Most of you know that we left our home to live six months in California, so we can be together as a family while my husband works on a project. Here are my reasons for celebration:

1. Valuable Legal Lesson Learned. Never, never, never enter into a lease or any other contract unless you’ve SEEN with your own eyes what you are purchasing. Pictures do not count. Nicely furnished models are deceptive; your apartment will NOT look like the one they show you. It won’t have the same appliances (or as in our case, some may even be missing).

2. Compulsive Habit Possibly Broken. I have the tendency to check on my babies several times a night to make sure all is well. Being in a tiny apartment, one doesn’t have to get out of bed at night to hear everyone breathing.

3. Exercise. When the laundry facilities aren’t in the vicinity of your dwelling and you have a family of 6, there is ample opportunity for daily cardio workouts. The parking spaces are also not near your door, so that $200 Wal-Mart trip is also cause for calorie burning. This all makes up for the advertised work-out facilities that never materialized. (The exercise room has been under construction since we’ve been here, but the not-yet-broken-ground fancy new leasing office is near completion.)

4. Valuable People Skills Being Honed. Having to call the management office on a weekly basis to report what has gone wrong now has helped me refine the fine art of motivating people. Offering the maintenance guy a caffeine-free Coke will not get him to return. When he says that he likes his caffeine, get the guy some caffeine.

5. No Need to Watch Reality Shows. When you are the prime witness to your upstairs neighbors’ every footstep, cough, door shutting, shower taking, and toothbrush hitting on the sink, why watch a reality show? Hey, why even watch TV when you can just listen to his?

6. Cultivating a Longing for Home. Yes, I miss my house in Florida. I look forward to returning. But why long for a temporary house when the Bible promises an eternal Home?

1 Thessalonians 4:15-18:

For this we say to you by the word of the Lord, that we who are alive and remain until the coming of the Lord, will not precede those who have fallen asleep. For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and remain will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we shall always be with the Lord. Therefore comfort one another with these words.

Then, in Hebrews 6:19-20 we are told that this is a sure thing:

This hope we have as an anchor of the soul, a hope both sure and steadfast and one which enters within the veil, 20 where Jesus has entered as a forerunner for us…

And finally, Hebrews 11:13-16 gives us this glimpse of the promise to come:

All these died in faith, without receiving the promises, but having seen them and having welcomed them from a distance, and having confessed that they were strangers and exiles on the earth. 14 For those who say such things make it clear that they are seeking a country of their own. 15 And indeed if they had been thinking of that country from which they went out, they would have had opportunity to return. 16 But as it is, they desire a better country, that is a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God; for He has prepared a city for them.

If you know Christ, you have this hope. And that, my friend, is a reason to celebrate.

I’ve always known that I’m in the minority. Have you ever witnessed a hunched-over teenager sporting pants that need hemming, belting, and a little patching (for the bargain price of my weekly grocery bill) and a scowl that in comparison makes Witch of the East look like The Good Witch? All in an effort to be different, he trades his birthright (and his money) for a little bowl of bland porridge. Mr. Teenager thinks he’s the cutting edge minority but neglects to notice that all the other kids in his class look just like him. No, I’m not in that minority. I mean that I am REALLY in the minority.

You will not hear the following statistics in the president’s upcoming State of the Union address, but you can find them in an article by Christopher Check in the January 2005 issue of Chronicles Magazine (you can also hear a more profound discourse on the subject at Buried Treasure Books):

From 1990 to 2002, the percentage of the adult population (18 and over) that is married has dropped from 61.9 percent to 58.9 percent. In 1960, 72 percent of the adult population was married.

Total fertility rate (TFR) has increased to 2.1 (just above replacement level), but 1/3 of births are out of wedlock, and marital fertility is below replacement level. As the median age of the population continues to rise, the TFR is expected to decline.

12 percent of all families in 1980 had 3 or more children. In 2002, it was 10 percent of all families. Nearly 1/4 of all families with three or more children are single-parent families. Only 3 percent of families have 4 or more children under age 18. More than half of all families have no children under the age of 18. When you use the word “family” to describe a mother, father and their minor children, that describes a minority of families today.

Of the approximately 30 million currently married women between 15 and 44, 41 percent have become surgically sterile, 19 percent use hormonal contraceptives and 17 percent use a device to prevent birth. People who do not use birth control or use natural family planning are less than 10 percent of this group.

Somewhere between 1-in-4 and 1-in-3 women alive today have had an abortion. [Amy here: I’m assuming this statistic includes chemical and morning-after pill abortions, “selective reduction” procedures and homicide in order to protect the unencumbered lifestyle-- er, the “health”-- of the mother.]

In 1970, 40 percent of married women were in the paid labor force. In 2002 it was 61 percent. Among women who have had a child in the last year, 58 percent are working. 56 percent of children ages 3-5 are in institutional daycare. Only 26 percent are cared for by their parents full-time at home. The percentage of children in higher income households who are in daycare is even higher: 62 percent from homes with an income in the $50,000 to $75,000 range; 75 percent from homes with incomes greater than $75,000.

One doesn’t need a crystal ball or even the gift of prophecy to observe these statistics are sobering and have profound implications for society. In addition to the above figures, it is also reported that the divorce rate among Christians is a little higher than among non-professing Christians. (Perhaps this is because those that claim to be Christians feel an obligation to marry instead of just shacking up until the next honey comes along.) But whatever the case, we are marching steadily on the Highway to Hell: living, eating, drinking, being merry, and enjoying our lives without being “encumbered by children.”

Carmon Friedrich sums it up nicely (you have to read it slowly): By following the philosophy of gathering rosebuds while ye may, many are getting left out in the cold when the seasons of life change, and the rosebuds disappear leaving just the cold, cold grounding of reality: loneliness and lost opportunity to plant and tend thriving gardens that will bloom for eternity.

Mother Teresa expressed, “How can there be too many children? That’s like saying there are too many flowers.” Cultivating children for the cause of Christ is work that will reap eternal rewards. I will stand before the Lord one day with my children next to me, not my spiffy house. Tending covenant children produces a fruit sweeter than apples picked at their peak. Hard labor? Yes. From Galatians 6, we are admonished:

7Do not be deceived, God is not mocked; for whatever a man sows, that he will also reap. 8For he who sows to his flesh will of the flesh reap corruption, but he who sows to the Spirit will of the Spirit reap everlasting life. 9And let us not grow weary while doing good, for in due season we shall reap if we do not lose heart.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some weeds to pull.

Mommy, these pants can’t fit me anymore because they grew smaller.

Such was the statement from my dear three-year-old, Annalise, just yesterday. In the mind of my young observer, who needs a little training in the Scientific Method, there must be something wrong with those pants, because the problem was certainly not her own growing legs. I marveled that she simply received this notion without any thought of personal responsibility.

No, honey. You’re just getting bigger. You’re growing now. You know you’re a big three-year-old…

[a little impatient now] Mommy, the pants grew smaller.

Perhaps she gleaned this manner of deduction from the adults (not me though) that go about blaming others for the cause of their own bad judgment:

11He said, “Who told you that you were naked? Have you eaten of the tree of which I commanded you not to eat?” 12The man said, “The woman whom you gave to be with me, she gave me fruit of the tree, and I ate.” (Genesis 3:11-12)

Or perhaps she just thought the pants grew smaller. I don’t know; it’s a tough call…

5. You will not have to ask me redundant questions. When you pass me at church or in the grocery store, you will not have to say, “So, are you pregnant again yet?” As soon as we’re ready to announce, we will announce in this very spot. Readers of this site will be the first to know. You will have the privilege of “breaking the story” to the real world. Though, everyone will have probably assumed it already and announced it before you. [And, no, we are not blessed again yet!]

4. You will be privy to great information. For example, I’m going to tell you how to enter an underpublicized drawing for a FREE great book (but you have to enter fast—the drawing is January 15th). Excerpt from Challies.com: Total Truth is subtitled “Liberating Christianity from Its Cultural Captivity” ... [Pearcey] shows how Christians have adopted a worldview that is bound and influenced by our culture, so that we now understand Christianity through a secular worldview. Just click here to enter and use my referral code 20282 to get both of us a better chance at winning. Right now, my chances are 0.7%, so it’s not looking too good. However, this just motivates me to find other worthy sites so that you are not disappointed in the future.

3. You might make a friend. I often say that if you go through life and come out the other end with a friend that stuck by you, you are blessed indeed. Many of us have friendly friends, the kind that are with you during this season in your life; few have friends that remain once the event, season, job, location is over. I need this in my life as much as you do, so send me an email to meet for coffee when you get a minute.

2. I will answer the FAQ, “How do you DO it?!” This is most often asked by, but not limited to, fellow mothers passing me in the grocery store while my two carts are overflowing and my children are walking nicely through the two hour ordeal. Nobody ever posed the question during the baby’s meltdown. Perhaps they don Superhero Status upon me because they simply don’t KNOW me, but there are a few real-life people who ask this. So, this is my contribution, a la Titus 2, to furthering Christ’s kingdom. [For a primer on grocery shopping, read my good friend Molly’s advice at the LAF (Ladies’ Against Feminism) website. OK, so Molly doesn’t even know I exist, but I’m sure we’ll be fast friends when we meet.]

1. I might change your moment (or two). RC Sproul Jr. said, “Books change people’s lives. Blogs change people’s moments.” Far be it from me to prove a great and mighty theologian wrong, so I won’t argue. I’m writing this to replace the handwritten notebook I began for my children a few years ago. So far, I have more posts here in a week than entries there in a year. (Laptops are great.) I want my kids to know after I’m gone that I wasn’t only a mother who performed domestic duties, but that I loved them and Christ with all of my mind. Encourage one another daily while it is still called today. See you tomorrow.

1. I got a deal. OK, perhaps this is the most superficial of reasons, but we’ve all been guilty of this at one time or another. Have you ever returned home from an outing– bursting to show your newfound treasure to your husband so that he could add another tier to his “crown” (courtesy Prov. 12:4)–only for him to say, “Did you notice that it doesn’t work/can’t stand up/won’t fit in our house?” But this time isn’t like that!

2. It is seven feet long, which beats our recent dining accommodations. Have you ever noticed that stores only sell tables that seat 4-6? Eight seaters are ornate, glass-topped, nicely upholstered pieces that belong in the museum, err-I mean, formal dining room that NEVER gets used. Have YOU ever eaten in someone’s formal dining room? I truly believe that formal dining rooms are a conspiracy between builders who want to sell you more square footage and silk flower arrangers who need a market for their dust collectors.

3. It is a visual reminder of our invisible faith. My table has long, heavy benches so lots of bodies can squeeze in.Whether the LORD fills our table with more little wiggling bodies, fellow faith-filled sojourners, or strangers who has never tasted the Bread of Life, my prayer is that our table will always be too small. Here I stand before the LORD, arms heavenward, asking him to fill my cup to overflowing.

So, when are ya comin’ for dinner?

All the evils in the world come not because our desires for happiness are too strong but because they are so weak that we settle for fleeting pleasures that do not satisfy our deepest souls but in the end destroy them. The root of all evil is that we are the kind of people who settle for the love of money instead of the love of God. ~John Piper

The other day, my husband and six-year-old son, McGregor, drove to the park. Upon their arrival, McGregor’s friend spied him and announced, “Wow, you’re rich!” He was referring to the 1978 convertible Beetle my husband recently purchased. To fully appreciate the story, you have to know that the car broke down the day he bought it. My husband and I had a good chuckle over this six-year-old’s perception of wealth.

This morning my prayer is that my soul would find satisfaction in Christ—not pleasure, money, old cars, or even the joy of babies that sleep through the night. Thirst for pleasure is a good thing that only finds quenching in Christ. May we not “settle” today, and in so doing, miss out on true wealth.

I was the witness this week of the following scene:

Johnny, come on! It’s time to go!
Little Johnny runs the other way.
John—NEE!
Little Johnny plays on.
1….2….3….4… Now, I frequently wonder what the magic number is that moms count to, because they always change tactics before they get to THE number.
You don’t want TIME OUT now, do you, Johnny? John-NEE? John-NEEEEEEEEEEE!
Little Johnny carries on until Mama starts heading his way. Uh-oh. Time to make a break for it. Little Johnny splits as fast as he can, but his little three-year-old legs are shorter than Mama’s. Mama catches him. Sweet Johnny falls prostrate on the ground and begins a full-on tantrum. Mama looks around sheepishly to see who’s watching and mumbles an embarrassed apology to all the gawkers. Johnny is carried off to the car kicking and screaming.

Score: Johnny=3; Mama=zippo.

I thought about this scene as my seven-month-old, Rebekah, was playing on the floor last night. There were 14 baby toys around her, but she scooted toward my husband’s laptop and reached for his wireless card. My husband, being the wise patriarch that he is, removed her sweet little fat hand and said, “No.” Now, before you flood my email box with hate mail, you should know that Rebekah stopped, pulled her hand back, and smiled. Training begins early in our house, and Rebekah’s time had come.

After the initial reach-and-grab, she paused, looked at her hand from all angles, and reached again. My husband, still wise and patriarchal, removed her hand and said, “No.” We stared at her in wonder, seeing that her brain was processing all of this. Rebekah again reached out for a third time, but this time, she put her hand under, over, and next to the wireless card, but not on. She looked at me. She looked at Dad. Then, she pulled her sweet little fat hand back onto her lap…and smiled.

The other day, my husband arrived home and asked, “Anything going on today?” I replied, “Didn’t you read my blog?” He replied, “Uh….no.” [insert mumbling about being busy] So, if I can’t even get my own husband to read this….

Now, my husband is a great guy. Today is our eighth wedding anniversary, and I feel so blessed. Where can I find a guy who goes along with every crazy scheme, idea, or latest angle that I come up with? I’m not saying he buys into it all, but he entertains each scheme. (or more appropriately, is entertained by them) He leads our family in daily worship. He works hard and is the best friend anyone could ever have—loyal, wise, funny, insightful, quick to apologize, super intelligent, and a great listener. And he likes kids, which is good. Whenever I want to rearrange furniture, knock down walls, tear up the landscaping, he happily obliges. When we bought our second house, he was working a lot of hours, and I remember him working outside at midnight planting my topiaries. I asked him to “get in here; it’s late” but he told me that he wanted me to have my flowers. That’s the kind of guy I have. And I’m so grateful.

Even if he doesn’t read my blog.

The rain and cold is constant here, so you’ll forgive me for slipping into a moment of desperation. I took my crew to the McDonald’s playplace for lunch yesterday.

Now, the 10 times that I’ve taken them there, they’ve returned home 10 times with a cold exactly three days later. I reasoned away my apprehension with the fact that school was in session and the germs from the previous night had probably since fettered away. I figured that if I was going to chance it, now’d be a good time.

I was wrong.

Apparently, it was Mothers of Pre-school Twins Day (who all, incidentally, had various forms and consistencies of “stuff” oozing out of their eyes and noses). But before I could make a last-ditch sales pitch to try boring-ole’-Wendy’s-that-doesn’t-even-have-a-playground, we were in. I placed our Happy Meal order and cursed my memory for not remembering to bring reading material. I thought it was going to be a lonnnnng two hours.

I was wrong.

There was plenty of entertainment. For starters, there was a nice assortment of soccer moms chatting within earshot. I was able to educate myself on what the voting public considers “moral values” without even having to watch an episode of Oprah. I like economizing my time. It was kind of like Dr. Phil, minus the commercials.

Before long, the mom’s were completely engrossed in swapping juicy husband-bashing stories, so the kids were left to themselves. Not a good thing. Even my friend, Johnny, from a previous blog, was there. He was the one rolling on the floor licking it.

Then, there was the nice ole’ Grandpa who gave his granddaughter a quarter to work the elaborate Happy Meal Express machine that smokes, lights up, and spits out a handful of M & M’s all for the price of a mere quarter. I admit that I was surprised that you could get anything nowadays for a quarter, but alas, it was a smokescreen. The thing didn’t work, so Grandpa sacrificed another quarter to the contraption. (Kinda reminded me of our government…) Of course, the machine wasn’t going to produce without a fight, so Grandpa shook, kicked, and punched the thing until four M & M’s plunked into his hand.

Now, my three-year-old, Annalise, was standing nearby to watch the show up close, and Grandpa opened his hand, offering her a piece of the spoil. She looked at him like the ax-murdering, child-abducting, kid molester that we’d taught all our kids to view strangers who offer candy. It was a proud moment. She didn’t take the bait.

So, next time you’re tempted to need a little TV for entertainment, hop down to your local McDonald’s playplace where hours of happy, fruitful, and productive play can be found. You can never have enough precious, plastic Happy Meal toys, you know. And, while you’re there, send my regards to Johnny.

[Update: it is now three days later, and my six-year-old is laying on the couch coughing. Sorry, McDonald's. Next time we're going to boring-ole'-Wendy's.....]

I went to Wal-Mart this week.

Now, I believe I have my readers conditioned to expect that this is going somewhere. Whenever I go to Wal-Mart, I always come home with a juicy tale for my anxious husband. It’s always somethin’. Now, I am saving my previous “experiences” for another day, as I have a pile of ironing to do this morning. Actually, I just want to relate something positive that happened at the Giant Mammoth.

My four children and I were walking along with our two carts, when, (gasp!), someone stopped me to comment about my family size. Now, I don’t think four children is a lot (unless you’re gracefully following your husband on an extended business trip and living in a microscopic apartment, but we won’t go there again…). Nonetheless, I believe the public’s concern about my prolific reproduction stems from the fact that I appear to have many fertile years ahead of me. I won’t go into all the usual comments I receive; I just want to talk about the two I heard today.

My! Elmer, look at all those children. A train of beautiful children! Wow, Miss [I am a "Mrs.", just so you know…], you sure have a nice looking family.

To which I replied with sincerest gratitude. And waited.

It never came.

Understand, faithful readers, that I hear this comment a lot, but it is usually followed by, “Don’t you know what causes that?!” I always wonder (under my breath, of course) that if they’re so delightful and beautiful, why they send me their condolences. Nevertheless, as if one positive comment wasn’t enough, I was flabbergasted by another one.

Wow, ma’am, you sure do have a lot of helpers. You are lucky to have that much help.

Now this is a first. Since when are children looked upon as anything less than something you have to control and prevent?? I figured I had to make a break for it, before the good will of fellow Wal-Mart shoppers ran dry. So, I headed quickly to the check-out. The cashier scanned me through, and asked me just as I was leaving,

How many of those are you going to HAVE?! I have one, and that’s enough!

Oh well, I almost made it out. Next time, I’ll try the self check-out.

I have the happiest baby in the world. This morning I observed with satisfaction as my husband put Baby’s feet on his cheeks and nuzzled her tummy. She squealed and laughed, which caused me to ask, “How can we get a dozen more of these kind?”

Rebekah is nothing short of pure delight.

Now, instead of just basking in the moment, I have to hyper-analyze it. How did we get such a happy baby? Here are my theories:

Theory #1: She is still suffering “side effects.” Now I agree with all the Natural Childbirth hoop-la, but I’m just not cut out for it. After 20 hours of active labor, I give in to the Happy Drugs every time. Nevertheless, I have to put this theory to rest because my dose of the stuff barely lasted 20 minutes; I doubt it’s lasting seven months on her.

Theory #2: She has plenty of entertainment. Rebekah’s older brother and sisters are absolutely in love with her. Happy Cakes is often the source of many squabbles about who gets to play with her, hold her, tickle her, smile at her, and “baby sit” her. Now, I’m inclined to lean toward this theory until I consider the downside of this attention: Rebekah is –shall we say—a little bumped and manhandled. Yet, she takes it all in and just smiles. Ahh, it has to be something more…

Theory #3: Mama is happy. There it is. It’s hard to put into words what I’m describing, but something changed in me when we welcomed Baby #4. Instead of grumbling about the amount of work that it is my lot, I shifted my focus to our gracious God, who has seen fit to pour generously His blessing upon our family. And, you know, when Mama’s happy, well, everyone else is too.

But, alas, there’s one more thought–

Theory #4: God may have just made her that way.

From Psalm 139:

For You formed my inward parts; You covered me in my mother’s womb. I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Marvelous are Your works, And that my soul knows very well.

Yes, Lord, my soul is learning this well.

It is only 9 a.m. and already I’ve played several rounds of Chutes and Ladders, chess, and keep-the-game-pieces-out-of-the-baby’s-mouth. As if Chutes and Ladders isn’t torturous enough (you know how I feel about games of chance from an earlier blog), playing chess with a three-year-old is even worse. Now, my five- and six-year-olds are pretty good at chess, but my three-year-old just doesn’t get it yet (which is exactly what my husband thinks when he plays against me). All her white pieces make a “Z” motion across the board and land miraculously on my black pieces, to which she shouts, “You’re dead!”

All of this is to say, I wasn’t exactly disappointed when Baby-Happy-Cakes-Rebekah scooted over and landed a belly-flop right on our playing field.

Aw, shucks.

Sometimes I struggle on how to best manage my time as a wife, mother, and most importantly, a follower of Christ. So many things compete for my attention. For example, if Jesus were here, would he be playing board games? Would He sit through a two hour puppet show or would He get on with the business of making dinner? Actually, my guess is that he’d probably be causing a ruckus among modern-day peddlers of the gospel, but that’s a rant for another day.

For now, though, I see that Uno is just getting started…

(Notice her wrist…)

I came across this job description of a housewife. It’s a good beginning list, but I suspect there are more “jobs” that we could add to it (and some we could delete; i.e. I don’t do cars). Send your ideas on the comment link below (think: Mrs. P 31), and I’ll compile the list for a future post. Try to ignore the tone of the original letter writer; let’s think of this as a reminder of our importance as homemakers instead of a gripe session.

I’m a wife, mother, friend, confidant, personal advisor, lover, referee, peacemaker, housekeeper, laundress, chauffeur, interior decorator, gardener, painter, wall paperer, dog groomer, veterinarian, manicurist, barber, seamstress, appointment manager, financial planner, bookkeeper, money manager, personal secretary, teacher, disciplinarian, entertainer, psychoanalyst, nurse, diagnostician, public relations expert, dietitian and nutritionist, baker, chef, fashion coordinator and letter writer for both sides of the family. I am also a travel agent, speech therapist, plumber and automobile maintenance and repair expert. . . .

From the studies done, it would cost more than $75,000 a year to replace me. I took time out of my busy day to write this letter, Ann, because there are still ignorant people who believe a housewife is nothing more than a baby sitter who sits on her behind all day and looks at soap operas.

(Ann Landers, May, 1988, quoted in Mom, You’re Incredible, by Linda Weber, Focus on the Family, 1994, pp. 23-24).

It’s that time of year again: seed catalogs begin arriving in the mail, Home Depot gears up its gardening department for the onslaught, and women everywhere begin fantasizing about turning their desolate flowerbeds into Better Homes and Gardens spread material. I know this because I entertain this dream every year.

But two years ago, it was different. I was over my friend’s house and noticed her quaint and tidy vegetable garden in the corner of her yard. As soon as I spied it, the wheels in my head began spinning and plotting. Why don’t I get one of those? That’s a pretty good idea… All these years I’ve toiled and cared for a flower garden, which is food for the soul, but I’d never considered a vegetable garden, which could be hearty food for the stomach. Yes, it was time to get practical.

I had visions of being the neighborhood hero, promptly arriving on doorsteps armed with a bushel of tomatoes precisely when the local supermarket price hit 2.99/lb. Yes, I’d redeem myself for all the years we were the only one on the street without Christmas lights. Ahhh, this could be my new ministry as well as my redemption… (Cue angel music.)

Now, if you know me, I don’t do anything halfway. It wasn’t long before I was scouring the yellow pages to request that a super-size Mac-daddy truckload of dirt be delivered. (CUT angel music.) Observation #1: When the guy on the phone asks you if you want clean dirt, do not make snorting noises and laugh at him like he’s making a joke. There really is such a thing as clean dirt and dirty dirt. Honest, I am not making this up. You will look silly, and trust me, that will be just a foretaste of things to come.

By now, every gardening book in our county library was sitting on our family room floor racking up fines. I scoured and digested every book and magazine on the subject before making Observation #2: There is a reason that Florida Gardening is in a different section than General Gardening. I don’t care if those little zone numbers in the catalog say that it grows in your zone; if it ain’t growing in your neighbor’s yard, it won’t miraculously grow in yours. Not even with daily applications of Miracle Grow. No, friend, you’re going to need the brand of miracles that come from above…

So, for my first vegetable garden, I planted 800 square feet of strawberries, tomatoes, squash, blackberries, blueberries, green onions, carrots, squash, corn, lettuce, and other stuff that escapes my mind probably because I never saw it. (grumble, mumble) Since this was one of my latest ploys to save money, of course, I began all these plantings by seeds or bare-root plants.

Luckily, during the “greenhouse” time, my “Zone 4″ seeds were duped into thinking they were in their hometown. That is, until I shocked them with the transplant into a “Zone 9″ backyard. Miraculously, they all survived the transplant due to my daily babying, patting, and rigging. Things were looking good. I knew these suckers would grow. You see, they just needed someone with a green thumb to help them succeed.

And someone with a heavy dose of ignorance. Roger that…

Time went on, and I noticed things weren’t looking like they do in the magazines. Not willing to admit defeat, I rightly diagnosed that my soil needed a little amending. So, I visited a horse farm and shoveled up trashcans of manure to lush up my garden. Observation #3: A big bag of fertilizer does a better job for your time, money, results, and self-esteem. Save yourself the embarrassment and just buy the fertilizer.

Still determined to fix my soil since the manure didn’t help much, I decided that worms would do the trick. (I don’t give up easy, OK?) A dear elder from church heard about my plight and showed up with 15 gallons of worms from his worm farm (which my fire ants promptly devoured). Now it’s time for Observation #4: If there ain’t any worms in your soil now, putting worms in there won’t fix the problem. Face it: your soil is so bad that it’s even repulsive to worms.

If you are feeling bad for me regarding my soil issues, well, I haven’t even addressed my pestilence and disease issues. I’ll save that for another day. Here’s the thing: No matter what you do and how hard you try, the only thing that grows without turmoil or any effort on your part are weeds (and your tax bill). This life is hard. Long for heaven, my friends. The dirt’s much better there.

———————————
Postscript: If you don’t already long for heaven, email me so that I can share with you how you can have eternal life.