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After all the planning and scrambling and packing and planning, Middle Daughter is finally on her way to Thailand to visit Youngest Daughter. 

I sat on my chair this morning, feeling the familiar sadness that I always feel when one of the kids is going away, writing a letter to Youngest Daughter to send along with Middle Daughter.  I picked up my laptop to double check and found a message from Youngest Daughter, written in her inimitable style, last minute, zinger type sentences with just a few more things that she wanted.  She was so happy, so excited and impatient for Deb to be there.  It sent a small trickle of joy through my heart, and I suddenly found myself feeling so incredibly happy.  Someone I love is on their way to see someone else I love. 

And, Lord Willing, she’s coming back.  No one can fill in the details like Deborah.  She has her daddy’s gift of observation.  She remembers things no one else even notices the first time.  I would sometimes say that if I wanted to know what a book was about, I wouldn’t need to read it if Deborah read it first, because she would tell me what it said, almost verbatim.  (You can do that if you have a photographic memory!)

Anyhow, now I am looking forward to her return with great anticipation.  She will probably tell me more about Thailand than Rachel will after being there for nine months.  And that will be a great comfort to this Momma’s heart.

Be safe, Girlies!  I love you.

. . . and so, the last hug is given, the last “I love you!” and “Drive safely!” and “Hurry back!”  said, and I watch the last car pull out of the driveway after a weekend that has been a mix of being so glad to have everyone home, but feeling even more keenly the one that is missing.  The table is small again.  It looks really strange to have it so small, because we’ve left it large after having company a few weeks ago, in anticipation of this weekend.  I wanted to leave it big in the interim because it spoke of the hope I carried for this eagerly anticipated weekend.

It is incredibly quiet in the old farmhouse.  The clocks are ticking their steady, almost subliminal noise, and I am thankful that there is no one to ask solicitous questions.  Certain Man is in his recliner in another room, and Middle Daughter retreated to her room after helping to finish cleaning up the kitchen.  She will probably grab a nap, too.  She worked the night shift on Friday night, slept very little on Saturday, and then the time change shorted all our nights last night.

I sit here on my trusty chair, and the tears are too close for comfort.  I keep thinking about the things that call our children away from us, and that makes leaving here actually mean “going home” to them; these adult children with all the things that life brings them, things that they’ve chosen to love and to embrace that beckons them down the road, away from their Daddy and me, to their own nests, their chosen vocations, their friends.

Raph and Gina received word yesterday of the sudden hospitalization back in Ohio, of Gina’s newest niece, Kate Aisha, following an episode of not breathing.  Gina’s parents are in Florida, and I could tell that it really pulled for Gina to be home where she could help out if she was needed.   As a family, we’ve followed the progress of this little mite of a baby who weighed in at 2 lbs., 13 oz. back on January 12th, and with this news, we all held our breaths a little until she was in the PICU at Cleveland and stable.  But none of us felt it like Raph and Gina, because this family is also their family.  Part of what calls them back to Holmes County.  Part of what makes that little apartment in Millersburg, “HOME” for them.  Gina’s family (that is truly Raph’s family as well) their jobs, their church, and their many friendships there.  Would I want it any different?  No.  It would be terrible if my tallest son would dread going back.  It is such a blessing to know that they are happy.  But I hated to see them go.  Hated to see this weekend come to an end. 

It had been a while since we had seen Lem and Jessica, too.  The last few months of their lives have been severely intense, and Lem is headed back to finish another nine days as an intake worker for an alcohol and drub rehabilitation facility in Philadelphia, then moves on to a job that he has wanted since the beginning of his journey, that of being a therapist.  He wrestled and agonized and considered and finally made up his mind and came to peace with the changes it means for him and Jess.  His eyes are alight with anticipation, and I am so thankful for the way God has answered some of our prayers in the lives of our children.  I never prayed that Lem would be a therapist, but I often prayed for peace and for a good marriage and for direction and purpose and a vocation that would be a service to humanity.  Mostly I prayed that He would know God and His will for his life.  The thing is, all of those things are progressive things, and we never can say that it is a finished work, but when we can trace these things in their lives, and see that it is important to them,  it is a miracle of no small proportions.

Tonight, my heart feels like it is headed in several different directions.  One part went north, one went west, and one is with My Faraway Girlie, half a world away.  It sometimes feel as if it will consume me, I miss them all so acutely.  But the truth is that the biggest part of my heart is here. With Certain Man, our Middle Daughter, Oldest Daughter, Beloved Son in Law and our precious Love Bug.  And My Sweet Mama.  (Don’t forget My Sweet Mama!)  I have so much right here to love, influence, and treasure.  And the distance between me and the ones I love who are so far away in no way lessens my love for them, but it does lessen my daily responsibility towards them (except for the praying :}). 

And God holds our children in HIS Hands.  He loves them, He draws them into relationship with Himself.  And when I see that He disciplines them, it comforts me, (even as their pain sits on my heart, and I wish that they wouldn’t need to learn the hard way) because I see their faith becoming truly their own.  And that gives this Momma’s heart great joy.

It is the “long looked forward to” weekend.  The sons and their lovely wives are here and I got to skype with Rachel last night.  Raph and Gina went with Certain Man and me to pick out furniture for the living room yesterday, and we actually found the perfect set for our room.  Only problem is, the sales lady tells us that we shouldn’t “hope” for it until early May.  It may come before, but it might not.  Bummer!

In the meantime, today, back at the ranch, Charis and Grammy were making a double layer chocolate cake.  Last night was the night for pie (French Silk Chocolate, Vanilla Crumb and Peanut Butter).  So, knowing that our Daughter in Law, Regina, loves double layer chocolate cake, and pretty much being “pied out” I enticed a rather busy little girlie to climb up on the chair I had placed against the cupboard, and we set to work.

Paying close attention to the task at hand — She isn’t very fond of loud noises like mixers and vacuum sweepers and such, but she is learning.

“Look, Mommy.  Helping!”

And when the work is all done, she surely does love to lick the beaters. 
What a mess she can make, but it still is one of the “sharpest” joys I know-
That of being Charis’ Grammy!

Finally:

The ceiling stayed up.

John came and put in all the trim:

The floor got somewhat leveled.

The carpet came in.

And got put down, along with the tile:

The painters came back and touched everything up:

And the room is pretty much done!

(For those of you who can still trace the crack in the picture window — not to worry.  A new one is ordered and will be installed in another week or so.

Thank you, Jesus!  I am so tired I could cry, but so happy I want to dance.

The curtains and the rods are ordered.  Some are here, some are back ordered.
  Somehow it doesn’t really matter too much.
That icky, icky floor is finally covered, and the carpet guys did a wonderful job.

Still no furniture, but Oldest Son has agreed to “help” us shop for some this weekend.
  The boys and their wives are coming this weekend, and my heart sings for joy!

And tonight, just hours after the carpet was finished, Certain Man pushed and pulled the piano into its rightful place,

. . . and our friends gathered in for a small group sing-along followed by a prayer meeting. 

It’s still the thing I like to do best with these gifts that God has entrusted into our care.

What a blessing it is to have friends who love us enough to come. 

It is a gift that I never take for granted.

I feel the coming of spring in the air.  As I sit here and try to type, my stiff, cold fingers keep hitting the wrong keys.  About an hour ago, I got the urge to clean out the containers and flower beds on the northwest side of the house.  I got a big plastic liner that we use for lining a barrel when we have a picnic and began to stuff the dried, dead stems and leaves into it.  It was a wonderful feeling.  I kept thinking about how these beds and containers looked in their prime last summer.  I always enjoy how things turn out, and I have some perennials in those beds that come back every year.  I thought I wanted that bed to be a perennial bed so I wouldn’t have to work so hard at it, but I am finding that I am not completely happy with it.  The lilies are tall and showy and I love their heady fragrance.  But they last only a little bit of time and then they are done for.  And then the stalks stick up in the air and look really, well, “stalky”. 

I looked at some pictures of the bed when it was in full bloom last summer, and it really did look nice.  I guess I will have to think about this for a while.

The real message of this post is that spring is coming!  The daffodils and tulips are up.  The crocuses are blooming.

And Certain Man is making fence.  That’s the real clincher!

We are were coming right along with this remodeling project.

Paneling off, and dry wall put up around the alcove:

The brick behind where the piano was is covered, and mostly ready for paint:

The carpet has been torn out, the walls were ready for the painter/drywall guys.

But unfortunately, there have been just a few ripples in the road:

These “headers” aren’t even nailed in.  If you grab the middle piece at the corner, it will come right off in your hand.

We finally got things under control, the dry wall installed and the ceiling painted.

Oops!

When I came downstairs this morning, this is what I found!

Tonight, our painter told us that in the 24 years that he has been painting, he has NEVER had a ceiling act like this one.  Nothing will stick to the dry wall that is on the ceiling!  They painted on Friday.  After they left, patches started falling off.  Monday, he came in, scraped off around the areas that had fallen off, put on new “popcorn” stipple, and it looked wonderful.  After he left last night, it started falling off again.  This morning he came in, scraped off all the old stipple and attempted to put on a layer of primer paint (which, he earnestly asserts,  had never been done).  The primer paint fell off, too.  So they are busy skim coating it with “mud” and will attempt to put a textured ceiling up tomorrow.

And poor John, our carpenter.  He showed up this morning, full of smiles and with his teenage son, and they were going to install the windows, the door, and begin the trim work.  I was gone ALL day with my Sweet Mama and Middle Daughter, but when I came home,  there was one window in that looked “right” enough to say that it was at least “coming along” —

And the other one:

I guess the opening wasn’t “square” and when they put it in, it was “torqued” just enough to break the large window pane.  I didn’t witness this, but I understand he wasn’t very happy when he decided to call it a day and go home.

The garage is rather full of trim pieces that we’ve been staining and varnishing, but they don’t want to dry.

The carpet is back-ordered, and they aren’t sure when it can be installed.

Most of the curtains are also “back ordered!”.

Our sons and their wives are coming in about 10 days.  Our carpenters think we will be done.

I’m not so sure, but I’m hopeful!

.

Today, a friend prayed that I would have some word from my faraway girlie.  I came to my computer right after she prayed and found that Rachel had updated her private blog.  She had told me that I could put a link to it on my Xanga site.

http://rachelyutzy.blogspot.com/2011/02/another-monday-morning.html?spref=fb

It snowed last night in Delaware.  I woke up around 2:30 and looked out the window at the broad expanse of white and figured this day would be different than expected.  Certain Man, awakened from his sleep at his wife’s insistence, grunted and said, “It will probably be a two hour delay,” and turned over and went back to sleep.

In the pre-dawn silvery darkness, I got up and followed him down to do the morning check of ladies and to check who is going where. The cold and the snow are so different from last week’s spring-like weather.  I turn to google to see what is happening in the town of Youngest Daughter today. 

Weather for Bangkok, Thailand

82°F | °C

Current: Mostly Cloudy
Wind: S at 5 mph
Humidity: 74%

Half a world away, she also has a complete reversal of the weather here.  I know it is so hot.  I don’t miss the hot.  I do miss the girlie.  It’s been a while since I’ve had a personal letter from her.

A few weeks ago, Certain Man asked me to try to find flowers for her for Valentines day.  He has made a practice of sending his unmarried daughters red, white and pink carnations with some baby’s breath thrown in for Valentines Day, and he wanted to at least attempt to do the same for his faraway girlie.  So I messaged Candice Mast, who, with her husband, Tom, are the “resident resource persons” in Bangkok.  She was an absolute joy to work with, eager to see what she could do, and, in the end, successful beyond what we had initially expected.

On Facebook, the morning of February 14th, Rachel posted on her wall:

“Some traditions never fail… Even with a world in between. Thank you, Daddy for my pretty pink and white carnations. =] It made my day!”

I’m so thankful for the man who is the Daddy of my children.  He really is an unusual man in so many ways.  And I am thankful for the help of friends in Thailand whose unselfish help has made Thailand seem not quite so far away this past week for Certain Man and me.  

Deborah continues to make preparations for her trip to to see Rachel, leaving in a little over three weeks.  It tugs incredibly much to know that Beebs (our family’s pet name for Deborah) will be able to see her, spend time with her, observe where she lives and works and meet her friends.  Once again, the opportunities that are afforded Beebs by her hard work and frugal budgeting blesses not only herself, but Rachel and Certain Man and me (and the rest of our family, too).  It is comforting to me that Rachel is going to have family with her for a couple of days, and that Beebs will bring back stories that will be alive with detail and color and interesting tidbits that others would miss or deem unimportant.

And so the days and weeks keep on passing.  Three months are almost history.  Sometimes I think about this absence and try to evaluate how I feel, and measure it against the other absences of our children in times past.  Sometimes it seems like if I put things in perspective and think about all the positives and growth and opportunities involved, it doesn’t hurt so much.  That helps, I guess.

But sometimes I just miss her so incredibly much that all I can think of is her Blueberry Eyes.

It’s Monday morning, and John, (Certain Man’s Amish Friend) is here to work on the living room that we are in the middle of remodeling.  He is pleasant, easy to have in the house, and really good at what he does.

His presence in the house reminds me of a situation that Daniel overheard over a decade ago when he was doing the plumbing for a housing development near Magnolia.  The developer was an old Nazarene minister who had fallen from grace, made many, many decisions that caused untold grief in the community, but came back to The Father with all his heart in his later years, deeply regretting the havoc he had wreaked with his foolishness and sin.

Reverend Bailey hired Amish workman whenever possible, and they were comfortable in his presence.  (Sometimes he lamented that they didn’t appreciate his generosity and benevolence.  He often gave free food, and was prompt in paying them, but, for some reason, the fresh produce from their gardens that he so greatly desired, almost never showed up.)

This particular day, some of his Amish workmen were in a squabble of some sort.  It was getting more and more heated.  It seems it happened often enough that Rev. Bailey was troubled by their lack of Christian charity towards each other, and finally decided to intervene.

“Come on, now, Brothers,” he said with gentle amiability.  “Let’s remember.  It takes more than growing whiskers to get to Heaven.” 

Our Girl Nettie’s “Bee in Her Bonnet” has continued to buzz.

On Wednesday they called me from center and said that she was having some difficulty — had I seen anything at home?  I said that she’d been sick, and seemed lethargic, but not anything psychotic. 

It turns out that she had been saying to them that the police were looking for her because she flew those airplanes into those two buildings in New York City.  (!)  I said that I hadn’t heard anything about it, but that she had been sick, maybe that was affecting how her medication was metabolizing.  They said that she had been exhibiting anxiety already last week before she was sick, and that even though it wasn’t the airplane business, it was still that the police were looking for her.  She couldn’t tell them before why it was that she was a person of interest, but finally settled on what she had done.  Poor Girlie.  She must have felt such torment!  I told them that I would talk to her.

When she came home, she seemed pretty normal. ( Over the course of the evening, we had several conversations which pretty much boiled down to the following exchanges.)

“How are you, Nettie?”

“Aw, I  ‘unno . . . I’m Depwess.”

“What are you depressed about, Nettie?”

“Aw, I jus sor’a’ sad ‘bou’ wha’ I done . . .”

“What did you do?”

“You know.  How I run ’em airplanes in ’em buildings and kill all ’em people in New York.”

“Nettie, that wasn’t you!  You didn’t do that!”

“I din’???”

“No, you didn’t.  Besides, the people who did that are dead.  Every single one of the people in the airplane died.”

“–ey did???” 

“Yes, they did.  It was a suicide bomber, and every single person died.  You are alive so you couldn’t have done it.”

“–a’s wha’ you fink.”

“That’s what I KNOW.

“–en why are ‘uh police lookin’ fer me?”

“They aren’t looking for you, Nettie.”

“Yes, –ey are.”

“No, they aren’t.”

“–a’s wha’ you say, bu’ I know –ey are!”

“Nettie, you don’t have your pilot’s license.  How could you be flying a plane?  They wouldn’t even let you on the plane, probably, much less fly it!”

That made her laugh and duck her head.  Then she looked up, almost defiantly, “–en why is my head tellin’ me ‘–at I done it???”  She grabbed her newly cut hair and pulled it miserably.

“They must have cut off all your sense when they gave you a haircut,” I said, laughing.  “Besides, Nettie, your heart is too soft.  You couldn’t have killed all those people!”

“Oh, yes, I could!” She said, beaming proudly.

“Oh, no, you couldn’t.  You couldn’t even kill a cat, much less a whole bunch of people!”

She snapped to attention.  “Wha-‘ you say?!?!?!?!?!”

“I said your heart is too soft. You couldn’t even kill a cat, much less people.”

“O-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h!” she said, turning away, “Doan’ you be talkin’ about ‘at again.”