The Hands of Jesus - But Ladylike

These hands belong to some of the most amazing women (and one baby boy) on the planet, and the secret is that they're just women. Just moms. Just wives. Just people. They don't pretend to be Superwomen. They would never tell you that they have it all figured out, and everything is easy. But they are amazing, nonetheless.

These are the hands of some of the precious ladies in our homeschool community here in Nevada. Every month we meet together to laugh and cry, to rejoice, pray, and sympathize with each other. We plan field trips together, we share our new curriculum finds, and we ask each other questions about anything and everything.

I wish everyone had a group of people like this that they could turn to for advice and compassion. If we all did, life might not get so overwhelming. This is what communities should be, and used to be at certain places in the space-time continuum. Some of these mothers have 9, 10, or 11 children of their own, some of them have only one or two. They have had vastly different experiences in their lives, yet all come together without judgement or criticism to lift each other up.

The hands in these pictures have hugged, cooked and cleaned, wiped tears, written poetry, bandaged wounds, carried everything under the sun, and even delivered babies. They can accomplish anything, and they made me believe that I could too. There is no job too big for these hands, because each and every one of them is held firmly in the grip of their Savior. There isn't a women in the group who wouldn't tell you that she survives each day because she has a personal relationship with the Creator of the universe.

I will miss these women and all the support they represent. I will miss their encouragement and laughter, and I will miss them when I am afraid, and want to cry on the shoulder of someone else who knows exactly what I'm talking about. They have made me a stronger and more confident mother, and they have taught me more than I could have imagined.

I love you, ladies. You took me in and made me a member of your families in the space of one meeting, and three years later you are still just as wonderful as you were the first time we said, "Hello."

Preliminary Goodbyes

We are still in Missouri, but have already had our big farewell at church. We'll still be attending for these last few weeks, but we've officially handed off our Sunday responsibilities as it is getting more and more difficult to find things on Sunday morning amidst all the boxes and detritus of relocation.

Our farewell service/dinner was a lovely day, and everyone was very kind. We were able to tell the congregation what we'll be doing in the coming months (years?) and why. As always, they were very accepting. My children's church kids gave me flowers and cookies (The cookies may have all been eaten already. No admissions.)Then the church listened to our rambling, sang with us, prayed with us, and ate with us, because food seems to be a natural follow-up to emotional expenditure.

We had a baptism after the service, and it was a perfect picture of our little country church. We all gathered at the Pyle home, where there was a huge green field and a lovely pond, perfect for new life. Our pastor, who is game for anything, waded out into the fish pond, braving the nips of its hungry denizens. He lost a shoe to the cause, but there was no regret in his smile. Anything is worth the knowledge that two more people have decided to tell the world what they believe, and why.

Deerfield Baptist Church was one of the nicest things about living here these last three years. They accepted us into the fold at once, and we knew that we were at home with them. They treated us like family, and we did our best to return their kindness when we had the opportunity.  Of course, some jobs were easier than others.

Teaching children's church was not such a stretch, because I've taught young children since I was myself a child, but being the second-string piano player for this last year has been a challenge I did not know I would be facing. I've enjoyed it very much, although I can't speak for the poor, long-suffering parishoners who had to listen to me stumbling my way through the chords for all the songs I could find in the three keys with which I am familiar.

So many people - friends, neighbors, work colleagues, church family - have blessed our lives these past three years. If I could find a way to honor all of them, I would. As it is, I can only use my words. Thank you, thank you, for all your love and for who you are. God sees your love for others, and others see God's love through you. May you be blessed in the same measure that you have blessed our family.

Boxes of Memories

This weekend was our last big garage sale. It was exhausting, but definitely necessary, and really quite a bit of fun. Set up was tiring, and the pessimist in me always fears that nothing will sell and I'll have to find something to do with all these things I've dragged out of the house and organized. But by Saturday afternoon, we were down to only a few boxes full of rejects, which I'm choosing to call a great success.

Aaron started the weekend with five tables full of tools and other manly odds and ends. We attracted quite a few men, and it was fun to watch them all bargain over things I couldn't explain to you if you paid me. I'm so glad he was home for the sale this time, because I wouldn't have had the slightest clue about ratchets, wrenches, and drills.

We only have one major regret from the experience. We decided to sell Aaron's classical guitar, since the neck is too wide for comfortable chording, and Spanish guitar proficiency is probably not in his future. It was difficult to part with, since it was my wedding gift to him a mere fourteen years ago, but we decided that a musician who would love and care for it was better than letting it languish at home. However, the guitar was purchased by a grandfather (for his grandson, maybe 10 or 11 years old), who handed the guitar over to the child to carry as he walked down the street on his way to more sales. Watching that guitar walk off into the distance in the hands of someone who will probably break it within the next week was heartbreaking.

That being said, though, we felt great about getting rid of so many things that had just built up over time. Some of them were used and then no longer needed, others were purchased because we were just sure they were exactly what we needed, only to discover we were mistaken and overly optimistic about our own industry and creativity. Many of the things were actually used constantly, and loved very much, but just too big/awkward/heavy to put into an RV.

Now it's time to take our sad little leftovers to the thrift store, where they will find loving homes soon, I hope. The books will go to the homeschool library for our friends and future Nevada homeschoolers to use. Several of the items will go to specific friends or family members. (Apparently Nevadans aren't interested in cookbooks about Sushi, Artisan Bread, or Sriracha, for example, but I'm sure we can find someone who would like those.)

This means we're one step closer to launch day, which is still unspecified at this point, but needs to be sometime in the next three or four weeks. It's a bittersweet feeling.

That Time of Year

Even if I didn't have a calender, I'd know that it was a special time of year for our family, because these crazy pink flowers are blooming again. I've heard them called "resurrection lilies," "surprise lilies," and "naked lady lilies." I haven't decided which name is the most official. Everyone has their favorite. Whatever they're called, quite a few of them decorated my wedding cake, and that's what I'll always think about when I see them.

Fourteen years ago today, Aaron and I were married in our church in western Oklahoma. We honeymooned at a nearby lake where a friend let us stay in their little cabin, because as 19 and 20 year old college students, our funds were limited. Very limited. We purchased a 1969 mobile home in Stillwater, and lived in that little trailer for the next three years while we finished school.

Our lives went, more or less, according to our plans at the time. Finish college- get jobs- have kids- live in a bigger house. (Did I mention it was a trailer from the sixties? It really was all that you might imagine from those words.) Little by little, as we went on through our days, weeks, years - our plans changed. Now we find ourselves on the brink of living in something that is even smaller than our first home. It's much smaller, actually.

I wouldn't have believed you if you'd told me about this crazy scheme on a sunny day fourteen years ago, as we ran around the church making sure everything was ready for the afternoon's ceremony. There were relatives to visit, cakes to frost, punch to thaw, lights to check, flowers to pin, friends to hug...So possibly, I wouldn't have even heard you.

But I'd like to think that even then I would've told you exactly what I say now. Aaron is one of the most wonderful men on the planet, and I trust him as much as any human being can reasonably expect to trust any other human being. If he is with me, I'm not worried, period, no matter what we face in the future.

More importantly, I believe that getting out there and doing whatever God sets in front of us to do will be the most rewarding experience we've ever had (you know, bar the birth and raising of our children). No matter what the future holds (and I'm an imaginative pessimist, so if you're worried about it, I probably am too) I will be holding onto the hands of my Savior and my husband. Together we'll figure it out.

Working and Waiting

The future draws nearer, as always. (And yet it's always the same distance; funny how that works.) We're filling our last month here in Missouri by working like crazed woodchucks on the house projects. I've been cleaning, packing, and planning. Aaron has finished the deck, the painting and almost all the little projects upstairs. Now all that remains is the basement.

It seems very daunting to me: wiring, drywall, flooring, ceiling, paint. My husband, who is on track to give Bob Vila a real run for his money someday, assures me that it will all be done before we know it, and none of it is as difficult as I make it sound. I can only hope that he's right, and I'm not. Since that's usually the case, there is cause for optimism.

A very sweet couple has expressed interest in purchasing our house, and we are so excited to work with them as we finish these last projects and prepare to head out into the great beyond. The thought of leaving our home in the hands of people who will appreciate it is an amazing blessing, and a huge weight off our shoulders.

I spent the last week measuring every little piece of our new RV when I went to Oklahoma to visit family and help with VBS. I have pictures and dimensions for every cabinet and cubby hole, and am already thinking about what I can cram where. How many pairs of jeans do we each need? How many shoes? Will I be able to fit my crate of curriculum and my box of extra books? What tools can Aaron fit into the space underneath? Where will we hang our bicycles?

These questions will all have answers in the near future (I hope). Until then we continue to work, plan, dream, and sort. Much trash has been disguised as treasure over the last few years, and I have to separate the one from the other. Some things are easy to discard, and others give me pause, but, all in all, it's been an unexpectedly joyful experience.

Ta-Da!

We are now officially RV owners. With the help of a few trusted relatives we purchased a 2007 Jayco Jayflight. It has two bunks in a "room" at one end and a master bedroom at the other. In the middle is one couch, one little table with just enough room for four chairs, and a tiny kitchen. (Don't worry, there's a bathroom set-up as well.)

Aaron and I haven't actually seen it yet, but our parents have all had the opportunity to check it out, and we have complete faith in their judgement and knowledge. I will go to join our children at their Grandmas' houses in one week, and will start taking pictures, making measurements, and possibly despairing over how little room there really is in a 32' 5th wheel.

We have read many books, watched online videos, searched blogs and RV websites, and communicated with other "full-time families" to prepare ourselves as much as possible, but I hope that we are under no illusions as to how different this life will be than anything in our previous experience.

I look forward to the experiment, anyway. Regardless of the outcome, we will have learned and grown, and if we can be used by God as something other than a parable of caution to the unwise in the midst of our endeavors, then whatever comes will be worth...well...whatever comes.

I May Have a Problem

Since the kids are visiting Grandmas and Grandpas in Oklahoma, we are working sun-up to sun-down to prepare our home for what we hope will be its brief stay on the real estate market, then its new owners, who are surely out there somewhere. There is a new deck out back, which has been about one week in the making. I am covered in wood stain, and my husband has a tan like he did back in the farm boy days. Today, while he put in the stairs, I focused my attention on the windows. Then I heard the siren call of my books.

I've packed almost all of them into boxes, organized by genre and author where appropriate. Out of the mass, these are the two that received the extra treatment of a Ziploc bag before they were placed in the cardboard box.  These are, believe it or not, two of my favorite books of all time. One discovered in childhood, and one discovered in my college years.

Dear Rat was one of those mysterious books that just appear in a family bookshelf, and no one can trace its origin. I only remember stumbling across it as a small child. It is the story of a young rat in Paris, who solves a mystery and falls in love. The first-person narration is wonderful, and it may have been my first introduction to the world of detective fiction. (The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew entered my life at around the same time.)

Berlin Diary, on the other hand, is the journal of a famous news correspondent in WWII. William Shirer (one of the Murrow boys) went on to write the Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, also an excellent book. His diary, though, is great for any student of WWII, or anyone who is curious about life in a culture of increasing aggression and self-conceit. (Don't the two often go hand in hand?) It begins in 1934 and ends when he returns to the U.S. in December of 1940, telling the tales of the birth pangs of broadcast journalism and the on set of one of the darkest stains on human history.

If I could, I'd protect all my lovely books, but I know that most of them would be easy to replace, or would not break my heart if I didn't have them in storage after all. Well, let's be honest, if I could, I'd bring them all along with me in the RV, but that's not going to happen.

However, since Dear Rat is out of print, and Berlin Diary is a first edition (yes, I have another one that I keep to actually read), they will receive the special treatment. They don't get a place in the box of antique books, but they do get to rise above the rest of the paper hoi polloi.