Strings Around a Hen's Foot--and a Hobbled Heart

I saw her taking short little steps--one of our hens out under a little tree by the lumber mill. 

And I realized a string was wound around her foot--

in fact--both feet. That string was keeping her from taking normal steps.

The string was wound around and around her foot,

like strings of fear and distress wound around a heart,

making it hobble. 

I started trying to unwind all the strings--there must have been two different kinds around her foot,

string from a feed sack and fibers from hay strings--

like the twine of hopelessness and the ropes of defeat that tangle a heart in a sort of hobbling mess.

I couldn't untangle those strings by myself.

Not while holding the hen and trying to manage scissors at the same time. 

So I asked for help

as we have to do sometimes, when our heart is tangled,

and we can't get untangled ourselves.

 

She was calm at first, letting me hold her, like she knew I was trying to help.

And then she started to struggle and squawk, like we do sometimes,

in the hands of the Lord.

He is trying to untangle our messes, but we don't always understand.

It is often uncomfortable when God sets to work on the knots of our lives.

We don't know exactly what He is up to, and we'd like to flap and flutter and squawk and resist.

But He knows what He is doing. 

He sees us in our distresses; recognizes when our hobbled heart is just hopping hopelessly about,

with strings of struggle and threads of overthinking 

encircling our feet and heart in endless circles of confusion.

He catches us right in the middle of the chaos and holds us tight to Himself.

"How'd you ever get these strings wound around this many times?"

He must say to Himself as He starts untangling,

thread by thread,

string by string,

twine by muddy twine.

"You're free to hop now," He must say, as we do, when we let the chicken go out in the back yard.

Does He watch in satisfaction as our heart feels the freedom of 

having been in the Father's hands,

all the strings unwound

 and the hobbles unbound?

"You have brought my feet out of the net," the Psalmist cried.

And how free it feels! 

When Moving and Mess Are Part of Mission

I had to remind myself of something yesterday.

 

Right in the middle of the mess.

 

The mess of moving.

 

The mess of sprucing up the house to sell.    

Painting the chimney stained by creosote. 

Over and over looking for things we put somewhere.

But where is the somewhere? 

Furniture piled into one room so the other room can be carpeted. 

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 And meals that still have to be made.

Work crew that needs to be fed along with our big family in the middle of the day

as well as food prepared in the beginning of the day and end of the day. 

Bread still has to be baked. 

And dishes washed. 

Unending dishes.

 

Kitchen work doesn't stop when you are moving. 

 

I found myself going around with my teeth clenched,

a grimace on my face, 

 feelings of cynicism,

and temptations to bitterness.  

This setting off for the mission field is for the birds. 

Seriously for the birds.

This mess does not feel like missions at all. 

Thank you very much!

(This was not MY idea by the way!)

 

Or was it?

Ruefully I have to remember last year when I was praying that God would get us back on the mission field. 

I might have prayed that once. 

And then Jonathan asks me what I would think of going up to South Dakota.

Being maintenance director up there.

Going back into full time missions.

No problem.

Sure!

Except--this does  not feel like missions right now.

It feels like a big mess!

If only I could just crawl under a chair like this with my nose in someone's moccasins.

Scrap carpet lying all over the nice new carpet to try to protect it--because

yes, a certain pair of shoes tracked in something yellow the 

very next morning all over the scarp carpet pieces and one place on new carpet.

(Which is why I had never fought very hard to get new carpet yet.) 

Constant exhaustion.

Things aren't ready in time for the realtor's photographer.

"You are getting more and more cynical," I told myself yesterday.

"And you better watch out about being bitter."

I didn't want to be bitter.

Not on my way to the mission field. 

You aren't supposed to be a bitter old missionary wife. 

You're supposed to be perfectly put together, 

always sweet and kind and loving

and classy and stable.

Not a mess like this.

You're supposed to spend more time with God

instead of less. 

Then Sunday rolls around.

We are on our way to church--this future missionary wife with her husband and family.

Missionaries aren't supposed to need grace are they?

They already have all they need, right?

They are just supposed to tell everyone else how to do things, right?

Share the gospel, right?

You are supposed to be really spiritual.

Really, really spiritual.

Because you are this missionary now.

But what if you are a little bit of a mess?

What if you need a little bit of God's grace, too? 

What if it really means something to this future missionary wife and mom 

to come to Jesus this morning--

"just as I am"?

What if when communion is served, one of the means of grace,

you are needing more than a crumb of grace?

More than a communion cupful of divine help?

What if you come to the table just as needy as the native American you are going to serve?

What if you come to your table--

and the Lord's table--

and discover that your mess and your moving

is all a part of mission?

And that His grace and His love and His acceptance of You just as you are

is part of mission?

So that you can share that grace and love and acceptance with others?

 

 

Big Boys Just Gotta Blow Bubbles

In the middle of all the work, big boys just gotta blow bubbles!

 And big girls must engage in photo bombing!

Crystal spent hours scrubbing the ceilings yesterday.

Climbing up on ladders.

And Carrie helped--in between her evenings and mornings doing farm chores for friends. 

As if selling and moving isn't enough right now, we are in the middle of selling three litters of puppies.

It was only supposed to be two, but that is a story of its own.

The ranch girl named Carrie cooked this delightful meal for Memorial Day evening--our own homegrown steaks with onions and peppers, twice-baked potatoes, and asparagus.  

Saturday our friends brought along an excavator and let several of the children take turns driving it. Jonathan came to me to tell me to look quickly out the window to see our youngest boy operating the excavator through the pasture! 

Big brother helps him operate the shovel to dig out the cow pen  

And the friend directs as well,

as Danny shovels the muck into the compost holder. 

Rose just had to drive that thing, too. 

The mom tapes together flattened cardboard boxes that a friend from church gave us for moving,

and picks rhubarb inside the fence. (Everything has to be fenced, even the rhubarb and mint patch.)

Even if you are moving, you can't let delightful rhubarb go to waste.   

Teddy, the daddy golden, thinks the grain pan is for him! 

Sorry, Teddy! Not for you!

The mom of the ranch makes sure carrots and potatoes are ready for the crock pot for Sunday dinner.  

And the dad and Tim lay the flooring by the front door.  

And Danny vacuums the dust above the closet wall.

That's why big boys just gotta blow bubbles--otherwise it would be all work and no play. 

And that, as the saying goes, would make Jack a dull boy. 

But no dull boys around here!