Kidney Stones, Radish Rosettes, and Watermelon Basket

Week before last, I gave Rose her piano lesson while on my feet--

'cause I was in too much pain to sit down.

It appeared to be kidney stones--again.

So here I am drinking hot lemon water while chairs are in rows behind us while the kitchen is getting mopped.

Sent home another time recently by the doctor who said no infection had showed up in the test,

I worked hard to conquer it with home remedies--all the while trying to keep the household running.

Here the girls are making a braided cheese loaf to eat alongside chili.

 And the older children were out spreading manure before tilling up the pasture a second time

to sow grass and oat seed.

 Buddy, the Jersey steer, has to have his nose in everywhere.

 After a week of drowning myself with water and lemon water, and taking essential oils, and getting better and then getting worse, in desperation I tried another remedy I read about--

which included 8 oz. of pureed asparagus.

 All the while I'm minding the kids who are doing school however is most comfortable for them on those chilly days.

 Helping Timmy with science...

 and taking a moment to enjoy a robin.

 I was so excited to be eating this slimy, green stuff...

as you can clearly see.

But enough of the kidney stone story--at least I'm better and able to function,

and could even go along with Jonathan and Crystal to IHC--which I hope to post about soon. 

One Friday we put together some fun food for the church family potluck.

 We got online to find out how to make radish rosettes.

First you cut a bit off each end to have flat ends.

Then you peel a very thin slice of red skin from each of the four sides, leaving some red in between.

 Then you make a careful cut just behind that, down the side, and careful not to cut into the other sides.

 You do that four times.

Then you plunk them into ice water so they will start to open up like a rose.

You are supposed to surround them with greenery like parsley or cilantro, but I didn't have any.

So some cucumber slices had to make do.

 And in between, some of the children were working more at spreading those several loads of manure in the pasture.

I absolutely loved this action shot of  Rose and Sam racing to the fence.

 Inside, I'm carving a watermelon into a basket for the evening, and Rose is carving out watermelon balls from the pieces I carved out. 

 All Jonathan could find was this little round melon, but I managed with it.

 It still made a pretty basket.

 We filled it with green grapes, watermelon balls, strawberries and blackberries.

I love making healthy, edible fun food.

 And Hannah loves carrying little chicks around.

Forgetting Those Things that are Behind

A week or so ago our neighbor loaded our dump trailer several times with horse manure

from his huge pile near the fence.

We had tilled up maybe half an acre of so of pasture which had turned into nasty weeds,

and now we were going to spread this manure on and till it again, and sow some grass or alfalfa or oats or something besides nasty weeds. 

And of course our Jersey steer had to come sidling over to stick his nose into everything that was happening.

 Just like one's past comes nosing up to you every time you turn around.

The horned evil one likes to make sure he's constantly reminding you

of all "those things which are behind."

 Just sticks his nose right up to yours and reminds you

of your faults, sins, failures, defeats and mistakes

and all the things that humiliate you when you think about it.

 Or else he reminds you of all your victories, right choices, righteousness, goodnesses, gifts, and strengths--trying to get you lifted up with pride.

There is only one way to deal with all that.

You have to forget what is behind...

 and press on to what is ahead of you.

Because the stuff in the past is just so much garbage, trash,

"dung," as Paul puts it in the old King James.

 Who really needs to nose around with all that muck?

 Great as Paul was,

great as his background was,

great as his impeccable righteousness was,

he had to count it dung in order to win Christ,

and in order to have a righteousness that was of faith rather than of the law. 

It makes more difference than between dung and daffodils--

the difference between the law's righteousness, and faith's.

The difference between wallowing in the past

and hanging your head in shame, humiliation, or frustration...

or letting Christ lift your head up to look toward the sun,

to look your beautiful, hopeful, wonderful future straight in the face...

and to press on for the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.

We cannot deny the dung.

It's part of life, and we all have it, much as some try to deny it or cover it up. 

The best thing to do with the dung of our pasts is to get it spread out before the Lord

all over the ground tilled by remembering and watered by tears.

And then to till it right into the soil and forget about it. 

Dung is part of life, but you can't let it pile up on you. 

You have to work it into the soil and get it out of sight.

It has its place--

forgotten under the dirt--

where we can plant seeds of love and forgiveness and bulbs of hope

that will bloom like the golden daffodils 

looking straight out and up to the sunshine.

And so we clasp another's hand,

someone else who is bowed down with the weight of remembering 

and the weight of all that stuff behind them.

And we urge them to look up and press on and move forward

for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.

Singing Unafraid as Twilight Deepens

This evening after supper and family worship I slipped out of the house on a walk

as the sun was setting.

My path took me by that big cottonwood tree, and something was in one of the topmost branches--

singing.

At first I thought it might be a robin, but upon closer look, it wasn't.

I have no idea what kind of bird it was, but it's song was beautiful.

Most times when I approach that close to a bird in a tree, it flies away.

Not this one. 

Bravely he trilled on and on.

And after pausing and gazing, I walked on--

a mother with a single intention for my walk that time of day:

to seek out my little prayer nook

and bring a mother's deep prayer to the Lord.

 Only God knows the burden of a mother's heart when the world is crying for her children's attention

and she doesn't want them to turn out on the scrap heap like so many.

 Broken boards, kindling, dross, sticks. 

Do we really want our children building their lives with wood...

 and stubble?

What is going to stand the test of the final Day?

Will our lives be just so much wood, hay and stubble...

 just so many toys?

 Or will our lives have the backbone of a sure foundation built on the Rock?

Will we build on it gold, iron, and silver--things that will last,

things that will stand the test of time and eternity?

Rather than being wood for stubble, may the heavenly Potter,

the heavenly Chiseler, the heavenly Artist

burn upon our hearts His will and all His desire for us and our children.

 Their names are on His hands.

Whatever it takes, Lord, to let each of our children wear workboots in Your work,

not ours. 

Your will and Your mission in this world,

not of the world.

 There had been school this morning, and duties, and putting a CD of mission trip photos together this afternoon to display on the computer at IHC next week.

And I had tried to work on the wooden cowboy boots that we're going to hang on the livingroom wall--whenever we finally get them finished.

 My decorating ability isn't very great.

 It's definitely not what I was made out to do. 

And to be honest, my heart isn't in it very much. 

Spending hours trying to spruce up my house after seeing so many other people's nicely decorated places is not my cup of tea. 

There's nothing wrong with it, I suppose, it's just that my heart isn't in it.

 I guess my heart was a little heavy as I walked the trail, all the way to the top, 

and then on the way down stopped at my little nook. 

The prayers I prayed as I walked were between the Lord and me. 

And at the nook, I just sat and was still.

"I have told You my requests, Lord," I said, "in very simple terms."

"Now, I am sitting here listening for You to speak to me."

There waiting quietly on Him, He gave me a verse, and a promise. 

So I can wait for the answer to come. 

And on the way home, the bird [was it a lark?] was still singing.

It never moved all the time I walked underneath it. 

Never moved while I returned home for the camera.

I snapped photo after photo and still it sang bravely on. 

 It was only as I was trying to turn off the flash on my camera, and turned upward again to try for another shot that I realized the bird had vanished.

I had heard no whir of wings, 

but suddenly it was gone and the song was still.

Was it just another whisper from God

about what He really wants from us?

While the world darkens and the sun is setting, 

with God as our Father, why can we not sing bravely on 

regardless what person or power passes our way trying to break us down

and get us to lose our trust in God?

Would He not want us to wait patiently for Him to work in our behalf,

but to sing bravely on while we wait?