Counting the Days

Don't get me wrong. I love my family.

But there still four and a half days left before the kids go back to school, Chris has a job scheduled, and I might actually get some desperately-needed solitude.

I could tell on Christmas Eve-Eve that I had reached my limit. We purchased tickets that day to the new Star Wars movie the next morning, and the thought of a few hours to myself sounded blissful. I threw out the idea to Chris that maybe I should stay home. "You really ought to come," he said. And against my better judgement, I let him talk me into it. That night, we had the kids downstairs with us late into the night due to tornado warnings, and I woke up the next morning tired and with a headache.

We piled into the van to head to the movie theater, and a mile away from the house, Chris started talking. "Please," I told him. "I really don't want to have to talk or listen to anyone for a while." And then I put Beck's Morning Phase on and stared out the window.

I am understanding more and more what I need to keep my introverted self mentally stable and happy. Having a minimum of three people in constant need of communication and attention in the sixteen-plus hours of the waking day for two and a half weeks straight is not what I need.

Four and a half days.

Just Do It

If I had a hundred dollars for every time the "I need a vehicle that seats seven or eight, but I don't want a minivan" post showed up on facebook, I could probably afford the 4WD Suburban I'd rather drive than a minivan.

It reminds me a bit of the struggle I have with my kids over food- my son in particular. He doesn't like any food at all that is actually good for him. I caught him making "cinnamon toast" yesterday. He had already made one piece and was working on the second. The bread was toasted, the butter applied, and then came the sugar. I watched as he started pouring sugar over the toast, his face determined, his hand steady, and he kept pouring, the sugar starting to pile into a small mountain range.

I get it. Sugar is yummy. But come on, kid. Sometimes you have to eat your vegetables even if you don't like them. You just have to.

So, all you moms and dads out there with young kids. I understand. You don't like minivans. I don't either. But eventually, we all have to grow up and eat our vegetables. Maybe the reason you eat them is because you realize all the health benefits that vegetable possesses, and so you throw it in your smoothie and find a way to eat it, even though you don't like the taste or texture. And sometimes, when you try a vegetable, you find you actually kind of like it!

So for whatever reason you don't like minivans, think of it this way. Owning a minivan is a message to the world that you are willing to sacrifice your ideal vehicle for family and friends. That ought to be something to be proud of. And if it makes you feel better, slap a bumper sticker on it that says, "I'd rather be driving a _________."

Green Grass

I was about to give up on spring, but the grass is green and growing here. Chris spent yesterday afternoon on the first mow of the season.

One of my peach trees is starting to bloom... just in time to get nipped by Friday's expected frost.

The chickens have started laying piles of eggs.

The warmth of the spring sun revives.

I ran across this quote a while back:  “Only those who dare to fail greatly can ever achieve greatly.” - Robert F. Kennedy

It seemed simple and logical and inspiring when I first read it. But it is also a veiled warning. Be prepared for great failure. 

I've been pulling myself out of the funk of failure over these past few weeks. 

But the grass is green and growing, forgetting the cold.

There is forgiveness. There is life and beauty ahead.

Deep Thoughts With Finley

She was swinging in the hammock when this popped out of her mouth:
"Mom, how do people know God is real and not just something that somebody made up?"

I heard the question from my almost-10-year-old daughter, and for a minute, thought my brain might explode.

I don't recall ever beginning to think that question when I was her age.

After I recovered from that jolt in time (Did you feel it on Saturday morning?), I fumbled out something about the origins of the universe (Forget the debate over evolution. Where did this energy and matter come from?) and the mystery of life itself.

And then I said something like this, "Say you have a friend at school who has never met me. How does she know I'm real? You talk about me all the time, but maybe you are just making things up about me. Maybe you just want a mom so badly that you tell stories about having one so that people think you do."

Boom. The look on her face was priceless. It said something like, "Have you lost your mind?" Well, yes, Finley, I have. Many times. And then I find it again, try to make sure the synapses are working sufficiently, and move on in life until I lose it again.

"See, you know I'm real because you know me. You have a relationship with me. I talk to you and have done things for you that tell you I love you." I went on to say that because of her experience with me, if I made her breakfast in the morning and left it on the table for her, she would know I made it for her when she got up even if I wasn't right there with her at the moment. I started to tell her about some of the times God showed me that he was real, and how he talks to me sometimes... when Joe and Zivah walked outside.

"Is he talking to you right now?!" Joe asked, getting right up in my face, looking for any sign that I was hearing something he wasn't.

"No," I said. And from there the conversation with the kids died out.
The one in my head, however...

You see, I am a doubting Thomas. I am one of those that need to see and feel the scars. In spite of the conviction of my youth, I am not sure that I would believe in the God that I do if it weren't for the experiences that I've had.

It is interesting. People talk about faith. They quote Hebrews 11:1. "Faith is the assurance of things hope for..." A trust that things you don't have proof for are or will be. Some would say that this implies that faith is a blind belief. But this really isn't the case, is it? Faith is based on relationship.

When I was young. I was surrounded by sincere people. My parents made it a point not to lie to me. They never pretended that Santa was real. If these were people whom I trusted, why should I doubt God or the Chritianity they believed in? And so in this faith I grew and then experienced for myself.

But my faith doesn't silence all the questions I have:

What if God had never proven himself to me? Why should I have continued to believe?

What about people of other faiths? Do they experience God? If they are having legitimate experiences, what does that mean for my Christian faith?

Do some people never have spiritual experiences, or is it that they just don't recognize them?
If some people don't, why?

And on and on it goes, this conversation in my head...

Grace, More Drywall Talk, and That Thing I've Wanted For Years

It comes in many forms, but the definition is the same in all instances. Grace... Unmerited favor. Being smiled upon even when. Christians, myself included, most often only see grace in big examples, like Christ on the cross, dying for the forgiveness of our sins. It has shown up in other major ways in my life. Like when I was going to marry that guy. All my reasons and arguments were piled high, sewn together with a thin thread of sheer determination, and in one moment, it felt like God pulled the thread and everything fell apart. Or when Chris and I wanted to buy that one house, and it fell through. At the time, it feels painful, not having things work out the way you wanted them to, but looking back, you can see the mess you almost had walked into, and are oh, so thankful.

With such massive instances of grace, it is easy to overlook the smaller ones. Chris bringing coffee to me in the mornings when I wake up growly and grumpy...

Grace even shows up when you are building a house. We could have had the drywall done by now, you know. If only Chris had hired someone to do it, we would be happily working away on paint and flooring. But he didn't. He kept balking, and all the while, I was getting a little put out, wondering if I should go behind his back and hire someone myself.

Then, as you know, cold weather hit, and, as we have no HVAC in the house yet, we realized that finishing drywall in cold weather was tricky. We could heat the place room by room just long enough for the mud to dry. But then our neighbor came to us with the story of another guy that has been building a house over the past few years just like we have. The fluctuation in temperature over the seasons has caused every single joint to crack, and now he has a big mess on his hands. And so there is one more mistake grace saved us from making.

In the meantime, Chris, Terry, and I are chipping away at the un-hung stacks of drywall. Saturday, after Terry helped Chris hang the top part of the vaulted ceiling upstairs, Chris and I worked on the funky, angled pieces and got one side of it done. A few more weekends, and we should have it all knocked out.

Chris has been talking to few more finishers, wondering if we could work out a deal with someone come spring to help with the finishing. Maybe we could could hire a pro to tackle the major parts, and he would cut a break if we did the mudding of the screws and less-significant tight spots. I kind of like that idea. That would give me a good excuse to buy something I've wanted since the first time I walked onto a construction site: a pair of drywall stilts.

I Am Woman...

Today, I've been working on building headers and framing out the spots where the built-in dressers are going in the kids' rooms.

I was thinking about how much I've learned in this process, and someday, after this house is long finished, it would be fun to keep building things. I have ideas for another chicken coop, among other things, but I also would really like to use what I can do to help other people. Maybe get involved with Habitat for Humanity, I thought, and as I thought it, that memory came back to ruffle my feathers again...

See, I used to work for a guy that had/has his own business in the AV world. There wasn't always work to keep us busy, so we'd do other things. His uncle was very involved in Habitat, and it happened that they were in the middle of a build one of those times we didn't have much to do, so we went to help one day. As I remember it, when we arrived on site, we found the guy in charge of the build, explained to him that we were there to help, and almost immediately, he turned to me and asked if I could go get everybody some drinks. If there was ever a time when I wanted to give someone the birdie, this was probably it. It is true, mind you, that I knew nothing about building houses at the time, and the most helpful thing I really could have done was get refreshments, but he didn't know that. I could have been a highly-skilled carpenter, but all he saw was a little girl and made an assumption.

So as I've been working, I've been daydreaming about pulling up to a Habitat build in the truck some day, and if some guy asked me to get them a drink, I could hand him one from the cooler I brought, and say something like, "There you go. Now, would you like me to build some headers and frame up for the windows going in over there?" with a look that says something else.

Wrinkles

I didn't understand Joan Rivers until just a moment ago. She's an old lady with a fake face. I couldn't quite remember how old she was, and I was curious. A Google search revealed that she is almost 80. And as I was staring at her pictures, wondering why she insists on keeping the wrinkles pulled out of her visage, I saw the answer. I found it in the title of her book: I Hate Everyone...Starting with Me. Well. That explains it. We alter our bodies and put on facades to cover up our imperfections and hide the things we don't like about ourselves.

I did something daring the other day. I get comments all the time that I look younger than I am. But the truth is, it's just because I'm shorter than the average middle-schooler, and most of the time you're not close enough to really see my developing wrinkles. So I took an up-close photograph of myself and posted it online for all to see. Here, I'll show you.

I've been telling myself that I don't mind the wrinkles. It's all about perspective, really, the way that you see. Sure, smooth, young skin is beautiful, but isn't the texture of an aged face just as beautiful? Isn't it sad to see society stretching the character out of its faces?

I have an affinity for crow's feet. They tell of years of laughter and squinting in the sun. But I have to honest. There are a few wrinkles I've thought I would like to erase. Those vertical lines that start just between my eyebrows? Those are the lines that you draw to show someone is stern or frustrated. My temper is not something I like about myself. I hope as I grow older, I am learning to control it a little better. Is that all those lines say?

Then someone commented on my photo, "Your forehead wrinkles spell pi." Yes, they do! And if that isn't the perfect sign to have emblazoned on my forehead, what else it there? Pi symbolizes an endless calculation, and I am forever contemplating, analyzing, calculating, drawing my brows together in serious thought... So I've gained a new perspective. Those forehead wrinkles are my think-too-much wrinkles. I can live with those.

March Seven Poem

Sometimes, when I sit down to write
I am so full with words and ideas
ready to drop through the funnel of mind
and out in a flow of words.

Like a mother in childbirth

Or a toilet, clogged with...

Woah, Nelly

A friend of mine sent me a link to a youtube video (link at bottom) with the following comment:

"This is sincerely the most inspiring 18 minutes I’ve watched in a while. 

A true craftsman/artist just can’t be contested."

 

Oh, she was right.

 

I can't explain what this has stirred in my spirit, but, in part, it challenges me to invest my time and talents rather than spend them easily. The potential for what we can do...

 

 

The Making of John Mayer's 'Born & Raised' Artwork

A Morning Rant

These are the kind of days that push me toward libertarianism.

A couple weeks ago, I had to go to a truancy hearing. Joe had been absent from school so many days, and my notes explaining that he had been sick apparently weren't good enough.

I am trying desperately not to go into a tirade... about how Americans in general are too reliant on doctors, about how the schools insistence on a doctor's note perpetuates the problem and puts a strain on certain families, about how ridiculous it is to threaten a parent with jail time due to someone else's definition of excessive, unexcused absences - never mind that the kid is doing well in school...

I explained to the ladies at the hearing that Joe gets sick a lot, that most of the time, I can tell that it is a virus that tends to settle in his chest and taking him to the doc would be a waste of time and resources.

What was their solution? Send the sick kid to school and let the nurse send him home. Can anyone else recognize how asinine that is? [Maybe this is why school districts are shutting down due to widespread flu outbreaks.] Regardless of my thoughts, I figured I could work with this. Although my mothering instinct would rather let a sick kid stay in bed, I have to take Finley to school [I am not comfortable leaving a 6 year old alone for the 20 minutes it takes, and besides, I could get charged for neglect leaving a kid under the age of twelve alone if found out],  and can just pop into the nurse's office to prove he's sick.

So Joe got sick over the weekend. I took him into the office this morning, and guess what I forgot? The elementary school shares the nurse with the high school, and she isn't there in the mornings. I could take him over to the high school or bring him back later...

I get what the truancy laws are trying to do, really. But all too often we pass laws and regulations with good intent, overlooking the fact that one size does not fit all.

The Piano

I've been thinking a lot lately about art and creativity... It was through the act of creation that we had our first interaction with God. We were made in God's image, and He created. I've been thinking about art and the creation of things -words, pictures, music- and through these things we are able to communicate, associate, identify with and understand each other (and ourselves). It is through the creative that we find that we are not alone in what we are going through. It is largely through creation and the creative arts that we are drawn to God.

There are a lot of aspects of the creative that we bury under busyness and the excuse of "I'm just not very good." Well, rubbish! I've been realizing how important it is to pursue the creative. If we let it go too long, we start to lose a part of ourselves. If we neglect the creative, we are missing out on a key part of who God made us to be.

I can't say that Chris and I are extremely talented in the fine arts department, but both of us have some ability. Chris was in a band or two in his younger years, most notably Excruciating Pain. You know, it was one of those bands with the heavy drums and guitars and guttural vocals that no one would understand without a lyric sheet. I took piano lessons for years, and managed to learn the basics on the guitar. But as we forged ahead into real adult life, we set aside the music in pursuit of 'more important' things.

Even though we aren't particularly gifted, we had a vague hope that maybe one of our kids might be, and so we ferreted away into storage Chris's drum set and bass guitar and my banjo... just in case. Some days I would think with a tinge of jealousy about those uber-talented families who sit around on a winter evening, playing and singing together.

Growing up, we had a monstrosity of a piano in our basement. It was old and had real ivory veneer on most of the keys. My parents had a duet book that they would play from some times. When I was old enough, I remember sitting down with a worn copy of John Thompson's Teaching Little Fingers To Play, and after Mom showed me the basics, I worked my way through the book on my own. Not long after, she found a piano teacher for me. I don't know the reason, but at some point, my grandmother sent money for a new piano for me, and I took to recording songs for her on a cassette tape.

When I moved to Tennessee, I left the piano behind. After Chris and I got married, a piano Chris had ended up in our basement, but every time I sat down to play, a small child would be right there to disrupt my playing. Besides, it needing tuning in a bad way, so I couldn't stand to play it for more than a few seconds. Chris did have a small keyboard he bought for Reanna, but the Moonlight Sonata is impossible on the thing. As a result, for years, I have not played.

Lately, my mother, and I were discussing the piano, and she told me if any of the kids ever expressed interest in the piano, I could have it back. But how will my kids ever develop a real interest if there is no one around playing?

And so slowly, I have been waking up. I am repenting of the closeted instruments. Regardless of the magnitude of our talents, I don't think we should ferret them away.  How else can we inspire and encourage each other? How else can we honor the God that gave us all we have? (And I am reminded of the parable of the talents.)

So when a friend offered me the gift an old electric piano, I was glad to accept it. Saturday, Chris picked it up, and we made space in the living room. Then I sat down to see if I could tease out of memory a Sonata I played years ago. Some of the keys squeaked and others clunked a little, but the kids were crowding around, begging for a chance to play. I am so grateful for this gift.

Thought for Food

I turned on the TV at 3 a.m. last night during a bout of insomnia. Not having a book I am currently reading, I am thankful that our local PBS station usually has some interesting programming on in the wee hours of the morning. This time, it was a show about Herbert Hoover. As usual, the show was filled with photos from the time, and one in particular caught my eye. Someone was holding a poster printed with these words:

Food 1. Buy it with thought 2. Cook it with care

 

Curious, I did a search on the internet and found an image of the poster at this site.

These were printed up by a department of the U.S. Government during WWI. Crazy, huh? I don't think the big agricultural businesses would look kindly upon the government doing something like that these days.

Thrown for a Loop

There's nothing like getting your day waylaid by unexpected events.

 

 

Last week, we lost two chickens to some predator. One was a laying hen, and the other was my favorite young rooster. He was pretty: golden brown and grey with a beard. He wasn't shy, always clambering in my way when I was trying to feed the chickens, which could be a little annoying, but I could easily pick him up and he wouldn't struggle to free himself from my hold. It's nice to have a nice rooster around.

 

A week before this tragedy, one of Chris's friends had offered us a rooster. He liked the roo, but having a crowing bird in a neighborhood wasn't working out for him. I wasn't too sure about the deal, since we had plenty of roosters of our own. But when my roo got killed, Finley was pretty torn up about it, so I thought this rooster might work out after all.

 

We went to pick him up last Friday, and when I saw him, I was in shock. This boy was a beast. I mean, he was BIG. I was hoping for a roo that Finley could handle, but if he was nice enough, I supposed it would be alright. His name was Big Papi, named after David Ortiz, the baseball player. The kids were excited about having a new rooster around.



 

Big Papi settled right in. He established himself above the other roosters, though I got the feeling the hens didn't like him much. Most nights, he refused to roost in the big coop with all the other chickens, and Chris had to moved him off the tractor to a perch in the stable. (We don't take kindly to animals pooping on our tractor.)

All was fine until today. I was out hanging up the laundry, when Z came outside. She made it halfway to me and the clothesline, when all of a sudden, Big Papi up and pecked her leg. Now, sometimes, a chicken will peck at your clothes or toes if it looks like there might be something to eat, but Z was wearing nothing that looked like chicken food, and there was nothing stuck to her legs that might even suggest food. Maybe this chicken was just dumb, I thought. I made sure Z wasn't too traumatized, then went out to finish hanging up the laundry.

A few minutes later, Big Papi came wandering over. He sidled right up to my feet and took a peck at my shoe. Nothing to eat there, buddy, I thought at him. Then he pecked it again. And again. I slid to the side; he pecked at my shoe laces. I was starting to get annoyed, when all of a sudden, he backed up, fluffed up, and charged my leg. I shoved him off, and with his next charge, as I was trying to kick him away, I fell backward onto the ground. Cuss words flew from my mouth (the ground is not where I wanted to be at this point), and I scrambled to my feet, then managed to get one solid kick on him when he charged again. He finally backed off, and I went inside, shaking with the adrenaline rush.

It's a good thing I don't know there the shotgun and buckshot are (if we have any). He might be dead.

So now I have wasted a good hour trying to catch the (insert nasty word here) to lock him up so we don't have to be afraid to go outside.

It sucks to be bullied. Even if it is by a chicken.

Storage, Organization, Yada Yada

Little things make a lot of difference.

Back in Nashville in the stairwell off the kitchen, I had installed a wooden strip on the wall with clips and nails that held the broom, mop, duster, etc. There were also shelves just the right height and depth for cleaning supplies and stacks of rags. All this was hidden behind a bi-fold door I could close to keep them out of sight. It was perfect. I wish I had a picture of it.

For two years now, in this trailer, the broom has been shoved in the corner of the kitchen along with the mop, duster, Swiffer, play mop, and play broom. Always tangled and falling over amid weeks worth of dust-bunnies, it was a, well... The word that came to mind to describe the situation is not appropriate for this blog.

Yesterday, I finally did something about it.

It may not be hidden, but (hallelujah!) this makes me so much happier.

As much as it drives me crazy, living in this lousy trailer is kind of a good thing. It is making me aware of little things that I can plan for in the new house. For example, there will be a drawer for the girls' hair supplies in the bathroom. Can you believe there are no drawers in the bathrooms of the trailer? It's maddening. But you can be sure that the vanities we install will not be drawerless.

Aside from the promise of one day moving into a house with better closets, there is another thing that gives me hope and encouragement on those days when I am really struggling with the clutter of the trailer: Sheri's blog. Sheri is an amazing woman who has a business helping people organize their lives. Not only can she tell you what to do to help get control of things, she can show you how we think about stuff that affects the way we deal with it. And when she writes posts like this one (click to read), it makes me want to stand up, shout 'YES!' then go conquer some clutter.

Everyone Needs a Little Crazy

The story goes, if I remember correctly, that Susie and Harry found Petey on the side of the road, dirty and naked and needing a home. So they picked him up, gave him a bath and some clothes, and adopted him into the family. Susie and Harry's kids were grown by this time, so thank goodness they found Richie to keep Petey company. Petey and Richie went everywhere with Susie and Harry... on errands, camping...

I remember having mixed feelings about all this. Petey was a Cabbage Patch Kid, and for all intents and purposes, Susie and Harry (full grown adults, may I remind you) were committed to pretending that Petey and Richie were real. On one hand, this was really entertaining. On the other, this felt crazy. Really crazy.

Fast forward twenty years, and here I am, sending a text to my brother, letting him know that one of my chickens had gone missing: "I figure she might have gone looking for her abducted sisters [the chickens I gave to him]. If she shows up at your house, let me know."

What is wrong with me?

Is life really so tiresome that sometimes we need to make it more entertaining? Yes. So forgive me if once in a while I slip into The Land of Make-Believe. Just don't let me stay there for too long.

Bring it on?

Yesterday was non-stop. As soon as I woke up, I went outside, moved and fed the chickens, put together the new hose reel I bought with birthday money, then started watering. I normally don't need to water anything around here until July, but it's been so hot and dry that everything would be dead if I didn't. I am thankful I didn't plant more fruit trees like I wanted. Since I don't have enough hose to reach everything, I have five-gallon buckets with a little holed drilled in their bottoms to water the trees. I fill these from another bucket, and while the buckets are watering one tree, I water another with the hose set on a trickle. Quite the routine.

As I was performing this little watering dance, I was thinking about all the projects on my list: finish building the clothesline poles, pick green beans, finish building the chicken plucker, build a bat house with Joe, (the list doesn't really end)... I reveled for a minute and thanked God for what my life had become, then thought, "I'll be really mad if the world ends in my lifetime. I'm having too much fun." Then the religious angel on my shoulder said, "Shame on you! Are you saying you'd rather be here than in heaven worshipping God?" I flicked him off my shoulder and decided that as long as I could at least garden in heaven, I wouldn't complain too much, I suppose.

Of course, that got me thinking some more. About how life isn't much fun if we don't have a challenge to overcome. I thought of kids and how most of the joy of growing up is all about conquering challenges: learning to roll over, learning to walk, pour your own milk, do a head stand, help bake a cake...

Maybe I'm just not enlightened enough to understand, but an afterlife with no challenges, no opportunity to grow, sounds dull.

This morning, after a late-night failed attempt at watering the garden (something in the well, the pump, pressure tank, and sprinkler system always seems to go awry), I crawled out of bed and tried to open my eyes. I wasn't feeling up for as much of a challenge today. Ha.

My Yearly Lament

It's happening again. Spring is hitting me full force in the face, and I am unprepared. If only I had a good plan ahead of time, I would have X, Y, & Z planted already and A, B, & C growing under the lights indoors. If only, If only...

I am cursed with a touch of perfectionism, and if it looks like I can't do it the way I envision, I get paralyzed for a while, until in desperation, I fling myself into it last moment, hoping to salvage my lost time. And usually, it turns out a little better than I anticipated.

I am trying to cast off my concept of perfection and wrap up in grace. It's so much more comfortable. It's so much more enjoyable.

Grace grows like a sprig of lettuce in the garden, coming up on its own, unexpected, offering unearned gifts.

Moonlight Passing

Just yesterday, I was marveling at the miracle of life. How a pile of eggs, that look so much like stones and are so detached from another living being can hold so much life inside of them. I was thinking about seeds, some that can lay dormant for 40 years, holding onto LIFE that can suddenly spring forth under the right conditions.

Today, I am thinking about the ambiguity of death.

I got a call this morning from our neighbors who were on their way to Florida for a little vacation. The night before, one of their goats gave birth to twins. One of them died at birth, and the other was living, but the mother had apparently rejected it. Denise wanted us to go check to see if the baby was doing alright. I loaded the kids up in the van and off we went. Finley spotted the little goat right away, plopped down next to the wall of the lean-to, head drooped over a piece of lumber. I thought it was dead at first, but, no, it's head flopped and a pathetic bleat escaped its lips.

"I don't think it's going to make it," I told the kids.
Finley protested, "We've got to help it..."

So I handed the baby goat to Finley, ordered the kids to the van, and while I made a few phone calls and located the powdered colostrum, they hovered around the poor goat, giving it plenty of attention. We brought it back to the trailer, and I had Finley sit down on the kitchen floor with the goat while I mixed up the colostrum. The thing was so weak, it couldn't even suck the nipple, so I pulled out a dropper and spent the next fifteen minutes or so squirting the replacer into its mouth. It appeared to swallowing a little, so after 1/4 cup or so, I set it down with its head on a towel to let it rest. I figured if it perked up in a little while, I could give it some more, but if not...

A minute or two later, it looked like it was no longer breathing. Finley insisted it wasn't dead, and sure enough, a second later, it's tail twitched. I looked closer, and caught a glimpse of some fur moving gently from the throb of a blood vessel. Another minute, and that movement was gone, too. "It's dead," I declared, though I hadn't seen the glazing of the eyes or heard the last sigh that seems to signify death in movies and books.

And so, quite unexpectedly, I ended up with a dead baby goat on my kitchen floor waiting to be buried, and children begging for some lunch.

The Light Blue Cup - Part 2

So... It has come to my attention that I have not really read the account of the manna and quail recently, and God's sentiment was nothing like what I imagined. [Number 11:18-20 - Therefore the LORD will give you meat and you shall eat. ¹⁹ You shall eat, not one day, nor two days, nor five days, nor ten days, nor twenty days, ²⁰ but a whole month, until it comes out of your nostrils and becomes loathsome to you; ...] Maybe I should only give Finley Ovaltine in The Light Blue Cup for breakfast, lunch, snacks, and supper for a month. That'll teach her.

The Light Blue Cup

Finley was grumpy and emotional. Nothing was going her way. I wouldn't let her watch TV. There were no jeans in her drawer. And she wanted Ovaltine. Now. When I finally mixed up the Ovaltine, she was in the playroom sulking. Joe, in the right place at the right time, asked for The Light Blue Cup. When Finley came out, she asked for The Light Blue Cup. "Sorry, Finley. Joe already asked for it," I said. She stormed over to the couch to sulk some more. "If you don't want any Ovaltine, I guess I'll drink it." I said. She didn't move. I drank the Ovaltine. She sulked.

I used to wonder why, when the Israelites were wandering through the wilderness and God provided manna for them every day, why he didn't just ignore the ingrates when they complained. Then I saw my daughter sulking on the couch, and this unwarranted compassion arose in my heart, and I washed The Light Blue Cup and fixed some more Ovaltine. That's why God sent quail.