Another year older for my Miss Bethany.  I can’t say that this adventure in teenage years has been without typical teenage girl issues…emotional extremes, the occasional back-talk, etc.  But she has also grown in maturity and responsibility.  While once I had to almost look over her shoulder to make sure her school, chores, and other tasks were getting done, I am now confident in her ability to (mostly) manage her daily responsibilities with diligence and an ever-improving work ethic.

It has become more and more apparent, especially this past year, that Bethany is capable of great dedication and perseverance when given a task that matters to her.  She has taken over ownership and care of our chickens this past year, and she has been diligent and motivated and thorough in her care for them.  Likewise, when given any cooking or baking responsibility, she takes it on with enthusiasm and aplomb.  My girl, who once had trouble seeing any task through to completion, will take on ambitious baking, or chocolate making, or even dinner preparation endeavors, and happily work at them with focus and cheerfulness.

In family Bible study times, I see also how firmly the Word of God had been planted in her heart.  She knows and applies scripture thoroughly and confidently.  More than just knowing the words, she   has meditated on them and understood them to an extent that, at times, surprises even me.

I am thankful to see God working in Bethany’s heart and in her work ethic and in her character.  I love the young lady she is and the strong woman of God she is becoming.  It is a joy and privilege to be her mom, and to take a moment to remind myself of the gift she has been these fifteen years.

Today hasn’t been a great day for me.  Not really for any good reason, just life stresses and lack of sleep, mostly.  And I’m not normally one who is easily brought to gratitude for the “everyday” blessings of life.

But right now, I have a crock-pot of chili that is full of organic meat and veggies simmering fragrantly in my kitchen (whether or not you believe there is any benefit in the organic distinction, the fact of its availability in mid-winter is noteworthy).  There is a sheet-pan full of winter squash baking in the oven.  I have a warm mug of coffee on the table beside me and cozy blanket wrapped around me.

I am able to look out the window at picturesque snowfall; and earlier, I lay down in a pile of deep fluffy snow while sunshine and snowflakes fell softly on my face – able to enjoy this winter wonderland without any of the fear or hardship it has the potential to bring.

Washer and dryer are cycling through five loads of laundry. Five loads from only two days.  Five loads representing God’s provision, and our simple routine, and our full home.  The dishwasher runs for a second round today, because we are all home for almost all of our meals.  Some people might think that makes our lives sound small; I think it makes our lives sound unbelievably blessed.

My husband is spending his afternoon doing shopping and errands, because he loves me and knows that the stress those things cause me in the current social climate of our world is more than I can handle.  My older kids are happily whiling away their afternoon playing a board game with a friend, my littles are watching a movie and munching on popcorn.

It’s true that I sometimes bemoan the unfinished or slow projects around this house, but even more true is that while the stresses of life outside these walls often threaten to overwhelm me, I am thankful beyond words for the life I have in this home, with these people who are my favorite people in the universe.  And I’m thankful for my God, who knows – among all the other things about me that He knows – my frailty and my need for a safe harbor.  He has provided more of what I truly need than I could have ever asked for.

This one’s hard for me.  I’m sure next year will be harder still.  Caedmon is another year older, another year closer to adulthood.  It would be an understatement to say I’ve shed a few tears over this fact.

But right now, I’m not going to borrow trouble worrying about the future or reliving the past.  I’m simply going to celebrate who Caedmon is today.

Today, Caedmon is a hard worker who identifies what needs to be done, and does it.

Caedmon is a terrific big brother who has wrestling matches with Lucas, plays games with his littlest sisters, and [usually] graciously fills the role of everyone’s first choice for sharing ideas or new knowledge or funny stories.

Caedmon is intelligent and diligent.  His respectably high PSAT scores have resulted in a steady stream of emails and brochures from colleges eager to capture his interest.

Caedmon still, and probably forever, loves Lego.  It has been his most enduring interest and still comprises a healthy portion of any Christmas or birthday wish list.

Caedmon is a talented musician.  Though events this past year have limited any performance opportunities, he has continued with saxophone lessons virtually, and spends considerable free time at the piano or transcribing music by ear.

Caedmon is, somewhat unwittingly, learning how to tackle many home improvement projects.  From installing a sump pump, to plastering a wall (with real plaster, not drywall compound), to putting up ceiling joists, to insulating walls, to starting on scraping and painting our garage, he has learned a lot of new skills, just this past year alone.

Caedmon is an avid writer.  He has written both a juvenile fiction chapter book, which I’ve read and honestly think is great, and a novel-length young adult book that he is still revising.  He is looking into publishing options and preparing to do what he needs to do to see his books in print.

Caedmon is someone I consider a good friend.  Odd for me, as I still have to occasionally engage in disciplining, lecturing and (hopefully not harsh) taskmaster-ing(?), but I genuinely enjoy his company, and hearing his thoughts, and goofing around with him.  I might be biased, but I think he’s a phenomenal young man.  To say I’m thankful for him doesn’t begin to describe how grateful I am that God made me Caedmon’s mom.  I truly so excited to be able to celebrate this oldest son of mine on his seventeenth birthday, and I hope and pray for many, many more.

Elijah is always staunchly Elijah.  He has his own brand of humor, his own sense of style, his own unique strengths (and weaknesses) in how he learns.  He endures regular ribbing from his older siblings about some of his more original preferences, but he doesn’t back down.  And these are all things I love about my Buddy.

But the quality I want to specifically note on this eleventh birthday of his is his compassionate heart.  It was impressed upon me recently when I sprained my ankle pretty badly.  Elijah was by my side, doing anything and everything I needed, right from the start.  Now, I think it’s worth noting that hard work isn’t generally one of his strong suits.  But for me, he practically bent over backward to serve in any way he could.  And even in general he is especially tender-hearted.  He makes sure to give me a hug every morning.  He comforts me if I’m sad.  He patiently, kindly instructs and plays with his younger siblings.  He is still a natural encourager, when he feels like it’s safe to open up.

I love his heart.  So much.  There are lessons to be learned and pitfalls to look out for that come with that sensitivity, but I think he’s learning.

I’m thankful for these eleven years and the blessing Elijah has been to me, to our family.  He brings laughter and energy and joy to our home.  I’m so happy I get to celebrate him today.

I think I have always subconsciously thought that a false prophet knows he is a false prophet.  I’ve figured that they must just find some benefit in the lie.  In some stories in the Bible it can seem like its obvious to everyone that the false prophets are purposely leading people astray…or at least purposely tickling their ears.  I don’t know that I had honestly ever considered the possibility that false prophets might believe what they’re peddling…until reading the story of Elijah on Mt. Carmel for what seems like the thousandth time.

I guess I’ve always, somehow, seen it as lighthearted.  I know it’s not really, but something about Elijah’s almost cocksure attitude, and the awesome way God shows up have served to make the story inspirational and not too scary to me.  But lately, I’ve thought a lot more about those 450 prophets of baal.  I’d always kind of viewed them as a joke – powerless, pathetic, charlatans.  I thought they couldn’t possibly have actually thought they served the real God.  Their actions seem to tell a different story, though.

While Elijah looked on mockingly, these false prophets were dead serious, even going so far as to cut themselves to try to make their “god” hear them.  What kind of delusion must they have been under to believe in a non-existent deity so much that they would take such extreme action?  And if they would do that to themselves, in the name of serving baal, what would they do to others?

Although the Bible stories about Elijah always seem to me to have a not-so-serious undertone, his circumstances were often dire.  Speaking the truth cost him dearly and caused him to rely solely on God’s miraculous provision more than once, just to survive.

I realize it can seem like a stretch to draw parallels between Elijah’s experience and that of Christians in the world today, but I’m at least learning the importance of recognizing the seriousness of our circumstances – the reality that the father of lies has completely captivated the hearts and minds of so many people, and they are dead-set against any acknowledgement of Who the true God is.

It honestly scares me.  For as much as I can bemoan past circumstances of life, I can’t deny that life is still pretty comfortable, pretty easy.  And I’d be lying if I said that I’m really okay with that changing.  But I think that’s a big part of the problem.  While we have an enemy ready to do whatever it takes to gain the upper hand, we have many Christians who just want to do whatever it takes to stay comfortable, to avoid change, to live in “peace”.

I’ve thought a lot about Jesus’ statement that He did not come to bring peace, but a sword (Matthew 10:34), as so many people in the Church are shouting from the proverbial rooftops about love and unity and compassion.  Not that those are bad things, or wrong things, but they are being pursued at the expense of truth, and, I think, with an underlying motivation of personal comfort.

I’m feeling challenged, I guess.  Will I stand for truth no matter the cost?  Is there anything hindering me from living in full submission to the Lord?  I won’t pretend to know what the future holds, but I don’t want to be surprised if, or when, serving the Lord means making truly hard choices and learning what it means to know the fellowship of His suffering.

There has rarely been an issue that has caused me so much anxiety.  And I have struggled to understand why.  It honestly is not the issue of having my rights stripped away (though that does concern me, I recognize that, Constitution aside, we are not biblically guaranteed “rights”), nor even my own personal discomfort when donning a mask.  This issue of mask wearing is so stressful to me because of the false narrative that has accompanied it.

People are being told – and are believing hook, line and sinker – that masks are doing something there is simply no proof they can do [as long as people follow standard social practices of not coughing and sneezing on others…which we all should have learned early on in life].  Factual studies are being ignored in favor of anecdotal “evidence”…or, worse, are being cited as saying one thing when they, in fact, say the opposite.  I’m bothered that large swaths of our society, and world, are grabbing hold of a philosophy, and then trying to forcefully impose that philosophy on others, without ever studying the so-called evidence of what they are claiming is “science”.  Then, arguing with, criticizing, and condemning those that have done their due diligence and come to a very different conclusion.

I’m bothered that Christians are trying to make this an issue of compassion, when I can’t wrap my head around this idea that perpetuating a lie instead of exposing it, is what is considered to be compassionate.  I fully understand being compassionate about the very real fear that this virus has evoked in people.  But as I watch pretty much our entire society walking around with masks on, ignoring scientifically proven methods of preventing viral spread (namely, keeping physical distance and practicing good hygiene)…and as the overwhelming statistical evidence shows no benefits from masking…I can’t help but feeling frustrated and helpless that so many people have misplaced their trust in something that won’t protect them in the vast majority of situations in which they might find themselves.

And then to have it asserted that I am the person who isn’t compassionate?  I doggedly maintain my distance in public, and am careful to breathe through my nose (which does not result in asymptomatic spread) and I don’t cough or sneeze in public, but none of that seems to matter to anyone, because masks have been touted as the gold-standard preventative.  Maybe Christians need to revisit what it truly means to love people.  Because last I checked, doing that which is actually proven to protect someone, instead of just doing the thing that someone erroneously thinks will protect them, is in reality more loving and compassionate.

Incidentally, I think the argument for compassion becomes even more problematic when faced with the realization that there are many people (including many Christians) who have fears associated with the thought of wearing masks.  Fears of freedom being stripped away and a bleak future for their children and yes, even health concerns (though the media has gone to great lengths to downplay these concerns).  If we make someone else’s perception of a situation our only gauge of what’s right and compassionate, then we have an impossible choice.  Compassion has to be combined with truth.  It’s a foundation of Christianity.  It’s a foundation of the gospel.  Without truth, there is nothing separating Christian love and compassion from the world’s.

Today, Ava turns 8 years old.  Cue the deep breath and misty eyes.  How can it have been 8 years already?  Maybe it’s the way she persistently refuses to outgrow her precious little-girl ways of snuggling perfectly up next to me, and offers the sweetest “good morning” greetings, and lifts an innocent, heart-brimming-over gaze to mine whenever she’s being complimented, but she is often still only four years old in my mind’s eye.

Nonetheless, there is much evidence of this inconspicuous passage of time.  Still my classically beautiful girl, her features have lost some of their softness and gained more definition.  Still sweet and vulnerable, her personality has developed a core of strength and determination.  Still silly and spunky, she has grown in responsibility and wisdom.

Some of her favorite things these days are anything science-y, but also playing with dolls; helping in the kitchen and learning to make some things on her own; playing frisbee; fishing; snuggling under a blanket at any time of day, no matter the temperature; and most artistic endeavors.  She is not a great lover of reading at this point, but it does seem to be slowly growing on her.

Ava is incredibly smart, fairly organized, and very compassionate.  She struggles with motivation for chores, and prefers to take her time with everything, though.  She fills a niche in our family in her ability to evoke compassion and grace from others.  She has a unique capacity to (generally) bring out the best in her siblings.  I think often about praying for her as a baby, and getting the impression so strongly that she would be a peacemaker, and now, in many ways, she is beginning to step into that role.  Her calm, loving nature is a blessing to each of us individually, and to our home as a whole.

I’m so thankful for Ava.  I’m so thankful for these 8 years that she has graced our lives with her sweetness and beauty.  I’m so thankful to be able to celebrate her today.

We like to start our school year a little early.  And by “we” I mean me.  And by “like” I mean feel obligated to.  We will take a vacation in October, and we like (all of us, not just me) to take extra time off for Christmas, and since I don’t want to end school in July, early has to happen.  So today is it – the first day of our 2020-2021 school year.

As with almost every other first day of school for the past 11 years, it has been a mild train-wreck…well, at least for me.  Somehow, good sleep is hard to come by before the first day of school.  There’s always something.  Last night (in addition to my naturally poor sleep), there were thunderstorms seemingly all night long, and an early morning awakening to find that my three year old had wet the bed, soaking pjs, pillow, bedding and (because mattress pads had slid to one side somehow) mattress.  So I woke up fighting exhaustion and trying to curb an encroaching rotten attitude.

Right away, we got behind schedule…only slightly, but enough to frazzle my nerves even more.  Truth be told, the older four have had mostly smooth sailing today; just a bit of searching for experiment materials, and some clarifications about schedules.  The younger two, not as smooth.  Lessons took longer than I felt like they should.  One child vacillated between plowing ahead without instruction, and asking questions about the most obvious (to me) things.  I realized that I never found one of the books I needed for science.  I still can’t find it, after searching the house top to bottom twice now, so I ordered another copy that we will be waiting on for 2 weeks or more.  Which means I’ll need to improvise.  Improvisation is not my forte.

Now I sit here, writing.  Because my brain can’t switch from school to other life at all easily, especially when I’m tired.  I know the kinks will get hammered out and we’ll get into a good rhythm with our days.  It doesn’t come naturally, though, and it doesn’t come without a cost to other areas of life.  Sometimes I feel like I should have more to do for homeschooling…that I slack off and don’t do enough.  More and more, though, I’m realizing how much I end up doing when I don’t realize it – when the day passes and I feel like I didn’t get anything done, only to recall the dozens of questions, problems, conversations about schoolwork that happened in the midst of the day-to-day, non-school tasks.  It overwhelms me sometimes, when I get to the end of the day and think I worked really hard today, and I still feel so far behind, but it also makes me think that maybe this education my kids are getting isn’t as shabby as I’ve often thought.

Nathanael is thirteen today.  He’s seemed a bit more excited about this birthday than some others, probably because becoming a teenager is kind of a big thing to a kid.  I kind of wish there was more excitement in life to accompany the anticipation.  As it is, though, Nathanael is someone who generally appreciates routine and familiarity and stability.  Though willing to test limits, he’s also perfectly okay not doing something that disrupts his sense of well-being.  He’s just fine being the lone dissenter on suggestions for any family fun ideas that also involve a long car ride (“long” usually means anything more than 20 minutes, haha).  He’s happy to while away the afternoon hours with a book, but he is also an avid lover of games (board games, card games, outdoor games, computer games…really anything) and will happily take advantage of any opportunity to learn a new one.  He is a proficient baker, mostly because he loves sweets, but he can hold his own in most other cooking endeavors, too.

He is super smart (though grammar might be his achilles heel), funny, sarcastic, and deeply compassionate.  I know I’ve mentioned it often, but he still slows down to walk with whomever is at the back of the pack.  He’ll quietly take on extra tasks to help me if I’m having a rough day.  He’ll snuggle his littlest brother during movie time.  He will also come out with a smart-aleck response at inappropriate times, or sometimes laugh when being scolded (though, minorly in defense of this, he DID laugh in response to pain for the first five years of life), but is generally a good-natured kid in most situations.  He is a good conversationalist and a deep thinker.

I’m a big fan of this kid and I’m so thankful for these thirteen years we are celebrating today.

When I was a kid, I remember rides on these country roads, past rolling farm lands, feeling like the mountain-hedged horizon and too-close sky were trapping me in a life I often-enough wished was different than it was.  It’s the first I can remember feeling really claustrophobic.

As a college student, still a kid, experiencing my first tastes of independence and unwritten future days, in these same rural towns and mountain backdrops, I began to see this landscape as beautiful and brimming with promise of adventure and escape.

In the years after college, as we settled in a decidedly non-rural, non-mountainous area, I often longed for the opportunity to be back here, free from the chaos and congested roads and city skylines.

Then, ten years ago, we came back, and slowly the perceptions from my childhood and college years merged, though not due to the outward appearance of the place, but due to a more intimate knowledge of the place itself.  I can ride along the roller-coaster roads and find peace and rest.  When I see the mountain vistas, I can breathe deeper than in just about any other place.  But I also feel more trapped by this place than I ever have before.  I look around me and see lost hopes and buried dreams.  As out of place as I have felt my whole life, I don’t think I’ve ever felt as out of place as I do here and now.  While our culture and our churches preach belonging and acceptance (for different reasons), I have never felt less welcome when I step out my proverbial, and at times literal, door.

I have spent my life searching for a place I could call home, with all of the warm fuzzies and unconditionals that should come with it.  I have looked at the greener grass on the other side of the fence and thought, if only.  But I’m being reminded lately that though this longing for a perfect home is right and good, the answer for it isn’t to be found in this life. With every disappointment and dashed hope, I am forced to remind myself that His love is better than everything this life is or could be, and that His love should evoke praise even when this life makes it clear that there are many good things that it can never be.