Praying for Snow

"Dear God,
Will you please make it snow?
I would really love that.
Thanks. I love You. Amen."

Olivia has been praying this prayer for at least 8 months. Even through the blistering heat of the summer. I've been telling her that while God most certainly CAN answer her prayer, He usually doesn't bring snow when it's warm enough for us to swim outside. Even still, she has remained resolute in her ritual, and so hopeful that God will honor her request.

This year we made the drive south to be with my side of the family for Christmas. We enjoyed lots of good food, and activity with long walks, bike rides, and mildly hostile games of Settlers of Catan into the wee hours of the morning. Being with family made the time really special...minus the fact that it was a muggy 80*s outside. Perhaps I can blame it on Bing Crosby's "White Christmas" for setting my expectations, but being in shorts and t-shirts just doesn't feel very Christmasy to me. I want a nip in the air, and to wear jeans and slouchy sweaters with some coffee in hand. None of this "Turn on the AC, we're sweating to death" business.

Two days after Christmas, we returned home to find that a cold front had blown in. Olivia's excitement grew when we got out of the car and the bitter wind hit her face; "Maybe it will snow?!!". That evening, she prayed once again, and went to bed, full of hope.

During the night, God answered her prayers. Andrew got me up around 5:30 to show me what handiwork the Lord has been up to while we slept. Snow. It was everywhere. The ground was covered, the tree branches decadently trimmed, and beautifully silhouetted by the white sky. We stood looking out in awe, then both became giddy, anticipating Olivia's response to the granting of her requests.

I was in the kitchen when she rushed out of her room. Eyes wide, she let out a gasp of delight when she looked through the back window upon a world of white. She took it all in for a few seconds before a sense of urgency hit her...she needed to be out in the snow NOW. Breakfast was devoured, everyone was finally layered to Mommy's satisfaction, and out the back door we went. Joyous giggles were soon muffled by mouths full of snow. And it's wasn't that powdery stuff. No, it was a nice wet snow, perfect for mittened hands and creative minds to form. Snowmen were built, munchkin sized snow angels were made, and a path was tramped down the hill for sledding. It was a dream come true. And it delighted my heart to remind Olivia: "Isn't God so good to answer your prayers?! He loves you so much! Just look at this beautiful gift He gave you!"

Olivia's persistence in prayer reminds me that I need to keep praying, even if it's not the right season for Him to answer. Maybe right now He simply wants me to keep going to Him, continually asking that He will lift the pain, heal the brokenness, and bring the joy. To unflinchingly believe that He IS going to respond, and to stay hopeful. Unlike the unjust judge, who finally granted the nagging widow's request, we have a just Father Who loves to hear our petitions and grant us good things. Because He is good. And He brings snow to persistent little girls who ask great things of Him, with hope.

Theology and the Cat

It's been raining a lot lately, and finally with a dry sky, I needed to get outside. The girls were happily occupied grinding Play-doh into the carpet, so I stepped out back. The chill of the air made me draw a quick, cold breath into my lungs. It felt sharp, like the gut level pain I've known these past few months. The almost barren trees and grey sky tugged mercilessly at my melancholy. All of a sudden, I felt like Sadness from the movie Inside Out, and imagined myself doing a dramatic face plant right there in the yard. Pathetic, I know.

I stood amidst the dead leaves, getting lost in thoughts of all that this year has held. I was being swallowed up in the moment...one I knew might possibly end in a good cry. Maybe a good bawl would make me feel better? Perhaps I could get it out so I could move on? I decided, yes.

But then the cat came.

Yes, the cat. The feral kitten that Andrew discovered last year, who, to avoid capture, fought with all that her tiny razor teeth and claws could muster. She shredded his hands, his blood the christening into her dreaded life of domestication. She treated us like captor scum, but eventually decided she liked the reliance of daily food, water, and a warm towel on the garage floor. After some time, she made friends with our first cat, then reasoned that I wasn't so bad either.

It's been a year since we took her in, and now, after a great deal of patience and love towards her, she won't leave me alone. It's actually kind of annoying. I can hardly walk without tripping while she wraps around my ankles. And if I don't pay her enough attention, she nips at me, a reminder that her love tank isn't quite full enough.

So, in my pitiful moment, here she trotted over to interrupt me. Meowing, and leg curling, and nipping away, she was not to be ignored. I realized she thought her needs to be greater than mine, and that whatever face plant I held in my heart, would have to be set aside to feed her belly. She snaked through my legs as we walked to the garage, her singing praises all the way, knowing her dreams were about to come true. Or so I assumed.

I stopped short when I saw her food bowl. It was full.

Conviction settled over me thick. Her need wasn't food. She just wanted to spend time with me. Not just passive, admiring-at-a-distance time, but an all-up-in-my-business, nipping-at-my ankles time.

Am I like that with my dearest people? And more importantly, am I like that with God? With every need attended to and a bowl brimming with grace, am I anxious to run to Him? Not to ask for more of anything, except for more of Him?

"My bowl is full, God, but I just need a little more of You. To be in Your Presence. To hear You. To be filled up with what can't be seen or accounted for. To savor the Presence so strong and sweet that derails all my fears. To receive Your love, in the way that You give it, because it's for my good. Because You know what's truly best for me, even if I don't want it at the time."

Many thanks to the persistent, formerly feral cat, for the reminder that what I need more than a pity party, is more of Him. Goodbye Sadness. I'm present to breathe in His essence, hear His truth, and be comforted by His love, which mends my wounds, and sets all things right in the proper time.

Trusting His Heart

It's now close to two months since we lost our little loves. It feels so strange to say that. The grieving isn't nearly as intense as it was during that first month, but it still sneaks up on our new-ordinary days. A couple weeks ago, I made the mistake of calculating how far along I would have been. 20 weeks. Halfway done. It was hard to imagine, and was quite simply a foolish and unhelpful thing to do to myself. Ugly cries all over the place. I've really had to guard against the what-if's and could've beens because they're empty from the start, and serve no good purpose.

Something that has been made plain after experiencing such a deep loss, is that fact that we aren't in control. I took my vitamins, I did prenatal yoga, I ate natural, home grown, organic, raised with care, blah-blah-blah etc... I did everything I was supposed to do for a healthy result. This isn't to say we shouldn't do our best with whatever we're given to do or care for. But whatever illusions I had of keeping things in order, and events or circumstances turning out a certain way based on what I did or didn't do, have been completely stripped bare. As much as I'd like to think I control how things may turn out, I just don't. I'm not in control. You're not in control. Our lives and journeys are entirely in God's hands. And that's okay, because as Charles Spurgeon wrote: "God is too good to be unkind and He is too wise to be mistaken. And when we cannot trace His hand, we must trust His heart.” What my family has gone through is not a mistake, and our loss will not be wasted. He is good, and I trust His heart.

Something else I've been learning is the importance of telling myself the truth. In those first days and weeks of intense grief, I knew the truth, but had to keep repeating it to myself. Because there were moments I just didn't feel it. The truth that God is good, that He comforts us like a father does His child, that sorrow may last for a night but joy comes in the morning, that we will suffer and have tribulation, but it produces perseverance and character and hope...and on and on, were what I repeated to myself. I felt so hollowed out for a while, but eventually, those truths began to fill me up, and take on deeper root. What a rich thing to take our grief and heartache to God's word, beat on it with all that we have, and find that it remains unmoved. It's the real deal, y'all.

If you find yourself with questions, hurts, wounds, or a struggling faith, go to the Lord and His word. He can take whatever you may throw at Him. You won't scare Him with your mess. I promise. What a comfort it is to know Him as solid, rich, and full of truth and substance when so much our time is attempted to be robbed by the red cup controversy menial. For those of you who know the truth, but may not really feel it in the moment, keep preaching the Gospel to yourself. We need to hear it daily, and be reminded that whatever we face in this life, we can trust His heart.

Beautiful Gifts

It's taken me over a week and a half to write this, but I am determined to finally hit the "publish" button. I've wrestled with what's too much to share, and have had to stop writing countless times because I couldn't stop the tears. As difficult (and healing) as this has been to write, I yearn more for the story to be told.

The following is a post I wrote on Tuesday afternoon, the 15th of September. I saved it in my drafts because I felt like there would be more to write later. How little I knew then...

"I never knew joy and grief could hold hands. But right now, for me, they are tightly intertwined.

Two weeks ago, at 12 weeks pregnant, I awoke in the middle of the night with mild hemorrhaging. I couldn't tell whether it was more my body processing the shock of what was happening, or fear that had gripped me, but I lay shaking on our bathroom tile, weeping. The thought of losing (another) baby made it feel like my soul was cracking. Andrew had brought me a pillow, a glass of water, and lit a candle before he stepped out to let the ER know we'd be on our way.

At the ER (early morning, September 2nd), a sonogram delighted us with the view of one wiggly baby, rolling and sucking it's thumb. Relief swept over us to see our little one was okay, even though mystified by the surrounding circumstances. We got back home around 3:30am, and as Andrew unloaded our sleepy girls from the car, I told him I just needed a minute alone. He reluctantly agreed, and went in to put the girls back to bed. I sat in the quiet for a moment before texting my Dad. He'd be up in a couple hours, and I knew would bathe us in prayer. Reaching out was comforting, but sleep would be the next thing to do. I was exhausted.

Something felt wrong as I got out of the car. I became lightheaded, then felt water rush down my legs and flood over my feet. Phone in hand, I called Andrew to come help me. I took a step forward, holding onto the car, but more blood and water came down. Andrew rushed to my side, and started helping me toward the house, but I couldn't go any further. I slowly crumpled onto the driveway, debilitated. We sat there, him once again praying over me as he had done so many times before in that early morning. And again, I found myself on the ground, tears flooding down, wondering if we'd lost the baby we'd seen just an hour before.

We were beyond grateful to hear a heart beat the following day. I learned that while blood loss in pregnancy doesn't always mean miscarriage, based on what I had experienced, it is likely that I had been carrying fraternal twins.

Twins. The idea is still so strange to me, but the more I think about how different this pregnancy has felt from the others, what my body has gone through, and the gut-sense in my Mama heart, I believe I was carrying two babies.

It's been two weeks since our visit to the ER, but it's just now that my body is finally letting go of that baby. Today the sadness for our miscarried child has arrived in full force. Relief for one healthy baby still in my womb, mixed with grief for the one we lost is such a strange cocktail of emotions. To feel one baby kicking as my uterus cramps down has again brought me to my knees in gratefulness for life, as well as sorrow over death.

The highs in life are sweet, and dare I say, usually taken for granted. But the lows, those valleys we never expect, and even hope to avoid, that's where I have found Jesus to be the most tender. Trials have a way of throwing us out of auto-pilot, and onto our knees. Whether it be the blow of realizing your sin for the first time, the loss of a job, the pain of persecution, or losing a baby, in the womb, or earth-side...we are not in control, and we need Him.

We may not ask for, or want the valleys, but His presence in going there with us is deeply sweet. Intensely comforting. Beautifully faith building. If we can only lean into Him, the Great Comforter, Who knows the path before us, and the inevitable light ahead."


I wrote this on Tuesday afternoon, the 15th of September. That morning, I'd discovered my body was completing the loss of the twin I'd been carrying. That evening, Andrew came home with the news that his company was shutting down all of the gas lift districts. Including his. He would be kept on for another two weeks to close down his shop, before he'd be out of work.

In the Wednesday and Thursday that followed, my body began laboring. I prayed my body could tell the difference between the death and life in my womb, and that I could carry our other baby to full term. There was still hope. When the contractions became stronger Thursday evening, I began to realize we'd have to say goodbye to our other child, too.

Friday morning arrived, a friend came to take the girls for several hours so I could rest, and our pastor's wife arranged bringing us dinner that evening. With no new work coming in, Andrew was able to come home early, and be there with me as my labor started up around 2pm. My contractions grew stronger and by 4pm, I knew we would soon see our child. God gifted me with such a great awareness of where I was during each stage of labor, so sensing my contractions were near their end, I moved to the bathroom in time for my water to break. God gave me such intense peace and I was able to catch our son as he was born.

We named him Andrew "Christian". He fit perfectly in my hand. At 14 weeks development, he was flawlessly formed. A tiny person, with every detail in place. A precious little mouth that opened, miniscule but impeccably designed fingernails, thread-like veins running through his entire body, and a beautifully, uniquely-Borne shaped nose. His profile was so like his big sisters.

Our pastor and his wife arrived shortly after Christian had been delivered, and were there to care for our girls as Andrew and I held and loved our son. They cleaned the kitchen, brought flowers, and food, and our pastor helped Andrew dig the spot where we would bury Christian. But to me, in addition to sharing in our mourning, the most beautiful gift they offered was a lidded wicker basket with an embroidered vintage cloth inside. Amidst the shock of an early delivery, we were completely unprepared to find an appropriate vessel to carry our son. What a thoughtful, precious gift.

We gathered in the living room, and our pastor rested his hand on the basket and prayed from The Book of Common Prayer:
"O God, Whose Beloved Son did take the little children into His arms and bless them: Give us grace, we beseech Thee, to entrust this child, Andrew Christian Borne, to Thy never-failing care and love, and bring us all to Thy heavenly kingdom: through the same Thy Son Jesus Christ our Lord, Who liveth and reigneth with Thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen."

After the prayer, they left us to be together as a family. All five of us bodily together, but in our hearts more than that number. We went outside, and I sat on the bench holding Christian, just for a little more time; to tell him I loved him, and that we'd be together again soon. I wasn't ready to let go of his tiny body, but realized I never would be. Andrew came to me and took the basket containing our precious gift. We prayed and returned him to the earth, from which we're all made. We "planted" our Christian, along with the memory of his twin gone before him. She was delivered the next day, and we're remembering her as our daughter and sister, Andrea "Charis" Borne. Though it took us several days to come to terms with losing twins, it was important that we gave her a name and remember her life just as much as Christian's.

One week after we had said our goodbyes, we built a flower bed over the spot where we planted Christian. I've never cried harder than I did that morning, ripping out the grass surrounding that precious mound of dirt. Preparing the ground for something beautiful to be built has seemed like a microcosmic analogy for what God is doing in our lives. Our hearts are broken, but we know that He makes beautiful things out of dust, and our being left here to grieve our children has a purpose. We "remain to endure the loss, that they might have the reward sooner". (From a letter written by John Piper to a grieving mother of a stillborn son.) Instead of grass and dirt, we now look out on a bed with different colored flowers, visited by butterflies, and big sisters bearing flowers of their own, presented as gifts for their siblings in Heaven.

I have never known grief like this before, but as deep as the sadness has gone, Jesus has been there. He has comforted me during this sorrow of deferred dreams for my babies, the ache of missing little kicks waking me in the morning, and strangeness of feeling my body let go of the pregnancy. He's sustained me when it's felt like I can't breathe. He is nearer than I've ever known. He is the One Who holds our precious children, and with Him, they are alive, whole, and safe for eternity. What amazing comfort there is in having a sympathetic High Priest, Who intricately knows our suffering, and comforts us with His love, and the promise of Heaven!

There is still much on my heart to share, but will pause here. I'm learning much about trusting in God's goodness and sovereignty, about what it is to mourn and walk with this strange beast known as grief, and to long all the more for Jesus. I miss my babies more than I can say, but have faith that I will see them again.

Thank you for reading this post, and for remembering their lives. Christian and Charis are such beautiful gifts from God, and I am thankful.

Our Summer

Despite my intentional lack of making plans, this summer has been a busy one for our little family. Our last couple months have been enjoyed soaking up time with far-away family, gardening, animal care, and lots of swimming and boating. The rest of the cracks in our free time have been filled with tyranny of the urgent demands.

For example, when putting in the spring garden, my husband requested that we grow as many tomato plants as our space could hold. I put in 12 and after all the delicious spring rain, the plants exploded. Enter tyranny of the urgent example 1: Garden produce.

Over the last month, we have found ourselves with an exceptional crop of tomatoes...more than we can eat. Tomatoes, being rather time sensitive little fruit, maintain an "Eat me now, or I'll rot" motto. On days when I'd have much rather been at the splash pad, I've found myself prepping and canning tomatoes. As much as I don't care to be working over the stove on a hot summer day, I hate waste even more.
So, canned tomatoes.
Plus, I'm a complete sucker for mason jars, and especially how they look, filled with my garden produce. Few things make me want to put on Little House on the Prairie reruns more than canning. But I digress.

Aren't they lovely?!!

This summer has also been the beginning of my daughters' careers as budding artists. Olivia's first project was to smuggle a red crayon into her room during naptime, and draw the letter "O", 4 year old arm-height, across two of her walls. The O's were followed by lines with tick marks struck through them. It was reminiscent of "The Great Escape", with her marking the minutes until her release from her room. Upon discovery of her art, Olivia's mother was less than enthused. That day also happened to be the one in which Olivia learned how to use a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser. Some crayon marks remain. A reminder to us all, that crayons are NOT allowed in bedrooms.

For Emma, she has enjoyed some coloring on paper, and recently, expressed herself through watercolor. Below is her first work. Lovely shades of sea-green and emerald on the page...and all over her clothes and face. I guess the colors were so lovely that she simply couldn't resist tasting them. Had I not been so quick with the washcloth, I should have taken a picture of the art on her face, too.

Finally, another insanely time consuming job this summer, has been trying to keep my chickens alive. After the winter, our original flock had dwindled down to 7, so we paid a visit to the feed store and picked up a new flock of chicks. Once we got them home, it seemed like the Grimm Reaper had descended.

One of my Australorp hens came down with a case of vertigo, another Red became sick, and they both had to be "excused" from the flock. That left the head count at 4 hens and our dear rooster, Handsome Rob. As for the little chicks, two were so tiny that they were found trampled to death after the first day, another croaked for unknown reasons, and then during the summer (Massacre of 2015) months, we lost 8 to a still unknown aerial predator. That left us to under a dozen hens in the new flock...and Hank.

Hank the Turkey (short for Hanksgiving) joined the flock just a week after we got the new baby hens. He was picked on until he started gaining some height and weight. A visiting friend sounded his turkey call with Hank nearby, and we got to watch him puff up and display his splendor for the first time. It was hilarious.

Since then, because we enjoy cheap entertainment, Andrew and I have been working on our own turkey calls. (For anyone taking notes, please add this to the list of things I'd never imagine I'd be doing!) Andrew ended up cheating and got a turkey call, but I believe that deep in his heart, Hank knows a truly female call. He has rewarded my novice efforts with his butterball feather display, fancy turkey strut and chuffing sound. He's been a fun bird to have around, but as soon as I can make space in the freezer, he's going to serve his purpose as our Thanksgiving, Hanksgiving turkey dinner.

Just the Right Size

"But Mommy, I'm too little to do that!"

This phrase has been on the frequently-said list in the Borne household. It goes something like this:

"Hey Olivia, I need you to help me with __________."
"But I'm too little to do that!"

This scene and phrase have been so overplayed and overused that I can see it coming before it even begins. My X-ray Mama vision sees through her excuse, and that an honest answer would be: "Mom, I just don't want to do what you're asking." But no, my little lady, with her sinful nature inherited from Adam and her Mama, chooses to try the sneaky way out of not doing what she's told.

To combat the "I'm too little" phrase, I've reached into my Mary Poppins bag of diffusing responses, and have begun to tell her: "Olivia, you are exactly the right size to obey." When I first whipped out this gem, she was not pleased. I could tell by the dismayed look on her face, that I had just taken away her biggest gun. I had laid bare the fact that I wasn't expecting too much of her. Bummer, dude.

The idea that she is incapable of doing whatever I might ask, makes it seem like I'm asking too much of her.
But I'm not.
Because I know her.
I've been with her since Day 1, and know exactly what's within her power to accomplish.
She's too short to reach the light switch, but perfectly able to sort out silverware into the utensil drawer. She's not strong enough to tote a full laundry basket, but she can help fold towels. The fact is that I'm her Mama, and I love her, so I'm not going to frustrate her with things beyond her ability.

Seeing Olivia struggle with her sin nature is a revealing mirror into my own struggles. There are days when my flesh throws out the "I'm too little to's", obedience is scarce, and excuses grow:
- But I don't want to do the dishes today.
- I don't feel like cooking a big meal.
- One of my girls needs correction, but I'm too tired to offer faithful, loving correction.
- I've had a hard day, so MY needs should come before I consider Andrew's.
- I'm too busy to read my Bible today.
- I'll pray later when my mind is clear. In twenty years.

When I give it an honest shake, my list of can't/don't wanna's aren't any different from Olivia's. Just give em' a few years, and we're in the same boat. A sinking boat if we aren't led by the Spirit.

The TRUTH is this:
The things I may complain about are NOT outside of my ability. The things the Lord asks of me aren't too much. They aren't too hard. They aren't too big. They are all within my grasp. He's been with me from Day 1, and knows exactly what I can do. And evidently that's a lot, because I can do all things through Christ, Who gives me strength.

The delightful job I have is to obey. He gives me grace and strength to do the things I may feel too tired, or too small to accomplish. Because of Him, I am just the right size to obey. And if you know Jesus, you are, too.

Because Jesus Love Me

For the last few years, blogging has been a fun outlet for me. A great place to tell funny stories about my kids that I want to document for later, to share the latest happenings on our mini hobby-farm, a place to collect my thoughts, and express myself. According to my blog history, I was a blogging fiend when I was pregnant with Olivia. As soon as she arrived, my postings took a nose dive, followed by even scarcer posts after Emma's birth. Raising a family is a full time job, so my blog has been pushed to the back burner as family require more of me. Blogging has turned into a rare treat amidst all the living-of-life.

But what do you do when your heart is heavy, and tired for an extended season? When family gets sick, and loved ones go through hard times? When challenges in parenting require more middle of the nights, more cleaning up to do, more socially embarrassing situations, more humbling, and more prayer. When you feel stuck in survival mode, and your best option is to keep moving muddling forward.

That's where I've been for most of this year. And it's hard to admit that. Because it just doesn't jive with the energetic, optimistic person I aspire to be. Hence the silence.

A precious friend told me many years ago, that one of the greatest things I could ever remember, is simply this: "Jesus loves you". It seems like such a childish Sunday school phrase, but it's powerful. It's what has buoyed my heart during this less than easy year. When my heart is heavy for friends and family...Jesus loves me. When my soul feels dry and weary...Jesus loves me. When the to-do list is longer than my limited time or energy...Jesus loves me. When I'm sick with the flu and clinging to the edge of the toilet...Jesus loves me. When parenting feels impossible more than I'm capable of doing remotely well...Jesus still loves me.

The "hard" may not go away for a while, but Jesus loves me, so I can hang on. The message may not be profound, but it's true, and it's more than enough to cling to.


"Jesus love me, this I know,
For the Bible tells me so,
Little ones to Him belong,
They are weak, but He is strong.
Yes, Jesus loves me,
Yes, Jesus loves me,
Yes, Jesus loves me,
The Bible tells me so."

I Want to See Santaaaa!!!

I'm a klutz, I guess. The lady at the jewelers told me that twice in almost five years is "less likely a bizarre coincidence, than it is your using that hand to do more"...or something like that. Basically, she was telling me in a nice way that bending the titanium prongs on my wedding ring is not a defect in their jewelry. It's because I'm klutzy and hard on my rings. So...having noticed one of my prongs "off", I had to relinquish my jewels for repair. My hand felt unbelievably awkward without my rings for the two weeks they were away. But it was worth the wait knowing they'd be renewed to their former glory.

After what seemed like forever, I finally got the call saying the repairs had been made, and that I could come and pick up my rings. I loaded up the girls and made a special trip into town (have y'all gotten the idea yet that I don't get out unless I have to?!). I only had Emma with me the day I dropped them off, so getting through the mall with both girls would prove a slightly greater challenge. With it about the be the weekend, and the season of Christmas shopping, it was a less that ideal time to brave the mall, but we parked, and made our way to the entrance.

Looking ahead to the doors we were to go through, I noticed a familiar couple not too far ahead of us. The man was wearing a bright red suit, with a great black belt and buckle, and sported a full white beard. His wife wore a red velvet floor length dress, trimmed with white fur. Yes, indeed, it was St. Nick and his red-cheeked bride, Mrs. Claus! I motioned to Olivia, and said: "Olivia, look who's here!". I wish I could have captured the look on her face when she saw them. She gripped my hand a bit tighter, and moved from walking slowly behind me, to nearly dragging me behind. We haven't talked about Santa all that much, but from the Christmas shows and books she's seen and heard, she was desperate to meet the big man.

Once inside the mall, we were able to catch up with Santa. Even in my estimation, he looked pretty genuine. I told Olivia she could go say hi, and she was nearly speechless when he turned to her, said hello, and commented on her pretty Christmas tree shirt. After that, he and Mrs. Claus turned to go downstairs. I guess their smoke break was up, and it was time to go back to taking pictures with the kiddies.

We headed for the jewelery store, but Olivia kept her eyes on Santa Claus as long as she possibly could. When she could no longer see him, she began asking me if we could go find him. I said we could, but only after we stopped to pick up my rings. While in line at the jewelers, she continued to ask about finding Santa. He truly was all she could think about. Her desire to find him again was only usurped by the eminent need she had to use the bathroom. Evidently the excitement of seeing St. Nick stirred more than her joy.

Once back from an emergency trip to the bathroom, we walked along the upper floor, and spotted a wintry wonderland down below. Walking closer, we saw him in all his glory, sitting on a throne of lies, surrounded by poinsettias, and totally fake snow. Kids and their parents with credit cards in hand were lined up 20 deep to get pictures with Santa. We stood, admiring Santa and his wonderland for a bit longer, before it was time to go. I genuinely appreciated her wonderment. She'd never seen a Santa before, nor ever been to a mall. Everything was enormous, new, and contained everything fun and beautiful. I let her soak it in and admired her excitement.

Appreciating her wonderment, but now desperately needing to return for naps, I informed my minions that it was time to go home. Those words seemed to be a death sentence on the Christmas spirit, and with them marked the moment Olivia's legs gave out. All of a sudden she was unable to walk, or speak rationally. All she could do was cry out: "I waaaaaaant to seeeee Saaaaaaaanta!!!". I quickly realized what great acoustics the mall possesses, and began making a dash for the door.

Unable to both carry Emma and drag Olivia, I pulled a: "I'm really sorry that we have to go home now, but I can't carry you. If you want to go with me, then you need to walk."

**crickets**

I took a few steps, pretending to walk away from her, which suddenly gave her the strength to rise up off the floor, and run screaming, to grab my hand. I tried to distract her, because a few steps later we were out the door. When she heard the doors close, that's when it got real. She knew we weren't going back in, so the drama increased ten-fold. She lost the use of her legs again, flopped down onto the concrete walkway, and kept crying to go back and see Santa. Loudly.

I moved her over to sit on a stone bench, and decided it would be a good time to do a little filming. Let me tell you, I've got some gems. Filming enabled me to not get too concerned that it was my child disturbing the peace, and focus on capturing some great family memories. A few passers-by pursed their lips at the scene she was making, while other, more generous ones nodded and smiled in my direction, as if to say "I've been there."

After so long, I decided it was time to pack up the party, and finally get home. My poor, extremely tired, star-struck, and disappointed girl, ended up requiring help to the car. I made quite the pack-mule with Emma in the carrier, purse over my left shoulder, and Olivia held to my right. She cried for a while in the car. That is until I began watching the blackmail video(s) of her, at which point she dried her tears and wanted to watch, too. Uhh-huh.

That was last week, and as I've retold this story to a few friends and family, something has slowly been eating away at me with each telling. Olivia's response to seeing Santa was precious, as was her desire to be near him. In between dramatic pleas, I asked what she wanted to do if we went back in to see Santa, and she responded: "I just want to seeeee him! He wants us to stay!".

I absolutely can't blame her for acting like that. She's heard stories about Santa, and seen pictures, but there he was in the flesh. Living, breathing...the very man himself. Even as the magic and excitement of birthdays and holidays has waned with my adulthood and increased responsibilities, I still remember being a kid, and having that intense sense of wonderment. It's a precious thing that I want to foster in my kids for as long as I can.

So, what's my problem you ask? Simply put, during this season of celebrating Christ's birth, as I see my child with the utmost longing to be near Santa, I must ask myself: "Am I as zealous to spend as much time with Jesus?". I have to confess to getting "busy". Sure, I've got kiddos that keep my hands pretty full, a home to maintain, and some animals that require tending, but that's no excuse. During this season of Advent, am I truly counting down the days to His birth with anticipation? Am I intentional with my time so I can be still and listen to Him? And I anxious just to be near Him? And when life presses in and time is running short, will I kick and scream my way to His throne just for a little more time?

These are only hard questions if the answer is no.

While I feel myself falling short of where I want to be, at the same time, I feel His grace drawing me in. Telling me He's still on His throne of truth, waiting for me to sit at His feet; just to spend time with Him. He's not absent during smoke breaks, or limited to working hours. He's available, and wants me and you to be available, too. To be present.

While Olivia's story with Santa is amusing, I hope that you'll let it remind you, as it has me, of our greater need to long for, and desperately seek out time with our Lord. Not to simply be satisfied with warm fuzzy thoughts about him, but to enter into His presence, through time in the word, and in worship. And yes, if we must, even do a little kicking and screaming for more time just to be near Him.

My Trip to the ER

On our way home from Thanksgiving with my family, I muttered the following to Andrew:

"I feel sorry for my blog. It's like life hasn't been eventful enough to blog about. Or maybe I'm just too tired to think anything is funny anymore."

Andrew gave me a look, as if to say "For real?". He then gently pointed out that not 15 minutes prior to my somber musing, our eldest daughter has taken the liberty of using her new gift of princess pink chap-stick to paint her lips. And cheeks, knees, and car seat. As well as smear gobs of the stuff all across her window. Never mind the fact that Andrew had just detailed the truck before our trip, and that it now smelled like flowery pink wax. Nope, that minor event was just a quickly passing blip in my mind. I don't know what I was thinking, but my friends, I'm here to tell you to be careful of what you ask for.

For a little back-story, I'll fill you in that I had a cold the week heading into Thanksgiving. Genius that I am, at the tail end of my cold, I grew really tired of my sniffles, and took some herbal stuff to dry that sucker up. It did. Most effectively. So, once the holiday and festivities were over, I thought my cold was, too.

But it was not.

Upon our return home, I started feeling a little funny. There was a strange pressure in my sinuses. "No big deal.", I thought. That's normal after having a cold, right? It however was not normal. Very muchly not normal.

As it turns out, my fabulous idea of drying up that cold backfired on me. The herbs dried it up, but the cold stayed in my sinuses, and became the perfect breeding ground for a raging sinus infection. I say raging, because my right sinus was so badly infected that it agitated the roots of my teeth. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. Even thinking straight was nearly out as a possibility. All that Sunday night I could feel my heartbeat pounding away in my teeth. It was like hearing the drumbeat to my own execution. Being awake all night long gave me ample time to rethink my life, question how I'm doing as a wife and mother, as well as mourn the things I should have been doing...since surely, this horrible infection would be the end of me. At least that's how it felt.

When normal business hours arrived Monday morning, the girls and I were found in town checking in with a doctor. I was pretty straight with the lady and told her I was ready for some antibiotics to roundhouse kick the infection in the butt. So, maybe I didn't say it exactly like that, but her checkup confirmed that I did indeed have a sinus infection, and it would require antibiotics. I usually avoid such things like the plague, but as it felt like I had a plague, I was ready to take anything if it meant feeling better.

Once my prescription was fulfilled, I quickly loaded the girls into their car seats, locked us in, and dove into that goody bag of meds. I took what she'd prescribed, and pointed the car home. Being in "town" with all the big chain stores usually means a big errand day when I make the effort to leave our small town. However, as my face was surely seconds away from exploding, I released myself from the guilt of not making the most of the trip, and made peace with simply getting our carcasses home.

Monday night came and was a close mirror of the previous one. The drum beat was throbbing away in my teeth, which around 1am had me on Google, finding reassurance that antibiotics can take up to 24 hours to kick in. So it said. Deceitful beast.

On very little sleep, I awoke Tuesday morning feeling very much...not myself. This time it was more than my teeth or the excruciating sinus pressure. My face. Something about my face wasn't right. I sat up and realized that I couldn't feel part of it. I went into the bathroom and beheld a horrible sight.

If you've ever seen the movie "Fun with Dick and Jane", then you have a perfect idea of what I looked like. In the movie, Jane participates in a botox trial to earn a few bucks while they're desperate for cash during Dick's indictment. At the completion of the trial, the doctor is reading the results, noting that only two people had serious reactions to the trial. As you can only imagine, Jane was one of the lucky winners, leaving her with an enormously swollen face, and distorted lips. THAT my friends, was the face before me on Tuesday morning. Even Andrew was impressed with the enormity of my lips, calling me his "Botox Princess". Very funny. And while I'm at it, I shouldn't say lip...because it was only the top right portion of my face that was swollen. Lovely.

Once again, as soon as business hours were upon us, I was on the phone with the doctor, attempting to figure out what to do. She told me I'd need an x-ray or CT scan, which unfortunately are only available at the hospital. Still in desperate pain, now wearing a distorted face, unable to put my teeth together or close my lips, I talked it over with Andrew and decided to turn myself into the ER. It seemed so stupid going to the hospital, but in the event that more drastic measures need be taken, that was the best place to be. Andrew rearranged his schedule so he could stay with the girls and work from home. He had to get a few things from the office, so I had half and hour to get ready before I could go to the hospital. I showered, but after that, there was only so much I could do to improve on "Botox Princess".

I pulled up to the ER equipped with my kleenex, essential oil hand sanitizers, and bag of prescribed meds and began my journey to the sliding glass doors. A male nurse was outside on his phone, and watched me approach; likely assessing what triage category I fell into. I felt like Quasimodo as I attempted to smile and look normal as I passed him, but my swollen lips wouldn't comply, and it likely looked more like a snarl.

The lady at check-in was kind and prompt, and I was soon sitting in the waiting room. I hadn't been waiting long before a nurse came through a large door with a wheelchair. I saw her speak to the lady at the desk, and noticed them looking at me. I busied myself with my phone, but couldn't avoid the fact that the chair was for ME after she called my name "Geena?". I walked over, ignoring the chair, and we chatted about the events that led me there. She said she'd take me back, and though I asked if it was REALLY necessary, she told me just to sit down and relax.

Being wheeled around was a strange experience and not in the least bit relaxing. Not just because I didn't NEED to be in one, but mainly because of the loss of control over the situation that I felt slip away. In a group text amongst my family, my Aunt put it best: "You are no longer human. When you are in the ER, you might as well be a one-hundred-something pound Petri dish." She further commented that: "Something about that place makes you feel like you are going to live out the rest of your days under the fluorescent lights, never to see the sun again."

Her humor was timely, because I was wheeled into a room dingily lit with fluorescent lights, and instructed to strip from my comfortable clothing and put on a ghastly, thin, and highly starched hospital gown. I hesitated, but obeyed. A few nurses were in and out of that room...I wasn't entirely sure who was caring for me, but I told my story about half a dozen times before the doctor came in. He told me I was likely having an allergic reaction to my medication, and that he'd be prescribing me some new stuff. Oh, and I'd also receive a shot in the butt before I left. He asked if I had any questions, and was soon on his way. The end.

No X-rays?! No CT scan?! I was relieved, but was also wondering why the heck I'd gone to the hospital. They say hindsight is 20-20, so for the information I had at the time, that was the place I needed to be. Even still, I felt like it was all a bunch of overkill. I was ready to protest when a random nurse walked in and asked if she should start my iv, but another nurse interjected that it was unnecessary as I was nearly on my way out. Thank goodness. The walls were starting to close in, and I was ready to get my new prescription!

Since I was reacting to my original medication, the Doctor ordered a steroid shot before I left, to help take the swelling down. I'd heard rumors about where steroid shots go, and a quick inquiry from the experiences within my family group text confirmed that I should prepare my tushy to be a receiver. I'm not a fan of shots, but have come a looooooooooooong way from the days of passing out. I think childbirth has had something to do with this.

Anyway, the nurse came in with a very large needle, and I made like it was no big deal, and took it like the strong farm woman I want to be. There was indeed a burning sensation down my leg from the shot, so once that was done, I changed out of the gown, gathered my belongings, and began limping for the door. I was free.

After quick stop at the pharmacy for my new, non-allergic reaction inducing meds, and then I was home. My hero-husband and peanut gallery received me, I smiled my puffy smile at them, relieved that all would soon be well again...and then I slept. For three hours.

And that's the tale of how blog fodder is created from rogue colds that turn into raging sinus infections. And explains why my brain is still a bit foggy after such an eventful week. Next time I'm feeling hard up for blog material, I'll be sure to keep it to myself.

Wintery Update

It's safe to say that winter has arrived. Last week, it was 80ish on Monday, and in the 40's by Tuesday. I knew the cold was coming, and was able to harvest the last of our lettuce and a few bunches of arugula. Not that we're eating arugula anymore. I did it purely out of principle. The beets suffered a worse fate as I forgot about them until AFTER the frost, and were only recovered the next wintery morning. Yes, I panicked upon remembering them, and was out there in my crocs with socks, pajamas and fleece robe...yanking up frozen beets. I console myself with the fact that our beets didn't do so well anyway due to the heat. Despite this, I was able to pull up enough good sized ones for roasting with supper sometime this week. Yum!

Last week, on the last gorgeous, warm day, I determined that the girls and I would spend as much time outside as possible. I imagined our vitamin D stores packing away the goodness to get us through the winter ahead. Or something like that. So, from the picnic bench where I was watching the girls play, I heard a horrible sound. It was the sounds of a chicken in sheer panic. It turned out to be Sassafras alerting her (now large) babies to danger. I looked up just in time to see a huge hawk swoop down from the sky and attempt snatching up a yellow chickie snack. I jumped up, ran toward the hawk, hollering and waving my arms in attempt to save the chickies. It took off as I approached, but I knew it'd done some damage when I heard the chick crying. Once Sass and her babies were personally escorted back to the safety of the coop, I was able to inspect the chick. The hawk had talloned (is that a word?) it's back, and it's tush. The poor thing was in total shock from the attack and just stood there looking stunned while I checked it out. My Mom has had hawk trouble before, so I immediately called her for advice. Imagine my surprise when she couldn't initially come to the phone because her own chickens had just been attacked! I'd say the hawks knew the weather was about to become cold and were needing to find quick meals!

I returned to the coop with a few essentials: hydrogen peroxide, and warmed coconut oil. And gloves. I've learned that I can do just about anything when wearing gloves. The chick tolerated my spraying it with H2O2, followed by covering the wounds with the ever-amazing coconut oil (I was going to use the word "healing" to describe coconut oil, but don't want my hand slapped by the FDA), and set it in a warm box lined with shavings. When the cold weather came, I realized that I didn't have (or want to make) time to hold vigil as chicken doctor; keeping it warm at all times, making sure it ate and drank enough, etc. So, after it's initial treatment, it was going to be a sink or swim situation. A week later, I am happy to report that the chick is doing well and has healed nicely. The attack came about when Sassafras was ready to let her babies "fledge", but since this one was injured, she kept it warm under her wing during the cold nights. What a good Mama!

With the change of weather, I'm a bit relieved to be done with the garden. No more guilt over encroaching weeds, or not tending everything like I wish I could. So, the garden is done, and now we've entered the season of....wood hauling. Last year Andrew tried heating the house with our fireplace and blower. I thought he was crazy, but then I was bit by the bug, too. There's something incredibly satisfying about turning the thermostat off, and heating our living areas with pure, organic heat. Organic heat...it has such a nice ring to it.

The first couple of really cold days were exciting. My thoughtful hubby would start a fire before leaving for work, and I'd feed/tend it throughout the day, keeping us nice and toasty. The honeymoon ended a few days into it, when I noticed my hands looking quite aged. And then I felt my face. Desert-like, scary dry, zapped of all moisture. It was time to take action...lest I look like a 70 year old woman by the time spring finally arrives! I have brought out our humidifier, and slathered on more lotion in a week than I've used this year, and am determined not to let the dry heat suck the youth out of me. I shall prevail!