I Chose You

(Here's a blast from the past - five years ago now, but just as true today.)

This is for every woman who ever chose a child over other options.


I could have had more time,
more house,
more room.
I chose you.



I could have had more money,
more things,
dinners out…
I chose you.



More me,
More sleep,
more freedom;
I chose you.



Less mess,
less cooking,
less laundry;
I chose you.



Less school,
less PBS,
less PBJ;
I chose you.



Because of you,
I have MORE.
More love,
more memories,
more smiles,
more delight,
more joy.

Where would I be without you?

File this one under lessons from our children

 Dear Daddies and Mamas,

Let us never assume that we have the corner on teaching, that our children are given to us specifically so that they may learn from our vast stores of knowledge.

 I like to think I've journeyed far in my Christian faith.
Sometimes I even toy with the idea that I've got wisdom, that if these kids would just pay attention, they will learn so much from me.

I am humbled tonight, yes....again, this far in to parenting....
by a ten-year-old boy too sweet to have come from under my hardened and complaining heart.

From his feverish sickbed on the couch, my Josiah talks with me as I work thru my own stomach pain and pick up stray kleenex and kicked-off socks.

"You know, I'm thankful, Mom.  I really am....for lots of things."  And he makes a list:  the couch he is laying on, a mama to take care of him, movies to watch, medicine and cold water.

I think I stop and stare, a little discombobulated from the daze and the last few days with hardly any sleep.  I am definitely not thankful.  In fact, I've already run so far from thankful that I'm contemplating the goodness of God over a simple flu.  (Sleep-deprivation is not something I handle well.) 

He softens me, this boy who was a gift himself; in his own weakness he reflects his Father's glory with a pure and simple act of thanksgiving.
I may be the mama, but I have far to go and much, still, to learn.  He didn't get this gratitude from me - it came from his own heart which is turned in love toward God.


*these photos are recycled from several years ago.  I don't think any of us are up to taking/uploading pictures right now.  Ah well, you've seen one bad flu, you've seen them all.  Things look much prettier in photographs.

Occupy Happy Meals?

I took two of my little children with me to town today.  They both had dental appointments and since every child draws a sibling name for Christmas, we had a little bit of shopping to do as well.

I don't usually take just Ben, age 5, or Mariam, age 4, with me to town.  We're usually in a group with all of the other kids or they are at home with an older sibling.

Thew were so cute, so excited to be going somewhere.  (That's kinda sad, huh?  We're home a lot.)  They had showers and brushed their teeth extra good and Mariam put on her Christmas dress.  (Red velvet with white cuffs.  Because going to the dentist is a Big Deal for her.  She made Ben wear a red sweater with a train on it because she wanted him to match her.  The world truly is her stage, and everyone else has either a supporting role or is a bit actor.)

The dentist with his spit-sucking machine and trial-sized tubes of sparkly toothpaste was a huge hit with my little ones.  They had so much fun you would have thought it was Disneyland.  But the excitement was just about to begin.

We went to McDonalds.

(Yes!  I know!  So exciting!!!)

Funny thing is - it really was exciting - for them.

And this was such a good mom moment - one of those rare times when I realize I have done something right.

We stood in line and my little ones did not know what to order.  They did not know about Happy Meals.  They did not whine between chicken nuggets and cheeseburgers.

They felt so big to just *be there.*  Catsup in little cups?  How cool is that?  A TOY in the bag?  A boy toy and a girl toy?  For real?

And a play place, too?

Ben didn't even know where to put his shoes.  He didn't realize there is a shoe shelf - he thought he was supposed to line his shoes up nicely along the outside of the netting.  They were so excited to see other children there, and a baby too!  Oh my - life does not get better than this.

A part of me felt pathetic, as in, how sad is this?  My boy is five, and he doesn't remember ever going to McDonald's?  A part of me felt old, as in, "has it really been this long?  Where has the time gone?"  I used to be a regular back when I only had three little ones.  It was a cheap way to socialize - the three of them couldn't even finish two $1 sandwiches at that point.

But another part of me felt great, as in, "Really?  I have succeeded in growing children in my America, into the latter part of 2011, and they don't know they have the right to whine for ice cream at Mickey D's?"

I've heard so many grown-ups complain this year because they don't know what to give the children in their lives:  "They aren't excited about anything," they say.  "They've already got it all," another grandmother told me.  "My toys won't interest them."

Now, I have no room to be pompous - my floors are cluttered with toys as I type.  My children have so much more than they truly need in the toy department, and my husband and I have no delusions that we can keep our children from all forms of materialism.  We're all greedy over something.

But we have chosen a fairly simple life for our little ones, purposefully.  No cable, no Wii, no network television with hyped marketing.  There's nothing wrong with those things, so please don't think I'm judging (except for the hyped marketing comment.)  I'm not.  I think we would enjoy any of those things in another season.  There's just so many interesting things going on with so many children and so many ages living here - that we don't miss the things we don't include.  Like McDonalds.  They'd never asked, I'd never taken them.

There is an answer to children who are already bored with the stuff of life:  give them less things, and more of you.

These little ones know about taking cans to church for the food pantries.  They know about sending packages and letters and praying for Compassion and World Vision kids.  They know how to pray for the hungry and the hurting.  (And okay, just so you know they're real, they have days where they fight like cats and dogs and turn up their noses at what I've made for supper and cry when they have to go to bed...around these parts we can construct a hierarchy of needs/wants/ownership very quickly when we are so inclined.)

But they didn't know about McDonalds, and they didn't know they deserved it.  They both said "thank you, mommy, for taking us to McDonalds," from the back seat on the way home.  Without prompting.  I was stunned.

That doesn't make me feel  better than anyone else, because I have my failings along with every other mother on the planet. 

But it does give me hope, and makes me feel very grateful to the Lord for these precious little ones He's given me to raise.  I think if we knew how much influence we have been given in our children's lives, of just how much consequence we have for them (and I'm not really talking here about what they eat, but rather, in their hearts and spirits,) we would scarcely be able to get out of bed in the mornings - the responsibility and our role would seem too great.  It's simply....huge.  There are no guarantees with raising children - but we can guarantee that we will always be the foundation under their feet, and we can always turn them toward the Cross.

I may not have given my little ones Happy Meal entitlement; but they know they have the right to their dad and me (to relationship) at any time they have a want or need.  There's so much I can't give my children; but so much that I can. 

I hope that helps them grow up "healthy" in more ways than one.

Children's clothing, a "sensitive" subject.

My little Mariam is extremely sensitive to various types of clothing.  She's always been this way, even when she was tiny.  She'd fuss and pull at things I thought looked adorable and wanted her to wear.  I sighed and tucked away many outfits that she outgrew without even giving them a second chance.

You know the type.  Her socks have to be perfectly aligned along the toe, all tags need to be cut out.  She hates even soft pants that have even the slightest flow around her leg - she fusses and says they are "all floppy."  She will take thirty minutes trying to find a pair of underwear that seem "just right," and misses a lot of outdoor play because she is attempting to find the absolutely perfect combination of shirt/pants/underwear/socks/coat/hat/mittens/shoes to wear.

When I pulled out her fall/winter clothing, I set aside everything that I thought would give her fits.   I limited her choices, but gave her clothes I thought she could "live" with.   She loves to wear dresses, and I'm fine with that, except for the fact that I want her to be warm in the winter.  So in her drawer I left her favorite soft dresses and some leggings that come to just the right place (and tightness) on her ankle.  It's worked pretty well, and I accept that these are her sensitivities and she may or may not outgrow all of them.  I just don't want her missing so much life because of clothing issues.

One of the hardest things has been trying to get many small children out of the house when one is so particular.  If I give her too much time, she will change her clothing several times, end up with something that does not match remotely (at home I don't care,) and still not be ready when it is time to go.  (The last minute shrieking over shoes can really wear a mama down....)  Since I am aware of her sensitivities, I have been trying a new tactic.  When it is almost time to go, I help her get ready last.  I choose her outfit. 

She doesn't really like this, but honestly, if we wait for her to choose and get ready on her own we will be an hour late to everything.  I am careful to only choose things I believe to fit her basic proclivities, and then, don't allow too much fussing.  It's just the way it is, Squinky.  You've got to get dressed and this is what you're wearing and no, you can't throw a fit, it won't do you any good.  She is coming to accept this well, but with a caveat.  She wants me to assure her that she can change her clothes when she gets home.

I am okay with that.  It sounds like a good compromise to me.

So, that first picture above is what happens as soon as we hit the door and re-enter our home.  That is a little Mariam clothing pile, coat, shoes, socks and all.  She doesn't talk about it, she just remembers how things are and within five minutes I know what to expect.

Sometimes, parenting means finding a compromise everyone can live with.  I win on some things - such as wearing something other than a slip and Snow White slippers outside in the winter, and she wins at other times, as long as she is warm and covered.  It's a Win-Win situation, with much less last-minute stress and trauma for everyone.

The picture below?  Well, obviously this is a much better choice, don't you think?  (That is a pajama shirt, covered by a Tinkerbell-type dress, with a winter hat tied around the waist.)

The Woodpile

My mama was born in 1937.  She was a farm girl, born the unexpected twin and placed in a dresser drawer because poor Violet and Elcie didn't have a place to put her.

She was a farm girl, so her childhood memories include a tiny runt piglet she and her sister raised in a box behind the cookstove.  They kept Tiny inside and bottle fed him as long as their mama would let them, then Tiny moved out to the barnlot where he eventually became a massive hog.   In my imaginings, my mama could have written Charlotte's Web.  I never ask what happened to Tiny, because I'm afraid to.  My Grandpa was a practical man, and I suspect Tiny became bacon.

My mama (and dad too) are unique; anachronisms in this modern age.  They have in many ways chosen to stay in their time frame, they find comfort and connectivity and health there.  My brothers and sister and I know this; this is why we battle to keep them here, at their (non-working) farm for this time, for as long as we can.  We won't be able to do it forever, but for now it is a gift to them and also to our children.  Once this era is over, it does not return, and we and our children still have valuable lessons to learn from them.

Take, for instance, a conversation between my mother and I right before a fine Thanksgiving supper of leftover turkey sandwiches:

We were standing outside looking over her woodpile, which incidentally, stands right next to their outhouse.

(How many people in America can write these words about their parents?  At times I am embarrassed of this, times I don't want this difficult responsibility, but the older I get the more I understand that I am standing at the edge of what is a passing time.  That does not mean that I think the end is near, for I have children yet to raise; but the time and place my parents came from is barely still here.  I'm glad to offer my children a dramatic alternative to facebook; they get to see and be a part of another world, a different time.  The outhouse itself deserves a post; it has been an insider's joke, a family memory.  My father does nothing by the book - the outhouse is carpeted wall to wall.  Even at 87 years of age my father takes himself outside in the middle of the winter to use the "facilities."   He insists that the children use it too; they are modern little wimps, but much more compliant than their mother.)

So, mom and I circle the woodpile, discussing the merits of the different types of wood, deciding which row to carry from next.  Four of my children dance around us (the 9, 7,5 and 3 year olds,) ready to help Grandma carry wood.

Mama loves a well-stacked woodpile, one that won't topple over on you in the dead of winter when you're scrambling for a good log that will burn for hours.  My sister is the best stacker; I'm always too haphazard.  I just want to get the job done.  Mama jabs her finger at a particular log, pointing out that this is just the type she will need.  It's a hardwood, properly seasoned, and it will provide a nice, long, steady heat.

I grew up this way, but I'm still amazed at my mothers organic knowledge.  She just *knows* things systemically, from doing them for a lifetime.  She doesn't know Lady Gaga (wait, I take that back.  She does, and she's appalled....) but she knows things.

She knows about every plant and tree, about when the forsythia and dogwood will bloom, and how many weeks of cold weather will come after that.  She doesn't observe the weather, she feels it.  What to do with each type of flower bulb, how to save every seed.  She doesn't have to think about it, and I wonder, how many daughters are having discussions today with their mothers about the virtues of various logs in the woodpile and which type of wood to burn for differing uses (heating vs. cooking, for instance,) and how best to stack a woodpile on Thanksgiving day?  It's strange, I'll admit, but I'm glad to receive it and to offer it to my children while they scamper nearby.  There are many things I can not give them, ways that I fail them regularly, but my husband and I give them this for this time.  To gain insight and natural wisdom like this, in an era where natural knowledge has largely been forgotten?  Priceless and worth the extra work it takes to gain it, we think.

So we watch and learn another lesson, balancing the old and the passing with the young and the emerging.  Mama stands at the woodpile, handing each child a carefully chosen log to carry to me, where I will stack it underneath the overhang of the shed.  It's just a few steps from her kitchen door.  We make short work of a job that would take many trips for mama, and the kids laugh and run all the way, happy to be useful and to see their work stack up.  They will enjoy pressing their backs to the woodstove on their winter visits to Grandma and Grandpa's farm.

Thanksgiving Remembrances - 2011

We had a really great Thanksgiving day.  It was just my mom and dad, Jeff and I, and the six youngest kids.  We spent the day at the farm.  I don't think we saw another vehicle all day - it's just that quiet and isolated.  Our oldest three children drove themselves up to Minnesota to visit Jeff's side of the family for the week.  The boys had a college break.

My parent's place sits inside the rim of an ancient and extinct volcano.  We literally go over a river (Wabash) and thru the woods (Shawnee National Forest) and then drive the rim of an old volcano to reach Grandmother's house.  The irony does not escape us, and someone usually sings this song as we approach their place.

The day was cloudy and the air filled with mist, but rather than dreary it felt almost magical.  The kids alternated between running up and down (and sometimes rolling) down the pasture and racing in to fling their boots in the corner by Grandma's cookstove in order to warm their hands on the woodstove.

We carried wood to keep them warm until Christmas, and hung their string of old-fashioned (with the large, bright bulbs) Christmas lights, put up the tree and did the last of the yard work until spring.

Mom baked the turkey and made the rolls, and I brought the pumpkin pies (from our own pumpkins) and stuffing.  After dinner we picked the turkey clean together and set the bones to simmer into broth on the woodstove.    We never lived close before this, so it has taken awhile - but mom and I have finally found an easy peace in our relationship.  We respect each other; I think she likes me (which is different than loves me) and finally *might* trust me to raise her grandchildren properly.  Julia played aggravation with Grandpa.  He forgot his hearing aid, so the conversation died out after awhile.

When it was time for the baby to take his nap, I stood swaying with him in the cabin's "pink room."  (Mom always calls specific rooms by the color of their carpet and bedspread.) Gabe tucked his head on my shoulder, into my neck - just so - same as every time.  He cuddled in and draped his arms around my arms; he patted me as I sang to him while the misty grey from the window invaded the room.

I am struck by the thought that although this is so familiar, and I do this every day, he is already 13 months old and very soon I won't be able to stand and hold him and rock him this same exact way.

I look around me, and see the pictures of other little boys who once slept in this room.  On the headboard, there's an 8x10 of a little boy who became a daddy a few months ago - I held his beautiful baby in my arms.  Right beside that, is the picture of another baby boy.  He's a Marine now, just arrived home from Afghanistan yesterday, in fact.

Daddy and Mama's little cabin, old, in need of updating.  Nothing special, really, but packed overflowing with memories.  Dad and I gutted this room and redid it, back when I was 12 or so.  I know every layer. 

On the shelves, on the walls, everywhere, remembrances.  Here, thru my ugly cattail oil painting, I am still alive as a seventh grader.  I keep telling mom to throw it out, she grins and refuses.  Dad's great-granddad lives on thru the steamer trunk that sits at the foot of the bed.  My brothers and sisters grin out their grade-school selves from tiny metal frames, Dad's black-and white teenaged years sit casually on an end-table in a straining, decrepit photo album.  A perpetual calendar from 1983 graces the wall.  (Two types of calendars never get taken down at my parents' places:  Those too pretty to take down and those featuring Ronald Reagan.)

I first slept side by side with my husband here in this room.  Two college students, too poor for any other honeymoon, this was our fine hotel.  (Well, he was a college student.  I had graduated two weeks before.  We dined on fried catfish and frog legs the next day on a bluff overlooking the Ohio River.)

We brought our babies here.  All nine of our babies have been patted to sleep in the "pink room."  Our homes have changed, many times.  This room has not.   Some of those babies of mine are very near flying this nest.

I cried while holding Gabe close.  Nephews, nieces, sons and daughters - growing up, building their own lives, sometimes falling down, losing their way, then finding their way again, having their own babies and hopefully remembering the foundations that are always here for them.

And my parents, doing so well, but definitely growing older.  I wonder how long we will have them, and feel again the privilege of loving and caring for people - even when the days are long and the responsibilities hard and there seems to be more than can ever be accomplished.

And I turn it over to Jesus, crying into Him, because He's the only one who has seen it all, knows it all, understands it all.  He's seen every struggle, been a part of every joy.  He's known my parents from their childhoods; known me, Jeff, all of my siblings, all of these kids - from start to finish.  He knows our best selves and He knows our mess - and right there in the "pink room" I take a few minutes to turn us all over to Him.  Only He can take these lives, these years, and redeem them - turn them to good and life and glory.

God's love endures, it always stands, it always builds.  Love remembers, loves marks time, love sets a marker for memories. 

Tonight, once we were home and the kids were all asleep, I sent my father an email.  I asked him if we should think about planting some new shade trees in the yard - Maples or Tulips or Oaks.  I reminded him that this generation of children will grow up, and they wll need shade and limbs for their own children to climb and swing from.

Love always hopes,  love looks to the future.

Homeschooling: Distractions while reading out loud.

I try to give my young readers an opportunity to read out loud to me every chance they can. Sometimes, it's hard to concentrate when the baby wants to play and keeps closing your book. But this is school at home, and it's not like everyone can go to their own cubicle (or even room) to complete every task. I've been amazed over the years at just how well the kids are able to teach themselves to handle distractions, say hello to the baby, then get back to whatever it is they were doing. Not perfectly, not every time, but mostly - and good enough. So far, all of our kids are avid readers. I'll have to get back to you about the baby.

What a deal!

I found another sticker carefully placed behind his other ear, bringing him to a grand total of .75 cents.

One year pictures...and, just conversation

Thanks for all of your suggestions,

both on-line and in-life.

I'm so glad you took the time

to stop by or to write me a note.

I'll take them to heart

and see what works.
I will say that I'm not very good at "how-to" posts
regarding parenting, usually,
because each family is different
and each child is unique.
I think it is up to the parent to
learn who their child is as an individual,
and parent accordingly.
That's actually one our jobs, to know our children
and then to guide them according to how God created them!
There are also a million parenting how-to blogs available. 
I can point you to several if you wish.  :)
But I am happy to open my heart and doors
and windows and share with you things that have worked
(or not worked....) with my children and our family.

We've been busy around here

with company over the weekend.

I'm a lousy hostess, actually -

always have been.

I enjoy company but stress waaay too much

before they come.  It was a great weekend 

filled with good conversation.  We don't get to see Jeff's side 

of the family very much, so we were thrilled to

spend time with his brother Donnie and his wife, Shelley.

Their children are grown, but they were gracious to put up with our clan.  :)
I get kind of giddy when I have real, actual grown-ups
who are captive in my house. 
I may or may not talk too much.  :)

My Dad is getting ready to have another surgery, too,

so there is some preparation for that.

(Had to include this one.  :)  Love the expression on his face.  

He was sooo done.  Can't believe my little man is one year old.

Gabe still has eyes that are two different colors.

I wonder if they'll stay that way?  I'll have to let you know...

He's a pretty big boy, around 23 pounds.  That's bigger 

than most of my children at this age.

He's into EVERYTHING, I'm thinking he's going to be a climber, too.

Life is about to get hard FUN!  :)

A good life.

(Trying for a little "first year birthday shoot with Gabe while good weather held.  He was unimpressed.  Eventually, we got some good ones....I'll post those next time.  

These are just mama and Gabe.)

A little story from life to go along with the photos.  Totally unrelated, except to the concept of a "good life, rather, life well-lived."

One day last year Jeff was re-entering the hospital.  I don't know which time, or which procedure.  They all blur together.  I do remember what we were saying to each other.

I was very fearful.  Afraid that he would go in, and under a knife, and not come back out.

I knew there were no guarantees, that he could promise me nothing.  It was completely out of his hands.  We were people used to shaping our futures, or at least doing the best we could.  This place where illness had brought us - with no control over any area of life (health, finances, time) - was frightening.

I choked back tears, trying to be logical.  I'd done plenty of crying already.  How does that help a guy approaching surgery?

I said, "But what if you don't make it?  What then?"

He was quiet for a moment.

He swallowed, then said, "Well...then,  we've had a good life."

I looked into the most familiar eyes in my world, got quiet too, and nodded my agreement around the lump in my throat.

I saw his peace, and realized the truth in what he said.

(Of course, I still made him promise to fight this illness with everything that was in him.)

I said everything that I felt I needed to say to him at that time, I thanked him for all of the years and all of our children and for loving me and them so well.  

His calm acceptance and summation of our years brought me a measure of peace as well; 

and he lent me his courage.

He was right.

We've had a good life.

Now he is One.

And we adore him.

The year that was: My father's surgery - part 3

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9 
Part 10 

I have really struggled with writing all of this down.  I know I've communicated that before, but it is still true.  I am not sure why it is so difficult.  It just feels like a burden I'm carrying and trust me, I've thought about forgetting the whole series and deleting it, not putting it here for others to read.  I've had to force myself to continue writing.


This was just such a horribly dark time; physically exhausting and mentally and emotionally solitary.  


I don't like being so honest, really.  Honest feels ugly, revealing.  Honest doesn't mean hopeless, it doesn't mean faithless.  Honest just means you're a real person.  If you are me, honest means that you are afraid that people will think you are just being a big baby.  I don't like to be depressing.


But is there a place for "honest?"  I think so, particularly when we are not trying to harm anyone and when we have waited to be certain that we are accurately representing what happened.

Sometimes grief over hard times just needs to be honestly shared.  We need for others to recognize and acknowledge our sadness, or the difficulties we have faced.


I learned so many new things along last year's journey - more than I could ever hope to find time to write down.  Some things were very good - which I allude to and which I will share more of.   Some things were brutal, though.  (I'm equally stunned by both.)


I've learned even more starkly how sensationalist we humans are.  There was plenty of compassion when my husband was sick.  When my parents were sick, though, and troubles were compounded upon troubles, those trials seemed more easily dismissed.  A sick husband or a sick baby tugs on the heartstrings.  Sick old people?  It usually elicits a yawn.  Most people won't even bother to read about it.    

Old age is lonely; but caring for the elderly is a lonely role too.  I encourage you - if you know someone who is a primary caregiver for an elderly person, speak and do kindness for them.  Pray for them.  Hold their hand and cry with them a little bit, if they seem to need it.  Don't forget them! 

There were little indignities along the way.  The lady and her rude gesture were one, the day of Dad's surgery revealed a few more.

I've been involved in the care of the elderly for many years now.  Let me simply say without over-dramatization or inflation that getting old can be a terribly lonely and isolating process.  It is difficult to get good hospital care for the elderly, particularly if they are unable to speak for themselves.  We have good medical coverage for our elderly in America, that is, the dollars have been allocated.  Dollars don't equal compassion, however. 

My parents have spent their lives in the pastorate.  My mother cared for her own father when he was dying of cancer and cared for her mother as she dwindled away due to Alzheimers.  Both of my parents have made hospital visitation and nursing home visits a priority.  Even now, my father will visit the "old people" at the nursing home.  Never mind that many of them are ten years younger than he is.

But they live in a very small town.  They don't have many young friends.  Many of my father's peers have +
+died.  If they have not passed on, they are not able to get around much.

I was worried that my mother would not have anyone to sit in the waiting room while she had surgery.  To avoid her sadness and disappointment were this to happen, I called her pastor and asked if he would be able to come pray with her before her surgery.  (Small congregation - sixty people or so, total?)  He came, and I was so thankful.  During mom's surgery, I shared the wait with my father, her pastor, and an elderly aunt and uncle.

Prior to Dad's surgery, I called the pastor and left a message with the date and time.  For an elderly person from a small town, their church is their connection.  Their minister, present at a time of trauma or insecurity, brings a sense of comfort.  Without this touch, they feel a sense of loss, of disconnection.

The minister never came, never called.  I was heartbroken for my dad over this.  How many visits had he made to people who were having surgeries over his 86 years?  When his own time came, the only ones sitting vigil for him were a daughter and the same elderly half-brother and his wife.

I have not spent most of my married life around my parents.  We've only lived close for four years.  I'm not accustomed to this vigil sitting.  I did not feel comfortable spending hours sitting with my elderly relatives.  What would we talk about?  They'd had many surgeries themselves, struggled to shuffle around the hospital, became easily lost as they navigated the corridors looking for coffee or the restroom or food.  How would I hostess these old ones in a hospital waiting room?  What if they had an emergency themselves?  None of those things were real issues - I was simply uncomfortable.

I again found myself unready for this role.  Mothering, I knew.  Babies, toddlers, preschoolers, elementary ages, middleschoolers, highschoolers - I had all of these at home.  I know how to care for people, how to "do," - but to sit and visit with them?  To be the primary family member present at a surgery, to hold power of medical decisions - this was heavy and I would have pushed it aside if I could have.

I remembered one recent visit to my fetal/maternal specialist's office.  I was lying on the bed for yet another ultrasound, and the tech and I chatted while she scanned the blood-flow to our baby's brain.  I was telling her about my parent's upcoming surgeries, and how I did not know how I was going to handle everything that was still on the calendar before our baby was due.

She stopped, looked at me, and said.  "You will do it.  You will do it, because you have to.  It will be hard, but you will make it."  She was an only child, who was responsible for her parent's care alone, so she understood what was happening.

Her words lifted me and sustained me.  I was pretty sure they were a direct message of confidence from God.  :)  They were exactly what I had needed to hear.  I could make it through this.

I thought of her words this day, and although I was pushing myself forward every step because of dread and anxiety, I took strength from them.  The Lord God was with me, with my parents, with us all.

My aunt and uncle and I took hands, and in the absence of a minister, we prayed over my dad.  He was so peaceful and accepting as he put himself into the surgeon's hands.

So, then, we waited.  We made small talk.  I refilled coffee cups.  We endured bad cable tv shows.  (I think that's the worst part about waiting room.  No right to change the channel.)  We looked through every magazine available.

And we waited.

I realized something new about the elderly, about my aunt and uncle, in particular.  At their stage of life, waiting vigil was about the last thing they were able to do for their loved ones.  They took this responsibility very seriously.  I could not persuade them to leave to eat, even though I knew they had medications they needed to take.  We who are young are often in too big of a hurry to do the waiting - at least I know this is true for me.  Give me something to fix and I'm fine.  Ask me to wait, and I resist.  I gained so much insight and respect for them and for their "waiting."  If they had not come, I would have sat alone, again.  No one should be alone at times like that.  People going through surgeries or traumas should have plenty of arms to hold them up.  If they are leaving this life, they should be held and lifted up in love - if they remain and return to health, they should know that there are loved ones waiting to welcome them back, praying for them throughout.

And we waited some more.

It was taking too long.  My aunt and uncle began to get agitated and worried.  They'd sat through many surgeries over the course of their lives, and they knew when something wasn't right.

I tried to allay their fears, to say that I imagined that the surgeon had gotten a late start.  They said, "No, Holly.  Something went wrong."

I tried to get some information, but no one knew why the surgery was taking so long.

Eventually, several hours late, we received word that the surgery was over, and the surgeon would meet with us.  We were taken to the same consultation room that I'd sat in twice for Jeff, once for my my mother.

The surgeon, a man I'd come to greatly respect over the months, entered the room.  His eyes were tired and bloodshot. 

"Your father made it okay through the surgery....but his hip broke when I was completing the replacement."  He gave us the rest of the details about his care.  I thanked him for his labor on behalf of both of my parents.

I helped my aunt and uncle find their way out of the hospital, called my mother to let her know that things did not go quite as expected, called my children to see how they were doing, called my brother and sister who were enroute and would be arriving later that evening.

I collected my things and my dad's bags and took them to the room he would be moved to once he was out of surgery.  By now, I knew the joint replacement floor really well.  I knew the nurses and they knew me.  They were getting a little sick of seeing us, I think.  :)

I waited in the dusk for Dad to arrive.

Once the nurses had wheeled him in and left the room, he slowly opened his eyes and called my name.  I wasn't sure if he was coherent or not.

What he was, was thirsty.  He'd not had anything to drink for almost 24 hours.

I leaned close, waiting for words of love.

Instead, Dad's first words post-surgery were:

"Bubba."

He'd survived surgery, he'd survive this too, somehow.  I dug thru dad's bag and pulled out the precious Bubba.  He fell back to sleep without a sip, and I sat back to wait for my brother and sister's arrival.  I was exhausted, done for.  I held his head and stroked his wrinkled face and smoothed his grisled hair, noting that he needed a haircut.  I mourned his wrapped swollen hip and the awful bruises from the iv and blood draws.
 
This was too much.  I'd like to tell you that I handled all of this with grace.  In fact, that's the way I originally wrote this post.  Yet as I reread it, I thought back to how it really was.  In the spirit of honesty, I have to tell you that I was angry.  I became angry with God - that after all of this, at the end of this horribly long summer, that we suffered this indignity of a broken hip. (I'm not excusing it, I'm just saying that it was there and that I had to deal with it.) How would I be able to take care of two elderly people with joint replacements that had not gone well?  How would we handle this when I had the baby?   I felt offended, as if wounded by an old friend.   I hated old age, trial, disease and infirmity.  It seemed like the series of unfortunate events, where nothing could go well.

The year that was: My father's surgery - part 2

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Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9

Dad and I pulled up to the surgery entrance.  I helped him get inside and checked in, made sure that he had his book and reading glasses, paperwork, and medications.  I headed back out to park the car.  Walk, walk, walk - or rather, endless waddling, at my stage of pregnancy.

By the time I returned, a nurse was taking a list of his medications.

Dad is mostly deaf and due to neurological damage suffered during his adrenal crisis and resulting coma almost twenty years ago, many people can not understand what he says.

Since I'd been with him for every doctor's visit from endocrinology to nephrology for the last four years, I was fairly used to this.  The nurse or doctor would ask a question.  He would pretend that he heard, and smile happily at them.  I have learned that my parents are "authority pleasers."  They come from a generation that respected authority, and as such, they "over-perform" when they are talking to the doctor.  They may have been writhing in pain and unable to walk at home, but as soon as the doctor hits the door they are right as rain and capable and agreeable.  It's only after the appointment they realize that they never told the doctor how badly they hurt nor what their difficulty might be.  The main thing to them is that he is pleased with them, and that they made a good impression on him.

Well, dad was grinning, and the nurse was writing down his answers.  Only problem was, since he couldn't hear her, and she couldn't understand him, the answers were all wrong.

We started again with his complex list of medications and with directions for surgery as related to his adrenal insufficiency.  We got him gowned up and the proper hip swabbed with betadine solution.  Labs were drawn and an iv started.  Nothin' to do but wait.

I sat and read; Dad got quiet as he contemplated what was going to happen to him.  He likes drama, but this was a little too real.  At his age, many of his friends had not survived surgeries.

I tried to not notice how very, very small this person who fathered me really was.

In real life, in his element, I forget how small he is.  His "in charge" presence has always dominated in our family.  But here, on the flimsy hospital bed, in an even flimsier gown, I noticed that my papa was the size of a boy.  Five foot tall, 124 pounds.

"Daddy."

"It hurts me to see you like this, old, and small.  I could pick you up, if I needed to."

"Why am I the one doing this?  Why me?  I'm the youngest - I'm not really strong enough to handle seeing my Dad like this, to be the one to hold his hand and see his skinny white legs and hold his gown down when he turns over so he's not ashamed."

"This hurts too much.  I can't do this.  This is too intimate.  I've borne enough suffering.  This is the fifth time I've sent a loved one into surgery this summer.  I handled so much:  Nick's mugging, Sammy's accident, Jeff's illness, mom's fear, her recovery.  I can't handle his fear too."

"Why is life like this?  Why does it come down like this, Jesus?  Old, frail, our dignity at the edge....oh, we need YOU, Jesus.  I don't understand this, but I need you today."

I didn't say it, of course.  It was all inside my head.

Outside my head, I snooped around his bag and saw that he has snuck in contraband soda for after the surgery.  Bubba.  Dad loves a generic, awful soda called Bubba.  Just like Dad to make sure he had his Bubba addiction covered.  He also had a flashlight in the bag.  Once a boyscout, always a boyscout, I guess.  Always prepared.  I can't imagine when he thought he might use the flashlight - perhaps if there was an emergency and the hospital generator also failed, he and his new hipjoint might be able to heroically lead the rest of us unprepared people out of the building.  Never mind that if the power failed the elevators would also fail - and we were on the fifth floor - Dad was sure he would still find a way.  It made me grin.

This was my job.  I knew his medical history, his idiosyncrasies.  I was his interpreter.  There was no one else.  He was mine, and no one else could or should be doing this for him.  He gave me life - I was holding his hand when he needed me.  No matter what, I would do what needed to be done.


I kissed Dad goodbye when they said that it was time, and headed for the coffee at the now-familiar waiting room.

The year that was: My father's surgery, part 1

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8

(I know that I am posting quickly now, maybe it is too much for you to read right now.  Maybe you don't want to read it at all.  :)  That's okay.  I never look at my blog stats and I never know who is reading.  I am just compelled to finish telling this story.  I want to write it down and move on.  Most people who read here know me in real life, or else we've been friends online for years.  Don't feel bad if you can't read it all right now, maybe you'll find time later.  It's all okay with me, it's just something I've got to do.  I'll probably post the next part later today, even, while I have time, and then not post for a few days.  Saturday is my father's 87th birthday.)

The three weeks after my mother's surgery passed all too quickly.  We were balancing my frequent ultrasounds with mom's therapies, care, and doctor's visits with preparation for my father's surgery.

On the morning of the surgery, it was just me and Pop.  My mother should not have been left alone, as she was still in much pain and was having trouble keeping her medications straight.  My oldest son was working, and I needed the second two eldest to watch our little ones for me.  I would be away from dawn to close to midnight.  There was no one to stay with her, so we made sure she had the phone at her side.  She was able to get up and get herself around, minimally.  I was so worried about her, worried about the kids, just plain overwhelmed and worried, really.  I'd worked hard to have things ready at the house for the kids, too:  food, laundry, things to do.

It was the perfect storm of a youngest child caring for parents who were already older when they had her.  I know that my situation really isn't all that unique.  So many people care for their elderly parents and try to juggle work, life, children, and maybe medical situations of their own.  I've been extremely humbled by the incredible love and care I've seen many people take of their elderly.  My situation is perhaps unique in that God has led my husband and I to have a large family, and that I was already worn down by Jeff's illness, and by the fact that I had a baby due in less than a month.  But still, as we analyzed all things, we did not see any other way.  Our family errs a little too much on the side of thinking we are invincible, that we can handle anything.  (If you know us in real life, you are likely laughing at this point.  We have a "sure, I can handle that" mentality.)

Dad drove the 45 minutes to my house.  He can still handle the drive, as he knows the road well and there are only small towns to pass through.  (Truth be told, he still drives really well.  He has great reflexes and has a good intellect which serves him well in crisis situations.)  He's just not too comfortable with city traffic, particularly if he hits construction or detours.  He'd rather meet me at my house and let me drive in the city.

It was a horribly hot and sweaty morning, even though he arrived shortly after 6 a.m.  My Dad is short, only 5 foot tall.  When I hop in his car to drive I have to readjust everything.  I toss his cushion that he uses to lift himself up so that he can see over the dashboard into the backseat.  I push the seat backward, tilt the rearview mirror, strap my very pregnant self in, sweating all the while. 

He struggles with his seatbelt buckle on the passenger side, bursitis makes the necessary movements difficult.  I always reach over without a word an latch the buckle.  He chuckles, embarrassed, but he's really okay with it.  He turns the air on, barely, out of deference for me.  He does not like the air, but knows that I do.  He couldn't possibly crank it high enough for me on this day.

We set out, make it into the heart of downtown traffic.  A woman, perfectly coiffed, races past me.  Angrily, she yells silent words at me and raises her finger in an obscene gesture.

I have no idea what I have done to offend her, but she has no idea of how much her rudeness hurts me on this day.  She has no idea that my heart is already about to explode and I am about to crumble. 

It took awhile, but I have chosen to forgive her for this.  She had no idea.  It is a great lesson that I return to again and again when I am tempted to be angry with some nameless person over a minor grievance.  I have no idea what they are carrying.

The year that was (third hospitalization)

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6

And so we continue...

A new doctor took Jeff's case.  We were not confident that he was aware of the previous infection/situation, he was not a joint surgeon, so we requested that Jeff's first surgeon (Dr. B.) come back on the case.

Jeff suffered through the weekend, we worried about a repeat infection in his hip joint.  If re-infection had occurred, he would lose the hip joint for sure, and a new one would have to be installed.  It was frustrating to wait through the weekend, difficult to consider yet another possible surgery, and besides, this mean that Jeff would be out of work for...how long?  Who knew?

Good news came on Monday morning.  Our brilliant surgeon, Dr. B., stopped by Jeff's room.  The antibiotic beads that had been inserted into Jeff's hip were designed and infused with full-spectrum antibiotics.  They were meant to fight against almost any known type of bacteria.  (We later learned from Dr. B's assistant that together they made the cement beads themselves, grinding and lacing, infusing them with antibiotics.  We blessed their brilliance, acknowledging it as a true gift from God.)  What a thrill to hear this news.  We could breathe again.

Where was the infection coming from, then, if not from the hip joint?  The hospital had repeatedly assured us that it could not be coming from the PICC line, as they had never had a PICC line infection.

For my part, I was a little freaked out.  One staph infection with no known origin is bad enough.  But two?  I started becoming a serious germaphobe (bacteriophobe?)

Finally, one doctor ordered the PICC line pulled.  The tip was tested, and sure enough, the line was the culprit. Once it was removed, and a new one reinserted, Jeff began to improve.

It was June.  The office for my fetal/maternal specialist was located at the same hospital.  It simplified things, in a way.  I could walk over a few buildings and talk with the office instead of dealing with phone calls.  I tried to talk them down from such frequent ultrasounds and blood draws (every two weeks for both) but to no avail.  The baby was continuing to grow well and the titers for the isoimmunization never raised, not even a blip, and they never did.

The big kids were still running things the best that they could at home.  We were still caring for my parents, keeping up their properties as well.  Both of my parents were beginning the preparations for joint replacement surgeries.  Mom's surgery would be in August, Dad's would be three weeks later in September.  And the baby was due three weeks after that - or so.

I'd come home at night, cook supper, do laundry, spend as much time as possible with the little ones, handle finances, send out updates, etc., then head back to the hospital to be with Jeff as much as possible.  The big kids did well, considering, but they suffered.  They had their own heartaches going on at this time; struggles to fit in to their worlds, friendship issues, etc.  We sorta, rather...fell apart during these days, quite honestly.  I know that everyone wants to hear how a good family "overcame," and that part comes eventually, but for a time we were just in a world of hurt.  Sometimes, even though you love the Lord and even though you "trust," you just struggle and the path is terribly long, dry, dusty and painful.  I looked ahead and saw two more surgeries, still, on top of everything.  I saw two elderly people who desperately needed me, and I really was the only one around to help them at that time.  There were no guarantees that the surgeries would help my parents, even.  How much would they directly need me in days to come?    I saw many children who needed their mommy, teens who needed mom to not be so distracted, and a husband who needed to be nursed back to good health.  I looked down the road, and saw no end in sight.  Why did we ever think we could do this, handle this much?  Well...we were still following what we were sure we were supposed to do...care for our children, care for our elderly, care for each other. 

We were overwhelmed, but we did what we had to do.  We kept getting up and doing what had to be done, day after day.  God kept carrying us.  There is no other way to explain it.

Jeff got well enough to come home from the hospital.  He improved little by little.  In mid-July, he re-entered the hospital for another surgery, this one to remove the antibiotic beads from the hip site.  Dr. B. took his joint completely apart, cleaned it out again, and put him back together.  Jeff didn't stay very long this time, just a few days, and when he came home he was soon walking without the walker.  He brought me coffee in bed the first morning he was home.  What a sweet memory that is.

Jeff was cleared to return to work the second week in August.  His workplace had retained his job for him, that was a real blessing too.  He had been out of work, without a paycheck, without work paying for his insurance, for three months.

God taught us so much through these trials.  We were humbled, but in a deeply good way.  We gained compassion for the "down and out."  We were blessed by the love and remembrance and strength of friends.  God is so good.  Blessed be His name - through easy times and hard. He is worthy of our trust, not because things turned out, but because He is God and He loves us.

(Next time, I'll write about my parent's surgeries, and then finish by telling about the day that Gabriel was born.)

The Year That Was: A second staph infection

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Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5

(I'm going to try and finish this "remembrance" by the time Gabe turns one.  That gives me three weeks.  This is such a long story - so much happened last year, but I think I can do it.  I realize that the average blog post is supposed to be 600-700 words, but since I'm writing this all down for our family to remember, I don't want to leave out the important parts just for the sake of the average attention span.  Jeff and I were *just* talking thru the events of this post a few moments ago, and were pretty surprised at how much we've forgotten about the sequence of events.  There are some feelings, though, that I will never forget.  This was a hard one.) 

We were one week out from having Jeff's PICC line removed.  He'd been on iv antibiotics for five weeks.  Anyone who has dealt with that knows how frustrating it is.  We'd wrap his arm in plastic, cover it in more plastic, tape it shut, and still water would soak the line dressing.

At first Jeff was very weak, we were unsure of how to get him in the shower since he was still healing from the hip surgery.  I was always nervous - what if he fell?  We got into a good pattern, however, and he was slowly regaining strength and color.  He was able to walk outside occasionally as the weeks progressed, he was returning to decent health although he was still weak.

One night, I noticed that he felt hot.  Shortly after, he started uncontrollably shaking again.  Of course we were concerned.  How could he be getting another infection, considering all of the daily antibiotics he was taking?

We called his case nurse.  She assured me that it was nothing, that sometimes the body simply "got a little temperature in the evening."  As it was getting quite late, I wanted to be sure for the night, and so I asked for clarification.

"What you are telling me is that there is really NO way he can get a second infection?"

"That's right,"  she replied.

"And so I really shouldn't worry."

"That's right.  I've been a nurse working with PICC lines for over 20 years.  Trust me.  Your husband is NOT getting an infection."

"Okay.  When SHOULD I worry?  How high of a fever is too high?"

"He'll be okay as long as the fever stays below 104 degrees.  If it gets into the 104, 105 range, you'll want to go in and have it checked out."

Well......we didn't really believe that, and Jeff's symptoms continued to increase.  I was still scared stiff from the first staph infection, so I wasn't willing to wait around for his fever to climb.

We went to the Emergency room, told them what was going on.  Jeff looked pretty good, walking with no cane, etc.  He's a strong man in his early forties, joking around with the staff, etc., at least while ibuprofin kept his fever down.

A doctor came in to examine him and to ask him some questions.  (We were at the same hospital he had been in a month prior.)  The doctor was very confident - overly confident, I'd have to say.

"You don't have an infection of any kind."

"Really?"

"No.  You CAN'T have.  You have way too many antibiotics in your body."

"So an infection is IMPOSSIBLE?"

(We were really double checking here - Jeff's recent brush with death was still too fresh in our minds.)

"Trust me on this.  Another infection is IMPOSSIBLE.  You're fine.  Just have a little fever.  Nothing to worry about.  And it can't be a PICC line infection, because we have NEVER had a PICC line infection here in our hospital."

But they took blood samples, anyway, "just to be sure and put your minds to rest...."

And we went home.

You know where this went, right?

Right.

The lab called within a few hours and told us to come right back to the hospital, because Jeff indeed had another staph infection and it was growing.  They did not wait for the entire, normally required period to see what was growing - they could see that something was and that he needed to be readmitted.

So we packed up our bags and left the big kids in charge and went back to the ER.  We ran into the doctor from the previous night who had assured us there could not possibly be an infection.  He did some serious back-peddling.  "Boy!  When I saw you last night I knew there just wasn't something right.  I went with my gut and ordered bloodwork done, and I'm sure glad I did that!"

We smiled wanly, remembering very clearly what we had been told.  We waited several more hours, during which time Jeff continued to get more and more sick and I grew more and more panicked.  Everything seemed to drag and just took so long.  An hour to get a gown, an hour to get labs drawn, an hour to get labelled, tagged, etc., and during this time no evaluation and no meds were given.

Jeff started shaking uncontrollably.  I began going out to the linen cart to get blankets for him.  He'd cycle through sweating and shaking.

I stood in the doorway of our little room, hoping that my presence would make someone remember that we were here and that my husband needed to get to a room.  He needed some attention.

The charge nurse, a tough looking guy, saw me in the doorway and sent a nurse my way.  "Tell her to get back into her room.  We can't have people out here gawking."

Honestly.  I wasn't gawking.  I was so exhausted at 3 a.m after the past month and with handling so much of everything at home and with the extra care, plus the stress of what was happening to my husband a second time.  I wasn't "gawking," I was staring into space, vacantly.  But I obediently took my offended little self back into our cubicle and wiped Jeff's sweat-drenched face and changed his soaked gown.

Still no doctor, still no medications, still no room.  And now, he was missing even his PICC line meds.

Finally, around four-thirty a.m., Jeff was taken to a room.  By this point, he was shaking so hard and breathing so rapidly that I thought his heart would explode.  His fever was high and he began to vomit.  At one point, he began to throw up and the charge nurse and his regular nurse were in the room.  They did nothing.  I leaped to the adjoining bathroom and grabbed the pink bucket where they stow a patient's toiletries.  (Bear in mind that when I say "leaped" that I was six months expectant.)  I threw the contents of the bucket into the sink, ran back to my husband, and held the bowl for him.

The nurses just stared at me.

This cycle continued for the rest of the night/early morning.   I did not mind caring for my beloved - in a way, I wanted that to be my job.  But I felt so alone! I wanted help, but did not receive any.  Neither was there any communication given from the nursing staff to me.   I ran between his bed and the bathroom, almost overcome with panic.  Eight kids at home.  In a hospital, but receiving no real care.  I kept a cool cloth on his head, kept changing his gown as he soaked it, kept replacing his blankets as he soaked them.  I hunted down his nurse and asked for a warm blanket to help with his extreme shaking.  I was told that they did not have a blanket warmer on that floor, and that it was against policy to use the microwave to warm a blanket for him.

I watched his chest rise and fall and waited for him to have a heart attack.

Would they come and help then?

It was so awful.

I finally left the room and went to the main desk on the floor and asked for the head nurse.  I asked her for at least a warm blanket.

She replied that "she would see what she could do, but they were running low on blankets."  And the implication was that I had been using too many blankets.

I could not believe my ears.  A man came near death, has his second staph infection in a month's time, you've given him no care, and you're going to fuss at the wife because she has used too many blankets?

A limit was reached in that moment.

I knew we were not being treated right, and something rose up within me.  Perhaps it was justice, I still haven't put my finger on it.

I said, "Then you will need to go to another floor and get some more blankets.  I do not care if it is against hospital policy.  Go to the laundry and get more blankets.  And while you are at it, please let the doctor know that we are here and that my husband has not received any medication."

Within a short while the doctor arrived and examined Jeff and read his charts and ordered a new kind of medication.  The head nurse hovered near, filling the doctor in on all of the care she had been giving Jeff.  It was dawn, it had been such a long night.  I was ill myself with worry and the trauma of seeing him so ill, again.  Once the doctor left the nurse spoke with me, never apologizing but saying that she understood why I was so upset, seeing that I was pregnant and over-emotional and all.

I took it.  I didn't really know how to respond.  I was beyond spent, and I was just glad that Jeff was finally getting help.  As soon as I could, I would request that Jeff be seen by our regular family doctor and his surgeon.  They had handled his original illness very, very well, and they would interpret the lab results for us.  Our concern was that the staph illness had settled in his hip joint again, and that he would maybe lose the hip or worse.  And if the staph infection was the same kind, and had overcome the antibiotic beads placed in his hip joint and in his PICC line - what would we do?  What could be done?  Were we facing death again?

Caretakers

Along with our own home, we also have a little house that we bought on a sheriff's sale (for $3,500, if you can imagine that.)   We immediately put a new roof on the old place, and Jeff and the boys have gutted it down to the studs and are getting ready to install new plumbing.

Along with that house and the one we live in (which we are also remodeling,) we are caretakers of my parents' two properties.  (That's four places, in case I lost you.)  My parents still live in a small town in the same home in which my father was born; in the house which my great-grandfather built with his own hands in 1914.  They also have a little cabin way out in the hills and hollers; twelve acres of rolling, stretching, wooded land.  My family has owned this particular piece of property since I was 11.  Dad saved up his pennies until he was 53 years of age, then plopped down $18,000 cash for this piece of property.  Dad never made more than $18,000 a year in his life.  Mom was a substitute school teacher making $30 a day when I was in highschool in the eighties.  Frugality bought them a beautiful piece of land that has given and given to our family over the decades.

(I hope I don't make anyone uncomfortable talking prices.  I tell it all for the sake of perspective.  You can buy houses and even land for less than the price of a car.  Also, it's good for the kids to see what hard work and fiscal conservation can do over time.)  :)

My Daddy was a pastor.  This place was our retreat.  No phones, no running water, no indoor bathroom, even.  Just wood heat.  The farm sits inside the rim of an extinct volcano; you can see the outline of the rim by aerial view.  It's a hardscrabble, beautiful place.  We came once a week, Fridays after school.  We mowed, we gardened, we remade the cabin.  We fenced the pasture and gravelled the driveway one bucket at a time.  We seined the pond and restocked it, built the dock and built a deck on the house too.   It was mostly just my Daddy and I doing the work, as my oldest siblings left for college very soon after.  I loved the farm, I hated the farm.  There was always so much work.  I named it NeverRest, and the name still stands.

I've grown up with this land.  I've watched it change and shift over 31 years; and it has shifted.  I notice new species of trees, different mushrooms and bugs, gullies and ravines worn through the hills by spring rains.

  It is an amazing thing to parent the same land over time, to be able to say, "I remember when Dad and I planted these pear trees.  I remember when we grafted in new branches, splicing in the buds and wrapping them with tape."  Now, my children harvest fruit from these trees and I spend late summer days canning pears for us to enjoy this winter.

God is so good to me to let me live this long and share such things with my children.  When I was eleven and twelve and working so hard to clear the land and help my Dad remodel an old cabin, I never knew that one day I'd have nine children who would come back to work with me, to swing on the same old tree that I enjoyed as a kid.  I'm grateful now for the hard work that I was made to do.  It made me very, very tough - and I sure need that with nine children.  I'm no quitter.  :)

I like that they are getting the opportunity to learn to work, too, to do the things they don't necessarily want to do but should.  They are gaining ties to the land, learning to caregive both the people that live there and the land itself. 

Shepherding land is hard work.  Mowing, pruning, mending,

Splicing, sharpening, harvesting, gathering, cutting wood for winter.  The work is never done.   Three seasons wear us thin, pull us into four different places that need maintained.  My parents' places have strong familial value.  We do the best that we can.  By September, we are looking ahead with longing towards the first snowfall, when we can sit with our backs to the fire and enjoy cocoa from the kettle of warm water that is always on the cookstove.  The kids pilfer cookies from Grandma's cookie jar, drive her a little nuts with the chaos, and play legos in the loft bedrooms (you get there by pulling down and unfolding a ladder.)

My parents love this place.  It hurts my heart so much to see them grow older and able to do less around their places, but as long as they can make it down to the country, to their farm, they are content.  Last year when they both had joint replacement surgeries (and my father's hip was broken,) they couldn't come for several months.  They came as soon as they possibly could - and it did them such good.  My Dad will be 87 next month.  I'm not sure what we will do when the day comes that he can't drive himself to his farm any longer.  I think I will have to take him, for sure.

Catfish, bluegill, and bass.  Yum.  :)

We don't fish nearly enough to suit the boys, but hopefully we'll find more time this fall and again in the spring.  I recently saw that Jeff had picked up a pink fishing pole from a garage sale for our little girl.  He must have plans.

My dad has always been a steward, a conservationist, even before it was cool. He devotes specific plots to wildlife, he works to eradicate invasive plant species that threaten the national forest, he loves this land the Lord has let him caretake for a time. He's taught me well in this regard. I love it too.  Although the days are very long and tiring and the work exhausting; I am thankful that our children have the opportunity to experience the land, the work, and the relationships regularly.

*These pictures were taken in the spring by my daughter Emily