originally written February 2007

As I sit here planning a candlelight Valentine’s dinner with my love, I think back on the conversation I had a few days ago with my single sister-in-law. Her Bible school class on marriage has given her a lot to think about.

I couldn’t tell her the teacher was wrong. I couldn’t tell her marriage was easy. It’s not. She and I both know her brother is pretty close to perfect. But he still hurts my feelings sometimes. She and I both know housekeeping isn’t easy. I often fall short of my husband’s expectations. We all know that there are emotional days when nothing goes right. Sometimes, the bowl of potato salad breaks all over the clean kitchen floor and you don’t go to the potluck.

Marriage is not easy. But life is not easy.

No marriage can be perfect. For no person can be perfect.

Such is reality, I assured my sister-in-law Marlys. Yet so is the reality that I am living my happiest dreams. Life at the side of my husband is more wonderful than I ever imagined. Merritt steadies me, balances me, completes me. I am even more emotionally stable since our marriage, he says. (And as the chief shoulder upon which I cry, I guess he should know.) Truly, we are as happy as can be.

But it’s time for Valentine’s Day once again. The day I so often mourned my solitary state. The day I was in raptures at his phone call and Valentine. The day I agreed to marry him.

So on this day of unrealistic hopes and overwhelming longings, I encourage my sister-in-law and other singles like her to enjoy February 14. Don’t ruin a perfectly good Wednesday with self-pity. Offer free babysitting so a couple can have a much needed dinner date. Pray for someone who is spending their first Valentine’s alone after the death of their beloved. Make your parents a candlelight dinner then slip away with your siblings. Bake some cookies for some special older people in your life. Be so busy giving love you won’t have time to miss it.

On this day for lovers, I smile as I think of the newly-engaged couples I know. If they were listening (ah, but they have eyes and ears only for each other), I would tell them to savor the sweetness, the fresh newness of their love and happiness together. For I know that yet another Valentine’s Day will find them reliving the memories, even more joy-filled and content than they ever imagined.

And to my love, my husband, I whisper words but few:

“Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be!”

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

Of hard-fought battles ‘almost’ won,
Of loving words I ‘almost’ said,
Of things I ‘almost’ thought to do,
Of times I ‘almost’ stood – but fled.

The mounded dust of wasted days,
The skeletons of moments past;
A life I ‘almost lived for Christ,
But found that ‘almost’ doesn’t last.

written by Joanna Lynn

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

Little Gidding, Cambridgeshire, England

The following was written by a dear friend of ours and his sending it to Philip and me was something of a New Year’s gift. I know that you’ll all be glad that he gave me permission to share it with you:

Are you a Psalm skimmer?  I confess that I am.  I often find myself skimming through a psalm until I get to one of those familiar nugget verses, land there a little bit, and then keep skimming.  This is NOT how one should read the Psalms.  Every word is to be chewed and savored.  Time must be allowed for this.  Giving the Psalms (and all of Scripture) a quick glance like one would do to a blog or email is the quickest way to divorce God’s word from God’s Spirit.  We have taken something sacred and made it common.  As a result, we no longer experience the presence of God when we read.  God will not be rushed.  He will not be treated like a Facebook friend.

Maybe this is just a symptom of the times.  “Face time” is no longer required for relationships.  We’ve actually digressed in our interpersonal skills.  Think about it.  People used to walk next door and sit down and talk with their neighbor.  With the invention of the phone we could call them and listen to their voice.  With the invention of email, we could just write.  With the invention of texting, we could reduce our relationship to short little abbreviations.  At times I feel like we are becoming the ghosts of C.S. Lewis’s Great Divorce.  There is little physical substance to our relationships.  Is this really progress?  Face time is too rare.  It is rare because it requires two things – “face” plus “time”.

I fear that this new way we now relate to one another has spilled into our relationship with God.  This is not just dangerous, it is spiritual death.   Our relationship with God requires face time.  Scripture cannot be merely scanned in order to get the gist of its meaning.  Waiting for God cannot be like opening a slow webpage – “God you’ve got a few seconds before I move on.”  God is never in a hurry and we cannot rush him.  The Psalms remind us of this.  They are full of patient waiting, worshipful meditation, and adoration.

I wait for the LORD, my soul waits, and in his word I hope; my soul waits for the LORD more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning. – Psalm 130.

During this new year, take time to take time before the LORD.  Ask God to reveal to you the things that drown out his voice.  Ask Him to show you the things that are controlling your day.  Ask Him to show you how to change and to give you the strength to do so.  This might be occasionally turning off your phone, or leaving your computer at work, or driving without listening to the radio, or killing your TV. Is there something in your life that you cannot turn off?

Our relationship with God requires quiet moments, patience, and passionate pursuit.  He is our Rest, our Joy, and our Treasure.

In Your presence there is fullness of joy – Psalm 16.

On the cross, Jesus endured the absence of his Father, so that we might enjoy His presence.  What a gift!  Take time this year to receive it.

written by Rev. Joel Brooks,  Redeemer Community Church

photography credit, Philip Ivester

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

LET me but live my life from year to year,
With forward face and unreluctant soul;
Not hurrying to, nor turning from the goal;
Not mourning for the things that disappear
In the dim past, nor holding back in fear
From what the future veils; but with a whole
And happy heart, that pays its toll
To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer.
So let the way wind up the hill or down,
O’er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy:
Still seeking what I sought when but a boy,
New friendship, high adventure, and a crown,
My heart will keep the courage of the quest,
And hope the road’s last turn will be the best.

Henry Van Dyke, Life

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

The guys used to start out the day with a game of football in the mud and cow pies. One year, the muddy football game was replaced by inner tubing in the snow. They must have become either older or smarter, because they have shied away from those escapades in recent years. No matter the weather, however, the guys always play a game of Monopoly which lasts half the evening. We girls tried in vain to hide the game, distract them with food, or beg them to skip it, but it was all to no avail: the Monopoly game must be completed before they could participate in the rest of the evening’s festivities. Only after someone had nearly taken over the bank could we talk them into joining us in a game of Pictionary or Dutch Blitz.

There was always plenty of food. Mrs. K. brought the pies. My mom made almond roca. Melissa and I even tried to make peanut brittle a time or two. We made up the Chex mix. Chips, dip, a veggie tray, and a few traditional salads complemented the mini meat and cheese sandwiches on rolls. Then there was the perennial favorite of “banana bungalosh:” a blend of mashed frozen bananas and juice served with 7-Up.

Usually the evening was not without time spent in the living room pouring over photo albums. The gentlemen always got in a good discussion or two on theology and politics. And there were always a few good-natured fights about who would do the dishes. Once in a while we were even the recipients of a special performance, in the form of humor or monologue.

We always rounded out the evening with a good ol’ jammin’ session: Melissa on the piano or bass, Abbie on the fiddle (sometimes joined by Aunt Terri and Papa, as well), Will or James on the banjo, James on the trumpet or Will on the saxophone, LeAnn’s brother Rhett on the cello, with a few guest appearances on the guitar, and always a few of the younger guys joining LeAnn’s Grandpa Cliff on the harmonica. From patriotic songs to folk music, we called it “cousin cacophony” for a reason. But we had fun making a joyful noise. It was beautiful to sit back and listen to the blend of voices and parts as we sang all the verses of the hymns and ballads.

We kept an eye on the clock while we were jamming, though, and when it got close to midnight the guys grabbed the blackpowder guns, we girls donned coats, and we all went outside to yell and holler and make too much noise at the stroke of midnight. There were usually a few more songs—and a few more pictures—to finish before everyone went their separate ways in the wee hours of the morning.

One of our longstanding traditions was the kiss picture: all the married couples were told to smooch long enough for all the shutters to click. It was always funny to see who stopped kissing too soon, or which person was looking at the camera instead of their spouse! But as I took the pictures, I was always looking forward to the day I could be one of the married couples in the kiss picture, instead of one of the singles taking the picture.

There was one year that we met at LeAnn’s grandparents’ home instead. I remember that time specifically, as I watched with delight the sparks flying between LeAnn and my cousin Robert over a game of Guesstures. It was just a few years later that Robert and LeAnn announced their engagement in 2002, wedding the families who have been friends for more than 40 years (sometime I’ll have to get LeAnn to tell you their whole story). I remember watching that next year as Robert moved from being one of the guys shooting guns and yelling, to kissing his new bride out under the stars as the clock struck midnight. December 31, 2004, brought the special announcement that Robert and LeAnn’s first little one was on the way!

The next year, I was thrilled to have Merritt fly in for the New Year’s party of December 2005, introducing him to my special friends and family. Only two years later, Merritt and I were returning to the ranch for another New Year’s party, this time with our baby girl! Last year, we got to meet Robert and LeAnn’s newest little guy, who was born into the family just weeks after his grandmother went home to Heaven.

This year, my cousin Robert has a new job that takes his family to a new town, a new church—and far away from the long-held family traditions. Merritt’s and my own growing family makes it harder to travel—and we know we probably won’t be making many more such trips on future New Year’s.

We knew it couldn’t last forever. We knew eventually we’d be pulled in too many directions, the miles separating us too much for everyone to meet back at the ranch on New Year’s Eve. In fact, LeAnn’s Grandma Marcyenne was the first to break up our party: she was singing with the angels last New Year’s Eve.

This New Year’s Eve, Merritt and I will have just returned home from celebrating in my brother’s wedding in Virginia and then spending Christmas at my childhood home (another break in tradition—growing up, nearly every Christmas was spent at Papa and Grandma’s ranch). I hear rumors that the newlyweds might be able to make the traditional New Year’s Eve party. And my cousin James has been bringing a sweet young lady to the party for a few years now. But some of the rest of us not-so-newlywed—but no less in love—couples will be far away from the ranch this year.

It’s time to start some new traditions, make some new memories. I don’t know what LeAnn’s plans are—most likely, they will include unpacking boxes! But Merritt and I hope to begin some traditions with his family, inviting people to our farm for a hymnsing and some games on New Year’s Eve.

I doubt we’ll rival the musical presentations that were done at the Brink ranch. No one can play the piano like my cousin Melissa. And no one in Merritt’s family can play the harmonica with their mouth, let alone with their nose, like some in my family have been known to do. The practicality of partying until 2 or 3 in the morning is questionable when there are little people who are ready for baths and bed much earlier. Perhaps one of our new traditions will be going to bed before midnight! Regardless of when we go to bed, we’d better choose carefully whom we invite to the parties on our farm, in case some of our children should grow to love each other through the next fifteen years of celebrating New Year’s together. All too soon, my girls will be my age, and I want their memories of times together on New Year’s to be as special as mine are of the past 15 years.

This year on New Year’s Eve, LeAnn and I won’t be with all our relatives celebrating the longtime traditions of singing hymns and shooting guns as the clock strikes midnight. We will be far from the homes we loved, and the night will be far different from the traditions in our memories. But we will be with our nearest and dearest: our husbands and our children. When the clock strikes midnight, hopefully the little ones will all be sleeping, and we’ll be welcoming in the New Year by kissing our husbands and letting them know that we wouldn’t go back, we’d rather be with them.

And it only takes a moment remembering all those New Year’s Eves without anyone to kiss to remind me that there is no where else, no one else with whom I’d rather be spending New Year’s Eve.

Wishing you a wonderful New Year’s Eve making many memories as you celebrate traditions new and old…

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

But then the morning came when I flipped on the outdoor light in preparation for Scott’s early morning departure for work to find that rain had faded into white, and even yet, out of the darkness snowflakes were falling and making my world a wonderful, fluffy white. (At least for a little while!) It was that day, too, that I realized that Thanksgiving was almost here again. Somehow. Surely it hadn’t been over a year since my man asked me to be his bride? Blink. Wait, how could it be just a year ago. Longer, surely much longer ago than that.

One thing was sure, though. It was snowing at last, and as I stood there, admiring the way that God turns barrenness into beauty, a parade of memories began to march, or perhaps tumble through my mind, bringing alive the “old days” now past in of some of the Christmas Classics that cannot leave off from echoing through my memory’s hall.

It really does sometimes seem like yesterday, especially as these first snows of winter fall, that I danced  around the house with my brother and sister  while we sang a bit  of “Let it Snow” in anticipation of those first Alaskan snowflakes (though I wonder now that we weren’t singing something else- such as “snow, snow go away, come again some other day”, long as those winters felt sometimes!) and then  fell down on our backs on the lawn, laughing, and trying to catch the first snowflakes on our tongues.

Though snow usually fell long before Christmas, and often long before Thanksgiving, there was something about the snows before Christmas that seemed extra special then, and now even more so.  Those fires in the fireplace in my childhood home (fueled by wood that we’d spent the few months of summer gathering from our own acreage) are now replaced with fires in the pellet stove in my new living room, and yet the warm, glowing light remind me of those cozy home fires and I hear my brother’s voice all over again, singing as only he could do, about those chestnuts we never did get to roast on our open fires (and that I still dream of doing…some Christmas season, if and when I can find some chestnuts).  Jack-frost nipping at our noses and anywhere else he could nip (ever have your eyelashes freeze shut? I have!), and dressing like Eskimos (I wore a kuspuk quite often as a child) were reality for us, but somehow it was those chestnuts we always thought about.

I  can still  hear that particular crunch of dry, powder snow  as it is trampled underfoot, and feel the icy wind  biting at my nose and cheeks again as we walked from house to house around the neighborhood- and farther- keeping that beautiful tradition of caroling alive and sharing a little of our Christmastime joy with strangers.  I hear the Drummer Boy (Johnny Manthis, once again accompanied by my brother), and remember understanding for the first time what it meant to “give my best to Him” who was born to die so that I could live.

I still feel the chills down my spine and the threat of tears every time I hear it that I felt that first time I stood and heard the Hallelujah Chorus live in an old church in Anchorage as a 9 year old. Only now I  sing along, and imagine that in Heaven, the Angels must be singing too.

But while I think of the beautiful blessings remembered last Thanksgiving to this one just past, and while I write my Christmas greetings to the people near to my heart though scattered around this old earth,  and glance out my little window at the picture of my world- a world just now turning white, unlike the world of my childhood- it is Bing Crosby whose voice floats into my mind, and memory after memory of happy, carefree childhood white winter days come with it, when the snow was already quite deep, and  the only kind of Christmas I ever knew were  always white. I’m dreaming of a White Christmas.

I’m dreaming of a white Christmas
Just like the ones I used to know
Where the treetops glisten,
and children listen
To hear sleigh bells in the snow

Happy, beautiful, white Christmases. Days  filled with family, love, rejoicing and thankfulness for the gift of God’s Son to make our hearts “whiter than snow”. These were days to give, to share, to sing and be still and know Him. To hear the snowflakes fall, and the winter birds sing. Tree tops always glistened and once or twice, we did hear the sleigh bells ringing through the cold air and the snow crunching under horse foot, fulfilling a childish desire to really go sleigh riding. These are some of my heart’s happiest memories.

Thanksgiving is past now, and the air is even more chilly than before, and there is snow on the ground- and it seems to be here to stay. Yet, still through my mind the memories, and the songs echo keeping those memories of Christmases of the past fresh, and the happiness, that real joy that comes from sharing, and the reason why I always dream of “white Christmases” is alive just as it was when I was a child.

Life changes just as the seasons come and go. This year my siblings are far away, my family scattered like autumn leaves, married, expecting little ones, unable to make the trips to all be back together again.  It won’t be just like the Christmas times I’ve known before. It’ll be my first…away from home, but at home, where I’d rather be than anywhere else, at the side of the man I love more than anyone else in this world. I’m looking forward to creating our own memories to tuck into my treasure chest in Memory’s hall.

But I’m still dreaming of a White Christmas- not just a snowy, white Christmas,  but the kind of happiness that White Christmases always have been to my heart… a Christmas as filled with love and joy and thankfulness, with sharing, with quiet moments to soak in the reality of what the world somehow has commercialized into a mere shadow of what it ought to be… and somehow I think this Christmas will be more beautiful than any I’ve ever known.

I’m looking forward to a cozy fire, to the Christmas Greetings from friends and family that make every day cheery when I see them in a little (but growing!) line on our window sill, a happy home filled with the music of the season, a few special foods, and  lots of quiet moments truly seeking to grasp the ultimate gift ever given- our Savior, and to be still in our hearts and know Him.

It isn’t the gifts, it isn’t the food, it isn’t the place or the people, or the snow that make my Christmas White- though they make it happy indeed, and the memories even more beautiful and special- it is the simple joys and the happiness that comes from inside that will always be my white Christmas, no matter where I am, and even if I am all alone.

Whether you “celebrate” Christmas, Hanukkah or neither, from our home to yours…

May your days be merry and bright
And may all your Christmases be white.

God bless each of you this season, exceedingly, abundantly above all that you ask, think or even imagine. Happy White Christmas, this year and always.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

Sometimes my lists are filled with obvious things. Sometimes it is filled with little things that only my heart can really know and understand. Sometimes it is filled with random bits that would make others laugh, and often I laugh too, but to me they are also glimpses into the blessings of Him who cares even for the small things in life.

Whatever the case, I call these lists my Ebenezers. They are testimonies between my heart and my God of His goodness and grace. I only wish I’d written them down in a real and true journal more often than I have, for no matter how dark and rainy of a day it may be, a little glance through the joy journal never fails to lift my heart and encourage my spirit to keep looking.

The saying that says there’s a golden side to every cloud… it is true. The sayings that say that no matter how dark the day, there’s always a glimmer. It’s true. The sayings that say that there’s something beautiful about every day. They are true, too. We just have to look for those things in places that may be quite out of the ordinary.

I like to think of it as a training project. Life is made up so much of what we look for. And what isn’t made by what we see, sometimes can be made better if we look for the best. Our minds aren’t always naturally bent to look for the good and the best and the beauty. Sometimes the heart can be painfully loaded with cares and heartaches, and the eyes so filled with tears that it seems nearly impossible to see any thing beautiful or good. That’s the time to start looking.

For me, it has been a lot of different things. Dewdrops sparkling on the grass. Clouds parting so I could see a lunar eclipse. A random tulip growing up out of what looked like a cinder-pile. A snatch of a song that unexpectedly spoke to my heart in a big way. It has been a smile. A note from someone who said just the right words- though they may never know it. It has been the wind on my face, blowing back my hair, and in my mind, blowing away the cares from my heart.

Whatever it is that brings a sparkle of joy into your heart, if you find that your eyes seem to see more bad than good in life, start your own journal to collect these little things. Make it your training this year to focus on beauty, on goodness, on blessings, and give your heart every reason- no matter what circumstances may bring- to be truly thankful. Not just in November, but every single day of the year.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

While nearly everything in my world is different than it was five years ago when my brother moved out on his own (ultimately to Tennessee) and we made the great trek from my childhood home state of Alaska to the unknown world of Colorado. Lots of happy things have happened. Lots of sad things have happened, and deep in my heart I know that the traditions that represent many happy, wonderful years won’t ever be the same again. Life changes sometimes mean that even cherished traditions must change, too. And it isn’t even necessarily a bad thing!

I’ll miss the Thanksgivings and Christmas times I have always known. I’ll miss having my whole family together. I’ll miss standing around the table and singing “Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow”, sharing our biggest and littlest blessings, dressing up in outfits for the day, and sharing our “traditional meal”, complete with sparkling juice, cranberry sauce and lots of love. I’ll miss the laughter that is present at every family occasion. Most of all I miss the sister who made these times as happy as they were.

It isn’t always easy to close the old chapters, and open new ones, as happy and wonderful as those new ones are. Sometimes the twinge of pain carries on a little into the new one, and I doubt I’ll ever not feel the empty spot in my heart, but the new chapter is filled with happy, wonderful, beautiful things and abundant blessings and I find that these joys make the past pains not so sharp as they once were.

I’m looking forward to spending Thanksgiving with the biggest blessing I’ve ever received– Scott. I’m looking forward to holding and getting to know our little Thanksgiving “gift” of our new little nephew this year. I’m looking forward to sharing some of my traditions with my new family- especially my youngest brother in law.

I’m not sure how the traditions I cherished will fit into this new life, but I’ll always keep the happiness they represent wrapped up with my costumes, with my memories, close to my heart this Thanksgiving. I will take the happiness I grew up with and learn to use old traditions to create new, better ones.

I don’t know how this new Thanksgiving will look…but I know it will be a Happy Thanksgiving, nevertheless.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

I’d like to say our Fridays are anything but typical, but in reality, though the actual activities change, they do end up quite similar in that they’re always a full of a bit of The Crazy. But then again, my life is always filled with a bit of The Crazy.

Friday, September 18th begins as usual at 5:00am with John’s alarm startling us out of our slumber. We both tend to believe there is not a sound on earth quite so jarring as an alarm clock’s buzz. I think it could qualify, if needed, as some form of torture.

So, we hit snooze. Quickly.

In all honesty, we kinda prefer to set the alarm just a little earlier than necessary, just for the luxury of a few half-awake minutes to become accustomed to the day, slowly gaining enough consciousness for whispered words and a morning kiss.

At 5:15, the buzzing starts again just as we hear another common morning sound, that of, “Daddy! Mommy! Daddy! Up! Up!” coming from the boys’ room. Merritt, our little 22 month old boy (known around YLCF as “the little Merritt“) is bright eyed and bushy tailed much earlier than normal! John hops up to get him from his crib, bringing the little boy, his white silky blankie and his beloved Pooh Bear all back to our room. Merritt curls up in my arms under the covers, of course showing no signs of falling back to sleep. While Daddy starts getting ready for work, we’re left to our customary morning snuggle full of Eskimo kisses and sleepy giggles.

With three year old Troy still dozing in his toddler bed, Merritt and I head downstairs and turn on a light. There isn’t much more perfect to my mind than a warm yellow light gently filling a dark downstairs. We gather up my Bible, journal and various books and curl up in the corner of our old couch with a blanket. John makes his way downstairs to the kitchen table, picking up his own Bible and books on the way. He makes us each a cup of coffee–mine served with a smile and a kiss in my favorite “Marine Wife and Proud of It!” mug. We talk softly, for fear of waking Troy, about the day ahead, our weekend plans, the work we plan to do on his classic car that afternoon. We settle into our morning places and quietness falls.

“I will love You, O Lord, my Strength…”

These words from Psalm 18 have spoken much truth and challenge and comfort to me over the years, and I read them, fresh and new again, this morning.

Around 6:00AM, John slides his Bible back into its place on the bookshelf and brings in his bike from the garage. He’s an avid cyclist and forgoes the engine and steering wheel on workdays in favor of two spoked tires and a set of handlebars. Merritt and I give him kisses and send him off.

Just as I was closing my journal, I hear stirring upstairs. Troy is awake and peeking down from our overlooking staircase. At my bidding, he hurries his little pajama-clad self down the stairs and into my lap alongside his brother. He asks if Daddy left already, we talk about his dreams, the boys wiggle and laugh. They both rest their still-sleepy heads on my shoulders, just the right height for breathing in the scent of their hair. In the dawn light and the stillness of early morning, I close my eyes, laying my cheek on one boy’s head, and speak to my Heavenly Father.

Stillness never lasts long with two little boys, so it’s only a few minutes before the chorus of, “Ee-eat!” and “Breakfast time yet, Mama, please?” begins. They climb into their seats, Troy spreading place mats while I pour cereal. Their favorite breakfast is Barbara’s Bakery’s Shredded Spoonfuls with sliced banana chunks, so they think this is a treat. We’re cleaning up breakfast dishes–Troy clears the table and Merritt “helps” put silverware in the dishwasher–when the phone rings. John forgot his salad for lunch and is turning around to get it. Can we meet him outside?

Our house here in the city–a suburb of San Diego, our current Marine Corps ordered place of residence–is in a gated community and we stand on the patch of grass in our “front yard” watching the gate. We wait to see John’s bike rolling in, Troy thrilled that he gets to see Daddy this morning after all. The gate begins to open and the boys start to argue over who is going to give the salad to Daddy, dropping the closed container in the process. I stomp out the little fire of toddler rage, then smirk at John as he stops in our driveway. Ah, such is life, and toddler hood, and motherhood.

7:45 now, and we head back inside, salad safely in John’s pack. I tell the boys to go upstairs and take off their jammies while I open my computer for an email check. My laptop customarily sits atop the coffee table during the day, and is stashed in a nook beside the couch at night–or when company’s stopping in and I don’t want to look like a complete computer-addict. I read my emails, check a few things for YLCF and its email account, relieved to see that nothing on any front needs urgent attention.

A friend is stopping by at 8:30am so we can load up our strollers and go walking through our hill-filled neighborhood, so I hurry upstairs to get myself and the boys dressed and ready. The next few minutes are a flurry of activity as we do the usual morning things–making beds, brushing teeth, putting a load of diapers in the washer to soak, filling water bottles, tying shoe laces. At promptly 8:30, my friends knocks on the door. My two boys and her one (only a few days older than Merritt) are all abundantly, exuberantly, ridiculously excited to see each other. We can barely get them in the strollers. We settle on putting Merritt and his little friend in my double jogger and Troy in the single jogger, which seems to work well until Merritt decides that something–who knows what–is not exactly to his liking and cries in the stroller for five minutes. Troy won’t stop talking to my friend, trying to make her laugh. He succeeded, but probably not in the way he’d hoped. Again, such is life.

We chat as we push our strollers and our heart rates higher, pumping our way up and down sidewalk and pavement, moving out of the way of the dog-walkers, landscapers and other moms.

It’s already 10:45am by the time we make it home, being we stopped for a while at a nearby park. The boys need exercise too! Or maybe we just need tired boys?

The single jogger is moving from our house to my friend’s house, being that we won’t have use for it for a good many years, if ever, so she and I load it up in her vehicle and say goodbye. The boys have been inside getting more water; the day turned out to be much hotter than we expected, even for SoCal.

Midday catch up time: put the diapers on the spin cycle, check emails and such again, and start lunch. I make the boys sandwiches using leftover pork chop meat and cut up some pears and carrots. I make myself a salad, intending to eat it… but never quite getting that far. The boys are done eating before I take a bite, so I grab a cloth to wipe hands and faces. We didn’t get to read our “lunchtime book,” so we pile onto the couch to read a paragraph of the long, not-so-many-pictures book, followed up with a few other favorites: I Love You Through and Through and Trusty.

It’s Merritt’s nap time, so with a hug and a kiss and a Pooh Bear and a blankie, he’s out like a light in his room. I’m glad, being he’s been having a hard time falling asleep lately and has been known to whimper in his bed for a little while. Troy has been downstairs pulling out a stack, and I mean a STACK of books to read on the living room floor. It’s a tower a mile high. He peruses two, and then promptly decides playing with cars looks like more fun.

I finally sit down to eat that salad and sip another large glass of water. I suffer from some severe migraines that seem to be triggered by even the slightest exercise, raised heart rate or heat. I love and believe in exercise too much to stop, but sometimes drinking excessive amounts of water keeps them at bay. This one is in its beginning stages and I’d prefer not to spend the rest of my day in a dark room!

Troy and I like to take a day or two a week and work through some fun little workbooks we found at a dollar store recently. Today we spend about half an hour counting, tracing numbers, discussing colors, learning letter sounds. He isn’t too certain about the lower case letters, being that, as he put it, “I really just like the medium letters, because small letters are just too littleish.”

After “school time” and cleaning up those 187,643 books, he grabs his “baby doggie” and lays down on our bed, the place for his naps. After five minutes, his head is again peeking through the stair rail, telling me he forgot to go potty. That accomplished, he’s back in bed, while I spend some time crossing items off my to-do list for the day. Phone calls, more emails, working on a YLCF post, planning a toddler field trip with friends, wrapping up a blog post of my own.

John calls at 2:00pm and says he’s on his way home. Fridays are usually an early-to-home day for him, being he has an Officer in the Marine Corps who sees it as a way to make life a little easier on the guys when they’re not deployed. The guys are separated from their families enough already, so why not give them a couple extra hours? Yes, fellow military wives, our family is a bit spoiled.

After about an hour of rest, it doesn’t appear Troy is going to nap. We’re in a transition phase with him–I don’t think we’re going to get many more nap times. John arrives at the door just as Troy is coming down the stairs, so Troy holds it open for him and I greet my beloved with a kiss.

We fill the rest of Merritt’s nap time with various sundries… checking the mail, discovering that my wedding ring has returned from the jeweler’s where it had to be repaired (happy day!) and the new license plates for John’s collector’s car have arrived. John gets cleaned up from his ride, reads Troy a book, watches as the little man shows off his newest letter writing skills.

I hear Merritt stirring around 3:30pm, as I’m running the mop over the last few pieces of tile on our floor. He’s energetic and ready to move, so all three of my boys head out into the backyard for a while, which gives me the opportunity to get the diapers rinsed and ready to dry before we begin on the next installment of our current big project of getting that classic car drivable again.

It’s a baby blue 1968 AMC Javelin, and holds a special place in both of our hearts. I’m not sure who loves this car more–John or me. It’s given us more than enough trouble in the six years since John and I have known each other, but it’s been a fixture throughout, and we love it. I have even been known to plant a kiss right on the end of it’s shiny blue hood. Yes, I have.

Once the house is in good condition for the craziness that awaits us in the weekend, all four of us head into the garage, open the big door and set to work on our little beauty. Today’s piece to tackle is the inside, so I hop in the back seat armed with several big cloths, glass cleaner and a bottle of shine spray. John is working on some paint “issues” on the driver’s side door and the boys pretend to drive.

Then the phone rings, and I answer it. (Enter Problem #1.) It is someone calling about an upcoming event. Discussing said event causes me to open my day planner and try to figure out how exactly said event is going to actually… happen. (Enter Problem #2.) I hang up the phone, glance through the next three months of plans and begin to have a mild panic attack.

Okay, not really, but pretty close. Enough that when I walk back into the garage and proceed to tell John about all the overlapping things “supposed to be” going on in the coming weeks, he stops fixing the paint, sits me down, and looks through my day planner with me. He tells me to breeeaaaaathe. I do. And I’m better.

So engrossed are we in this life planning and calming of the nerves, we don’t even realize it is getting later until Merritt comes over, patting my leg and asking, “Ee-eat, Mommy? Please, ee-eat?” Oh, yes, dinner. For my family. Might be a helpful thing.

And here, my dear friends, is where I get really, really honest. This is the point at which I nearly scratch the whole idea of the day-in-my-life post. At least on this Friday. Because the honest to goodness truth is that usually, on Fridays, we find something that needs doing while John’s home for an extra afternoon. Usually, we’re wrapped up in that something and plan to simply go get tacos for dinner from a local Mexican restaurant. But. BUT. This was the day I’m going to be writing about for YLCF, and frankly, I don’t want to admit that we eat tacos and/or burritos on Fridays. Tacos that are, in fact, prepared in an establishment that may or may not be employing any sort of “healthy” philosophy. So I had planned to make sweet and sour chicken instead. Only, when I looked at the recipe in the morning, it said the chicken needed to marinate 12-24 hours, rather than the 4-6 hours I’d thought it said. That option gone, I decided I’d make a different chicken dish. But now it was 5:30pm on Friday night and my family was wondering why we weren’t just getting tacos, as per normal.

So we do.

We eat tacos for dinner. Well, John and I do. The boys have burritos.

I’m a big fan of Being Real.

After the Great Taco Pride Fiasco, we go back out to put the finishing touches on the car for the night. We have done most of the inside, and now it just needs washing. A good washing. While Troy sprayed the sides of the car with garden hose, a few little neighbor children gather in our yard and driveaway, all eager to either grab a sudsy, soapy sponge and do some washing, or else begging to be catch some of the water spray. They all laugh and hop and dance through the falling droplets.

It’s getting late… almost 8:30… before we finish up outside. The boys are filthy from playing in the water and running in our culdesac barefoot. We say goodbye to the little neighbors and whisk the boys upstairs for a very quick bath before devotion time downstairs. We read a few favorites from Eloise Wilkin’s Poem book and John helps the boys through their memory verses.

More kisses. More hugs. Footie jammies. Stuffed animals. Tucking in blankets and sheets.

It’s 9:30… crazy late for the boys who usually are in bed two hours earlier. But they aren’t the only ones who are tired. John and I don our own sleepwear and climb into bed, weary from a long day. We snuggle close, each reading our own book–his, a Lamplighter, mine, Lasting Love–for about an hour, until our eyes are too heavy to continue.

And then…

we fall…

asleep.

The rest of the week…

• Monday at the Farm in the City by Lanier
• Tuesday in the Writing Life by Elisabeth
• Wednesday in North Idaho by Chantel
• Thursday at the Little Pink House by Gretchen (with series introduction)
• Saturday at Castleberry Farms by Jeannie
• A Peek Into Your Day by YOU – Wednesday, October 28, right here at YLCF! Plan to be there!

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

7 am: The radio alarm clock goes off in the girls’ bedroom. I share a room with my sisters and can’t imagine it any other way, but mornings are a little funny. For some reason, none of us speak to each other as we get up and prepare for the day. Silence reigns until we get downstairs, and if anyone happens to say something, she is met with incredulous looks. One would think we had taken a vow of silence.

But I digress. We love our radio alarm because we wake up to something different each morning. Today was “Motions” by Matthew West, and the words keep going through my head as I go downstairs to read my Bible:

“I don’t want to go through the motions
I don’t want to go one more day
Without Your all-consuming
Passion inside of me…”

It’s a good song to have in your mind. I’m reading through the New Testament right now, and today’s chapter is I Corinthians 8. While it can be a challenge to be awake enough to really grasp what I’m reading, I’ve found that unless I make my Bible reading the first thing I do in the morning, I tend to forget to read at all. The day just gets busy so fast. I treasure this time in God’s word as the day begins.

We generally do our barn chores before breakfast. Today Betsy and I are on milking duty while Katie prepares scrambled eggs, homemade sausage, and hot chocolate for breakfast. I love going to the barn in the morning and working with the animals — I’m such a country girl! Sunshine, our lovely Jersey cow, is giving lots of milk this year (5-6 gallons per day), so we’ve been making a lot of cheese and butter. The boys take care of the meat chickens, beef cattle,  and laying hens. When the chores are done we gather for breakfast with good appetites.

Summer means church league softball around here, and this particular Saturday is the end of softball season: tournaments! Since it’s threatening rain, only the older boys head into town (30 minutes away) for the 9:00 game.  We girls stay home and pick second-crop peas. The garden has been a real challenge this summer — it’s been both cool and dry, so our yields are definitely lower than usual. We’re thankful for whatever we get, though. The guys call while we’re shelling peas. The opposing team didn’t show up, so we won by default. Next game will be at 1:30, so they are coming home for lunch.

Since we knew we’d be attending the tournaments today, we did our house cleaning yesterday. We divide the work into three main jobs — bathrooms, dusting, and floors (we love a dry Swiffer® for the hardwood floors!), then each girl takes one job. I must confess I don’t much care for the bathroom cleaning job, but it’s something that can be done to the glory of God if I have the right attitude.

So, with the housecleaning out of the way, the peas done, and a little extra time before lunch, what would most busy farm girls do? Get a little high-speed exercise! Okay, maybe not most.  But this summer my sisters and I have been running about three times a week. We aren’t marathoners, and we only run about 2.5 to 3 miles (usually around the hayfield — told you we are farm girls!), but we’ve really enjoyed it. We run at the same time, but often in different directions or on different trails, and we listen to music as we run. It is a real worship time for me. My favorite running music is Third Day’s Wherever You Are CD. It’s full of upbeat and energetic songs, which is important for keeping me motivated while running!

After running (and showers), we join the family for lunch. We typically have leftovers or sandwiches at our noon meal. Today we’re hurried, trying to finish the dishes and noon barn chores before it’s time to head to the tournaments.  There’s a special surprise for the softball team that we made last night — a cake in the team colors that says “Lakeside Softball: Great Year!” It has been a good year, fun to watch and fun for the guys who went into the tournaments at the top of our division.

We don’t do as well in the tournaments as in the rest of the season, unfortunately, but it’s still fun to watch our friends, neighbors, and brothers play. The wind picks up, blowing in some pretty dark clouds and occasional rain shower. Good thing we brought umbrellas! We win one game and lose two, ending our season on a bit of a sad note, but thankfully we serve the cake right after the winning game.

Dad brings pizza for us and the other fans (this is definitely not typical, but just as definitely appreciated!), so that takes care of supper.  It’s time to head home and do the barn chores one more time. Sunshine the cow is waiting to be milked, the chickens need to be secured in the safe barn for the night (yes, there are many predators who would like nothing better than a tasty chicken dinner!), and the cows are nearly out of water.

Regardless of the busyness of the day, we always end it the same way: the whole family gathers in the living room and together we read a chapter of Scripture aloud. We practice a few memory verses. We share prayer requests. And then we “come boldly unto the throne of grace” and let our “requests be made known unto God.”

And that…is one Saturday at Castleberry Farms. Come join us sometime!

The rest of the week…

• Monday at the Farm in the City by Lanier
• Tuesday in the Writing Life by Elisabeth
• Wednesday in North Idaho by Chantel
• Thursday at the Little Pink House by Gretchen (with series introduction)
• Friday in Sunny Southern California by Ashleigh
• A Peek into Your Day by YLCF Readers

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

“Summer’s loss seems little, dear, on days like these.”
-Ernest Dowson

“It snowed on the hills around us last night.”  The phrase from one of the letters Merritt wrote me during our years of friendship always comes to mind this time of year.  As in his letter (a particular favorite, which I carried around in my Bible), it snowed on the hills around us last night.  And this is the third autumn that these hills have been our hills, around us. The sight out my windows, with snow-frosted trees topping the gentle hills, is breathtaking—and it is home.

We’ve had our first few fires in the wood stove, our first winter squash.  I’m thinking about apple pies and being able to cook pots of beans and soup on the wood stove.  I’m looking forward to long candle-lit evenings reading with my husband and our girls.  And when I glance out my kitchen window, I see the red maple we bought and planted during our first few months of marriage.  The leaves have turned a deep red, signaling that yes, indeed, autumn has arrived.

“Here Comes Autumn!  A whiff of wood smoke on the wind, the first chill in the air, the woods just edged in gold, and without looking at the calendar, we know we’ve turned the page and it is September.  Time to put the ‘sweet’ in ‘Home Sweet Home.’”
-Susan Stewart Branch

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

After several months in Israel this spring, I’m back in the US for the time being, where I’m enjoying my time with family and friends. I’m also writing more regularly than I ever have before. What does it look like to be a freelance writer? Since it’s all new to me, I’m just as curious about it as you are…

So far, a writerly life is very unpredictable. Last week, I had major writer’s block, but I got a lot done around the house. This week, I’m writing a lot, and my house, well, it just has to get by. (Thankfully, I’m living with several very accommodating siblings).

It’s Tuesday, July 21st.  I tend to wake up anxious when I have a lot to do, and today is no exception. So I spend a few minutes talking God about it, before making  myself a bowl of oatmeal and sitting down with my Bible.  I’m using a chronological reading plan this year, and it’s fascinating to see the books of Kings and Chronicles woven in with Isaiah, the minor prophets, and even the Psalms. It also gives me a better feel for the flow of Biblical history.

Today I find a verse that’s perfect for me, and sister #1, who is about to begin three weeks of teaching English in Korea:

Thou whom I have taken hold of from the ends of the earth, and called from the corners thereof and said unto thee, “Thou art my servant, I have chosen thee, and not cast thee away;” fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God; I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.

Sometimes I jump start my work day with house-cleaning or free-writing for a few minutes, but today I don’t have to make up my mind. Seeing that my article has just been published on Boundless, I hop over to my blog and put the finishing touches on a companion post.

Then I have a few minutes to write a note to my sister in Korea before it’s time for Tuesday morning prayer meeting. This is a bit of a luxury for a working girl, but it’s right next door, so how can I resist? After an already busy morning, it’s especially hard for me to concentrate, but I’m glad to be praying for the young adults in our community, and for the American soldier who has been kidnapped in Afghanistan. It’s more challenging to trust God over the issue of taxpayer-funded abortions, but even though we don’t know when, or how He will act, “We will not fear, for God has willed His truth to triumph…”

Soon, I’m back at my computer with a cup of tea, updating the courtship stories page here at YLCF. With the details already saved in a draft, it’s usually a quick job, but this time the layout is a bit more complex. I know just enough HTML to be dangerous, but somehow I muddle through, and at last all the centered paragraphs obey my commands and line up to the left like good soldiers.

Meanwhile, the rain has kept sister #2 home from her gardening job, and she’s gotten inspired to make soup for lunch. I’m in and out of the kitchen, brainstorming a hypothetical future Passover meal with her, updating the YLCF RSS feed and Twitter account, and helping a friend in Israel with her homework assignment.

I take a moment to run out to the garden and pick fresh oregano and rosemary for the soup, and even the flourishing weeds can’t dampen my enjoyment of misty rain and luxuriant green. I guess a corner of me is still used to dry, barren Israeli summers.

I’m not so delighted with technology. When it comes to sending off a business fax, it takes me more than an hour to hunt down a printer that works, and wrestle the fax machine into submission.

But lunch, which comes in the middle of all this,  is lovely: hearty vegetable soup with squash, spinach, green and white beans, and a creamy broth that’s been thickened with…pureed toast, amazingly enough. I’m liking my sister’s Test Kitchen cookbook more and more.  (Its challah bread recipe is another favorite, and the scones I found in the companion international cookbook helped relieve the craving brought on by reading a couple of D.E. Stevenson’s relaxing British novels).

After lunch, I write an email to a fellow writer whom a friend has just introduced to me. I’m looking forward to swapping ideas and experiences with her. I also hunt up the email addresses of several friends whom I’d like to interview for an upcoming article, and chat a little with my mom.

By now, sister #4 has arrived home from work, and she invites me to go shopping with her and sister #3. I feel like I’m on a roll with writing, but don’t want to miss their company, so I hop in the car with my laptop in tow. It stays in hibernation while we chatter up a storm, and stop at a consignment store. Then, while my sisters do the grocery shopping (yes, I am spoiled), I sit in the car and work. I had a new article idea the other night while I was supposed to be going to sleep, and I want to run it by my editor. I compose a note to him, and draft a message to my potential interviewees. Often I think most clearly about an article when I’m explaining it to other folks this way, and I’ll even refer back to my original email while I’m writing it.

Then I open up my current article, and thank the Lord, the creative juices begin to flow!  I have learned to be as grateful for writing progress as I am for rain in Israel, since neither comes by accident, but in answer to heartfelt prayer.

We sisters return home to discover that our younger brother has brought jalapeno poppers for our evening meal. Along with this unorthodox but welcome addition, my youngest sister fixes leftover beans and a fresh salad, and we sit down together for a late dinner. Now there are four of us around the table!

We clean up together, and then they decide to watch a DVD. I’ve seen it before, and I’ve already spent a while reading some favorite blogs, so I begin writing this post.

After about an hour, I’m still going strong, but it’s now well after 9:00, and I need to begin winding down, or I’ll have trouble sleeping tonight. I head downstairs to my grandma’s apartment, where we play a couple games of Skipbo. My grandma is one of the spunkiest people I know, and she’s also one of my best friends.

By the time we’re done, I’m very sleepy indeed. Feeling so grateful for God’s help today, I fall asleep to the music of a thunderstorm.

The rest of the week…

• Monday at the Farm in the City by Lanier
• Wednesday in North Idaho by Chantel
• Thursday at the Little Pink House by Gretchen (with series introduction)
• Friday in Sunny Southern California by Ashleigh
• Saturday at Castleberry Farms by Jeannie
• A Peek into Your Day by YLCF Readers

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

I just love Mondays. Call me crazy, but I really do. There is just something about the sense of order that it brings, the reigning in after the comparative slackness of the weekend, that motivates me afresh every week. I like to bring my house back into order, and with it, myself, reorienting around my priorities within the blessed boundaries of routine. Ever since I have been married I have structured my weeks loosely around a basic schedule: laundry and finances on Monday, shopping on Tuesday, baking and ironing on Wednesday, social commitments and projects on Thursday and cleaning on Friday. And after ten years, these basic parameters are so ingrained I don’t even have to think about them. It’s like my mother told me once, you need a routine so that you’ll have something to be flexible from! And while I’ve seen these words proven true over and over again, no matter how crazy a particular season or week or day might be, I always have my little schedule to welcome me back to sanity when things settle down.

This Monday was just a good, normal, at home day. It seems that over the past month or so I’ve either been traveling (good!) or sick (bad!) so a quiet day of washing and folding and sorting and filing has been even more of a joy than it usually is. Today started just as every other one does, Monday or not, with a cup of tea brought to me in bed by my obliging husband, who has learned after ten years that I can sleep right through an alarm and only begin to assume a semi-conscious state after a draught or two of The Stimulant has passed my lips. I have my devotions upstairs with another cuppa, and am inclined to linger until I hear Philip close his closet door downstairs, signaling the next stage of the morning routine: the barn.

This morning was cool and sweet—almost like fall—and the dogs were so happy about it and the impending breakfast that our appearance heralded that they pranced and capered alongside me from the gate to the very door of the feed room. While they were eating, Philip did the mucking and I employed myself with the all-important task of petting the sheep and giving them each little scratches and rubs in the places they like best—behind the ears and on the tops of their heads. Everyone seemed more interested in that than in going out to pasture—as is the case many mornings, we walked out with them into the tall, dew-wet grass, with the accompanying attendants of little black cats and big white dogs. Only, Puck and Pansy, my utterly spoiled Nubian goats, trailed back to the barn with us after we left the sheep in the pasture, and stood at the fence wailing in protest when we left them in the barnyard to go back up to the house for our own breakfast.

Seven cats, another dog, a fish and two hives of honeybees later, it was time to feed my husband and get him out the door to his morning meeting. The only problem with his nourishing breakfast of hot oatmeal and fresh blueberries was that he had to take it in a mug to eat in the car, as he spent his actual breakfast time fiddling with the html in my YLCF post of the day. But I made his lunch in the meantime—a turkey sandwich on fresh homemade bread—and took the chicken out of the freezer for supper, thinking all the while of what one of my newly-married friends had said to me once upon a time: “When I get up in the morning, my first thought is, ‘What are we going to have for breakfast?’ And my second thought is, ‘What am I going to fix my husband for lunch?’ And my third thought is, ‘What am I going to cook for supper?’” I related with a happy little inward laugh this morning.

As soon as Philip was off I fell to my Monday chores. I got the laundry going, watered the plants, cleaned out the fridge, and sat down to plan my meals for the week since I’ll be shopping tomorrow. After that I spent some time at the computer, paying bills, answering emails, checking up on the budget. I rewarded myself for all my diligence (I may love Mondays but I hate paying bills!) with a turkey sandwich of my own (perhaps mildly precipitated by a reminder call from my husband to actually, you know, eat lunch). One chapter in my book over said sandwich, and then one of my indispensable little cat naps, without which I’d not make it through the day, with my faithful calico companion, Josephine, curled up at my feet.

The afternoon was one of those in which the phone literally rings off the hook. I forced myself to actually sit down in a rocking chair on the front porch to enjoy both the surprisingly lovely eighty-degree weather and a couple of conversations with beloved friends, rather than stomping around the house ‘being productive’ as I am usually tempted to do under similar circumstances. I had a wonderful talk with precious Gretchen, who, I am happy to report, confessed herself to be in the hammock in the yard with her feet up like any good pregnant lady should be.

When I got off the phone with her, I realized that my husband should be making his appearance soon, as yet another quick call confirmed. So I made a dash to fold up the remaining laundry waiting in the big French market basket I use, and to make up the bed with sheets fresh from the dryer, warm and soft. That done, I started dinner—I am unabashedly old-fashioned, but I really do love it when the aromas of whatever’s cooking waft out to greet Philip as he comes up the front walk of an evening (ideally not the smell of burned things spilling over onto the element! ). Tonight I stuffed a chicken with onions, tucking some fragrant garlic cloves under the skin and topping it off with a lovely bouquet garni of fresh herbs from the garden: rosemary, savory, purple sage and thyme. Philip’s favorite mashed potatoes, made with little red new potatoes still in their skins and sliced fine, later blended with a little butter and milk and plain yogurt with a dash of rosemary for good measure, and a simmering pot of butter beans completed the meal.

It did smell quite temptingly when he got home, but as it was a little later than usual we decided to go ahead and put all the barn babies to bed before eating ourselves. The reverse of the morning, tucking everyone into their stalls at night, all safely gathered in and secure, is truly one of my favorite parts of the day. Tonight Puck and Pansy saw me coming from far across the terraced pasture, and with a whimper and a neigh they came running, bringing their sheep siblings with them. When I entered the barnyard there was a regular small stampede—goats, sheep and dogs all vying for my attention and literally knocking me over in the effort. Philip found me seated on the ground with a loving host all around me: licking my face, tugging at my hair with strong little teeth, poking long Nubian noses inquisitively into mine. I managed to disentangle myself and we performed the evening routine: shooing the last chickens back into their run and shutting the door for the night, searching for renegade eggs in the barn, laying out fresh straw for the babies and mixing grain. Puck and Pansy always stand expectantly on the step of the feed room, licking their lips and nibbling imaginary savories at the very idea of the coming grain, while the sheep hold back politely, knowing their turn will come next.

Once the animals were fed and mineral trays restocked and water buckets changed out—and stall doors bolted against the occasional breakout which can become a real free-for-all—we fed the dogs and played with them for a while. I think it’s their favorite time of the day, as well. Diana always looks so sad when we finally leave her at the gate for the night, but Juno has usually already assumed her post of regal watch, enormous white paws folded, noble head erect, ears pricked to the slightest sound. We chased our Aussie Caspian back across the yard up to the house in the bat light, and came in to a kitchen cozy with the welcoming scents of our dinner.

We always enjoy a good recap of the other’s day over supper, and Philip invariably gets a play-by-play of who I’ve talked to and what I’ve done and what I’ve been thinking as I’ve gone about my home duties. (He already knew I’d talked to Gretchen for he’d heard her voice on the answering machine!) I love these dinner talks, this acquainting of one another with the hours we’ve spent apart, and the long, rambling trails of ideas that usually stem from them. And afterwards the last cleaning of the day—the very smell of the rose countertop spray that I use makes me think somnolent thoughts—and the last polishing of the kitchen to greet me with a cheerful aspect in the morning. I really am a nut about leaving a clean kitchen behind me when I go to bed. I think it probably stems from the days when we were remodeling and I switched on the light in the mornings for eight months to bare sub-flooring and makeshift plywood countertops! I almost want to blow a kiss at my kitchen now, I love it so much, and it’s been nine years since the great overhaul!

Just a simple, homely day, nothing spectacular or particularly interesting, beyond the kitten my friend Ashley found in a potted plant in her backyard or the excitement of wrapping up a few last details of our upcoming trip to England or a package from L.L. Bean in the mail! But that was the beauty of it—just an ordinary day. As I was wiping the counters after supper and putting the last things away, I reflected that this was just the very kind of day that I used to imagine as a girl when I dreamed about my future. The life of wife and homemaker is very dear to me, and I consider it an honor and a joy to create a home that Philip wants to come back to at night. Not all Mondays are as simple and straightforward as this; candidly, most aren’t. But the ones that are serve to remind me with a quiet joy why I love what I have chosen to do with my life, and why I’d not change my place with that of a queen.

photography copyright Griffin Gibson 2009

The rest of the week…

• Tuesday in the Writing Life by Elisabeth
• Wednesday in North Idaho by Chantel
• Thursday at the Little Pink House by Gretchen (with series introduction)
• Friday in Sunny Southern California by Ashleigh
• Saturday at Castleberry Farms by Jeannie
• A Peek into Your Day by YLCF Readers

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

These past two years have been full of ‘firsts’ for me when it comes to gardens and orchards. Two years ago, passing by the Acheson’s farm which we have all come to know, thanks to Gretchen’s glimpses into life as a Farmer’s wife, I satisfied one little wish- to walk through a corn field. The corn was just as I expected, taller than me, and I do think one could get lost in a corn field, if they really wanted to.

Last year I saw, picked and ate a peach from a tree for the first time. And this was my first time in an orchard of any size, first time to pick a large quantity of fruit, first time to see cherries ripe on a tree. This Alaskan raised girl found what most people who have grown up picking and processing fruit until they have it coming out their ears find to be tedious and mundane, to be quite the thrill. And tree ripened cherries? They’re the best!

I think I could have spent a good long time just wandering through the orchard, taking pictures and admiring the beautiful way the trees are covered with fruit, and the fruit is shaded so well with the leaves, and just soaking it up. But the sun was only getting hotter, and we had a long drive ahead of us and apricots still to pick up in a totally different direction, so instead, we located some ladders (and learned not to turn our backs on them for an instant, or they’d “grow legs” and walk away!) and set to work.

We picked and we ate, and the hours past quite quickly- more quickly than our boxes filled,  though the trees were so loaded that I could stand in one place and fill the whole box up with out hardly moving! The day was complete with a few cherry bombings from above, while I worked on the lower branches, courtesy of my brother in law, Jared, and my mischievous husband. Oh, I can’t say that I didn’t join in a few skirmishes myself, for that matter, though, of course, I only tossed the bad ones back up.

But, in spite of hot sunshine and distractions here and there, at last the boxes did get filled, as did our tummies. And yes, we did pick more than we ate, for our boxes weighed in at just over 108 lbs, making our weight guessing as we picked just about right on. (You’d think Scott had experience in cherry picking, or something…)

The cherries weren’t all for us, or I do think we’d have cherries coming out of our ears two years from now, with just the two of us to consume them. 30 pounds went to another brother and sister in law and are headed to Montana today for more family up there. Some we gave away, some we sold to others who couldn’t go cherry picking, and this morning there were somewhere around 40 pounds in two boxes sitting on the counter waiting for my attention. Of course, I would forget to buy sugar and jar flats yesterday for canning, but in spite of only having the slowest kind of cherry pitter that is made (according to Scott, anyway), I am making progress and have managed to put quite a few quart bags in our little freezer. Space has become an issue, and I’m going to try to can a few quarts with the sugar and flats I do have, and tomorrow, my other sister in law, Alina, who came cherry picking with us, and I are having a joint canning effort, and will hopefully finish all of her cherries and mine, and perhaps, too, get some apricots done up.
I think a part of the fun of picking fruit and growing gardens is the amazing satisfaction it brings when you see your little stash for winter growing. Perhaps it is something built into us ladies that makes the hard work all worth it, but even if I can go down to Walmart and buy already canned goods, I still can’t think of much more enjoyable than doing it myself, or doing it with someone else who loves it as much as I do. In the mean time, we’re enjoying all the cherries we can eat, and thanking God that America still has some fruited plains from which we can harvest, and grow, and gather lessons and glimpses not only of His love, but be reminded of His promise that seed time and harvest will always be- no matter.

It’s another month or so until peaches are on in full swing, and I probably won’t get a chance to pick them, but I’m already looking forward to bringing home a few boxes, and stashing up on what, by then, will be my current favorite fruit of the season, just like the cherries and apricots are top on my list right now.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

I love Summer. It promises happy times–barefoot days, watermelon feasts and picnics, and it is the season to stock up on Fresh, for winter is coming.

One of my favorite things about summer, besides the clothesline, watermelon, sandals and picnics, is going to Farmer’s Markets. Twice, now, I’ve had the thrill of catching a glimpse of a small sign that told the time and gathering place for one of the most amazing opportunities of the season–the chance to support and to encourage the art of Farming.

Really, Farms and Farmer’s Markets had intrigued me from the time I was a child, and to see those wistful vision of  a tent-like village of stands and stands of a myriad of beautiful things made me giddy and feel as excited as a little girl again.

I love the produce stands. The colors and variety of fresh produce is tantalizing, from the freshly picked corn, to the bunches of basil, baskets of tomatoes and new potatoes and the Rocky Ford melons  and Palisade Peaches of Colorado. It really is a  paradise of color, texture and flavor, and I love to wander through the aisles, cloth bags in hand, and collect the week’s produce, fresh from the farm.

More often than not, you can get the best produce for prices you’d never find in the stores. And I can pretty much guarantee that it tastes so much better, that even if it wasn’t cheaper, it’s fresher, it is better for you–it would still be worth every penny.

Buying locally isn’t just about the fresh and the environment–it keeps the family farms going, and enables those who have the talent and ability to pass on to another generation the legacy of growing and sharing.

I can’t have a farm of my own right now, and I may not have the ability to make a difference in large ways, but I count it my little part–to support a cause I wholeheartedly believe is worth more of our attention.

America was a farming country, and it kept us strong. The hard work didn’t kill anyone. I rather think it saved more than one young person from evil that comes with idle hands and too much ease. We’re starting to lose that vision, and with more and more of our food being brought in from other countries, with sprays and poisons being more and more questionable, it’s time to go back to our roots, to growing our own food, and buying our own products once again. And it’s something I’m thrilled to have my chance to be a part of.

Of course, there’s a whole lot more than just farm products, and I have to say–that Pecan Brittle that the Woodland Park Colorado Farmer’s Market sold last summer was really one of the best sweet treats I’ve had, and that fresh baked European bread with pasta couldn’t be beat.

Not all of us are blessed with Farmer’s Markets, and not every Farmer’s Market has very much to offer. I wonder, though, if more of us didn’t make it a point to support and be a part of Farmer’s Markets across the country, if that wouldn’t change. And just maybe, if you look around, you’ll find your own little paradise in the  your town!

Check your local newspaper, ask around town, take a look at Local Harvest, an excellent farmer’s market resource, and see if there happens to be a u-pick farm or local market near you. And then, go and enjoy it. Remember, it’s first come, first get. Supplies are limited to what the Farmer brought in his truck and those who arrive early get the pick of the crop, so best to get there before the sun gets hot.

You might even want to take that “In Season Only” challenge, and create a seasonal menu using only ingredients found on your trip to the market. You could even take it a step further, and also choose only what’s produced within 100 miles of your front door, but that’s a challenge not to take lightly if you live in the Colorado Rockies, at least.

And if you’ve never really explored the world of freshly grown produce, and have pretty much stuck to the what’s familiar, take a little step out of comfort zone and try something new if you can find it, and if you don’t know what to do with it, ask the Farmers! They may be able to give you a few tips and you may discover you’ve got a new favorite. That’s how I discovered that I should have been a melon farmer.

So, this summer, you’ll find me at my local Farmer’s Market, reveling in the beauty of fresh, beautiful fruits and veggies, stocking up on local produce–and trying not to find any more peanut brittle–thanking God that we still can buy locally grown, locally made. It’s the best way.

Photo of Craig Harding, Summer 2003, after a stop to our very first “real” roadside produce stand on the edge of a farm in North Carolina. That first farm fresh watermelon and the cantelopes and onions we bought didn’t last long at all.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

Author’s note: This was written during the very height of a difficult situation in my life – it came from the center of a storm, you might say.  A tiny beam of light, breaking through the heavy, threatening clouds.

Spring — after teasing us with slightly scented breezes and almost-warm days — has arrived at last, in a dramatic sweep of color.  One day the trees were scraggly, brown and dead, the next day a splatter of brilliant green bathed the earth.  Every spring leaves me breathless with wonder and marvel as if I had never seen the miracle of it happen before.  Who doesn’t feel dizzy with joy when new life is bursting all around them?

But this year spring looks different.  It seems somehow disconnected from the pain I am feeling right now.  Never in my life has the world seemed so bleak, confusing and hopeless.  Surrounded by problems I can’t understand, wounded, and out-of-control, I am asking that eternal question, “WHY?!”  It doesn’t make sense!  How can the aching beauty and vivid joy I see all around me have any place in this time of my life?  The barrenness of winter seems more realistic.

And that’s when I realized the message of spring, the words that whisper in every budding tree: “Hang in there.  Through the pain, the cold, the bitterness of winter, hang in there.  The results are beautiful.”  Yes!  After night comes the dawn!  Death is a prelude to life!  When winter snows finally melt away spring spreads its banner of victory.  The hands of a loving Creator made it this way from the beginning of time.  The leaves that fall from the trees in autumn and rot into the ground furnish the fuel for new life in the spring.  Jesus, for the joy that was set before Him, endured the cross.  Joy was the ultimate end.

I do not like this ‘stripping away’, this barrenness of my soul.  But spring reminds me poignantly that it will not always be this way.  If I submit myself to the sovereign guiding of my King, this present death will nourish a more perfect and beautiful life than I can even imagine right now!  His love makes no mistakes.  The path that He has led me to surely has an expected end, and He in His infinite wisdom knows that I need every shudder of this pain to reach the beautiful results He has in mind.

“The Lord hath appeared of old unto me, saying, Yea, I have loved thee with an everlasting love: therefore with lovingkindness have I drawn thee” (Jeremiah 31:3).  How can I argue with that?  How can I ask ‘why?’ in the face of a Love that is written across the ages, a Love that will use whatever path it takes to draw me to Itself and enfold me in It’s warmth? And how did I manage to forget that awesome love for a single minute?!

People speak of spring as the beginning of the life cycle.  Life begins like springtime, reaches its summer-time peak and declines into the dead of winter.  But I think maybe springtime is the end, too, not just the beginning!  Hang in there!  The end is on the way.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

I saw God wash the world last night
with His sweet showers on high,
and then, when morning came, I saw
Him hang it out to dry.

He washed each tiny blade of grass
and every trembling tree;
He flung His showers against the hill,
and swept the billowing sea.

The white rose is a cleaner white,
the red rose is more red,
since God washed every fragrant face
and put them all to bed.

There’s not a bird, there’s not a bee
that wings along the way
but is a cleaner bird and bee
than it was yesterday.

William L. Stidger
1885-1949

God washed my world last night. The rain drops were falling fast and the last rays of the sun lit them up against the darkened sky and the dark clouds looked even darker, but there was sunshine on the wet grass, sunshine on the birch trees, sunshine on my face, and sunshine turned those cold, gray water drops into drops of golden glory. Somewhere, not so very far away, there was a rainbow.

It was a moment that a camera could not truly capture, but I captured it in my heart. I went to bed with the rain dripping from the roof, and this morning there are tiny drops of water everywhere, just waiting to reflect the light of the morning sun and carry, each one, a picture of the new, fresh world, in their heart.

Today, the sun will shine again. Then all the golden dandelions will lift up their little faces to the sun, all the drops of water will glitter, and it will be beautiful- more beautiful than it was before.

Just like life, God uses “rain storms” to wash away the things in our hearts that shouldn’t be, and when the sun shines again, the heart songs are more joyful, the flowers of the heart- the ones God planted there, are even brighter there than they were if they had never known the rain, for if we know no rain, we cannot appreciate the sunshine, nor understand God’s love and care for us- in sunshine, and even more so in the rain.

If you find yourself walking today in the rain, remember that even in the rain, there is a rainbow. Embrace the rain, and know that tomorrow, the sun will shine again.

Photo by Chantel- “My World View” Spring 2009

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

by Gretchen Acheson

Chick Day.  Our local feed store has three “Chick Days” each spring.  Everyone from moderate-scale chicken farmers to backyard poultry keepers place their orders weeks in advance.  The hatcheries make sure to have just the right number of eggs ready to hatch out the day before chick day.  And when the little fluffy guys and gals show their pretty little heads outside the eggs, they are boxed up and mailed overnight to our feed store.  The nutrition that was in their egg yolk keeps their tummies from growling until the time we pick them up, take them home, dip their beaks in water, and give them all the food they will eat.  It’s a pretty amazing process.  But we have a pretty amazing Creator Who designed the baby chicks!

This year we had the feed store save us eighteen Barred Rock Pullets (pullets are hens-or female chicks).  Last year we bought mostly Red Sexlink Pullets (”sexlink” means they are bred so that the boys are one color, the girls another, for easy gender identification of baby chicks).  We plan to cycle through our favorite breeds every few years, buying a different breed each year, so we know which birds are older and need to be culled out without having to band them (put a “bracelet” on one of their legs) or guess at their age.

But we never can stick with just one breed.  Our customers like green eggs, so we bought four Araucana Pullets this year (our Ameraucanas didn’t winter too well, so we thought we’d try the other green egg layers).   And those Silver Laced Wynadottes were just too cute.  Four of those pullets came home with us as well.  Which made for an even two bakers’ dozens of baby chickens!  At least we got out of the feed store without the rabbit Ruth Ann was squealing in delight over.  She was excited enough about the chicks themselves to scare the poor things half to death.

Our little babies have spent the last week in a feed bin, protected by chicken wire, warmed by a heat lamp, with a blanket over the top for extra insulation against our cold nights.  We’re still working on ideas for a brooder we can use year after year.  At least now we have a shed where their temporary home can reside!  Last spring it was so cold our baby chicks hung out in the middle of my kitchen for their first week of life.  Between the hungry, peeping chicks and the hungry, crying baby girl I didn’t get any sleep!

Yes, a brooder house is going to be a project for another spring-the shed area we park our cars has been ample protection for the chicks this spring.  Meanwhile Merritt has been making all sorts of modifications to our “Chick Inn“-the latest is slanting the bottom of the laying boxes so that the eggs roll down into a covered area where we can retrieve them but the chickens can’t.  Not only does this help with the egg eating problems that rear their ugly heads once in a while when the hens get too bored, but the best part is that in our muddy springs and autumns the eggs still stay relatively clean-because as soon as they are laid, they slide away into safety!

And the chicks aren’t the only signs of spring activity here on the farm.  The chives in my herb garden are already several inches tall-or were, before the hens got to them.  The rhubarb is poking up its curly head.  And I could nearly use the parsley if I wanted to!  My amazing, hard-working husband is building me a pretty little fence around my herb garden this spring, too-now that it is at its permanent location next to our new shed.  The wire is smaller at the bottom so the hens won’t get to my herbs-yet tall enough to keep out the deer who have already trimmed my Sweet Williams and Primroses!

Today when we replaced the wood shavings in the bottom of the chicks’ tub, Ru took turns kissing each of the baby chicks (though sometimes it looked more like she was just smelling them-what did my grown-up nose miss?!).  After she petted the soft feathers on one of our week-old chicks she reached up and patted her own fuzzy head.  We never cease to be amazed at all the correlations she makes at just 16 months old.  I s’pose next year she’ll be able to take care of the baby chicks all by herself, just from helping Daddy this year.

But right now, my farmer is out harrowing our field, and Ru was promised a ride before bedtime.  So off we go to meet Daddy for Ruth’s first tractor ride…

by Lanier Ivester

I’ll never forget the first brood of chicks we brought home. Never ones to waste time becoming experts before we jump in with both feet, Philip and I went to the local feed and seed on a whim one Monday morning and brought home the last ten Rhode Island Reds they had. I had no idea how adorable they would be, or how my maternal instincts would kick in at the sound of all that helpless peeping coming from the cardboard box in which they spent their first 24 hours in our household on top of the washing machine. The cramped quarters and the prowling cats below called for immediate action, however, and the next night saw us constructing a wooden frame brooder, encased with poultry netting, that we could keep in the basement. This brooder has served us well over the eight years that we have kept hens—although, like Gretchen, I’ve sometimes lost sleep over all the restless little happy noises coming from right below my bed!

A new brood of chicks is one of the sweetest signs of spring to me, and though most of my motherly neurosis has been calmed with time and experience, there is always such a sense of responsibility and awe that these lovely, vulnerable creatures are entirely dependent on me for their lives and safety. I will never forget the night, several Aprils ago, when one of our famously-violent spring storms ripped through, sending us to an inner closet with Caspian and the cats until the tornado sirens had wailed their last. Then, creeping out in the eerie stillness after wind and hail, groping around in the darkness for matches and candles and flashlights and counting cats and moaning over storm-rent flowers, I suddenly caught the sound of a faint peeping, timid at first, then rising to a shrill note of distress. We ran down to the basement to find all the babies huddled in a heap, limp and listless from the rapid temperature change and the loss of heat from the lamps they depended upon for warmth. Scooping them all into an old portable wooden brooder, we carted them upstairs and placed them on the hearth in our bedroom. Philip built a fire and I tended it all night, waking every time the chirping complaint started up again to stoke up the coals and add another log. In the morning they were all comfortably asleep, with their little heads all stretched out between the slats of the brooder towards the waning warmth of the fire. Fortunately our power came back on, for we were completely out of firewood!

This spring we moved the brooder to the barn, into the stall Philip has fitted out as a hen house. (Fort Poulet, the legendary domain of Ivester hens has been decommissioned as of last fall.) And there the babies reside with the big girls and Margot the rooster all clucking disinterestedly about them. Truthfully, the sheep have been much more curious than anyone else, owing to the fact, perhaps, that the chicks are their new next-door neighbors. For the first day they all stood in their stall and stared—as only sheep can—at these strange little interlopers. It’s given even more life to our old barn, to have the sweet noises of baby chicks blending with all the baa-ing and bleating and hay-munching and crowing. And only one incident thus far: it’s been a long time since I’ve raised chicks with outside cats, and, stupid me, I completely misinterpreted Maudie’s fascination as the general interest everyone showed when I brought the chicks into the barn with a regular parade of sheep and dogs and goats in tow. I hadn’t stepped out of the stall for a moment—with the lid to the brooder safely closed—when I heard one of my Buff Orpingtons peeping in alarm. Dropping the waterer I was filling, I raced back to find that Maudie, with a lightning-flash dart of her sleek black paw through the poultry netting, had snagged one of them. I was so horrified that I didn’t know what to do at first, just standing there in the stall with the tiny, frightened creature in my hands. She was definitely in shock, and so with one of those desperate prayers for help and wisdom, I performed a little chick first aid. I set her up on the kitchen counter in the box I’d brought her home in, with a heat lamp clipped to the cabinet overhead and a little food and water. Thankfully, after a few hours she was perfectly fine, preening and pecking and scratching in that funny little imitation of the big hens that chicks have, so I was able to take her back to the barn to join her sisters again.

We were only going to get eight this year. Don’t ask me how we walked out with thirteen. But those little Buff Orpingtons were so sweet, and, of course, I had to have four each of the Rhode Island Reds and the Araucanas! (The former for old time’s sake and the latter because I have become so enamored with those blue and green eggs I just don’t think I could do without them.) And what’s a brood without a few Barred Rocks, those docile, dependable layers? That makes twenty-six in all—so many that my livestock guardian dogs Juno and Diana have started to look askance at me, as much as to say, “Um, how many charges are written into our contracts?”

In other spring news, it’s garden season again! Our spring comes on earlier than Gretchen’s, but I did manage to reign in my excitement at mid-seventy degree weather a few weeks ago and wait until the prescribed middle of April to put out my summer vegetables. Squash, eggplant, zucchini, peppers, cucumbers and pole beans (my favorite!) all made it into the manure-rich (compliments of Puck and Pansy) soil this Saturday, and my tomatoes will go out later this week. It’s a season of industry and excitement around here—and a never-ending to-do list. But lest the everyday miracles of budding roses and blooming irises and a flower garden waking up from a long winter’s nap go unnoticed in all the flurry, my husband is good to take my hand and slow me down for a bit with a little ramble through the woods to admire the bluebells we planted last fall or the almost mystical reappearance of the mayapples under the oak trees.

Oh, and why, you might ask, is my rooster named Margot? Well, both the hatchery and the feed store from which we get out chicks each spring have an unwritten guarantee that all the chicks are female. Margot wasn’t.

And for the record, Gret, Ruth’s on to something. The chicks do smell very sweet and feathery. There’s nothing quite like a nose-full of warm, peeping down for happiness!

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

The winter has been long and dark, and the sunshine feels glorious and warm. I can’t get enough of it. There are birds singing, and the yaks in the pasture on the other side of the barn that sits near our little house have a tiny new baby, the cutest thing ever. The snow that has long buried the landscape is melting away, revealing beneath it the good earth again, and a lot of activity.

Little seeds, laying under the cold blanket of snow are bursting forth into new life, and we are surrounded by abundant evidence that He lives.

It is a happy time for me, and I can’t help but sing with those birds, and wait for the barefoot days of summer to unfold when I can abandon shoes for a while and wear light, summery skirts and sandals instead, and dig in my garden and watch the flowers grow in the meadows.

Yet, when I go out to wander a little each day, under all that snow there were the old leaves of autumn, the dead grass from last season, and sticks and stones that have collected over the months of cold and wind. There’s work to do if we want to see the real beauty of the grass waiting to burst out under there.

Spring time is the time to clear all that rubbish off, to get out the rake, and pull it all away, and let the newness of life spring forth in all it’s beauty, uncluttered by the past, and unhindered by obstacles that were thrown in its way during the winter. And to think, that underneath all that is the promise of another season, another harvest, of blessings from the Giver of all Life. Without Him, there’d be no Springtime, no leaves or old grass to rake, no promise of barefoot days or even a bird to sing cheerful songs.

Yes, He lives.

And… because He lives, we can face tomorrow, we can face our future, the unknown of yet another season of life, we can embrace our joys and our sorrows, and face them with hope, and with trust,  and with confidence that He who recreates newness each spring will recreate it in our hearts as well. Those little seeds He’s been planting in our lives, seeds often planted in difficulty, in trial, in the darkness of pain and affliction and heart ache, will spring forth into beautiful flowers of love, of patience, of joy, and humility.

Unlike the Seasons, which come and go in their time, we sometimes choose the season of our hearts, clinging to winter with all its bitter cold and darkness as if our life depended on living in the shadows. We long for the joy and beauty of Summer time, but disdain the change of Spring.

We may find that in the dark, long winter, we’ve lost our freshness, our first love for Him, and we need a good Spring Cleaning, but fear the pain that we know that rake might bring, or of what might be revealed of who we really are,  if it pulls back those old, dead leaves of the past that we’ve been holding close, causes us to fight for “our rights”, and hold on to the past disappointments and failures as if they are treasures worth dying for. But all we’ve got is old, dead leaves, when we could have beautiful, bright new grass and the best of flowers.

We can’t get to Summer without Spring. As much as He wants to, the sacrifice, the death and even the resurrection of our LORD cannot bring new seasons to our life if we don’t embrace the Spring Time of change and let Him renew us.

If we were to try to do it all ourselves, we’d get nowhere, for just as the garden can’t turn itself or get ready for new little plants to grow, or just as the lawn cannot rake itself clean of all those dead leaves, we can’t truly get rid of all the old winter-time baggage on our own.

But that is why He lives.

He wants to recreate that life that He has,  in you. Right now. Get rid of all the old things of the past, and uncover the treasures of the future.

Let Him get out that rake, stop holding on to whatever it is that seems to painful to let go- those grudges, those disappointed hopes, those broken dreams and wounded feelings and remember that they’re really just dead things that will only hinder us in the end..Embrace His Life, and the beauty of True Spring will break forth in your heart.

But there is an even more beautiful work that is done.

The old, dry, dead leaves from the past  season, once raked up can be gathered together, and with proper care and treatment become nourishing food for the growth of the new plants. A good compost can do wonders for a garden, and can give valuable nutrients to any plant, causing it to grow bigger, and better and more beautiful than it would otherwise.

Our Savior does just such a thing with those old leaves of our past. He turns what seems to be the worst into something beautiful, something that strengthens and encourages the New Life that He has created in our hearts. Those very things that were hindering us from growing, that hurt us and kept us feeling wintery, He turns into one of the biggest blessings in our lives.

Those heartaches, those sorrows, those broken dreams- all of those things we could not understand when they faded and fell lifeless onto the ground, when we let Him have them all, He turned into something good. Satan meant it for evil,  but God knew better.

“Where man sees but withered leaves, God sees sweet flowers growing.”  ~Albert Laighton

Because He lives.

Photo By Chantel Harding of Katie B enjoying a Montana Daisy Field and a beautiful Spring Day

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.