corn stalks and living well.

Corn stalks are a beautiful thing.  They mean that the bales of hay in our hay shed can stay a little longer than planned.  They mean a winter that isn't so long.  And although they aren't the answer to everything, thankfully, they offer bits of goodness to a season that seems to drain the life out of every little bit of energy we have.

Each season with ranching brings different stresses, different beauties, different glimpses of God.  Laura Ingalls Wilder wasn't joking when she titled one of her books {the long winter}.  You see, there doesn't have to be snow on the ground for it to be frozen and hard.  The ice doesn't have to come down in sheets for things to be slippery.  The temperatures can be mild and the sun can still shine & yet things are still tiring.  Each day is long and full, and probably most importantly - character building.

This winter was unusually mild.  The weather patterns all around the world have been different.  There is not one thing that stays the same or is under our control.  Funny how we think that we can play {God} sometimes.  We take chances, make choices, and do our best to give our cow herd the best possible life, and yet there is still so much that is a gamble.

We put up hot wire, and take it down.  We pray for any kind of moisture and then cuss the mud.  There's not one thing that is predictable. Day in and day out we just live. We do what we know best to do and trust God with the rest.  But trusting God isn't always easy.  It's easy to say, but doing it is a whole different ball game.

It's hard to give life everything you've got and know that really, even though it feels like we're the ones running the show, we're not.  We may have a handle on things one moment, but lose complete power the next.  We create things, we make decisions, and we walk through fields whispering words of thanks and yet we're struggling at the same time. Struggling with the words that we know should comfort.  Struggling with the words that we know should define us.

Words that shout thanks.

Thanks in the fear.
Thanks in the drought.
Thanks in the flood.
Thanks in the hurt.
Thanks in the gift.
Thanks in the meal.
Thanks in the success.
Thanks in the race won.
Thanks in the defeat.
Thanks in each turn of the wheel and each stalk of corn.

This day in January of 2013 was cold, crisp, and perfect.  Many hands meant light work.  Each step, each click, each turn, each pole, and each bump meant that God had given us another day to live, to breathe, and to trust that the choices we were making were right.  We laughed a lot, we walked for miles, and we worked hard at living well.

Living ordinary as extraordinary.
Working hard not for praise, but working hard because we can.
Living seasons - and seeing them as gifts & as a time to grow.

That's living well.  And we're doing it.

don't feel sorry for us.

A couple of days ago I was sharing some pictures with my students.  They were pictures of my life.  Images that held the view, the people I care most about, cows, fields, my home, and even the water trough.  We were working on a lesson about words with pizzazz when we a story.  The kids sat staring at the large screen in my room with looks of awe, helping me think of words that brought the pictures to life, but after about the 4th or 5th picture, one boy said, "I feel sorry for your kids Mrs. Murdock."

Huh?  "Well, why on earth would you feel sorry for them Riley?"

"They don't have a playground, there are no friends to play with, and they don't have video games."

"There's nothing to do."

"Don't they get bored?"

 "I would."

It got quiet in the room.  The other kids looked at me, and then at him.  I don't think they knew how to feel either, but none of them were brave enough to say anything out loud.

I didn't know what to say.  How could anyone look at the pictures of my home, the view and everything in between without seeing that it has almost "everything" a person would need in life?  I just smiled and continued clicking through about 4 more pictures and then one little girl said all that needed to be said.

"I think they have playground bigger than anything I've ever seen."  "Do they know how good it is?"  I mean they get all of this ... and they get to live with you."

The entire class erupted in a song of clapping and cheers. It was priceless.

I laughed out-loud thinking about the three little words: {do they know?}

I think they do.

I hope they do.

I pray they always will.

Their playground isn't clean or fenced in or even surrounded with lush green grass.  Their life is full of  weeds and wire, and a whole lot of wonderful people.  What more do they need?

The sun bounces and reflects more goodness than average into their world - and from their world too.  And their "playground" is never in the same place for very long. Sometimes it's under the apple tree, and other times it's next to the corral their dad is fixing.  It's even been in the inside of a sale barn on bull sale day.  They've learned to create the "magic" wherever they go.  That's better than any well built structure or see saw found in a perfect backyard or neighborhood park.

I don't think I'll ever forget that day.  It was a reminder for me from the point of view of another 8 year old boy to not feel sorry for the lack of playground equipment or people surrounding my house.  Ever.  There are times when I wish for neighborhoods.  For friendships in the park, and for basketball games at the hoop at the end of the block.  But reality for us doesn't include those things.  And I think we're meant to have something different than average.

Once again, I'm shown through images of my own life that those that have "less" in the eyes of the world really have "more."  These pictures of my boys during the winter of 2013 are living proof.  Living proof that joy can be created from the dirt, and that happiness is reflected from that which seems to be nothing more than a pile of wood and a spool of wire.

standing tall.

Dear boys,

You're going to be tall.  There's no doubt about it.

Enjoy it.

It sets you apart.

It gives you an advantage.

And it's really good when you've taken a liking to basketball.

This court will be your home for a lot of years - embrace it & stand tall!  You're meant to be more than ordinary ~

Just remember to laugh and smile too - that makes your height advantage even better!

Love,

Your mom {who is still taller than you for a while}

hungry.

I like to eat.  I don't know many people that don't.  In fact, eating is one of my favorite things to do with the people in my world.  {not sure if this is good or bad}.
Bread is one of my favorites - especially this new recipe my mom showed me via my cousin Brooke.  Delicious & perfect doesn't describe it well enough.
I also like pasta, all sorts of vegetables, oranges, apples with peanut butter, tacos from the taco wagon, Lester's Fries from Hamley's, pastries, string cheese, applesauce, and chinese take-out.  I'm sure I'm forgetting something, but you get the picture.  My mouth is watering just thinking about it.

Here's the thing.  Sometimes I'm not hungry for the right things ... and when I'm hungry, I usually don't wait, I just eat. This week {April 2013} I read an interesting post from Shauna Niequist.  It was about {the table}.  And as soon as I read it, something changed in my thoughts and feelings about food & about being hungry.

Our life is very unpredictable.  Very seldom can I tell you what time we're going to eat, or who might be there to join us. My friend Darcy has this lifestyle down to a science, and to be completely honest, it's not for the faint at heart at all.  I learn from her daily. You see, cows don't call you before they go into labor.  Horses don't remind you that a gate was open until you see them running down the road. Water troughs don't run dry at the same time every day.  And tractors don't always start on the first try.  As beautiful as this life is, it is not a life that's ever on schedule.

Believe me, I've drooled over the thought of eating dinner at 6:30 every night, with a set number of plates on the table, and an easy clean-up routine afterward.  But the reality is, dinner is at dark and at least once a week, it includes more people than I planned on. {I'm praising God right now that my shelves are filled with lots of canned goods and that I have two tables.}

Here's the thing that happened as I read about the importance of meal time in the post... I realized that I need to be starving for the opportunity to share my life, my home, my food, and my tables with others.  Not just hungry, but starving.  Not worrying about the piles of paper on the side bar, not caring if the table cloth is stained or if the chairs match, and not fretting over what is being served.  Just opening my door, kicking the mucky boots out of the way, and saying {welcome}!!

This view is worth sharing.  It is.  And the people that need to share it with us most don't care what time we eat. They want to laugh about the stories we've lived together, and the ones that are yet to come.  People want our time more than anything.  They want to be in our life - not just through the computer, but in real life.

The night before I read this, our tables had been filled.  There was laughter, there were stories, there was delicious food, and there was a picture passed around from 5 years earlier - all of us {minus Josie} looking happy, blessed, and a little younger.  We had just shared a meal together and somehow managed to take a picture with a tripod or something and it was the perfect reminder of what life is supposed to be.  Shared.

We are loved.  Our friends have made meals for us this past week - just because they wanted to make our load lighter.  I get teary just thinking about how loved we are. Ian is on the mend, and my parents have been here with us too.  Our table has been filled every night.  Filled with food, with love, with stories & laughter, and with a chance to stop the busyness. That's what the table was created for - to gather us together.

Shauna wrote it so very well -

The table is the place where the doing stops, the trying stops, the masks are removed, and we allow ourselves to be nourished, like children. We allow someone else to meet our need. In a world that prides people on not having needs, on going longer and faster, on going without, on powering through, the table is a place of safety and rest and humanity, where we are allowed to be as fragile as we feel. If the home is a body, the table is the heart, the beating center, the sustainer of life and health. Come to the table.

Cows don't eat alone.  They eat together.  Their kids run and play and they eat.  They probably swap birthing stories, memories from previous winters, and even mishaps they've watched us have.  I bet they laugh in their own kind of way, and if they could pass a picture around the table, it would be a picture like this.  A picture of them, all together, enjoying a life well lived with a view that's worth sharing.  I want a table like theirs.

I'm hungry for more than a set meal time and hot food.  I want to share my life with others - despite the busyness.  I want stories to be told and memories to be gathered. In fact, I'm tempted to set my table with a stack of extra plates - just because I never know who's going to show up ... and I never know who God wants at the table, but I do know that our table is supposed to be shared.  This week was living proof of that!

Who wants to come for dinner?  You're invited - and all I can promise is that you'll leave full.  Full of just what you needed because God's good like that.