The discussion of Sarah Palin on the Republican ticket heats up the debate on woman’s roles. This didn’t happen with Hillary, but since Palin is a conservative and a mother of young children, liberals and conservatives alike are having fun with this new fodder for the debate. We’re talking about it around our dinner table. My email box is full of, “So, what say you on this Palin thing?” All of the sudden, my friends are wondering about the sanity of writing in Ron Paul or Mickey Mouse.

There are plenty of comment blogs having fun analyzing the strategy of what good men and women should do with their vote. I haven’t written in to those (yet), but I did want to finally write about something I’ve been meaning to for a long time. The Palin ticket just highlighted some of my friends boasting, “A woman’s highest calling is to be a wife and mother.”

This is not what the Bible teaches.

It is right to opine that the role of a wife and mother is one’s personal calling. It is also good to note that the occupation is normative when reading the Bible as a whole. I am a wife and mother. It is what God has called me to do. However, this is not true for all women. All women should NOT aspire to be a wife and mother. Instead, all women should aspire to present their bodies a living sacrifice to the Lord. God is glorified in us when we are satisfied with His will for our lives. This is why some marry, some stay single, some have children, and some are barren. Glorify God in your present circumstance, the one you are in right now, not in a future marriage that may or may not happen.

Paul counsels the unmarried to stay that way if they can do so without sinning in I Corinthians 7. If there were a “highest calling” award, it would be for the unmarried woman who is devoted completely to the Lord’s affairs:

An unmarried woman or virgin is concerned about the Lord’s affairs: Her aim is to be devoted to the Lord in both body and spirit. But a married woman is concerned about the affairs of this world—how she can please her husband. I am saying this for your own good, not to restrict you, but that you may live in a right way in undivided devotion to the Lord.

The Body of Christ is made of many believers. The Church universal is diverse, not entirely made of Western upper class families. As women (and men, but I am not referring to them), we can do God’s will in the middle of China’s one-child communist government and in poverty that requires all members of the family to work for their food. Any other gospel that makes the widow, the abandoned, the orphan, the poor, the single, or the barren unable to attain high favor (or a high calling with God, if you will) because of their circumstance is really no good news at all. The Lord is honored by our love and obedience to His Word, not in our ambition to serve in the “highest calling” as a wife and mother one day.

In the Kingdom economy, the first is last and the last is first. The greatest is a servant, and that is why I do not truly understand the propping up of the nobility of motherhood beyond what is reasonable. Superlatives are misguided here. A single woman who works as a janitor during the night shift—and does her work as unto the Lord—- she has the highest calling. Her reward is the greatest. The one who loves the Lord with her whole heart, soul, and mind—she is the one who pleases God. This is the good news– that no matter who you are, what you’re doing, or where you’re at—that faith in God and the work of His son Jesus Christ pleases Him.

Again, since we have to make life choices and not all choices are created equal, the Apostle Paul tells the young unmarried girls to aspire to serving the Lord, not a husband. The unmarried woman is concerned about the Lord’s affairs; the married woman is concerned about worldly affairs and pleasing her husband. Trust me on this, he’s right. Being a wife and mother is a good and noble thing, but it is not the highest thing.

I asked around about where I could buy goat milk, and the next thing I know, a farmer pulls up towing a trailer of Nubian-Saanan goats. Something got lost in the translation, I see, but I’m not blaiming the little Amish boy who set up the whole thing. This was the same boy we got the kittens from. Perhaps I should try, “Where can I get a ton of cheap oil?” and see what happens.

We weren’t ready for goats for several reasons. The main one being that our fencing is fine for horses and cows but would need a lot of remediation for keeping in goats. My book reading has finally proved somewhat useful, but judging by the way we handled the goats, there is only so much you can learn from a book. There are more obvious reasons—like I still can’t find the shower curtain—but fencing would be the biggest obstacle if we thought this would be a commitment we’d like to make.

Nevertheless, we agreed to babysit the female goat, and it was a good experience for us if one is high on learning and low on fun, which we are sometimes. We kept her in a calving stall, and it was just fine for keeping her from escape. This isn’t a long term solution, of course, but it allowed us to get a taste of the commitment that keeping a milking goat would involve. Goats need companionship and are generally sold in pairs for that reason.

If you are following our story, I already said that after milking a cow and a goat in the same evening, I thought a goat was a better fit for us. After actually keeping a goat now, I’m thinking I just need to get over my intimidation of getting underneath an 800 pound wild beast.

Both animals, goat and cow, are difficult to handle when they’re scared and nervous, so I’m not going to compare their ease in handling. But here are my observations on our very short stint of goat milking anyway:

1. 1. That’s a lot of work for such a little bit of milk. Before milking a goat, you’ve got to come up with a way to get her in a stanchion. Then you’ve got to clean her and feed her a bucket of grain to destract her while you milk. To get enough milk for a family, you’d either have to change your drinking habits or milk another goat. Of course, this process that should’ve taken five minutes turned into an hour for us, but still, five cups of milk isn’t worth it. I can see myself getting very upset over spilled milk.




Don’t look at me. Do not milk me.
2. 2. Each goat has her own personality, but this one was about 5 years old and she still kicked and jumped wildly during milking. We didn’t have a stanchion in this particular barn, and Greg couldn’t constrain her. I think she’d settle down once she’s in a routine, but in general, goats are very fiesty. I know some people like that.




Greg: Rocket science is easier. Believe me.
3. 3. My last point is the same as the first. Commiting to milking a goat means that you have to be home during milking hours everyday. The idea seems reasonable for a cow who is giving three or four gallons a day that you can make cheese, yogurt, and ice cream with, coupled with the fact our lifestyle is very home-based anyway. Yet, for five cups of measly milk? Not worth it for me at this point in time. It would be worth it, however, if I had a young baby. By the time we could make a proper pasture, my baby will be old enough for cow’s milk. Heavy producers are known to give almost a gallon a day, but I know it’s not my luck to end up with a heavy producer.

It’s my habit to breeze over the details, and that’s gotten me in a fix more than once. Greg has a little saying whenever I start talking big plans, “OK Hon, I’ll just knock it with a two-by-four.” It’s a private joke (that is no longer private) that arose out of our remodeling days. I’d say that we could just move that little wall over there-y, and he’d say that it was loadbearing, and I would tell him to just build a header and stop ruining the idea. Why else did I marry a rocket scientist. He’d argue that it wasn’t that easy, and then in mock concession, he’d add, “I’ll just knock it with a two-by-four.” Issue solved. The two-by-four is my answer to everything, right after joint compound. You can do a lot with joint compound.

One of my brilliant ideas –and I mean that in the loosest sense–was to move into the farmhouse before it was outfitted with electricity and plumbing. Greg is pretty handy, and think of all the money we could save. I love saving money. Greg thought it was a good idea, too, right up until he remembered that we have six small children. Oh… them. It is easy to plan great things when the children are sleeping. You forget for a short minute that they need sippy cups and clean water. He basically said my idea was dumb without using the word “dumb” in the way that husbands do who are good at handling their wives.

Judging from the fact that I still can’t find the shower curtain, I think we did the right thing by hiring out the construction job. In recent years, we’ve torn out ceilings, torn out flooring, and torn out the walls that met the two. (I use the term “we” liberally. I just hold the flood light and joint compound at midnight.) It’s hard work, made all the more difficult with young children underfoot. I’m comfortable with being done with that season of our lives. Make no mistake: we’ll still be doing crazy stuff with a backhoe. It’ll just be outside now.

Now, a recent introduction to a stranger left her gawking at my brood of children and quipping, “Yeah and I bet you homeschool too.” Hm. I really need to lose the denim jumper. Speaking of my wardrobe, I loosened the Superman cape, looked at her, paused, and said very slowly for emphasis, “It is very…hard….work and sometimes I am not very good at it.” Because it is the truth. She stopped and registered my meaning before she walked away.

You can’t just knock hard stuff with a two-by-four. I can’t smile cheerfully and giggle, “And my heart is full of blessings too!” Hee hee. The path of the Christian who carries her cross is difficult (in whatever occupation she finds herself, motherhood isn’t the epitome of hardship), and I don’t do anyone any favors by pretending it isn’t. It is better to say, consider the cost. It is better to say, it is only by grace. It is better to say, I am weak and the Lord is strong. I don’t do anyone any favors by hiding my failure and sin. If I make following Jesus look easy, then you need to ask me what I’m selling.

I don’t always love the Lord God with my whole heart, and sometimes I love my sleep more than I love my children. Practically speaking. (I’m good at the philosophicals, though.) These are just my good sins (that would be an oxymoron), and I’ve just gotten started. The internet isn’t always the best place to be totally real with one another, but I think over a very strong cup of coffee, sharing the hard stuff is a very good thing to do. Here’s to being real with one another the next time we meet.

Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ. For if anyone thinks he is something, when he is nothing, he deceives himself. ~Galatians 6:2-3

I let the kiddos spend all week trying to erect it because it kept them out of my hair for a lonnnnng time. Greg came home, and it’s up correctly now.

Do you see my boy’s new farm dogs, who are supposed to be WORKING farm dogs? You know that’s not how it went, right? More later.

Meet Cocoa (on the left) and Doogle, the latest additions to the managerie. Here’s their story.

Remember the kittens I rescued from death a few weeks ago? They turned into pets. You’re not supposed to do that. They’re utilitary mousers. We’re still soft from the city, as you can see.

Whenever the children go anywhere, the kittens pounce and follow along. It’s quite humorous. When we go hiking, sometimes they get stuck and start crying, so we have to carry them. I always thought cats were snotty, but these seem to have some sense of gratefulness. They know they were rescued from the pit, and it’s like they want to show their affection. That’s what I tell myself.

Possums and other critters were trying to get the kittens at night. After a couple nights of guarding, Greg and I agreed that I had better things to do with my time, like finding the shower curtain. Greg was out of town or else I would let him tramp around the woods with a flashlight at midnight. It’s just not my thing. The other factor, which is the most important, is that we promised McGregor a farm dog ever since Knoxer the Boxer went off to the police academy to sniff out drugs. I hope they are giving Knox some of the loot, because he needed it to cool his heels.

You see how this works, right? If you give a mouse a cookie, you’ll need farm cats. If you feed the farm cats a mouse with a cookie, then you’ll need a dog. Is there something that comes after this? Yes, you’ll need the dog’s brother so he won’t be lonely.

This ten-year-boy-without-a-dog-thing has been going on long enough. So we went down to the animal shelter, chose a sheperd mix puppy, and imagine that, this puppy came with a brother. You see how this works.

This is the crying part, so if you are a mom, you’ll have to bear with me. When we brought the dogs home, I told McGregor to find some dishes we could use as dog bowls. He disappeared upstairs. He returned a few minutes later with Knox’s old dish bowls that he’d been saving in his lego trunk. (!!) It’s been almost a year now. There is a very strong sadness McGregor has kept with him just underneath the surface, and he agreed that all was right with the world now that we brought home his farm dogs.

All goes well for four days. They are very good-natured dogs. We tested them out with someone’s chickens, and they didn’t eat or chase them. This is good since they will be protecting our future chickens and not eating them. The dogs also don’t run away, and you have to know I like that.

McGregor has been sleeping with the dogs every night, just like a ten-year-old boy ought to do. The older children even lasted about 20 mintues in the tent before they heard “a growling noise” that was certainly a pack of wild mountain lions, for sure.

Yesterday morning was bad. At the animal hospital, one dog returned positive for Parvo. We rushed him in due to serious lethagy, vomiting, and bloody stools. If you don’t know what Parvo is, it’s horrible. These dogs were vaccinated against Parvo, but Cocoa is hooked up to a fluid and antibiotic IV in the doggy hosptial now. We’ve boosted the other dog, and now we wait for the bill, er, I mean, we wait for the hopeful recovery of poor Cocoa.

I paid twenty bucks for this dog at the animal shelter. He is a stray. He is a mutt. Nobody wants him or would blame me for not treating this dog. Thank you, Lord, for your compassion toward us. He is a dog, afterall, but there are arguments to be made on both sides of this issue. I know. Greg and I wrestled with it, and in the end, we gave him a chance. I felt glad that we were in the position to do it, and I can’t sit and dwell on all the better uses for the money. In the end, I didn’t think this was the time to be teaching McGregor about the hard lessons in life. They will come in due time.

We will find out tomorrow if Cocoa makes it.

The cows came home this week. I’m sure I could play with that phrase a little, except that it would require some effort. I’m into passive farming these days. Here’s what that means. I get to watch the scene above while I’m typing this. Somebody else pays for and takes care of the cows. I’m glad I thought this up. In my defense, if I were afraid of work, I wouldn’t have six small children. I’m just saying.

This is every two-year-old boy’s dream, eh? I’m glad The Cow Whisperer likes us. We’re the source of much amusement for him, and to think, I haven’t even started talking.

Don’t try to sneak up on us, or our Watch Cats will pounce you. Cocoa will too; he’s on his way home now. Yessss.

If my younger kids didn’t whine and if my computer didn’t lock up, I’d be tempted to feel like we’re on Little House on the Prairie. (You know I never jest.) Except for the fact that my house is big and not small and we live on the side of a hill and not a prairie… but you can’t get hung up on the details. It’ll slow you down. Details are for people who like them. Funny how my life’s work is managing a compilation of the details of six mini-people. This is my real life, and I thank God for allowing us this little place of beauty. And to think, I don’t even have roses and hollyhocks and peonies and daffodils yet. Poor Greg. He’s my digger. I just come up with the ideas. It’s a good gig if you can swing it.

And just to bring us back to reality, I got an email last night saying something like, “I laughed at you when you were talking about The Next Great Depression, and now I’m not laughing anymore!” I’m glued to my computer, too, watching the financial markets unravel. Remember when I ran my mouth about the housing bubble popping, but what I neglected to do (due to logistics like Greg having a little thing like a JOB) was sell high and buy a large farm in the country for half the price of our Florida house. (I just argued with everyone, “But incomes aren’t rising proportionately!”) Lesson learned. We sold, but we didn’t do it at the peak.

I still think housing prices will fall further, so I’m glad we were able to get out of the volatile housing market. Our Florida house closed on Monday. That was a very good day for us. It’s sold and off our minds. We ate all the costs that I could’ve squabbled over. I didn’t argue or negotiate (trust me, that’s a banner day for me) because I was in a huge hurry to close on the thing, and I didn’t want any roadblocks. Looking back, I’m glad. We still have the two rental houses, but since they are investment properties, their value is tied to the going rental rate. They also aren’t worth a whole lot, but that’s another story. I’ve got a deal for you, if you’re interested. Heh.

p.s. —Last month, I said in the comment boxes that we sold our mutual funds and went short on the market. I really believe we’re heading downward soon, just as much as I believed it was coming last year. Now, that’s not the same as saying, “I predict there will be A Great Fire,” and then in 72 years it comes true and everyone thinks the foreteller was brilliant. OK. Brilliant is pushing it, but you know what I mean. I think everyone who’s intellectually honest agrees that a debt-based economy isn’t sustainable, the only question is how long until the Feds don’t have any more of our bailout money to pledge. (And people wake up and lose confidence.) The other question, maybe, is how much can we push onto the grandchildren and live it up now ourselves? I will stop posting links in the sidebar that say, “Stop the bailout!” because I know it’s getting old. The bailout money doesn’t exist already, so the real question is “how long” not “if.” I’d be thrilled to call it wrong on this one, but Little House on the Prairie life is looking a little less like fiction. Our chickens are already in the mail.

Like a kid in a candy shop, I’m rubbing my hands together and drooling over all the choices before me. I’ve got to choose one and choose well. I’ve spent too much money on books in anticipation for our first real farm project. This would be the project that would move us out of the land of wannabes and into the land of farming. You know, something beyond having a pet rabbit that you’ve bonded to and so now you can’t kill it for dinner. This project has to be good.

It’s not my style to share our marital conflicts, but I know everyone will take my side on this. Here’s the conflict. Greg wants to put up a sign for friends to find our new place. It’s easy to pass our driveway, and so the sign is not a bad idea. It’s what to put on the sign. I think a red and pink butterfly is fine, “Turn right at the freak-of-nature cardboard butterfly.” But since our only freaky thing ever was voting Ron Paul, the sign would have to read something respectable like, “Such-and-such Farm” or maybe “A Humble Farm,” since you know how I love all things humble.

But whenever he brings up the idea, I sweetly inquire, “What will the neighbors say? We’ll be laughed out of the county: A farm?! HAHAHA….don’t you… have to ….farm… to have a farm?” I’d put that all in caps, but you know I never yell. And then he tells me that we have hay to sell. That’s a grass farm according to the IRS. I just need something, you know, else. If I was all about appearances, I wouldn’t shop in Wal-Mart shoe department, but a girl has to draw the line somewhere.

The cows are helping. Cows seem farm-ish. But after they got here, there wasn’t anything else to do. They just stand there. And then, we don’t even have to pick them up if they fell over because they’re not even our cows. I wish I thought of cow farming first.

My first goal was to plant one fruit tree (and its pollinator, if necessary) for every kind of fruit that would possibly grow in zone 6. This project got delayed when Greg spent three days digging through hard clay and rock just to put in the mailbox. (Three days later, Greg wasn’t happy since he followed the directions from the post office engineer-style, and then the mailman told him to move it anyway.) So, we’re just sitting here waiting for rain to loosen the soil. And waiting.

So we still didn’t have a project, assuming you don’t count six kids as an involved project. Anyway, in anticipation for enhancing our freezer and our garden fertility all in one project, we bought 50 meat chickens to kill with our own bare hands, and 25 egg laying hens. In a stroke of this-is-so-not-my-life, my garden area soil test came back perfect except for one deficiency—nitrogen. Good thing, since I am about to pasture a whole bunch of chickens on that spot. Since I spent six years and $2,409 reading about farming, I know that composted chicken waste is a perfect nitrogen fix. Free Google says the same thing, of course.

So here are the chickens. They’re chirping and we’re having a fun time figuring out how come they’re all alive. It must be all that farm reading. Either that or they’re supposed to lie sideways with their leg in the air. Greg built chicken tractors to house 40 meat chickens, and we have 52 live chickens. We just assumed we’d do something wrong or secure it incorrectly or they would drown in the waterer because they’re so stupid. Since when in the world do I come in under budget? I don’t feel right about letting Black Beauty, the psycho kitten, in the vicinity and closing my eyes. That’s not right. Of course, there’s a lot of time between now and two weeks when we move them into the tractors. All lot can happen in two weeks on a place that looks like a farm.

So this is our only project until next spring, unless it rains before winter. It seems we have a lot of projects, but really, it’s only the chickens. The cows don’t belong to us, the kittens were half-dead and somebody had to take them, the dogs turned half-dead too but they are now my son’s issue, and the guinea hen isn’t my responsibility. If I catch that thing, I’ll strangle it, and he knows it.

We still don’t have a sign out front, but the battle lines are drawn, and I might lose this one if we keep all the chickens alive. And a strawberry patch, every respectable farm has a strawberry patch and a rose garden, yes, definitely a rose garden…..

I have friends who are walking roads that I haven’t. It seems that it’s raining all at once. I want to say something, do something, be something—-anything— to make the crisis a little easier or just alleviate the burden.

Having my own moments of crisis, I know people can say the stupidest things. Now, I don’t let my kids use the word “stupid” just haphazardly, so when I say “stupid”, I really mean it. It’s my habit to be generous in giving the benefit of the doubt (Paulson and company excluded) when people talk without thinking and then letting it go. The Lord knows I’m guilty of talking before engaging my brain. So you let it go, otherwise, it’ll eat you up. But just in case, I don’t want others to have to work through my idiotic counsel; instead, I want to say something helpful. My friends, who are still my friends, bless their hearts, are forbearing with my blathering.

I just want to keep talking, so that they know I care, so that in saying so, somehow it’ll be OK. Sometimes there isn’t much to say, especially not, “I understand,” because I really can’t, and in saying that I do, it minimizes someone’s pain. Where there are many words, sin is not absent. Better to say, ”I don’t know what to say but I’m here,” in some form that doesn’t sound like a Hallmark card.

I was just talking today with someone about friendship and the risks you have to take in order to have one. Really, everyone has stuff, has issues. But the more we are gracious in real ways, the easier it becomes to have and be a real friend. Nothing you say will surprise me, and in some ways, your junk (or lack thereof) isn’t a litmus test for what people are looking for in community or friendship. Having friends who look like you, or better said, what you hope people perceive you as, is overrated. I really think the best friends are loyal and have the ability to think of someone other than themselves.

It was one of those weeks where if I knew what was coming, I’d have just stayed in bed.

For starters, I explained The Bailout to my ten-year-old. He has his life savings, $116 of birthday money, sitting in WaMu or whatever it is now. Congress should have to teach current events to a fifth grade class. It’s not complicated. When a ten-year-old thinks you should buy gold and chickens and put people who lie and steal in jail, I’d say it’s not complicated at all. I love having kids.

Secondly, someone gave our house the stomach flu. Now if I could just send to jail sick people who pass germs, we’d be onto something. You know I never jest.

And the last of my grief, getting serious now, my grandmother died last night of untreated cancer. She was my bio father’s mother. In my younger days, I had to warn my boyfriends to hold their tongue because she would undoubtedly talk about how great Hitler was and how even the Jell-O is better in Germany. Greg passed the test, and he accepted with gladness his Christmas underwear that would shrink in the wash.

Later, it evolved into how horrible it was for me to have so many children, yet we laughed when we could and sat in her living room while she chain-smoked. Good times. She never tired of telling me that every child after my firstborn was a mistake. It didn’t offend me. I never wrote in to an online yahoo group to ask for advice about how to “deal with these people.” It’s better for one person to be mad instead of two.

And now I’m glad to have chosen a different path, at least in this case, which is only to say that it is better to live without regrets. She is gone, and she didn’t know Jesus. Lord, have mercy. In light of the stuff of life that really matters, I see how ridiculous my hurt feelings would be about my childbearing, and I’m glad that it is better to overlook an offense. It isn’t my habit to dole out unsolicited advice, but I feel certain that it is better to live in peace and to draw the line on the side of mercy. Nobody will listen to your gospel if you aren’t willing to live it yourself.

Yesterday, I drove over to the bulk food store run by the Old Order Mennonites. I overheard a Mennonite man talking to a Seventh Day Adventist about his faith. Love it. The Plain Man said that he didn’t have anything against TVs and such, it was just that he was trying to avoid the path of worldliness. More stuff means more time working to pay for the stuff, and that’s not what life is about. Better to spend your time with the things that matter, choosing a lower standard of living so that you can work alongside your family. I’m paraphrasing.

Put that way, I thought about my new acquaintance who went off this week about how hypocritical the Amish were since they bought rides off people but wouldn’t own a car themselves. People who live in New York City or Hong Kong do a cost-benefit analysis and decide against a vehicle purchase for the same reason—the hassle of purchasing, maintaining, and storing a vehicle isn’t worth the cost of time and work on themselves and their families to make it a wise decision. Better to just buy a ride when you need it. In this way, the horse and buggy folks are like the ultra-urbanites. It’s always easier to disparage someone who makes decisions that are different than yours than to consider that maybe they made the better choice.

When I was 16, I maintained a car so that I could get to work to pay for my car, just so that I could have the luxury of browsing the mall while my car was in the shop at Sears. Madness. But this is what happens when you buy into the fact that everyone is doing it. Our mothers said something about this and jumping off bridges.

Whenever I’m confronted with mortality and the knowledge that we aren’t promised tomorrow, I hold my children a little closer and shoo off the world. Worldliness is another way of saying that we love the things in the world more than the One who created it. When it’s all over for me, I want people to say that I missed the mark a lot but not because I was a hypocrite. Time will tell and I continue to think through these things.