The best thing that happened to me this year was the birth of Charles. The second best thing that happened was the job Greg landed, allowing him to work from home a lot of the time. There are so many “third best things” that I can’t decide what should go first: our health, our peace, our having enough and more, our children’s hearts that are still so impressionable.

Like every year before, I’d like to read more good books, lose 10 pounds, and love Jesus more. Not much changes. Dave Barry says, “…you need to make some New Year’s resolutions so that you can become a better you — a more-attractive you, an organized you, a you that is … well, less like you.” Ain’t that the truth.

However, it does no good to make a resolution that doesn’t have a concrete plan-of-action attached to it. For example, if I want to read more great books, there are a couple obstacles that need some tackling. So I made a plan.

The first thing I did was find out what the good books are by doing a Google search. I found all the “expert” lists and realized that out of the TOP 100 BOOKS OF ALL TIME, I’ve only already read two of them. I’m on my way.

The second thing I did was order some of them.

The third thing I will do is convert my Bible reading to King James so that I can be more familiar with sound and cadence of Old English. A lot of the good books are in Old English. Exercise the mind and you will exercise the soul. (You can quote me on that.) Just to ease into things, I’m starting with Dr. Suess’ Green Eggs and Ham.

In closing, I guess I’m with Dave Barry again, “…I wish you the best of luck with your New Year’s resolutions, and I will do my best to keep my own resolution, which is to give you, every single week, the most useful, informative and accurate columns I possibly can. Starting next year.”

Happy new year, family and friends alike!

During these busy years while you take care of small children and give yourself to being a godly wife and mother, lay the firm footing on which good writing must be built. Read great books if you have time to read anything at all. Get rid of the junk that comes in the mail, eschew all magazines and newspapers if your reading time is limited, and by “hearing” the really great authors, learn the sound and cadence of good English.
~Our favorite tell-it-like-it-is lady, Elisabeth Elliot

I didn’t think I’d last this long as a blogger either.

Flowers are the central theme in a childhood dream that hasn’t let up. I might as well just go ahead and say it plainly. Trying to find a clever way to put it won’t save me any embarrassment.

I’ve always wanted a home where flowers spill out everywhere: window boxes, pots, landscaping, and by the front door. Everything is a tidy abundance—colorful and lush. Tulips, roses, chrysanthemums, blueberries, impatiens, hollyhocks…. Any of it, all of it, and a lot of it.

The flowers are an allusion to what is found inside the home, you could say. It says, God’s handiwork—like His personhood– is generous, abundant, overflowing. Welcome. Come home and stay. Enjoy the fruitfulness.

I make strides at this sometimes. (My dream still calls for more wildflowers and less concrete.) The 70 degree weather is cooperating. The impatiens, tomatoes, and grapefruit are plentiful these days. Yesterday, I remarked to Greg, “Don’t these flowers make you so happy?!”

“No,” he replied, always theologically correct. Well then.

“Well, do they aid in your joy?”

Again, this time with a playful smirk, “No.”

Getting my theological bearings, I tried a third time, “Do they aid in your delight of the all-sufficient, marvelous handiwork of a creative, awesome God?” There.

“Yes.”

I thought of yesterday’s exchange during my reading this afternoon. Due to an unpublished review by Carmon Friedrich of Eric Brende’s Better Off (2004), I made the book my first read of the new year, even though it lacked classic status. It is the story of a MIT graduate and his new wife leaving behind modern technology for 18 months to live with a very primitive Amish-like group for the purpose of answering the question, “Is less really more?” Consider his thoughts on contentment:

In our era of high technology, affluent westerners spend billions every year to “get away” to exotic locales. They do so surely to escape the stress and frustration of modern life, but also to relieve its monotony. They spend forty-eight weeks [my edit: we are used to fifty weeks or so] of the year in the same job in a climate-controlled environment; when they go home in the evening, they travel on the same stretch of freeway to a subdivision where all the houses look the same; they watch television programs that reduce the complex issues of life to half-hour segments on a flat screen. They crave diversion, depth, escape. So they fly to Bermuda. [...] There may be another way. What if they just noticed the weather changing? (Better Off, p. 150)

While Leaf Watching for your vacation isn’t the author’s main intent in the remark, consider the sentiment. At first, simplifying our lifestyle happened more out of necessity than ideology. Going anywhere with five small children quickly became an equation where the return didn’t justify the output of energy. I could either cut down on our reproduction rate or I could cut down our keeping up with the Jones. Now, I believe that the artificial appetites created by always going here and there, to and fro are better filled by choosing carefully outside commitments and making home a place where everyone wants to be.

The children are happy to play catch, dig for worms, and play made-up games. Greg and I are content to watch from the front porch where the weather changes just enough to make it all very interesting.

There is an elderly gentleman in our church that maintains a garden. When I pass Mr. Kalm each week, we usually greet each other with, “How are your tomatoes? Mine are huge.” (He’s always got me beat. He gets the first one every time.) The warm weather has been great for tomato production. Today was the first day I was able to bring in my tomatoes with just two hands; usually I have to use my pockets and fold my shirt into a sling to carry in the bounty.

At a recent dinner we discussed our gardening woes at length. We commiserated about the weird weather and some specific problems I’m having in my garden. After spilling my woes, he answered, “The answer is PO-tash.”

PO-tash? A quick google search indicates that potash (pot-ash) is a soil amendment that acts similar to wood ashes by raising the pH.

He told me that his neighbor is growing blue impatiens, and I told him that he is lying. Then I asked him to get me some of those seed pods.

A little later in the conversation, I asked my favorite gardening friend how to increase my vegetable production, stop blossom drop, and what to do about world peace. The answer? “Sounds like you need some PO-tash.” My corn cobs measured out at only 2-5 inches last month, but instead of PO-tash, he told me that he quit growing corn too.

I’ve never found a person too busy to give me some pointers. What many local experts lack is a humble audience, a point at which I try to rectify by listening more than I talk. When I failed with my first tomato crop several years ago, I went to Mr. Kalm to inquire about the matter. So far as I could tell, there was nothing in the Bible against Black Kow manure, so I bought a few bags. If he told me to water them only on Thursdays, I would’ve tried that as well.

If you are having some troubles, there is usually a Mr. Kalm with some PO-tash sitting in the pew just a few rows ahead of you.

“After getting to know only three of my neighbors better, I was becoming more certain of an impression I had already received at the barn raising and the beard-bragging session: that there was more than one way to live with less technology. The common ground held by the different members of this community, indeed, was still being mapped out. As things stood now, what joined them together, beyond certain basic propositions on Christianity and the use of machinery, was a willingness to differ.”

~Better Off, p. 129

I’ve had a baby in the house for eight years now. Whenever someone offers to hold one of my babies, I take them up on it. It isn’t long—seven minutes precisely—until the squirming babe is returned to me because he or she is “throwing up.” If you’re a Scott baby, then you have “the excessive spit up gene.” All of my babies spit up, just like all of my babies hate, hate, hate the playpen.

Greg tries to console me by telling me that highly intelligent babies can’t be confined to playpens. They have to explore in order to stimulate their brains. They must be active, and so I should take comfort that we are raising a pack of geniuses. (He hasn’t confirmed his source on this yet.) I consoled myself with this when I was young and naïve, but now that they’re growing up all regular and such, I’m convinced God only has one genetic mold for Scott children: spit up, no playpens– and my personal favorite—dislike sleeping.

Since the Bible tells us that God grants sleep to those He loves (Psalm 127:2), I admit to feeling a little blacklisted. When mommies on the playground talk about how their babies don’t get up until 8 a.m., my eyes glaze over and I excuse myself for a spin on the merry-go-round. A hard day of work in the blazing Florida sun seems to recharge my kids, not wipe them out. Withholding sugar, keeping them up later, and giving them plenty of work and hard play leaves them eager for another day. They rise before the sun so they won’t miss the day.

I miss the night.

Yet, the view from the ranch, so to speak, is quiet and unassuming. Our 10-month-old has forgotten how to sleep through the night. Greg and I know that he will learn to sleep all-too-well by the time he reaches puberty, so we take this backward step in stride. There are wars and such going on, and we try not to get too myopic in our outlook.

When Greg got a contract in California in 2004, the kids and I moved out there with him for seven months. We rented a two bedroom apartment so that our family could be together. (Yes, we were reallllly together.) There were only six of us back then.

One day I heard a knock on the door. This was unusual because the FedEx guy had already been by earlier, and we didn’t know anyone out there yet. I peered out the peephole but couldn’t make out the person. Not that I’d know who he was anyway.

When I opened the door, he thrust out his hand to greet me with a little too much enthusiasm. He was so close—about two inches from the door jam. His arm was in already. I slammed the door on his limb, dead bolted it, grabbed the phone (which still had a dial tone), and sunk to the floor.

Now, he could’ve just been a dad whose kids wanted to meet mine. He could’ve been telling me that the exercise room was open. He could’ve been returning my stolen socks from the laundry room. But since I’m an amiable pessimist, I chose to believe that he just wanted to murder me and my children. He probably drove a white cargo van.

The reason I’m bringing this up is because it happened again yesterday. Someone rang our doorbell. I checked through the door glass and didn’t recognize the woman. Our vicious guard dog, Knoxer the Boxer, growled and tried to pounce. My heart skipped a beat. She stood very, very close to the door. I sized her up, figured I could take her, and opened the door anyway.

She handed me two dozen roses.

But still. If you knock on someone’s door, take a few steps back. You might save yourself a limb or two. If you drive a suspicious vehicle, I’d suggest backing up a couple feet.

Greg lets me out of the house every now and then. As it happens, I don’t care to leave too often. Everything I love most is right here, though I haven’t always known this.

Last night we engaged a babysitter and left for a quiet dinner on the pier, just the two of us. Before there were seven, there were two. (Not for long, though.) As we approached the beach, dozens of surfers were leaving as the sun was going down. Some were in wetsuits and some wore only shorts. The surf was impressive, as was the weather. I miss Florida and we haven’t even left yet.

There are a few restaurants on the Cocoa Beach pier. We chose the one with salt water tanks and nice views of the waves. The bands outside were gearing up—fifty-something-year-old men in flip flops, Hawaiian shirts, and guitars. They are the rock stars who play for tips in plastic Solo cups, recently emptied of beer and dreams.

I ordered shrimp scampi and Greg had the catch-of-the-day, which was tuna. I thought tuna only came in a can. Greg talked about work and told me a funny story. His buddy went squirrel hunting with his son. They didn’t catch anything. On the way home, they ran over—guess what– a squirrel. This was funny to me, but I thought it was more humorous that we were talking about it. Usually Greg just forwards me his friend’s email.

We left without ordering dessert. On our way out, we stopped to watch some fishermen and to listen to Soul Man. (I’m a soooul man. I’m a soooul man.) The keyboard guy played with one hand. The next song, he was the lead singer and guitar player. I’m certain his versatility was due to good music theory during childhood piano lessons. Piano players are a good breed.

We drove home slowly even though our babysitter was still on-the-clock. Today is another day. We added fig and plum trees to our “orchard.” I will rehearse music for tomorrow’s service, and when that is done, we will eat, play, and work some more.

Florida oranges in January are akin to northerner’s summer zucchini; they’re basically free for the taking. Usually my children peel their oranges, and on occasion, they’ll slice them into wedges first. This morning was different, however. I hand-squeezed several glasses of orange juice. We drank the oranges instead of eating them.

What followed left me incredulous. My girls took a swig, put the glass down, and declared, “This does not taste like Publix orange juice.”

“Exactly.”

“We like Publix orange juice better.”

My oldest son– the only person with any sense left– was gleeful. “More for us, yippee! They don’t know what they’re missing, Mom! Right?”

Of course, my son is right. While my daughters gladly prefer a cheap imitation over the real thing, my son recognizes he’s been gypped. He’s smart. Years of consuming inferior juice have left my girls with an appetite for it. The only way the juice I offered them this morning would be “more real” is if they poked straws into oranges still hanging on the tree. My girls haven’t just settled for processed juice; they prefer it! It’s madness.

Yet everyday we exchange our birthrights for a bowl of soup and fake orange juice when we believe that this is all there is. Christians are called to live with Christ the King in sight. When we believe His promises and then pray even still for more faith, we drink the real stuff.

Knoxer the Boxer. That’s what we named our dog. He’s five-months-old now and coming along. He doesn’t mess in the house anymore. He can sit, lay down, shake hands, go to his crate, and come on command. He’s protective of the baby and walks well on a leash. He snores at your feet by the fire.

But as soon as the front door inches open… he chucks his brains and tears off. Cue the Chariots of Fire music. In William Wallace-like fashion, he gallops the countryside. FREEDOM! He’s off. He’s fast.

Now, we’ve tried to stop this habit. To do this, a dog trainer suggested that we not feed him at mealtimes. Instead, he instructed, carry around a bag of food in a pouch. During the day, call him. When he comes, feed him out of your hand. Repeat this all day long. He will be hungry and come. By the end of the week, Knox was coming on command alright….so long as he wasn’t outside.

Since the dog cherishes his freedom over enticing doggy treats, my oldest son devised a great trick during one particular desperate moment. As the garbage trucks approached, my son laid down on the ground and started fake crying. The dog came over to investigate. Then my son nabbed him. Score one for the boy, eh?

People console me about this “dog bolting” habit by reminding me that he is just a baby. Babies do not have the maturity to consider others’ needs above their own. Babies do not prize loyalty, honor, and obedience above self-gratification, self-esteem, and self-indulgence. They seek pleasure that is immediate, not holding out for a pleasure that is future. They do not deny themselves.

While we seek a faith that is simple and child-like, our aim is to be mature, complete, not lacking anything. We seek wisdom by fearing God and asking Him for more wisdom. The Bible tells us over and over: get wisdom, love God, and (by golly) obey Him! The Christian life is not one of rights but of responsibilities. Our maturity is a reflection of God’s glory (“so that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven” Matthew 5:16).

One day Knoxer the Boxer will be a loyal, mature pooch. He will come in when he’s called. He’ll obey my commands when he doesn’t feel like it. He will love me more than he loves to run wild. But for now? He’s still just a big baby.

Perseverance must finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. If any of you lacks wisdom, he should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to him. ~James 1:4-5

Little ones and the Bible
Many years back, Greg taught a class on the Westminster Catechism. There was a pre-test during the first class. One of the questions asked, “What is sin?” The test was fill-in-the-blank, essay style and made for some interesting answers. One answer to the sin question we’ll never forget was, “What Satan made up.”

Which reminds me of another story back when my oldest was just three-years-old. We have fire ant piles here in Florida. The burning consequence for stepping in one of these is swift and painful. After one distressing episode, my son asked, “If God is good, then why did He make fire ants?” The problem of evil concerns us whether we’re young or old.

Catechisms don’t make the answers any easier or more palatable to difficult questions, but insofar as they are faithful to Scripture, we can learn proper doctrine and correct thinking on sticky matters.

The children’s catechism version that we use answers the matter of sin like this:

Q. 28. What is Sin?
A. Sin is any want of conformity unto, or transgression of the law of God.

Q. 29. What is meant by want of conformity?
A. Not being or doing what God requires.

Q. 30. What is meant by transgression?
A. Doing what God forbids.

I won’t make the case for catechism memorization, because I think that daily, faithful reading of the Scriptures to young children is more important. But if they’re begging for more, why not add catechism discussion and memorization to your family time? If nothing else, I can answer the children with more than, “I don’t know. Go ask your dad!”

Sometimes.

A reminder to live well, finish well…

The fretting friction of our daily life
Heart-weariness with loving patience borne
The meek endurance of the inward strife
The painful crown of thorn
Prepare the heart for God’s own dwelling place
Adorn with sacred loveliness His shrine
And brighten every inconspicuous grace
For God alone to shine.
Mary E. Atkinson

This diner’s open

Knox doesn’t know where his dog food is, but he can read?

When we moved here back in 2001, the realtor told us that the people in the house behind ours had TEN children. My husband’s first reaction wasn’t one of finances, which is a common thought for head-of-household providers. Instead, he wondered, “What happens when they all get sick?!”

The Scott household has five members down now, two to go. We are on Day 8 with colds that won’t bow to Vitamin C. Thanks for asking.

Lately, most of my time online is spent researching property and plans as we make forward steps with buying acreage. (Background info. is mostly here and here.) I said that I’d journal our journey, and I hesitate talking aloud on things that aren’t a done deal. But in the event that it might be helpful to others or cause us to rethink some things that need adjusting, I’ll keep updating.

Costs vs. location
The further out you go, the cheaper land gets. We have set a budget of 2,000 an acre for pasture and water, so this limits many locations. We’d rather be connected with a local community: living, working, playing, and worshipping with the people who are our neighbors. Finding the right balance has consumed a lot of time. We’ve tentatively narrowed it to South Central Kentucky and South Central Tennessee.

Building a house vs. buying an existing house
We’ve remodeled two houses (while living in them) to suit our growing family. Most dining rooms accommodate a family of four just fine, but that makes buying a house for a larger family more difficult. If you do a cost analysis of building new vs. buying old, it’s generally a wash. In other words, you can’t remodel a house with the money you’ve saved unless the existing house is greatly discounted for its poor condition.

Experience has taught us that it is better to start from scratch than to demolish and remodel. It is cheaper as well. When Greg raised our kitchen ceiling, he found plumbing that went diagonal instead of around the perimeter. When he opened a wall one time, he found no insulation and access to the outside. So a good rule of thumb is to always take a reasonable time estimate and then quintuple it.

Another idea we’re considering is building a house that relies on solar energy, wood heat, and water from a spring house or well. This would cost more initially, but in the long run, it would save us a bundle. I’m not sure if this puts us technically “off-grid” or not, but I like the idea of saving money and greening the earth a little.

What’s next
We anticipate a trip to buy land sometime near the beginning of March. We have a few lose ends to tie up before that, but it seems we’re on schedule. In the meantime, we’re getting more information on properties that would suit us, fiddling with possible floor plans to show local builders, and getting our house in sellable condition.

Who cares?
The end of all this is God’s glory. (I elaborated on the “how” of this in earlier posts.) You can decide now to raise your children to the glory of God by loving God and resisting the god of this age wherever you’re at. To wit, this doesn’t mean that we freak out when our children hear others cussing, so we need to run to the country where they’re too busy chewing to cuss. (I actually don’t mind my children witnessing vulgarity.) That’s not what being holy looks like. Rather, we purpose to teach them to love God and to resist the things of the world by insulating them within.

Consumerism is the god of America’s children. Cultivating contentment is the response. When we are discontent, we are not grumbling about our circumstances, per se. We are actually grumbling, raising our fists against God. Who owns it all? Who provides for our every need? When we complain and practice discontentment, we tell God that He is not sufficient.

Rick Saenz answered me in a comment today:

Although the most people throughout history have lived satisfactory lives as subsistence farmers, they also lived very differently than we live now. (I’ll post some more about that later today.) As we fret over how to provide a good and sustainable life for our children, we spend less time worrying about generating sufficient material wealth than we do raising them to be content with much less wealth that their parents have become dependent on.

Since godliness with contentment is great gain, we measure our steps and make deliberate choices to live our lives accordingly with God’s help.