Potpourri

 A little of this and that on a snowy Saturday with the sun trying to shine. 

We got a beautiful snow early this week and it's still hanging heavily on the trees, turning the view outside into a thing of wonder and beauty. I must say, the number one advantage to homeschooling is the privilege of not needing to get out in the cold nor needing to navigate snowy roads. I will be relishing every single snow this year. 

To be honest, part of that might also be due to the fact that my children can now bundle up all by themselves and go out to play for hours, then come in and take care of the mess on their own. Amazing. The two youngest have played and played in the snow this week!

That rack was my mom's "dryer" back in the day. She used to set it on top of the wood stove and dry clothes in the wintertime. 

We've been on a puzzle putting together binge lately. We've done a number of easier ones that we've put together multiple times and a couple of harder ones that I picked up recently at the Goodwill. I love doing puzzles. I'm almost as bad with a puzzle as I am with a good book -- can't stop till it's done. 

This one was the biggest challenge! It was also missing a piece, but for .99 cents, one can't complain. 

This one was easier but still a fun challenge. I opened the box to find that the previous owners had put all the edge pieces in a ziploc bag. Did you ever?? Felt positively like cheating! I guess I've burned the rest out; I basically put this one together all by myself. Then again, it's partly just that someone in the house has a new toy that's more fun than puzzles. 

She's already turning her squawks into actual music and it's so fun to listen; especially when they all three get in on the action. 

I really should stop this rambling and run along to my cleaning and laundry and responsible activities. This post makes it sound like my week was all cozy and cheery and fun, and that's not entirely true. I had a bitter disappointment, a humbling blow to my pride and my share of the grouchies this week too, just so you know. Life is most always a mix of the good and the ugly, no matter how rosy it looks from the outside. 

Have a rosy weekend, ugly bits and all!

Dear Mom

 Dear Mom, 

I've been thinking about you so much this week. Today you would be 77 and I've been looking forward to this day for awhile now. Guess what? We finished your book!

I've had some tearful days this week, Mom, wishing that you were here to see it. 

I'll always wish we would have helped you finish your project while you were still here. I guess that's just a reminder that we don't have an unlimited time with the people we love. It's so easy to put things off and not get them done! I know, in the light of eternity, a book about the history of our church is not really that important. I just wanted you to know that we did it; it's here, and how I wish I could show it to you. I'm pretty sure you would love it. 

Rach was the one who got serious about it, Mom. She stuck to the project for the past two years and has spent hours and hours getting it done. You can imagine how many times we threatened to forget the whole idea or to just type up the stories we had and staple them together and call it good. If it had been left up to me, we still wouldn't be done.

I'm not sure exactly what you had in mind when you wanted to write down the history of Shady Lawn, Mom. It was hard to decide how to do it. How do you know what all to include? How do you make sure you don't leave out important information? What is the best format to use? And if we did get it written, how do we go about getting a book printed? You weren't here to answer any of those questions, so we hashed them back and forth and around and around. This is what we finally came up with.

We ended up going with kind of a scrapbook look, taking the stories you had already gathered of the people who first moved into the area and adding several more. There are so many things that could have been included from 65 years of church history and it was so hard to decide where to start and stop. We talked about Vacation Bible School, The Quilting, how the church building has evolved over the years, and included a bit of a timeline with important dates of interest. We barely touched the surface, really. I think one of your favorite touches would probably be your granddaughter's contributions of artwork scattered throughout the pages. Rach ended up setting up the whole book herself and, after checking out every different self publishing option we could find online, she bravely uploaded her files and printed a book!

It's not perfect by any means, Mom, but I know you wouldn't be concerned about perfection. We captured the stories and the vision of those early years and preserved the memories, and I think that's really what you wanted to do. You were always so passionate about preserving history for the next generation. 

I have missed you so incredibly much this week, Mom. Holding the book in my hands and reading the stories again has brought wave after wave of nostalgia and sadness. But I'm also thankful. Reading these stories makes me realize again how much my life has been impacted by parents who were invested in caring about people. Moving to a tiny little church, hundreds of miles from family and everything familiar, couldn't have been easy. You didn't have to live where there were dirt roads and no telephone in your house and attend a church so tiny that any given service found you with multiple responsibilities. But I am forever grateful you did. 

You were human, just like everyone else, Mom. You made mistakes and had your flaws but when it came to modeling a love for Jesus and your community, you did it well. Thank you. 

Love, Bethany 

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To see a short video by my 11 year old about These Stones, and to find information about ordering a copy, go here. If you are reading on your phone, you may need to scroll to the bottom and click 'view web version' in order to access the video. In the web version of my blog, I will now have a button on the right side called These Stones, where you can access that information any time. 

Hometown Sentiments

Last weekend we made our somewhat- traditional visit to our local town to see the light display at the courthouse and the Dickens Christmas displays along the streets -- or, as we say, we went to see the statues.... technically, I believe they are called mannequins. It made me start thinking about hometowns. 

Are you proud of your hometown? Where is your hometown? If you move, when does the town/area you move to become your hometown? According to the dictionary definition, it is possible for it to change locations: /ˈhōmˌtoun/: town of one's birth or early life or of one's present fixed residence.

I was born in the largest city in Stone County. Meaning, I was born in a little country town in the hills of Arkansas. But who wouldn't be proud of a hometown nicknamed the "Folk Music Capital Of The World"? Mountain View was a thriving tourist town, bolstered by its plethora of unique small shops, its festivals that drew crowds spring and fall and by the nearby Ozark Folk Center. 

                Mtn View Courthouse 

We local people would joke that festival time was not the time you wanted to go to town -- the crowds and the traffic made getting anywhere fast an impossibility -- but I have fond childhood memories of watching the parade during the spring Folk Festival. In my mind's eye I can still see the high school band, marching down the middle of main street, playing their music. The rows of horseback riders and the long line of antique cars were never the highlight, although there was lots of candy throwing. It was the floats built by local businesses and the school that were always the favorite. I'll never forget the one depicting preparing for a burial, and the oft repeated, "We're sad to see Aunt Maude go -- We picked the ticks off and washed twixt her toes!" 

I only attended the fall Bean Fest once, and that was after I was married. We didn't partake of the free beans and cornbread on the square but we did watch the famous outhouse races. Yep, you read that right. The outhouse races are a big deal! We still laugh about the poor people who thought they had a choice seat for the festivities but ended up not quite being in the front row after all. They weren't too happy about it and made sure everyone around them knew it. 

I thought about all of this Sunday night as we walked down the streets of Cambridge. Bundled in coats and boots and our hands tucked deep in warm pockets, we admired the lights and the statues and I pondered hometowns. Cambridge is a pretty cool little town, really; the kind that a person could be proud of. Would my children have the same sentiments toward it that I had for Mtn View? Actually, they probably won't. We're positioned squarely between a couple of towns that we visit about equally, so their experience is a little different. But,  I wondered, is that how my parents felt about Arkansas? After all, both of them were transplants from Indiana. In fact, they had only lived in Arkansas twelve years when I was born! Realizing that fact made me do a double take on the whole subject. In my mind, my parents were always Arkansas folks to the core. When did that happen?

The Christmas light show at the  Cambridge courthouse is a must see! It never disappoints. 

And a walk down Wheeling Avenue to see the characters in Dickens Victorian Village never gets old. 

    I like the one on the left in particular...

I realize that hometown sentiments aren't really that important. I could turn this into a convicting conversation about this world not being our home and Heaven being our real hometown but that's not really my point. The fact is, I don't really have a point, other than the whole subject being an interesting and rather intriguing one. 

Are you proud of your hometown? What are your hometown sentiments?

Enter Into His Gates With Thanksgiving

Calvary Messenger is a small, Mennonite publication that is sent out monthly. When I was a child, my mom served as editor for the "Junior Stories" and "Hints From Home - Acres" sections. 

Incidentally, I have a stack of the old, original articles from her files.... 

I well remember mom's editor job, mostly because I typed up articles for her at a very young age -- long before I knew which finger to place on which key! I loved it. I also remember her stress over meeting those deadlines every month, although I was young enough that I didn't understand all of that fully. 

Recently, I had the privilege of being asked to write an article for the section of Calvary Messenger that is now titled "A Woman After God's Heart". This is really the first article of mine that has been published anywhere other than my blog, so it felt rather special for it to have a strong connection to my mom's writing. I know many of you may have read it already but a kind reader suggested I share it here, so I am doing that today. 

   Enter Into His Gates With Thanksgiving

There's a small, black journal on the floor by my bed -- yes, I know you probably keep yours neatly in your nightstand; some of us just make stacks on the floor. Anyway, there's a small, black journal and in it is scrawled Diaries of the Coronavirus March 2020. For nine long weeks I kept a daily record of one of the most surreal times of my life. Days when time seemed to stand

still and accomplishing any task felt like pushing your way through a sea of sticky peanut butter. Days when the only way to survive were putting one foot in front of the other and snatching chances to hide in some dark corner with a large box of tissues.

My life before March was an easy one. I'm the wife of one, stay at home mother of five. My oldest is a high school graduate, now working with his father, and the rest ranged from tenth to first grade. My days were spent cleaning, cooking, doing laundry -- so much laundry! And having ample time alone to nourish my introverted soul. If I wanted to accept outside activities, like volunteering at a local thrift store, I usually could. If I wanted to stay at home and do my own

thing, that was usually a valid option. March 2020 changed all of that.

"Sunday, March 15", the first entry in that black journal reads. "The first day of canceled normality."

In one fell swoop, during that fateful week in March, my world turned completely inside out. Church was canceled, school was closed and we welcomed our first foster placement, a four year old little girl. In one weekend's time, my days went from 7 hours of alone time to zero; from many hours of independence to high alert 24/7. To say it was an adjustment would be the

biggest understatement of the year.

I don't know how you deal with life when it throws you big challenges? Maybe you are the kind who enjoys them -- I live with a man who seems to. The bigger the challenge, the more optimism and determination to solve and conquer exudes from his person. You would think that nineteen years of living with that attitude would somehow transmit at least a small portion of it to my soul. Sadly, it hasn't. My instinctive modus operandi when big challenges appear is to run as

far and as fast as possible. But, sometimes there's nowhere to run. Sometimes the challenge must be faced and walked through, even when it feels impossibly hard.

So, I walked.

I walked into homeschooling using Abeka videos with only cell phone internet and four students who all needed to watch Math and Phonics and be in a Zoom meeting now. I walked into coaxing a first grader through his work who, when asked if mom is just that bad of a teacher replied promptly and adamantly, "Yes!!" And I walked into the heart of a four year old with whom the 'honeymoon stage' lasted about one week. Essentially, I walked into a life so out of my control that every day became one more vat of peanut butter to wade through. I dreaded getting up inthe morning and starting a new day. 

Added to the stress of everything else was the fact that underneath it all I was sure that I was not cut out for foster care. I never dreamed of doing this, see? I never really wanted it; never longed for it. I probably should have said no long ago and we never would have gotten to this point. "Foster care isn't for everyone," said all the wise people. Why couldn't I just be one of

those and stop feeling guilty? Why couldn't I just ignore the fact that we had prayed about a ministry opportunity for our family and because the need was great, we felt led to make ourselves available?

Every morning I would lay in bed and beg, "Please God, give us a good day. Please help me be patient. Please let school go smoothly. Please make the children play nice. Please help the four year old not to have a tantrum; please help me know how to handle it when she does". I knew

there was no way I could do this on my own, so I turned to the One who had strength to give away. Somehow it didn't really make me feel that much better.

Oh sure, if the day went well, I felt better. If the sun shone and the school work got done and the time outs were minimal, then the begging felt helpful. If my kind husband brought pizza for supper or spent his precious after-work hours taking the youngest members of the household to

the park, then I felt much, much better! But on the inevitable days when things didn't go well, I lived for bedtime and wondered if the energy expended begging was really even worth it.

I don't remember exactly what brought me to the Sunday where I looked my choices squarely in the eye. I only know I had been wallowing in self pity and constantly thinking how much easier all this strange life would be without a four year old yet too, and I realized that it had to stop.

Somewhere in the process that day of choosing repentance and joy, the verses in Psalm 100 became a word picture in my mind.

"Enter into his gates with thanksgiving, and into his courts with praise: be thankful unto him and bless his name." (Psalm 100:4)

In the days that followed, I began picturing the start of my day as entering into His gates. Making a conscious choice to enter those gates with Thanksgiving changed my prayers from frantic begging into grateful praising -- "Thank you Lord, for the gift of this day! Thank you for your faithfulness! Thank you for answered prayer yesterday!" This adjustment in perspective changed nothing in my situation but the resulting peace and joy made an astonishing difference. Almost without realizing it, my focus imperceptibly shifted from inward to outward, bringing a

change in my own heart that spilled over into the struggles and challenges of each day.

It would be completely dishonest to leave the impression that this practice of gratitude turned me into a bubbling fountain of perpetual joy. All you would need to do is ask my husband and family to find that to be untrue! However, there is no denying that the practice did make a

difference. The idea of entering into His gates with thanksgiving is jotted down in the little black journal on the floor beside my bed. When I look back on those nine, dramatic weeks of quarantine I will remember many things. I will always remember the fear and the turmoil; the

challenges and the enormity of change; the days of struggle and putting one foot in front of the other. But I hope that in my memories I will also recall the gem of truth that I learned from Psalm 100:4.