It's been awhile since I last wrote here. So much has happened, it almost takes my breath away.  After Dad died a year ago, Mom stayed in her house until last fall. Now, the three of us live together in our house next door. We are the Three Amigos and do everything together. What a blessing!

Getting to this point meant we would have to clean out all the outbuildings of 100 years of dust, dirt, and treasure. We would have to have an estate sale, and we would have to sell the farm with most of the land. With God's guidance, we did.  Now we live on the remaining acreage, while we watch our new neighbors fix up the house and log buildings. God is good.

In all this change, God has been with us, directing us, and comforting us. But He doesn't want us to get too comfortable now, so He has allowed new trials to grow us into the people He means us to be. During the dark times,  the three of us have to keep reminding ourselves and each other that His grace is sufficient for this day. THIS day, not tomorrow or next week.

I know this scripture back and forth and yet I continue trying to apply grace to tomorrow's supposed disasters. It doesn't work because it is not supposed to. God did not say grace was enough for tomorrow's evil, but only for today's.

When I see how God has been in every detail over the last year, and years for that matter, I marvel at my own weakness to fall into the same trap over and over again of figuring out and fixing the future.

Even then, God reminds me, "Be still, my children, and know that I AM GOD."

Baseballs and my head

So we are going to a Twins game this weekend.  Who are they playing? I think the White Socks. I don't know, I just know I'll be with my guys and that's good enough for me. All that I care about is that we are far enough away from being struck by a ball.

This concern I have goes back to my childhood schools days and the practice of forcing a child to play sports no matter how uncoordinated she was at playing said sport. It goes back to the days when she was always picked last for teams and often fought over which team she should be on.

She, being me, never adapted to that environment. So, when it was time to play, I did whatever was necessary to survive the ordeal.

When I was on a soft ball team, I made sure to stay as far out of the playing area, so far out in the field that a flying ball would seldom get to me. And when we played volley ball I mentally prepared myself for forearms would be burning and aching as soon as that first ball came my way. And when we played dodge ball or that other game where children were lined up, and helpless, against the gym wall waiting to be struck by a rubber missile, I knew that before the first minutes were up, that thing would have struck me in the head. In fact, in most every sport that involved a ball, a few knocks to my head were par for the coarse.  I think that phenomena has something to do with my ineptness at the game.

With this kind of history behind me, I refuse to play anything and I am very reluctant to go view anything. I'm a party pooper, so be it.

So one day when my husband informed me that his son had tickets to a Twins game and wanted us to go with him and his girlfriend, I told him about this ball-in-the-head history of mine. I said, "You know Earl, anytime I'm near a game involving a ball, the ball always hits me in the head." He said, "Don't say that, it just might happen."  He knew my feelings about sports, but he really didn't believe that a ball would find my head in the masses watching. End of conversation and we went to the game with our umbrellas and our catcher's mitts.

When we got through the gates of the stadium, we found our way to the bench numbers that Ryan found on the tickets. The spots were at the ground level, right behind the flower boxes and right behind third base. We had come early enough so the guys could watch the practice pitches and hits. This was a perfect spot for them.

Emily and I got our stuff and ourselves settled for a few hours of baseball, cheering, and rousing organ music. The day was warm and the sun was out. A perfect day to be there with our peanuts and cracker jacks.

While I was looking around and rummaging through my stuff, there was a crack of a bat. I didn't pay much attention because the bats were cracking a lot during practice.  But moments later, Earl began saying, "It's coming, it's coming." Suddenly I realized what he was saying, and in fear and self preservation, I ducked to the floor not knowing what he really meant by "It's coming, it's coming."

As soon as I was down, a line drive ball shot past the space my head had occupied a moment before. The ball slammed into the empty bench behind me, the noise echoing throughout the stadium. Then harmlessly it rolled to the floor.

Earl reached over and picked up the ball that was meant for me. Needless to say, he could hardly believed what just happened. All I could say was, "I TOLD YOU THIS WOULD HAPPEN." From then on I sat in terror waiting for the next attack, and I fervently prayed to God to protect me.
Well, God heard my cry and before the game started some folks came to us telling us we were in their seats. Ryan looked at the tickets and, low and behold, our seats were really on the next level far above the crowds and renegade balls.
My relief was great. There was a roof that hung over the seats in this portion of the stadium. The bathrooms and food were in easy reach, and the chairs were cushioned. The view was much smaller, but everything was perfect as far as I was concerned.
After the game, and when we got out of the stadium, we each signed the ball and now it sits in our china hutch as a reminder for me of how fast God acts when one prays fervently.
Oh, and for this game coming up. I made sure we are in the same, safe, seats we had last time.

Please pass the word

The family farm is for sale. Most of the land is hayed. The barn built by my step grandfather is very sound and has a metal roof. There's a log "coal barn" also very sound and with a metal roof, a log sauna that needs a little TLC, and a fire wood log shed the same size as the sauna that has excellent hand hewn wood that can be recycled for beautiful mantle pieces, restaurant decor...All buildings built by my step grandfather in the age of doing everything without gas powered mechanism. Lots of other buildings too as seen on the link below.
A wonderful place to raise a family. Excellent hunting and room to cross country ski. Twenty five minutes from Hibbing, 15 minutes from Floodwood, 35 minutes from Grand Rapids, and an hour from Duluth. The hub of everywhere.
Dad has "crossed the river" and is waiting on the other side for our eventual crossing, and Mother will come live with us when the farm is sold. "Times they are a-changing."http://idx.perrella.com/idx/details/listing/a240/123572/Floodwood-8191-Heikkila-Road Please share this post and spread the word.

Time for a funny

We have dogs that live with us.  We originally got them for practical purposes, to work on the farm by scaring away deer and other vermin.  But they have not done their jobs and have become dogs for entertainment value only.

  There are four dogs that eat us out of house and home, whatever that means. They do little more than sleep all day and all night or stand under my son’s cabin window and bark all night. One of the dogs has gotten the idea that this would be her lifelong job. As a result, she has gotten a few hits from my son with a paintball gun in the middle of the night. But she hasn’t caught on that keeping the humans awake is a very unwise way to spend her life. I think her Pyrenees’ instincts tell her that all the “livestock” are not in the barn, so it is her duty to remind the last remaining “livestock” to get to the barn before danger comes.  The “livestock” then proceeds to coat her with globs of paint, which the Pyrenees deduces as the danger from which the “livestock” must be saved. So the battle rages night after night.

For many years we had just two dogs, a Dalmatian and a Shetland sheepdog, but because there was so much deer damage to our gardens, we thought we had better get some insurance for our produce.  It would come in the form of the faithful, hardworking, nocturnal Great Pyrenees.  We had heard that these dogs, when about 18 months old, would keep any predator away from its territory day or night. So we got a beautiful 4 -week -old puppy full of life and already larger than our sheepdog. In a mere 17 months she would be huge and ready to take on the task of protecting our pumpkins.   When the time came near to her “graduation” into usefulness, she, one day, got too near the moving car and broke her leg.  Just as she was beginning to be nocturnal, she had to recuperate from the injury, which meant sleeping all night.  This routine became something she enjoyed, and when her leg was mended, she was still recuperating every night, while the deer were feasting on our pumpkins.

With the predators still at large, we heard that a hunting friend had a dog he needed to get rid of.  It had the terrible, annoying habit of chasing deer off his property.  This was the dog’s mission in life, and I decided that I wanted her. She would be the answer to our garden problems.  She could not only keep the deer away, but she could teach the Pyrenees to do the same. 

When the dog arrived at my house I felt that restful nights were ahead for me, until she jumped out of the truck. The Pyrenees shifted into property protection mode and proceeded to almost kill her. It was a couple of weeks before the new dog, a sort of German Sheppard, and the Pyrenees came to an understanding which was, “I’ll only take you out if you’re not looking.”

It was one day after we had acquired the last of the four dogs, when a neighbor dog named Buck came calling. Now Buck was a fairly new resident to the area but had never, until this day, set foot on my property.  He was quite enamored with our new resident as she with him, and it got me wondering why Buck hadn’t shown up sooner.  We had had three females here all this time, but it wasn’t until this last one came that Buck made his way over.  What did our new dog have that the others did not?  I looked over the motley crew and realized what I had was a bunch of circus dogs in my possession.  A Pyrenees, a Shetland sheepdog, and a Dalmatian mix weren’t normal dogs after all but, the fat lady, the midget and the clown of the traveling circus.  Now what self -respecting mandog would be interested in any of these women?  He was interested in, if I may keep with the circus scenario, the beautiful lady on the flying trapeze.  

Buck had found a babe in the sort –of German Sheppard, but the Dalmatian would have none of it.  She proceeded to curse Buck and let him know that he wasn’t needed around the place.  I could hear her yelling, “Don’t touch that, don’t mark that, this is our territory.  We don’t need a man here, it already smells bad, go on home where you belong.”  The Pyrenees didn’t see him as a predator but just one of the livestock to coral into the barn.  And the sheepdog disappeared like a genie, something she does anytime there is a problem.

Since none of these dogs, including Buck, had been fixed, I wasn’t sure what to do about the situation.  So I called my neighbor whom Buck owned and told him about the problem.  He came over right away to retrieve the escapee, and told me that this dog was supposed to be the replacement for his trusty old chocolate lab that had passed away a few months previous.  He said he had been very fond of his old dog, because he would obediently stay at home.  This one was forever running off and causing no end of trouble. 

                                                       

I asked him what the old dog’s name was.  He said it was Bismark, to which I replied the problem lies in the choice of name for this new dog. You see, Bismarck is a food name and no dog wants to go cavorting around the neighborhood with a food name attached to his person.  It would ruin his reputation to have to admit to the ladies that he was named after a pastry.   Now Buck is a manly name and a proud name to proclaim to his prospective women.  If you were to change his name to Biscuit or Bun, Buck would probably be filled with shame and stay home like Bismarck did.

I don’t think my neighbor thought too much of my idea, and Buck who is still Buck, is making his way over here every now and then.  It’s probably too late for a name change anyway unless it’s Betty or Bertha, because next week Buck is going to go visit the doctor.

So we have four dogs and still no garden protection.  The sort-of-German Sheppard has forgotten what deer look like and is too in love to care.  The Pyrenees still recuperates at night, and the Dalmatian and sheepdog both disappear like genies whenever danger appears. 

 My pumpkins are the talk of deer town, and word has gotten around the woods that there is free restaurant food for those in need.

I can’t fight nature so I might as well put up a weekly special sign in the window and give up. 

I’m a hoarder

I’m a hoarder.  Not the type that has junk piled sky high all over the house and yard, but the kind that hoards mentally.  I always have in the back of my mind that there has to be enough of everything for me. I’ll share, but I want enough for me. 

I see myself as a child in a shopping cart and Mother is putting the groceries in the cart until I’m buried underneath it all. Instead of looking to Mother to provide what I need, I look at the stuff on top of me and attempt to put my arms around all of it.  Every once in a while Mother takes things out and I panic, because, don’t you know, it’s my stuff! 

Now I have two ways I can handle this mental hoarding. I can continue to hoard and worry and ultimately have access to only that which I hoard.  Or I can stop hoarding, open my hands and my heart and freely give without worrying about what’s “mine”. In that freedom I will have access to all of God’s riches, spiritual and temporal. 

It really doesn’t seem like a hard choice, but because of my weakness and my little faith it does become a hard choice and ultimately a heavy burden to bear. So every once in a while I have to slap myself upside the head and give everything I think I own back to the Lord and stop asking for more stuff to hoard.

I love the song:  Shopping List by Lesa and Larry Bryant. It’s a silly song about hoarding and treating God as a Santa Claus or a Magic Lamp to rub. Part of the song goes like this: 

“Give me this, I want that, Bless me Lord I pray, Grant me what I think I need to make it through the day.  Make me wealthy, keep me healthy, fill in what I missed on my never-ending shopping list.

“Lord you’ve been so good to me, how could I ask for more, but since you said to ask, I will, cause what else is prayer for?  The cattle on a thousand hills they all belong to you. I don’t need any cows right now, but something else might do.”

I’m not grieving

A couple of weeks ago, Dad died. I am not grieving. I haven’t cried yet over his death and I doubt that I will. 

When I was growing up, Dad was a hard drinker. All the grieving I should do now at his death was done then. I grieved when he was home, and I grieved when he was coming home. I gauged my grieving by how hard his truck engine ran as he barreled down the dusty county road after he turned off the highway. I could hear the truck two miles away and knew that if the truck was racing, he was furious.  I didn’t know what he would be furious about, I just knew that when he pulled into the yard, all hell would break loose. I would either have to hide behind something or get out of the house as the torrent of foul language and yelling rained down on Mom, when she was home.

But she wasn’t home a lot. Mom had to work. She didn’t want to, she had to. She was a registered nurse so her days or evenings were spent at the nursing home taking care of the elderly and trying to keep the lazy nurses aides on task. 

If Mom had not worked, we would not have eaten, so it was a done deal.  I was left alone in our far too small trailer house most days in the country with only a cousin to call on the phone or hang out with. But she was the youngest of five and her family was functional. She had family. I had me.

My grieve not only included living with Dad, but it included living without a Mom to do things with. If I were to tell her this now, she would double over in sorrow and false guilt because she too grieves that she could not be a Mom at home. She carries a mountain of memories and anger that all wives of alcoholics carry and not being able to be home for her children is one of them. 

Sixteen months ago Dad was placed on home hospice care. He was not expected to live half a year, but he beat the odds and lived three times that long. Heart problems and kidney problems were to blame. 

For 16 months, Mom nursed him, made sure he had all his medications, went everywhere with him, and stayed always at home with him. A year ago my husband and I moved back next door into the house I built there years ago. We came back to do the same, to take care of Dad and to take care of the caregiver. 

When Mom was sick in the hospital this summer, someone had to be there for Dad so I nursed him, made sure he had all his medications, bandaged his rotting legs, and stayed close by when I wasn’t at the hospital with her. 

My husband took over cutting all Dad’s firewood so that Dad could maintain the stove in the basement. Earl became a favorite coffee companion and someone to shoot the breeze with while sitting by the stove. Stoking the stove and drinking coffee with us and close friends were Dad’s last pastimes.

While living next door and being there for the patient and the caregiver, I was able to see through my dad’s eyes that he finally saw me as someone worthy of attention. He saw that I was strong, because I could load, haul, and stack his firewood. He saw that I could get work done around the place because I did. And he saw that I was loved and cherished because my husband loves and cherishes me.

When he saw that affection shown me, he started to demonstrate, in small and almost undetectable ways the same to Mom. She did not recognize these demonstrations and when she was told, she attributed them to a certain drug’s side effect or as a misinterpretation of his intention. Her mountain blocked her view much of the time so she kept to her pill counts and bandage changes.

In the last months of his life, Dad became more resigned to his impending death. He started to pray in his own way over meals whenever my husband invited him, and he would listen to Mom’s favorite radio Bible program with her. But mostly, he would sleep in his living room chair and say how nice it was to have peace and be with Mom. She did know that, that he cherished peace and being quiet with her next to him.

Now he’s gone and I don’t grieve. God gave us the gift of holding him in our arms as he passed away in his hospital bed in the living room. When Dad breathed his last, Mom had rubbed his back and was taking care of the results of an enema that had worked. He was in our arms. He gave two short fishy gasps, and a slight grimace and he was on his way across the river. 

Appreciate the you God has made!

My mother tells me I’m clever.  She has expressed this notion more times than I can count.  But with this statement she also says that she is not.  It goes something like this.  “Sherida, you are so clever,” as she looks at a piece of clothing I have sewn or has heard a goofy comment I’ve just made.  “I don’t know where you get it, but it sure wasn’t from me,” she finishes.

After listening to this for years and years, I finally decided to chime in and say, “Yes, Mom, when God was passing out the good stuff, you happened to be in the bathroom.” Everyone laughs and that’s the end of it.

My mother has no reason to make such statements about herself.  Of all the women I know, she is the best and most compassionate Registered Nurse, and now caregiver, I have ever known.  She was good at her job and the nurses aides who were lazy did not like her very well, which means she was really good at her job. She now meticulously cares for my dad and he is happy. She is a good mother and a good wife in every way and we all in the family are very blessed.

Everyone is a product of the God of Heaven and everyone has something unique to share, especially those folks who suffer great physical or mental hardship. Hidden underneath the suffering is a wealth of gifts that can be dispersed to their fellow man. 

All you have to do is look at the many amazing stories people share on Facebook, or the stories that are broadcast at the end of a television news hour about those who have overcome great odds or have exhibited extraordinary care for someone else. 

We love to hear these uplifting stories, and we all can be an uplifting story!  Our day to day encounters with people can be exercises for us to show kindness, compassion, humor, and patience.  We can brighten someone’s day and bring out the good that may be hiding under a weight of care and worry. 

Instead of beating ourselves up because we don’t think we are talented or clever we can do something better.  We can be Jesus to someone today.

Take to heart the words of the Psalmist when you start looking down on yourself: I praise you (God), for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.  Wonderful are your works; that I know very well. Ps. 139:14