Books

     Books, stacks of books everywhere.  One for the young ones' summer learning.  One for Michael's NCAA core curriculum worksheets.  One for McKala and Timothy to read excerpts on marriage.  One Melody took to camp with her to be academically confident upon entering high school. 
     But you know what?  I've gotten rid of the ones that didn't stand the test of time.  And that includes the mounds of workbooks I've always drug along, just in case.  All anybody really needs to teach young people is a good, right to the point math workbook and well written older books that have a moral to the story.  I would say the Word also, but it is wiser that the parent have a good working knowledge of it themselves rather than treat the Holy Bible like a mandatory textbook.
      I've been going through the roomful of storage that flooded when the dehumidifier quit on the air unit.  I dumped out the plastic bin of my childhood activities.  Seems like I went to every camp, jamboree, lesson, and VBS in the region.  I entered and won almost every contest, exhibit, and officer's position I could.  But for what?  Ribbons, trophies, letters, and awards to look at these many years later? 
     Achievement is good.  Service is better. 

     I have cards from all the way back.  I'm keeping the handwritten notes, like the one from a classmate thanking me for helping out.  That's what really matters all those years ago.  Wish I had more of those to speak of.  That's what I'm pursuing in raising my own children, that they might be a help, not a star, but a help. 
     Among the cards separated into years, intermittently I have letters written to myself of how I might improve so that my husband might love me, not equating my bouts with gluttony and vanity with his drunkenness, the way the Bible does.  That's why I can't get this mess up and done in the basement, for the flow of memories that come with it. 
     I was always trying to reach the pinnacle of a more perfect household and body, waiting for the day that things would go just right, not understanding that God is looking for a perfect heart, not a perfect day.
    
     I've had friends who believed adversity was always a direct result of personal sin.  I've studied too many stories in the Bible now to believe that.  "Asa's heart was perfect with the LORD all his days ...Nevertheless in the time of his old age he was diseased in his feet."  And there "was a great woman" who made her home open to Elisha and was then blessed in her old age with a child.  Yet, "And when the child was grown, it fell on a day, that he went to his father to the reapers.  And he said unto his father, My head, my head."  He died and was later restored to life by Elisha.  And then there was the man who was blind from his birth and Jesus' disciples asked,"Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?  Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents:  but that the works of God should be made manifest in him." 
     What I am convinced of is that "The Lord's mercy often rides to the door of our hearts on the black horse of affliction."  Mike's cousin posted this Spurgeon quote today.  Similarly, Megan posted, "Pressure makes diamonds."

     So, as I wrote the last blog post, awaiting those summer days I could hammock with the young ones and reclaim lost time, the storage room was about to flood.  A head cold was about to invade the house and has yet to leave.  Melody had to go back to the doctor, plus she's gotten a very black eye playing ball and has a serious case of poison ivy at camp.  But the camp nurse messaged me that she is getting better and "smiling as her usual." Megan has hurt a place on her back that even the chiropractor can't help and has taken the cold with her to work in the 100 degree weather in Georgia.  Michael has managed to elude the problems the rest of us have.  His summer is no easy task though.  He gets up at 4:30 am, gets home no earlier than 4:30 pm, spends most every evening in the gym, and tries to consume 6,000 calories a day.  And virtually every dime he makes is going back to the school or to the gas tank. 
     And McKala, she's the real reason I'm writing today.  Last week, I noticed she was speaking lightly.  Then, I noticed she was oversleeping.  So, I asked her what else might be wrong.  A while later, she said, "My back (lungs) hurt like they used to." 
      Today, we found out the labwork shows another active case of walking pneumonia.  This time she's been prescribed antibiotic therapy for 6 months.  Thankfully, the doctor considered that she doesn't have insurance and got us huge discounts on everything. 
      So, the young woman who will soon be a bride will carry this burden into her new life.  I pray that it will only draw her closer to the Lord in whatever He has to teach or show by it. 
      Because we don't always have to sit by and suffer needlessly. Hezekiah "trusted in the LORD God of Israel; so that after him was none like him among all the kings of Judah, nor any that were before him.  For he clave to the LORD, and departed not from following him, but kept his commandments, which the LORD commanded Moses.  And the LORD was with him; and he prospered as he went forth: and he rebelled against the king of Assyria, and served him not."  Later in 2 Kings 20, "In those days was Hezekiah sick unto death.  And the prophet Isaiah the son of Amoz came to him, and said unto him, Thus saith the LORD, Set thine house in order; for thou shalt die, and not live.  Then he turned his face to the wall, and prayed unto the LORD, saying, I beseech thee, O LORD, remember now how I have walked before thee in truth and with a perfect heart, and have done that which is good in thy sight.  And Hezekiah wept sore.  And it came to pass, afore Isaiah was gone out into the middle court, that the word of the LORD came to him saying, Turn again, and tell Hezekiah the captain of my people, Thus said the LORD, the God of David thy father, I have heard thy prayer, I have seen they tears: behold, I will heal thee: on the third day thou shalt go up unto the house of the LORD.  And I will add unto thy days fifteen years; and I will deliver thee and this city out of the hand of the king of Assyria; and I will defend this city for mine own sake, and for my servant David's sake.  And Isaiah said, Take a lump of figs.  And they took and laid it on the boil, and he recovered." 

     But in the meantime, we press on.  That "perfect day" doesn't come often and when it does, there isn't much to claim in it.  For even the heathen can manage as well, just as they take care of their own.  But we are called to a higher place, not to wait for seamless circumstances to control our tempers or our appetites or our spending or our duties.  The discipline of a seasoned believer is tested in the midst of the mess.  "Beloved, think it not strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened unto you."  Funny how we like to only apply that to outlandish persecutions and not to everyday temptations.  Ending out this saying is verse 19, "Wherefore let them that suffer according to the will of God commit the keeping of their souls to him in well doing, as unto a faithful Creator."
      Today is another less than perfect day.  I would have it be perfect, but that perfect schedule is always just past my grasp.  But that basement has to be done sometime or another.  So, we rescued part of the day by pulling the car around nearby the basement doors so that Macklynn and Madalynn could clean it without being so near the road and out of sight.  And before that, Macklynn read his word problems to me and tackled some new concepts, though it was for a few minutes before I got the call about McKala's results.  God knows I want to do what is right.  He knows if we groan in our spirits when we are prevented from performing what seems good, just as He knows when we sigh of relief when we get out of having to do something.  He knows if I'm glad I got out of that walk because of my cold.  He knows that I got out anyway just for the sake of discipline for the kids.  Something is always better than nothing.  That is all that matters, the heart cleaving to what is good.  That we pursue the right track but are willing to pause for the needs of others.   It is nothing to boast of a pristine routine that rejects the inconvenient and immediate needs of a lost and dying community.  1 Corinthians 13 says I can move mountains and bestow all my goods on the poor, "and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing."
     Teetering, I'm always teetering somewhere between dying for structure and denying it the inherent stranglehold it brings.  I rewrite my day over and over.  For someone who's used to winning, it makes sense that losing would be the way God shows me I am not the one in control.
     July 1st, our 27th anniversary it will be.  We thought I'd get to ride up and be with Mike in the hotel where he's staying to help his new employer gather propane tanks that have been swept away by the floods.  It doesn't look like that's gonna work out either.  But something I have found in the oceans of things downstairs is history, a history that no one has but us.  I even feel kind of lost without him here.  I used to breathe a sigh of relief when he left (as I'm sure he did, never able to live up to my expectations).  We have progress.  We have something to go on now. We have a mutual desire to serve the Lord and make Him known.  So, here I am crying again, with little cause compared with the souls that were washed away in the flood or the people in the explosion today at the aluminum plant my father used to supervise.
       As if all this is not emotional enough, I got a letter just this afternoon from Melody saying the kind of things a mother longs to hear, of thanks and acknowledgement of our friendship and sentiments of regret, and that she misses us - the one who was so frustrated and eager to leave.  Can't say that I blame her though.  She had to fill my shoes for many months of the last year. As the card I found from Megan states, "Motherhood is not for sissies.  Motherhood is not for women with weak stomachs, strict routines, or white wall-to-wall carpeting.  Motherhood is not for women unable to juggle three things at once, read between the lines, or face fear on a regular basis.  Motherhood is not for women who can't answer the same knock-knock joke 'umpteen' times a day, the endless 'whys?' of childhood, or hear the unspoken feelings of a child's heart.  Motherhood is for women who can taste the tea in an empty cup, see the smiles behind the peanut butter, and the genius in the tiny scribbles.  Motherhood is for the caring and courageous women who make a difference in the lives they touch - women just like you." 
       So, while some of you will be in church tonight wondering where I am, I'll be in the basement fighting back the residual cough I have ...and more tears, I'm sure.  Because I'm not quite done going through those old things that remind me how far we've come and give me hope that we will make it to where we're supposed to go ...
     Then again, I might be downstairs listening to the bats chirp and laughing about last night when the kids were trying to smoke the bats out of the fireplace insert, and Miranda decided to take the airsoft machine gun with Mike's night vision scope on it to inspect from the rooftop, as the police drove by suspiciously.  We have plenty of times to look back on and to realize that while we have lagged here and there, we stopped the regimen for something different than we could have imagined and learned life spontaneously and delightfully without stunting one part for the other. 
      Some of you probably took offense when I posted over the weekend that if your Christian walk is boring, it isn't God's fault you're an ungrateful prude.  I only meant that there is endless adventure and that you can jump in or you can sit back and watch.  But don't blame God for an uneventful path and nothing to bring to the table of relationships when you are unwilling to sacrifice that which is safe and comfortable.  Most of the time, you just have to throw the book out the window and let God write the rest.  Grace doesn't excuse oneself from the law but supercedes the law. Else if we all had a textbook life, we would have no need to go before the throne of our Father all hours of the day and of the night to know Him as such.



    

Bags

     Bags, bags everywhere, all the time.  This has been a breakthrough year.  Never so much a need for bags.  It started in January when I took Mike's things to the rehab center where nothing much more than his Bible, work and dress clothes were allowed.  Then, after months of consideration Megan packed her bags for Georgia to take an advisor's position in hopes of being loosed from her debt in a year's time.  Melody, having never been to the ER, has been 5 times in the last 2 months but is now packing her bags to be a camp leader and Biblical intern for 8 weeks, all because a sweet lady she works with in the kitchen at church took it upon herself to raise the majority of the money.  Miranda trying to maintain steadiness in all the storms has bags of Bible school materials ready to teach her 4 year olds next week.  McKala became engaged while away on the yearly deep sea fishing excursion with her sisters and my parents this month and will pack her bags in August to live her new life.  Macklynn's baseball bag sits here as the season that almost didn't begin is coming to an end.  And Madalynn, laying down her karate one and packing another for anything any of us will let her go along with us for.
     My bags: one for Virgie's, one for DJ, and one for the Y, they are empty.  Last week, the tables turned at Virgie's.  I hadn't planned it; but in hindsight, I see the pieces that were falling in place.  Michael's final payment was made to the school.  Another caregiver had come on board.  And we were asking God if I needed to stay long enough to pay for McKala's wedding.  But it was a gnawing question, and I was becoming restless in a setting that was no longer mine to be in.  That chapter was closing but not before I got off my chest things that had to be said.  And I said them.  Boy, did I say them.  But at least now, I can go to her funeral, knowing I did all I could possibly do to persuade her that in the end, the "good Christian life" she quoted does not suffice for the unkindness that permeates from her core and always has.   
     DJ, his mental health doctor assessed him and told him he was "free," free from his sedation for the depression and voices he hears.  But what surfaced is he not free from the psychosis that his mother contributed to when she took advantage of him sexually.  Like always, I was quickly helping him with his church clothes Wednesday night and yawning incessantly when I told him I needed to go  home and go straight to bed since in the last 3 weeks, there were 6 nights I slept 3 hours or less.  He laughed and said, "You can lay with me."  I immediately scolded him, "That's the opposite of what the Bible teaches!" He laughed again and said, "Mike doesn't have to know."
     And that's when I knew he was very aware of what he was saying and that we had a problem.  You see, I know it is never a woman's place to minister to any man other than her husband, but in the state of mind I met him in, that rule didn't seem to apply.  Actually, I'm still okay with that initial decision to grant him his request to go to church with us.  But now, this season also has come to a close.  I've emptied the bag I carried his things in.  I earnestly pray that someone, a man, takes the baton from me so that DJ isn't forgotten.
     The Y - a few weeks ago we had a misunderstanding and Macklynn was "lost" for nearly 20 minutes.  Every available employee was looking for him.  His name was called across the intercom.  The building was put on lockdown.  No Macklynn.  Toward the end, I actually sought God that if Macklynn had been dragged away from the building, He would just end it, that he would not have to endure the suffering, the torture, the innocent confusion.  I don't know if that is a right prayer to pray but at that moment, I just wanted him to be safe. 
      Finally, someone found him playing in the kiddy pool.  He must've been under water when I looked and couldn't make out the page when it went out.  He was truly bewildered at all the commotion.  I was so relieved that I got light headed.  Instead of in the weight room, I wound up lying on the bleachers by the pool for an hour.  I haven't been back. 
      Part of it is that I've been overcome with activity.  Part of it is that I've neglected my progress and gained 6 or 7 pounds in the last while.  Some days gluttonous but most of them just not careful.  Funny, instead of fasting under stress that we would grow fat instead.  Rebellion.
      The last hurdle of the month was Michael's graduation party.  It was a gathering of mostly men who have sewn into Michael's life come to see the harvest.  Little did we know when we arrived in Fork Union, Virginia, Saturday morning that at an awards banquet the night before, he had received not only the overall MVP for football 9th through 12th grades but also the "Distinguished Cadet" Award that is given to one individual in each grade.  He took what was given to him and made the very best of it, despite several classmates who purposefully made it hard on him. 
     But upon the final announcement of their graduation, I saw something else, a brotherhood.  Young men seeking him out in the crowd and he doing the same.  Big hugs between comrades. 
     He was invited to an afterparty.  Mike and I decided to indulge the idea.  I was disheartened at what I saw but was glad that we got to be privy to it as a family.  Only select young men were invited, but unfortunately the "selects" of this world are often taught to make bad choices.  The catered food was terrific, the house the same Colonial one Michael and Melody got to stay in for the Military Ball.  But this time, there was alcohol around every corner.  And anyone, perhaps especially the underaged, were permitted by the parents.  Parents from all corners of the world, almost every continent. 
     Finally a bottle of Tequila and a shot glass arrived from another set of parents and began circulating.  I saw Michael step away from the group of his classmates who were partaking.  Perhaps, in respect to his father.  I hope moreso in respect to his Father and the reputation and example that ought to go hand in hand with a believer. 
     Mike has not had a drink since the first week of January.  This was just one of many trials he's had since his return home.  Since we've laid all the cards on the table, he's found out some devastating things.  It's also been hard to reorient into the family.  I don't know that anyone has put in writing how intricate a task it is for an addict to come to terms with his sober personality.  But I know by his prayers that his heart is intent on finishing the course, no matter how much is body objects sometimes.  No one said dying daily to ourselves would be easy, for any of us.
     He has again a good excuse for any addict to return to his feeding ground, an injury, a shoulder injury.  Instead of seeking pain killers, he told his doctor the truth about his addiction and was prescribed sleep medicine until he can get treatment, which is where it plays out well that the job he was promised 3 months finally came through but not before he acquired another one!  He intends to keep them both.  Starting last Friday night, I am going with him on a dedicated run to Ohio, back in 24 hours.  It is the equivalent to what I was making at Virgie's so we can still pay toward McKala's wedding AND I can be home with my husband and children weeknights again.
     Back to the bag, I grabbed a few things and stuffed them into the overnight one from Virgie's and off we went, trucking together for the first time in over 3 years.  I didn't talk the whole way trip up except to answer him.  He talked on and on.  And that was okay.  I needed to just be.  It's been that kind of month.
     Melody's had a real go of it, averaging being in the emergency department more than once a week lately.  First a CT to rule out a brain tumor after a routine eye exam, then onto a spinal puncture to check the fluid pressure.  Bingo, that's what was causing the swollen optic nerves, headaches, and wouldbe vision loss.  The second trip was worse than the first because she had developed the "spinal headache" associated with lumbar taps.  The pain is basically untreatable until a "blood patch" is done to stop the leakage from the puncture site.  The diuretic that inhibits the production of spinal fluid also caused her to return to the ER for invasive treatment.  After a surgeon chose to admit her, the doctors had no explanation after the blockage "disappeared."  But I know that my God knows when a person has had enough and that He answers the most basic of prayers. 
     Then, we went ahead against the advice of her attending Neurologist and Opthamologist to have her scheduled Tonsillectomy.  She said she could not stand to be as sick as she was last summer at camp, having every bug around going straight to her throat. 
     Lo and behold, she had a super swelling of her uvula, touching her tongue and making it impossible to sleep and all but closing the airway, inducing another run to the ER where they administered steroids.  Then, when all seemed clear after a few days, one side began to bleed, pulsating blood.  The gargling ice water seemed no opponent for the blood that was pouring out of her nose and mouth.  I hadn't had coffee nor could find my glasses, so I screamed for Mike to take her on.  It took quite some time for them to stop the bleeding.
     All these procedures and introductions to medical staff who answered her many questions fed the appetite she's always had for the medical field.  And she has learned in quick time empathy as a patient. This is the girl who instead of reading romance novels reads and memorizes anatomy for fun, who watches surgery videos for entertainment..  She's always wanted to be an ER surgeon.  And I can't help but believe she's got what it takes.  She's beginning to own her own education and is ready to enter the public realm.  As long as she follows Michael's footsteps as a leader and not a follower, all will be well.
     Michael hit the ground running when he got home.  Monday morning he was in the office of his "sponsor," aka his middle school basketball coach who recruited Michael to his Fork Union alma mater.  Michael was drilling holes for his blasting company on Tuesday, "pulling" a calf with Dr. Miller on Wednesday, got an offer for some other job, and had a forth job in the works by Thursday, a man who needs help pressure washing houses.  Under the advice of several coaches, Michael is passing up significant scholarships and returning for a post grad season at Fork Union to get more exposure and to continue gaining strength as in the 4 am workouts he's already been doing with the PG team.  He plans to fund as much of it as he can himself.  And I have to support that kind of dedication. 
       And to Megan's cause , I must give my support although she is being put through the ringer.  She's screamed at daily by her boss or customers or both.  She is a worker, a pleaser.  Her self induced obligation makes her do well but take unwarranted disapproval all the harder.  She is 6th in the line of Harpers who have within the last year been face to face with employers or coworkers who have been virtually unbearable.  It has become evident that we are being trained for something, broken for something, bigger than ourselves. 
       McKala escaped her toxic work environment and was even paid more for less effort, which opened the door for her focus on getting well.  She went to the gym, even though it was prescribed anogony.  The specialists at Duke told her it would be for the first 4 or 5 months, until her heart gained strength to overcome the imbalance of her other systems (and that was after she fought her third bought with Walking Pneumonia).  All this without her regular medications, because at the end  February she lost insurance coverage.  But a couple of weeks ago, she looked at me in the kitchen and said, "I missed a couple of days of my heart pills and my heart rate didn't go up."  That's huge!  It means she's getting well, finally after 5 years.
       And to think, in less than 3 months, she will be rightly married in white to a man who loves the Lord and knows to guard her heart.  It's making me well up just to think of the grace shed on her after all her entanglements with disease.
       Then there's Miranda, no big bags moving to speak of right now, still just unpacking the ones from the gulf of Florida.  But that's good.  For Miranda steady is good.  For someone who is moved easily to become firmer is good.  Her heart, I see it moving though.  Her heart is always toward people, not always so for her mouth, but her heart is ever moving toward the Lord.  Those kinds of moves don't get awards or job promotions or reciprocating relationships, but they are noticed by the Lord, and by me.   Miranda is more like me than she would ever wish on herself.  Bless the child's heart, we realize daily the things we have in common and they are not always good.  But at least, it enables me to understand what she's getting at and to know what to pray for her!
       At last, there are my littles, which Macklynn says they do not qualify for anymore.   He proved it at his first baseball practice, after having nearly blown his thumb and index finger off altogether last August.   I hadn't told the coaches of his injury since I had informed them he had just come off a 5 day stomach flu. 
       Wouldn't you know, there at the end of practice, the coach hit a pop fly right to him in left field?  It hit him square on the scar, and he began to cry.  When the outfield coach took off his glove, he saw why.  I sat on the bleachers stoic, as he was escorted to the dugout to the head coach.  After the evaluation, I walked slowly over but not too awfully close, unemotionally as possible nodding asking him how it felt.  I didn't want to cater to his pain so that he would have more reason to up and quit.  He sat and nursed the sting, and I sat back on the bleachers.  When batting practice started, he decided to participate.  And I knew then, my little boy had taken a step into manhood. 
      McKala did her part and got him a palm guard, some pants, and his very own baseball bag from the sports store she works at.  I never bought the others their own bag, and she just wanted him to have that.
      We all are going to miss more than we think the nuances of the family innerworkings.  We're already down one member.  This fall, it will be one off to college as it were, one off to marriage, and one off to high school.  All with more bags than I care to imagine. 
       But as God would have it in the cycle of a large family, I still will have my Macklynn and Madalynn to dwell on.  My Macklynn who is busy being rescued from his inward world into the world of the only man who can fitly draw him out, his father.  They already have been working on mowers, cleaning gutters, and beyond, while at night reading the Word and praying, without the all intrusive sound of a television.  This is happening for an 11 year old boy who when I took out the DVO on his father, I asked, "How do you feel about this?" couldn't get out the words, only a beleaguered thumbs up sitting there beside me in the courthouse.  A boy who in the midst of the fallout said he hated us all AND God. Big words in a house where those words are not allowed.
       And the little girl who wants to be big, who has been using her sisters' razors unbenounced and panicked when there were none to be found while they were away at the beach for 10 days, the girl who's already sporting bras and believing crushes are the norm, BUT also in her own words "helped a girl get saved" in the bathroom at a baseball game.  She outrightly asks if people are Christians.  I too have a "little me" on my hands and much work to do.  This never gets any easier.  Every child is so very different. 
      I'm hoping sometime soon we'll get to those camping and hiking trips we haven't taken.  And I can pack up my old LL Bean bag with my new ENO hammock and Camelbak the girls got me for Mother's Day.  And we can act a little like normal folk, because I'm just plain worn out.  My whole right side has turned arthritic, and I could use some good times.  However it comes, I'll take it.  I'm brought back to a place where my family is my only service, not that I could ever leave the house and miss an opportunity to share my Lord.  But we're back to "us"... "us" is all I can be right now and I trust that all the "you's" out there will understand and take the time to consider your own "us" and what bags you yourselves should be setting down or picking up ...

Give Me This Mountain

     I woke up kind of groggy this morning at Virgie's.  On the way home, I was enjoying the sunshine and listening to Chris Tomlin's rendition of "Amazing Grace," which reminded of the men at Bethel Colony, which reminded me to listen to the CD Mike sent.  I popped it in and what else played but "Amazing Grace" a cappella?

     At first, I wasn't interested in the style of prayer that the testifier was using.  But I kept listening because I wanted to hear his story, because I knew it was one of addiction.  I arrived home and switched the key back, so I could keep listening.  He gave an undeniably power packed witness of what God did in and through his life that began as a child of addicted parents.  

     I've been thinking lately on passion, that it gets a bad wrap.  God does not want us to squelch all that is inborn in us.  Sometimes it only needs to be redirected, because a passionless life is hardly worth living.

     Wondering where I've been?  Or better yet where Mike has been?  He's been at Bethel Colony of Mercy, as far as I'm concerned the best addiction recovery center in America, right here at our back door in Lenoir. You know how I found out about it?  When one of Mike's friends intervened in a drunken roll he was on over eight weeks ago.  When he went in handcuffed under police custody to the hospital, his blood alcohol level was well over .3.  He was drinking himself to death.  

      When I realized that he would be confined if only temporarily to state care, perhaps with no spiritual guidance whatsoever, I reached out to our pastor for advice.  He immediately recommended the voluntary program at Bethel.  I got busy advocating for Mike's placement there.  Everything was in line for the day they would release him from his involuntary stay at the hospital, when I got a call that there would be no room for him for two weeks.  

     I was floored.  And I decided right then, it was do or die.  So, I took the young kids who were home and I prayed a prayer that the devil tempted me not to.  He said, "What if you ask and it isn't given?  What will the children think of God then?"  I slayed that thought and went before the throne boldly with my children as witnesses.  I said, "God, make a place for him.  I don't care how - just make a place for him there."  

     The next day I called the same man I'd been in communication with and he said, "Have him here at 6 pm tomorrow."  I was stunned.  God did exactly what I asked.  I couldn't even register it just yet.       So, that next day as the snow poured, the sheriff's department transferred him to the place that has altered his future solely with Biblical principle, where he still is today. 

      Wondering how he's doing?  So well that it makes me question my own belief, that I can't fathom such a drastic change that I myself requested.  When God says he will do "exceedingly abundantly above all" that we ask, he isn't kidding.  I have to ask God daily to help my unbelief.  It's not really something I can tell many people about, because a lot of people, oftentimes just trying to lend an understanding ear, tell stories of a family or friends who have been in and out of rehabs.  But they haven't read the letters or seen or heard from my own husband.  Things are happening that are only explained by the indwelling of the Holy Spirit. 

     But these things could easily have been prevented/killed if my obedience had not been what it was.  God has shown me and I have "hearkened," especially in these last three years to obey, no matter what I feel or think, ESPECIALLY when I don't understand.  So, I have studied through His whole Word, to the point of wrenching my gut.  I have given over my own tendency/addiction of comforting myself with food and lost 35 pounds.  I am still learning to be quiet and listen, no matter how good something I have to say is.  I was learning how to serve my husband in spite of his emotional or physical state; I am thankful for the opportunity soon to continue it.  I heard recently, "A successful man does daily what an unsuccessful man does occasionally."  I believe every word of that and try to instate it every single day, if only a little of each thing.  

      Then the trial came, not the one you're hearing about here, but the one only a handful of people know about.  In the chaos of our move last September, I must have had my guard down and walked straight into the biggest temptation I've ever had.  

      It was "necessary" for me to be at a particular place at a particular time, which was the same place that this man also had to be.  Over time, I almost involuntarily took notice of his attributes of quietness, humility, work ethic, mannerliness, much less his outward rugged, earthy appearance.  Whatever was worthy about me in his eyes completed the "master plan."  The mind game began.

       I literally had to confess to close family and friends, and oddly some strangers, to hold myself accountable.  I even took it to the altar, which is something I very rarely do.  But, the demons inside are much more threatening than the ones without.  You see the devil wanted me to believe that my time had come, that I had taken enough.  Even though I admit I did not bring every thought into captivity to Christ, I clung to my Bible and every sermon I could get my ears on, even and especially when I felt too condemned or guilty to do so.  

       And on a particularly strong day, I was reading Joshua, where he told God, "give me this mountain ...," and I thought, that's it.  Lord, give me this mountain.  I don't know what in the world is going on.  I can't even remember the last time I "loved" my husband, but I know you have a plan for the protection and provision of my children and me, as you always have, so give me this mountain, whatever is on it.  I will bear it, for the sake of your truth, your staff that rules and your rod that reproves.  It's all I have to trust in, even as good as this other "plan" looks before me.  And by the blood of Christ alone, it never grew past a mind game.    

      I would be lying if I said it is not still a struggle.  Would it have been easier if I asked God to take away the passion that I have to connect with another person, specifically a man?  I know for a fact that's what a large percentage of women have done.  You sit and sneer at me as though I were a "harlot" and think how happy you are that you don't lower yourself to be tempted so.  But because you have murdered your passion altogether, that you ought to have at least kept for your own husband, does not make you any less guilty.  Perhaps, you are in a much more wretched state than mine, a ho-hum existence of getting by, living as a martyr, numb to the "perverted" ways of men.  Really?!  

     We have fallen headlong into the civility of not being stirred up about much of anything.  Where is the fire of your salvation?  Where is the earth shattering realization that you are saved for eternity and that everyone should know about it?

      It is subdued so as not to offend anyone.  It is stifled to get on with the work of the day.  It is handicapped because of the ones who come against it.  For the last thing, I am at fault.  At home with my husband, I just couldn't take another day of his ridicule about my knowledge of the Bible or my prayer or my whatever, so I just got quiet.  On its own, that is a Biblical mandate, to win our husbands without words but by our actions.  Slowly but surely though, walls around my heart were being built to stop the arrows from penetrating.  As I heard Sunday in reference to alcohol and drugs, "It's feels good not to feel."  Man, that hit me.  We are ALL guilty of doing something to not feel the hurt. 

     When I start feeling, I often start crying.  And I don't like to feel out of control.  After all, somebody has to keep the ship from sinking, so we trudge on.  You and I, we stay busy.  But these last couple of days, I've been able to catch my breath and just live.  I took Macklynn fishing on Sunday.  Yesterday, we pitched the ball to each other to bat (yes, he has full function of his hand!).  Then Madalynn rode her new birthday bike.  And afterwards, Macklynn grilled his first burgers.  We had things to clean and lessons to learn, but kids know your love by the time you take to do with them what they love.

     Now THAT's my passion and I know full well in hindsight that the devil wanted to disrupt my relationship with my husband so that he could steal away the souls of my children, by removing me from my rightful place.  That's the trouble with divorce.  

     There is no place in this degenerating world for part time parenting.  I thank God every morning that I am able to converse with my older kids before they go to work, that I am able to take conversations as they come with my little ones, because I am present at the very moment I'm needed, nothing rehearsed, most of the time nothing planned.  We wonder why we walk around in a haze, half-hearted, half blessed, wondering what our purpose is, wondering what our next step will be, wondering what life is about.  I say this about the Christian, as well as the unChristian.  Because we don't whole heartedly do anything.  Wives and/or mothers, pursue your husband and/or your children like there's no tomorrow and the aspirations of jobs and hobbies will fade.  You don't have to reserve "me" time.  You don't need a "back up" plan.  God knows His daughters and what they are in need of.  

    Mike has said that it's too bad everyone can't come stay where he is.  I say it'd be good if there were such a place for self righteousness, coldness, bitterness, slothfulness, and rigidness.   

     As part of his testimony, he spoke before the men and told them that the kids and I had been tithing, and still are, on our earnings and that we have been taken care of in his absense, not by one lump sum but in surprising places here and there, but that he had not been tithing and look at where it landed him.  How disgusting would it be for me to come there and be glad that I'm not one of them.  I say to anyone who has even thought it while they have been reading this, Pharisee!   We are all about 5 minutes from needing an intervention from something.  

      I went to watch a community outreach movie about longterm recovery.  I didn't get a whole lot out of it, because even AA does not direct people to the One True God, but what I did get was a sign I saw for addicts, "Don't quit 5 minutes before your miracle happens."  It gave me hope.  No, I'm not the addict; my husband is.  Was.  And now, HE is my miracle.  

How Can I Not Be Thankful?

     Madalynn and I left from Virgie's at 7 am this morning.  The roads were all but abandoned, and the moon was gloriously full in the face of the opposing sun.  How can I not be thankful?
     We only met up with one car at all the intersections on Hwy 421 in Wilkes.  And I thought in those few minutes that so much was right with the world.
     We had a Christmas station playing and one Santa song after another came on.  To which Madalynn said, "People think that's what Christmas is about."  I, for once, didn't have anything to add or take away.  My seven year old gets it, all on her own now.  How can I not be thankful?
      We crept in.  And so as not to wake anyone, she went for a bath as I went for a shower.  By the time I got out, several of the kids were up with Memaw and Pop.  Sometime in their little visitations to me as I was getting ready, I was told that we were eating by 11 am so Miranda could go on to work at the Christmas tree farm, the same one she helped Michael prune this summer.
       As I moved from room to room, Pop asked me just how it is that I know DJ.  Then, Mike looked at me and asked plainly, "Why don't you go get him?"  Gladly!  How can I not be thankful?
       When I got back with him, all the food was ready.  It was not planned so, but I did not lift one finger to prepare it.  Our daughters had listed, shopped for, cooked, and presented a homemade feast on the table that Mike built and with the chairs that we all refinished.  (You know, those chairs from Long John Silver's.) We were to eat together at it for the first time.  BUT Michael had not come back from his hunting trip way up a logging road in the middle of a thousand acres.  He was without a phone and there was some discrepancy as to whether his Daddy said for him to BE home or to LEAVE for home at 11 am.                                                                                                                                A mother gets a little wound up even though she knows her son has been out hunting alone since he was old enough to pull back a sufficient compound bow.  He arrived just as I was taking DJ back.  How can I not be thankful?
        Somewhere in the mix, two of the girls decided to go with Miranda.  Mike had in mind that we would all go to visit Aunt Cindy and Memaw's other sister and brother from Georgia.  It was about enough to send him over the edge.  Afterall, in the morning, I had told him to turn down the Christmas music so he wouldn't wake Macklynn ...even though Macklynn didn't really seem to mind.
         Then, after one of the kids told, in FRONT of DJ, on the other for saying they were staying in their room because DJ was eating with us; Mike made mention that he didn't like the seating.  I was afraid that it would once more hurt DJ's feelings, so I made clear that I would take the odd chair.
        Oh, and as we made our way to Aunt Cindy's six or seven miles away in nothing less that four cars, I got bent out of shape that we had confused Michael on how to go and that Mike's racing another direction to beat him must have something to do with the greater issues of life.
        No, my ways are not Mike's ways.  But why must I digress so?  Yes, these are simple and almost innocent gestures compared to the ones of our yesteryears.  But, why must I get that two cents in?  Is not the Lord my defense?  Do I still not believe?
       This I do know, that my belief is unquestionably being tested.  And as I pondered it once again the other night, I suddenly realized that each and every family member is too being profoundly haunted once more by their own personalized demons from the past:  instability, sickness, despair, idolatry, addiction, weepiness, aloneness, covetousness, and self involvement.
        I think this time though, God is expecting new outcomes, because He has shown Himself to be faithful.  Now, it is our turn to do the same.  He finds us worthy to do so and has much work for us to get on with.  Charles Stanley tells me so on my rides to and fro Virgie's.  The book of Deuteronomy professes it so when I sit and study it at Virgie's table early every morning.  And Chip Ingram convinces me so while I exercise in my room after I get home.  How can I not be thankful?
        So ...we didn't get our family Christmas picture made today, even though we were all dressed matchy, matchy.  There are just some days that are better off not documented in pictures.
         We didn't get our tree up either.  But Megan and Miranda did respond to a call for a woods fire near the Parkway.  For all I know, they're still there.  Just the way they were the other night, along with McKala, digging a tractor trailer driver out from under the load of bread crumbs he was delivering when he lost his brakes and had to take the runaway ramp.  How can I not be thankful?
        Madalynn and I are back at Virgie's. We followed that brilliant moon almost the whole way and could hear the coyotes howling when we opened the doors.  We sleep in some pretty interesting arrangements, but we are warm and we are together and we are safe, as is everyone else back home.  Yes, home, we've been there 3 months already and it feels like home now.  How can I not be thankful?
       
     
     

Well Pleased

     I left Michael with another cadet's family in a parking lot off Interstate 77 this morning.  His visit was awfully short.  Nonetheless, it was his first in 6 weeks.  We were just thankful to make it back after Friday's 4 1/2 hour trip up turned into a 6 hour one, when I had Melody take the wrong highway after a bathroom break.  It was nearly a repeat of what happened in Atlanta when Miranda was my 15 year old driver, and we wound up in Tennessee instead of South Carolina.  Only this time, it was raining and my tires are on their last leg.
     Melody was a trooper though, so much so that I let her drive us back until her 9 pm permit cut-off.  I was well pleased to see her confidence driving among truckers with a constant spray on the windshield.
      We missed Michael's game entirely.  We walked to the stands in time to see the clock count down the last three seconds.  With all the commotion, somehow we missed the exit where we wanted to eat afterwards and finally settled on a Denny's 100 miles more down the road.  I wasn't about to go another road trip without an atlas, so we stopped at the truck stop.  And I proceeded to tell the attendant that with my watch, camera, gun, Bible, cash, and now, map, that I still didn't have to have the cell phone the kids claim I do.  At midnight, we finally reached home, "If that's what you call it," Michael said yesterday.  This has been a world of change for him.  When he left, we still lived in the other house and still had the company of his farm animals and pets in their familiar surroundings.
      Now, we are close to being suburbanites.  In many ways, we're glad not to have the upkeep of the property we couldn't manage anymore.  Plus, this house is so spacious that I'm convinced we're meant to use it for hospitality.  I hate though that Michael feels like a guest in his own home.  But I understand.  I'm so accustomed to being at Virgie's that my returns home feel more like hotel stays.
      Michael.  His outlook at the high school academy is very different this year.  On one of our first calls, he said, "It's great being a senior."  And on one of our latest calls, he said, "I love my chemistry teacher."  Those a big words coming from a reserved young man.
      Last year, he went into football season with an undiagnosed broken shoulder AND a case of undiagnosed Mono.  He got to play a quarter here and a quarter there.  This year, he's playing the whole game, both sides of the ball.   Last year, he was mocked for his beliefs.  This year, he's the go to.  He also has his own room as a respite.  Last year, he caught flack from the few fellow students he was placed in charge of.  This year, he is second in rank of the whole senior class.  He's holding his own academically and has regained the twelve pounds he lost working this summer.
     But more than all these was when I was signing him out after the game, and the commandant told his call to hold, while he reached over to me and said about Michael, "I love this guy."  No proud parent moment, only well pleased.
     Saturday lunchtime, McKala called.  "Mama, I had a wreck."  If not for her words, I would not have known by her steady tone that anything was wrong.  Megan and Miranda were quickly on their way to help.  Until I saw a picture of the descent she made off the road and heard the story of the spins she took, I didn't understand what she'd been spared.  Turns out that she was neither charged a towing bill nor written a ticket.  But her liability only insurance leaves her with presently unknown repair bills.  Thankfully, she's just moved back in with us and will have help getting to work.  And her Timothy will gladly get her to other needful places.   In the two of them, I am also well pleased.  They are moving forward with their relationship in a Godly fashion, that I have kidded them I am jealous of.
     Megan. Megan to the rescue.  Always since she was 12 she's had a patriarchal role.  Her talent, reliability, and work ethic give everyone a sigh of relief when she arrives.  Because we all know she can handle whatever is in her way.  But I want for her something, someone who can share that burden with her, lift it off her shoulders, the weight she was never intended to carry.  I know it's up to her to relinquish it, but I believe for the right guy, with the right and true heart, she would.
     Miranda.  She was all but begged when the move was found out not to leave her last job, helping a woman farmer work chicken houses.   Then, a week prior to the move in date, I got a call from someone who wanted a Harper to fill the position.  Now, Miranda is working at the Crisis Pregnancy Center.  The job was there for her before she pursued it.  Because God is front of her now, where He is always waiting to be placed.  In this too, I am well pleased, that my children have made a good name that goes before them in the Lord.
     Macklynn. This very day the last millimeters of his skin have bonded together.  It is healed.  Even the plastic surgeon over the department at Wake Forest raised his eyebrows, well pleased by his progress and looked immediately to Melody to applaud her for her good care of it.  It looks remarkably good, especially compared to the injuries that the Giants' Defensive End suffered the 4th of July of the very same incident.  In my mind, there is no doubt that not only is Macklynn's life meant for the service of the Lord, but so are his hands.  Now, to spend my days encouraging him to do so, reminding evermore the things from which he was sprung back.
     During these days also, I'm enjoying the sweet fleeting months of the woman/child, Melody.   She is my right hand, as each of our daughters that age has been, and will step out into hours of her own work and study before I know it.  And although, my Madalynn is years behind her, she is already filling her shoes.  We are a team much the way it was when Megan was young before our family grew so large.  We sing to her Spanish CD all the way to Virgie's and back.  She prepares us herbal tea before bed.  Then before we pray, we read to each other between yawns.  She already speaks of the job "we'll" get when Virgie has gone on.
    Shame on me that in this life I have ever felt alone, left wanting.  But for the grace of God, I surely would be.  I have learned that there is no noble desire except that I, my children, and fellow and would-be saints cause our Maker to be nothing less than well pleased ..."forever, for always, no matter what."

Weep with Them that Weep

     I don't know where to register or categorize what has happened.  I'm not okay, but I will be.  Because that's the hope I have in Christ.
     I've never been particularly sympathetic to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  Deep down inside, I imagined it to be an excuse.  I mean, we have to give it to the Lord, and get over it, right?
     Then why am I still crying?
     It happened Sunday.  Some would find reason in the fact that we didn't go to church.  Trying to dodge bad weather, we wound up moving in the wee hours of the morning.  Yes, we're moving to North Wilkesboro by August 31st.
     At 10:30 am, no one was awake.  So, I let them be and took my Bible with me, to sit by the pond.  I don't know that it was a replacement for the fire and fervor of the new pastor down the road, who nearly knocks over the pulpit in his exuberance.  But I found solace.
      Soon enough, Megan as promised took Melody to the "back to school kick-off" at the lake.  Miranda met with her best friend to trudge up Stone Mountain.  McKala was napping at the Parks'.  Michael's back at school in Virginia, and Mike was in Florida.
      My little guys asked if I would walk them through and down the creek as I had given my word to do before we move.  I wasn't feeling quite up to it, so I let Madalynn swim in the pond.  Macklynn couldn't because while he was swinging the hammer at the old computer parts I'd gifted him to destroy, he hit himself with the claw on the back of the head.  That's after he shocked himself in an outdoor receptacle while plugging up an extension cord last week.  Not too many days before that, he and Madalynn were in a wreck with their Daddy on 421 because a car cut them off.  And a couple of weeks before then, a piece of metal target deflected and propelled into his arm.
       All that I could handle.  Even having the pediatric cardiologist coming in with x-rays before they returned him to me after his birth.  Even the encephalitis and meningitis he had simulataneously that crippled him when he was only 4 years old.  And the three times he's had serious nail punctures. I've mentioned in some circles that he's my barometer.  He suffers when I'm out of line.
       But this.  This was out of the blue.
       We had just entered the house, the three of us.  Only the two of them can remember the sound.  All I can remember is the light, the carport lit up like the 4th of July.  Literally.
       Then he ran through the door, screaming bloody murder.  It was terror, horrifying!  His hand was marred with blood and black powder.  I knew it was mutilated as he dropped himself into my desk chair.  I grabbed a moving blanket from the floor, wrapped his hand and pressed against his leg.
        Madalynn was changing from her bathing suit and grabbed something, anything to put on.  Neither of them had on shoes.  He didn't even have on a shirt, and it didn't matter.  We weren't waiting; we were leaving.  Now.
        Agony.  The screams of agony are haunting me still.  My God, the suffering.  In between the excrutiating pleas for relief, he managed to tell me to turn on the radio.  He said, "Turn it to KLove!" a request I don't recall him ever making.  As if my heart were not crushed enough, my soul groaned that he was seeking comfort from the Lord in his panic.
       The bridge!  It was out.  I had to take an alternate route.
       The exit ramp!  It was closed.  I had to go to the next one and circle back.
       All the while, he was screaming, not crying, screaming.  And contemplating amputation.  He knew.  We both did.  We knew we had done wrong.  That mortar cylinder had been in the medicine cabinet for how long?!  Why didn't I just throw it away when I cleaned it out?!  Why of all times, did he have to disobey?!  As prone to accidents as he is, they're virtually never because of defiance.  Why did it have to look so much like a smoke bomb?!  But God bless him, he had the wherewithal to run out and drop it in the driveway, so that it wouldn't start any more fires than it already had.  Blood splatters trailed him all the way out there and back in front of my desk.
       We made it.  No thanks to the general public for moving out of the way, regardless of my flashers being on.
       We ran through security as I tossed my purse into the chest of a guard.  "There's a gun in there."
        I didn't give the check-in nurse a chance to talk.  I said, "I'm going in."
       They got him out of triage in a hurry.  The only glitch we had was the IV.  The first nurse dug, with no success.  We kept assuring him that help was near.  It was as if his desperate pleas were being ignored.  He reared his legs up while another nurse had to be called in.  The one at his feet was near tears herself.
        I put my head down on the rail and cried for the first time.  Out of mere frustration.  That I couldn't keep my word.  I had been forcing him to look into my eyes and be still, promising him that they would stop the pain.  The waiting seemed like forever.
        When the medicine coursed through his veins, I finally got a chance to see his hand.  Even though it was blasted apart, everything was there, all his fingers.  Oh, thank you, God!
        The doctor called a plastic surgeon at Baptist to double check his decision to fix it right then and there.  Despite the holes and burns, Macklynn could still move and feel his fingers.  So, they determined it was safe to begin surgery.
        Surgery.  That means the OR, operating room, right?
        They began prep in front of Madalynn and me.  She had been sitting there so sweetly, with so much hurt in her face, her bare feet and wet hair.
        The RN and doctor didn't agree on what was procedure, but the doctor trumped and went about his business.  He explained every step of the way after he put him under with Ketamine.  It's the stuff we're given before we're given real anesthesia.  He assured me that missionary doctors even use it  to perform appendectomies.
        So there he lay, his eyes wide open but unconscious to the fact that Doctor Tom, who reminded me some of Doctor "House," was washing his wounds with what amounted to a caulking gun, flooding his wounds with sterile water, then injecting syringes full of novacaine.
        The nurse told me they don't sedate adults for burn procedures, so I was most glad at that point he was a child.
        Then another "too good to be true."  Dr. Tom got the nurse's attention.  He said, "Look at his digital nerve.  Completely intact."  In the chasm between his thumb and index finger, his beautiful nerve was untouched.  The doctor was amazed, amazed that his thumb wasn't blown completely off his hand to start with.  You see, after I finally got someone on the hospital's phone (because I still don't carry a cell), Megan and Melody got there.  And I switched up with them and could hear through the curtain parts of a story the doctor was telling them as they stood tight by Macklynn's bedside.  Turns out the doctor is a certified pyrotechnician, because his brother-in-law is a professional one, who incidentally has done The Olympics.  Incredible.
        Shortly thereafter, Miranda arrived, then McKala and her Timothy.  They got to see the upside, and I'm glad for them for that.
        Macklynn was uncommonly mannerly to everyone after his awakening.  I think he grew up five years in one day.  He knew what he'd been spared.
        So, when I was given the advice to "switch" him for his disobedience when he gets better, or that it wasn't worth Mike missing overtime for, or that my story was getting long, or that at least it was his left hand, or whatever else people can dream up; I grew bitter, really bitter.  More so, towards those who didn't grace us with their voices at all.  
        Very few calls came in.  Most of them were men, specifically Mike's coworkers and volunteers,  broken by the prospects for this young fellow.  I was surprised to learn just how empathetic men are to the risks that they know their gender are prone to. I blame the rest on social media.  Megan posted a picture but because she didn't want to start an uproar over the cause, she didn't put many details except that they virtually had to reattach his thumb.  Is that not a clue?!
       Is that not a cue?  To get off the networks and dial an actual number and put a voice to it?!
       I grew more and more discontent over the disconcern.
       Can't anyone tell how upsetting this was?!  Can't anyone tell that I'm hurting too?!  Doesn't someone know that I might not be over this?!  I'm not okay?!  But that's selfish.  I'm not the one who was hurt.  I can't help it.  I'm not good with this just yet.  The devil penetrated my space.  He got past my hedge, and he tricked and tormented one of my very own.
        But you say, it all turned out good.  Don't tell me that.  I'm still mad at you.  I'm still hurting.  Don't you know that your Bible says to, "weep with them that weep."  Let me have this.  I might lose it all if you don't.  Yes, I know it isn't about me, and that's why I've been keeping it to myself.  Because the strong don't ask for help.
         Then, yesterday.  I was going through the piles of books I've procrastinated to make decisions on.  "Hinds' Feet on High Places."  Back in Georgia, almost 20 years ago, a recently converted woman gave me a copy.  She was worried about my circumstances, even though she'd lost her own pregnancy.  I remember asking ignorantly if she imagined her babies with angels' wings.  She was wise and sober minded enough to say, "No."  People don't turn into angels.  In trying to soothe her, I made a complete idiot of myself.  We do that, and we believe people are okay when they're not. Because it's easier for us that way.
         I have learned much.  I have learned that I will check on people, up close and personal.  Even recently, I've dropped that ball myself.  Going forward, that changes.  I will drop my agenda for that of my LORD.  He tells me to take care of His people and if I have to drag my kids along, then they'll be better for it than having their noses stuck in some book.
         But thank God for the words He gave Hannah Hurnard in this one, "But the High Places of victory and union with Christ cannot be reached by any mental reckoning of self to be dead to sin, or by seeking to devise some way to discipline by which the will can be crucified.  The only way is by learning to accept, day by day, the actual conditions and tests permitted by God, by a continually repeated laying down of our own will and acceptance of his as it is presented to us in the form of people with whom we have to live and work, and in the things which happen to us.  Every acceptance of his will becomes an altar of sacrifice, and every such surrender and abandonment of ourselves to his will is a means of furthering us on the way to the High Places to which he desires to bring every child of his while they are still living on earth."

What a Week

     Saturday I came up to Virgie's, even though we were hosting Mike's fellow worker's family  to blackberry picking and wings. I stayed until the EMTs carted her out because she was in "touch and go" shape.  She's persevered again and I'm writing from the twin bed where I sleep nearby her bedside.
      Sunday, we witnessed an elderly man stand before the church the first time as he proclaimed that the unraveling of the American fabric lies squarely on his shoulders.  He said if only he, as every Christian, had done his part.  Then, a missionary from Brazil stated his own case, which was relevant to the fruits God asks us to bear.  He and his wife had stopped at two children when he heard a definite word from God to grow their family.  Now, they have six.
      I had posted something to the same effect that very morning, because I had finished Genesis once more and am convinced that as we focus on the sexual taboos of the time that we are completely missing the premium put on the value of children, numbers of children, not necessarily as much as assets but as gifts of seed from the Lord.  All seed was paramount whether it be in the crops or flocks.  What we try to replace it with are only things that end in corruption and pollution.
      Monday I got Melody squared away at www.uplandsreach.org for the week and came back home to get the best news I've had in a while.  Mike emailed me the copy of official confirmation on county letterhead that after background checks, he and I are permitted to take DJ from the facility for up to five hours at a time.  After asking for 9 months, he can go to church fellowship to eat and hear God's Word preached on Wednesday nights!  To you and me, not as big a deal.  To him, it might mean the world.
       What floored me was that in this social worker's quarter of a century of work in Charlotte, she hasn't heard of such a request and had to get special permission from her supervisor.  How can this be?
       I realized it was nearly 10 pm and I hadn't heard from Michael.  Turns out he'd gone riding on Dr. Miller's horse for a couple of hours after work and when he returned Dr. Miller prepared them both a steak.  I was glad for a young man who's gone from sun up to sun down that he caught a break.        Tuesday it appeared that a gathering was coming together at our house that evening.  Many Sight Management Team leaders for SP from as far as Arizona to New York to Alabama were in town to practice building a tent hospital.  We got in touch with several of these friends we've made on different deployments and they agreed to have a wienie roast.  Although it poured rain and the bonfire was off, we fired up the Weber grill and couldn't have had better.

       The rain cooled things off and didn't put a damper on much else.  I had wondered what might become the entertainment when I saw a line forming to take a turn at shooting Mike's crossbow from the carport.  As this was transpiring, the kids realized that Patty was in full labor with her piglets.
        Every now and then, Madalynn would come up to announce that there was one more.  At four though, Michael came in for mineral oil and a glove because she hadn't delivered one in nearly two hours.  Come to find out, there was indeed an obstruction and once he pushed it out of the way and with Miranda's smaller hands to complete the task, Patty continued to have 9 more babies.  At different intervals, I was also asked for Betadine and a pot of coffee.  Patty refused that first "gang" of piglets and the kids were bent on keeping anything from happening again.

       So, Michael sat at her head, petting the pig he'd had sent she was given to him as a young one herself.  Miranda sat at the other end roughly rubbing and reviving the ones that gasped as they arrived, McKala assisting with a syringe and also blocking with a board in front of the hind leg to keep the mother from pinning her little ones against the wall.  Megan kept it all in check moving them about and unwrapping their cords from each other.
       I stood taking it all in, like old times.  Like a well oiled machine, they took care of business.
       Michael was determined to sleep in a lounge chair inside the stall because Patty had placed herself in such a way that was dangerous for her new ones.  I couldn't find any satisfaction in leaving him alone because of what she became last time, so Miranda stayed with him even though they were both dog tired from a day's work already.  Megan and McKala retired to the house, tuckered out themselves.
      To date we've only lost two and considering the mortality rate of pigs, we're happy.  One was stillborn with the afterbirth.  The next morning, it was more than Miranda could bear as Patty gained strength then let herself fall to rest on nearly half a dozen.  Miranda badgered her into standing back up but she began to stomp precariously, so she knew it was lost cause.  She came up to the house ...and later we found out only one piglet was smothered by the weight of its mother.  "Only one" is still a hard thing to say.
      So began the morning of our 26th Anniversary.  Mike took a paid day off so was home when I received the call.  Manuel has gotten out of hand with his mother.  His autism has put him through every program, session, and therapy you can imagine.  This I know:  she loves him dearly, enough to consider letting him return to us.  That is the most high honor.
      To my surprise, he said we'd pick him up on our way home from the lake.
      Last time at the lake, he kept telling me to ride beside him so he wouldn't have to look back to ensure I was there.  But my neck was still hurting and it was easier to ride in his wake just to one side or the other than against the waves the wind was causing.
      I'm careful not to draw analogies where there are none, but it felt much like I was his wing man.  I realized yesterday that as I rode beside him, that I came perilously close to him a few times as I was checking around for other craft.  Too, he was looking for a particular location, so as he diverted I was not as likely to see his move.
     That said, I know a lot of people go for the phrase, "A man doesn't need a woman behind him or in front of him, but beside him."  I can't say that I agree.
      When I rode behind Mike, I was in no particular danger of colliding with him, nor was I apt to get lost when he took off another direction.  I rested in the safety of following him.  I didn't really want to be in his position of leading the way to such a hard place to find.  And instead of feeling agitated or condescending,  I actually had sympathy for his predicament.  I can't see where it is not a good idea to flank my man.  When I trust, God IS in front of him whether he knows it or not.
      We had a fine time, ate a great meal, and got our "package."  Manuel was glad to see us, creating dubious feelings in his mother.  I would also have been a wreck.
       He fell asleep on Mike's shoulder sitting between the two of us in that old truck and I could tell by the look on his face that he was empathetic with the little guy for all the medicines he's been put on and all the hoops he's had to jump through.  As tears burned my face, I thought to myself, "What an anniversary present, that my husband would do this."
     Mike had set the alarm for 5:30 am to help Michael fix a chainsaw for his work up the mountain.
  I never even heard it, only Manuel popping up at the foot of our bed and asking, "What are you doing?"  I thought I woke him with my snoring.
      We got on up, made some breakfast, checked out the dogs and goats, and played with the toys on the porch, which incidentally I had recently thought we had no need of.  Miranda took him to see her chickens and the piglets.  He was really overjoyed about them.  Mike took him to see the disaster relief tractor trailer.  Then, he returned him to swim in the pond after the rain cleared.
       As far as I know, Manuel hasn't had any encounters with bodies of water to amount to anything since he was 3 or 4 years old (he's 7 now) and walked straight into a pond and began to sink, his mother jumping in in her clothes to rescue him.  I think I scared the life out of him explaining what could go wrong without a life jacket, so he offered no resistance to it.  He floated on his back a lot of the time and kicked like there was no tomorrow.  I think he loved it.  Enough to get in one more time today.

       He was one tired little boy.  So as I finished up supper, missing Melody's cooking, cleaning, babysitting, caring for the kitten, making laundry detergent, and checking the well filter for salt;  Miranda gave him a bath.  She read them stories as I cleaned up.  He was completely conked out when I left to come here.
       I think it's about that time for me also at nearly 1 am.  Virgie and I are having a bout with her indigestion, or is it?  She was throwing up this way before they whisked her away to the ER last week, to discover she had another urinary tract infection.  You never know in this life.  As I sat by "beating" and rubbing on her back intermittently to give her the relief she requested, I thought even in this, touch makes us love people more.  It does ...it really does.