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 

********

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.

Thanksgiving

 Happy Day-After-Thanksgiving! I hope yours was a good one. Mine was, in a quiet, non-hectic kind of way. Ever since we've lived in Ohio, Thanksgiving is the holiday we spend with Chris' family. This year, all but one of his brothers - he has three; no sisters - live in the area. The brothers had gotten their heads together several weeks ago and unanimously decided to have a no-fuss, relaxing day for Thanksgiving. No big meal, just an afternoon and evening together and everyone bring snacks. Suited us women fine!

I thought it would be fun to do a big Thanksgiving meal just for us, so I planned to have ham (One turkey is enough!), mashed potatoes, dinner rolls, a vegetable, pumpkin and apple pie and ice cream. At the last minute, the plans got changed to having all the Eichers living in the area here for our meal, with grandma bringing turkey and chocolate eclair pudding and a sister in law adding baked corn and salad and a cute little miss for all of us to laugh at. It was a good day. We moved some furniture and toys and added leaves to the table and the girls had fun with decor and name places... We spent a laid back afternoon playing some music, singing some songs, playing a few games, working on a puzzle and turning the artists loose on art supplies.

My youngest daughter has a love affair with YouTube channels and making videos. Chris got her an editing program and we gave her a small tripod/selfie stick for her birthday and she has spent hours taking pictures and videos and editing them for her pretend channel! We get a lot of laughs out of her creations but she really has a talent for it and does a very good job. True to form, she was around constantly yesterday with her "equipment" in hand - an old cell phone and her tripod - busily filming and snapping. I thought it would be fun to share her video here on my blog instead of writing lots of words about our Thanksgiving. Being like her mom, she tried to protest against the idea but I knew she would secretly be thrilled.

So, here you go. I hope you enjoy her capture of our Thanksgiving!

The Terrible Tale of the Turkey or The Tale of the Terrible Turkey

 "I thought someone had died!" Chris told me later. "I was like, who died now?!" I guess that could be a reasonable thing to think when you're jolted out of a sound sleep at 5 something in the morning by a slightly hysterical woman with a severe case of bed head.

But, in order to understand this story, let me take you back to the beginning. It started with the electricity going off on Sunday afternoon... no, let's be honest. The story started with a sign up sheet on the church bulletin board for the youth's Thanksgiving Supper. You see, every year the youth do a Thanksgiving Supper for the senior citizens in the community. It's a lovely, sit down meal with turkey, mashed potatoes and the works. This year it got converted into a drive through supper but the menu remained the same, complete with your choice of pie accompanied by ice cream.

I've said it enough times that I probably should stop mentioning it, but cooking is not my thing. Cooking for other people, particularly in large amounts, terrifies me. I have no confidence whatsoever in my abilities and, quite frankly, as a general rule I do my best to avoid terrifying experiences. I mean, come on -- don't you? I confess: when there are sign up sheets for food, I go for the baked goods or the salads or the things you can just buy. I know. How do I expect to ever gain confidence? I guess the answer is, I don't. And yet I battle with guilt and humiliation every time there's an event involving food and me helping. 

But hey. How about we get back to the story before this turns into one long confessional of all my innermost feelings? 

So, the sign up sheet. I forgot to look at the thing, see. All the pie slots were taken, see. And the four empty turkey slots stared at me reproachfully and said "You have a turkey that's just been sitting in your freezer for...well, a very long time." And the empty homemade bread slots said "Just humble yourself and buy bread from the bakery; you've done it before." It sounds completely silly trying to explain it here but the guilt and the terror are real to me and the mental anguish I put myself through over such things is something I am quite ashamed of.

I promise there is more to this story than unending naval gazing; stick with me.

Since I've prepared turkeys so rarely in my short life (cough cough), I took to Google and dutifully put the turkey in the fridge to thaw and made plans as to how I would get it baked in a timely manner. I ordered my bread and lined up my ducks and felt like maybe I was making some progress in this growing up business at last. See, I told myself, if you had just done the Terrifying Things instead of avoiding them all your life you wouldn't be like this at 41 years old! Wise, wise words.

Sunday afternoon a storm blew in and took our electricity with it. What we expected to be a couple hour outage at the most, turned into overnight and into the next day. Between the complete silence of the night that a power outage brings and the worrisome thoughts about that turkey in my fridge, I got very little sleep. When electricity was at last restored, I pulled out the fowl and discovered the thing wasn't even completely thawed. No need to panic, I had time. They say you're not to thaw the silly things in cold water but I happen to know my mother used the cold water method and what worked for my mother works for me, or something like that. 

Well, it took the rest of the day to loosen up the icy depths but, no problem. My mother also baked her turkeys through the night and so could I!  I would just get up early and there would be time to debone the thing and still get to the church to help with preparations -- seeing as how I am the mother of the son on the youth committee, this is the expected procedure, you see. My stove has this handy dandy time bake feature and my husband is the expert on setting it for me, so I was all set for this slight hiccup in my well laid plans. We double checked the recommended baking temperature, counted up  the hours and set the oven accordingly. Then we crawled into bed, thankful for the noise of a fan and a good night of rest.

I woke up around 5 a.m. and, like Piglet with the Heffalump, my first thoughts were of turkey. Had it baked ok? Would I get it all taken care of? Did I smell it? I thought I did but the more I tried to smell it, the more I was sure I should be smelling it a whole lot more. Did I smell it? I remembered being a child and waking up to that turkey smell permeating the whole house on Christmas morning. Did I have the Coronavirus?? 

I fumbled my way out of bed and into the kitchen. The oven was on, there was no question about that. I felt the heat through the door and saw the red coils inside when I peered through the glass in the door. Suddenly, a sickening feeling hit the pit of my stomach. I let out a muffled noise akin to a strangling mouse and grabbed for the fridge handle. And there, my friends, was my big granite roaster perched just where I had left it with that bothersome turkey laying innocently inside. 

That's when I rushed in our bedroom, scrambled onto the bed and blurted out, "You are not going to believe this!!" in a voice that made my husband think someone had died.

I didn't cry over the whole bizarre thing until after I said (as I laughed a bit hysterically) "I can't believe neither one of us thought of it last night when we were figuring out the oven!" and he said, "I just set the oven. You said you were going to put the turkey in at 10:00." Ok then.

The rest of the story is that I stuck the thing into the oven straight away. It baked while I helped at the church and I had time to come home and take care of it. Everyone was as kind as could be and all was well that ended well even if it didn't seem very well at all at 5:00 in the morning. And that, is the Terrible Tale of the Turkey. I hope it gave you a laugh, because the one redeeming thought a couple hours after the horror wore off was -- this sure will make a good story for the blog!

Words About Weather

The weather the last two weeks has been like a special, surprise gift from a Father who knows you well. 

Fall is a beautiful season; I know this in my head but when the leaves begin to change, I always struggle to enjoy it. With the changing leaves comes the end of long, luxurious days of sunshine. In their place come the grey, bleak days and the long, dark evenings. I know only too well how they threaten to suck the life from my soul. The beautiful leaves just mean the end of my favorite season. 

The last week of October was full of rain and grey, heavy skies. But then November rolled in with two weeks of mostly blue sky and sunshine and I think maybe I should stop dreading fall and give it a chance... at least a little bit. 

We've been on a bike trail kick lately, loading up bikes and people three or four times in the last two weeks. It's just the perfect way to get some exercise and fresh air and we have to take advantage of our chances. It's also a great opportunity to show my skills at airing up tires and wielding wrenches on too high seats and cramming bikes into the back of a van. 

It's been worth the effort every single time. 

School at home gives you the advantage of getting your work done early and taking off on a glorious afternoon adventure. But it also gives the disadvantage of not getting daily, vigorous exercise and fresh air. Bike trail for the win. 

Yeah that's me on the tiny bike. 

Like I said, an opportunity to show off all kinds of skills!

It's also been perfect weather to rake leaves, relax in a hammock and play "cowboy". 

I still can't say that Fall is my favorite but these golden days have been a lovely gift and I have enjoyed them to the fullest. I know these days are numbered but I'll relish every one that I get. Also, not gonna be mad if there's lots of snow this winter -- since I won't have to be getting out in it!

A happy weekend to you all.... in a world that seems constantly teetering on the edge, may you find little gifts from the Father, whether sunny or grey. 

Dear Mom

Today I made chicken gravy and biscuits for lunch. Pretty sure I will never make some foods without thinking of you, Mom. I don't think my biscuits ever turn out quite as good as yours but today they were pretty decent. I remember the day you tried to figure out some measurements so I could try to make "your" biscuits at my own house. It was one of those 'add milk to the right consistency' type of deals. Our favorite way to have chicken and biscuits was to put the gravy in the bottom of a casserole dish, drop the biscuits on top, then bake it all together. That is still one of the best comfort foods to me. 

I still can't imagine how anyone could not like chicken and biscuits but some people at this house aren't fans. Maybe it's partly that I don't very often use cooked chicken in dishes. We grew up butchering our own chickens and eating lots of chicken every which way. You almost always had cooked chicken and broth in the freezer, Mom; I rarely do, if ever. I have learned that most of mine like it best with the gravy and biscuits served separately. I can compromise like that! 

I think I inherited my dislike of cooking from you, Mom. Although I think I have a worse case of it than you did. Still, there are certain foods that were your specialties and they will always make me think of you. I don't mind that at all. 

Love, Bethany

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In case you'd like to try chicken gravy and biscuits, I'll give the recipes.... if you can call them that; they're not very specific. Are those the best kind?

BISCUITS

- Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Place a couple blobs of shortening in a pan and place in oven. 

- In a mixing bowl, place 3 parts self-rising flour and 1 part shortening (so for lunch I used 3 cups of self-rising flour and 1 cup of shortening and that made 15 biscuits)

- Cut shortening into flour with fork (or however you like to do it)

- Add milk to the right consistency 🙂

(You can make your dough stiff, roll it out and cut your biscuits but mom usually made a sticky dough and dropped her biscuits by spoonfuls. Today I added maybe a cup and a half of milk? Maybe more, I didn't measure.)

- Drop biscuits into pan with melted shortening (Or place cut biscuits in pan.) The melted shortening gives them the nice, brown, crunchy bottoms. 

- Bake until slighty brown (about 20 minutes)

CHICKEN GRAVY

- Place chicken broth in kettle (I used about 4 cups of broth and added maybe a cup of water to it plus a teaspoon or so of salt)

- Bring to a boil

- In a gravy shaker, place 1 1/2 to 2 cups milk and maybe 3/4 cup flour. Shake well. 

- While stirring, add flour paste to boiling broth until it reaches desired consistency. 

- Cut up cooked chicken into gravy. 

- Serve over biscuits. 

******************

Is there a food that makes you think of your mom?

Bethany Ann 41

I'm sitting in my van, in the Aldi parking lot. I ran off for groceries this afternoon, practically giddy with excitement about getting out of the house and being alone. Who am I even?

I don't even like to shop. 

The sun nearly peeked through the clouds on the way, and I saw a little patch of blue sky! It's been a rainy, cloudy, grey week in Ohio. 

I have never, ever wanted to homeschool. I've always said I would if I had to but if there was a Christian school available, my children would be there. Well, here I am homeschooling. Who am I even?

I'm a woman living in a strange world, I guess. The truth is, I'm still not really homeschooling -- my oldest daughter is doing most of the teaching. 

This girl reads constantly. She dug into her stack of school books like a hungry bear. 

I've never been the mom who cries much over first days of school or babies going from immobile to walking but last week my two oldest left for a measly weekend with the youth and I honest to goodness got tears in my eyes. Who am I even?

You get soft in your old age, that's what. I didn't used to freak out about heights or fast driving either...

We took the opportunity to take the three youngest on a little excursion of our own last weekend, and it was great fun. 

Chris and I joined the bikers on our rollerblades and our youngsters were quite amazed.

 We also checked out Big Muskie's Bucket. 

My oldest daughter was planning to graduate this year (her 11th year) but chose to quit school when we decided to homeschool. Since the news of that circulated, she has gotten at least half a dozen job offers -- everything from cleaning to accounting to old lady sitting. I watch her with her myriad of abilities and opportunities and try to wrap my mind around the fact that I'm the mom in this scenario. Who am I even?

I don't have an answer for that one. All I know is, I don't feel nearly as old as I always thought the moms in this scenario feel.

This girl was born to teach! I love to watch her. In the mean time, she's decided to (hopefully) finish her 12th year of school next year after all. I'm kinda glad if she gets a chance to revert back to school girl for a bit again. 

No, I don't know who I am these days. 

When I was five years old, I always signed my name Bethany Ann 5 -- there are still old coloring books and story books to prove it. 

I guess this is Bethany Ann 41.

After Five Months

 Hello. 

I'm not sure who I am anymore but someone with my name used to write in this space. I miss her.... and it.

A kind reader sent me an email the other day: "Hi Bethany! How are you? I haven't seen a blog post from you in awhile so I was concerned. Hope all is well!"

Her message touched me. 

All is well, I think you all deserve to know that. I am still here, in my little corner of the world -- living, breathing and healthy. Four weeks ago today our first foster placement was reunited with her mommy. It was a happy, happy day! My husband and oldest son are still working at a tire shop as manager and tire tech respectively. We've chosen, in this strange year of the great pandemic, to try our hand at homeschooling. Hopefully, we can manage to keep the four scholars lined up to slip back into their classrooms next year with no major damage done. 

 

That pretty much catches you up with my life!

Wait. What's that? You're pretty sure there's more? But what makes you... Oh. You don't think someone would just go silent for five months for no reason? You noticed that, huh? Well, yeah, about that...it's complicated, see. 

I'm not really sure how to explain my silence, honestly. I feel like the last two years have slowly but surely silenced me. I look back at all the blog posts I wrote over the past nine plus years and I'm not even sure who that person was? I feel like I hardly know her anymore. 

Without going into a lot of details or digging very deep, I will try to make some sense of what I am saying. 

In 2019, we opened our hearts to a young man who had joined our church. He lived with us part of the year, worked with Chris, was a big part of our lives. I couldn't write about any of that for many reasons -- mostly, out of respect for him. I still can't. 

Whether good or bad, 2019 sparked in me the feeling that it's better to just be quiet. Some things are just too hard to explain; some things others will never understand. The problem was, if I couldn't be authentic, I ended up with nothing to say at all! 

Then came 2020. 

The isolation of school shutting down and no church and no social life plus our first foster placement only magnified the feelings I already had. Foster care was just another thing that couldn't be shared freely on a blog and I finally just quit trying altogether. If writing was going to be so much work, it wasn't worth it. I've always written because the words came and I enjoyed it; I wasn't interested in manufacturing something that wasn't there. 

I still don't know what's to become of this little space. I've missed writing terribly. I've prayed about it often but haven't felt God giving me any clear answers. I never, ever wanted to be the blogger who wrote sporadically. I'd rather just shut the blog down and never write again! But, here I am, doing what I never wanted to do. 

I miss the community that nine plus years has created here. I miss the person I was who wrote all those things. God has recently given me a couple of writing opportunities that were quite unexpected and that have sparked a little of the old urge to write again. I am grateful. That little email I received from a reader also blew some air on the flame, so thank you again for that. 

I don't know what will become of About My Father's Business, we'll see. But I'm still here, alive and well, with a few more grey hair and a very different life these days. 

Cheerio!

I'll probably see you again, but who knows when.....

I Cried Today

Dear Bio Mom,

I saw you standing there today, waiting outside the door, and suddenly my throat felt tight and my eyes pricked with tears. I thought of not seeing my four year old for two months and I cried. I thought of you hugging her and holding her and never wanting to let go but bravely saying goodbye after the allotted hour. 

I saw you standing there today, waiting outside the door all alone, and suddenly my heart ached. I thought of going through rehab and pulling my life together and working hard day after day for my child and I cried. I thought of all you've done these months and yet how much is out of your hands but to bravely keep on. 

I saw you standing there today, waiting outside the door patiently, and suddenly my heart skipped and my breath came short. What if? What if you haven't worked as hard as I hope? What if your resolve slips and the temptations come too strong? What if it's too hard one day to be brave and keep going? The ache in my heart gripped me and the tears fell down. 

I saw you standing there today and I cried. My heart longed to ensure a good outcome; a "right" one. But I knew that all that's in my power is to do the small bit that I can. And so I came home and read ten stories and whispered another prayer and hugged your four year old a little tighter tonight. 

I can't orchestrate this story, no matter how hard I wish I could. Only God knows both sides of these pages and all the hidden lines and phrases in between. Tonight I'm trusting Him with the writing and begging Him to please, please keep you in the story; your four year old needs you.

Two Years Ago And Today

Two years ago today, I wrote this post. When I saw the memory pop up on Facebook this morning, I sent Chris a screenshot.

He replied: Still feel that way?

It's been a long journey since that day two years ago. Making ourselves available turned into so many experiences and feelings that I never anticipated. The hours and hours of classes turned into weeks and weeks of home study check lists which turned into months and months of jumping through added hoops. There were hurts and angry tears and so many, many questions along the way. God took us down bunny trails in those months and used our open hand in ways I couldn't have thought up if I had tried.

One year and four months after my blog post, when our foster care license officially arrived in the mail, I know I was better prepared than the day that I wrote it. But God wasn't done asking me to practice the open hand idea. It wasn't until eight months later, the week that schools closed and stay at home orders commenced, that our first placement arrived.

So, do I still feel that way? Well, probably about as much as I did then!

We're almost five weeks into this life and I'm sure in five more weeks I'll have learned so much more. But right now? Right now I'm pretty sure about several things.

1) It's not about feelings. For some people it might be; some people might have hearts just overflowing with joy and love and a desire to care for other people's children. Honestly? That's not really been me. For me, God called and it felt like the right thing to answer. It's ok to not have the feelings.

2) It's ok to miss the life that was. It's ok to think about how easy life would be with just my own happy family. It's ok to feel sorry for my youngest, who's life has been rocked the hardest; it's ok to feel sorry for my girls, whose shared room is now stretched to include a child who disrupts their camaraderie at bedtime. But it's not ok to live there.

For every hard adjustment, there is a coinciding blessing in knowing that this obedience makes Jesus smile.

When I look into those sweet, brown eyes I pray that someday the memories from our house will be ones of hope and love that will stay forever. And when I look at my children, I pray that the stretching and dividing of our love and time and ease will multiply into less selfishness and bigger hearts.

3) If foster care touched my heart in no other way, it would be touched by watching my husband love this child. Suffice it to say, I would never be doing this if it wasn't for him.

And now my hour alone that my husband granted me must come to an end. You can only sit in a cold van for so long anyway...

Perspective

Sun, April 12

I'm sitting outside alone again. I wonder why that's the only time I seem to be able to string words together these days? Actually, I don't wonder at all. 

My oldest loves frisbee golfing. Since his hours at work have been cut back drastically, he's been turning the game into a regular hobby. Every time he goes, and especially if he takes Jasmine with him, I feel a little bitter. Must be nice to just run off and do something fun, you know? Well, this evening Jasmine said, "You're going with him!" And Isaac said, "Sure, I don't care."

Oh, it was lovely. 

I am terrible at frisbee golf. There's nothing like tagging along with your 17 year old son to make you feel like the old lady you really are!

But walking around the course with him and not needing to be responsible for anyone but myself was so refreshing. And when I got tired of walking and entertaining him with my lame throwing, I found a bench and enjoyed the breeze. 

There were signs of Spring all around -- from the green, green of the grass to the fresh, pale leaves on some of the bushes and trees. There were bright splotches of yellow dandelions dotting the waving grass and tucked here and there were tiny, purple violets for the people who took close notice. 

We weren't the only ones out enjoying the evening. Across the way to my left, an older gentleman was whiling his time away with a golf club. Standing in the lower ballfield, he methodically practiced his swing -- sending golf balls sailing into the upper ballfield and beyond. He must have had quite a collection of balls, because this exercise went on for quite some time. Eventually the stash was spent or his time was up; he spent the rest of his time wandering around the area retrieving his balls. I predict that by the time golf courses re-open his friends will have quite a competitor to deal with!

Life these days continues on with one day looking so much like the next that it's hard to remember what happened when and which day was what. It is always easier to focus on the negative in life but especially so now, I think. The close confines of home and the same circle of eight people seem to magnify and aggravate every bad part of a life that is really quite good.

Listing my many blessings doesn't make all the bad things magically disappear. It can help to change my perspective though and perspective is everything when you're looking at how things appear.

     * * * * * *
 Mon, April 13
I started my morning with this cheerful, inspired Instagram post:

"Get yourself a daughter who makes you breakfast.... and a son who let's you tag along frisbee golfing.... and a husband who pitches right in with foster care just like he always has with fathering his own... It's so easy these days to get bogged down with the hard parts of life but perspective is everything and I am so very, very blessed. "

 I'm pretty sure if I had known how my day would go, I would have kept my mouth shut. The day included -- among other things -- both me and my first grader in tears, multiple time outs, countless petty fusses, rain, clouds and cold wind. I'm tempted to say the perspective thing did nothing for me at all today. 

But if I remember that perspective doesn't magically make the bad things disappear, I can look back at this day and shift my eyes to see --

 * The first grader and I wiping our tears, praying together and tackling school with a will. 

 * No kicking and screaming included in the time outs and some sweet snuggles afterward. 

 * My two middle girls making a treasure hunt for the little ones with their own precious candy. 

 * The dad taking over after supper and some of the happiest playing of the day ensuing. 

 * The promise that Spring is coming, even though today didn't feel like it. 

It still wasn't my favorite day. I'm still looking forward to bedtime and the rivalry and fussing still make my brain feel weary. But perspective is still everything, so I'll focus and re-focus and keep doing it again. 

  * * * * *

That was his frisbee stuck in the tree. 

An Hour Alone

I am sitting in the woods all alone. My house, with all its bustle and noise, peeks through the leafless trees behind me. To my left, there's a rustling and I turn to see two chipmunks chasing each other through the fallen leaves.

The sun is slipping down in the west and in a cluster of fallen trees, a pair of cardinals flit brightly about. A dog barks in the distance and I hear the sound of a door and the voice of my son. I've gotten permission to disappear for an hour and no one knows where I am. The stillness and solitude are delicious; I could sit here for hours. Except for the fact that my seat isn't too cushy and I was only granted leave for one.

Count yourself privileged. 

I don't usually post pics of myself. 

I'm not entirely sure what I've come here to say. So many things could be said but where does one even begin to start?

  ● We've survived 13 days of school at home. We've been hanging by a thread a good bit of that time but here we are at another Friday. Survived.

  ● On Monday it will be four weeks since I have been in a store. I honestly don't really miss shopping. My husband picks up all my groceries and we fare more sumptuously now than before.

  ● I now realize fully what a problem my first grader has with concentration, how little I remember about 5th and 6th grade math and how hard it is to get a boy enthused about writing.

  ● I have proven that all you really need to do in order for a family to survive is provide food and keep the clothes washed. A bit of cleaning here and there is great but the bare minimum will suffice.

  ● Sunshine and fresh air are the greatest gift in the whole wide world.

  ● A father's voice is an amazing thing. Or is it his physique? His size? Maybe his confidence? Whatever it is, it works wonders in little people with attitudes and mothers just simply do not have it.

  ● Going from six solid hours alone five days of the week to zero hours alone + overseeing the schooling of four children + adding your first foster child to your family all in a week's time is.... a lot. Thought maybe there would be somebody out there that needed to know that.

A birthday and a mini pie

  ● We're two weeks in to this foster care experience and what do I say? I could say that it's hard. Everybody knows that. I could say that it's rewarding but everybody probably knows that too. Someday I will find more words. For now, it's only been two weeks and I know so little. But I'm already learning so much.

  ● I am learning that starting my day by "Entering His gates with thanksgiving in my heart" does wonders for my attitude and my day. Also, the prayers of friends and family are worth their weight in gold.

  ● I have no idea what the future holds in all this strange and bizarre life that we're living. Mostly, I do one day at a time. One more load of laundry, one more penmanship paper, one more temper tantrum from a sweet little soul who is learning the boundaries in this new place, one more meal made and scarfed down, one more round of night time hugs....

Whatever the future holds, God will be there.

  ● My husband is an angel in disguise.

And now my seat is complaining about this fallen log, the sun is hiding it's cheery blaze and my hands are turning to ice. My hour is nearly up and I guess I've said what I came here to say, although it came out differently than I thought it might.

Wherever you are and whatever you are facing, I pray you feel the grace that only God can provide.

   *************
PS. I don't think anyone even missed me during my hour.

PPS. I forgot to mention that clean up before bedtime is essential.

Dear Mom

This is rather an odd time to be breaking my long silence, what with all my children home and needing to "homeschool" and our first foster child arriving on Thursday - a four year old girl.  Let's just say, I don't exactly expect to be having more extra time than usual in the days ahead! 

For months my urge to write has disappeared -- gone; dissipated; vanished; dissolved; non-existent. Lately I have felt some faint flutterings inside, along with a little flame of hope that just maybe my urge will return again. Today, when I started to post these pictures on Instagram, the thought flashed into my mind that they would make a perfect "Dear Mom" post. Usually I would have let the flash go by and easily ignored it. Instead, I shrugged and said, "Why not?"

This might be the only urge that I act on for another three months but so be it. 

     ****************
I saw your handwriting today, Mom. It's not that often that I run across it these days, so I thought I'd tell you about it.

A very long time ago, when I was a little girl begging you for things to do, you made me some quilt blocks to cross stitch. I labored over them happily, undoubtedly trying your patience with endless interruptions about knots and needle threading and weird puckers. Granted, I don't remember them but it's safe to assume I was a fairly normal little girl in that department. 

You made me a little quilt with the blocks. 

And then, one day I was the Mom. I don't remember what made me come up with my grand idea but I decided it would be neat to give my daughters the same experience you'd given me. For Jasmine's fifth birthday, you made her the same cross stitch blocks you had once made me! And then you made them for my second daughter, Jennifer. And, because you weren't here anymore, I asked my sister to make them for my youngest daughter, Lillian. (This is how I know about the endless interruptions part of the deal.)

Jennifer age 5

Jasmine finished her blocks swiftly and I remember how you helped me make them into a little quilt. Come to think of it, I think you were the one who sewed them together for me, Mom. Then we quilted it.

When you made Jennifer's blocks, you sewed a pink border around each one and kept the leftover fabric in your drawer to be used when the blocks were completed. Months after you were suddenly gone, I went through your stash of fabric, Mom. There was the pink fabric with a note carefully attached. 

Jennifer didn't finish her blocks until she was nine. Since you weren't here to sew them together for me, Mom, they went in a bag on my closet shelf, along with the pink fabric with the note attached. There they have stayed, except for a time or two when I got them out and determined to sew them together. Soon. 

Jennifer turns twelve this month. 

For some odd reason, I decided that today was the day. Out came the bag and we figured out a plan and I sewed it together in no time. I thought you might be proud of me, Mom. 

Miss you. 

Love, Bethany

    ****************

P.S. On another note. Remember how you used to disappear into the bathroom at strategic times, Mom?  When everything was up in the air, you would often disappear for a reset. I get it now.  XO