A Running Collection

Sunday afternoon we had a crew for lunch. I stood in the kitchen doing dishes and a young man – young as in dating and probably hoping to get married soon – propped his elbows on the counter and leaned in towards the sink. “So, how is marriage and being a mom?” Asked because he wasn’t exactly sure what else to discuss with a mom with a litter of children, washing dishes after feeding nine people lunch. I said it was awesome. Because it is. I said marriage just gets better year after year. I said raising kids is hard and rewarding. I said, “I’ve learned that I am not the judge of my husband and that my job is to walk beside him and forgive and encourage and remember and give and not act like I’m the one to help him change or be someone different, etc. It sounded pretty good. I was impressed with my answer. I think I made him feel good about marriage and kids. Well, that was Sunday. If he would have propped up those elbows Wednesday lunch.   I was ...

I’ve been slow to write down life. It seems a bit repetitive. Garden. Cook. Clean. Nurse. School. Cook. Clean. Change A Diaper. Swim. Cook. Clean. Sell produce.   Laundry. More laundry. And if it isn’t mundane, then it is strikingly full of activity. Pop corn this and jump on that.   Last Monday morning, I squeezed in a run and got the pool scrubbed and the coffee going. I thought I’d spend a moment meditating on the day while the house was quiet, but before I’d read the first words, a red head appeared in the room. And then another and another.   And George walked in with little Hannah. It’s a busy house in the blink of an eye. We decided to take inventory in the garden with our coffee. I’d missed a phone call while we were out. It was the post office. Our chicks, we'd ordered, had arrived. The children dashed to the car in their pajamas. As the car left the driveway, the electrician was here for a big project. And before the heat, we colle...

His face was swollen. He looked like a potato head. He didn’t look like life. I thought he was going to die. It couldn’t be time for him to leave us yet. There was life yet to live.   Grandpa was in his 80s and he had just come out of quadruple bypass surgery. I ran outside and stood in the sidewalk right there at the hospital. I looked up into the sky and begged and pleaded with God not to take him. When he was finally alert enough to talk with us, swollen and patched together, we asked him how he was doing. He just smiled and said, “Fantastic!” He lived until he was ninety He was always fantastic. He was forever smiling. Forever making sure that our hearts were at rest, that our souls were filled and that our lives were full. He loved to dance. He loved to laugh and play games. He loved to worship and he loved the truth. The truth was, as long as he had breath, he was fantastic. When he was so uncomfortable. When his mind slipped away. He was still fantastic...

 Just a year ago, we moved into a old run down house. A White House green with mildew, on five acres with run down sheds and barns that needed to be flattened. The yard was overgrown, the house needed to have everything updated and replaced and fixed. We wanted it. We bought it. We started cutting and hauling and cleaning and scrubbing and power washing and rewiring and painting and tearing out carpet. We haven't stopped thinking of ways to use the land. The house isn't updated yet, but that's okay. We've got pigs and gardens and chickens and we are dreaming of a cow. We soak in the green and the trees and the beauty surrounding us. The house oozes stories from someone's childhood. Someone that had a childhood you only wish you can/could have had. The childhood we want for our children.  The house only knew one other family. We've kept in touch. The daughter that grew up here visited a few weeks ago with her children. We walked the land and through the ...