While everyone is wrapping up their gardens for the year, my Floridian self is waiting for the day that I can set out my squash and tomatoes. It is still 90-something degrees, and tomatoes won’t set in anything higher than 85-degrees. Ask me how I know. Too, the bugs are having a gourmet time on my squash which are waiting in the shade for the day that I can set them out. Can’t the pests at least wait until I’ve toiled, nurtured, and hand-pollinated the male and female flowers before they mock me? No, they want to get an early start this year.

This is why it is unexplainable that my flowers along the front walkway are doing so well. Every visitor has commented on their beauty this month. This is probably because they are used to seeing my fruitless labor lining my front porch: impatiens that droop under the bug infestation that I spray without success every morning, petunias with a life cycle of two weeks, and verbena with uncontrollable white-stuff disease. The reward for my labor is discouraging to say the least. Blooming where you are planted is easier when you’re not in Florida.

I even went to an eight week class on growing roses in Florida (“in Florida”, being the key phrase) sponsored by the county extension office, the folks who should know. I won’t post a picture of my rose bush (yes, that’s right, there’s only one left) because it was clear by attending those classes that if I ever wanted to grow a measly rose, I’d have to quit my job as a wife and mother to devote it to full-time rose care. I’m not even exaggerating.

And so, I present my pentas, which will never happen like this again. Hurray for flukes. Boo for The Curse. [Edit: Creation was subjected to The Curse not without hope. And so, the Curse reminds us that He will make all things right one day, and that our hope isn't here, but there. But...you know what I meant.]

This morning I overheard my five-year-old daughter searching for brown sugar and happening upon the coffee instead. She took a big sniff and profoundly declared, “That is coffee because it smells… coffee-ish.” In the same Webster-ish manner, forgive me for declaring that Total Truth: Study Guide Edition is nothing less than total truth.

To parrot what’s been said already in numerous publications would be a waste of your reading time. It is no doubt likely, if you are at all in tune with the goings on in recent Christian periodicals, that you have heard of the book Total Truth, by Nancy Pearcey. There have been many excellent reviews of this book, with several very good ones at Diet of Bookworms. As I do not have anything further to say about this book that has not already been said, and inasmuch as there are many more eloquent book reviewers out there who have done an excellent job representing this book, I thought instead that I might offer a service to you discerning readers out there. Therefore, I submit to you a simple guide to deciding whether or not you should read Total Truth.

The Unofficial Do-you-need-to-read-Total-Truth Pop Quiz
Rate your answers to the following ten questions from 1 to 5 with 1 being “strongly disagree” and 5 being “strongly agree”:

1. Truth matters.
2. I want to integrate theology into my everyday life.
3. I like interesting and thought provoking chapter titles.
4. America and Christianity are not synonyms.
5. Thorough research is important in a book dealing with Christianity and Culture.
6. The cultural mandate motivates me in what I do every day.
7. My vocation has eternal significance.
8. Darwinism has huge ramifications for everyday life.
9. Christianity has everything to do with every area of life.
10. I am a 21st century Christian, and I am out of My Utmost for His Highest Graduation Edition copies to give to high-school graduates.

So here’s how the scores shape up:
1-9 – You did something wrong because you should have a minimum of 10. Please re-read the instructions and complete the quiz again – but don’t bother reading this book, you won’t get it.

10-49 – You really need to read this book, especially if you scored anything significant on number 10.

50 – You’re Nancy Pearcey. You wrote the book, so you don’t need to read it.

In short, if you are a serious Christian alive in this century, you need to read this book.

My firstborn, a seven-year-old son and my husband’s namesake, is a pretty good kid. In fact, since I’m his mom and haven’t yet bragged on him in this weblog, I have to say that he’s more than “pretty good”; I was just trying to be humble that first time I said it. He’s gentle and kind with his sisters, not provoking them to too much wrath. He’s rooting for a brother just so he can have someone to share his room with. He’s not a sissy and often takes the initiative with work. And though he is yet only the tender age of seven, I have someone that I can really depend on. He’s done a few foolish things in his time, but he is not a fool. His nightly prayers for wisdom are being heard.

But I’m writing to say that I give up on him. He has a habit that no matter what steps we take, still persists. I’ve found him engaging in this activity late at night, early in the morning, and many hours throughout the day. What is it? Reading. I’m not kidding: he won’t stop. I complained to my husband yesterday, “Do you know how dumb this sounds? ‘Honey, stop reading and get back to your schoolwork.’” My husband agreed that this sounded bad, but what do you do?

In an “About Me” speech that my son composed, he wrote, “I’d rather read fifty books than have to write one word.” His penmanship and fine motor skills are adequate; he is not suffering from a learning disability or anything of the sort. Just a motivation disability. He leaves the room under the guise of needing some quiet to do his language and math work, gets stuck on a problem, then pulls out a book until I wander by and ask, “Why aren’t you finished?”

Because he shoulders more responsibility than his younger sisters (but not unreasonably so), he also receives more privileges than the younger ones. I believe this is one of the keys to not provoking our children or causing them to become bitter against us. Because he handles responsibility maturely, he receives the same in kind: later bedtimes, more trust, and the extra cherry that I’ll slip him under the table occasionally throughout the day. And so, after family worship and a nightly read-aloud, the three girls will be sent to bed while he hangs off the couch upside-down with a bowl of ice cream (sometimes) while my husband reads a G. A. Henty novel aloud. Then they’ll get on the internet and look for a picture of one of the ancient ships the novel spoke about while I moan, “Don’t ya’ll think it’s late?”

Now the girls are crazy about books too. If I dump a new pile of books on the family room floor, based on the screaming and excitement, you’d think you were at a modern day Sponge Bob birthday party. But the girls aren’t obsessed like my son. And so, while I acknowledge there are worse obsessions, I pray along with my son for wisdom in how best to mother them all.

Annie asked a couple posts back if I employed organic gardening methods. In effort to defend explain myself, I am writing this post in response. Since she is a new reader, I’m sure she hasn’t read about my past gardening woes. My gardening woes are many, but since I think it is a valuable use of time and energy, I press on.

Notice I used the word, “valuable.” I didn’t say it was profitable (in a monetary sense). Yet.

Let me explain. When your husband sits down and looks at the lone strawberry on his plate and asks, “So, this is what a $25 strawberry tastes like?”, the correct response is, “But look how much more character and knowledge we have.” I don’t want to reiterate the extent we went to when beginning our gardening journey; reread the above link for a primer. Shuffle through the archives for more.

The bottom line is that while there is a wealth of knowledge available for gardening successfully, securing the methods to ensure a bountiful garden in Florida is a whole other matter. In some ways, you’d think it’d be easier: no fruit trees—other than citrus—can be grown here. So, there’s a whole area that I don’t have to learn. On the flip side, nobody tells you that raspberries, carnations, peaches, broccoli, and hollyhocks don’t grow here. On the contrary, gardening magazines claim that a certain variety grows in zone 9 (the area I live in), but the fact is, it doesn’t. Perhaps they mean it’s possible if you have an air-conditioned greenhouse, but otherwise, it is false advertising. Even your local garden center will sell starter plants that are unfit to grow here.

Here’s an example. I want to grow strawberries. There are strawberry farms a couple hours from me, so I know it can be done (there, at least). Catalogs ship bare-root plants after the final frost in your area. For us, this is February. After much research, however, I found out that strawberry plants are treated as annuals here and you plant them in October. They are finished by March. Upon calling every nursery within an hour’s drive of here, I find that nobody sells strawberry plants until the spring. So, there is no way to get plants locally or otherwise until the spring. But then it’s too late.

It’s a conspiracy, I say.

Another thing I noticed was that if your neighbor isn’t growing say, tulips, then you shouldn’t try to either. However nobody around here grows anything, but I’m not going to let that stop me. So long as I can remember, I’ve been passionate about flowers and gardening. There is something just “right” about it, and it awakens a calming feeling that is beneficial to the household. I like to pull into my driveway and see impatiens in full bloom under the oak tree. It makes me think, “Yes, this is our home.”

I am not a successful gardener yet, but I know that I have the qualities that will make me one someday: a willingness to learn new things, enough passion to repeatedly email the local extension agents without embarrassment, a good work ethic, a husband with an even better work ethic, and the knowledge that I am pursuing something worthwhile.

I think I got off-track here, because this was supposed to be about my methods. The “dirt” here in Florida is pure sand. Without augmenting the soil, you are guaranteeing your plant’s demise. I use bone meal, peat moss, compost, and/or manure to enrich my soil when I put in a new plant. We used to have a red wiggler worm farm for composting, but as soon as you’d put the worms and compost in the sandy soil, the fire ants would appear without exception and eat up the worms. A handful of fertilizer is much more efficient. I am still interested in soil enhancements, but I’ve yet to find a large-scale answer to that.

I do throw fruit peels and vegetable waste underneath bushes still, even though the raccoons stomp flat the flowers sometimes in effort to claim the scraps. As far as spraying goes, I do spray my flowers because I have not found an effective organic way to control the infestations. Since we don’t eat our flowers, it’s not a health concern. I don’t spray my vegetables after the fruit has set. I usually just over plant so that I can afford to lose a lot to critters, bugs, and disease. One year, I planted about 100 tomato plants and just let them grow wild. I did not tend them (probably due to morning sickness). We had an abundance of tomatoes all spring long. The kids would hunt among the brambles (all the plants were laying down) for the good ones, and toss the rotten ones over the fence so the raccoons wouldn’t have to bother climbing over.

My husband erected an electric fence one year to keep out the raccoons. I had a respectable lot of watermelon growing. I spent a great deal of time babying them. Just when they were ripe, the raccoons jumped over the zapper and chowed down. We have never eaten a homegrown watermelon.

But I’m not discouraged. I’m outraged. So when I set out my squash and tomatoes last night and hung up the shovel, I looked around the garage for the BB gun too. Now, that’s organic.

Caption: The first picture is more evidence that I am blessed. Picture #2 is of my baby and five-year-old. The third picture was taken recently at the Imax movie at the Space Center. There is a free local resident day every year in September for all my Floridian friends. The picture below is proof that I wasn’t kidding a few posts ago when I said that we take waiting for our guests seriously. We had company this weekend, and the picture is of my third child waiting in the cul-de-sac.

The picture layout is evidence that I am HTML challenged. Sorry to RSS readers.

To follow-up on the post below, I checked local garden centers and Florida strawberry websites (for any shipping possibilities) and found no strawberries. I did, however, find starters of pumpkins, watermelons, and various other things that are not appropriate to plant now. For most things, I plant seeds indoors so that I can have them on hand to put in the ground at the best time, but strawberries are planted by runners. Which I will continue not to have.

So, I am looking on the bright side: I can know for sure that it is not the Lord’s will that I grow strawberries this year. Yep, I’m getting it right in this area. For whatever He calls us to do, He always supplies. Elisabeth Elliot encourages us on the subject in this way, “Sometimes I am asked to speak to young people who are toying with the idea of being missionaries. They want to know how I discovered the will of God. The first thing was to settle once and for all the supremacy of Christ in my life, I tell them. I put myself utterly and forever at His disposal, which means turning over all the rights: to myself, my body, my self-image, my notions of how I am to serve my Master…I tell these earnest kids that the will of God is always different from what they expect, always bigger, and, ultimately, infinitely more glorious than their wildest imaginings.”

It all started in 1995 at a commons table in the education building at UCF. I was an Arminian who ate lunch three times a week with three hyper-Calvinists. I’m a glutton for punishment. The battle waged for months as they threw out their Calvinist verses and I retorted with my Arminian ones. I held my ground.

Then the day came that they told me that I wasn’t saved because I didn’t believe “the truth.” So, I agreed to go to a conference that they had urged me to attend—just to get more ammunition for my arsenal. It was the 1995 Defending the Faith conference sponsored by Ligonier Ministries. I signed up to volunteer in the bookstore so that I could attend for free. I wasn’t paying for this stuff.

I reported to my volunteer position as scheduled and quickly realized that this wasn’t going to be all bad. I was taking over the spot for a tall, dark, and handsome fellow. While I was in a room full of people with bad theology, at least one of them was graced with some good looks.

So, as he was leaving, I inquired, “Where are you off to?”

He replied, “RTS. I have a class in an hour.”

So I responded, “RTS? [Note: this stands for Reformed Theology Seminary.] That must mean you’re a Calvinist, which means you believe in Limited Atonement. How can you believe that stuff and call yourself a Christian?”

I’ve always preferred the subtle approach. Yet, this was the line that sealed my fate as the future Mrs. McGregor Scott. I highly recommend it if you are single. (Unless the guy is an Arminian.) The doctrine of Limited Atonement was my last holdout (as I claimed to be a four-point Calvinist) but it was the means that got me my first lunch of many to follow with my future husband.

Over a meal the next day, he explained how Christ’s blood is effective for the elect. Another term to describe this is “particular redemption.” He communicated grace to me during that lunch, setting me free from the belief that all Calvinists forsook the Great Commission, lacked love, and emphasized divine sovereignty to the exclusion of human responsibility.

I suspect that the love part was easy to exude, as he confessed later that he knew that day that he would marry me.

Hyper-Calvinism is as much a threat to biblical theology as any other heretical doctrine. It is essentially a rejection of historical Calvinism. While I maintain that good theology is essential, Paul reminds us in First Corinthians 13 that without love we are “sounding brass” and “clanging cymbals.” My hope is that I may think rightly in order that I might live rightly before Him.

Good theology is crucial. And it doesn’t hurt the state of affairs of a single girl either.

Now that I’ve come out of the theological closet, before we move on, there are three things you should know about me.

1. I’m terrible at sight-reading choral music.
2. I’m terrible at sight-reading choral music.
3. I’m terrible at sight-reading choral music.

That is to say, rather than taking the bait in the post below, I’ve been busy cussing losing my salvation sitting at the piano. That was tongue-in-cheek, of course. Coupled with staying out too late having coffee with a great gal I met online (!), I am worn out and cry, “Mercy!” Calvinist or Arminian, unearned or earned, offer me some grace.

All I have to say is that the signs were there all the time. And for my own entertainment (and hopefully yours), I offer the following Top 10 Reasons You Should Have Known I Was a Calvinist:

10.The liberal use of the adjective “covenant” before “children.”

9. I can’t sing from memory all the verses of “Just as I Am.”

8. I never wish you luck.

7. You read Marla’s expose’.

6. I plagiarize Elisabeth Elliot and John Piper.

5. I can’t make a casserole as good as my Baptist girlfriends.

4. Romans 9 isn’t cut out of my Bible.

3. I can’t name any televangelists.

2. I smile at the insult “frozen chosen.”

And the number one reason you should have known I was a Calvinist:

1. I read the Bible.

This is all in fun, of course. I hope you take it as such. I think it’s important to be able to laugh sometimes. In effort to wrap up the discussion, I wanted to comment on a few things mentioned.

We shouldn’t have any creeds but Jesus and the rejection of the terms “Calvinism” and “Arminianism”: To say that one has no creed but Jesus is a creed in itself. As such, a Jehovah’s Witness or Mormon can claim the same thing, but it really means whatever the hearer wants it to mean. While this can be readily understood among like-minded folks (and I understood the meaning of those who said this), the terms must be clearly defined, especially in a post-modern culture. And so, the historical Church has adopted such means as The Westminster Confession, The Apostle’s Creed, and other like statements.

Furthermore, I think the use of labels in the context here is helpful and not equivalent to the reprimand in Corinthians not to follow teachers, but Christ. (One of you says, “I follow Paul”; another, “I follow Apollos”; another, “I follow Cephas”; still another, “I follow Christ.” I Corinthians 1:12) Insofar as Calvin was faithful to the Scriptures, I can say that I am a “Calvinist.” Instead, however, I could say that I ascribe to Biblical Theology, but that leaves two problems. The first is that you wouldn’t think I was being faithful to my weblog title—“humble” being the key word. The second is that the terms are not clearly defined. And so, the use of a shorthand label is easier than saying, “Yes, I believe in the perseverance of the saints, that God will not allow any of His own to slip out of His hand; yes, I believe that I was completely dead in my sins and that even my faith was a gift so that I may not boast…”

And so, my blessings to all, and to all a good…afternoon. (Except to that guy who reads this site in Japan.)

It all started two years ago. I don’t recall anything about the day except that I opened the refrigerator. Everything else blacked out after that. OK, just kind of. But it hurt: a can fell out of the fridge at just the right angle and semi-broke my toe. For the past two years, I’ve babied that thing to no avail. I’m afraid I have to face the cold, hard fact: it will never be the same again.

It doesn’t matter what I do. There’s a magnet on it now that commands, “Hey kids, step on your mom’s toe. Not the left foot. Just the right. And just that toe. Don’t hit any others while you’re at it.” Shopping carts and other inanimate objects also now obey the call.

So, while other people count sheep at night, I count throbs in my toe. But the rhythm just keeps me awake.

If you ever read I Corinthians 12 and sighed about your “lowly” position in the Body of Christ—then all I have to say is… you’ve never had a hurt toe.

Just this weekend, my two oldest (ages 7 and 5 ½) came downstairs for a drink break and my son lamented, “This house is junk.”

“Yeah, the people that built this house didn’t know anything,” continued my daughter.

Wanting to adjust their view of God’s gracious providence, I almost commenced with a “Now, now…” speech. But then I realized that they were working upstairs on remodeling the bathroom with my husband, and so I knew where they got their propaganda.

While my husband is the eternal optimist in our marriage, he does possess a keen radar and scathing commentary for shoddy workmanship. Not that I blame him. One time he took down a wall in our kitchen to look for termites. Not uncovering any termites there, instead, he found that the previous owners had repaired former damage themselves and forgot (?!?) to put insulation back in the wall and left open access to the outside. Without the drywall, you could see sunlight. Even I knew that you aren’t supposed to do that.

Then there is the fact that the original owners designed the house themselves and probably should have spent a few dollars getting an architect to look at the plans. But back to the bathroom remodeling job: they put the cabinets in before the tile and baseboards. The reason why this is bad is because when the new owners need to replace the water-damaged cabinets and countertops, said owners will tear out the old cabinets and find no flooring underneath them, setting the project back a few hours. Besides, it’s just not right.

The reason why we are tackling the bathroom now (beside the fact that it needs to be done) is because it just doesn’t feel right living in The Scott House without at least one room completely under construction. It’s been almost a whole month without anything torn apart, and it just wasn’t right having the house in one piece. We buy houses for their basic structure. The walls, ceilings, doorways, counters, and flooring are all peripheral. They’re just details.

And so, the kids grab two glasses of water and an extra one for their dad. While I cast a cursory glance at their math books, they return to their father’s side, where they acquire their real education.

Dear Sir or Ma’am,

Please forgive me for not addressing you by your name, but nobody will tell me what it is or how to contact you. In this letter, I will demonstrate that this lack of response is a common occurrence with the KitchenAid company. I am writing to make you aware of the deplorable customer service I am receiving as a result of owning a still-under-warranty malfunctioning dishwasher.

About a year ago, my husband and I made the decision that when we needed to replace a new tool or appliance, we would purchase the highest quality one that we could afford. We were tired of “saving” money by buying lesser quality items. And so, instead of purchasing an inferior product, we now wait until we are able to replace the item with something that will last.

Hence, we purchased KitchenAid’s best non-commercial dishwasher, the stainless steel KitchenAid Superba, model # 4KUDS01FLSS. We used it for two months until the clean light began blinking and stopped cycling through.

Eight services calls later have yielded the following:

A new thermostat

A new computer board

A new heating element

Countless hours of waiting for service people, one of whom did not show up until 7 p.m. and didn’t bother to call

And a final service man that told me, “Lady, you got yourself a lemon.” On his service report, he wrote that our dishwasher was too far from our sink. It is right next to it.

Many hours on the phone have yielded nothing but frustration, as the customer service personal aren’t allowed to authorize anything beyond another service call. The solution to my problem? Yes, they want to send a ninth service person out.

I kicked, screamed, and wailed until customer service finally turned over my case to a supervisor. Being nice only yielded another service call, which are always two weeks away. This shouldn’t be; you should respond to pleasant customers. While I insisted that a supervisor call me that day to let me know that someone had my case, it took Jolletta the whole week to get back to me. This isn’t good business.

Furthermore, while Jolletta promised weeks later to replace the dishwasher, she informed me that the service department was 10 days behind and that I would have to wait until they contacted me. I was reasonable. I waited and washed.

Sir or ma’am, it is a month later with no contact, no phone calls, and no nice men in uniforms installing a new dishwasher for me. She says that it is “out of her hands.” Can you tell me whose hands my dishwasher is in?

I am five-months pregnant with our fifth baby. While it is not your problem that I have many dishes to wash and meals to cook, it is your responsibility to uphold your end of the bargain—that is, to provide me with a working dishwasher in exchange for the money I paid to your company.

Pay up or deliver. Four months is long enough.

Sincerely,
Amy Scott

If you’ve ever thought about starting a multigenerational home-base business, then I highly recommend Family Friendly Farming. Don’t be put off by the title if you’re thinking along the lines of rehabbing houses, providing catering services, or bookkeeping help for small businesses. Joel Salatin communicates his tried by fire wisdom through the avenue of farming, but it was an inspiring read for this suburban dweller.

While this post isn’t a book review, I thought I should mention that its entire contents are worthwhile before pulling a quote that further enthused my longing for hearth and home. Speaking of the daily media barrage, Joel Salatin says this:

We’ve had this inordinate burden to heal all the wounds, solve all the problems heaped upon us, and its ancillary notion that we must involve ourselves in everything. So we live these hurried, harried lives, going from one function to the other, and never putting down roots. If that really solved problems, we’d see divorce, dysfunction and drugs dropping in our culture. But for all our activity, they are going up.

Clearly, “busyness” doesn’t establish roots. Flitting from this activity to that one creates children who will be just the same. They won’t develop an appetite for home and hearth because Mom and Dad taught them, subliminally to be sure, that to really live you need to go somewhere. Who wants to be stuck at home? I do. (Family Friendly Farming, page 277, emphasis mine)

It is fall and the weather here isn’t probably what you’re experiences there, but it is out of the 90’s. We are enjoying it. The mums are by the front door, the apples sit in a bowl on the table, russet potatoes sit in a basket on the stove, and the house smells of cinnamon. It is fall, my favorite time of year. While the TV continues protesting its neglect and I sit on my front porch rocking chair, I can’t help but think to myself, “There’s no place I’d rather be.”

And to think this is only a foretaste.

This week kept us busy celebrating one another. My husband enjoyed another birthday and reflected on the fact that he has just a few more left before the 4-0. Because he is a man’s man, I cooked him a dinner suitable: marinated tri-tip steak, loaded mashed potatoes, corn, buttered rolls, and dark chocolate cake. I don’t believe, however, that he noticed any corn.

If one birthday isn’t enough, we have the privilege of celebrating two this week. One of my children will turn another year older, and I will marvel on how fast the time is slipping by.

Of course, this means that I must be getting older, too. Yet, I can still remember the days that I would dream of this time in my life: a content marriage, a houseful of children, and a pleasant and welcoming home. It is here, and we celebrate it together.

As the outer bands of the hurricane passed through our neighborhood all day yesterday, I waited for the power to go off. Last year, the three hurricanes knocked our power off each time, ranging from a couple of hours to several days. Power outages are just par for the course. Since we are seasoned hurricane residents, we turned our A/C down real low to get the house cold in expectation of the ensuing hot, humid stillness afterward.

But it never came.

Not disappointed, we were surprised to have only a flooded yard, no sewage (because the septic ground is saturated), sticks and twigs everywhere, a few dead plants, and a loose fence gate. What is more exciting, though, is that turning down our A/C was in vain. Yes, the hurricane brought in a cold front. It is in the 70’s here now, and the kids raided the winter coat closet and asked for a fire last night. I can hear the “How can you spot a Floridian?” jokes coming already.

Our local media were sorely disappointed on the lack of devastation. They live for the hype. I overheard my seven-year-old muse about a local meteorologist, “Tom Terry thinks it’s the end of the world every time it rains.” It appears my son has been hanging out with his dad again.

Everyone on our street was not as fortunate to keep their power, and so, sleeping with the windows open is disturbed with the loud buzzing of generators. Generators and blue tarped roofs are as common as backyard swimming pools. But on the bright side, at least there is room in the garage for such items since we don’t store snow blowers.

…ask real people! I thought searching on “how to use a blind hem stitch” on Google would result with clear step-by-step instructions. Is there anyone who can post/email a quick dummies guide to using a blind-hem machine stitch?

Yesterday, my son flew into the house yelling, “We have a tomato! We have a tomato!” So all of the girls flew out of the house to inspect the new tomato that more resembled a green marble. I followed behind, and we all bent down to inspect the wonder. While they are each quite familiar with growing tomatoes, there is always a bit of excitement at the first one of the season.

Raising a family is kind of like growing a garden. There is plenty of work to be done, but those first signs of growth are truly a reward. No matter how many children I have, it never gets old to witness the first smile, the first time that they write their name, and the first time they suggest that we should pray. In fact, the more children I have, the more I realize what a prized gift it is that I hold. You’d think that a woman with several small children underfoot would lose the wonder of it all, but instead, the opposite occurs.

Sometimes I think that I am just maturing. Sometimes I think it is God’s grace being poured out on a needy mother. And sometimes I don’t think about it, I just enjoy it.