Delaware Grammy

The garden at Shady Acres (planted in a sunny spot) is quite an interesting undertaking to say the least.

Certain Man plants it.  Weeds it.  Sprays the bugs and digs the potatoes and picks up ground cherries.  He cheers on the asparagus and rhubarb, and he examines and exclaims over the carrots and carefully stakes up the tomatoes so that there is no problem when it comes to picking them.  He loves yellow summer squash and he picks those carefully and expertly.  He has been know to help pick up the butternut squash, but not because he likes to.  He does not pick beans.  Of any kind.  He does not cut asparagus, he does not usually pick tomatoes unless it is to eat one of his beautiful little ones on his way to the chicken house.  His involvement with the peppers is to the extent that he tells me when they need to be picked and how they are getting out of hand.

But he weeds and rotor-tills and strings up the wires and string for my beloved pole limas and usually his garden is picture perfect.

This year, most of the garden has been exactly right most of the time.  But the weeds got away from him in the potatoes and lima bean rows and it has been discouraging.  Especially since we aren’t getting enough lima beans to even bother with.  We can about throw the picking’s handful into a soup or eat them raw.  It’s been discouraging for Certain Man’s wife, too.

At the beginning of the summer, he decided that this year he was going to have a row of peas and a row of green beans.  I don’t often argue with him, but I REALLY didn’t want green beans (or peas, either, for that matter!) But he went ahead and got the seed and planted a row of green beans.  I was secretly just a little upset.  Green beans are not that expensive, people often have them for the taking, and besides.  I have to bend way over to pick those green beans and the hot sun and the way they hide is a great aggravation to this farm girl’s heart.  I just didn’t want to have them on my conscience.  Middle Daughter had pretty much said that she didn’t feel called to pick green beans for us, and I just knew I would be out there in that patch picking green beans and feeling misunderstood.

They didn’t come up!

I secretly rejoiced with exceeding great joy!

But then Certain Man came home one day with this lumpy envelope and when I investigated, I found it almost full of bean seeds.  “What’s this with these seeds?” I asked him.

“Oh, those,” he said.  “Gary said I ought to try them and he gave me that pack.”

“I don’t want green beans in our garden, Daniel.  They are hard to pick and Deborah said she would pick them last year and after a time or so of picking them, she got busy and I had to pick and they were nasty and I don’t want green beans in my garden.”

“I thought I might just try these and see,” he insisted.  “Gary says they are really nice green beans.  There aren’t all that many, and the first ones I planted never even came up.  It’s kinda’ late for them anyhow.  They probably won’t make much, but I’d sorta’ like to at least try them and see how they do.”

I could tell it wouldn’t do me any good to say any more, and I was gratified to see that lumpy envelope around for a very long time.  Long enough that I forgot about them.  Then one day, he mentioned that his green beans were up.

“Did you plant those beans that Gary gave you?” I asked.

“Yep!  And they came up good!”

Oh, well. 

We were working on Deborah’s library and he wasn’t spending much time in the garden and his weeds were fast taking over.  I decided that I wouldn’t worry too much about it.  With all those weeds out there, those beans didn’t stand much of a chance.  But then, his part of the work on Deborah’s project came to an end and he got after those weeds with a vengeance and since he started at the edge of the garden that everyone sees first, he weeded the row of marigolds that we plant next to the tomatoes to keep the bugs off.  Then he weeded his tomatoes, then his — you guessed it!  His bean row.  I came out one night to check on my pole limas and I saw a healthy row of green beans about 2/3 the length of the garden.  I decided that I was going to ignore them.

I fought the thistles and the butternut squash to go over my two rows of pole limas and got about a five gallon bucket on the first picking.  I was really worried, though, because there were no more viable pods hanging on the vines.  I proceeded to pray and sing over them, and tried to keep after the other garden things, but at least two weeks later I went over the patch again and got — two handfuls of shelled beans.  This made me a little cross.  Certain Man was steadily weeding the rows of pole limas, he was watering faithfully, he was doing all he could to help the pole limas grow, but it was all to no avail.  And I was still ignoring those green beans.  Occasionally, Certain Man would lament that “those green beans don’t seem to be making anything of themselves, either,”  but I was still not paying attention.  You see, I was afraid that if I looked at them and there were beans there, I would feel OBLIGATED to pick them. 

On Tuesday night, when the kids were here, I gone out with them and thought that I would work in the garden while they rode bikes and worked off some energy.  When they saw that I was in the garden, they all three came pounding across the grass and wanted to help.  They wanted to pick tomatoes and they were pulling the green ones off at an alarming rate.  I looked down and happened to see that there were quite a few green beans hanging on the first bush of the row, so I thought long and hard (at least five seconds) about asking them if they wanted to help pick the green beans and sure enough!  They did!

So we set to work with a 2½ gallon bucket and before I knew it, that bucket was getting full, and I hadn’t picked more than a fourth of the row.  Then the kids were tired of it already (they had worked under that scorching evening sun for at least ten minutes and it was getting to be to much for them, I guess).  So they went back to picking tomatoes and peppers that they threw all into the same bucket with the green beans.  I picked a few more green beans before LJ started sneezing and getting really, really tight in his chest, and we gave up gardening for the night.

I had this wonderful bucket, though, of the nicest green beans I have ever picked.  They were long and slender and crisp and green.  I looked at those green beans and after feeling so pleased with them, I felt heartsick at how many bushes that I hadn’t even touched, and how the week ahead was so very packed with lots and lots of stuff to do.  The evening got late before I could do anything with the nice bucket I had picked, so I decided that I would take the fresh green beans to my Sweet Mama’s house the next day and we would have them for lunch. I talked to Mama, and she seemed delighted to think that I would bring them.  I had also made Chicken-etti for the kids for supper (their favorite meal!) and Mama likes that, too, so we had our lunch all planned.

Oldest Daughter and Love Bug went along out to Sweet Mama’s that morning and while I worked on other things, Christina snapped those green beans and Mama fetched out some bacon and between the two of them, they made a big pot of fresh green beans and bacon.  Talk about good!  Those beans were wonderful.

But now I had a dilemma.  There were terribly many beans left out there, and I was coming down with the biggest guilt complex over them that I had experienced in a while.  But there was no time to pick those beans.  I came home from Sweet Mama’s and did some paperwork for the ladies, and then fed them and got ready for small group.  After small group, Certain Man and I remembered that his office was having breakfast the next morning and he had told them that I would make sausage gravy to send in.  They were celebrating Certain Man’s birthday and also the secretary’s and the gravy was by special request of the two birthday people.  The only trouble was, I was out of sausage.  So at eleven o’clock on Wednesday night, I made a mad dash for the grocery store for supplies.

And lest you think that Certain Man was just taking it easy through all this, HE WASN’T.  Our chickens went out on Tuesday night/Wednesday morning and the hours and hours of work that lead up to that and then follow it are enough to keep two men busy.  And he almost always does it all by himself.  I really did not expect him to pick beans.  Even if it was something he did, which it isn’t, he wouldn’t have under these circumstances.  I did discuss their presence with him.

“Hey, Mr. Yutzy.  Did you know there are a WHOLE LOT of green beans out there?”

“They aren’t any good any more, though, are they?”

“They are beautiful, Daniel.  Just gorgeous!”

“I saw some time ago-” (probably when he was weeding) “that there were quite a few hanging on out there.  I just figured when no one picked them, that they were too hard.”

“Well, they aren’t.  And someone really needs to pick them.  I guess I will have to see what I can do.”  And then I made the mistake.  “I really didn’t want green beans in the garden.”

“Well,” he said darkly.  “I can take care of those green beans for you in about 15 minutes.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll just go out there and pull them all out and throw them over the fence to the cows.”

“Daniel, you can’t just throw those beans away.”

“Just watch me!”

“No, I don’t want you to throw them away.  I’ll try to do something with them.”  The thing is, I was pretty sure he had no intentions of throwing those beans over the fence.  (Though he has been known to do such things!)  I suspected that he was going to try to somehow pick them himself in his already overcrowded, over committed schedule.  He was so tired already that I was worried about him.  I decided to not say another word about picking green beans to him.

Thursday (that was yesterday) we were beginning to have lots of warnings concerning the hurricane that was coming and I began to realize that I needed to get as much garden produce off as possible.  I had an early appointment with Nettie in Dover, needed to pick up some material to make a trial dress for Love Bug for a wedding, and had a case manager coming for a home visit and Oldest Daughter was having a “31” party here in the evening.  There was going to be NO TIME to pick beans.  I really didn’t want to all that much, anyhow.

And to be honest, not only did I not WANT to, I was pretty sure that it wasn’t beneficial for a particular health issue that I’ve been dealing with.  When I had a hysterectomy a couple of months after I turned forty, and at the same time, they did an abdominal hernia repair and put in a stainless steel mesh, I thought it would solve all my problems in both departments.  And it seemed to be okay for a decade or so, but the last couple of years I’ve realized that I need some additional repair done.  And bending over, picking produce is not comfortable at all.  But I don’t like food to go to waste and I don’t like to complain.  AND, I kept remembering how wonderful those beans had tasted at my Sweet Mama’s table.  

So this morning, before it got too hot, I decided I would go out there and try to make short work of that bean row.  Of course, there is no such thing as short work in a bean patch.  I pondered the mysteries of gardening.  (Why are these beans doing so well in the same garden as the unproductive Limas?)  I prayed for grace under the hot sun.  I prayed for a breeze.  I prayed that the cloud cover would move over the sun.  I prayed that the sun could just go behind a cloud.  I stood up and looked at the long row.  I took off my glasses and wiped my sweaty face on my sleeve, and remembered that people on furosomide are not to be out in the sun.  And through it all, I picked green beans and picked green beans and picked green beans.  Oh, and I sang some of my favorite storm songs and thought about all the possibilities of the hurricane and looked at my tomato plants and decided that I should take all of the ripe tomatoes off before the storm and that made me think about the peppers and so I checked them and picked them, too.  Middle Daughter had been busy getting things put away before the storm, but she came out and helped me just when I thought I could not make it any longer and her good conversation and helping hands saw me through those last difficult moments.

Then Middle Daughter’s friend, Abi, came over and the two of them snapped the beans for me, and there is such a hearty, healthy amount.  I have a big pot of tomatoes cooked up, ready for juicing out, and those beans almost ready for the blancher and Certain Man and I got Shady Acres about as secure as we possibly could and it is all good.

I’m not ready to say that I am glad he planted all those green beans, and I think I will give away at least the next picking if there is anything left after IRENE makes her way across Delmarva, but I am so grateful for these beautiful green beans, and I suppose I will be even happier next winter.  Methinks I will cook up a pot of them tomorrow with some bacon to eat while we are weathering out the storm.

Good night, all. This gal is going to bed!

There has been a lot of water over the dam since I last wrote about my three kids.  Actually, it was July 22nd when I thought maybe this was one project that I was going to have to just let go.

But I got such good advice from my Xanga friends, and there was that Holy Spirit nudging that just wouldn’t stop.  So, even though I had no support from the kid’s mother when it came to taking Mya alone, I decided that unless she would let me take her alone for an evening, I wouldn’t have the three of them together here again.  The little ones tried mightily to change my mind, and the Mom wouldn’t answer my phone calls on the night I was to get her, and even took the kids and left the house because “It wasn’t fair for Mya to come and not the others.”  I decided that I could be stubborn, too, and I sent her word that I wanted to pick Mya up for the evening on Tuesday night and I would take her and do some school shopping.  And that, unless I could get that in before the next Thursday night, the kids wouldn’t be coming.  She finally agreed that I could take her, and I promised the other two that they would get their turn alone with me, too, if things could be worked out. 

What a blessing this strategy has proven to be.  Our church provided the money for school supplies and for one outfit a piece, and each kid got to do at least one thing special on our day out and got to choose where to eat lunch and then, if they were good, they got an ice cream cone on the way home.  They could not have been better.  Just perfect examples of decorum and co-operation. All three of them earned that ice cream cone fair and square.

I decided to do some specific behavior modification on the Thursday nights when the three of them are here, and that has been successful beyond what I had expected, too.  I’ve been trying to plan better, trying to free the evening up from anything but engaging them in activity — whether that is working in the garden, taking rides on the golf cart, and I have even managed to get them involved in READING to them — something they have not been very interested in before.  I have been careful in choosing the stories — keeping them short and exciting, and it was gratifying tonight for them to ask if they could have another one.   They have also become interested in stories from when I was a little girl that I can tell them on the way home.  Another positive in a time that often went to pieces.

Last Thursday, I had a very trying day, and even though I had told them earlier in the week that I thought they could come, I came early to the conclusion that I just couldn’t have them.  I tried to call the mom, but there was no answer, so I texted her that I wasn’t up to having them, but that we would pick them up on Sunday morning for Sunday School.  She didn’t get my message, and at 6 o’clock she and the three of them were on my doorstep.  I went out and their eyes were so pleading that I almost relented and let them stay, but I hadn’t made supper and I hadn’t planned any activities for the evening, and I decided that I just couldn’t do it. 

“I’m sorry, Dawn,” I said to their Mama.  “I’ve had a tough day today, with our daughter leaving for college and a whole lot of activity planned for the next couple days.  I would like to have them stay, but I just can’t.  I hate to disappoint them, but it just doesn’t suit for me to have them tonight.”

For once, she seemed okay with that, and even though I saw the hurt in the eyes of the kids, she herded them back into the car and left.  I wondered if they would come to Sunday school on Sunday, because she has sometimes said that if they don’t come on Thursday, they can’t come to church, but I decided to take the chance.  I really needed those Thursday evening hours, and even though I felt guilty, I knew it was what I had to do.

Sunday Morning, Daniel went to pick them up while I finished up the last minute things here at home.  He came back for me and the ladies, and as I got into the car, I said, “How’re my kids this morning?”

“Fine . . . um, Ms. Mary Ann.  We have something for you.”

“For me?  What do you have for me?”

The oldest fumbled with a homemade envelope in her hand and then thrust it in my direction.

“We wrote this for you,” they all chorused.  I pulled out a piece of notebook paper, crumbled and folded many times.  There was also a piece of notebook paper that had been carefully colored — one line pink, one line blue, one line pink, one line blue.  “Ms. Mary Ann, I colored that for you,” said Muffie proudly, “And Mya wrote the note ’cause we didn’t know how to write it.”

I unfolded the paper and looked at the smudged and penciled lines.  I suddenly could almost not read for the tears.

Dear Mrs. Maryann
do you know that we love you?  Cause you are the best person that we ever met.  And thankyou for taking us school shopping and taking us to eat lunch we really appreciate what you’ve done.  We really love to go to your church and your house on Thursday nights.
Love,
Mya, LJ and Muffie.

I am so grateful to God for His blessings to me, for giving me friends who give me advice when I need it that is workable and for giving me courage to try even when it seems so hopeless.  The three of them were here tonight because I have a conflict on Thursday night and the best gift of all for me was that when I realized that Thursday wasn’t going to work, I actually wanted to work something else out.  And they are still busy, and they still don’t tell the truth, and I keep finding things that I need to be firm about — but I see them actually making decisions to obey me when I say something — even turning around and coming back when they are on their way to disobey, and being kind to each other when issues come up that would have sparked familial war before.  I am so profoundly grateful.  It makes me feel like keeping on keeping on.

And on that note, this gal is getting herself off to bed.  Thank you, friends, for praying for Daniel and I and these three kids.  It has truly made all the difference.

We finally had some rain while Rachel was home.

Our kids are sorta’ like their Mama.  If there is rain to be had, it is a wonderful day!

Christina and Rachel getting soaking wet in an afternoon shower.

Unfortunately, we took almost no pictures on the weekend. 
And Raph and Gina left on Sunday afternoon —
After which I realized that I hadn’t gotten a single picture of them.
This was a serious grief to this mother’s heart.

 

Sunday Evening, we had a Yoder family cookout.
We’ve had so many people in our pavilion for a number of different things
but I’ve never had my family.  It was time to remedy the situation.
When they agreed to gather at Shady Acres instead of Sweet Mama’s house
I was one tickled pink daughter/sister/auntie/momma/wife.

My sister, Sarah.  She and my younger sister, Alma, are my best friends.
When no one else understands me, and it feels like no one else cares,
Sarah and Alma are a place where I can crash with my tears and with my angst.
They don’t always agree with me, but they always love me.
I have so little time with them.  Maybe that is why they can still love me!

Queena and Ethan, our Wycliffe team of the family. 
They are raising support for their assignment in Asia.
We hope to have them around until next spring.

 

Sweet Mama and my youngest brother, Mark, Jr.
     

Yes, Markie, it is good to wipe your mouth after such big bites!

Here is my oldest brother, Clint, and his wife, Frieda.
They recently sold their home and are relocating to South Carolina.
It occurs to me that the times we have to be together like we’ve been
for all these years is fast coming to an end.
I believe that men need to follow God, and I believe that is what Clint
is doing . . . but I almost cannot stand to see them go.

 

This is Dorie — Ethan and Queena’s girlie.  She lights up our lives.
If you want to know what a three year old thinks, just have a little talk
with this young lady!

This is James, Dorie’s little brother.
I cannot look at this little fellow without a feeling
of extreme gratitude rising in my heart.
Because of a traumatic birth, and some unfortunate
happenings, the doctor told his family that he would probably
never be “normal” 
The outlook was the grimmest of the grim.
But God . . .
And that says it all.
Glory, Hallelujah!!!

 

Our family is blessed with an abundance of young people.

Maria (Slaubaugh) Swartentruber, Tim Yoder, Carmen Heatwole,
Rachel Yutzy, Holly Yoder.

These five have always been “best buddies” with Tim never acting
at all like he minded being the thorn among the roses. 
What a great time they had together this weekend with Rachel just home.

Carey and Maria, My beloved Certain Man (It was his birthday!)
and the side of Gabe Heatwole.

I even got in on some of the conversations.
Our daughter in law, Jessica, Gabe Heatwole, Joe Slaubaugh and Yours Truly.

 

Our son, Lem, his wife, Jessica and Gabe.

Jessica, Gabe and Joe.

 

And there was even a feisty game of rook going at one of the tables!
Daniel (though he wasn’t a part of it) Josh Slaubaugh (Though he is completely hidden!)
Mark Jr., Polly Yoder, and Lawina Slaubaugh.

 

                                 

Whether chomping on a big old carrot from Grandpa’s garden or spooning down the redi-whip on a plastic spoon,
She’s still the only grandbaby we got, and we think she’s wonderful!

 

And then on Monday evening, those of our immediate family that could make it, went to Olive Garden.
Missing were Raph and Gina and Deborah (who had to work). 

 

Rachel’s friend, Lara Shenk was along.

 

 

   

Rachel and her Daddy.
When we met her at the Rosedale International Center on Friday,
she hugged her Daddy like she would never let go.
“I’ve been waiting for this hug for nine months,” she said.
“There just was no man in Thailand that I could really hug,
and I just needed my Daddy!”

Daniel and two of his girls.
He would have been even happier if only Deborah would have been there!

 

There was lots of playing going on while we waited for a table.

 

Keeping Charis entertained was important.

 

But even so, the time got really long for a little girlie.

 

Charis and her Uncle Lem really have some good times!

 

Rach and her Brother, Lem with Lem’s wife, Jessica.

 

Lem’s educational expertise and his success since he is out of school
has been an incredible blessing to Rachel.  She called me on Monday night
nearly in tears from the wonder of it all. 
“Mom,” she said with her voice full of emotion, “There is nothing like having
a big brother pave the way for you!”

    

These two always have plenty to talk about.

 

As do these two.

 

Daniel thought it was a pretty good place to wait —
between two pretty, young women.

(That was okay by me.
I was busy chasing our grandbaby.
There are few things I enjoy more.)

 

. . . and there you have it! 
Just a few glimpses into our too short weekend.

 

 

It’s morning at Shady Acres.

I rolled over and glimpsed the clock and saw that it was reading 6:28 already.  I should have been up almost an hour.  But Certain Man had spent long hours in the chicken house last night trying to fix something that didn’t really appear to be broke.  It honestly felt like someone among the higher ups was trying to find fault somehow.  I mean, here is this guy who consistently finishes high in the settlements, has a beautiful flock of chickens almost ready for market, is running water through his medicator at the usual rate, and they think he has some waters that aren’t working? 

“Some sections aren’t getting water at all,” the big wig said while he solicitously touched my arm and looked concerned. (Well, actually, maybe “Big Wig” isn’t the proper terminology here.  He had his head shaved, shining in the afternoon sunlight while he stood on my back stoop.)

I was very surprised.  Chicken growers know that if the chickens aren’t getting water, they are not going to prosper.  Ours are doing fine.  I was at an advantage here, though I didn’t know it, because I hadn’t heard anything of the conversation that had been going on all afternoon between Certain Man and his Flock Supervisor.  The fellow on my doorstep was the supervisor’s supervisor, and sensing that I knew nothing about what was going on, was forced to reiterate his theories concerning our chicken house.

“I understand you have all new nipples in that house,” he said.  (DON’T HAVE A HERNIUM!  That is what those types of drinkers are called!)  “But there is some sort of black slimy deposit on them that isn’t letting the water get through on whole sections of the house.”

I will spare you all the things he said because it doesn’t make sense to people who aren’t chicken growers, except to say that I was genuinely concerned and puzzled about what and how, and asked a great deal of questions which he answered with great touching to my elbow and shoulder and assurances that they wanted to help and blah, blah, blah. 

(Do I look like the kind of woman that wants strange men compassionately touching me over chicken waterers????  Please.  Spare me!)

But anyhow, I eventually retrieved the business card from the guy and assured him that I would discuss it with my husband, and got shed of him.

However, when I called Certain Man to tell him of the visit, he was upset.  Not over the compassion of the guy, but the ludicrous assumptions that were made about his chicken house.  “I don’t understand, Hon,” he said vehemently.  “There is nothing wrong with our chickens.  And there can’t be “whole sections” out of water, or the chickens wouldn’t be doing so well..  It just feels like someone is trying to pick a bone about something.”

So the powers that be determined that it would be good for Certain Man to obtain large quantities of Ammonia, and that he needed to flush that through the lines, let it sit for two hours, then re-flush until the water was clear and see if that did the trick.  It was a big job.  Dollar Tree sells ammonia by the gallon, (for a dollar a gallon, no less!) so that was a nice break.  I picked up four gallons there after buying three gallons in the two quart containers at Food Lion, and Certain Man set to work. 

I had picked up our neighbor boy from Boys and Girls Club and on the way home he looked at me plaintively and said, “Miss Mary Ann, when we get home, can you make me grilled cheese sandwiches?”

“Cheese sandwiches???”  I ask him, smiling over my shoulder to where he sat on the seat behind me in the mini-van.  “You want two?”

“Yes, please,” he says quietly.  It’s the only thing I can get him to eat.  He refuses to eat almost every single thing I make, but I found out a few weeks ago that he LOVES toasted cheese sandwiches, and he has been going through my supply of homemade bread like a house afire.

“Well, Romy,” I say now.  “I think you can have two cheese sandwiches, but I am getting a little low on bread.”  Then thinking to myself, I said, “Maybe I should just make some tonight.”  And when I realized that Certain Man was going to be busy in the chicken house most of the evening, it seemed like it was a perfect opportunity.  I made Romy his two sandwiches, made Nettie a tomato sandwich and fed Cecilia her favorite supper of peanut butter and jelly.  Then I mixed up a batch of bread, and tried to keep myself occupied.  Oldest Daughter came down for a little with Love Bug and as she was leaving, we went out to try to find Certain Man so he could get his “grandbaby fix” but he was not readily available, so we came back to the house.  Romy went home, Christina and Charis went home, and I got the ladies to bed, and then it was full speed ahead to finish last things.  The bread was cool enough around midnight to cut, so I got that cut and into the bags, ready for the freezer.  Ten loaves.  Our supply for the next little while.  Then I tackled my (very!) messy kitchen.  I kept thinking that Certain Man would come in any time, but finally, around one o’clock, when the kitchen was all in order, I went out, got on the trusty golf cart and went searching.  I found him sitting on an overturned bucket at the feed bin end of the chicken house.  By the time I got to him, he was up, collecting all his buckets and ready to quit for the night.  He washed out his buckets, put them away, turned off lights in his shop and then we were finally actually finished with the first phase of the chicken water treatment.

It was almost two in the morning before we finally got to bed.  And the day just started too early. 

Somehow the clean kitchen was an encouragement to me, and the bread in the freezer gave me reassurance that I wouldn’t need to bake for a while.  And when the sisters and the Sweet Mama decided it was a good day to go to Dover shopping, guess who went, too?  Even though it was hard to put one foot in front of the other for part of the day, it was a wonderful time.

It’s all a matter of focusing on the blessings, isn’t it?

And so this long day passed.  Weariness is no stranger to me or Certain Man, and so we need to persevere, just waiting for the time when there will be no more partings, no more sicknes, no pain or death — or weariness. 

Even so, Lord Jesus, COME.

 

Rachel headed out to college this morning, her old car loaded to the gills, and lots of last minute emergencies.  The old green car pulled out with almost all her earthly goods packed into the trunk and the back seat.  Her Daddy and I stood in the driveway, waving until the last sight of her disappeared.

My heart is so heavy.  I don’t think we ever make up for the days when a child is gone, and these days were so short — and honestly, so compromised by all the people she wanted to see.  We had some good, good times, but —

I feel so gypped.  But then, I know I’m not the only one.

Why can’t I stop crying? 

Maybe I will give myself this one day for tears, and then put my hand to the things I need to do.  There is another bridal shower, garden things that need attention, a house to clean, food to make for numerous things.  There is more than enough to occupy my heart — even though right now it feels like there is NO ROOM for anything in this old heart.

“Hold me, Jesus,
I’m shaking like a leaf.
You have been my King of my Glory. 
Won’t you be my Prince of Peace?”
rich mullins

I know, I know.  It’s been a long time.  Rachel is home, and time is slipping through my fingers in unbelievable quantities.  There were so few days to begin with, and it seems like the coming morning is just too close.

I find myself doing such mindless things these days.  It is an escape, I understand that.  But it feels like I am just . . . waiting.  Waiting for the “second shoe to drop”  . . . waiting for “the axe to fall”  . . . waiting for this bittersweet wedge of time to edge on in to the pie of life.

HOWEVER—

Part of my silence was brought on by a disturbing situation with Xanga.  About two weeks ago, I was looking at “Top Blogs” to see if my latest posting had just happened to register there, and I saw a profile picture on one of the top blogs that was obvious blatant female nudity.  I usually just don’t peruse the blogs that I think would be offensive to me, but since this was a top blog, open to anyone who just might be looking through, I decided to check it out.’

I thought I would throw up.  I know that I am naive.  My kids think I’m an old prude.  That’s fine.  I’d just as soon they did.  But this was so offensive.  It WAS female nudity.  It was actually lesbian female nudity depicting sexual activity of every sort —  It was incredibly graphic, and pornographic.  I was so shaken up, I could hardly function.  I didn’t want to tell anybody about it because it wasn’t fit for anyone to see.  So I wrote a very shaken up letter to Xanga and asked them to please shut it down.  I was so upset I didn’t include the user name. This was Thursday afternoon. They wrote back to me on Friday — a very polite letter and asked for the user name.  I hadn’t written it down, and didn’t know it.  So I had to go back into my history to find it.  I wrote them again and gave the user name, gave some of the reasons why I was so upset, and asked them again to shut it down.  That was Friday, and the weekend was upon us when I wrote back to them, so it was Monday before I heard from them again. Their response:

Hi MaryAnn,

Yepper!  This was one grateful lady.  I finally felt like I could touch my computer again.

Before anyone jumps on my case about free press and all that — just let me say that I think it is wrong in ANY forum.  I have a right to feel that way.  But I also am not so stupid to know that there are people out there that want that sort of exposure and are going to find it somewhere.  This blog person has probably already established another site.  The thing that bothered me the most was the accessibility issue.  I have a filter on my computer to weed out such stuff and this got past it.  And when I say pornographic — I’m not talking “soft” porn.  I’m talking full pictures of women’s genitalia, lesbian sex between three women, fellatio, and even videos of sex between male and female.  I still feel sick when I think of it — and lest you think I spent time looking through this site — all of this was on the first page.  I have no idea what was beyond this. But literally ANYONE could have looked at that site — impressionable children, teenagers — and to be honest, I can’t really think of a good reason why anyone should look at something like that. 

This has greatly curtailed my interest in Xanga’s top blogs — as well as anyone who I don’t know on Xanga.  (In fact, if anyone asks to be my friend and I don’t know who they are, they can just forget it!)

I’ve thought a lot about how we decide what types of media we will be involved in, and what we will be party to.  I had made up my mind that if they didn’t shut down the site, I was going to close my Xanga account.  I am gratified that they chose to close it, but I’m concerned about the “in place” safeguards that not only allowed it to slip through, but made it one of the top blogs.  I was especially concerned when I went over to the “A” rated, “family friendly” top blogs and found it THERE!  C’mon, people!  What’s the criteria?

I have been one of the most grateful users of Xanga, and I have defended them to many, many people, but to be honest, I’m not so sure now.

What do you think? 

 

Our Girlie is back in Columbus, OHIO!

After several delays, and landing with only the team leader’s luggage, they are safely at the Rosedale International Center in Columbus.

This day was a long time coming.

There is a Daddy and a Momma who can hardly restrain themselves from heading to Ohio, NOW!

We comfort each other with these words —

“Just hold on, it’s only eight more days until we can bring her home.”

I’ve been so homesick for my faraway children these last couple of weeks. 

Youngest Daughter is serving her final days before returning home.  Her ticket has her leaving Thailand on Tuesday, traversing this globe in various hops until she lands in Columbus, OH, on Wednesday night.  Her debriefing lasts through the next week, until Friday, when, Oh Glorious Hope! her daddy and I are to join her for some closing formalities before bringing her home.

Maybe it is the proximity of her return.  Maybe it is that I am finally allowing myself to think about how far away she is and how long it has been.  Maybe it is just that fact that nine months is a long, long time.  But somehow the moments when I find myself in the middle of a longing to see her face and hear her voice, up close and personal are getting greater and closer together.

This morning, I was heading out through the laundry room to the garage for something or other, and I got to thinking about Oldest Son and his wife.  It’s been a long time since we saw them, and I felt this tightness in my throat and such a constriction in my heart that it surprised me.  Stopped me cold.  And I thought about the dynamics of our family, and the things that I miss so much.

There are so many things that I miss.  Actually, though, what I miss the most is what I can never have again — the faces of the children around the supper table; Christina, Deborah, Raph, Lem and Rachel.  I miss the sense of our family as our own little unit, the sounds of our children’s voices at play, at conversation, at prayer . . .

Tonight I remember the conversations at bedtime, words said through fresh-brushed teeth.

“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep . . .”

and-

“Put thoughts of Jesus in my head, and angels all around my bed, and fill my dreams with things that please you . . .

I think of the five of them tonight, and I’m certain they all still brush their teeth before they sleep, and I suspect that they still at least think prayers as some of their last thoughts.

When they come home, the house fills up with the essence that is our kids — and I stir around the kitchen and hear them laugh and talk, and sometimes I wonder at the adults they have become.  Opinions, ideas, and lives that are so independent of their Daddy and me, but people that I love so incredibly much and respect, and enjoy being with.  And they’ve brought good people to our family.  Jesse, Regina and Jessica.  We are so much richer for having these people as part of our family.

In the shadows, on those days when they are all home, I hear the sounds of the children they once were.  Christina still mothers them all and makes us laugh.  Deborah can be counted on for an opinion, and her many acts of service for her siblings often go unnoticed, Raph is still our Saint Bernard puppy of a guy, and he’s the one who plays his guitar and sings to me songs he’s written just for me, and Lem is “the judge” — his sense of justice and integrity still his guiding light, he also sings and plays his guitar almost constantly.  And Rachel —   She’s been our baby, and as such, it’s been easy to love her, but maybe not give her the credibility she deserves.  It’s been so long since she has been here, and I suspect we will be rewriting the rules of her place in the family when once she’s home.

The thing is, I want a chance to to just that.  And if the Lord so wills, and present plans carry, just two weeks from today, they will all be home again.  And I’m no fool.  It won’t be perfect.  I happen to know this Daddy and Momma, and we still make mistakes when it comes to parenting.  I also know these kids.

But they will all be under our roof for a while at the same time, and this Momma can hardly wait!

 

 

I kid you not!

“This old grey mare, she ain’t what she used to be.”

“My get up and go has got up and went.”

I did manage to get my hair combed and my face washed, but very little else.

I feel like my arms and legs weigh at least a hundred pounds a piece.

This is a good day to sit in my chair.

And that is about all I’ve gotten done since my ladies got on their buses.

I think I do better when there is something I have to do.

To be honest, “my” three cataclysmic kids were here last night and behaviors were almost unbelievable.  I’m almost certain that there is a home that is on the brink of disintegration, a young mother who has no clue what to do with her own life, much less the lives and desperate needs of her children, and my heart goes out to her, even though most of the problems are from her own choices.  The thing is, I have no way of speaking discipline to these children that is effective.  The gremlins of their lives are incredibly real to them — and even though they want to go to church, they really don’t want to learn about Jesus.

 

Last night, because they had misbehaved so much, (the usual, lying, stealing, fighting, pouting, railing against me and the supper provisions — they always want something different — hurting each other, etc.) I finally said that next week, only the oldest one could come.  I was pondering all night what could possibly motivate them to better behavior, and finally had instituted a “best behaved of the night” award with a dollar prize.  Well, that caused me a good ten dollars worth of trouble. For cryin’ out loud!!! (yep, they did that, too!) you would have thought I said that I was giving her a house and a lot!  Great wails and protests and hollering and arguing.  It just got worse and worse until I decided that I really was under no obligation to have them over to play and feed them supper and try to give them a good time, and that the ones who were behaving the worst could just not come.

That must sound like I am heartless and cold, but hear me out here.  The only reason I have ever wanted to be involved with these kids is because I want to speak Jesus into their lives.  From the very beginning, they have been really unwilling to listen to anything spiritual.  I’ve toned back demanding that they listen to Bible stories, and they literally will not cognitively participate in conversations that are steered in the direction of life skills, growing up responsible or any of those things.  Take the following situation:

We are on the golf cart.  The girls are with me on the seat, the boy is in back with the neighbor child, Romy.  We are going down the chicken house lane, towards the pasture, and as we come up on the chicken houses, there is this great, “E-W-W-W-W-W-W!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Everyone, cover your nose!!!  Quick, it stinks, E-W-W-W-W-W-W!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”  

Shirts and tops are pulled up over their faces, great gagging noises are made, and more complaining and fussing is going on, so I say to them, “I have a question for you guys.  Would you be willing to smell chickens if you could get paid for it?”

“No way!!!”

“Huh-uh!!!”

“Not me!!!”

I say, “What if taking care of chickens made it possible for you to have a farm, and have a place that you could live, would it be worth it then?”

“Nope, ain’t no way!”

“I would hate to do chickens.”

“They stink too bad.”

I say, “Well, kids, the thing is, I’m not sure Mr. Daniel LIKES taking care of chickens, but he does it because it is one of his ways of providing for us as a family.  Those chickens paid for this farm.  And that’s what responsible adults do.  They do what needs to be done to provide for their families.”

“Not gonna’ take care of chickens.  Ms. MaryAnn can you make this thing go faster?”

“Oops, I lost my shoe.  It’s back there in the grass!”

“Hee-hee, he lost his shoe.   Ms. MaryAnn, LJ lost his shoe.”

“Gotta’ go back for it, Ms. MaryAnn, Ms. MaryAnn, Ms. MaryAnn–“

So that was the end of that conversation, ending as most of them always do, in the chaos of yet another crisis of loud and disorderly proportions.

I have truly never seen children so taken up with gore and guts and bodily functions and the forces of darkness.  They know about things that I have absolutely no idea what in the world they are talking about, but it must be something, because the oldest will protest, “Ms. MaryAnn, make them stop! They are saying things that make me have bad dreams and things that make me scared.”  And then she will wail at them, “Stop it. Muffy!  Stop it,  LJ!  Stop it!”

And they will gleefully go on saying things like “Candy Man!”  and “Amityville” and something about a Rose car wreck.  And one is shrieking and laughing in a maniacal fashion, one is bouncing off the seat, having shed the seat belt, and one is covering her ears so she won’t hear what they are saying.

And then there is this terrible smell filling the car.

“Ms. MaryAnn, Muffy’s farting!  E-W-W-W-W-W-W-W-W!  Muffy’s farting!  Can we open the windows or something?  E-W-W-W-W-W-W-W-W!!! Muffie!”

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!!!  No, I didn’t!”

“Yes, you did!!!  Ms. MaryAnn, Muffy’s lyin’!”

“Well, if i have to do it, Ha-ha-ha, I have to do it!”

“Muffy,” I try to say firmly but gently, “When I was a little girl, we weren’t even allowed to use that word.  And besides, a refined lady will try hard to not pass gas in public.”

“Well, my mama says that if I have to do, I have to do it.  Everybody does it.  So there!”

“But Muffy, if a lady can’t control it, she is embarrassed by it, not proud of it.  It isn’t funny.”

“Ms. MaryAnn — Ms. MaryAnn– Ms. MaryAnn —

“What do you want, Muffie?”

“Um, Ms. MaryAnn, um, well, I forgot —LJ, stop that!  Ms. MaryAnn, LJ is —

“Ms. MaryAnn, Muffy hit me!”

“Did not!”

“”Yes you did and she said ‘shut up!'”  And on and on and on and on.

The thing that is interesting to me is how often they use my name.  They all three say it and say it and say it.  It reminds me of the lobby in the old Country Rest Home when Daddy was the administrator.  I came home from Ohio for a visit, and when I stopped in to see him he said to me, “Sometimes I think if I hear ‘Mr. Yoder’ one more time, I’m going to go out of my mind.  It’s everywhere I turn, ‘Mr. Yoder, Mr. Yoder, Mr. Yoder!”  I remember laughing a little to myself, thinking it wouldn’t be all that bad — until I walked with him through the lobby and it was immediately exactly like he said.  And it was overwhelming, to say the least. 

These days, when my name keeps getting said over and over, for no more reason than to just say it, I remember him, but I also think of the third of the Ten Commandments and think of the daily offenses there are with taking The Holy Name of God in vain — and how that must grieve Him.

So, finally, when I took them home, their mama wasn’t there.  She had said to bring them home “Around nine.” 

I had said, “If I’m going to be later than 9:30, do you want me to call?”

“Yeah, if you could.  It’s hard for me to come and get them because I usually put the baby down around then.”

So I got there around ten after nine and there was no one there, and I waited and waited and waited while they fought and yelled and threw things.

“Ms. MaryAnn, Muffy threw her candy at me!”

“Did not!”

“Yes, you did!”

“Did not!”

“Uh, Muffy, yes, you did!” I looked at the guilty party with her half empty candy pouch in her hand.

“I was sharing with her!” (said with a self-righteous little snoot.)

“No, Muffy, you weren’t!  You don’t share.  Please don’t throw candy!”

Then LJ piped up.  “I didn’t get any candy when we left your house, Ms. MaryAnn.  I didn’t get any like the rest!”

“Yes, you did, LJ.  I was there when you chose your candy.  Remember?”

“Yeah, but I lost it.  I didn’t get it.”

“LJ, you DID have it.  I smelled it when you were eating it, just a little bit ago.”

“I know, but it was nasty, so I threw it out the window!”  (This said from the middle seat on our mini-van that doesn’t have a window that opens.)

“LJ, why don’t you just tell me the truth?  You lie to me when you don’t even have to.  Just tell me the truth!”

“I did!”

“Well, Sonny-buck, it is going to have to be your problem.  You had candy.  What you did with it is your problem.”

Yep, most of the time, there was just one thing after another.  When I finally reached their mama, she said that she had to run to Wal-mart and would be home really soon.  It was almost ten o’clock by now, and I had come back to my house to try to find my missing cell phone.   So I turned around again, and went back to their house while I talked to their Mama about the evening and about how we could partner together to try to have a little bit better control and how we could encourage the children to try to behave better.  We settled the thing of who would come the next week, and I addressed a couple of issues that were especially troubling to me (an seven year old having free rein with an inhaler that he used with abandon, the stealing and lying and yelling, etc.).  This mother is literally at her wit’s end.  She has this seven year old son who proclaims that he hates her, that he wants to kill her and she found a knife under his mattress last week.  She is getting him counseling, she says, but the day by day living is so completely overwhelming with him and Muffy that she doesn’t know what to do.

We hung up, and I pulled into their driveway.  I told them the things that their Mama and I had decided.

“I’m glad I’m not going,” said Muffy, meanly, coldly, snuffily.

LJ began to wail. “Just let me come without Muffy,” he pleaded.  “She’s the one who makes me be bad.  I can be good if Muffy’s not there.  Just let me come, just let me come.  I want to come, I want to come, it’s all Muffy’s fault!”

“No,” I said, “LJ, you need to realize that you are the one who decides how LJ is going to behave.  You need to decide to do what is right no matter what Muffy does.  You are responsible for you.  And Jesus wants to help you do what is right, and if you ask him, He will help you!”

And then I turned around to the three of them in the seats behind me.  “In fact, kids,” I said, “I’m going to pray for you right now.  Jesus wants to help you do what you should do.”

“No, No, No!” said LJ, covering his head with both hands, “Let me alone! Let me alone!” and I realized anew the added dimension of this battle.  I began to pray and he slid farther and farther down on his seat and began to sob quietly.  I prayed for their family, for the difficult situation the kids are in, that Jesus would help them to obey and to do right and that they would know that He was with them and wanted to help them. Muffy was perched on the edge of her seat, as was Mya in the back seat, and they were both strangely quiet while LJ sobbed.  I said the Name of Jesus over them and opened my eyes to see their Mama standing outside the car, waiting for them to get out.

I opened the doors, and they went, subdued and silent, into the house.  Their mama stayed out and talked and talked and talked until her youngest child’s daddy insisted she come in because the baby was burning up with fever.

And I came home.  To say that I’ve been exhausted ever since is pretty much an understatement.  Those of you who know me well know that this is never far from my mind.  God has a plan here, I know it!  When you think of this gal who is no longer young, and yet wants so much to hear God’s voice in this situation, and wants to live and breathe the Love of Jesus to these kids, would you please say a prayer for me for wisdom and patience and (especially) vision that includes Hope and a Future? 

And if there are suggestions, please feel free to give those, too.

And pray for Mya, LJ and Muffy.

 

The rest of the story . . .

If you managed to read through the previous post (see previous post!) you know I promised the story of “The Storm”  and that is what this post is all about.

We set about on Tuesday morning to “do” 1,500 ears of sweet corn.  The process started with me traversing the miles to the farm of Willard and Tammy Kauffman to pick up the corn.  It wasn’t too hot (yet!) on this morning — there was some cloud cover, and the breezes, coming in the open windows of Certain Man’s air-conditioned-less truck, (affectionately known as “Stinky” to Certain Man’s household) was pleasant enough for me to burst into little made up songs as we puttered on down the road.  The muffler needs fixed, and there was this sense of power (totally without foundation) when the noise of a “bad boy’s car” rumbled through the neighborhood.  Nine year old Romy, on the ripped and stained passenger’s seat, stole more than one puzzled glance in the direction of the driver.

“Who is this crazy lady?” He must have wondered, “and how do I let myself get into these predicaments?”  But then, he’s getting accustomed to Ms. Mary Ann and her (sometimes) unpredictable behaviors.

It was easy to be enthusiastic about our venture.  Certain Man had set everything up for us before leaving for work.  He had run the many hoses, hooked up the cooling system, set up the new corn silker and even hooked up the gas to the two outside cookers.  All we needed to do was to spread out the tarp to catch all the husks and we were ready to get to work.

It was a terribly hot day.  A week ago, when we did 700 ears, it was also extremely hot, but there was a redeeming breeze blowing and it didn’t seem too bad, especially under the pavilion.  Now, this day was almost unbearable, even in the shade, but the optimism I felt over all the wonderful help we had participating was not to be quelled.  There was a small chance of some afternoon showers, and how very much we needed rain. 

“Many hands make light work” the old saying goes, and the husking was over in short order.  Our amazing work crew:  Christina, Deborah, and I from our family, Sarah, Elmer, Maria and Josh from the Slaubaughs, Roxie and Carmen from the Heatwoles, Friend Emma and little Romy from next door along with occasional help from Love Bug.

 

 

 

We wiped out the husking task, finished the silking in a little bit of no time and had the burners going full blast and the cutting was coming along nicely.  We were extremely pleased with our progress.  Middle Daughter was managing the blanching with help from Elmer, and doing a splendid job of things.  The afternoon continued to be oppressively hot, and very little breeze was to be had in the open air pavilion.

Over the course of the afternoon, we noticed that towards the east, there were clouds forming.  Shady Acres rarely gets a storm from the east, and the wind seemed to be coming out of the northwest, so we continued to cook, cook, cook and cut, cut, cut.  Love Bug got a little tired from all her running around, and Christina decided to take her home for a nap.  (This was a “God-thing”  and nothing short of it — not because of her behavior, but because of what happened.)  Beloved Son in Law was able to get off from work to come home and watch over the sleeping Love Bug and Christina came back to lend her help.  The weather continued to look dark and foreboding.  Since we haven’t had much rain (as in NONE in the month of June) we were all hoping for significant rainfall. 

Late in the afternoon, it began to rain, and with the rain came some wind that threatened to blow dust and dirt into the pavilion and into our precious corn.  We debated about a tarp, and the only one I knew of that Certain Man had was the one that we had put the corn husks on, and I distinctly remembered the smell of male cats when I had put it down in the morning.  I did not really want to tangle with that huge old thing, especially in the wind and rain.  Then Friend Emma remembered that she had a tent tarp in her truck.  She didn’t remember why she had it, and the tent was no longer in use, so she went out and fetched it in the middle of a downpour, and with monumental effort, we raised a protective shield against the elements.  And it worked really, really well!

 

In the meantime, the storm waxed worse and worse. 

 

The lightening was so close, we could feel it in the air, and the thunder crashed almost as soon as the lightening flashed.  The smarter ones of us took refuge in the house until things settled down, and then we all got back to work again.  The storm had seemingly moved on, and we had corn to finish yet. 

Deborah never left her post, and she and Elmer finished well ahead of us.  (I didn’t get a picture of Elmer!  Or Carmen!  So sorry!)

We had finished all the blanching, but there were three big muck buckets of corn cooling.  The lightening and thunder returned with a vengeance, and all of a sudden, the wind took on a strange feel to it.  I looked up to see that things were starting to fly about, and Sister Sarah said, “I think we need to get in.”  I was thinking that was a good idea,too.

“Get in!” I said.  “We need to go now!”  And then bedlam really broke loose.  Common “corn day stuff” was becoming missiles to be reckoned with. There were three big pots of corn sitting on the table, already cut off, and there were paper plates and cups, dishrags and paper towels, knives and hot pads all over the pavilion.  The whistling wind and the realization that we were in serious circumstances made us all a bit uncertain about what we should do.

“What shall we do with this corn and stuff?”

“What shall we do, what shall we take?”

“Grab whatever you can,” I shouted above the wind, “But just go.  Now!!!”  I reached down to get the big stainless steel bowl of corn that I was packing into plastic bags.  Just as I gathered it up in my arms, I felt the wind literally pick me off the ground.  It was but an instant until I was back down again, and at that moment, something whacked me hard, on the right side of my head, “ka-thunk!”  About then, the tarp came loose from its moorings and wrapped itself around Carmen who struggled mightily to free herself.  The wind was strange and wild and about then, it grabbed the tarp from Carmen and wrapped it around my head.  I was dimly aware of people shouting and Carmen was frantically screaming, “Aunt Mary!  Aunt Mary!”  I reached up and clawed at the tarp that was wrapped around my head and with a mighty effort tore it off.  The elastic bands that served to anchor the tarp somehow tethered themselves around my right ear, and I wrestled with the sheets of rain and mighty wind to get rid of the tarp.  I remember that my sister was beginning to turn around to come and help me, and I knew she needed to get herself in —

“Just get in!!!” I remember shouting, as I finally flung the drenched tarp away from me, nearly tearing off my ear in the process.

“Aunt Mary, Aunt Mary,” Carmen was still wailing.  “Aunt Mary, are you okay?  Oh, Aunt Mary, weren’t you down?  I was sure you were down!”

“Come on, we need to get in,” I insisted almost incoherently.  “I’m fine!”

“Didn’t you fall?” Carmen insisted.

“Nope!  Not at all!”   All this time, we were all dashing for the protection of the garage, up the ramp and into the laundry room where we all stood dripping everywhere, and looking wild and wide eyed as we thought about what could have been.  All of us were soaked to the skin, and my ear felt like it was on fire.

“Aunt Mary, are you SURE you are okay?” Carmen asked again.  “I was sure I saw you down!”

“I’m sure I didn’t fall, Carmen, I promise you, but I did almost get my ear taken off!”  That’s when it got funny, because my hair was as drenched down as a wet rat, my clothes were dripping puddles around my feet, and my ear was as red as a rooster’s comb!  And hurt!  Wowser!  After everything calmed down and the adrenaline wasn’t flowing anymore, I was sure that I had permanent damage to that poor right ear.  I felt all about its parameters carefully to make sure there was no blood, no gaping wounds that needed attention, and it appeared that all was well.  I just couldn’t figure out how it could be so red and hurt so much.  And it took a while to piece together the story of all that really happened.

The one thing certain was that we all needed dry clothing.  So Emma and Sarah put on threads of mine, and the others procured things from the accumulated stash, and Christina found a bag of clean clothes in her car for herself.  We waited out the storm, while rivers of water poured down outside of the sun room and the basement began to take on water.  Middle Daughter and Elmer kept running out and rescuing this or that.  Somewhere in that segment of time, I realized that my glasses were gone, and figured I would probably never see them again, but Elmer went forth and searched about and found them.  They were a bit bent and twisted, and they really don’t fit right, but they are my glasses, and I can at least READ! 

Then my cell phone began to ring, and the fellow on the other end came on with the dire words, “You have a poultry alarm, you have a poultry alarm . . .”   I went out and checked and neither light was on, indicating that both chicken houses were in big trouble.  I called Certain Man, and he said he was almost home, to just not worry about it.  Elmer went out and checked the first house, but his Mama was not very excited about him being out there, so he came back, but hadn’t found anything serious going on out there.  No roofs missing or houses blown down.  Sarah and Elmer decided to go on home about then at the great urging of the younger set, who also insisted that I stay in the house and take care of house things. 

About then, Certain Man came in from the chicken house and said, “Well, that was one expensive storm!”

“What happened in the chicken house?” I asked, tenderly cupping my red, ouchie ear.  (I wondered if it was brilliant enough to light up the entire room, but he didn’t seem to notice.  I must have been a sight, anyhow, with my hair now pulled straight back and bare feet and housecoat. And red ear.  Don’t forget the red ear!)

‘Well, something fried our new computers.  One house entirely and the other has something wrong with it.  I have a call in to the electrician, and he is coming.  I suppose, though, that the one, at least, is a total loss.”  The computers have been in the house for one (1!) flock.  I could tell that he was pretty discouraged just to think of the money it would take to replace even one of them.  But he is a resourceful man, and doesn’t let much get him down, especially when there is a crisis that demands his energy, and soon he, Emma, Christina, Roxie, Carmen and Deborah were back out in the pavilion, finishing up cutting the last of the corn off and cleaning up.  They brought the last corn in for me to package, and Carmen and Roxie stayed to help wash dishes and straighten up the kitchen a little.  And finally, I was at the end.  I could not go any more.

When everyone had gone, I came in to my computer to write the story — and that is where I got a bit sidetracked telling the anniversary story.  What I didn’t tell last night was that Certain Man was on his way to Virginia while I was writing that story, to pick up a new computer for the chicken house.  One was fried, the other was repairable.  I finished writing my story, then went out to check chickens for him before settling in for the night.  I rode the trusty golf cart out and the world was gorgeous.  All washed and shiny and even cooler.  I checked the two houses of chickens and everything was fine.  I was talking to Certain Man on my cell phone and went out to check the rain gauge before heading for the house.  I was having a delightful conversation with him while I headed back to the pavilion on the dark side of the house to park the golf cart when suddenly there was this terrible clattering and noise over head.  I thought that the golf cart must have gone under something that was scraping the top of the cart when suddenly I came to a screeching halt.  I had caught the clothes line with the top of the golf cart and had torn down all three lines.  The one line had hooked between the golf cart’s post and its roof, and I had to stop and unhook the whole mess before I could go forward. 

Certain Man LAUGHED. 

I could have cried. 

Back in the house, though, and through the day today, I’ve been rethinking those terrible minutes in my mind and I realize how very blessed and protected we were in that storm.  Our neighbor right down the road had a big tree literally uprooted in his yard, and heavy limbs fell on his house.  There were branches down and our one Crape Myrtle lost one of its largest branches.  There were so many things flying around, and so many people out in the worst part of the wind and rain, and yet, there were no serious injuries.  I have an interesting bruisey weltish kind of thing on the back of my ear, and it still hurts, but it isn’t going to fall off, and it didn’t need to be reattached, so it isn’t really worth mentioning.  (But I keep mentioning it because, after all, it does still hurt!)

Even with that, this is one grateful gal, believe me!  It truly could have been such a different story told tonight.  And for the angel that God sent to set me back down gently and safely, I am so thankful.  This is a story of protection and provision, and I offer grateful praise.

I’m also grateful for 170 containers of corn, all packaged and in the freezer.

Oh, and the 3.25 inches of rain was wonderful, too.