Creative Fears and Feasts

As a child I claimed to have nearly drowned from seaweed. Where as in actual fact, i nearly drowned from my imagination. Seaweed had wrapped its hairy tentacle arms around my legs, and was dragging me into the deep layer where fish gorge themselves on small pink toes. My kicking and trying to stay above their reach had become hopeless so suddenly.

Having an overactive imagination is a blessing and a curse. The average dark patch of woods- breaths dark things with eyes of intelligence waiting… waiting to ponce.
And yet, a simple sentence from a child’s chattering mouth can set alight a series of images worthy of satisfying delight. Adventure and distracted pleasure is where ever I imagine it to be.
My imagination can turn nearly anything mundane thing I do in the day, into something terribly extravagant and quite worth writing about.
Yes, I truly write most my stories about really nothing overly extraordinary at all. Yet they come to life in my mind and grow, and stretch, and spread wide arms AND well… I’ve been told can be somewhat amusing.
Entertaining to the children, if no one else.

The other day we went for a walk in the woods. I could leave it at that. After all that really is what we did.


But
then
you couldn’t ever know that our woods has a Beard Shop.


This tree is where the Forest Nome’s come to collect their daily beards before heading off to work. Now you see all that Old Man’s Beard strung out and hanging ready for a new day, don’t you?
The aspen trees along our path were bent like long Giant fingers, crossed in thought.  The boys were helpful standing on the odd finger that lay too low, so we could get the stroller over. Then the children climbed up Pebble Mountain, an exposed bank along the trail. On top of Pebble Mountain is Bramble Look-out and Dead Dog Log (Jonas’ clever name for what he thought was dog bones). They climbed over and over again, sending pebbles bouncing off into the abyss.


The younger ones and I pushed through Deep Ravine heading home again, while Jonas bush-wacked in the sun above us, keeping us in sight. We sent out calls when the underbrush grew dense-till we finally met up again where we tromped though every puddle we could find- till we found ourselves home again.

This is my imagination enriching my life. But then sometimes…

I’ll be driving home at night and slow down for strange hooded creatures about to cross the road, or large wolves… that aren’t really there.
Winter nights locking up the chickens can have my heart pounding with one crack from the woods. I can think of a million ways we could die 4×4-ing, and can envision the sickness that I “could” contract if I touch… that… (at which point my child would probably eat it).

I’m on a journey of discovering how to stay imaginative, but not fearful.
To hold every thought captive,
but not be the captive of my thoughts.
To be creative- but free.

Sometimes I have to stop my mind. Tell it to go no further. I’m only just learning how. I replace the fearful thought with Truths.

It’s a journey I know that I can’t navigate on my own. But thankfully The Maker of all wisdom, Creator of the great imagination, and The Great Conquer (of even death), has offered me His help. I love that God loves me enough to challenge and grow me into more than I ever thought possible while constantly reminding me of His faithfulness.
And the thing with a journey is
it always makes
for a great

story.

A Fuzzy Spring

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Spring has come to Quesnel B.C. and with it children, chickens, and chicks roam about my yard.

The lawn has finally stopped talking to me which each step and the mud lakes have receaded to mere puddles.  AND from my lawn chair

I CANT SEE ANY SNOW.

During The Melt our coop which was like an island (Poop Island) was only accessible by boot.
Yep, B.O.O.T
Yet daily I washed a steady flow of stinky soggy socks from the “forgetful”. Those socks worked like toppings- on the mud caked pants that clogged the laundry room.

It felt like things couldn’t possibly melt fast enough, so I attempted to help it along early on in March. Frustrated that the garden gate was frozen shut, I found myself climbing the 8 foot fence, chuckling at my agility, and landing in the garden with my kids snow shovel. I rediscovered my dirt.

I let the chickens in the garden and created pathways for the flock. Then I chipped away at the ice holding my gate captive, and two days later I opened it’s latch. I flung it wide and entered my pad with great satisfaction.

Then it was coop mucking out time.
My Mom happened to visit from the Okanagan. Being the country girl she is, that coop was mucked and freshly chipped before the kettle announced tea. She also rubbed my sore shoulders from my previous attempt. Thanks Mom.

A deck shoveling work party also commenced. Involving all my small people and their neighbor friend. As it turns out, pretending to be construction workers demolishing a great ice wall is a great deal of rewarding fun.
And
The kitchen view was also much improved.

Then it became time to prepare for our April arrivals. Much to my surprise, they ALL arrived that first week of April.

Pepper

Five fuzzy little chicks!
I dared not hoped for a 100% hatch rate. (All those times the Broody hen hopped off the eggs and how cold it was during her setting time!) But the Great Creator built His creation with such intuition in these things. I was baffled and amazed at how our young Chicken Mother, not quite a year old, knew exactly how to hatch chicks. When to pluck her stomach feathers to warm the eggs, when to hop off to eat, drink, and poo, when to hold up on the nest, rotate her eggs, and lastly care for her young in the feathers of her wings.
The children and I had troubles knowing just how many chicks had hatched, as they were all tucked up inside their mothers down. We counted the egg shells she tossed out of the nest, and ooed and awed as little fuzzy heads popped out only to quickly bob back in. Sometimes the mother would move and a chick would fall out from under her. The chick would run a little circle then dive back into its mother like a bird disappearing into a hedge. The last to hatch, Clover, would ride on top of her mothers feet tucked up in the warmth of feathers with only her stick legs poking out.
The kids and I squealed and marveled at their antics.

Elise and Pepper

 

With the sunshine, yellow balls of  breathing fuzz, and my own little fledgling son toddling around the yard in gumboots. Spring danced in. Jonas, Elise and Sammy have also spend nearly as much time in the air as the ground with the excitement of having their trampoline back together. They even drag little Si up on there. I love calling them from the deck to come in for dinner and hearing them laughing and out of breath. Then watching as they dangle their legs from the tramp, feel with their toes, and drop into their boots. I smile as they use teamwork to re-boot their little brother. One kid holding on tight while the other crams on the gumboots.
Then all four run in for dinner.

I love that although I tried to help Spring along with her melting, and the hen with her hatching, and my children with their growing- they all did it anyway
under the watchful care and design

of God.

And me? I get to witness it, marvel at it, touch it, hug it, feel it and thank Him for this abundant Life.

Messes and Roots

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I go to grab milk out of the fridge and slip on an empty container on the floor my toddler pulled out. I then go to use the bathroom (that I just cleaned) and grimace as i look at the hand print smears on the mirror and dirt splatters all over the sink.
In the coat room jackets and splash pants drip puddles onto the entrance floor. Gum boots, snow boots, dress boots, runners, hikers, shoes, booties and slippers are piled in mounds, their patterned trails dotting the floor to the door. Mitts crowd for space on the house heating vents. And the laundry room greedily accepts puddle drenched clothing ignoring it’s Max capacity.
All the while my toddler continues with his interior design methods throughout the house.

And I…

Contemplate taking the children, and dumping all their dresser drawers in the mud puddle out front- to just skip right to the outcome. Muddy Mess. Throwing all the jackets, footwear, mitts and house mats on top.
No wait… maybe the kids on top.
Then I’d just go ahead and clean the house and

smell it.

Gaze upon its cleanliness.

Bask in its clutter-less peace.

And
Lets be honest… I’d go berserk with boredom.

Besides, I’d probably have to go out and get those children off the mud pile. I can’t go long without missing all those squishy love hugs that remedy my day.

But here’s my analogy.
Some days I feel like the house.
That I can’t keep myself together, or in order. That I can’t keep up with shrugging off the burdens tossed on me, the pressures and circumstances scattered across my floor. That my glass keeps getting smudgy and I’m having a hard time focusing on Truths.

And in it all I’m learning deep things. Slowly. Painfully. But it’s also freeing.

Where are the roots of my tree planted? My roots. Are they in shallow dry ground? Will I be easily uprooted in a storm? Do circumstances, people, and my feelings hold me and sustain me? Or is it God- with his cool deep running water that I have to reach my little roots down for? He tells me He has a plan for my life, and that He can give me everything I need for that plan. That He’s enough. He’s always there and is unchanging. If my roots are in Him and His truths then every storm that comes my way will only make me stronger.
Did you know trees need wind to grow strong? That there was a study done where they grew trees in a very large greenhouse (Biosphere 2) without wind. Although the trees shot up fast and tall, they then fell from their own weight. They were weak.

So I’m working on my roots. Yanking on the shallow ones and trying to retrain them. So that my peace and joy in life isn’t dependent on my kids, my husband, my friends, my home, healthy dinners, our money, homeschool successes, or less messes. But instead they’re wrapped tight around the unchanging Jesus and His promises.

I’m by no means there; deep rooted and standing tall. But i’m determined to not be a measly tumble weed that just tucks and rolls at life’s blows.

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Winters Voice

 

Nestled in the van with the heater warming our toes we sped along the cold roads early this morning leaving our house. We came down the hill, and there before us was a sight to behold.
“Wow! Look at that!” Jonas called from the back seat.

The sun broke from the clouds igniting the silver mountains. In shimmering rays it pulled at Fog slumbering upon the tree tops, drawing out his spindly arms. There before us they danced,
Sun and Fog
swirling together like marbled sponge cake.

As we neared the woods I saw as they skipped and chased after one another through the forests of tall aspens. Beams of light and tendrils of cloudy mist weaving in and out. The scenes flashed by our windows like photographs in a film reel.

The Aspen stood there, knobby knees poking out, wearing only their white bathrobes and fluffy bunny slippers. Their twigs tangled with their neighbors, like a swath of bad morning hair. They didn’t join the dance, they remained firmly planted in the icy snow drifts- observing.
Much too drowsy from Winter‘s voice.

An old three rung fence, had his arms outstretched protectively around the aspens, scolding the sun and the fog for playing so. “HUSH!” He creaked, quivering with age.
“Don’t wake them!”
Did Old Fence hear something I didn’t?

Ah, it must be Joy. So beautiful, childish, and bright. Whispering of Hope and Spring. Joy singing while Winter preens showing us her dazzling beauty.
The day just bursts with it all, shouting, whispering, singing
of their Maker. God.
King of Hope.
Purpose.
Promise.
Life.

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An old photo of Sun… because I “wrote” the photo of what I saw

 

 

Snowsuits and Chickens

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“It’s a five egg day.” I told my 17 month old as I came out of the coop. I showed him the last egg, a little spotted and creamy brown. He batted at it with his snowsuit arm, because

One cannot do anything in a full-body-snowsuit.

We had just popped over to feed treats to the chickens.
It’s kinda like feeding the ducks at the park;
little people love it.
Some of the birds peck nicely from your hand and others are convinced your flesh is part of the package and try to take some of that too. We’ve figured out which ones are which and try to distract the crazy birds by sprinkling seeds in the snow, then we hand feed our favorites. Silas waddles around in his suit and occasionally squishes a chicken between his outstretched plank arms.
Yesterday Sammy, three, tried to feed a chicken in his snowsuit. He removed his mitts. Tried to squat. Tipped over. And got a poop on his hand. Then wiped it in the snow… and got a poopy snowy hand.
I try my best to maneuver Silas around the fresh poops when we’re in the chicken run, but eventually I have to take him out and close the gate because the odds get worse as the chasing of chickens increases. Besides he’s particularity interested in their little ramp going into coop… and if he crawled in there I’d have to throw out his snowsuit.
We’re trying the “Deep Bedding Method” which in a nutshell is leaving all your chickens crap in the coop over the winter mixing it, and just adding more bedding. It composts and keeps some added heat. You don’t crawl in that.
I gathered up my pail. The chickens had gone back to tucking up one foot into their downy feathers and standing in the snow with the other. Then the quick switch to warm up the other foot; waiting in hope that I might still have more tasty treats in my bucket.
I slid that last warm egg into my wool pocket and started down the path to the house calling Silas.
Looking back I see Silas has wondered off the path and is trying to tread through deep snow. He’s headed to the ditch in the yard…

You don’t land well in full-body-snowsuits either. You kinda just… plop.
Like a forward facing snow-angel.

I jog back and am careful not to crush the egg in my pocket as I direct him back onto the path where he picks up speed. I give him an airlift over the ditch and we progress towards the house until he spots the giant inflated turtle the kids abandoned to a snow-pile. Then he sits.

Now a full-body-snowsuit sits O.K…
Un- sitting is where
things
get
complicated.

You must roll to your belly, go on all fours then walk backwards with your hands till you reach your toes. At which time you stand hoping you don’t have too much momentum which would topple you… back onto your back.
It’s all worth it though-the snowsuit. He’s as warm as toast.
In fact, come inside time, he’s the warmest.

Once indoors I get to do the chasing.
Chasing that toasty-warm-fully-bodied- snow-suited- chubby-bub out of that orange thing.
It’s almost like catching a chicken.

Words are like small candies.

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Fob.
“Don’t just fob it off on me!”
My friend used this word the other day at the Homeschool moms table.
Ya, a bunch of us cool moms steal all the chairs at the recenter and sit around a table socializing while our children take swimming lessons.
People always worry about children getting enough socializing.
Peeps! What about their Mamma’s?
Seriously, hanging around the same small children everyday- think of all the nerdy things we could pick up…
Anyways, fob.
I’d never heard of it before. It was wonderfully new.
I love new words.
They are like small candies on your tongue. First the taste surprises you. Then you keep sucking on it, intrigued by the flavor. You try it with a different one and get a satisfying result. And then…. you can’t get enough of it. Till accidentally, you over eat of the same flavor and it becomes dull… and familiar.
And so

you need a new word.

So what’s an interesting word you like to use? Or just recently learned?
Tell me.

Fob is tasty, and if you haven’t tried it- go for it friend.
But I’m in need of a new one.

The Game

 

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Sometimes my 15-month-old want’s to go outside so badly, the kids and I just don’t have the heart to say “No”. He brings you his shoes and says “sh, sh, shhhhh…” (shoes) and we melt.
Anyways, It was about that time of day when I’m suppose to know what were having for supper… and should be working on it. But instead we all piled on our bikes, plunked the baby in his captains seat, and wen’t and got the neighbor boy. The Little boy down our street makes any-old “bike trip with Mom” more exciting for my kids.
With the neighbor boy blasting ahead with my oldest, and Elise and Sammy trailing behind, we entered the large acreage behind our property. The moss covered old grey gate threw back one of it’s arms as if to usher us in.

To the secret world.
Where the game is played.

It was silent except for the sound of bikes whizzing through the puddles that lined the long, long, soggy dirt road. The road blurred out at the end, and the closer we came, the more of it disappeared. It was like it was becoming erased and soon we would bike off

into space.

Fog. It filled my nose, curled the tendrils of my hair. It was glorious.

It hung on the tips of wheat, hushing the field, making it yield with it’s palm.

It slithered it’s self around an abandoned farm shelter, teasing the old boat ground firmly in rich farm soil. That boat.  The one that dreams of floods.

 

The trees popped their noses up like they were going for air, the fog tightening at their throats. It hypnotizes the world, willing all to be still and silent.

But those bikes.
Those children.

They laugh and break through the clasped fingers, sending fog rolling off to the sides.
They fly through the spell unharmed.
Well, except for me… (I get a bug good and lodged into my eye ball. It pricks me endlessly till I remove it with a q-tip at home. Garth! Why always my eye?!)

But the fog? It pushes at our backs with dusk, urging us through the gate, before it slinks back to it’s game, without kids.

The fast children bike fast,
and the slow tug from behind,
and I peddle that little Outside-Baby back to the safe house.

I make creamed veggie soup with cheese and pepperoni, and Jonas helps me whip up some biscuits that we slather with homemade jam. We sit happily and I mull over thoughts of the Creator- and His fantastic world.

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The Little Cleaning Lady

I cleaned the toilet today.

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As i twirled the toilet brush around and around making white the sides of the bowl- her words streamed through my mind.
Yet again.

“Oh and I don’t use a toilet brush. Don’t you just think they are absolutely terrible? They are never cleaned and just carry all that bacteria… Don’t you agree?”
Nineteen-years-old, working as a newbie cleaning lady, I found myself nodding. Of course I agreed, toilet brushes ARE disgusting, and seriously if this lady doesn’t want me to bother cleaning the inside of her toilet- I’m totally for it. I was agreeing enthusiastically when she handed me a rag.
“So I just clean it by hand then toss out the rag.”
Wait. Can I change what i said about toilet brushes? I LOVE the them. They are a bathroom revelation.

It’s funny the things you remember.

You know… when you forget how much your kids weighed at birth, what day to pick up your Mother-in-law from the airport, or that year you devoted to Music Theory. But somehow cleaning stories found a dusty corner in your brain and nestled in for long term.
I was nineteen and wanted to get a job working with elderly people. Turns out it was harder to get one than i thought. Somehow I ended up a cleaning lady for a business called “Senior to Senior”. The idea being that an older lady came to clean another older persons home. Thing was,

I wasn’t old.

In fact I sported a baby face making me look like I should still be in school. Which plenty of elderly ladies scolded me for. I’d ding the bell and they would open the door. “Yvonne? Oh my. Your much younger than I expected.” It’s my name right… “Shouldn’t you still be in school dear?”

There was a lady, who we later learned had Dementia, who sometimes wouldn’t let me in because she couldn’t remember me. Or threaten to not sign off on my competition form because, after all, she never called for a cleaning lady and if I wanted to clean her place who was she to stop me?
I once picked up a spoon in her kitchen and screamed as the bowl came with it.
Glued by stale milk.
She had a beautiful piano. Buried beneath stacks and stacks of newspapers and magazines. I polished it’s wood, where i could find it, and tried not to listen to it as it called out to me, screaming to be freed from its grave of unuse.

Mrs. Glass, a famous author for adventure Scottish books, was stuck in a little apartment way up on some floor I can’t remember. How did she write about the world, when her space was so confining? And she had a terrible vacuum.

The little old lady who always baked for me. She’d insist before I did the kitchen floors I had a glass of milk and one of her lemon squares. She taught me about vinegar and dish soap being the best floor cleaner. She also gave me her 5 bottles, because she thought I might like to spoil myself with a little something with the refund money.

One couple I cleaned for had a really fancy house. They reported that they didn’t like the way I cleaned the bathroom and wanted their old cleaning lady back. I’d missed cleaning the bathroom baseboards. My boss came with me and had them explain how they wanted things cleaned and they kept me on.
I hated it.
Every ornament I picked up to dust had me persperating. Then one sunny summer day they were sipping cool drinks on the patio with a friend over. On the other side of the balcony’s screen door I vacuumed the house. I was vacuuming around the corner in the living room, looking at one of their framed pictures, when I realized with instant horror my vacuum had just swallowed up the bottom of one of their shear curtains! “Crap, crap, crap!” I muttered shutting off the vacuum.  I ran to the corner of the living room and peaked around the corner to see if they had heard. They were laughing sipping cool drinks, fluffing their white hair. I ran back flaming red, dripping with anxiety, to the drape devourer.
Somehow, painfully slow, I untangled it. I brushed it as clean as I could and moved on.
I never told them.
But, to this day,  I always remember to clean my bathroom baseboards.

I wasn’t a very good cleaning lady. Some of my clients taught me how to do it properly, or how they liked it. Others, like this old guy who wanted the rust out of his toilet, thought I was a waste of money. Some took advantage of my youth and put me to good use weeding rock landscape, or doing two story houses in their 2hr time slot. But my boss took good care of me, and dealt with clients.

Some clients were simply fantastic! I remember strapping rags to my feet with this one couple and skating all around their house polishing hardwood floors with them!

Mr. Sanders.
He was like Mr. Wilson from Dennis the Menace. He was prickly, but I had a heart for him. He was terribly lonely. His wife had died, and he had nothing left except her many paintings to keep him company.
Oh and his Florida girlfriend who occasionally visited and he spent winters with. She wasn’t the settle down type.
Mr. Sanders will forever be in my memory. Reason being, he will probably be lonely till his death.
As sweet as he was in his prickly own way, He couldn’t forgive. He disowned (His words) his two children. Thing is, I don’t remember ONE of the “terrible”, “unforgivable” things his children did to him… although he told me over and over again.
I just remember watching with sadness and trying to explain to him- that it was Him that was suffering from his unforgiveness.
He was bitter. Lonely. And missing out big time.

When I get old (and suit my old-fashioned name in all its glory) I hope I bake lemon squares. Share my pop bottles, polish floors with little cleaning ladies, give hugs, and am busy pouring into family and many grand-kids. Maybe take them out for pancake breakfast on their birthday like my Grandparents always did.
Hope I treat people with value. Not objects or fancy curtains.
Forgiving even when I’m wronged, because “God demonstrated His perfect love for us- while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.”* When Christ was being crucified, nailed to a cross with thorns on his brow- He pleaded with God to forgive them “for they know not what they do”.**
I can forgive because I’ve been forgiven.
Jesus didn’t wait till we said sorry. Or got our crap together. He gave everything for us. Sometimes we need to forgive even when we haven’t been asked.
For them… But also for us.
So I was thinking. Forgiveness is kinda like a toilet brush- making things all clean and sparkly white on the inside… till next week when you’re gonna have to go ahead and use that brush again…

Anyways.
Parting note: When I’m old I’ll probably be a real gem. I might break tradition and start stacking pianos on top of my newspaper.

* Romans 5:8
** Luke 23:34

Good Kids

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I was making dinner and it was almost ready. The baby was in the high chair and the other children were happily building with duplo in the playroom. I needed the table set while I finished up dinner on the stove. I knew if I called Elise or Jonas to come, they would say “OK” and quickly come get the job done. They would also ask before they went back to playing, “Is there anything else?”
Because I got crazy lucky with being given such well mannered children. Right?
Well let me finish my table setting tale.
I’d asked Jonas and Elise a lot lately and I knew all too well it was Sammy’s turn. I’d been putting it off… It’s the truth. I knew exactly what I was getting into.
“Sammy, I’d like you to come set the table tonight.”
I hear loud truck noises but no response.
I repeat, and he says “in a minute”.
I say “Now.” And give a consequence.
He’s in the kitchen.
With a whine so bad he might as well be a distant chainsaw- that just won’t quit.
“I want you to set the table with a good attitude.” I say over the whine.
Then I lay it out. “You can set the table with a good attitude. OR you can have a spank and THEN set the table. Either way your setting the table, you decide.”
The whine gets more desperate. His legs turn to jello. He’s having troubles standing. His legs become like alien tentacles wriggling around the sides of his body. His feet, flop like he’s wearing flippers in the house, with loud sluggish steps. Panting he reaches the table and tries to lift the first plate. But with a sputtering moan gravity pulls the burdensome weight back down on the the stack. He’s gasping. Now there is quick sand! sucking his body downward! his chin hits the table and is being dragged to the edge, he’s…

Made his choice.

The baby is fussing, the dinner needs to be watched or it could burn, and it’s so tempting to just throw my warning on repeat, “remember I said…”.
It’s tempting, and I’ve done it. But it will almost guarantee  a repeat on this kind of help the next time I ask him.
I shut off the stove and discipline him. Enough that he’s not going to choose it a second time (hopefully). And I tell him I love him.
Because I do.
I love him enough to discipline him, to show him right from wrong. To help him to be a good person. To help him to honor authority and to do tasks with a happy heart. To train him in what is right.
My children know as I hug and forgive them for their sin that It’s because I love them that I discipline them.
Because I tell them.
I ask them, “would it be very loving of me to let you get away with [thing they did], and be a naughty child that grows up to be a bad person?”
They always say No. They don’t particularly like being around naughty kids themselves.
“I love you, so I’m going to train you and show you how to be good.” Sometimes I have to say, “I told you how to be good, but you didn’t listen.”
And they say, “but I forgot that’s what you said!”
and I tell them, “I know that’s why I showed you, to help you remember.”

No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.
Hebrew 12:11

God, our Father, out of love gives us consequences for our wrong to train and teach us for our well being. Because the Lord disciplines those he loves, as a father the son he delights in.~ Proverbs 3:12
So we discipline our children as well.
And because we’re Christians we believe Jesus forgives us for our sins when we ask. So we also teach the children that.
It’s dealt with, they don’t need to feel guilty. They are forgiven. This is such a precious moment for both me and the child- the set it right button if you will. (If I hadn’t gone through with disciplining them properly I would still hold annoyed feelings for them and not have this re-set, leaving things unsettled between us).
It’s a long process and a lot of diligence and hard work. I often become frustrated, lazy, and take “shortcuts” that I pay for. But the beauty of having 4 kids, is by the time you hit the third your starting to see the fruit of your labor in the first and second child- and its encouraging.
My husband Sam, and God, with his book of wisdom, are always training, equipping and helping me. So even if I may think it, I’m not doing it alone.

So Sammy did set the table, and did a good job.
He wasn’t angelic and completely reformed.
But slightly sputtering and ever so quietly moaning.
His behavior is still a work in progress.

“So let’s not get tired of doing what is good. At just the right time we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don’t give up. Galatians 6:9

My children may try my patience and sometimes it feels like too much of the same lessons over and over and over again till i want to just hit my head on a wall, and cry for sweet mercy.
But they bless me.
They are SUCH  wonderful blessings.
And
I really enjoy
being around them.

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