You might of noticed that the site has been down and now several posts are missing, most notably, the one about my daughter. There was a MySQL problem, and a week’s worth of data is lost.

Our girl is still in the hospital, and we do not know what’s going on with her. Every time she seems to improve, she regresses. Greg and I are tag-teaming. I will update when I know anything.

We brought our daughter home from the hospital this evening. Her fever is gone, and she took a couple bites of yogurt tonight. Her white cell count is still out-of-range, but it is much lower. We are still waiting for more test results to understand what caused this.

Thank you for your prayers and notes. I’ve fielded calls all day long, but I’m not complaining. I’m glad to repeat the report all day long since that means that we have so many people who care about us. This is good. Thank you.

If a person sends you several email forwards a day, what does this mean?

Despite my wholehearted embrace of the doctrine of the total depravity of man, I really think people mean well. It means you’re on the forefront of their minds. It means they want to stay connected. It means people think you really like pictures of purring kittens clogging your inbox. I like to imagine the best.

I usually give people the benefit of the doubt. That is, until they cross the line. Sending a 13 MB file is crossing the line. I waited 20 minutes to download THIS?! Likewise, sending a virus that causes a total hard drive crash is also unacceptable. I don’t open emails from you folks anymore, so stop sending them.

It’s like this. If you don’t “forward this message to 10 friends to let them know they’re loved,” we’ll never know we weren’t in your Top 10. It’s OK. We can’t see that you never forwarded the message, and you’re not morally obligated to pass it along just because someone forwarded it to you. You can stop the madness. Just hit “delete.”

However, if you get one of these, go ahead and forward it. I could use a laugh every now and then. Ignore what I just said.

Attached is a picture of some of the devastation caused by Ernesto yesterday. [This is the storm that caused school closings and media hype all across Florida last week. ~Amy] As I gazed in awe on this picture, it occurred to me that some of you might want to share your “Ernesto stories” with the rest of us. It might be cathartic for all of us to come together and share our stories in the wake of this latest manifestation of nature’s wrath.

Be thankful. This could have happened to any of us.

Here is the attached picture….

By Greg Scott, guest blogger and chief orchard planter

Saints do not do their works for recognition or the applause of men. In fact, sometimes they are clueless about their own deeds done in service to God. Matthew 25:37ff:

Then the righteous will answer Him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see You hungry and feed You, or thirsty and give You drink? When did we see You a stranger and take You in, or naked and clothe You? Or when did we see You sick, or in prison, and come to You? And the King will answer and say to them, ‘Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me.’

Clueless! Isn’t that funny. You see, I know my good works. I can keep track of them. I remember them and I pin them on my chest to remind myself that I am doing a decent job in my obedience to Christ. I even point them out to my wife so she will recognize what a spiritual and obedient man that I am.

Those “good” works are not the ones that the Good King commends. Rather, it is the works that the sheep were clueless about, the works they had no idea they were doing, that He recognizes.

Which brings me to this conclusion: Perhaps some of the most clueless saints of all are our faithful wives who labor daily, without recognition (ours or theirs), to serve the “least of these,” our covenant children.

How many good deeds of feeding, clothing, thirst quenching, diaper changing, spilled milk cleaning, room straightening, laundry folding, all-night sick child comforting, nose wiping, mud-track mopping, book reading, and bed making are done by our wives every day?

There is much good done for Jesus in faithfully raising and nurturing these precious “least ones.” Mothers, doing these everyday things is significant because doing them is serving the “least of these.” Remember, as you pour orange juice and pour out your life, your daily labor is of eternal significance! Serving the least of these is serving Christ.

Thank you for asking about our two-year-old daughter. To recap, we brought her to the hospital last week with a 105.4 fever, excessive vomiting, hallucinations, and dehydration.

All her labs came back normal. The short answer is that we probably will never know what was wrong. We still don’t think it was viral, as everyone got a good dose of her germs. Nobody is even sneezing sideways. The doctor believes the bacteria were moderate and not strong enough to get into her blood. The other possibility is the initial general antibiotic took care of it before we got a good culture from her. With a 105 temperature, we aren’t anxious to see what “severe” looks like.

The other night, my husband asked the kids what they learned from this experience. Their answers ranged from “God always takes care of us” to “Even if He took her Home, then He still takes care of us.” One of the children mentioned that she is still here because she has work to do for God. For this, I am glad.

Each of our children has a hymn. My husband sings one verse to each of them at bedtime. Our now-fully-recovered daughter’s song is This Is My Father’s World:

My husband makes fun of me whenever I read a map. To navigate each turn, I have to turn the map in my hand. This is hilarious to him. He’s an engineer, and I’m right brained. What’s worse, I usually have to ask him for help in the end.

There are certain markers that define an expert in his field. For example, if you are a New Testament scholar, then you probably know Greek. If you are a serious gardener, you can grow more than zucchini. If you are a diehard homeschooler, then you have a detailed map of free and discounted merchandise within a 30-mile radius. It’s just the way things are.

This brings me to my point. Every seamstress should know how to sew a blind hemstitch. (If you are a guy, turn under the hem of your suit pants. There.) This stitch requires more time, but the results are très professionnel. Besides, I don’t shy away from doing hard things.

The blind hemstitch has eluded me for years. After studying several detailed diagrams, I twisted, pulled, and contorted the fabric into hundreds of configurations. I ripped out seams and broke needles. I just couldn’t wrap my brain around the concept even when I turned the fabric. It was hopeless…until yesterday.

I finally stumbled upon the special, tricky way to fold the fabric. I suppose I could’ve asked my personal rocket scientist to explain the diagram, but that would’ve been too easy. Besides, I like turning stuff in circles. I can navigate these issues all by myself. Sort of.

Are any of you homeschool moms tired already? I know, it’s only September. The new pack of Crayola isn’t even destroyed yet. In his book, Lies Homeschooling Moms Believe, author and father of seven Todd Wilson describes The Perky Homeschooler:

Todd gave me his book, Lies Homeschooling Moms Believe, to give to someone out there. It’s a pick-me-up, for sure. Leave a comment or drop me an email, and I’ll pick a random winner on Monday. To enter twice, link!

Congratulations to Olivia (comment #62) for winning the random drawing for a free copy of Todd Wilson’s Lies Homeschooling Moms Believe.

And just because, I’m going to pick up a copy for another mom in the trenches. Her husband wrote me this email:

I figured I would go in on your raffle for the free book on behalf of my wife who has had to do the homeschooling effort without my presence during my last year of deployment. I will actually return home in early October. Thanks for the fun.

Thanks for playing along, everyone. If you are disappointed you didn’t win, you can still pick up a copy at the author’s website here. It just won’t be on the house.

There’s nothing like having too much time on your hands. Since I don’t know what that’s like anymore, I have to reach back 20 years to my childhood. Some of you might have to reach further, but that’s alright. Go there with me.

How many times did I lie upside down, a glass bottle of Coke in hand, and moan, “I’m bored…”? How many hours were wasted watching sitcoms like Silver Spoons, The Facts of Life, and The Jeffersons? [Pop quiz: What year was I born?] I knew the jingle to every advertisement on TV, so well, that my family referred to me as A Walking Commercial. It was still a waste of time, even if there wasn’t any cussin’ on TV back then.

Frequently, I’d chase down the Polar Cup man—who drove too fast and always skipped my street. I trounced through neighbors’ begonias just to cut off The Speeding White Truck With a Big White Bear to plunk down my quarter for a micro-sized cup of lemonade slush. The neighbors would yell at me as I hopped their fences, but they never gave chase. Afterward, I’d watch the grass grow.

Somewhere along the line, I figured out that time was money even if you were a kid. I knocked on people’s doors and mowed their lawns for a lousy ten bucks. (This is Florida in the summer, folks. $10 is a rip-off even considering inflation.) My girlfriend and I held car washes in our driveways. As soon as we’d make a buck, we’d close up shop, hop on our bikes, and blow the whole thing on Laffy Taffy at the Circle K.

At 11-years-old, irresponsible parents left their small children with me as they plunked down a small fortune every night in the local bars. Everyone was running, but nobody knew where to. After they came home drunk, I usually left short-changed, but I didn’t care. What else did I have to do? Besides, the junk food at their house was better than at mine.

Back in those days, I couldn’t wait for time to speed up. I wanted those moments to hurry on by so that I could get on with living. Now that time is moving too fast, I want it to slow down just so I can take a nap, and afterward, sip a mocha slowly. I’m too grown up for slushies now.

They say that the seasons in life change, but some things stay the same. It’s a funny thing, no matter how old you are, you always want what you don’t have. I wonder what my golden years will be like and if my grandkids will have Coke that comes in a bottle. Those aluminum cans just aren’t the same.

The corn is about two inches high now. The squash and tomatoes are right behind. The watermelon is in too late, but I could still have a chance. It doesn’t matter, though. If ill timing doesn’t thwart my watermelon production, it will be disease, pestilence, or a fluke invasion of frogs. I keep reading people write that “fall is in the air,” but it’s hard to believe that while it’s still in the 90’s here. It’s all right though; I’ll think of this when we’re swimming and ya’ll are shoveling snow.

There are blossoms on my pear tree, but I’m not going to say any more about it. Cilantro is on the experiment list this year. I hope to dish it up with four varieties of tomatoes: Beefsteak, Better Boy, Cherry, and Roma.

There is only one blueberry bush left, and it’s hanging by a thread. Conversely, the muscadine grapevine is going crazy. As it happens, I like blueberries better than seeded grapes. Nobody eats grapes with seeds anymore.

The forecast here is warm and breezy, and it seems the mood around here is likewise.

Knox. (After John Knox, of course.)

Thanks for playing along. Even though it came from the original idea list, I think it counts as using one of your ideas. (Thanks to Jeana for being the first to suggest the nickname, Knoxer the Boxer.) Now, there are only three more weeks for me to change my husband’s mind until we go to pick him up.

If a person puts one foot in front of the other, we call that walking. However, if the boots are extra heavy, full of water and sand, we call it perseverance.

My husband and I have been married almost ten years. Recently, we found ourselves in a difficult situation, which amounted to more than just someone stealing our parking space. I commented to him after finally noticing something after all this time, “Hey, how come you never complain? Doesn’t this situation stink?” I wallowed on about the matter and when I was finished, he remarked, “I’m a man. Men don’t complain.” Well. Then more to the point, ”And what’s it gonna change anyway?”

Sir Alexander Patterson said, “Make us masters of ourselves that we may be the servants of others.” Often, the biggest obstacle to perseverance is not an external factor, but an internal one: my bad attitude. Bluntly, my own preoccupation with smallness and self-pity is typically the reason I find it so hard to get along. Giving up has never been an option; however, I’m not beyond kicking and screaming the whole way.

The Christian life is one of resolve. Sometimes God rescues us from hardship before we face it, but often, our deliverance is found on the other side. If I’d stop running my mouth the whole time, perhaps I’d be able to consider the wisdom of others who’ve gone before and from the one who walks beside me. At the very least, walking gracefully makes other people want to be around you. I’m hoping for at least another 50 years with this guy.

There was a slight breeze in the air this evening, and it was almost comfortable. Almost. If you consider contorting your body into all kinds of configurations to slap mosquitoes, then Florida living might just be for you. There are peculiarities about life in Florida. I’ve lived in Florida my whole livelong day, and so I know about these things.

There are two seasons here: summer and winter. It’s hot 363 days a year. The other two days we don our mittens, crank up the heater, and hunker down just like it’s hurricane season. You can tell who the transplants are because they are the only people outside on those days. They’re crazy.

Yes, it does get down to the mid 30’s twice a year. As in hurricane season, we gather round the TV and watch the weathermen freak out, the reporters interview all the citrus owners, and then there’s always the close up shot of the sprinklers running to cover the precious fruit with a protective blanket of ice. It’s the same sprinkler camera angle every year.

On our honeymoon, my husband took me to see snow for the first time. That was more than enough for me. My blood is thinner than a supermodel on a carrot diet, which is a good excuse not to donate blood. Nobody would want it.

They don’t tell all the retirees about the mosquitoes before they move here. I checked the Florida Counsel of Tourism brochure, and it’s not in there. True story, we live in what used to be Mosquito County. Talk about someone sleeping through marketing class.

It’s a lot of work—slapping, twisting, spraying, and running from mosquitoes. You have to wear some form of bug repellant even in your own house. However. Five children means five sets of boots, five sets of mittens, five sets of snow shoes that can’t find their match, five scarves, five hats, five earmuffs, five snowsuits, five…..

Yep. I’ll take the mosquitoes and hunker down for the other two days.

There is an old saying by Indira Gandhi, “My grandfather once told me that there are two kinds of people: those who work and those who take the credit. He told me to try to be in the first group; there was less competition there.”

We have a certain ritual whenever one of our children misbehaves. (Where, here?!) I’ll look at my husband and remark, “YOUR daughter needs some correction.” Then my husband will comeback, “MY daughter? She acts an awful lot like you.” The idiocy of the whole thing is that the crew is usually getting away with murder as my husband and I banter back and forth about who is responsible for the circus.

A particular daughter, The Ringleader, is a great deal like my unrefined, sinful self on occasion. However, it doesn’t matter who is getting into trouble, the sinful child always belongs to the other parent. Maybe this happens in your home, too? Finger pointing dates back to the beginning of time:

He said, “Who told you that you were naked? Have you eaten of the tree of which I commanded you not to eat?” The man said, “The woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave me fruit of the tree, and I ate.” Then the LORD God said to the woman, “What is this that you have done?” The woman said, “The serpent deceived me, and I ate.” ~Genesis 3:11-13, ESV

I’m telling our family story for humor’s sake, as we know my husband answers to God for our family. He is responsible even when he’s not, if you get my meaning. (And wives are responsible for what God has given them as well.) True to nature, we all want the credit when things go well. It is someone else’s fault when circumstances are less than ideal. There’s always another reason, except the real one: I didn’t perform as I should have. Our culture reinforces this claptrap. Coffee too hot? Sue McDonald’s. Are you obese? Exactly, sue McDonald’s.

Personal responsibility must always preface personal rights. Christians are obligated to create this kind of atmosphere in their own homes if we want to raise the leaders of the next generation. The finger pointing must stop. Our society needs leaders who answer in Truman fashion, “The buck stops here.” We need influential men and women who aren’t afraid of costs and consequences.

To teach our children, we begin with ourselves. Our example is crucial. Only when we accept responsibility do we have the privilege of owning the successes. For instance, I’m never loathe to say when my Ringleading daughter shines, “That’s MY girl!” Of course, I nudge my husband when I say it too.

Perhaps you read my post this last week titled, Florida Living. After writing it, I turned to my husband and asked if I should post it. After all, it was a whole lot of words about…the weather. “Did I really just spend my precious free time writing about the weather?!” I complained. Because you know that mothers of small children guard their alone time zealously and schedule their showers only when there is a plentiful supply of hot water.

My husband replied that it was somewhat entertaining. He said it in the same way that he says “water” when you ask him what he wants to drink with his dinner. If you were to snoop in on our household sometime, you’d find that my husband thinks most everything I do is entertaining. (This is not in a good way.) I feel glad to delight him, but it’s tough holding your own against an intellectual. I don’t play chess against him anymore, and our marriage is better for it.

Back to the subject. Nobody wants to hang around a complainer, except when the complaining is about the weather. It’s the perfect commiserating topic. When life hands you lemons, you’re supposed to make lemonade and all that jazz. Yet, what if your lemon is rotten? What if there isn’t any sugar? And what if the sky is falling? Being a realist has its disadvantages.

On the bright side, fall is almost here. I can nearly taste it. We’ve spent the weekend working outside, and it wasn’t unbearable. While life is pretty good, it’s not perfect. Elisabeth Elliot says this, “If we were given all we wanted here, our hearts would settle for this world rather than the next. God is forever luring us up and away from this one, wooing us to Himself and His still invisible Kingdom, where we will certainly find what we so keenly long for.”

While we commiserate about the weather on the outside, many of us face unmentionable trials on the inside. We complain about the weather because it’s easier than the alternative. Sometimes God is willing to give us sips of heaven down here on earth and sometimes He withholds a certain thing that we long for. While I do not know if He will grant the thing I am asking Him for, I do know that He is always good and just in His dealing with His children. This knowledge is good enough. It will tie us over until we get to heaven one day, where the weather is perfect and the lemonade is always sweet.