things about a Sunday.

I'm a counter.

I count cows going through a gate, contrails in the clear blue sky, phone poles in the fog, minutes until cookies are out of the oven, hours in a day ... you get the picture.

I'm also a counter of good things, hard things, real-life things, and after reading from the heart of Ann Voskamp, I have counted thousands of these small, but meaningful moments in time as gifts.

It's how I've survived some of the longest seasons of my life and how I plan on continuing to push forward as another calving season has just begun.

Some might say it's silly.  Others may think it's too much work.  I say it's worth your life if you think your life is worthwhile.  And I've never known a life to not be of worth.  Never.

It's January - the start of new for many, but more importantly, the chance to see those things in your life that might otherwise be missed as gifts.

It's not a fad.  It's not just what the "cool" kids do.  It's life saving, mind altering, heart pounding, tears flowing, God whispering - I'm here. 

1.5.14

Something you're reading, making, seeing.

There is this beautiful thing about January, which is also the hardest thing too.  Funny how hard can be beautiful.  I think God intended it to be seen that way as a source of hope.  Hope in something other than ourselves to give a sense of peace about what's to come.

I'm not very good at "reading" heifers that are ready to calve.  Not very good at all. But Sunday was different. I watched her walk away from the group up to the other side of the small pasture right below our house - also known as Heiferland, but not to be confused with Disneyland. Watching a cow calve is like reading a book.  Each step is a new chapter, each push is a new page, and the whole time you're watching, you're just praying there's a happy ending.  

She saw me "reading" her from the distance and her eyes focused on each step I took.  I wanted so badly to be just a little bit closer, but from experience (and a husband yelling at me to put the damn camera away and get back) I walked backward until I was out of her sight.  It was beautiful.  She stood up, circled for the last time, laid down, and then pushed. I whispered soft cheers as I watched her gain more strength with each push from behind the tree, praying that the new life inside her would be alive.  Minutes passed, and then just like that it a calf was on the ground, she was on her feet, and new life said hello to our hillside with soft moos and grunts.

I'd say she was the best read I had all break.

Mason's been gone all of break.  It's been weird and wonderful all at the same time.  Mack has loved the quiet evenings at home with just us, the chance to drive the feed truck whenever he wants, and his choice of movies at the redbox day after day.  The quiet is about to end, but I think we're all ready for him to be home.
The making of this sign was one of the greatest gifts for us and him.  I wish I had a picture of the headlights from the car when they drove in at 9:00 and a recording of his giggles in the car.

Welcome home Mason.  Welcome home.

This has been one of the greatest breaks from normal my life has ever seen.  It's been filled with mornings of feeding with Ian, a snuggle bug called Mack, cups of hot chocolate whenever I feel like it, beautiful sunrises, and the most gorgeous sunsets.

Thank you Sunday for offering this sky and this kind of quiet day after day after day, but especially on this evening that is whispering goodbye to some

this thing about pie.

I have a dream on repeat in my mind.  It's a dream where I  find myself in a crowded room and overhear someone say - "yes, that's her ... she is the pie maker/baker I was telling you about."

Pathetic, but still a dream of mine none the less.

The dream probably won't ever come true, but for now, I'm totally fine with the three people I care about most shouting for joy when they walk in from a long day and find one of these.  

A pie made with love, surrounded by a crust that is still far from perfect in appearance or flakiness, filled with goodness that seems to whisper {thankful} with each and every bite they take.

Here's to 2014 - the year that I learn how to make really, really good pies and my crust is blue-ribbon worthy.

turning 9

Dear Mason,

Somehow in the middle of all of the December mayhem, you turned 9.

It's unbelievable really, and until you're living the days that turn into years that speed right before your very eyes faster than you're prepared for them to, do you truly understand what people mean when they say "you're going to miss this."

I'm already missing it and it happened only 15 days ago.

15 days ago I picked you up from school and headed back to Hermiston.  You thought we were going to the Panda Inn Buffet for dinner and didn't understand why we had to wait for dad. I tried to keep you both entertained as we sat in the parking lot at Heller & Sons, but you were restless and I was exasperated.

What did I expect?  You had just celebrated your birthday all day long and managed to have a couple of extra ice cream bars left over from your classroom party to boot.  A sugar high turned sugar low, exhaustion, and hunger for more excitement aren't good ingredients for a joyful wait in the car on any day - let alone your birthday.

As the seconds turned to minutes, your frustration level mounted, but being the intuitive mom that I am, I decided to call your dad and have him to just meet us there.  You breathed a sigh of relief thinking we were just going next door, but that sigh quickly turned into sobs as I drove out of Hermiston toward Tri-Cities promising you that you'd love where we were going.

You wanted nothing to do with any of it.  I had ruined your birthday.  You wanted to go home.  I only do what I want to do and never listen to you.  ... It went on and on and on.

I kept driving, turned the music up a bit, and ignored your tantrum the best I could - quietly laughing to myself, but kind of wanting to cry too.  At 9, you still know how to throw a fit that sends me into another place in my mind entirely - and not in a good way.

5 minutes later, you and Mack were sound asleep and we were 25 minutes closer to one of the greatest entertaining meals of your 9 year old life.

When I parked the car, you woke up a bit disoriented and still upset. You read the sign and insisted that you hated Japanese steak or whatever it was we were going to eat, and I laughed out loud.  Oh Mason, you are your father's child.

Your dad's pickup pulled into a spot just a few spaces down from ours  within minutes, and when the doors opened and you saw Papa & Mor-Mor, Mimzy and your dad get out, you tried to hide your smile and act like you weren't surprised, but you were.  Mor-Mor gave you a tight squeeze, sang a quick song. and then did her very best to convince you that this was going to be the best birthday dinner ever.  You still weren't convinced, but your frustration was gone and we headed inside.

The rest of the story doesn't need words.  It just needs snapshots of the joy the next 2 hours held.  Joy that couldn't have been bought any other way.  Joy that was worth the agony that lead up to the moment you realized this was going to be something very special.

You're 9 ... and your wishes may not all come true - if you even believe in that sort of thing ... but you certainly aren't ever going to forget what it's liked to be surprised in the best kind of way any time soon.

May you grow to appreciate the surprises life hands you - accepting them with grace and a whole lot of happiness - because honestly Mason, life is supposed to be celebrated and trusted and believed in even when it doesn't make sense.  Someday it will make sense and you'll be glad you chose joy!

Loving the 9 year old you with all that I am,

Mom

carrying those in need

Dear Mason, 

Just over a week ago, all 4 of us were crammed into the front seat of the white flatbed pickup.  There wasn't really a need for a seat belt, and the road we were on was one that sees little traffic - especially on Christmas Eve.

It was an afternoon like any other afternoon, and we were filling water troughs and checking fences.  The sun was shining in the brightest of ways and the afternoon light was filled with warmth even though the ground was as cold and hard as can be.

We turned left where we usually turn right and found ourselves at the troughs in the southwest corner of the Simpson's stubble field with big puddles and enough mud to make any little boy happy.  You cheered for joy when you saw the biggest puddle of all and didn't even wait for the pickup to come to a complete stop.

Probably less than 4 seconds passed, and Mack realized that we had forgotten his muck boots. I cringed and so did you. Here you were - right on the edge of a whole bunch of Christmas Even fun and only one of you was going to really be able to enjoy it.

But before I could even come up with a suggestion - you had it all figured out.

I think when you're a brother, these things just come to mind naturally - without the slightest hesitation - because you don't like to do much alone and it's always more fun with two.

What I was most impressed with was that there was no hesitation for you to carry Mack around on your back. It didn't matter how heavy he was or how uncomfortable it may have been - you just wanted him with you.  You didn't want him to miss the chance at free joy and I know in your heart, you knew it was worth the extra "weight."

Thank you for having strong arms and legs, and an even  stronger love for your brother.  You're not always the kindest or gentlest big brother, but at just the right times and in just the right ways, you are able to say I love you without saying a word.

May you always look for ways to carry those in need of joy - especially your brother,

Mom