas come from things he’s dealing with personally. So when you hear your pastor preach on Patience it could easily mean that he’s struggling with patience himself.

If you leave a comment on this, please don’t tell me what you admire about me or try to affirm me with positive compliments. (Yes. I know there are a few things I’m good at.) That would defeat the purpose of this post and make me feel like I was compliment fishing. Instead, you could share what sermon you would preach to yourself tomorrow morning.

 

 

 I wonder if I should stop Facebook for the summer.  I can just see my status updates: “The corn is all up! The neatest little rows that you ever did see…”

-“The cauliflower is planted and under protective bleach jugs!

-“Hurray for mulched raspberries!  And oh….my aching back.”

-“20 packs of peas in the freezer tonite. Next week’s picking will be double that.” (This one accompanied by a photo of those near and dear shelling peas on the front porch.)

-“Ahhh….fresh broccoli! (Albeit there are lots of worms to be drowned in salt water.)”

-“Anyone need beans?  We have 100 quarts already and thousands more to pick.”

-‘Waaaah! The corn and cucumbers froze and we didn’t get our yearly supply yet.”

 

You get the picture. Yeah. I know. I’ve lost half of you already.

 

Yesterday was one gorgeous day and last evening I was out in the garden digging holes for transplanting plants. Finally. And analyzing why I garden.  There are actually quite a few reasons.

 

One reason is that I grew up that way.  I can still picture my mom, her face red from hoeing thistles.  And I hear dear Dad exclaiming over the first green onions and the baby lettuce and the beautiful red tomatoes.  We ate baby red beets and greens with delight and took cucumbers with salt and vinegar to bed for our bedtime snacks.  No kidding. The Peachey clan did that.

 

And I married Dan, who gets a big thrill over seeing anything grow.  Nothing pleases him more.  And he very cheerfully plants and weeds and picks and preserves.  When he’s not too busy vaccinating calves or sowing barley or making hay or combining oats or sawing lumber.

 

I garden because it is the Thing to Do in Bay Tree, Alberta.  Especially if you go to our church.  It gives us something to talk about.  Three out of our four main families at church are farmers.  And sometimes I feel like a bored fish out of water when we get to talking calving and lambing and vaccinating and branding. Not to mention haying. (Sorry Vivian, Janice, Tammy & Mary Beth. I love you lots.)  I don’t care much for the cows and Dan doesn’t expect me to be involved at this stage of life.  But I can get into “How does your garden grow?” and “Are you picking peas yet?” and “Did you guys get frost this morning?”  This is familiar territory. 

 

Why is it the Thing to Do?  Many of our other neighbors grow gardens too.  I wish I could describe to you the golden days of summer here!  They are beautiful, to state it mildly. Loooooong and warm (usually) and lovely.  Four to six hours to work outside after supper if you care to.  The peas get taller than me some years.  The carrots are sweeter than anywhere else.  And the potatoes?  Some of them get big enough to feed a family of four with one potato.  Oh yes….the worms love to destroy the thriving cabbage plants and the corn doesn’t always come to fruition before frost.  We pick our tomatoes green and bring them inside to ripen most Septembers.  But July & August are usually splendid months of bountiful peas and green beans and tender new potatoes.

 

I garden because it really is therapeutic–sometimes.  I like to weed in the stillness.  Our 12 year old thinks tilling is fun, so that job is now his.  The children usually play happily when I’m outside working nearby. 

 

I know it’s healthy to grow your own vegetables.  And it’s rewarding.  And I love, love, LOVE to give away fresh produce and have people swoon in gratefulness.

 

I like having work for the children in the summer.  They groan over all the peas we have to shell and the buckets of beans that they snip, but it’s good for them.  And nothing beats eating a crunchy carrot that you clean off on your shirt sleeve.

 

And flowers?  They’re a must in a land of long winters.  Give me petunias, please.  Something bright that blooms and blooms.  I love all flowers, but the old standbys like petunias, marigolds and pansies are the ones that do best here.  And perennials are great too.  I love them all.

 

I like to garden.  But I think I could be just as happy living in a little house with a tiny garden plot with a few plants and lots of flowers.  I don’t think that organic food is the only way to good health.  I don’t think that everyone has to put away 100 quarts of green beans to be a good family.  I sigh at the new crop of weeds and the long rows of peas to pick.  I don’t know what to do with the six pumpkins my dearest likes to grow.  I get grouchy over wormy broccoli.  Some days I would like to run away from the green bean patch.

 

But still I garden.  It’s a good life.  It suits us.  The vegetables are delightful.  The rewards are plenteous. 

And speaking of long summer days…. Last night I was focusing on transplanting plants and then bathing children.  And at 11:00 when the house was quiet I ran out to put Roundup on a few nasty weeds that I Just Never Get To.  Spray, spray, spray….Oh—missed that one….more spray.  More thoughts about Weeds.  And about keeping my baby far from this spot for the next few days.  And then the bottle of Roundup spray ran out and I looked up and saw this.  My cheap camera doesn’t do it justice.

 

Pennsylvania and Indiana would laugh so hard.  It actually crossed our minds to pack up our six this weekend and drive the 15 hours to Bonner’s Ferry, Idaho to listen to a chorus group headed by a friend in Seymour, Missouri.  I wanted/still want to go very badly.  We even cleaned the van…in case.  But the weather is finally dry enough to finish the seeding.  And we have a trip coming up in July and probably another in August.  So we will (*big sigh*) stay home instead.  Why do I want to bother?  It would mean a weekend with my sister and family, who recently moved there.  It would mean seeing 200 people on Sunday morning instead of 28.  It would mean some beautiful choral music.  It’s summer, the sky is blue and I have a nearly uncontrollable desire to Go…almost Anywhere.   I love Bay Tree.  I love our church.  I love our community.  But there are times when it all seems too small and confining and I just want to see a bigger picture and some different people.

 

But for this time we’ll stay home.  Maybe take in some garage sales today.  And barbecue steaks for supper.  (Every time Dan gets steak out of the freezer I feel like we should invite someone over for supper.  It seems selfish to use the good stuff just for our own family.)  We’ll support our own church tomorrow.  And probably invite friends to eat together.

 

I do struggle over our summer farm schedule.  While I dream of camping and trips and picnicking the brief lovely days fly away in a flurry of peas to pick, hay to make, and summer Bible school to plan.  I am not complaining.  We do barbecue and picnic and go camping a few times.  And yes, I mentioned trips already.  It’s just… a bit of discontentment that I battle.  Most of the winter Dan is close by and we spend a lot of time together as a family.  And we do not suffer in the summer months.  It’s just that Wanting to Go in my spirit that I can’t quite silence.

 

God, please grant me the serenity to accept and the embrace the gift of these perfectly beautiful ordinary days.

Someday I will read more C.S. Lewis and Philip Yancey. (Love those authors!)  Today I read Swiss Family Robinson to my children at bedtime.

 

Someday I’ll sit serenely in church and take in all the good things I can.  Today I will work at teaching my baby to sit still and resort to pretzels and apple puffs when the going gets rough.  I will appreciate the quiet moments when my heart is turned to God and I’m touched by what is shared or a song we sing.

 

Someday I’ll take hour-long walks along country roads and enjoy nature. Today I take a quick dash to the end of our long lane to get out of the house for a few minutes. 

 

And maybe someday I’ll learn to read music better and play the piano.  Today I will sing with our little church family, listen to story tapes much more than good music, and in a good-Mom moment, teach my children the songs my own mom taught me.

 

Someday I’ll search out cookbooks and find gourmet foods to take to fellowship meals at church.  Today I’ll make the three easiest things I can think of Tater Tot casserole (don’t even have to brown the hamburger), Caesar salad, and graham crumbs with instant pudding and Cool Whip. (And pray that there’s enough food left for supper on Monday evening.)

 

Someday Dan & I will hold hands when we walk into the mall.  Today one of us will sit in the car while the other parent hurries in to get what we need. If we get brave, we will balance diaper bags, babies in carts, and babies that walk.

 

Maybe someday I’ll hone my amateur writing skills by taking classes, hours of practice, joining writer’s groups, and careful revisions.  Today I’ll dash off a Face book Note or scrawl in my journal when the inspiration hits, while children play beside me and the house nearly tumbles down with even an hour of neglect.  And I’ll try to deal with the guilt over all the other things that I should be doing instead.  Or (more commonly) I’ll stay up way later than I should to read, think, or write in the quietness.

 

Someday there won’t be pencils on the bathroom floor, shoes to trip over in the kitchen, and jackets that don’t get hung up without reminders.  Today there are.

 

Someday the dandelions will be under control and the flowerbeds will be meticulously cared for.  Today I will be grateful if I get some color in my flowerbeds and find a few moments of peace to weed them.

 

Someday I will spring clean my house in entirety.  Today I am grateful that I got the messiest cupboards, most of the windows, and under the appliances done this spring.

 

Someday I’ll feel like my life is defined by more than just “Mom”.  Today I can’t see very far beyond that title.

 

And Some Day *oh joy* I will sleep for 8 sweet hours with no interruptions.  Tonight my baby may cry and Miss 3 Year Old will likely wake up coughing.

 

And I truly believe all of you who will tell me that someday I will miss it all.  I believe it. Because already I sometimes miss the 3 year old my 12 year old used to be.

 

And because I know I’ll miss these days and that Someday will be here before I know it, there are Things that are important to me:

 

I want my children to grow up in a home where hospitality is just a part of life.  Where spur of the moment as well as planned guests are the norm.  Where the widow and her Down’s Syndrome boy from church are regular and honored guests and we get excited about hosting the guys heading to Alaska who stop for the night.

 

I want them to know that people like the lady at our door last week who was seriously drunk (sorry…can’t think of any other way to put it) and needed the bathroom needs a hug and a prayer, not condemnation and scorn.

 

 

I want them to know that they are loved by God.  Sometimes my own concept of this is so muddied that I wonder how I can pass it on.  But there are times when I say the words to them that it takes faith to believe myself and then feel the truth of them in my own heart.

 

I want them to see beyond a person’s outward idiosyncrasies to the heart of that person. That the speaker who stumbles has good thoughts.  That the child who shows off really just needs some praise.   That God is the Judge and we are not.

 

And that grudge? It’s just not worth holding on to.  I want them to know that peace with others is just about the best feeling there is.

 

I really want them to know that that their parents love them.  And since love is spelled

T-I-M-E I want to stop what I’m doing when someone needs a story or a cuddle.  I want to help my 10 year old daughter bake fancy cappuccino cookies that need to be dipped in chocolate rather than insisting that we do the same old regular recipe.  

 

I want them to know that people always come before the décor or the clean house or the new clothes. 

 

I want them to realize the truth that Things don’t bring happiness.

 

Someday….my life might feel like it is my own again.  But until then, I’ve got a lot to keep me busy. 

 

And I’m not sure how this verse applies to all of the above, but I love it. “I wait for the the Lord, my soul doth wait, and in His word do I hope.”  Psalm 130:5

 

Hi–it’s Luci and I’m just getting started on Xanga. I’ve been “blogging” on Facebook’s Note feature and finally decided to try the real thing. Leave me a comment if you have tips for me. I don’t really know my way around…