Yes, that is the view from my front porch

It occurs to me that my title photograph might be a bit misleading. Although we do live in the country (I took the picture while sitting on my porch last fall), we aren't farmers. As a matter of fact, I am a transplanted suburban girl. When we bought this house (with a bit more than 10 acres of land), the Hawkeye and I had to have some agreements about it.

Agreement #1: NO farm animals. This includes '4H projects,' 'hobby farm' type animals, or anything else even remotely related to this category. Animals stink, in my humble opinion, and I would like to continue enjoying my front porch without the odor.

Agreement #2: NO expecting me to be a farm-type housewife. Although I am a housewife, my food preserving capabilities are strictly limited to the freezer. I am a fairly good cook (well, I am Southern, after all), but I have no idea how to can. At all. A pressure cooker looks, to me, like a pretty efficient way to blow up the kitchen. Have I mentioned that I'm klutzy?

So, this has worked for us. We get to watch the farmer (that's 240 acres surrounding our land) plant, work and harvest his soybeans, cut hay and other farm-type activities, without having to do them ourselves. However, that land is now up for sale (progress in Middle Tennessee is rapidly resembling the suburban Atlanta that I lived in growing up) and I'm sad.

Maybe we should buy a cow? Nah.

Sweet hearts

The Volunteer family has finally caught the flu this year. First, the Hawkeye had it (and was miserable and out of work for three days which should have been five). Then, older son has caught it, as I have. Younger son is incredibly proud that he is the only one in the family who hasn't been sick.

Younger son also has such a sweet heart and boundless energy. We don't do Easter bunnies and baskets and such, but we do let them participate in the egg hunts at school, since they aren't competing with our worship and appreciation of what Easter is. So, he had some plastic eggs. When I dragged myself out of bed on Easter morning, I found the sweetest surprise! Younger son had put together an egg for each of us and put them at our places at the table. They each were full of his candy and a note that said "Happy Easter!" That is so typical of his heart.

Usually, we make resurrection cookies on Easter. The recipe includes a Bible study to go with the cookie ingredients. You pound nuts and read about how Jesus was flogged, smell and measure vinegar and read about how Jesus was given it to drink on the cross, taste salt and read about the tears of the women as he was crucified. Then, when adding egg whites and beating them, you read about how His sacrifice has made us whiter than snow. They're meringue cookies, so you seal the oven (like sealing the tomb) and turn it off. The next morning, the cookies are ready and are hollow inside like the empty tomb. This has really been a meaningful tradition for our family. So, we made them last night instead. Which is typical of us -- a day late and a dollar short most of the time!

In which little girls are apparently thick on the ground . . .

The scene: My two boys, neither of whom has hit double digits, are eating dinner at home with me and my husband. Older boy has burped with a wide-open mouth for, oh, maybe the fifth time in the meal. Mom is DONE. So, I try to make this a teaching time, you know, about life.

Me: Older son, you know some day, when you're 17 or 18, you're going to want to take a pretty girl out on a date. If ya'll are sitting at the table and you do that, she is going to want you to take her right home, and won't go out with you again.

Older son: (nonchalantly) So, that's when I'll need a back-up plan.

Me: (totally confused) A back-up plan?

Younger son: (In the well-of-course-voice) Yeah, another little girl.

Me: (trying to smother instant laughter) Well, see there's a problem with that plan. Teen-age girls would talk about these things, and the first little girl would tell the second about how older son has horrible manners.

Younger son: (shrugs eloquently, like of course this is no big deal): Well, then you need a third little girl.

Older son: (piling on here) Yeah.

My husband: Laughing uncontrollably.

Me: Also laughing uncontrollably, and thinking well, at this rate, I won't have to worry about them dating at all.

Just an example. The younger son is six, and honey, we rarely catch him flatfooted. He has an answer for everything. Maybe in my retirement years he can support me with his lawyer's salary.

Bible study

My church's women's group finished our study last night. It was this one, and was a great choice for this group. The workbook was frustrating because of some highly annoying graphic design and editing goofs, but the study was wonderful, and Liz is a phenomenally gifted speaker. So, now we're looking for another one. Although I love Beth Moore and have participated in three of her studies, the group just isn't ready for that yet. We're looking for 6 weeks, and some homework. Anyone have suggestions you've tried?

Fragility

I received an email yesterday from a dear friend at church. Her children are the same age as mine. Her mother has cancer and is hospitalized, and she is overwhelmed with the burden. It brought me to tears when praying for them -- that was our family, four years ago.

My father was terminally ill, four hours away, and we were overwhelmed. Physically, emotionally, and sometimes spiritually. It's the little things that sometimes send you over the edge - the grocery store trip that didn't happen, the homework that was forgotten, the laundry that needs to be washed. The children's questions that you can't answer. The situation you never thought you'd be in - my dad wasn't yet sixty when he died.

I've thought a lot since that time about how fragile life is. We all live like we're promised forever, like every day will go on just like the day before. We cling to life desperately, trying to wring every happiness we can out of our days. However, God didn't promise us forever here on earth, and I don't think He means for us to be that frantically attached to our life here. Forever is a promise to our souls, and unless we believe in his Son's sacrifice on the cross for our sins, that forever isn't pleasant at all. If we do, however, accept His invitation to believe, confess our sins, and follow Him, then, in His graciousness and mercy, He gives us forever, in heaven, with Him. Perfection for eternity. So why do we still long so much to stay here, where sickness, cruelty and sin rob us of so much joy?

My dad is healed in heaven. He will never again struggle for breath, never cry a tear, never have another panic attack. Do I miss him any less? (Of course not -- I'm in tears just thinking about it). Am I comforted knowing I will see him again someday? Absolutely. But I still hug my boys tighter, cherish my husband and my mom more, and look at life differently because I know, now, that it is short. That I can't control its duration, any more than I can control the weather.

Thinking of my friend, I longed to tell her of the good things God redeemed from that time. Both of my boys have made salvation decisions (because we prayed and talked about heaven so much, I think.) One of my friends selflessly poured her time and energy into our lives, taking care of so much for me and teaching me so much about joyful service. But that's so hard for my friend to think about right now. So I told her, instead, the truth: we're praying for her, as her church family, we're here for her, and I will do anything she will let me do to help her.

Because I know what fragile is. And I know what my Savior would have me do. And I long to be the woman, someday, that he wants me to be.