We just got back from a trip that included sunny times in Merrit, B.C., with only a few patches of snow left.  It included Oregon in its spring lusciousness, the huge waters of the Pacific, and balmy weather in Bonner’s Ferry, Idaho.

(photo credits for above photos to my niece Kristi Smucker)

We left the sandy soils and returned to Alberta muck.

We left the soul-filling green of Oregon and came back to our brown and white landscape.

And even though I love the people in our northern community very much-

and even though the wide Alberta sky fills my heart in a way that only IT can-

and even though I think I would wither away if I lived in Pennsylvania or Ohio-

there are times when I hate where I live. 

Somehow it seems like life fell down around us since we’re home.

I drive to school and can see only trash that the snow hid all winter. (Surely, surely well-mannered Canadians don’t throw garbage around like that!)   In the wide thawing ditches, skeletons of hapless deer float and the ravens feast on them.  Water came into our carpeted basement as the rush of spring run-off came down our hill before we got the annual ditching done.  The washer is leaking and the dryer is slow.  Dan has a new set picked out for us, but finding the time to get the deal finalized hasn’t happened.  The lane is so muddy that we have to have Bible study at the church instead of at our house.  The straw bale house that the dogs lived in all winter is all over the lawn and the veranda.  It blows in when the front door opens.  It sticks happily to the rug.  I am solely responsible to cook for this family that is constantly hungry.  My house needs to be deep cleaned and painted.  The hockey stuff comes back from its winter at school and there’s no place in the messy garage to put it.  The 1st grader is behind in her lessons because we were on vacation.  I am harping at all of my dear ones to practice their piano.  We have a revival meeting weekend planned in several weeks.  Will the mud be gone by then?  There is snow and rain in the forecast.  Our dugout water looks extra brown and I scrub bitterly at my stained tub.  And the smell of a small feedlot and a large herd of cattle’s stomping grounds melting in the spring sunshine is indescribable.  Not to mention the boots and coats that come in when the 10 year old falls in the manure when helping his dad with the gates.  Somehow all three of our computers have issues right now.  And the email box is full, which involves tedious time on a slow laptop deleting old mail.

I struggle with my light and momentary afflictions.

The eternal weight of glory that they’re working in me feels pretty hazy.

I remember plum trees in bloom.  I covet the hydrangeas Dan & I picked out for the tables at the wedding rehearsal supper.  The wedding was in Oregon, where daffodils grew like weeds and the children ran barefoot in the chilly air and gave me a fresh bouquet every time I turned around.

 

I remember good food that I didn’t have to cook.  And old friendships renewed.   I remember friendly new faces.  I remember sand, so much easier to clean up than Alberta’s clay gumbo.  I remember beautiful music sung by a youth group at the wedding we attended.

I remember feeling so in love with Dan as I walked up the aisle towards him as a bridesmaid at the sweet, old-fashioned wedding of his brother from Wisconsin to a girl from Oregon.  It’s such a happy story.  Dan’s brother is 42 and his little bride is 39.  They are both gentle, reserved people, delighted now in each other.

(No pictures of the wedding posted because none of the ones I had were good.  Maybe later if I can borrow some good ones.)

I remember stolen kisses in the moonlight down by the water–and a beach house with a big yellow room all to ourselves, the children off playing and sleeping with cousins.  I remember the peace of the ocean.  And clear, clear water to wash clothes in and bathe in.

My heart is deeply entwined with the north and its people.  But as we drive the miles that separate us from warmer climates and more diverse friendships and well water and sandy soil and blackberry bushes and churches similar to ours, there is usually a mind struggle happening.  Will I fight the mud forever?  Will our children grow up okay with such a small youth group?  What would it be like to live where rhododendrons bloom? What opportunities for ministry might we be missing because we live in a less-populated place?

Like Ma Ingalls, I know that there’s no perfect place in this world.

Days on the Oregon coast are often stormy, grey, and windy.  The green grass comes from a winter of constant rain.  And in the south where all is gorgeousness in March, the heat of August saps away your strength.

The lack of perfection keeps us longing for something better, something eternal that never fades away.

 

I’d like life all neat and clean and tailor-ordered to my needs and the needs of my family.  I bask in the luxury that can be bought outside of our little home here on the ridge.  But I hate narrowness and complacency. I would feel guilty living the constant high life.  And I know that the trying of our patience works beauty.

So I’m going to look above the muddy window.  I’ll joy in my little tomato plants and plant some pink blush lavatera.  I’ll remember again that blessing others is what it’s all about.  I’ll cuddle my newest grand-niece and cook something nice for supper.  I’ll sigh in wonder at yet another Alberta sunset.  I’ll call my neighbor just to say hi. And I’ll smile at memories of time away with old and new friends.  I will choose not to “put the resurrection away for the year, but to  commit to reminding myself of its rescue and hope morning after morning after morning.” –Paul Tripp

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For my birthday, Dan paid for a watercolor class with my friend Angela.  It starts tonight.  I am excited.

One highlight of our trip was Starbucks with Esther_lynn.  I am so sad that we didn’t get a picture together.  Our friendship goes way back, but we hadn’t seen each other for something like 16 or 18 years.  She hasn’t changed a bit, even though she’s now the mom of a lovely family. It was also fun to meet smart and interesting VirginiaDawn for the first time and see smiley Cheryl (#DCKLDBW), who has no grey hair like the rest of us do.

I hope this post doesn’t sound too whiny.  Somehow when I put the ugly into words it looks smaller and more ridiculous. 

I also hope that I don’t come across like we are more righteous and less complacent because we don’t live in Oregon or Ohio.  God uses us wherever we are.

Sometimes this blog gets lots of views and I wonder who is reading it.  Thanks for visiting here.

 

I wrote this post a few weeks ago, a hodge podge compilation of more than one Sunday.

Sunday has its own special flavor at our house and in our little Mennonite community.

Probably it’s that way for everyone.  Whether it’s the day you sleep in and go out for brunch or ride in the back of a pickup with Kenyan churchgoers in the hot sun or play the drums in your mega church’s worship team or clean your house before heading back to work on Monday, Sunday is unique.   I feel sorry for anyone for whom Sunday is just another day.

Since church is high priority here, all morning activities are pointed in that direction.  Dan showers and sits on the couch with a faraway look in his eyes, books scattered around him, pillow and blanket scrunched up nearby from his night studying vigil, pen in hand and notebook open.   The rest of us eat cold cereal.  I try to inspire the children to clear it away quickly and get ready for church.

Andre hates his Sunday clothes.  High collars and button up shirts and belts make him hot and bothered every Sunday.

Natalia’s size 12 shoes are rubbing her, but the 13’s flop around.  Tears.

There are also tears from her prompted by hairdos gone awry.  Unfortunately, I am the hair comber.  Finally we settle on a plain old braid.  Thankfully Liesl is easier to please.  She looks beyond adorable in her little side buns put up with colored clips. 

Victoria the Put Together comes upstairs so I can pin her veil.  Her hair isn’t going right this morning either, she tells me.  Even though she has spent a ridiculous amount of time on it, as she concedes herself.

“Mom what shall I WEAR?”  hollers the 10 year old.

There are rooster tails to water down.  The boys tell Victoria that her high heels are stupid.  And I know the secret that she has Kleenexes stuffed into the toes because we couldn’t find a smaller size and her heart was set on this first pair of spiky little heels.   I forget to teach the preschoolers their memory verse.

I might be stressing over how long to cook the roast.  Or that grey hair that simply won’t lie down.  Or that I left too many things to do for lunch preparation when we get home.    Or that my favorite dress is feeling tight.

I try to be calm and gentle, but those sentiments curdle as the morning wears on.   I am the last one to the car.  In the quiet house, I splash on some perfume if I remember to and throw on a scarf.   The peace is so amazing that I think briefly of telling Dan that I’m feeling ill and they can just go on without me.  But of course I know better.

We are not early to church, not late, and way too habitually in the nick of time.

Sitting in church, I sometimes wonder about other people worshiping.  I know that it’s not 10:00 a.m. all over the world, but still I think about it.  Would it be easier if we just went to church in blue jeans?  What would it be like to breathe in swelling acapella music and not even have to sing along?  What about a hand-raising, foot-tapping leader to follow?  Or a smiling, swaying, red-robed black choir? How would I worship in China?  What if we would all pray in tongues like our Russian friends not far from here?  Is the little church that we went to when we lived in Belize singing the same song we are?   Is there something wrong with us that our church stays so small?  But we are in this moment for a reason.  I know God is here.

We sing, 35 of us doing our best.  I’m happy with the choice an old song that goes well but we haven’t sung recently.  Sometimes with so few of us we get stuck in a rut and sing the same songs over and over.  I close my eyes and try to focus on Jesus, all the while singing my heart out.  The other alto is missing.  And why is the soprano so weak?  Oh that’s right.  Joanna is sick today.

Brian with Down’s syndrome comes rushing in late.  He is sad about something, and pours out his soul in loud whispers to Titus, who nods in sympathy.  He sees other kind faces and tries to mouth across the room to Dan that something bad has happened.  He probably heard that someone died.  People dying intrigues him but also causes him much grief.  He just really needs to talk it all out when he hears that someone passed away.  He is also the fellow who loves to comment in Sunday school or any open discussion.  Recently in adult Sunday school  when Loren remarked dryly that there’s nothing new under the sun, Brian added, “Not under the moon either.”  He was smugly delighted when everyone laughed.

I teach the junior Sunday school class.  We’re studying warnings in Proverbs today, and CLP suggests taking cans with warning symbols on them to introduce the lesson.  I’m feeling self-satisfied about the can of WD-40 that I found last night.  It has four good warning signs on it.  I have good students, their faces bright and their hearts open.

After sharing and singing the birthday song for everyone who had a birthday the week before, we have the offering.  Liesl says out loud to me right in the quiet moment before the offering song starts, “MOM! Can I have some of your money?” Last week’s offering is still in the plate because last week the secretary was sick, so the offering got neglected. It is in the bottom plate, so Brian takes the top plate and Alec starts passing the bottom one without realizing there’s money in it. When it reaches us sitting near the front, we grab last week’s money out to give to the secretary after church. There are wide smiles all around. Andre whispers loudly, “Mom, you could put your credit card in!”

We have prayer requests, asking God for a school teacher for the younger grades at our church school next year.  We pray for the man in our community whose wife just died, persecuted Christians, and Kevin’s employee with marriage difficulties. Dan announces his text in Matthew 18, where Jesus calls a child and sets him in the middle of the group of his followers and teaches them about being like a child. To demonstrate, Dan calls Andre up front, where he sits down beside him on the bench beside the pulpit and talks about children for a few minutes. Andre is embarrassed and leans way back against his dad. Dan tries unsuccessfully to help him sit up straighter. The object lesson doesn’t last long, and Andre is soon released to return to me. He and Bryant goof off.  The tricky dogs lose their appeal.  So do the books and notebooks.  Andre and Liesl fight over putting their heads in my lap. Liesl is very grumpy and tired.

After Andre asks me three times in loud whispers about how soon church will be done and Liesl falls asleep five minutes before closing, we sing our last song and pray our last prayer.  The children burst forth like caged animals set free.  The youth girls huddle and speak softly.  The boys hang out, all long legs and deep voices.   Brian gives out his recipes, CDs on loan, or carefully be-markered notes with verses and stickers.    We don’t use the traditional holy kiss much, the familiarity of our small group making it seem like a formality.  We drift in and out of small groups, fellowshipping, chasing children, enlarging to include more.

I go home knowing that I’m blessed.  I need them, this community of believers.

The rest of Sunday usually includes good food, guests, and sometimes nursing home singing.  I feel deeply grateful and humbled when we sit down to roast beef after a church service.  I say to the kids, “Do you guys realize how good you have it?”  I guess I’m a fairly traditional Mennonite in my Sunday lunch preparations.  Dan becoming a minister had a lot to do with this, as did the way I grew up.  Always throw a few extra potatoes in the pot in case there’s someone at church who needs a place to go.  Our friend Loren, estranged from his wife many years ago, is a common guest at our table.   I love last minute company because then there’s no pressure to have everything perfect.  But it’s a good Sunday, too, when we invite a family (from church or otherwise) and get out the china and spread the table long and have fresh rolls and pumpkin pie.

In the winter time, Dan and the older children sometimes go skating at the church rink on Sunday afternoons.  After the last hockey game, Dan was groaning that he’s starting to feel 40.

If we don’t have company, we nap, take a walk, and read online, basking in that feeling of no guilt. We eat popcorn and chips in the evening, play games, or go visit someone.  Usually we trash the house.  It’s not bliss, but it’s good. 

Whether we eat pancakes or roast beef,

sing old songs or new,

feel inspired or just tired,

stay at home or visit the neighbor lady,

I’m glad that Sunday isn’t just another day.

 

 

 

 

 

I haven’t been blogging much.  It makes me feel guilty to see that people come to visit here and there’s nothing new to read.  I miss interacting.  I miss putting it out there.

On the other hand, I know that I’m not indispensable to this wide cyber world.  Life keeps happening for all of us, whether I blog or not.  Sometimes there’s just so much to say that you give up trying.  And all the burning words get stilled and then there’s nothing left to say.

Andre was off to kindergarten the other week, his smile as wide as his round little face.  He pronounced his first day the funnest of his life, not counting Christmas.  I pray for similar sentiments in grade 9.  (Ha!)

 

People are posting about things they love because it’s February.  I compile posts in my head.  I start them and save them.  But nothing comes to completion, kind of like my sewing and housecleaning. 

My war with how much I let social media control my life rages on.  I love it and I hate it.  Sometimes I think I’m learning how to use it instead of it using me.  But then I have a very bad, lazy time and I’m back to my old habits.

Valentine’s day came and went.  We did our little  breakfast tradition with candlelight and china and goblets.  It’s easy and the children love it, well worth the extra bother.  The night before, I was writing out notes for each of them and I had to cry a bit.  These children God gave me and the enormity of my job, coupled with the yearning of my heart for their best good is really overwhelming. I love them. 

We have some hard times here.  Our children don’t have the argumentative Peachey/Baer genes coupled with the steely resolve of their Grandpa Martin for nothing.   It’s an interesting life, this parenting business. I quite like it most of the time.

Dan and I went to Grande Prairie for Friday night and Saturday. Children old enough to stay home alone really make a getaway easier. We love it! I do worry about coming home and finding some of them consumed, with all the biting and devouring they do even when we’re here. “But if you bite and devour one another, beware lest you be consumed by one another!” Galatians 5:15

I am happy in our marriage.  There is a comfortable knowing that becomes so much more beautiful and right with the years.  I know that Dan doesn`t like to try exotic new restaurants, so I don`t try to get him to anymore.  He puts up with the way I always, always, always forget to put the seat back when I get out of the suburban. Because he is much bigger than me, it means he can hardly get in without pushing the seat back first.   I try not to nag about the stack of paperwork on the big green desk.  He never complains about Lego all over the floor or pants still being on the line when he needs them.  

It is hard to write of love.  It is hard, because I have coveted the love experience of others.  It’s hard because not everyone is experiencing love in the ways that I am.  My husband might not fold laundry like yours does.  Maybe yours never makes breakfast and mine does all the time.  Yours writes you words and mine gives me flowers.  Or maybe you feel like my friend who told me she was going to stay away from facebook for a few days over Valentine’s day because she can’t stand all the love posts.  Life and love has not been easy on her.

 Dan works at home every day and is in and out all day long, so there are parts of this beautiful post that make me wistful because there’s not the anticipation thing every time he comes in the door.  However, his presence always makes me feel happy and safe, even if I don’t greet him at the door looking pretty every time very often.  And do not worry.  Romance is alive here.

 We don’t like the same books.  He does business in large, brave ways and I want to keep them small and manageable.  He is the more protective parent.  He doesn’t necessarily notice if I have a new dress.  Sometimes we just don’t get each other.

 But I love the things we agree on:  use of money, simplicity of lifestyle, giving, hospitality, and (usually) how to raise our children.  I love that he is not easily angered, loves children and animals, and puts up with people that many of you would have sent packing long ago.

I love the man he has become even more than I loved this smooth-faced boy.  And that was a lot!

 

 

 I love him enough that I didn’t make him pose for a picture with me even on our Valentine getaway. 

We ordered dinner into our hotel room from Denny’s instead of walking over to Earl’s (much nicer) like we thought we might.  And the next morning as I ate my Belgian waffle with whipped cream and mixed berries and we talked about adoption and insecurities and a trip back to the Maritimes for our 20th anniverary, we sat in a Humpty’s restaurant. I had to laugh at what some of my classy friends would think of the place–truckstop/oilfield Grande Prairie in all its glory.  But the food was good and the company even better. 

I wish I had nobler things to say about love, things that would ease the pain in your heart if your relationship isn’t happy.  I do know this:  The snobbish little entitlement attitude I had when we first got married had to go.  It happened gradually, but voluntarily.  I went from thinking he was lucky to have landed me (he did put up quite a chase) to realizing what a gift I had in him.  I don’t expect tulips on my pillow or a man who does the vacuuming–unless I’m ill.  He’s classy– even though he doesn`t eat at Earl`s.   He still amazes me with picking up a new song and learning it, working figures faster in his head than anyone I know, and being SO strong.  He knows my ugliest faults and loves me as I am.  I cannot resist that kind of love.

I still have lot to learn about marriage and giving him space.  I have lots to learn about releasing him in my spirit and refusing to nag him with my fears and longings.  I have lots to learn about not seeking from him what only Christ can give me.*  And he has his own list of lessons.  But it`s a good journey because we`re in it together.

(*thoughts taken from Val & Crystal Yoder’s list of ways to pray for yourself as a wife)

And speaking of loves–I love summer and flowers.  Come swiftly, dear season.  Right now I am going out in the pale winter sunshine following a day of snow to take a walk. 

Happy loving, be it February or August on the calendar or in your heart.

 

 

The stuff that matters is hard work.

Getting out of bed.  Praying.  Reading Hebrews.  Waking children. Cooking.  Drinking 8 glasses of water.  Dressing warmly for a walk in winter weather.  Extracting teeth.  Shovelling snow.  Picking peas.  Washing windows.  Trust.  Learning algebra.  Preaching.  Abstinence. Building muscle.  Memorizing.  Sawing logs.  Vaccinating calves.  Scrubbing bathtubs.  Training children.  Losing weight.  Loving.

The stuff that’s not as important comes easily.   Staring at the daily planner but not planning.  Fear.  Gazing out the window.  Eating raisin tart bars. Exaggerating.   Grabbing another handful of cheetos.   Lying in a warm bed.  Gaining weight.  Poking fun at someone.  Checking facebook.  Being served.  Worry.  Picking at hangnails.  And talking.  Talking is easy.

At least for some of us.  From our nice warm pews on Sunday morning we discuss reaching the lost.  We say good words.  We mean them with our whole hearts. 

From our little Facebook platform we rally against abortion.  We link.  We share.  We state our opinions. 

We shake our head at the sad state of our nation.  We mourn the loss of principle.  We rant. We follow conspiracy theories.   We remember better days.

We put this writer/speaker on a pedestal, but research the trash on that one.

We say a lot, but our hands stay clean.

We really wish we could help, but we don’t know how.  Since we don’t know how to help, we talk.  And we eat.

Do we really think people will change their minds because of what we say?  And is the source of all the information we have flying around trustworthy?

Dan’s dad always said, “Paper will stay still for whatever you want to write on it.”   A computer screen is pretty cooperative that way too.

Mennonites have traditionally not taken up arms.  I didn’t grow up rallying pro-life.  We were taught to be law-abiding citizens.  But man we can talk.  I will say what I jolly well please about that snake in the grass Obama.

The stuff that matters is hard work.

I’m so proud of my sister in law who teaches abstinence to today’s teens with hope that they won’t choose abortion someday.

The man who prays for his president instead of bashing him is my hero.   

I feel warm inside when the neighbor tells me that a man from my church really lives what he preaches.

Because all the stands we take and all the talk we talk is nothing if we don’t live the life.

There’s certainly a time to weep over sin like Jeremiah did. 

I hope I will stand like Daniel and his friends if I’m ever faced with the choice they were.

It is right and humane to grieve the loss of precious life through abortion or war.

And I know those Old Testament prophets preached on and on to a society that wasn’t hearing or obeying.

There might even be a time to pray vengeance on the enemies of God like David did.

But Jesus’ way is even more attractive.

From my friend Michelles’ blog:  We must live intentionally. What if instead of saying, “THEY need to
______________”, we’d buck up and start saying “I need to __________________.”

Talk is easy.  The stuff that matters is hard work.

Author Philip Yancey says, “Each of Paul’s letters ends with a call to practical acts of love and service:  prayer, sharing with the needy, comforting the sick, hospitality, humility.  We dare not devalue the “ordinary”–actually most extraordinary–work of God making himself at home in our lives. These are the marks of the Spirit-filled life.”

He also says, “I can write what I believe to be true even while painfully aware of my own inability to atain what I urge others towards.”

I feel that just now.

 

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Tori underwent anesthesia and had some mean teeth pulled last week.   She was sitting at the table with a very sore mouth eating mashed pears and bananas the other day and I thought sadly that growing up isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Liesl was squinching her eyes shut as she ate her toast and said, “My eyes can cover up the whole world!”  That is so her, oozing with confidence.   Not “I can’t see anything.”  More like, “I can control the light and darkness myself.”

From Natalia to Liesl today, “Let’s go mess up our playhouse.  It’s so fun cleaning it up.”  Good job, girls.  Prepping for life as a mom. The endless cycle of cleaning and messing up.

When she wears this dress handed down from her aunt, I call her Laura Ingalls.

My niece Annie played Mrs. Pye in a Green Gables musical at her school last weekend.  Victoria & I went to watch it one night with Barb and her girls.  Barb is the nicest sister in law you could have and we had a great night.  Annie was beautiful in her pink dress and played her part well with the gaggle of Avonlea gossips.  It was a fun production, representing so much hard work on the part of Dr. Kearney Middle School in Fort Saint John. 

The lady behind us was Gilbert’s grandmother.

Some days this is where it’s at.  Five minutes in the corner with high hopes on my part for reform when they’re dismissed.

What I see from the loveseat in the mornings.

Dan told me about this story he read on the news. A 55 year old British grandmother who was smuggling drugs into Indonesia was caught with 2 and 1/2 million dollars worth of cocaine in the lining of her suitcase in the Bali airport.  She was tried and is sentenced to die in Indonesia.

I don’t know why I had to write that, but it really got me, that story.

We had fun setting up this fellow in Mr. Mack’s chair at school for his birthday.  He’s talking on an iphone.

Getting ready to bake cookies. 

Goodbye for now, friends.

 

 

 

It’s Sunday night and everyone is in bed but Dan & me. We’re in the living room on our respective laptops.  He is reading about snakes, bless his heart.  And I am reading and writing.  Because I can. 

We sang at the senior’s home tonight with our church.  I just love seeing little old ladies closing their eyes and singing “We have an anchor that keeps the soul, steadfast and sure while the billows roll….”

If you want to read something good, go to Dorcas Smucker’s post about her son who joined the Navy and works in Washington D.C.

I just have little bits of random stuff to say here now, so click the X if you’re looking for something wise or noble.  I also promised myself that I would post at 10:45, so there’s not much time.

Tonight before bedtime this was how the big brown chair looked.  Straight No Chaser singing The Lion Sleeps Tonight has become a family favorite.  Alec and Bryant and Dan do a fairly good impersonation. (edit:  I had gone to bed like I should.  No sooner had I laid down beside Dan than something started bothering me.  I had writtem “impersonification” for impersonation here and I just wasn’t sure if it was a word.  Out of bed to google the word, which wasn’t a word.  Impersonation.  Score!  Yikes. I wish I was brighter.)

My Christmas cards are still up.  Do you have a problem with that?  Most of them come after Christmas here.  January is loaded with mail.  I kind of like it, being so far away from everyone.  Because we first have Christmas, and then we have Christmas mail.

Liesl just started drawing people.  I am totally smitten.  The labels are her explanation of her picture of Daddy & Mommy.

 

 

Victoria has oral surgery coming up, poor beautiful girl.  Her surgeon’s name is Dr. Lung.  I wonder if he doesn’t always have the niggling feeling that he missed his calling.

Alec’s 15 year old take on being back to school after Christmas holidays:  “It’s not fun, but it’s good.”  I thought that was profound and so true of much of life.  It’s not fun, but it’s good.

It’s still cold here.  The oilfield is still oiling.  The cows have been getting out, but they stopped bawling for their calves long ago.  I am sloooooowly housecleaning here and there.   The winter sunsets still amaze.  The cookies disappear rapidly.   And I think often of Ann Lamott and her book.  Help, Thanks, Wow: The Three Essential Prayers.  I never read it, but I saw it in Coles in Grande Prairie.     

It’s 10:55 now.  I wish I had something brilliant to leave with you, like my Mennonite blogging favorites, Shari and Dorcas, would certaintly deliver.

But I’m feeling tired and Luci-ish.

A cheery Monday to you, through the haze of lunch boxes…or stomach flus….or freezing weather…or rebellious children…or harder things that I know nothing about.

Remember to look UP.  Don’t forget to talk to God.  He loves you.

Written Monday, January 7

Alec ate 4 hard-boiled eggs at one shot last night. 

This morning on the way to school I picked up what I thought was the mint Blistex and tried to take the cap off of it.  It was an AA battery.

Andre & Liesl played so extremely nicely this morning.  Honestly, the fighting goes by Days around here.  We have beautiful lego-playing, song-humming, quiet conversation, lots of coloring pages days.  And then there are the begging-to-watch-something-on-the-computer, get-out-of-my-way, nothing’s-fun-around-here and my-family-just-doesn’t-care days.   I haven’t clued in to what swings the compass.

I went downstairs to check on Andre & Liesl once and Liesl was saying, “I actually have two boyfriends at one time.”  And Andre said, “Which one are you going to marry?”  And Liesl said she would marry him and he was so glad.  Then immediately there was a baby.    Which reminds me that not so long ago she said to Dan & I:  “Did you guys go on your first date and then have me right away?”  I don’t know when she thinks we had the first five.

 Sometimes we work at keepin’ it real and then feel like we put too much of ourselves out there for others to poke at.  I do that on a regular basis in conversation with the people I know the best.  And with strangers.  I do it here when I blog too.   Then I obsess.   Who else gets the humour of why a (conservative-ish) Mennonite minister’s wife may or may not dye her hair?  Or why in the world would she feel like she should butcher chickens to be a good person?  (Both are points mentioned in my last post.) 

Dan (kindly) told me the other night that he sometimes thinks bloggers tell their faults and believe that in being honest or funny about them it makes them okay.  I was hurt for a bit, but came back with the shot that I am sometimes more encouraged by hearing someone admit their struggles than I am with hearing their victories.  He agreed.

But I see his point. 

I really DO want words that are always spoken with grace and seasoned with salt.  I am all for discreet and chaste.  Not only because it’s a Biblical command.  It’s also attractive.  I’m challenged by a couple of commenters on Shari’s pastor’s wife post.

 

There are times when I wonder if someone else was meant for my job description .  So when the courageous and perceptive Shari Zook at Confessions of a Woman Learning to Live asked me if I had something to say about being a pastor’s wife, I’m afraid I talked her ear off.  Like my friend Shari from the hills of Pennsylvania, I “feel supremely lucky to have a church group that lets me be one of them.” (her words).  And my church community is one of the most wholesome and accepting you will find anywhere.  

But we don’t always feel like the women of the hour.  Observe. 

(Shari takes the lead in this post.  She patched the emails into an essay and trimmed the edges and rounded the corners.  Her words are in black and mine are in blue.)

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Confession: We’re not perfect pastor’s wives.

Do you know perfect pastor’s wives? Coming soon to a church near you… The slightly-rounded-but-not-overweight, comfortably maternal type who live for Sunday mornings, who volunteer in the church library, and who are never seen without a smile and nylons.

Their speech is guarded, sincere, and above all, uplifting. Their hair is cooperative. Their hosiery is free of runs. Their children are models of virtue. Their husbands rise up and call on them. To teach Sunday school.

We do this pastor’s wife thing because we love our men, and are deeply committed to their callings. But hey, give us a long enough tether and we’d be heading for a sunny South Sea island. So Luci, how would life be different if you weren’t a pastor’s wife?

I think the first thing that comes to my mind is that I really wish I could dye my hair because I’m getting grey so young.　 And in reality I could. But I’ve mourned this problem so loudly that now everyone would notice if I did.　 And when it comes down to it, I’m afraid.

Yeah, I… wait. Did you just say you want to dye your hair??

[shrieks of irreverent mirth]

And Dan claims he likes me this way anyway. (Laugh away, all of you dyed-hair ladies reading this.  I am who I am and this is where it’s at.)

I love trips and running around and getting away.　 I live for hot sunshine　in a community of ladies who love their winter days so they can sew and houseclean.　 Half of them are good farm women who help their husbands brand and vaccinate.　 Dan is the farmer here, but I don’t know much about what’s going on in the corrals and am easily bored with calving talk.　

　

I resist huge urges to laugh in church when the singing goes badly and sometimes I want to mix up the service and change the staidness (which isn’t really very staid….just comfortable and habitual).

　

My relationship with gardening is love/hate.　 And I really should butcher the old hens that Tammy offered me instead of blogging.

And don’t get me started on how our two youngest behave in church.

Oh, no doubt. Isn’t there a Bible verse about having her children in perfect order? What if mine run away from me in the service while their dad is preaching and won’t come back?

Surely the perfect pastor’s wife wouldn’t follow the shallowness of social media like Dan’s wife does.　

Or send frozen pizzas for school lunches once a week.　 I feel guilty about this one because the church gives us an offering every 5th Sunday and maybe they don’t feel like buying us pizzas, you know.

What about you, Shari?

A good pastor’s wife would probably not go out for coffee and pie with a friend at a 24-hour restaurant after the revival meeting lets out—one of my latest exploits.

Or go into serious overload at the end of every member’s meeting. After the last one I started laughing uproariously just to de-stress. Unfortunately I was still in the auditorium.

She probably wouldn’t be so afraid of people.

Or make so many tragic relational booboos.

Or have cause to fear that her daughter will grow up to be just like her.

A perfect pastor’s wife would not be so worried about the opinions of others.　 That I know for a solemn fact.

　

Or follow the 2012 election and debates surrounding it till she can’t sleep at night.

　

Or dread teaching preschool Sunday school class.

　

Or mutter crude words under her breath every time pandemonium breaks out around the house. Or be heard saying holy cow in the orthodontist’s office.

She probably wouldn’t use her children as an excuse to sneak out of difficult meetings.

Or publicly campaign for her opponents in the upcoming head pastor election.

Or let her children run wild and her washer go through a cycle with no clothes in it while she wrote an email like I did just now.

　

Or wish that she had an in-house chef.

　

Or be speechless on the topic of hell.

　

Or pray frantic prayers that the guests she knows she needs to invite for lunch will say no because the house is a mess at home.

You see? We try, but…

Now, dear reader (ooh! That was a pleasant rush of real pastor’s wifing adrenaline), if you search your heart and think “But I don’t think I have high expectations for my pastor’s wife,” just search one level deeper. What would you expect of yourself if you were her?

We do realize that most of our expectations are self-imposed ones.

Of course. But that doesn’t make them any less real, does it? So, all you people out there like us. If you are a pastor’s wife, take a little time to laugh at yourself. And if you are not a pastor’s wife, cut yours some extra slack this week.

Every woman’s hosiery has its runs.

*****

In collaboration with Shari Zook.  Check out her blog.  You will not be disappointed.

Our mutual friend Dorcas Smucker also said some great things on pastor’s wifing. You may enjoy them here and here.

Some far out dreams need to be laid down in the interest of peace and contentment.  Most of the time I’m resigned to the fact that I will likely never write anything brilliant, sing Handel’s Messiah, visit Italy, or learn to play the piano at nearly 40.

Then there are goals/dreams that are on a back burner and you know they might always stay there, simmering away.  Mine are things like adopting a Down’s syndrome child from Serbia or Russia, visiting Chile, having a sister who lives next door and an avacado or pecan tree in the backyard, studying at Faith Builders with Dan, taking a watercolor or writing class, feeding hungry people under a burning Ugandan sun.

But we need short term goals too, or life crumbles away. I remember feeling really discouraged at the beginning of last year because life felt like a meaningless cycle and the year ahead looked overwhelming.  But this year is different and I am surprised by hope.  I have a burning desire to purge and clean and maybe even beautify.  During the baby years (which lasted pretty long here ) things were left to themselves and the result is not pretty.  I want to blame my lack of focus and discipline on the depression battle and mother-hood induced ADD.  I do okay with making things look under control on the surface.  But lately I can’t keep my mind off of how it would feel to have everything deep cleaned and organized.  I pray that some of this incessant dreaming can become reality.  It will take a miracle, but I am going to try to do my part.

Yesterday I had an unexpected trip to town to pick Dan up while he got the windshield replaced on the pickup.  We went to Tim Horton’s for coffee and with the winter sunshine streaming in the windows and the busyness of our small city happening around us, I realized again that the important goals of life are attainable for anyone, no matter what year we’re entering or living in or saying goodbye to. 

Like gratefulness.  It hits me when I pick a pineapple from the produce section.  Do you realize what a privilege that is?

And love.  The stuff that overwhelms me when I see a little purple polly pocket shoe on the floor of the car and think of the brown curls and brown eyes that go with the little person who dropped it.

And joy.  Because it’s a bright blue day and the sun is shining on white snow and there’s turkey soup for supper.

And friendship.  What’s better than meeting a neighbor in the produce section of the supermarket and chatting till you feel like you’re in someone’s way and need to move along?

So while life is complicated, it’s also so simple that I miss it sometimes.  My 2013 goals are brief:

1) To know God better.

2) To live simply.

3) To give more.

4) To expect less.

 These are the goals I want most to reach, even when the house is in shambles and life in general is just plain messy.

~Hope, love, and peace to you.

 

 

 

Lessons I learned this December:

Dan turned 39 on the 19th and Alec turned 15.  I wrote on facebook “I am baking a birthday cake for Dan & Alec, who share today.
The elderly ladies were right.  Dan the man is still handsome and kind and makes a good husband.  And babies grow up so, so fast.
It feels surreal.  My baby is a bass-singing, snowmobile-tinkering, English-loving, responsible, mysterious young man of 15.
~And Dan & I have known each other for more years than we haven’t.  He is the strongest, gentlest steak-grilling-waffle-making farmer/pastor I know.”

 Let me explain about the elderly ladies.  The old ladies have always loved Dan.  I have to keep a close eye on him at the nursing home.  I used to work for a lady who had Alzheimers and one time when we stopped to visit her and her husband, she flirted shamelessly with him and when we went to leave she told me that I could just go and she would keep him. 

I waffled a lot about whether Dan was the right guy, but the older ladies who knew him always told me they thought a lot of him.  Other people did too, for that matter.

So they were right.  And they were right about time going fast and babies growing up too. 

Alec was the sweetest baby.

Here he does his piano theory.

 

Lesson 1:

Listen To Your Elders.  They usually know what they’re talking about.

(In case you think that facebook status sounds sappy, I could tell you the many things Dan & I don’t agree on. Our tastes in food and books differ a LOT.  He is the more protective parent.  He is completely happy with our lives and I am always restlessly dreaming of change.  Our marriage takes a lot of work and giving for both of us.  But I love and respect him.  And he thinks I’m quite nice too.)

  

The other day Dan gave me a squeeze around the middle and then went on to tell me that in Japan it’s against the law to be overweight.  He’d been reading that employers are required to regularly measure their employee’s waists.  I can’t believe it.

Lesson 2:  We Would be Thinner if We Were Japanese.

Liesl hid from me in the shoe department at Walmart the other day.

After some frantic calling and searching, several nice ladies started helping me search, and one of them found her quietly huddled behind the slipper display.  Little stinker! 

I was having facebook friends tell me that I’d tagged them in strange photos or seen me tagged in photos like someone’s trip to Europe.  I thought Facebook had some kind of a glitch and didn’t think too much of it.  Then late the other night Bryant confessed at bedtime that he’d been looking through facebook photos of my friends and randomly tagging people for fun.  Stinker!  He said I could publicly confess for him so I guess I’m doing that here.

Lesson 3:  You are Never too old to be Embarrassed by the Children you Love the Most. 

I learned that I’ve been pinned.  Ha.

My creative friend Laura had a preschool birthday party for Jesus.  I  her.

     

 

 

 

 

Our school has a fun Christmas program every year.  The neighbors come and the children sing their hearts out and we have coffee and lots of of food in the basement schoolrooms afterwards.  This year they did a play based on Max Lucado’s book about the water master who went on a trip and left his servant in charge and the villagers could never be polite or pretty or good enough to suit the exacting servant and he started refusing them water.  And then the master’s son comes back and sets everything right and redeems even the cruel servant.

 

 

It was really good.  I cried over it.  And the bass-singing boys.  And our 6 year old Natalia who seemed perfectly at ease on the stage.

We missed being with more extended family this Christmas, but had a good turkey dinner with one of Dan’s sawmill employees and his wife at our house. 

And in the evening we ate and talked with a few Peacheys at my brother’s big house. 

It’s just so, so good to sleep late and sit around together and forget about going out in the cold.  It’s been a very cold Christmas season, but were are warmed and filled and blessed.  My heart aches for those who aren’t….and people who are grieving….and people that are lonely.  I want to share the goodness.

 We brought the cows home the other day, which always makes Dan smile.  But I groan because I know that weaning comes next.  And you don’t want to hear 85 cows and calves who are missing each other badly!!

This morning the children slept till 10:00.  Dan brought me an egg and toast and grape juice while I sat on the loveseat and read.  And I wondered what it would be like if life was always this sweet and easy.   I cleaned a cupboard in the bathroom and plan to clean behind a few appliances in the porch, which will hopefully redeem the day from total laziness.  The children started in the late afternoon with rearranging their bedrooms.  I will pretend that that will not create a huge mess.

I didn’t do Christmas cards and letters this year. A happy Christmas season and New Year from our house to yours.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Like a moth to a flame, I am drawn to the news.  Elections.  The top 10 newsmakers of 2012 according to Maclean’s in the dental office.  War in Israel. School shootings.

In times of tension and tragedy, we all have our ideas of how to make the world a better place.  Republicans in office.  Tougher gun laws.  Getting concealed weapons permits.  Prayer brought back to schools.  We’ve heard so many sides.  We feel like we’ve heard it all.  We nurse our own opinions.

In the face of the horror of Friday, it feels insensitive not to speak of it.  But when we try, there is little to say.  At least for some of us. 

I confess to being a silent lurker, way too interested in the facebook debates, shaking me head at all the opinions warring their way through cyberspace but returning again like the moth to the huge flame.  I’ve had times in my life of control when I refuse to follow the madness.  But right now I’m not being disciplined.

I don’t have the audacity here to suggest solutions and proper responses.  For every word I write in this small space there have been a million more already said by people a lot more important than me.

What I have to say is this:

The meanness inside my own soul scares me most of all.

Last weekend with the face of that young gunman burned in my mind, and firm resolves to hold my children closer and cherish life more, it raised its ugly head anyway.

Like when the 10 year old I love the most complained for the 467th time about the 15 minute job of putting away a basket of clean laundry.  I wanted to shake sense into him–and hard.  For the 467th time.

I fought over small things with Dan.  Like couldn’t he keep the little humans quiet for the 20 minutes that I read our bedtime book to the three oldest children?  I had done it for him over and over last winter when he read The Scarlet Pimpernel to them.

And if I was a cursing person I would curse the messy container drawer and the irresponsible people who put away dishes and don’t care where they land.

There were small irritations over the way we do our Christmas caroling.

And self righteous shaking of my head over people and their strong ideas.  {In reality almost everyone is trying to find their way in the confusion like me.}

There were frantic, laughing but also slightly bitter and confused prayers because the little 3 year old  has started to tell me that she doesn’t like me when I punish her.

Strong willed teenagers sometimes have me clenching my fists.

I nag too much and rant too often instead of quietly stating and sticking with my word.

I don’t want to think of myself as an angry person.  But it lurks too close for comfort.

Dan spoke in church on Sunday on the book of Philemon.  Paul writes to Philemon to convince him to accept and embrace his runaway slave, Onesimus, who not only ran away from his master Philemon, but also stole things from him.  Paul says that whatever wrong Onesimus has done or whatever he owes should be credited to his own account.  Just like Jesus imputes righteousness to us. 

I need that imputation.  Badly.

(I also told Dan that I needed imputed righteousness to get me out of bed this cold, dark Monday morning, but that is beside the point.)

I need Jesus.  I need the forgiveness of my family when I apologize for the 1278th time.  I need grace to live unselfishly, to serve with joy.  I need the discipline to avoid the arguments yet the backbone to stand up for Christ. 

Most of all I need His Love.  Just like the whole world does.

I love these points from this post by aSeriesOfFortunateEvents:

I’m NOT Going to:
Stop believing in life after death. – John 3:16
Expect more of people than I am willing to give of myself -Mark 12:31
Say something negative when there’s no need for it- Proverbs 21:23
Walk away from someone who needs something when I can give it to them- Matthew 25:40
Waste opportunities for hugs, from anyone-Romans 12:10
Focus on the bad things in life- Philippians 4:8
Lose hope or faith- Hebrews 11:1
Assume that I know more than God- Isaiah 55:9

 

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It makes me feel bad when I see that people visit this blog and there are no new posts. 

I’m floundering a bit with depression.  Floundering but still afloat.  I think.  I can’t seem to write and enjoy it like I did here.  I miss it.  I need the wisdom it takes to relax and not take my very serious self so seriously.

Here is a bit of a post I wrote the other day.  Just because this one needs to be lengthened, you know.  And because I’d uploaded photos to go with it.

Last night we watched I Really Absolutely Must Have Glasses.  (Watch and enjoy 10 minutes of Charlie & Lola.)  Natalia didn’t have school today and woke with a burning desire to make paper glasses.  Her first tries ended in frustration, so I helped cut the frames out of cardboard.

“Oh Mom, you’re SO good,” they breathed as I cut them each a unique shape.

“I’m gonna look cute, Andre’s gonna look awesome, and Tillie will look pretty,” said Liesl of the many words.

 Tim Horton’s holiday cups and doughnut bags are so cute that I saved them when we went there the first time for the season.  Now I should probably throw them away because I don’t know what to do with them.

 

Yesterday I made three pans of lasagna for sewing circle by 8:00 a.m and we were all at school a few minutes before 9:00.  When I accomplish great things I always wonder why I don’t just make a habit of great accomplishments.

I heard or read on the news at least three times that the duchess Kate was in the hospital for a few days with acute morning sickness.  Can you imagine the world knowing that detail of your life?   Imagine being the nurse who looks after the princess.  Imagine the life of the royal child.

I wonder if Mary had morning sickness when she carried Jesus.

Some years I let each of the children pick a special cookie recipe and we make it together for Christmas. It’s fun and gives us a nice little stash of treats. This Christmas I tried the unbaked fruitcake that Dan’s mom makes. I’m not a big fruitcake fan, but this recipe is extra special.

Little fingers are playing Jingle Bells and Good King Wenceslas on the piano these days.

Victoria was taking pictures of the sun shining through the condensation on the office window.

This is good fun on a snowy day.

Liesl wears this outfit every single day if I let her.  She thinks she is destined for stardom.

And I am working on thee perfect green and gold Christmas dress for Victoria.  But the plaids will not line up.  Sometimes when I’m at the sewing machine I want to scream “MOOO….THERRRRR!!!!!!” very loudly.

Peace to you all this Christmas.