Waiting for Someone Special

30 Jun

I’ve been quiet on here lately and while I’d love to think its silence is on purpose, it’s more that life marches on and sometimes the weeks fly faster than those birds overhead of me, the ones I oftentimes don’t notice anymore.

Lately I’ve been forced to slow my movements, my body unable to keep up with all that’s spinning around it as it prepares for that big arrival of life.

These days, I’m simply waiting for someone special.

Someone I’ve known now for quite some time; yet struggle to put a face on him, or her. My thoughts swim of exactly who you’re going to be while at the same time you dance through the night, pushing my body to its limit, my hands to the antacid tablets time and time again. But finally for me, this wait is almost over. And I must admit it’s bittersweet.

I’ve struggled with so much this time around—guilt from not even wanting you some days, crying and sobbing over spilled milk, and the reality that I’m going to be a mom to a brand new ‘you’, sleepless nights guaranteed.

You don’t make me glow. You don’t bring out my best on most days and you’re great at getting what you want. I know I’m in for it! Yet, I’ve fought hard for you. I’ve done my best to enjoy you here in this quiet before you appear, before everyone else gets a good look at you. I’ve done my best to accept my body and the way it treats you more as a parasite, me this helpless host holding you for just a time, vomiting and fighting the place you call home the entire 9 months.

Yet months after feeling not ready, months of battling myself and God and my husband and all others within reach….

I still don’t feel ready.

I’m still not sure how I’m going to do this with four little ones all under the age of six.

I’ve read the articles. I’ve giggled at other mother’s stories and challenges, their life with kids, the way they feel defeated more times than not. The way they try to see the humor, try to put their faith and trust in God, pray, stay consistent, laugh, cry, scream and desperately lasso in their thoughts time and time again as they struggle with the images of themselves doing something harmful to their precious little ones.

There’s always the same conclusion to all the articles I’ve read, God-centered or not: being a mom is the toughest job there is, and you’re never quite ready for it.

And yet, so many sign up for it—me included. And not just once, but twice, three times, four, or more!

I will continue to struggle with all the same feelings young mom’s get. I will continue to struggle with accepting my role as something of importance, something priceless, exhilarating, high-paying, meaningful, and well worth it all the time, everyday, 24/7.

It just doesn’t work like that.

But what does work, is the fact that these little varmints Graham and I are raising day in and day out were picked special for us. And we for them. No one can do the job of raising our kids quite like Graham and I, because for now, this is where the Lord has us. These little souls depend on us to show them the Way. So, for now it’s completely okay that I’m just ‘doing the mom thing,’ because in reality, it’s SO much more than ‘just a mom thing’.

Whether we’re ready or not, we welcome you little one into our fold; we embrace the fact that it IS going to be tough. The toughest yet. But don’t worry, there will still be lots of laughter over and around you, indescribable blessings because of you, the miracle of life in you and in the story God has created in our family. And above all else…

Love….for you! We can’t wait to meet you!








A different kind of Tribute

18 Apr

He came as quite a surprise to my parents, my mother purchasing the chestnut mare with high hopes of her being the perfect fit for my older sister, which she was. My own mother’s belly was growing with me inside and it became clear—so was this mare’s.

Never having had a baby horse, my parent’s I’m sure were excited, who doesn’t think baby horses are cute? But, they had to be a bit nervous and scared. What were they to do with a foal? What was to become of this horse?

He came like fawns do, mostly legs but without the spots and he would stay as one of our own. Somehow he’d fit in. Somehow he’d work into the growing family. Little did we all know at the time, he’d end up doing just that.

While he kicked up his young heals, I grew. While he frolicked around the corral, I watched. My mother would be the first on his back having read and re-read how to do this training thing. For never having done it—they did just fine. He wouldn’t grow huge, just a small horse, but his personality and willingness to submit to those over him would become his charm.

The adventures I had on the horse we called Maverick have helped mold me into the person I am today.

Now, I realize, he’s just a horse.

However, he was my horse. My first horse. And he followed me through my life, teaching me all along the way. He was the first one to buck me off, the first to teach me that flying doesn’t have to happen way up high. He grew with me and I with him and we somehow fit, my long legs draped against his short ones.

We’d rip around our field, the 3 barrels the most fun to capture. I learned to stand on his back while he ran—a feat not many young girls could do.

That horse taught me more about responsibility and love, patience and loyalty than most people or sermons, or lectures ever have. Many of my life lessons came from that horse and I feel blessed to have had the opportunity to ride such rides with such a horse.

Of course, horses get older, just as people do, and while horses live longer than dogs, cats and fish, they still don’t live forever. Many weeks ago, on a sunny wintery day, our beloved Maverick had to be put down.

He was full of arthritis, too much for me to ride anymore. His mind wasn’t as sharp and he moved with a crick or two.

But, he was still loved. Loved even until the end.

Most people don’t keep a horse for 30 years. They outgrow them. Get sick of paying for them. Whatever the reason, it’s rare to keep a horse so long.

Our entire family felt his loss. It wouldn’t be just me who would shed tears at his departure. My mother may have started him, but he worked through many of my families hands, my pair just one set. My young niece was the most recent pupil of his and she loved that horse as I had.

We say farewell to a friend, a teacher, a loyal companion and we treasure the lessons learned, the memories made and the lives touched by one simple little horse.

Goodbye my friend.



Just a Phase?

5 Mar

Sometimes I find my teeth gritting and hands clenching at those ‘phases’ the kids enter. I hope it all passes quickly, trying to wait it out, watching and praying for some sort of miracle to pass over our house—for my child to return to normal.

Yet, there’s been this one thing both boys have been doing for quite a while now that will absolutely break my heart if and when they outgrow it.

What’s sad is I’d hate to see them outgrow this one. And what’s more troubling is they really shouldn’t outgrow it. The ‘phase’ may still linger in their adulthood, yet the extreme persistence, sensitively, obsession, will most likely slow, if not stop altogether.

You see it comes while we listen to the radio or ipod.  It came as we watched skiers race, snowboarders jump and skaters twirl on the Olympics.  They ask as we travel the aisles of the grocery store, as we sit in our church seats, and go to school each day. Basically, whenever they see or hear another human being—it’s always the same:

 “Mom, do they know God?” or “Dad, do they love God?”

They’ve questioned me on Dave Matthews, Brian Williams, Chris Tomlin—if they have seen you, or heard you, they have asked about YOU.  And instead of feeling like I’m solving some amazing math equation, or scientific problem, I’m oftentimes left with questions of my own.

When did I stop caring if everyone knew Jesus? At what age did my heart stop the sensitivity toward their eternal life? Sure, I care. But for everyone?  All souls? Every. single. one? Even the ones that rub me the wrong way?

I tell myself I’m busy trying to raise a young family. I need to focus on them, their little hearts. I’m busy serving in church. Isn’t that good enough?  Most of the time I tell myself—I’m just plain busy.

But the truth is, many people around me are on their way to eternal separation from God. No Jesus. No peace. No love. No one caring for them.

Somehow even knowing this truth, I can continue on. Like nothing is wrong. Like I have it altogether.

If only.

The Lord has commanded me to go.

And I’ve been ignoring Him. Maybe not entirely on purpose. Remember that young family I’m raising? Most of my days are spent within the walls of my home knee deep in diapers, laundry, morning sickness, homework, animal chores and dirt.  I physically can’t always go.

Still, each day I do get out.  I drive through my small town on my way to school.  I stop at the market, the library, the local businesses carrying out my own.

And I know with my whole heart it’s here I’m suppose to go.

It’s here I’m suppose to smile and wave as I pass the school flag lady as she stands in the bitter cold, the STOP sign huge in her hands.

It’s here I’m suppose to pause and say hello to that teenager lighting up outside Town Hall. I don’t know him or the chains draped from his pants, but I know I’m suppose to.

It’s here I’m suppose to actually talk to the cashiers in our local gas station, learn their names, remember them and not just because they have a name tag clipped to their shirt.

I don’t want to be that mom tucked nicely in her mini-van, a frown on my face as I dart here then there, my children wearing the same expression as my own.  I don’t want to be so consumed in my own world I forget those around me. And I don’t mean ‘forget those hurting, or lost, or confused, or angry, or happy around me’—No. I simply don’t want to forget.

I want that heart that wonders constantly about their eternal lives. Every heart I pass I want to ask the question:

‘Do they know God? Do they love Him?’


Fallon is not picky about how she gets her ‘Ear-Time’




IMG_0961Left pointer finger in mouth….right hand holding someone’s…anyone’s ear.

Secrets from Stumps

23 Jan

You will find this to be an abnormal blog post from me. It’s one I actually had to dig deep on, racking my brain and pondering over for days.  Still, I hope you enjoy as I was challenged to do this and couldn’t possibility resist the call.

I am oftentimes intrigued with how families do things. What secrets do they hold?  What tips are they using to make things run a bit smoother in their homes? With all these kids rumbling about, I felt I had nothing to offer, nothing to give in this department. I feel most days I’m just surviving, throwing animal crackers at them in hopes of quenching their hunger and somehow their thirst all at once.

A mom can dream, right?

As I got thinking on our simple little lives up here in these cold woody mountains, my brain had to go way outside the box of recipe tricks, cleaning tips and childhood crafts. Honestly, the reason I had to venture outside that box is because I carry none of those ‘tricks’ anyway.

Maybe you can take just one of mine though and put it to your own use…maybe.


::  Traveling anywhere for us is a BIG deal. Church. Wal-mart.  It all causes quite a stir, the kids loving any sort of adventure. My husband’s family is from Indiana, a stout 800 miles from my upper New York roots.  We make the journey about once a year and have done this for years.  I am prepared now. A veteran of sorts as I pack and arrange and sort through the things to go and the things to stay. As the kids have come along I don’t leave home without this baby.


I recommend a screw lid for a secure hold and to fill the container 1/3 of the way with water to squelch smells and such. Labeling the container helps with any confusion of homemade lemonade brought on the trip and we carry only one simple rule: no #2 in the port-a-potty—for that we will make a stop.

In extreme emergencies such as traffic jams or Graham’s lead foot, I have even succumbed and found myself balancing in the back of the minivan praying I’m not scarring my children for life.

Think what you will, but it has saved our lives many times.

::  The undiagnosed ezecyma, the heavy static electricity in the house, the raised hair from the children passing by, were all tell-tale signs I had to do something about our extremely dry house during the winter months—it all can last a while here.

We invested in one of these from the Home Depot and it’s been one of the best things we’ve done.  No more dry skin, no more static electricity and when I see the raised hair I know it’s simply time to fill the tank once more.  Everyone is happy again, including my houseplants!

::  I received this as a gift for the boys and it’s been a great read for them.  I highly recommend it if you have children that love those Bible stories, but want more action mixed in with it all. My boys love the pictures. Also, we LOVE this guy and read lots of his poems. We do lots of giggling and snorting and talking about how ingenious the workings of his mind are.

::  We are horse people. And part of having horses is feeding them, watering them, trimming their hooves, the whole nine yards.  With living in the extreme cold it can be a hassle to keep waters unfrozen and working the way they should.  It also costs extra to heat their water as most systems use electricity.  We bit the bullet and bought one of these quite a few years ago and have never regretted it.  When properly installed this thing never freezes and uses no power to work.  Each time the horses get a drink, it’s fresh and clean and cold—just how they like it. Even with temps topping out in the -20’s, this thing works like a charm.

::  We have chickens.  During the summer we raise meat chickens and all year we have laying hens.  The meat chickens, while extra work have proved to be well worth it for us.  I love how they taste and there’s just something about growing something yourself that just feels better.  I get anywhere from 8-11 eggs a day and while I realize most can’t have chickens or just plain don’t want them it’s worth knowing how good their eggs and meat truly taste. Graham has mastered the art of slaughtering and plucking and with my smaller hands I have become quite fast at gutting and cleaning.  We make a great team.

::  I give these to my dogs instead of the nylabones.  Nylabones have been shown to crack and chip teeth, while these are softer and easier to chew, yet still take them awhile to work through. By awhile I mean maybe 10 minutes. So if you have a real chewer, this probably won’t work for your dog. I give them more as treats.

::  Graham uses this batman gear every. single. day.  IMG_0891

He feels naked without each piece.  About once a year he breaks his Leatherman using it on something he probably shouldn’t be. However, the company graciously replaces it every time. That is a pack of gum you’re seeing there. He’s addicted.

:: When I’m not pregnant I use this work out video. I usually want to die, but something keeps me going. I think it’s Jillian’s encouragement to me that I can do it!  I will be joining her once again sometime this summer after baby #4 has arrived.

::  We turn our TV off.  That’s right.  We usually do it during the summer months, but I have it off now because I was getting sick of it.  It’s actually very refreshing.  And real.  And just better for our family at times.  I’ll turn it back on eventually. The Winter Olympics being the biggest pull on my interests as of late.  But the news, the reality shows, the song shows, the game shows, even those ‘good’ shows are no match for time I need with Graham or more importantly, the Lord. The kid shows are mostly ridiculous and I was finding they were picking up ‘bad’ habits from the characters.  The whole TV watching thing can be so numbing.  For awhile, it’s nice to get a break.

::  Lastly, when I really want to unwind, relax or just unplug. I go here.


Ok that’s a lie. I usually make a milkshake and talk with Graham or read or work on this eternal blog post, or most recently, go to bed by 9pm.

Hope you enjoyed some secrets from the Stumps.

Mommy’s normal

13 Jan

I remember learning I was one of those 3-4% of women when I watched Princess Katherine stand outside the hospital, flowers in hand, Prince by her side—that extreme morning sickness unable to be hidden any longer.

I realized that while most women feel sick for those first weeks, most overcome it, moving into that glow of motherhood, a smile upon their face, life moving forward as if nothing were happening to them.

By the way, this post is meant to make you smile, laugh even.  I am not seeking sympathy nor am I trying to make it seem like I have it SO hard.  For the benefit of my own sanity, it’s just better to turn something not always fun, into something funny.

I had to do it when Graham was in the ICU, laugh and poke fun at myself and him because the stress of the situation was oftentimes overwhelming. Sure, there were tears and sad times, but if there were ONLY tears and sad times I knew I’d be lying right next to him in an ICU bed diagnosed with a case of the ‘crazies.’

I feel a little crazy as of late because for now my body has been taken over by this precious ‘parasite’ and while it continues to do its job and grow this baby, my brain is not happy about it.  Something inside my head wants to rid itself of its dwelling, as if it’s not sure what this thing is and what it’s doing here.

It’s number four for me so you’d think I’d be prepared and able to handle the changes.


This time around there are many others in the house witnessing the shenanigans. The older boys run for their lives when I awake in the morning.  If I didn’t know any better I’d think it was my bed head, or perhaps my choice of clothing that makes them run.

But no. It’s what’s coming out my mouth that makes them vanish.  They peer at me sometimes, at first scared, but these days in complete annoyance.

“Mom, just eat something.”

“Mom, just stop.”

If only it were that easy.

Often they yell for their father, who at the beginning of every pregnancy starts out so tender and sweet during my dismay, rubbing my back, bringing me water, a tissue.

But now, he runs too.

He takes the kids and away they go. Or sometimes, they continue on with whatever it is they’re doing—building legos, eating breakfast. It’s as if nothing were happening to me. As if I didn’t feel like my insides were going to become my outsides. I know there’s nothing anyone in the house can do for me. So, we’ve all accepted it as normal.

Mommy’s normal.

Once when I was pregnant with my eldest, I too had to go to the hospital. It got so I couldn’t even keep my swallows down. Somehow though, I don’t think I was treated quite like the Princess.  I lay on a bed in the ER hall, the IV dripping life back into me, Graham overtired and exhausted from it all.

When it was all over I don’t remember standing for the cameras looking washed out, yet somehow still cute.  There were no flowers, no get-well wishes. I simply limped home with my stainless steel bowl used for exactly what you’re thinking and readied myself for more of the same.

Thankfully, I DID have a Prince who drove me home!

Fallon, my youngest and only girl, is too little to understand any of what’s going on here.  She climbs over me while I’m slumped over and enjoys copying mommy’s silliness by leaning over the toilet herself.  Her sound effects come included.

In the beginning if someone would have told me to stand on my head while eating a lemon—that that would do the trick, I’d have done it.  So, after the home remedies, advice, counsel and yes, finally medication, I’ve learned nothing works for me.

But I’ve still learned some amazing things through it all:

I’ve learned what to eat so when it comes back for a second visit—it won’t taste so bad.  Cheerios are my best friend.  I like the Honey Nut ones the best.

I’ve learned to line my purse with nuts, mints and other ‘snacks’ in case of emergencies.  My glove compartment is stuffed with Wal-mart bags to help aid my cause.  You may wonder about the common holes found in these bags, but a quick knot in the bottom holds anything entering perfectly.

When I do venture out to church or to pick up the eldest from school I am usually fighting the feeling. The watery mouth is right there and my biggest fear is vomiting all over you when you’re talking to me.  That strained look in my eye?  That’s me fighting hard to focus on anything but what’s happening inside.

Vomiting outside in the horse corral would seem convenient, even fitting.  Yet I often panic when my dogs show up to help with ‘clean up’.  What’s that verse about the dog returning to its own vomit?

I’m sure you’re not smiling anymore.  Now you’re just grossed out.

Whether you think this funny or not. The truth remains.  A woman’s body is an amazing thing. I remain blessed and fortunate to experience life inside of me when so many can’t.

Someone once told me a sick pregnancy is a well-established pregnancy. Perhaps they were just trying to make me feel better. Either way, it helps a bit knowing this life is growing and taking root. As it was designed to.

These next months will feel long, the winter dragging and enduring just as my sickness.

Yet, spring is coming!

I’ll still somehow gain 40 pounds, add a few extra stretch marks to the library and probably end up with some form of acid erosion on my throat. But, this gift at the end? This bit of Graham and bit of me woven together into his or her own person is mind blowing for me to think on.

It makes everything this mom is going through now, completely worth it.

I’m not really into taking ‘selfie’ pictures of myself. Especially pregnant. But, if I were a horse I’ll look similar to this come mid July.


P.S. Thanks for all the sharing of the kindle version of ‘The Dark Stretch’! The last time I checked it had been downloaded 1,450 times!  WOW!!!


My Anvil Heart {and the free ebook of The Dark Stretch}

6 Jan


My heart has been heavy lately—heavy like that anvil Graham once pounded on to secure rivets, buckles. I couldn’t dream of moving that hunk of solid steel by myself, it’d throw my whole body out.

Still, I find it much like my heart, unmoving and stuck, pounded upon, forging and shaping something or other.

And it’s just so heavy, weighted down for those I don’t even know.

My holidays so far have been happy, joyous—filled with memories and traditions I’ve been doing since I was a little girl.  The smells, the sights, the music, all magical and special in their own way, bringing me back to times next to my mother cutting out cookies, decorating the tree, skating the pond.

Yet for some, those same songs that bring tears of happiness to my eyes bring tears of pain to others.

The holidays aren’t always a joyous time.

And while they’re over now, the tree down in our house, the stockings packed away. The memories remain.  The good with the bad. The painful right next to the exciting ones wrapped like the lights we hang from our balcony.

You see, life has to go on for that pregnant wife who lost her husband two days before Christmas. I stand in awe of her faith, her submission to God’s will admirable. But, it’s still hard, her best friend gone, her world never the same. So, I ache for her. Crying for her as if she were my own sister. What’s more bizarre is somehow I am jealous, yet in the same breath would never want to walk her shoes.

In my own community there are people going through REALLY hard times. Their Christmas’s will forever be marked with the memory of hospital stays and unknown futures. I feel their heartbreak as their story travels a similar path as my own with Graham. It’s one I would never wish on anyone.

All this heaviness I feel with the tears right there at the surface make my own days hard to bear as I hug the toilet bowl and crouch over the sink as new life once again takes root deep within me.

Yes, we’re going to make it. Maybe we’ll be labeled as one of those families, but we’re going to be okay. Happy even.

Right now I am barely keeping my head above the waters, this post straining what little energy I have left. But believe it or not, the kids are taken care of. Dinners are somehow made. Baths are given occasionally. Laundry gets cleaned and folded eventually. And the dishes find their way into the dishwasher sooner or later.

The Lord is our keeper here. And while my sanity is oftentimes questioned, my husband a saint—the Lord is right in this crazy mix with me. Somehow through these four tight walls, and the endless sickness, I am continuing to experience God.

Perhaps I am just an anvil.

But maybe. Just maybe I can be a small encouragement to others during their heavy anvil-laden days.  Maybe the Lord wants to use my history, my story to help better theirs.

Being His anvil changes everything. So, I’ll help how I can, taking the poundings of life, the relentless aches for another’s hurt. I’ll share all He’s done for me by giving what I can.

For now that’s our story, written in such a way that only He can claim the glory.

On January 8th & 9th (Wednesday and Thursday of THIS week)you will be able to download ‘The Dark Stretch’ for free on your kindle device or kindle app. Please spread the word as this is only for a limited time and I truly want those who need it most to get it.

I’m finding especially through the heaviness, He’s there. And I want you to experience that too.

Happy downloading! (Remember, this doesn’t start until the 8th. This will give you time to talk, spread and tell others)

Back to Basics

18 Nov

Tiny little books accompany my eldest son most school nights.  The reading homework made of thin paper holds the key to what he needs to read, comprehend, learn.

I sit with him and we sound out those simple words like ‘hit’, ‘bit’, ‘it’, ‘the’ and countless others. I was nervous to begin this whole reading journey with Wyatt.  I like the kids to just start doing what they’re suppose to and my patience was sure to run thin when a word like ‘sit’, comes out as ‘house’—not even close dude, not even close.

And yet as I sit and watch him, help him make those sounds, his brain working hard to put the words together, I find my heart in the same place as his growing mind.

Just as those silly little books begin the basics for my son in what he will have for the rest of his life, I too must get back to the basics of what I thought I had learned so long ago.

And I don’t mean the ‘S’ makes a ‘sssss’ sound.

It’s more those simple verses of……’but the greatest of these is love.’

‘Forgive one another, just as I have forgiven you.’

‘Pray unceasingly’

‘Give thanks’

‘Rejoice always’

‘I am the Way, the Truth and the Life’ and MANY others.

While I can read these words, my lips easily flowing their sounds, it’s my heart that stumbles to sound out their proper meaning. I stutter, mumble and halt in my stubbornness to submit to what the Lord is truly asking of me.  I love to complicate things, overanalyzing the simplest of things in my life.  I’m left with my finger pointing to words on a page that I refuse to obey.

I clearly remember Graham’s days in a coma, just laying there, doing absolutely nothing for himself.  One day he opened his eyes and in that moment, it was enough. And I was satisfied.

But quickly, I wanted more.  I wanted him to focus those eyes. Lift a finger. Move an arm. A leg.

The day he sat up on his own or made the first sounds out of his mouth in weeks I felt overjoyed and truly thankful. But it never lasted.  All I wanted was that guy back—the one that I had married those years ago.

I suppose I’m a slow learner because I’m just beginning to grasp some of the meaning for Graham’s injuries.  It was never for him—although he continues to deal and learn. It was never for our children—although I know one day they will understand it all. It was never even for all those blessed or encouraged—although I’m sure they remain blessed by our story.

No. It’s been my pride. My attitude. My heart. My life, that’s needed the most adjusting.

And nothing could’ve done it better for me than a brain injury.

It should be so basic, like the ABC’s of the alphabet, those vowels sounds—short and long. But like learning anything, it takes time. Practice. Sometimes messing up, a lot before it truly sticks.

I know at times I’ll continue to complicate things. Think too much about what others did to me or didn’t do. Said or didn’t say. Compare my marriage, my kids, my husband, my spiritual life, my physical life, all of it.  And I’ll struggle with wanting more of things—whether good and bad for me.

I’m thankful I can boast in Christ alone, the One who’s worthy. The One who brings me back to basics, who saves me everyday, loves me, forgives me and is proud to call me His daughter.


Some humor after all that?

I was gone the other day for a few hours and Graham texted me to tell me he had snapped his fingers on his left hand for the first time since his accident. He was really excited about this and couldn’t wait to show me when I got home.  The poor guy couldn’t perform for an audience and hasn’t been able to snap them since. It’s only a finger snap, we realize that, but Graham was encouraged and excited the Lord gave him that small little ‘snap.’  To Graham it let him know the Lord’s still very much here with us, through the ups, downs and all arounds of a brain injury.  I catch him now walking around the house trying to snap his fingers.


I entered my book in the USA book contest many months ago. It was something I thought would be fun to do but never thought anything would come of it.  I’m excited to tell you that it has become a finalist in The 2013 Christian Inspirational category. I want to celebrate by giving a free copy of the book away. To enter the contest simply follow my blog here


like my author facebook page here

If you have already liked both, you will automatically be entered. Make sure you have joined both to enter!

Winner will be announced December 15th

finalist sticker

Her own Species

25 Oct

It was over two years ago now that I found out I’d have Fallon. I’ll never forget how my heart soared with excitement.

A girl. My first girl.

After two boys it’d be grand, simple—this whole girl thing. I even got excited about brushing the long locks she’d eventually grow for me. I would raise her how I was raised, none of that prissy stuff or high-pitched screams. A simple life. A simple girl.

She came to us and I couldn’t wait to see how she’d be different from those boys I was so accustomed to. I felt blessed seeing I got those rough and tumble men first, their ways often harder and more difficult to rear—at least that’s what I’d been told. This girl would be a walk in the park. Even better than that—a slow and enjoyable stroll!  She was going to simply lay and bask in my motherly greatness. I couldn’t wait.

I should’ve known.

What we have growing in this house is definitely of the female gender but many days I am left guessing her species, her make, her model.

She climbs like a monkey, prances like a filly. She’s curious as a puppy, loud like the slapping of a beaver’s tail on water.

She prowls like a lion and roars just the same. She’s fast, many times outsmarting and outrunning me, kicking her heels up as if to mock me. Her stubbornness and strong will match that of any donkey or mule and I am often left pulling an imaginary lead line, sweaty and depleted of my own strength. Her pain tolerance outlasts that of my pit bull and the fearless personality has even her older brother’s amazed while Graham and I fall on our knees praying for her safety.

Beady eyes search like a hawk looking for the smallest object to touch, grab, eat, destroy. She may be as small as a cat, but she demands attention, respect and admiration for all she contributes to this home.

Which is actually quite a lot.

She has taught me more than the boys ever have about patience and love and being a good mom. Most days I am barely hanging on—to her, to life, to this home. But I am still hanging and while I hang I am learning what truly matters in life.

It’s not that I got all the crumbs swept up from the night before. Or the beds made, or laundry done or the bathrooms cleaned. I must admit I am guilty at times of letting all that become what makes me a good mom, a good wife.

In my heart I know the biggest and most important job I have in Fallon’s life right now is to keep her safe, alive, keep her from killing herself. Somehow I feel if I write this down it will penetrate deeper, take hold.

So while I chase her, instruct her, discipline her, love her; I know I just have to keep a good perspective. This is such a short season—these young one’s at home, needy and growing. Most importantly, the Lord IS here with me through my inadequacies, my fear, my faint and weary heart.

When those hawk eyes glare back at me ready to pierce, or her hooves kick in rebellion, her voice roaring her warnings, I just have to ask Him to show up—and He does!

Every time.

IMG_0714On this particular day she fell 3 times, each time hitting the same place on her head.



IMG_0755Rare footage of Fallon sleeping….in these moments of stillness I just stare and pray and even tear up thinking about her life, her heart and how God must have a special plan for this one.

The Search for Poo

3 Oct IMG_0694

If anyone should be grateful—it’s me.

If anyone should know better or have a change of heart, a deeper appreciation for ones’ spouse—it’s me.

Honestly, most days I do.  I know how it could’ve turned out for us, should’ve turned out. And I truly am thankful for that guy…thankful to our Lord for giving him back to us for a time, however long that is.

Sometimes I wonder what he really thinks about still being here. With the kids. With me. Work and responsibility knocking at every corner like our kids knock on the walls, doors. He has to wonder what’d it be like to be in Heaven some days.

He works so hard for us.  Working all day, only to come home and work some more. He plays with the kids, faithfully reads the Bible and tells them stories at night.  He prays with all of us and while he’s not perfect, he’s our leader. We all look to him to guide and direct, even when it’s hard for him, his memory loose and unpredictable, his body slower and unbalanced.

He came to me a few days ago claiming it was time for us to have our septic emptied, he put it in himself when we built the house. He dug the hole, put the leech field in (are you impressed I know that term?) and covered it all back up.  He even wrote the dimensions of where to find it again one day on the side of the house.

Smart man.

I smiled and nodded in agreement—we should get it emptied.

He claimed it would be no big deal. An easy find.

That is until he realized the numbers he’d so painstakingly wrote on the side of the house had become covered over with siding. He’d never find those numbers now.

I think I sighed and walked away, all 3 kids in tow.

He did locate some number—in his brain: 30×30, 40×30 or 50×40. I watched him meander around the yard with a tape measure, yanking, pulling and twisting at the annoyance those things can create.

With a nod of his head he drove a stake in the ground—much like someone who is stabbing in the dark for something, anything, and walked away for the tractor. It was going to be a long night.

The kids were enthralled as daddy worked the backhoe, we watched from the bathroom window. Deeper and deeper he went, my dad finally showing up to investigate, or more likely to make sure Graham didn’t break the tractor (Graham’s kind of a rookie with the backhoe).

The night ended with an incredibly deep hole, deeper than anyone in their right mind would put a septic and lots of ‘virgin’ soil.

Vir·gin (noun) Soil (noun)- soil/dirt/sand that has not been displaced or moved by machine, shovel or any human hand.


I learned a new term that night and while we laid in bed I asked:

“What are you going to do now?”

He reassured me we’d find it. We had to. Even if it meant digging up the entire lawn.

My thoughts drifted to our lawn, holes everywhere and me trying to keep the kids out of them. I thought too of the possibility of us not finding it. Or hitting the water line and causing more problems.

The water line would be a bummer seeing we get our water from a spring. No city water here, no well.  Just pure spring water.

One summer when I was still living at home our water just up and dried up (or so we thought). I spent that summer bathing and shaving my legs in the river down below. We finally learned a pipe had burst and simply needed repair—the pond that began forming gave it away.

I reeled my thoughts in of bathing the kids in that water, screaming at the cold, scared of what lies under the murky mud.

Graham and my dad had to find that septic!!

The second night led to a kind of treasure hunt. A treasure hunt for poo—that’s what we told the kids anyway.

Just as dusk wrapped her cloak around our home, sinking hearts ready to fall at the thought of another night of digging without anything to show, my dad scraped right over top the lid.

They had found it!  We were saved!  The treasure hunt for poo had been solved and Graham and I were friends again:)


I love that guy! I AM thankful for him and I am very aware of how my life could/would look without him here with us.

So, here’s to you Graham, for keeping me on my toes, for forgetting numbers and dimensions and all sorts of things day in and day out. I love you even more with this brain injury because it keeps it real for me, a reminder everyday of all I got back!

Tried to do the ‘ol kid shot the other day…here we go!

Attempt #1


Attempt #2


Attempt #3…not bad!


My dear friend Karrie Sachleben was in town for a few days and we got to go for a ride (I mention her in my book…we’ve had many adventures on horseback…I may just end up writing another book about them all:)


Also, the in-laws Mimi and Papaw Stump and Uncle Tommy came for a visit…lots of great memories with them as well….I am amazed every time they come how the kids take to them!



A Season worth Picking

6 Sep

There’s this season here, one so short it’s often missed in the start up of school or glances upward to the trees in anticipation of changing colors. The corn has long been picked, the beans blanched and freezer bound, ready for winter eating.  But this season is just making its debut. This fruit is just getting underway.

And I don’t mean apples.

No. This one calls to the more adventurous picker. The one willing to explore the woods, the meadows, the hills. A type of ‘hidden treasure’, it calls to the one willing to sacrifice body for berry.

The blackberry.


The blackberry grows well up here, but there are cons, risks and perils that await anyone readying to pick the delicious kernel. It’s reminds me of life on so many levels and I’ve learned much from the blackberry these past weeks as I’ve picked and plucked alongside my mom and dogs.

Since the moment sin entered the world we as humans have been doing everything in our power to prevent ‘nature’ from hurting, killing us. We make shelters, homes, barns to protect. We carry weapons, fire, bug spray. We cover ourselves in boots, clothes, and protective gear. We’ve thought of just about everything we can to keep ourselves safe.

We say the scriptures in our minds; fear not I AM with you.

Even with all that, we get a little scared. We get a littler nervous about all the possibilities life can throw at us. The what-ifs, the maybes. Woods at dusk can be a bit creepy, no matter how old we get.


On my journey to the blackberry trails, I have to make sure I have several things before I venture out. A partner in the form of my mom. My cell phone. A bucket for picking. Bug spray. My dogs. A 4-wheeler. Long pants. Long-sleeved shirt. And good boots.

Why so much?

Well, for one thing there ARE bears here.  I’ve seen them and I know for a fact they LOVE blackberries. Have you ever seen their droppings this time of year? It’s full of seeds—blackberry seeds! Just the possibility of their presence as I’m leaning over a bank for that purple ripeness is enough to make me shiver. It’s true—they mostly run. They probably hear the 4-wheeler and me miles away and leave, but you hear stories, and your mind wanders and before you know it you’re going crazy inside your head. You just can never know these things.

I’d like to think my dogs would rescue me from their jaws, fighting and attacking the creature to save me, like Old Yellar, Lassie. But, who really knows that for sure?

Truly, the bears aren’t even half the fear.

The blackberry bush itself is something straight out of my life. There’s a story weaving off every branch, every thorn, every berry, and when I look closely I get more fearful of that than anything else.

In essence, the blackberry bush IS my life.

I wear the pants to protect my legs from scratches, but still the branches cling so tight, digging right through the material. It’s a sting so piercing you sometimes yell in pain. I got one right across my face, the thorns staying there like an unwelcome guest, the redness sore, irritating. They’re sneaky—these bushes, waiting for just the right moment to wrap around your arm, the top of your head, your legs—so persistent in their attack.

Kind of like me with life—relentless, annoying, stinging words and/or actions seeping out of my thorny flesh, seeping through my mind.

Thank goodness for that flower amidst all those thorns! The one that pops out in the springtime, the sun warming, cultivating, sweet-talking it into something more. Something worth picking and actually eating.  All because of the sun. Or should I say Son? You get the idea.

These bushes wouldn’t exist without the sun. Just a few short years ago the bushes I pick from weren’t even here. Just pine tree after pine tree. Only by logging the land, gutting it and taking away its natural beauty would it allow the sun entrance to the forest floor—the blackberry bush taking root, finally growing as it was designed. A whole new beauty produced.

And so, I pick the fruit and pray my own life into something like this, something with not just thorns, but one full with luscious beauty. Able to be picked and used and enjoyed.

I want to be picked and enjoyed because this ‘season of picking’ is so short. For a blackberry it’s just about 2 weeks of steady picking. Maybe 3 if you’re lucky.

For me, well, that’s still to be determined. I’m still here. Still full of thorns and parked on a bank where bears run wild—yet the Son pours His light on me everyday, weighing my branches down with the ripeness of His love, His word, His blessing.

Now that’s something worth growing for.



For the record I got 28 jars of jelly this season. We’ll enjoy this well into our long winter months!


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