After all the anticipation and waiting, we brought Knox home last Friday. Our eight-year-old declared, “This is the best day of my life.”

The very first trick the dog performed was to run into the sliding glass door several times. The mistress of the house cannot be found for comment.

My husband and I don’t get out often on dates anymore, but when we have the chance, we take it. Greg’s dad stayed with the older four one evening last week, while Greg, I, and the baby went out for dinner. Afterward, we went to the grocery store. Très romantique.

At the checkout, the cashier commented on our grocery load and asked how many children we had. I don’t recall going through a checkout where the conversation didn’t turn to the number of children we have. (I never shop more than once a week.) Then, as the custom goes, they’ll ask me if I’ve seen “that family on TV with like 15 kids or something.”

They are referring, of course, to the Duggar family, which we aren’t even close to catching up with. For the record, the current count is 16 children: 10 boys and 6 girls. We are small potatoes in comparison.

The reason I’m mentioning this is because someone mailed me a DVD Discovery show feature on the Duggar family. On it, the mother of all 16 children, Michelle Duggar, says (to paraphrase), “It’s a lot easier now with all my older ones. The hardest part was when I had five little ones.” I think I rewound that part fifteen times.

I want my husband to think the best of me, to feel confident that our children are receiving a great education. I want him to think he is leaving his children in very capable hands. He knows that some days we get many things accomplished, have good conversations, and everyone obeys. He also knows that some days I am nothing more than a Whac-A-Mole player—stomping out trouble with wild, instinctive swats.

When you have small children, you must remember that two-steps-forward-and-one-step-back is still moving in the right direction. As a patient farmer knows, some things just take a long time. One day, mothers of small children will reap where they’ve sown. It is not for nothing when we take careful, thoughtful time to bring our children alongside of us. It is for God’s glory that we raise faithful children and that we glorify God in the simple, dailyness of life.

Speaking of faithful, I was praising my third child, a lamb of a daughter, for her gentle and quiet spirit last night. She lay on my bed as we had some girl talk. I told her that she’d make a great mother one day. She mentioned that she’d like to have ten children.

“Why ten, honey?” I asked.

She replied, “Because eleven is too many.”

It’s always a pleasure to meet people who read this weblog. So far, I’ve had the privilege to meet many–probably about a few dozen. It’s great! It keeps me honest, as it’s hard to rhapsodize too much when you know you’ll be found out.

A regular commenter, “Jo in Orlando,” came over with her family this past weekend. She has a husband and four respectful, great boys. I do believe now there is hope for the next generation. The time went by too fast, and I hope they will come again soon. They are kindred spirits, and it is always exciting to meet those kinds of folks along the way.

Don’t be afraid to drop me a line. The combox won’t explode, your computer won’t self-destruct, and your email box won’t be filled to the brim with spam. The worse thing that could happen is that I invite you for coffee. Ask anyone. My coffee is worth it, especially if we happen to have some Starbucks’ White Christmas.

The scene occurred over ten years ago, but I can still remember it like yesterday. I was babysitting a group of little ones, and we were all gathered around the table late in the evening. The doorbell rang, and it was unexpected. We all looked at one another, asking with our eyes if anyone knew who it could be. Then the three-year-old inquires aloud in nineteenth century fashion, “Who could that be at this hour?!”

I don’t remember who was at the door or anything else about the occasion. I just recall taking note on the power of books, the influencing power of well-chosen words. Some writers write with a certain cadence that given enough exposure, draws you in and makes you begin thinking in the same manner that they write.

My eight-year-old is a diehard old-version Hardy Boys fan. He reads with obsession—about one book every day or two. It seems now that there are more days than books, and he is having to settle for reruns now. No doubt this is why he is always game for a decent “baffling mystery.”

In the same manner, old-fashioned girl books are the cause of my two-year-old’s sweet response, “Why, yes, I shall have some tea.” She also walks around saying, “Hello. I’m Johnny Cash,” but we don’t have to linger on that one.

As a man thinks in his heart, so is he. (Pr. 23:7) A situation occurred this afternoon that brought this to mind. Instead of choosing gentle words, I chose hard words, which resulted in my having to ask forgiveness. Like Anne Shirley, I am becoming adept at apologies lately. I wondered that if my mind was more saturated with Scripture, would I respond differently? Would I counter my usual response with godliness? Do we become like that which we read, enjoy, and meditate on?

The Bible teaches us so, as our children would aptly demonstrate.

…for I find my delight in your commandments,
which I love.
I will lift up my hands toward your commandments, which I love,
and I will meditate on your statutes.
~Psalm 119:47 - 48

I lost a week’s worth of data again, and I don’t particularly care to hunt it down. You may have noticed the server was down a lot this week, and I am not sure why or what is happening. I suspect it is another MySQL problem. They have people who figure out these things, and I’m not one of them.

I’ve learned that you shouldn’t fight things that will whup your tail. Computers, the I.R.S., and getting out the door in under an hour with 5 littles and a puppy all come to mind. If it helps my case any, I did post a couple times yesterday. Yes, in one day. Just so you know that I’m not a complete, utter failure as a blogger.

Thanks for visiting. Have a nice day. Come again soon. See you next time. Don’t forget your sippie cups on the way out the door today.

The corn stalks are knee-high, but that isn’t the only clue that summer is over. Fall is here in Florida, and the tomatoes are finally setting blossoms. The squash is all a’bloom. It was only earlier this week that the temperatures had dipped into the low 70’s. My children gave up a loud “whoop,” put on their winter coats, and headed outside. One of them even found mittens.

They were rehearsing. We will have three or four days of cold this year, and they want to be ready. In the same way, my daughters rehearse for a future home with flair as they sip their tea out of plastic dishes with their pinkies in the air. My son practices for the day he will provide for his family one day—fixing things, helping his sisters, and working without complaining. Even our puppy, Knox, thinks he’s big stuff—barking at vicious bushy-tailed squirrels that might attack our family. He’ll be useful one day; I’m sure of it.

Everyone is looking forward to one day. For the young person, it might be the day of their marriage. For others, it is the hope of seeing great-grandchildren who are faithful to Christ. And for every person who believes in Christ, the promise of heaven is the best “one day” there is.

As for my soon-to-be five-year-old, she is excited about her upcoming birthday. She has requested to go bowling (?!?!) and “get a medium frosty instead of a small one at Wendy’s.”

In the early morning and late evenings, there is the promise of fall in the air. I can taste it if I am outside early enough, and it is delicious. Did you know that fall is the best time of the year? My garden thinks so too.

I am still updating the sideblog for anyone interested. I post about one or two new links each day, and that is a pace that works well for me. In another life season (that has nothing to do with fall, but everything to do with five little ones), I think I could write more. But this is enough for now.

Amy’s Humble Musings official quote person, Elisabeth Elliot, writes on the subject of finding the will of God for your life:

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. Oswald Chambers calls it “breaking the husk of my individual independence of God.” Until that break comes, all the rest is “pious fraud.” 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.

And speaking of “breaking the husk of my individual independence,” my fourth child looks like she should try some of that:

There is a phenomenon that women talk about in their secret circles. The stories and circumstances may vary, but the diagnosis is the same: Mommy Brain. This is what usually happens to women a week after they have a baby, but it can strike at any time, really. Once you’re a mother, there’s no effective remedy for Mommy Brain. It’s hopeless.

Unfortunately, I display Mommy Brain everyday, several times a day. You’re doomed if you have several children of the same gender. Double doomed if they have names that start with the same letter. It goes something like this, “Ab, An, Am, Ah, whatever-your-name-is, YOU!!!, come here, please.”

This “Mommy Brain” thing happened to me recently when the doctor asked me how much my fourth child weighed. Like I’m supposed to know that, her birthday, and her full name at the drop of a hat.

Now, hear me out. It’s not as if I sit around the house studying Trivial Pursuit cards, filling my mind with useless information. I know many things about my children. I know that my oldest son needs longer suit pants. I know that my second child doesn’t like mayonnaise on her sandwich. I know that my third child is really, really good at Memory games. My fourth child? She could count to ten in Spanish before she was two, but her soul won’t get to heaven if she keeps refusing to pray. And our sweet baby– to get him to stop crying, give him a banana and some tunes and he’s good to go. Just whatever you do, don’t put a blanket on him.

Back when I only had to worry about myself, things were easy. I could grab my purse and keys, and go! But now, I am the brains for several people, and it gets complicated. How does a person prioritize information with so many non-important details competing for primetime? Is there a special pill for Mommy Brain?

How good it is to know that God never suffers this human condition. He knows the number of hairs on every person’s head, and He never calls us by the wrong name.

I still can’t tell you the weight of each of my children, but the next time anyone wants to know how much one of my children weighs, I’ll answer, “No mayo or tomato, extra pickle, turkey-and-cheese please on whole wheat. …Toasted.”

Take that.

He determines the number of the stars
and calls them each by name.
~Psalm 147:4

Due to the amount of spam this site receives, my filter settings are very high. A few people have asked if I am purposely blocking their comments. I’m not. It’s just that some legitimate comments are blocked along with the junk. It’s the way it has to be to keep our senses unoffended from spam. Feel free to send your comments via the Contact Form, and I’ll post them when I get a chance. Thanks for reading and writing.

If you’ve never seen a 30-year-old almost have a heart attack, then you weren’t there this morning when that dog ran through my vegetable garden. He squashed my squash. Good thing for me, as it happened; I had an appointment this morning with a general practitioner to be checked out. I figured now that I’m three-oh, I should be looking for things like – I don’t know—whatever diseases older people get.

I need some other blood work than just the usual obstetric panel. Which, if you’re keeping count, I’ve had drawn seven times in the past nine years.

Around these parts, a five-kid family is huge. So, as it goes, the topic for my first visit with the general doc is my fertility. I rather enjoy the discussion usually. Really, most people are just curious about how much food costs and what our shoe closet must look like. For the record, he’s a very nice doc, even if he is a little too close to my own age.

Any psychiatric disorders? [snicker, snicker]

Do you drink? [snicker, snicker]

Are you under stress? [laugh, howl]

This was just the nurse who did the prescreening. When the doctor came in, he mentioned, “You don’t see such LARRRRGE families anymore.” Ha, ha, I thought, You should meet the wackos who read my blog. Five is nothing. But instead I just said, “And yes, I’ve seen that family on TV….”

“You know, the only people that have tons of children anymore are…” He paused as he searched for the right words for “right wing Christian fundamentalists,” or maybe it was “Muslim terrorists” but I wasn’t quite sure. He trailed off, and I let him off the hook by changing the subject to my great blood pressure stats. It’s always 110/70. I’m in great shape. This is good, because I need all my oomph to keep that dog out of my garden.

We live on an island, sandwiched between two rivers. The driving isn’t too painful, especially when you consider we came from Orlando. The view is pleasant. Our house isn’t waterfront, but you wouldn’t know it by our tax and insurance bills. There is lots of water. Bridges, palm trees, and boats—sail, fishing, and weekend cabin cruisers—all dot the landscape. Well, actually the boats only dot the landscape after a hurricane, but you know what I meant.

We have a nice church within walking distance of our house—small, reformed, and they love on you like family. We have nice friends, which we spent the weekend shooting pool, cooking on the grill, and trading inside jokes with. We have lots of sunshine, close beaches, and a swimming pool that doesn’t need to be winterized.

For the past five years, Greg’s commute has been 45 minutes each way, even without bad traffic. He works on the most remote launch complex at Cape Canaveral, and no, we can’t get you into Kennedy Space Center for free if you’re in the area. (The Cape and KSC are different things, even though they’re in the same area.) His office is so top secret that I’ve never even seen it.

We’ve enjoyed our life here, but the opportunity to move on has presented itself. Greg recently took a job with a small engineering firm that allows him to work from home. Until the end of the year, he’ll be working both jobs, until he transitions someone into his old position at the Cape. After that, his office is at home. And home is wherever we want it to be.

We don’t take moving lightly. I’ve lived in Orlando my entire life, up until we moved to the coast to be closer to Greg’s job. (Back then, it was a 120-mile daily commute.) We are talking with family about moving with us, and they are warm to the idea. Even some of our friends are throwing the idea around. This next move will be our last, Lord willing.

I detailed some of our long-term dreams in an off-the-cuff post I wrote over a year ago titled, Thinking Outside the Box. It was one of the more popular posts I’ve written, with comments either strongly for or against my ideas. (link) We don’t know if God has placed this opportunity in our path so that we can follow this dream or if He’s just freeing up Greg to spend more time with our family right here, right now. We are OK either way. I wish we could stay here and pursue this dream, but land prices forbid it.

As we consider our options, would you consider dropping me a line? If you absolutely love where you live, could you tell me about it? What makes it wonderful? If we are looking for mild winters, a small town, a reformed church, and 40-acres-and-a-mule for a good price, where should we be looking? Thanks in advance to anyone who takes time to write. Your comments and thoughts are appreciated.

After looking at dozens of leads, it seems the Carolinas, Georgia, and Virginia are generally pricier than their Kentucky, Missouri, and Texas counterparts are. We’re concentrating on the southeastern U.S. for now. No hurry, though. While my allergies would love it, the west coast is probably out because Greg has to travel occasionally to D.C. on business. Ditto to my friendly Canadian and Down Under residents who wrote.

Some places I never would’ve considered until now are northern Alabama and Texas. So thanks a lot for expanding the search area a few more thousand miles! Someone out there knows a friend who knows this guy who was talking to his dentist about selling and so he told his cousin about this great property. This is the way these things work.

I won’t belabor the point any further, but feel free to continue sending leads. I’ll move on to another subject soon. Right now, my brain is mush. But I creamed my five-year-old in Slap Jack today, so I can pretend this conversation didn’t happen:

“Mom, can I build a fire?”

“OK. Have-you-done-your-chores?”

“And then I can?”

“Hand me that rag. Can you what?”

“Start a fire.” [It got down to the 60's today. Woo!]

“Yes. I mean, what? Start a fire? No. Have you done your chores?”

Brain– mush, mush!

One of the things about being a “jack of all trades, master of none” is the obvious issue of being a “Jack” all your life and never a Michael Jordan. I do several things on a respectable level, but I’m not great at anything.

My piano skills are a good example of this. People sometimes pay me to teach and perform for them, but it’s (rightly) never very much. One of my girls used to cry whenever I’d rehearse. All my trying never amounted to greatness, but it passes just fine for funerals, church services, and the occasional wedding. As far as I can tell, people are crying because of the touching event and not because of me.

Our idea of greatness and God’s standard, as usual, are at odds. Our post-modern culture values power, wealth, and people who do weird things on TV. But servanthood is God’s plan for greatness. Do I want to avoid mediocrity? Then the prescription and preparation for greatness is humility.

God prepares His people to do great things in small places: in the quietness of a humble home, in the meekness of a marginal job, and if you remember the story—in the lonely fields of some bleating sheep. Loving and obeying God is the greatest thing.

Every day I have a choice to do the thing God has set before me. (How often do people go looking for the “will of God” in their lives, when it is right before them?) A cup of water without complaining, a prayer offered when no one is looking, and a gentle answer in return for a harsh taunt…this is how we say, “Yes,” to God. This is how we avoid wasting our lives. This is the way of greatness in a Kingdom so unlike the one we’ve built around ourselves.