Virginia is for Lovers

We had planned a midsummer extreme heat escape for August to Mount Rainier and Olympic Peninsula but an early hurricane that spared our area wreaked enough havoc on the airline industry and AB’s schedule to destroy our best laid plans. Instead, we feinted right and headed back east for a quick emergency recovery trip. Our ‘find’ of the summer ~ a small town in southwestern Virginia called Abingdon. If you can, you should go.

Over the years, we have driven many happy miles up and down Interstate 81 through the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.

Until this trip we have always joined or exited 81 where it intersects I-77 just north of Wytheville, on our way to and from North Carolina. This stretch of highway has ever stirred our hearts as the towns tick by ~ Lexington, Steeles Tavern, Stuarts Draft, New Market, Woodstock, Middletown, and onward to Winchester, far to the north. Easy on the eyes. This is Virginia’s gift to us. Rolling hills, cold deep caverns, Revolutionary and Civil war history, creaking farmhouses, farmer’s markets, bursting vineyards, coastal and interior southern cuisine. You find yourself murmuring, “He owns the cattle on a thousand hills”, and “The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof”, and other half-scripture, whole-joy acknowledgements that don‘t feel trite or tired as they slip out. Route 11, the old road that graciously stepped aside to the bigger interstate system, is a further wonder, if one has the time to meander a little. Virginia is best seen on the quiet byways, and the Shenandoah Valley is no exception. Cares melt away, and we find ourselves holding hands in silent mutual contentment, letting go just long enough to point out another sight before reclaiming strong warm fingers and lapsing into quiet again.

After dropping the children in Charlotte with their grandparents, we headed north without a fixed itinerary. For the first time in our lives, we found ourselves traveling south on 81 through and beyond Wytheville. We wove back and forth between Route 11 and Interstate 81. Beautiful, a little more mountainous, more wild, absolutely gorgeous. We stopped frequently to take pictures, walk and climb, and marvel.

Ordinarily, when we have time alone without the children, our lodging preferences are bed and breakfasts or upscale hotels. This trip, we had done virtually no research on accommodations. We wanted to be outside, breathing cool, dry air, refreshing our eyes on mountain vistas, and stretching our legs on woodland trails. We decided we would settle for one of the many chain hotels wherever we wound up.

It was a cool, dark, rainy evening when we finally meandered into Abingdon, and there up on a low hill to our left, shrouded in Virginia mountain mist, sat the Alpine Motel. A throwback to the 60s, with the retro look the wannabes on HGTV are trying to emulate, the Alpine is the real thing. For those of us who think summers were best when defined by Airstream travel trailers, late night firefly-catching with your cousins, and family night at the drive-in, this is the place! The room décor looked as if it hadn’t been touched in years, yet was very clean and well kept. The property was quiet, the rates extremely affordable. We were delighted. Our fellow Alpine dwellers were there for the outdoors as well. Most had mountain bikes strapped on the back of their cars and trucks. We never heard a noise at night, and they like us, were up and out early. It was the cure for what ailed us.

We slept with the windows opened, and awoke hoping for breakfast. The hotel manager was in his pajamas, serving up hot coffee and toasted bagels, and graciously loaned us his blow dryer when asked. We made arrangements to extend our stay.

We had done some cursory reading on the internet, and found Abingdon’s website promising, but silk purses are produced of sow’s ears with tiring regularity on the world wide web, so we withheld judgment pending firsthand inspection.

The website did not do the town justice. A beautiful 230 year old treat, filled with lovely homes, antique shops, restaurants, fascinating history, and the world famous Barter Theater. There are more things to do in Abingdon than can conceivably be done in a week, or even a month, and much of it pertains to the outdoors. Of note, the Virginia Creeper Trail, a 35 mile former rail bed trail open to hiking, mountain biking and horseback riding, draws visitors from all over the world.

This is a town with few chain restaurants, many small churches, and no Wal-Mart. Art galleries rub elbows with the local soup kitchen on the picturesque Main Street. The citizens seemed to know that they are fortunate indeed to call Abingdon home and were unfailingly gracious and friendly, from the wealthy proprietor of a dim and cavernous antique shop to the pony tailed young man who served our supper one night in the crowded local pizzeria. “Welcome to Virginia.” “Where are you from?” “Enjoy your stay in Abingdon”. We heard this over and over, spoken with warmth in that incomparable Virginia drawl.

We never tarry on return trips, because the hole left in our hearts by our missing children begins to hurt more the closer we get to our reunion with them. While away, we play a game with our aching hearts, and refuse to let the other disclose grief at the absence of our children. We gloss over those moments of misery at bedtime before we remember romance and insist they are fine going to bed without our benediction. We quickly change the subject and remind ourselves of the delirious deliciousness of being alone together when the voice of some other child catches our ear and takes our breath. But once we have turned our faces away from our respite, we admit and rejoice in the longing, and feel a sense of urgency to get home to them. And so we did this trip, and it was with a great deal of anticipation that we wound back to North Carolina.

Somewhere, mixed with the anticipation, I felt a stillness about the future, a quiet about the coming second half of 2008. A residual grace from the days just spent kept at bay the worry of the difficulties ahead. This trip had been much more than an escape from the heat. It was more than a time of reconnection with each other, it was a renewed glimpse of the goodness of the Lord. Abingdon, Virginia. For lovers ~ for us. Be still and know that I am God. Taste and See that the Lord is good. We did, we did. He is.

Happy Fall

Never mind the song, this is the most wonderful time of the year, at least to me. Time to bring out the best of the autumn read-alouds, and begin thinking about big bowls of morning oatmeal studded with chunks of walnuts and cranberries…. Frost on the pumpkin, and all that…

Old habits die hard. It was 90 degrees today. This is Houston, TX, not Housatonic, MA. If I was incredibly rich and irresponsible, I would set the thermostat on 60 and wander around the house in cozy clothes drinking hot chocolate. This is my favorite season, despite the fact that dying St. Augustine grass heralds the change of season and constitutes fall color, or lack thereof, in the Houston area.

Where there is a will, there is a way to engage in autumn tradition, and I have found that fall is a state of mind, not temperature. Away go the weathered sea shell collections and red cherries of summer. Out come the faux pumpkins (the real ones rot on the front stoop in a matter of days), dried gourds, thick, nubbly candles, keepsakes of dark mellowed wood, and the recipe for apple cake with warm cream sauce. Underfoot, thick rugs are spread across bare smooth floors. Folded into the cupboard go the lemony, breezy linens, replaced by warm homespun. It’s fall, after all. Would someone tell the mosquitoes?

Houston has the advantage of two growing seasons and for this I have been thankful in the past. This fall, however, we will rely on the local farmer’s market to bring forth it’s fruit in it’s season. We have got too much going on to invest the time in a fall garden, and that is fine.

I am home schooling a kindergartner for the first time! Farm Girl attended public 4K and 5K, so this is truly a new experience for me. To take complete responsibility and/or blame for a child’s early education is heady stuff. To get us ready through the summer, I have been teaching Farm Boy to read, using the book, Teach Your Child To Read In 100 Easy Lessons . Like his big sister, he is quick and keen to learn.

We are one month into his school year, and it goes very well. We are using Sonlight curriculum with an over-arching Charlotte Mason philosophy of education, giving us healthy doses of nature study and outdoor play.

So far we have read aloud:
The Box Car Children -Warner
Johnny Appleseed - Holland
My Father’s Dragon - Gannett
Selections from James Herriot’s Treasury For Children
The Wish At The Top - Bulla
Make Way For Ducklings - McCloskey
We are halfway through the Magician’s Nephew, by CS Lewis, and it is amazing to watch his power of recall as he recounts the daily Digory events to his daddy.

We are utilizing Usborne’s Children’s Encyclopedia and First Book of Nature for a very broad overview of nature, science, and history, and off the shelf handwriting and math programs, utilizing a huge set of math manipulatives (or “manipulars” as Farm Boy calls them). Bob Jones Bible K has proven laborious, but the benefits outweigh the tedium, so I pick and choose what we do from each of the lessons.

Weak areas so far: not keeping a time line, too much “craft time” while not enough art appreciation, and inconsistent focus on character and good habits. Now that I’ve acknowledged them in print, I will be more apt to make improvements.

Field trips were one of the highlights of Farm Girl’s education, so we purposed from the onset to make sure we had field trips monthly throughout the year. Our first was a cross country endeavor that included his grandparents. We attended the Revolutionary War Battle of Huck’s Defeat reenactment at Historic Brattonsville in South Carolina. What a day! Dragoon, Loyalist, and slave now have real meaning, and we hope we have stirred up a fire of interest and affection for our nation’s birth that will burn throughout his life.

A Kindergartner and a 10th grader. I am blessed. What a privilege. All those years of infertility after Farm Girl, thinking I would never get to teach another child. I could go on but I won’t. We’re learning the number 8 today, and I don’t want to miss a minute with those math manipulars.

Our Texas summer has come and gone. In like a hot, tired, lamb, out like a lion named IKE.

Looking back, this summer in the world at large was chock-full of “real news”, while on a personal level, little was noteworthy with a couple of exceptions.

The most important happening in our life was the death of our Hazel, beloved dog and faithful friend of twelve years. Back when Farm Girl was three, her heart was set on having a dog. One weekend, while she was staying with her grandparents, we answered an advertisement in the local paper for a free dog. We called the number given, and her owners invited us to come and meet Hazel.

Upon our arrival, we found a two story house, slightly untidy, decidedly chaotic, it’s back yard a dirt postage stamp presided over by a large Doberman pinscher. Hazel, no relation to it, 25 pounds of black fur and unbridled energy, came flying down the stairs followed by a ferret. She had a nasty gash on one ear that oozed blood as we spent a few minutes petting her, and her owners apologetically explained that the back yard brute didn’t like her much. That settled it. She was to be ours. As we headed out to the car, she came with us without the benefit of a leash, jumped onto my lap, and never looked back as we sped home. The rest, they say, is history.

That ear healed, but a nasty scar would remain to remind us of her former life and our great good fortune in finding her that day. Over the years, as a treasured member of the family, she steadfastly loved and protected us. Traveling by car was one of her favorite things. If there was an open car door, she was first in, and would bed down on the floor on the passenger side, prepared to ride for as long as we felt like driving. She has played in snow, paddled in cool lakes, walked on white sand beaches, hiked mountains, chased cats, and slept in peace in our home. We taught her to sing, and to fetch, but we never could get “come” or “stay” down. Going to Miss Carolyn’s kennel was a delight for Hazel as well. Miss Carolyn gave her the run of the place, and Hazel took this as her due. Oh, how she wiggled to get in the door, but how long and deeply she slept when she came home at the end of a stay! She knew and loved our extended family, and welcomed their visits. She liked to go to bed when we did, and if we stayed up late, she would coldly leave the room, clearly disappointed in us for breaking curfew, to retire in solitude. Periodically we tried introducing other dogs into the family as playmates for her, but only after several failed attempts, and in this last year, with the arrival of Archie, did she get to know and enjoy one of her own species.

The last several years brought the inevitable signs of aging. Her eyes clouded, her muzzle grayed, and her hearing diminished. Hazel's life was winding down. She began to have seizures, and difficulty getting up and down the stairs. Often she seemed in pain when trying to lay down on her bed. Yet in the midst of this, she would break in to one of her famed “running fits” , and with equal enthusiasm chase her tennis ball. We would talk tentatively about what we considered acceptable bad health, and at what point we would have to face that she no longer had any quality of life. But we always delayed giving up and giving her up.

Then we found a lump, and a veterinary visit confirmed that she had cancer. We were told that surgery oftentimes accelerated this type of cancer. We opted to monitor her carefully, not subject her to invasive surgery, and let her live out her final days at home. Months went by, the tumor receded and we dared to hope for a time, but the veterinarian explained that the cancer was not gone. She began to slowly lose weight and energy. Finally, her appetite diminished, and she was unable to get outside to relieve herself.

We looked online to see if there was a humane way we could put her down ourselves here at home. There are some philosophical arguments about letting your pets die where they have been happiest. Beware if you ever decide to look into this. There are a lot of misguided animal rights folks out there ready to call you every conceivable name for choosing to mercifully end the life of your suffering animal. Our view was that her ability to function (eating, defecating, moving) had ceased, and because domesticated, she would not go off to the woods to lay down, starve and die. We found no acceptable at-home solution without access to prescription drugs, so we called our vet and took her in.

She settled in on the floor of the van at our feet, and all the way there I wished we could somehow keep driving forever, or at least until she closed her eyes and died. We expected the vet to agree to end her life that day, and he did. He explained how he would administer a drug that would stop her heart, and how that worked. He explained that sometimes when the heart stops, the dog gives a bark or yelp, but it is reflex, not pain, and we chose to believe him. It was thankfully fast but horribly fast. One moment she was there with us, sick and dazed, then the promised soft yelp, and she had died. Twelve years, and now this good dog, gone.

We cried over her for a long time, cleaned her up, wrapped her in a towel and brought her home to bury. We noticed in death the relaxation that had been gone from her frame for so long that we had forgotten to miss it. She didn’t hurt anymore, the stiff painful tenseness was gone and for that we were grateful. Farm Girl carried her from the car and she and her daddy buried Hazel out front beyond the swing, there in the land she knew and loved. When it storms now, I thank the Lord that she is gone, no longer enduring the irrational fear and panic that sent her shaking and inconsolable into our arms, but otherwise, I miss her and selfishly wish her back with us.

We have endured some “firsts” without her, and they have hurt. My first night in the house without AB, and without Hazel to guard us. Our first trip from home, sending Archie alone to Miss Carolyn’s. And now Christmas will be here in couple of months. A year without her annual photograph under the tree, and her sleepy curiosity on Christmas morning as presents are opened. I cannot imagine. How thankful we are for answering that advertisement all those years ago in Columbia, South Carolina. How much richer, more delightful, and more meaningful our family memories remain for her presence in them. We miss you, girl.

Other less than stellar news:

The adoption languishes in limbo somewhere. Amazing to think that on some government gray metal desk in China sit’s a fat packet of information bearing our name. Photographs, income tax statements, every single scrap of personal information we were asked to produce three long years ago. The cynic in me thinks not. The cynic thinks that it was long ago tossed by some tired, fed up Chinese office clerk. But Cynic doesn’t speak as loudly as Faith . As I get older, I find we drown him out most days. Most days.

Enmity!
Despite the calendar date, summer has arrived in Texas. It is hot, it is muggy, and there are SNAKES!
Snakes and I have a history. Growing up in rural Missouri with three big brothers, I saw enough snakes to know that I hated them. Childhood trauma aside, it was in the late 90s, when we were restoring an1800s home in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia that I truly got my fill.
Way up under the eaves of the third story, we spotted rotten wood. We hired a big strapping Virginia carpenter to come and take care of it. After several hours on the ladder in the late Autumn sunshine, there was a sharp knock at my back door. I opened it to see carpenter Dan, standing wide-eyed and sweaty before me.
“Ma’am,” he stammered, “We’ve got a problem” . I stood silently waiting to hear that perhaps the purchased wood was the wrong size, or maybe that the paint was going to be difficult to match. I smiled encouragingly at his panicked face. “Yes?” Another slow count of silence, then, “You’ve got snakes in your house.” He went on to tell me that as he was up on the ladder tearing out some of the rotten trim, “the biggest black snake I’ve ever seen” poked his head out at him, slithered out across a wire, and into a tree. I politely handed the phone to him, and said coldly, “Call my husband.”
I would love to share a warm-hearted happy ending to our cold-blooded visitors story, but alas, there is not one. Till the day we removed from the house, we battled black snakes, in the house, in the gorgeous stone walls surrounding our exterior stairs, sunning on the front stoop on fine afternoons, and stretched across the patio gate, denying access to the table and chairs sitting just beyond it.
I fear them. I hate them. They repulse me.
I know that they are out there. I read (mostly looked at the pictures) several books on Texas snakes when we decided to buy a country property, forewarned is forearmed. But to see them, on our land, near our home, multiple times in one day, is a bitter pill indeed.
Conventional wisdom says that dogs and cats keep them away. Wrong! And the remainder of my family, Farm Girl included, thinks they are interesting critters to be captured if possible and examined at length, pardon the pun.
So we spent nearly an hour Tuesday morning camped in front of a big oak halfway down the driveway, armed with lawn chairs, coffee, and cameras, waiting for a nasty snake to emerge from a hole in the tree where a squirrel once lived.
Before the day was out, we would find an abandoned snake skin just outside the entrance to a formerly innocent looking decaying log out front. And oh yes, one more live one twining around the lattice near the back door.
Shoes on, camera in hand, I’m ready for them. Despite my complaints, I still love our land, and I’m not going to insist we move. Unless I find rotten trim up under eaves.

Learning Slowly


As we approach this summer of 2008, it is hard to believe that we have now been in Texas for eight years.

our lives are full. We are content and happy . So much is going so well. And though we face occasional trials, we are not victims of our circumstances. Life is good!

It was not always so. Our first years in Texas were dark years, stained with dissatisfaction. It is amazing and instructive to look back and see the changes God has wrought in our hearts.
When we were mapping out our futures, way back in the ‘90s, Texas did not make our short list. It didn’t make any list. We had every conceivable point worked out, in writing , and the numbers looked good, and the obligatory sacrifice short-lived and workable. So when an unexpected job change brought us to the Houston area in 2000, we were undone. We hit a terrible low. That was only the beginning.

The events of September 11 forever changed the landscape of our “planned” future. In the home, infertility tenaciously dogged our steps, as did rumor of an impending Iraq deployment. We remained trapped in the West, far from all we understood and loved. We searched in vain for a church like the beloved gathering we had left behind us, and carried on friendless and spiritually dry. In the pressure, disappointment, and confusion, our marriage seemed hardly capable of surviving, much less thriving. Hope on most fronts seemed gone, left behind somewhere on the East Coast.

We tried repeatedly over the ensuing years to decamp and get back East. Every single door we attempted to open, each lead we followed, resulted in a resounding “NO!“ Through this, we should have grown prayerful, instead we grew weary. We thought that we were being more than fair with God in our demands. (Note to self: 1. “demands ” and “God” should not be used in the same sentence unless contemplating what He demands of us… 2. qualifying demands as “fair” fail to make them palatable to a sovereign God.) But we thought at the time that we were not asking too much. We were open to several options, we had happily lived in North and South Carolina, Virginia and Florida. We would also consider Alabama, Georgia, Pennsylvania, Maryland, and West Virginia. We simply wanted access to the places where we had once been happy, where life had made sense. We were willing to be so accommodating, no specifics, Lord, just somewhere back on that side of the nation, where things seemed …. manageable. Though He didn’t move us from Texas, He did not abandon us, but was faithful to strengthen our marriage and our family in the trial.

So we spent eight years in our own personal wilderness, longing for the past, wishing we were back on the East Coast (our Egypt), missing or maybe dismissing the many Texas blessings being poured out by a loving God.

Reading about the Israelites is lot like paging back through one of my old journals. I am so much like them that it is frightening. I read their stories of wandering in the wilderness, and I’m embarrassed and convicted. But in those first Texas years, I was blinded to the similarity between me and my spiritual ancestors. I could and did read about their whining, their “grumbling”, to use the Biblical term, and I would feel personally affronted on God’s behalf for their brazen thanklessness. I heard, during those years, excellent topical and expository sermons on the grumbling Israelites. I would dutifully write insightful comments in the margin of my Bible, underline with a bold and indignant hand their many sins, read all the footnotes in an attempt to grasp their stiff-necked stupidity, and marvel at their ungrateful hearts and their unbelievably short memories.

Change came when we finally stopped struggling. We let go of longing for what we didn’t have, and embraced what we did. I don’t remember the exact moment that it occurred to us, but at some point we realized that we had been placed in Texas for His good pleasure. We realized that we had to find satisfaction and pleasure in these surroundings as we enjoyed the environment given to us. With surprising speed, we began to see our lives through a different lens. One day, we realized that we actually liked it here! One day we realized that we had been blessed with dear, dear friends who we would not want to live without. Beauty from ashes.

One of the last bastions of my folly was my determination to garden here as if I was still on the East Coast. I planted based on my North Carolina gardening books, and tended my plants as if I was in the Tarheel, not the Lone Star state. I watched every year as my tomatoes were destroyed by aphids and stinkbugs, and we choked on bitter cucumbers and dwarfed peppers. Last year, I finally gave up and began to study the finer points of vegetable gardening in Texas. I quickly discovered that almost every bit of gardening knowledge I had was useless here.
May I introduce Year Round Vegetables, Fruits and Flowers For Metro Houston - A Natural Organic Approach Using Ecology by Bob Randall, Ph.D. I have now read many books on Texas gardening, and by far, this one is the best for this part of the state. I borrowed it from the library so often that my family finally bought it for me. I use it more than any other book, and with its help, we have grown beautiful tomatoes, basil, garlic chives, radishes, lettuce, beets, turnips, figs, tangerines, and Mexican Mint Marigold, also known as “Texas Tarragon“, which is lovely in salad.

Now here we are, welcoming another Texas summer, in this the year of Our Lord 2008. I am grinning as I look out on my tomato plants, but as I think about this eight year lesson in acceptance and thanksgiving, I wonder how it could have taken me so long to smile. May my next class be accelerated learning!

Inward Parts

“My heart is overflowing with a good theme; I recite my composition concerning the King; My tongue is the pen of a ready writer.” Psalm 45:1

Have you ever had a deep splinter, well beyond the reach of tweezers or even a needle? If you have, you probably experienced a slow movement from deep within, as that splinter, accompanied by swelling, infection, and considerable pain, was forcibly ejected to the surface by your faithful flesh. One day, behold, the splinter is within reach, and once removed, healing begins. A splinter, you see, is a foreign object. Our bodies have no internal receptacle for unwanted, unwelcome interlopers. Splinters are detrimental to our function, and therefore are disposed of tidily by our bodies.


Long ago, something very difficult happened to me. Since then, though forgiveness and restoration took place, I have carried in my heart terrible shame and sadness. I have struggled through the years to put it aside, to forget it, or to ignore it, to no avail. Shame became part of who I am. I truly thought that I would be free of it only in death.

One consideration was left out of this self-inflicted terminal prognosis. The heart, soul, and mind that were sick belong to the Great Physician!


Psalm 51 is David’s prayer of repentance after his adultery with Bathsheba and the subsequent murder of her husband Uriah. In the psalm, David declares to God, “Against You, You only, have I sinned,”. I have marveled more than once at this statement. He has sent a faithful servant/soldier to his death, implicated other soldiers in the murder, lead a woman into adultery, and sees his sin as inflicted only upon the Lord. My reckoning would have spread David’s guilt. John MacArthur states regarding the passage: “David realized what every believer seeking forgiveness must, that even though he had tragically wronged Bathsheba and Uriah, his ultimate crime was against God and His holy law." Hmmm.

Over the course of several remarkable days, I began to be bombarded with thoughts of my shame, and the need to be rid of it. In my weakness, I argued silently, and somewhat angrily that it was not worth addressing, that this was “between the Lord and me”. Surely others were not affected by it, as I did not allow it to impact my family, friends, and contacts. At one point I murmured David’s words (completely out of context, which I can be very good at!) to justify not dealing with getting my heart and head free of this emotional debris. Slowly, I began to grasp that the thing between David and God also stood between God & me. Sin. I didn’t need pity, I needed forgiveness.

The good news is…. The Good News! My savior died for me. He died that I might be reconciled to Him. He died to be the receptacle of the splinters of a fallen world that lodge in my flesh. “Cast your burden on Jesus, for He cares for you”. AMEN!

I was guilty of putting limitations on my God. I did not think it was worth His time to ask Him to help me fix this. I think that I didn’t think He could do it. I was guilty of minimizing His holiness. He has told me to “be Holy, for I am Holy.” Yet I did not repent of what was ultimately the sin of pride.

Psalm 51 has another, better revelation for me. In verse 6, David says of the Lord, “Behold, You desire truth in the inward parts, And in the hidden part you will make me to know wisdom.” Before Christ died, He said, “It is finished”. When we are sinned against, we must put aside any residual emotion that remains. Those emotions are nearly always for me, “the sin that so easily encumbers”. He died for the sin, and He died to grant freedom from the sin.

My shame was an outgrowth of a sinful, over-exaggerated opinion of myself. When last I looked, a slave of Christ doesn’t have a lot of time to spend getting upset over her perceived self-worth. I am grateful for this appointment with my Divine “Primary Care Physician”, and I pray that in the future, I will go more quickly to Him who heals and sets us free. Tweezers not required.

The wise shall inherit glory,
but SHAME shall be
the legacy of fools. Prov. 3:35

New Directions in the New Year


We have stepped quickly into the second month of 2008, and the word from China has continued to dismay us. The dream of bringing Juliet Grace home seems dim, the memories of our excitement and anticipation echo in our thoughts. How do we reconcile this wait with our desire to grow our family? Do we turn our back on China and begin somewhere else? Do we enter the difficulty of domestic private adoption? Do we just wait?

For years we have had friends and family encourage us to explore domestic foster/adoption through the State of Texas. We have heard both success stories that inspire, and heartbreaking tales that bring us to tears. We have personally watched beloved friends begin two foster/adoptions that were prematurely terminated as the children were returned to their birth moms.

We recently attended an informational meeting about the potential of entering either an adoption program, or the “foster to adopt” program through Lutheran Social Services, who facilitates for families with CPS through the process. The meeting was sobering.

Having completed Farm Boy’s international adoption through a private agency, and having begun our wait for Juliet from China through another, we had grown accustomed to the sugar-coated version of adoption information. With both international adoptions, the pros were heavily emphasized, the cons minimized and “airbrushed” for ease of digestion. This meeting was the opposite of those two experiences. We were not being wooed, we were being warned. The list of potential “issues” that may accompany the foster/adoptive children into your home are frightening, and unspeakably sad. The very program is frightening, in that the parents of the children who enter your home have not yet had their parental rights terminated. And though the state and the agency believe that there is a very good chance that the rights will be terminated, there are no guarantees until this court ordered action is completed sometimes a year after the child enters into your home. We went with the express purpose of finding about adoption only, possibly of a sibling group of two or three children. Foster/adopt was not even on our minds. But the more we heard, the more both our hearts, simultaneously, were turned in this direction! The exclamation point denotes the rarity in which this phenomenon takes place in our home. I can hardly think of a time that both of us arrived at the same conclusion at the same time. Most frequently we play “wait and pray” as we decide about major life decisions. One of us feels strongly, the other does not. Occasionally we quickly get to the same point, sometimes we agree to disagree. But I cannot think of a single time (okay, other than starting our new church, but that’s another blog entry) when we have had such immediate agreement about something so foreign to our natures ~foreign because we are not by design emotional risk takers ~ foreign because we thrive on schedules and security and “sure things”.

What does foster/adopt mean for our family? It means that we hang our hearts out there, and hope we survive. It means that if we get a call from the agency, we bring this child, or these children in, and we love them, feed them, protect them, as if they were our own, but that we pray contrary to our natures. We are to pray that the birth parents get themselves together and reach the point that these children can return home. It means that we tell ourselves every single day for that year that we are shield and a defense for these children until we are told we can rest, and that if they are taken back, that we are to thank the Lord and to praise Him for allowing us to be there when He needed us.

Can we do this? NO! A thousand times, NO! Not in our own strength. Can we do this through the power of the Holy Spirit, trusting in the sovereignty of God, telling ourselves and believing it that if He does not want these children to remain always in our life, then we would not want them to stay? We think so. We have two beautiful children who are ours to keep. The wonder of that statement takes my breath away, when I think of the longings we have had over the years. We also have Juliet Grace, somewhere in our future, God-willing, our daughter in China, who may in two or three years make it into our arms, and into our hearts.

The new church is a different post, and that post will come, but let me tell you that the focus there is love. It is not doctrine, it is not denomination, it is not theological wrestling, it is LOVE. It is the goal of our instruction. It is the two greatest commandments. It is grown-up stuff, pouring yourself out like a drink offering for a Saviour who taught you how. So we bend our heads and ask Him for guidance as we begin to pursue this foster adoption journey.

One of our favorite songs is “May the Words of My Mouth” by Tim Hughes. It is a good reflection of our hearts in this matter. Go ahead, find it and download it. It’s wonderful. If I ever become a little technologically savvy, I’ll find a way to play it on the blog. The words follow:

May the words of my mouth and the thoughts of my heart

Bless Your name, bless Your name, Jesus

And the deeds of the day and the truth in my ways

Speak of You, speak of You, Jesus

For this is what I'm glad to do

It's time to live a life of love that pleases You

And I will give my all to You

Surrender everything I have and follow You

I'll follow You

Lord, will You be my vision,

Lord, will You be my guide

Be my hope, be my light and the way

And I'll look not for riches, nor praises on earth

Only You'll be the first of my heart

I will follow

I will follow

I will follow You

Wash Day Confessions

When you were a child, did your mom have “wash day”? Does anyone have “wash day” anymore, or am I the only one who is a slave to laundry? For me, laundry has always been a vicious cycle, no matter how I strive for excellence in areas of organization and execution.

My mom loves to iron. You may find this hard to believe, especially when you learn that she has done more than her share of ironing, raising six well-turned out children in the days before polyester. But she truly loves to iron! To this day, when we visit each other, she will snatch clothes from me if I am headed towards an ironing board. And she is good at it! Each shirt, each skirt, each pair of shorts is beautifully pressed and hung or folded. She is an Ironing Artiste. Thinking about her high ironing standards inspired me this week to take my laundry duties to a new level. No more will I leave stacks of folded clothes moldering out of drawers! No more will I step over torn dryer sheets peering dustily at me from the floor beneath the dryer. I am reforming!

I know what is expected of me. I am a Christian homemaker, and every act of service in my home is to be an act of worship. Yet with laundry, I was an Isrealite, a first class grumbler. This week I took the time to really think about the joy of washing the clothes of my family. Do you remember that old television commercial, “no more ring around the collar! You’ve tried scrubbing them out…” remember? When I am “shouting out” AB’s collar stains from his airline uniform, it the BEST time to thank the Lord that I am no longer washing his Army uniform (or worse yet, not washing his clothes at all because he is deployed). When I scrub out the grass and dirt and worse stains on Farm Boy’s britches, I can choose to wallow in the delight of being the mom of a boy who is free to climb and dig and wallow on our land.

Do you hang out your clothes to dry? I used to see it as a time bandit, but it is not! It is a gift. It is an invitation to step outdoors from the inside demands, to enjoy the fresh air, the sky, and the horses. It is a chance for me to climb up on the playset and visit a moment with my son, or read a chapter aloud to the children on the porch.

What gift to be home to do this! My grumbling days (at least in the laundry room) are over!

**Lately, I’ve read about the nasty stuff that is in most laundry detergents and because I can’t afford the $12.00 a (miniscule) bottle of “healthy” stuff, I found a recipe for homemade laundry soap. It is very easy, and economical. You may have to search at one or two stores, but you can find these ingredients where you live if I can! Here is the recipe:

Good for You Laundry Soap

1 Cup Grated Soap Bars (Fels Naptha or Ivory)
½ Cup Washing Soda
½ Cup Borax

Mix all together, store covered. Use 2 T. per load

I usually triple or quadruple this recipe. I like Fels Naptha soap, and have found it here at Kroger. Kroger also has Arm & Hammer Washing Soda. This is not to be confused with Arm & Hammer Baking Soda, although I am not sure why the two are not interchangeable. Borax seems to be everywhere including Walmart. Always grate the soap fine, and always add the soap in first, then let the washer fill, then add clothing. I have one complaint, and that is that sometimes the soap does not dissolve completely and leaves a small oily mark on the clothes. I have never noticed this on anything except solid, colored tee-shirts. A fool-proof way to avoid the spots, takes planning, but works. The night before you plan to wash delicate solid colored clothing, place soap in washer, set the load size to extra small, and the water temp to warm/cold. Let the washer fill, agitate a moment, and then turn it off. Go to bed. In the morning, the water will have cooled, and the soap is dissolved. Turn the water temp to cold/cold, adjust load size to large. Add clothes, and voila, no spots! Your clothes will look and smell clean, with no heavy perfume odor.

Have a blessed week at the washing machine. I’ll be hanging out clothes if you come by!

"Those who sow in tears
Shall reap in joy.
He who continually goes forth weeping,
Bearing seed for sowing,
Shall doubtless come again with rejoicing,
Bringing his sheaves with him."
Psalm 126:5&6


A new year is upon us, and with it comes all the good intentions that often fade by summer. You may observe from my last post, that the good intention I harbored about keeping my news to you up to date faded even before the first day of that good season. I make no promises, but it is my genuine intention to be more timely in sharing the goings-on of our home.

A year of contradictions has now come to a close. We have struggled in so many areas of our lives, yet have seen God faithfully sustain us. We have trembled at the near future and been comforted by a waiting eternity. We have clung to each other and to our faith in dark times, and have emerged in 2008 humbled yet steadfast. With loving friends and family around us, some close, some far, who have prayed for us, wept with us, and rejoiced with us, we endured.

Much has changed, and yet so much has stayed the same. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan continue. The presidential race (how much longer do we have to do this?) remains confusing, irritating, and fairly uninteresting. The fight to keep the world out of our home, and keep Christ in it remains a constant battle, hard fought but so worth it. My battle to live joyfully before my children on one income in a dual income consumer culture continues. The adoption grows ever less tangible. The timeline stretches negatively each time we check with our agency.


Despite those dismal observations, we are happy! Can we tell you what beauty is revealed to us each day on this little patch of land? The gorgeous Texas skies overhead, the beauty of creation from snakes to birds to rabbits to goats takes our breath away. The children grow strong and healthy out in the fresh air, and we work at becoming more self-sustaining, letting go of our dependence on processed foods, chemicals, medicine, and entertainment. Farm Girl will be purchasing 28 chickens in March, and plans to sell organic eggs to our neighbors and friends. She has chosen many different kinds of chickens so that there will be a variety of egg colors in each dozen she delivers. Farm Boy becomes more of a little man every day. He hangs on his daddy’s every movement, and emulates them all to the best of his ability.

We have a neighbor who is replacing all his fencing that was put up just over a year ago (example of the dual-income consumerism mentioned above!). This fencing is in fine condition, and AB has spent several days with another neighbor (one of the above mentioned “world’s best”), dismantling it and bringing it home. He nearly lost an eye to a wild piece of barbed wire, but we will now be able to fence in the front ½ of the acreage and raise a cow for meat. God is good! Meanwhile we have planted beets, turnips, lettuce, garlic chives, and radishes for a late winter garden, and we are watching God orchestrate the weather and seeing the miracle of growth. Can God prepare a table in the wilderness?! Yes, Pastor Matt, He can!

As for me, my heart is growing quiet. The concerns and pain of the last year are fading, slowly but surely. I want to be quiet. I want to be at peace, and not worry, and to sleep well again, and wake rested. I want my friends and family around me in this dear home, I want to see my husband walk in the door with joy instead of sorrow on his face. I want to love my neighbors, and teach the younger women how to be good wives and mothers, pleasing to their families and their Lord.

So, here’s to a new year. I need to start running again. I am afraid, because I know it will be like starting over, but tomorrow is the day. Ross King and Chris Tomlin better be ready to keep a good steady pace, because I am up tomorrow at 5:00am to begin again. I need to finish reading Les Miserables. I need to become more organized. I need to be consistent in my child training. I need to bake more bread, and eat more spinach, and stay up a little later than is my custom. I need to remember to say I love you, and to send a card and to pray harder for the small things. I need to wish each of you a blessed 2008. Come by for a visit as soon as you possible can. We'll be watching the birds and looking for you coming down the drive...