Firefly Memories (Megan)

For my Mama who taught me how to “make a memory.” Someday we will catch them all together.

“Therefore I am now going to allure her; I will lead her into the wilderness and speak tenderly to her.”

Hosea 2:14

“Seila, wake up. It’s time.” The soothing voice of Ro’i coaxed the sleeping girl from her labyrinth of dreams. It was the voice of a Good Shepherd – emanating tenderness when crooning over lambs and thundering violence when frightening away predators. Seila blinked through her fog of confusion and sat up slowly. She vaguely wondered why she was sleeping on a pillow of moss. Where was she? Tumbling questions swirled through the thick haze of her semi-consciousness. These questions should have unsettled and frightened her, but when she locked eyes with Ro’i, her heart calmed.  Steadied by his tender gaze, she trusted him and knew she would follow wherever he led her.

Fireflies. They had been catching fireflies.  The flickering jar between them reminded her. Mesmerized by the darting diamonds, Seila admired the sparkling insects and wondered how long their lights would last. The familiar, weighty sadness returned. Ro’i wrapped Seila’s white-knuckled fists in his strong, calloused hands. She had been unaware of her death grip until he gently peeled open her fingers, revealing a crushed firefly in her palm. Seila grimaced as he plucked it up and placed it tenderly in his jar with the others. Remarkably, the insect began to twitch and revive, and soon it was darting and gleaming with the rest.

“This is the last one,” he whispered, “Now we must go.”

***

Seila awoke to the wet nuzzling of a lamb’s nose. Turtledove was nudging her affectionately and alerting her to the approaching sound of music and laughter. Planting a kiss between his velvet ears, she sprang from bed and ran to the window. It was barely light, but the neighbors were already stirring with anticipation as they strained to see the approaching horses and soldiers. Father’s army was returning, and Seila’s heart leaped to realize that this fanfare meant victory! Certainly, her father had prevailed over the Ammonites. How startled she had been a week ago, when the elders of Gilead appeared on their doorstep and summoned her father to lead this raid. The army had exhausted their resources and were forced to grovel before the only man with enough prowess to lead them to victory. The man they had once shunned and shamefully driven from his father’s house, was rising as their conquering general. Jephthah couldn’t help but gloat as he eagerly accepted his commission.

Wrapping herself in a woolen shawl, Seila dashed for the door. She was impeded by the furry form of Turtledove, who bleated longingly for the crisp morning air and the company of his mistress.

“No, Dove. Stay here. You’ll be trampled by the horses!”

The sheep made one more attempt to push past his mistress, but she gave him a tender whack with the timbrel in her hand, followed by loving caresses and reassurances that she’d be right back.

Seila’s beautiful voice rose above the cacophony of chattering neighbors as she ran toward the form of her father, serenading him with her victory song. When Jephthah lifted his gaze to behold his daughter, the color rushed from his face. His eyes, which had recently been dancing with the merriment of accolades and victory wine, flooded with tears. Not the tears of fatherly recognition and affection, but tears of repulsion and terror.

“Yahweh, no!” he wailed, tearing his cloak and convulsing with heart- wrenching sobs. “Get out of my sight!”

Seila’s legs gave out from under her, the sunrise blackened, and she lost consciousness. When she awoke, she felt trapped in a nightmare. The mysterious whispering and the disapproving shakes of the servants’ heads, convinced her that something was terribly wrong. Where was Father? Seconds later, she saw him approaching – a specter of grief.  Her own father, the fearless conqueror of the Ammonites, was weeping like a frightened child and blubbering incoherent words about a vow.

“I wasn’t thinking, Seila.  I feared defeat, so I bargained with Yahweh. Before an army of witnesses, I vowed that, if He gave the Ammonites into my hands, I would offer as a burnt sacrifice whatever came out of the door of my house to meet me. I expected one of your foolish lambs or perhaps a servant. Never, never did I imagine it would be you, Seila, my only daughter.” His words were choked by agonizing sobs.

Fear engulfed Seila’s heart, but her voice remained steady.

 “What will you do to make this right, Father?”

Jephthah rose in a fury. “What do you mean by, ‘make it right,’ I have no choice but to fulfill my vows to God. Were I to take back my promise, I would be the laughingstock of Gilead – proving to them that I am nothing but the worthless son of a prostitute. Not a conquering general worthy of their tribute.  How could you ask me to do that?”

Seila’s death sentence could not be revoked. With icy resignation, she pushed her father aside, choking back her blinding tears of rage.

Her voice quavered this time as she offered her last appeal, 

“Do you not remember that I am to be married next month? What will Asher think of your rash vow?”

Jephthah shrugged, tears streaming through his tangled beard.

“He will need to forget you, to honor my vow, and entrust his bride to Yahweh. Take some time to grieve, Seila. Bring your friends to comfort you, and return in two months’ time.”

Seila moved through the following days in a trance. She fled to a desolate spot in the hills, a place of solace where her sheep could graze unmolested and she could weep freely. Her companions soon wearied of grieving with her, so she sent them home with her blessing, preferring the company of her bleating lambs.

She never remembered what drove her to the cliff’s edge over the riverbank. Once a sheep of hers had wandered off this precipice, and she had watched in horror as his bones shattered against the rocks. He was sucked under the raging current, never to be seen again.  Delirious with thirst, Seila longed for the coolness of that water. She was vaguely aware that this leap would be a fresh death sentence, but wouldn’t a dive into this icy river be better than facing the flames of Jephthah’s altar?

“Forgive me, Father,” she breathed weakly, before she closed her eyes and leaned into her certain death.

The plunge sucked all of the air from her lungs. Her stomach dropped, her arms flailed, and her screams were drowned by the thundering current that devoured her.

After what seemed like an eternity, a strong arm reached for her, raising her effortlessly to the surface. Why was she not dead? Who was this strange man, gazing down at her, enveloping her in strong arms and lifting her to safety? Seila had no choice but to give in to the sobs that wracked her body. The stranger covered her in his cloak and held her while she gasped and choked out her questions…

Why had her father let his pride cloud his judgment? How could he have flippantly risked the life of his only daughter? Hadn’t she suffered enough, losing her mother and sister, and enduring her father’s hubris and intoxicated fits of despair?  The demands for this final sacrifice were nothing but vengeful.  

The stranger, with the simple name of Ro’i, listened to Seila's half- delirious rantings until the sun set. He didn’t reply with words, just listened with rapt attention and compassion that spilled out the corners of his wrinkled eyes. When Seila ran out of words, they sat together in silence on the grassy hillside. Ro’i opened a satchel and produced a crusty loaf of bread. Silently, he broke it and handed the larger piece to Seila. She drank freely from the animal’s skin that rested on his side. Never had she tasted such wine. Ro’i rose to his feet and clapped his cupped hands toward the sky with a gleam of fun in his eyes. Then he offered Seila a peek through his cracked fingers at the spark of fire he had caught mid-flight.

“I’ve always loved fireflies,” she sighed. Then, tracking a darting light, she clapped her own small hands together and slowly opened them to inspect the gleaming treasure. The insect darted cleverly from its captivity, and for a moment Seila met Ro’i’s gaze and remembered how to laugh.

Days passed easily into weeks, and Ro’i remained the steady companion who cared for her - easing her loneliness by day, and keeping vigil by night so she could rest in safety. Memories poured out from the secret places of Seila’s heart, and her crushing fears lifted. Ro’i’s fatherly tenderness flooded into the empty spaces in her soul – the voids left by her mother and sister’s untimely deaths, her father’s neglect, and the stinging loss of Asher. She had longed to be married and to build a whole family – something she had only ever dreamed of. Roi’s compassion never faltered, and he spoke volumes, not with words, but with the piercing gaze of his eyes – eyes that penetrated Seila’s soul. At the end of each day, he would kneel to wash her dirty, aching feet and tenderly bind her wounds.

Sometimes they would sit together at dusk, and Ro’i would tease Seila about her clumsy attempts at catching fireflies. Each time the elusive light escaped her grasp, he would deftly capture his prey between strong hands and gently add it to his collection.

Two months passed, and Seila’s haunting memories and relentless nightmares began to subside. She woke each morning with a fresh sense of wonder, like a child eager to discover and embrace a beautiful world she was exploring for the first time. Occasionally, the shadows would creep over her, and she would call out for Ro’i. Whenever he heard her cry, he would emerge from the darkness and lean against her, so she could feel his strength and the warmth of his shoulder pressed to hers. In these quiet moments, Seila would shake off the vague sense of foreboding that always lurked in the back of her imagination. Something as elusive as the fireflies was troubling her – a memory she would try to capture long enough to understand, only to watch it flicker out of her grasp. Her soul ached when she realized that these beautiful days with Ro’i couldn’t last forever. She sensed that a strong force stronger than both of them would soon draw her away from him whom her soul loved.

***

         Seila’s forebodings were realized that morning when Ro’i gently roused her from sleep and pried the dead firefly from her hand. Somehow, she wasn’t the least bit surprised that her shepherd’s touch would bring the poor creature back to life. The sun was beginning to rise as they walked, hand in hand, through the hills and toward a village that looked vaguely familiar to Seila. Perhaps she had been here as a child. Perhaps she had wandered these streets and studied these blank faces in her dreams. Seila hesitated as they approached a rowdy crowd surrounding an altar. The bright flames and shrill voices shocked her senses.  Ro’i led her to an old man, weary and grief stricken. His mouth moved in tearful entreaties – words that made no sense, and Seila shivered in repulsion when he clutched at her robe.  

         “Ro’i, I’m frightened. Take me away from this terrible place,” Seila sobbed.

Ro’i’s expression mirrored Seila’s distress, but he set his face and led her steadily, gently toward the flames. Now Seila was close enough to feel the fire’s heat. Sweaty drops, like blood, trickled down Roi’s cheeks. He turned to Seila and whispered softly, steadily.

“Seila, your days of forgetting are over. Follow me, and we will remember together.” Seila’s heart thundered in her chest and rang in her ears. Before she could think, Ro’i turned and stepped into the flames.

“Yahweh Ro’i! Don’t leave me!” Seila screamed and grabbed his hand. A force, powerful yet gentle, pulled her forward. Seila closed her eyes. She no longer felt the burning flames, but a noxious odor overwhelmed and nauseated her.  She remembered this smell from the lambs her father would sacrifice. Seila stumbled and fell toward the blinking light, choking and searching through stinging eyes for Ro’i.

The arms that caught her on the other side of the pyre were smaller, softer, but just as strong and familiar as Ro’i’s. Blinking away her hot tears, Seila looked up to meet the shining eyes of her mother. Her wondering gaze was interrupted by the sound of laughter and the two little arms that clasped tightly around her waist, lovingly squeezing the breath out of her lungs. Could it be?

“Seila, my sister! I’ve waited so long for you to come home!” the little girl shrieked, “Look what Ro’i gave us!” The little girl revealed her treasure – a familiar jar of sparkling, fluttering diamonds that the shepherd had collected and guarded so tenderly. Seila had never seen anything so beautiful. She laughed and snatched her little sister’s hand.

        “Come on, let’s go find some more!”

My Reflections on Homesteading and Nuclear Warfare (Megan)

~My Reflections on Homesteading and Nuclear Warfare~

    If you had told me seven years ago that I’d ever become a southern chicken momma, I’d have laughed in your face. I never imagined that, over the course of a handful of blistering summers, the South would transform me from a “Type A” New England girl to an Alabaman homesteading queen with a potato garden and a yard full of free ranging chickens, dogs, and stray children. Maybe it was the just the pandemic and peer pressure that started me on the hobby farming course, but I’d like to think that I come by these interests honestly. After all, my maternal great-grandparents were Minnesota farmers. They worked from dawn to dusk and instilled in my mother a fierce work ethic and pension for growing large gardens, baking bread, making soap, and dipping candles. Maybe it was the aromatic bunches of herbs drying in our rafters and the cauldron of sweet beeswax melting on our kitchen woodstove that set me on this homesteading journey. All I know for sure is that some pretty powerful forces have brought me where I am today.

    A few years ago, I discovered the wonders of kombucha and started my own tea brewery and collection of scobies. This naturally led to perfecting my sourdough starter and artisan bread loaves, which were snatched up at local markets. Chickens were the next logical pitstop as I headed slowly but steadily toward homesteading crazy town. I raised several broods and even spent hours watching fluff balls emerge from incubated eggs on my kitchen table. My pace was increasing, and I knew the final stop of my journey would be beekeeping.

    Like several friends in my southern momma circle, I fell for the YouTube videos which showed the magical side of beekeeping. Little imps in overalls helping Memaw harvest honey. There was music and laughter and some frolicking lambs in the background. No one was stung in all of this sticky mirth, and the family hardly knew what to do with all the honey they got!

    I made a plan to put aside a bit of the income I made cleaning horse stalls. Most of my barn money was accounted for, but I was able to start a secret savings of my own. I called it my “birds and bees fund” just to crack up my teenagers. Eventually, with the help of our prolific hens, I earned enough to buy my first beehive off of eBay. I was elated! Gradually a beekeeping suit, hive tool, and smoker were added to my stash, and my husband started looking nervous. I assured him that I had done loads of research and that my bee venture would prove to be as successful as the chickens had been. I preordered my first nucleusof honey bees and waited.

    At long last an anxious UPS driver showed up on my doorstep and told me in a shaky voice that there seemed to be a problem. “Ma’am, I dunno as much about bees as y’all do, but this don’t look good.” He lifted up the caged box to reveal a heap of distorted bee carcasses which had perished in transit. I agreed that those dried up husks would never make honey. After offering his condolences, the delivery man recommended that I reject the delivery and try again. Sadly, my experience was repeated a second time. Two colonies of massacred bees had arrived on my doorstep. I had to document the carnage with graphic photo evidence so the company would reimburse me. I shook off some feelings of foreboding but refused to give up.

    It was time to swallow my Yankee-bred independence and reached out to a local friend who kept bees. After telling her my sad tale, she immediately connected me with a mutual acquaintance, a bee farmer who offered me 50,000 bees for the same price I had paid for half as many dead ones! Hardly believing my good fortune, I sent my husband to pick up the two “nucs” and added the finishing touches to my hive.

    I’m not quite sure what I was expecting, but the wild buzzing inside the two boxes of mad bees intimidated me. I had not planned for nuclear warfare and pushed down some panic as I took off the netting. A minute later, my husband, who had been observing from a safe distance, hollered and began running to the house with a cloud of bees on his tail. Surely, he was exaggerating a bit? Six little stings couldn’t be all that bad… I was left alone to battle the bees. Gloved hands shaking, I managed to gingerly lift the first frame. It slipped, kamikaze bees pelted me in the face, and my life flashed before my eyes. I had watched the Hunger Games and knew my chances of survival were as slim as those of Katniss when she encountered the swarms of venomous tracker jackers. I begged God to spare my life and to just let the bees vaporize or swarm somewhere else. Sometime in between dropping that first frame and wetting my bee suit, I managed to get a few thousand bees into my hives. Sure, I had been stung and was even then swelling up beyond recognition, but I had prevailed!

    Fast forward a few months of inspecting and feeding my bees, conquering hive beetles with murder sauce, and learning the hard way how to keep bees out of my boots, I was euphoric. I even had a few jars of golden sweetness to show for a summer of hard work. I will admit that I felt a bit uneasy about my clumsy harvesting process and the casualties of so many of my bees. I even thought about coming clean and labeling my honey with the disclaimer that “both bees and beekeepers were harmed in the production of this honey.” Those honey-coated Pinterest posts and YouTube bee videos still haunted me, but the more I’ve talked to my bee keeping friends, the more I’ve realized that my learning curve and mistakes are common to all new beekeepers. One thing is for sure. I have gained a healthy fear and respect for both the honey bees and the formidable southern mommas who subdue them. Before I became an Alabamian hobby farmer, I believed the stereotypes. I discounted all southern ladies as superficial with their manicures and honey-sweet accents and pretty faces. Boy did I underestimate them! If bee keeping has taught me anything it’s that, on the inside, every bee AND every southern homesteading momma is a powerful force to be reckoned with. You might think she’s just full of honey, but if you’re fixing to mess with her home or her babies, y’all better prepare to be stung! And this Yankee girl is proud to call these queen bees her best friends.

Stephen and Megan: 25 Years

~Happy 25th Anniversary~

Happy 25th Anniversary to the man and woman who have lived by example what a beautiful, godly, perfectly imperfect marriage should look like!! I love you, Mom and Dad, and I’m so thankful for you! Thank you for leading me and Brendan and all your children by example and for the wisdom and encouragement you give us each and every day

I put together this slideshow of the past 25 years! So many precious memories!!

https://animoto.com/play/S1yPXwAQhkEy1qS1Mc4WMQ

A Year of Breaking (Megan)

Mom wrote this devotional for Co-Op this past weekend. It was too beautiful not to share! -Siobhan

If 2020 was a year of stretching as we struggled through a pandemic, 2021 was a year of breaking for me and my family.  Breaking resolutions, breaking promises, breaking appliances, breaking the bank with my struggling new business venture.  And even breaking hearts.  Grieving the loss of my grandma and living every day with gnawing loneliness for my family and closest friends I hadn’t seen since before the pandemic, I felt inadequate to comfort my adult children who each suffered the loss of someone very close to them this past fall.  For my daughter’s college graduation I gave her a necklace with sea glass and a promise that someday the treasures she had lost would be refined and returned to her as something beautiful and precious. I needed that assurance as much as she did.

I haven’t had the focus for much self-examination or creative reflection lately, but when I realized my date was coming up to give a devotional to encourage a group of women in vastly different stages of their journey as homeschool moms, I decided to go back to the beginning of my journey as a mother and travel memory lane through a series of books that have given me strength and courage over the past 20 years.  Each represents a different stage of motherhood, and, ironically, I am presently in every one of these stages!  More and more  I’m realizing that, whether we are new and naive mothers, mothers in the trenches with multiple children, or veteran (and I cringe to use the term) “Supermoms,” we all need the exact same reminders of God’s truth and regular encouragement of our sisters.  

As I returned to the pages of these books, I was transported back to my days as a young mother.  Fresh out of college and newly married and pregnant, I struggled greatly with my sense of identity and diminishing sense of worth as I gave up my personal dreams to care for my little ones.  God was kind to bring a friend into my life who certainly qualified as a “Supermom.”   This mother of 7 exuded energy and creativity, and her humor and words of advice have carried me through many challenges. Over the years, I got close enough to her to see that, behind her beautiful and brave smile, there was self-doubt and deep discouragement at times.  One day, after a heart to heart talk, she gave me this book called “The Invisible Woman - When Only God Sees.”  In this small book, Nicole Johnson writes about her experience of feeling invisible to her husband and children.  Here is a humorous and tragic quote we can probably all relate to!  Nicole writes, 

"I have often wondered when my kids walk into the kitchen if they just see a pair of hands cooking a meal.  Maybe I’m like the white-gloved Hamburger Helper hands.  Or do they see an apron tied around an invisible waist standing over the stove?  When I’m driving the car, do they see an empty seat belt secure and tight across no one’s lap?  They can see the trappings of the function I am performing, but they cannot see me performing it.  I can be standing over the stove with tears running down my cheeks, and someone will come into the kitchen and ask “the apron” the inevitable question:  not, ‘What’s wrong?’ but “What’s for dinner?”  Some days I’m only a pair of hands, nothing more.  “Can you fix this?”  “Can you tie this?”  “Can you open this?”  “Can you wash this?”  “Can you hold this?”  Weren’t these the same hands that held books, went to college and even received a law degree?...Whatever they were, they are now just used for opening video games and washing underwear, making bologna sandwiches and holding a fistful of GI Joes while someone goes to the bathroom…”  

The author tells about a close friend she opened her heart to, a friend who gave her a book about the Great Cathedrals of Europe - magnificent buildings which were built by skilled craftsmen and artisans whose names history will never reveal.  Many of these buildings took over a hundred years to complete, so the builders would commit their whole lives to a project they never saw completed.  At times the medieval artisans would intentionally hide their most beautiful work behind walls, knowing that (even though no else would find their art) it had already been seen by God for whose glory they had built it!  Through the pages of this book, the author’s perspective changed on the value of her mundane tasks.  She writes, “While I will never be visible to everyone; I am finally able to see myself for the builder and woman that I am.  I can stop searching for my reflection in others and allow God the opportunity to answer the question in my soul.  My life really matters.  These days I’m enjoying it thoroughly when someone doesn’t see me.  In fact, I’m looking for ways to disappear daily…The deepest identity and worth that my heart longs for will never be found in human applause. Although it feels good most of the time, it is far too short-lived.  The deepest satisfaction of my heart is found in the faith to work and build and love for a greater purpose than my own.”      

A second book that God used to change my perspective and bless me at the beginning of my journey as a mom is “Loving the Little Years, Motherhood in the Trenches.”  This book has become my top recommendation to moms of little ones.  I have returned to it often so I could laugh and empathize with the crazy stories this mom weaves into her insightful and convicting writing.  Rachel Jankovic compares her Christian life BEFORE CHILDREN to that of a slow river in a quiet place.  She confesses, “But God took me out of that life and threw me into the rock tumbler.  Here it is not so easy to feel godly because we spend our days crashing into each other and usually getting our problems addressed.  Here there is very little time for quiet reflection.  I do a lot of on-the-job failure and correction.  Repenting and forgiving.  Laughing.  Lots and lots of laughing.  Because if there is anything that life in the rock tumbler will teach you, it is that there is no room to take yourself seriously.  Like trying to strike “cool” poses on a rug that someone is continually pulling out from under you, self-seriousness in mothering is totally pointless and probably painful.”  

Later in her chapter entitled “Me Time,”  Rachel writes, “So realize that your body is a testimony to the world of God’s design.  Carry the extra weight joyfully until you can lose it joyfully.  Carry the scars joyfully as you carry the fruit of them.  Do you resent the damages that your children left on your body.  Just like a guitar mellows and sounds more beautiful with age and scratches, so your body can more fully praise God having been used for His purposes…”  She also reminds us that the Christian view of self is very different from that of the world.  “We are like characters in a story.  Our essential self is not back in the intro, waiting to be rediscovered.  Who you are is where you are. As the story grows, so does your character.  Your children change you into a very different person.  If you suddenly panic because it all happened so fast and now you don’t recognize yourself, what you need is not time alone.  What you need is your people.  Look out - look at the people who made you what you are - your husband and your children.  Study them.  They are you.  If you want to know yourself, concentrate on them.”  

You can imagine my delight, after enjoying this author’s first book, when I discovered that she had written a sequel called, “Fit to Burst - Abundance, Mayhem, and the Joys of Motherhood.”  My favorite chapter in this book is titled, “When the Milkshake Runs Low.” Here Rachel writes,

“Have you ever noticed that when there is more than one straw in a milkshake, everyone sucks faster?  Everyone knows they are competing, and every sip by someone else means less for you.  People start breathing through their noses to minimize lost time.  I have felt for a long time that little children have straws that tap directly into their mom’s energy.  The milkshake cup is me, and the milkshake is my energy, and every child is armed with a straw.  Infants who are either in the womb or nursing have a competitive edge and get to take as much as they want before it even hits the glass.  When the glass is full, things are pretty pleasant.  No matter how much milkshake the kids are drinking, there is still some left.  It feels pretty good.  I am happy to feed them all.  But when I’m down to the last inch of milkshake, all the straws start making that horrible noise as they swab around in the bottom of the glass looking for anything they could snag.  They all feel the panic of limited supply.  They all start getting intense and sucking much, much harder.  They are panicked.  I am getting panicked.  I want everyone to stop so I can whip up a new batch.  No one stops because they are trying to get the last of the film off the glass, leaving nothing behind.”  At the end of this chapter, she concludes, “When we are at home with our children, this is the means of our sanctification.  This is the testing of our faith.  And it is Christ’s faithfulness that enables ours.  It is our job to cast off sins, to be faithful.  It is Christ’s  job to renew us.  We need to be faithful because He is faithful to us.  We can trust Him to fill our milkshakes because His never runs low…”  

The fourth and final book I’ll share is one I read when I was expecting the twins.  It was the most convicting and encouraging book on my role as a homeschooling mom I had ever read.  It helped me make the distinction between what God requires of me and what I impose upon myself and my children.  It not only transformed the way I prioritize our homeschool days but it changed the spirit with which I approach homeschooling.  Sarah Mackenzie writes, “We are weary because we forget about grace.  We act as though God’s showing up is the miracle.  But guess what?  God’s showing up is the given.  Grace is a fact.  If you are being asked to feed a multitude with a tiny basket of loaves and fish, then bring your basket…We bring our basket - whatever talents, skills, abilities we have-and we seek Him with everything we are.  He works the miracle…Remember your true task.  Surrender everything.  Bring your loaves and your fish, even if you think them completely insufficient.  You are insufficient.  But His grace is not.  God is not limited by objective reality.  His yoke is easy and His burden is light.”  

Not only am I incredibly thankful for the promises of God’s Word and the encouraging pages of books like these to carry me through the darkest nights and dreariest days of motherhood, but I am also so grateful for the community of women He has blessed me with through this co-op.  Left to myself, I can be an introvert to an unhealthy extreme, and when I’m discouraged my tendency is to withdraw, which only feeds the struggle and gives the enemy an opportunity to convince me that I’m alone in the trenches of motherhood.  Several times this year, just when I have needed it most, one of you has sought me out, drawn me out, encouraged me with a book or a note, made me laugh, or prayed with me.  I want to thank you for that and encourage you to keep up the work of loving, forgiving and encouraging these ladies around you.  Whether they are new moms, moms of many, weary/overextended moms, or “Supermoms,” every one of them needs to be listened to, loved, and encouraged to lean into the God who invites all of us  with the words, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

Stepping into 2021 (Megan)

“When you have no vision from God, no enthusiasm left in your life, and no one watching and encouraging you, it requires the grace of Almighty God to take the next step in your devotion to Him, in the reading and studying of His Word, in your family life, or in your duty to Him.  It takes much more of the grace of God, and a much greater awareness of drawing on Him, to take that next step, than it does to preach the gospel.”  (Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest)

These words, lovingly framed and presented to me by my sister, have followed me in every one of my moves and held a perpetual place of honor over my kitchen sink.  Morning, noon, and night my eyes lift to this quote, and I am strengthened to tackle sink after sink of dirty dishes.  The other day I was startled to realize that my frame was missing, and my heart sank to learn that it had taken a sudsy plunge and was beyond repair.  More than ever I needed this promised grace to take the next step…

Time and time again, the year 2020 has been referred to in bleak terms as “a marathon, not a sprint.”  Or, worse yet, “a marathon without a finish line.”  This startling analogy has made me consider the marathon I ran a couple of years ago with my son and the euphoria of spectators and volunteers who cheered us through the toughest miles and celebrated our finish.  As an introvert and creature of habit who was transplanted 1200 miles from my New England home, I really had to step out of my comfort zone to find community for my family when we moved to Alabama.  For the first year and a half, I was blown away by the warm, southern hospitality we received, even from strangers.  Yet all of this changed with the arrival of the coronavirus pandemic.  Sunny smiles were shadowed with dark masks, and anxious eyes darted in critical disapproval of my children who broke the rules of social distancing.  Suddenly I no longer felt welcome in this unfamiliar place, and running “home” to New Hampshire wasn’t an option.  In a new and startling way, I felt trapped in circumstances outside of my control.  There was no forging ahead to finish this race, and I was forced to take each uncertain step with only flimsy faith in a nebulous finish line. 

“…We lose interest and give up when we have no vision, no encouragement, and no improvement, but only experience our everyday life with its trivial tasks”  (Chambers)

A few months into the pandemic, I felt overwhelmed by the transitions and disappointments that had redefined the rhythm of our lives.  My younger children were restricted from their favorite activities and time with friends.  My college students were banned from their campus community.  My littlest one passed through babyhood without meeting his loving grandparents.  The repetition and drudgery of everyday life, caring for 10 equally frustrated and disappointed people, began to feel oppressive.  One evening I just burrowed into the laundry mountain on my bed, too weary and heartsick to take another step…

“The thing that really testifies for God and for the people of God in the long run is steady perseverance, even when the work cannot be seen by others.  And the only way to live an undefeated life is to live looking to God” (Chambers).

By God’s grace my feet hit the floor the next morning, and I resumed my race.  I knew that, if I was going to finish this “marathon,” I would need to nourish my spirit, mind and body with life-giving fuel.  I’d have to shut off the voice in my head that told me that my race was pointless, that the menial tasks I completed every day didn’t matter to anyone, that the hours I poured into teaching my children were fruitless…  As I’ve done countless other times, when the needs of perpetually hungry and fussy children, the hopeless negativity of social media, and the despair of my own heart became more than I could handle, I headed out for an early morning run.  This hour of exercise and reflection before the house stirs has become so precious to me.  It is a time where I am conscious of my union with Christ, who retreated to His own solitary place to pray before spending long days meeting His children’s needs.  During the first few miles, I listen to His Word and expose every dark corner of my heart in prayer.  Next I feed my mind with edifying news podcasts or living books that stretch my imagination or make me laugh without restraint or indulge in healing tears.  Inevitably my heart is refreshed.  Slowly, steadily, the miles unravel the knotted tension inside of me, and I am strengthened for my course.

One day, as I was returning from a run, my eyes were drawn to a bare patch in my flowerbeds, where a sick rose bush had been uprooted.  I knew that this bush, which had been crushed in a recent storm, was beyond hope, but it still broke my heart to let it go.  Roses have always brought me great pleasure, and this particular bush with its multicolored blossoms was a beautiful  gift from the Master Gardener to welcome me to my new home in Alabama.  For weeks I had felt a morbid empathy with the sad remains of this bush – just a few roots being choked by neglected weeds.  Yet, on this particular morning, I noticed something remarkable.  There, growing up out of the ugly tendrils, was a beautiful, solitary rose.  Against all odds, my bush was making a tenacious comeback and refusing to stop blooming.  My heart took comfort in the reassurance that I would survive this season and that even this uprooted New England girl could thrive so far from home. 

December arrived, and it seemed fitting to celebrate my birthday by running a solitary marathon.  Early on that rainy morning, I mapped my course, loaded my energy drinks and an audio book on the topic of loneliness, and started the most difficult yet personally significant race I have ever run.  This time there were no spectators to cheer me on or hand me electrolytes when my legs threatened to give out.  Yet, even in my misery, I was able to view these 26.2 miles as a gift.  In the midst of a pandemic where so many people were relying on ventilators to keep them alive,  I thanked God for my healthy lungs.  I thanked Him for the suffering He had ordained that year, that (no matter where the finish line might be) had given me endurance, character, and hope which would not put me to shame (Romans 5:3-5). 

“Every Christian must experience the essence of the incarnation by bringing the next step down into flesh-and-blood reality and by working it out with his hands…  Ask God to keep the eyes of your spirit open to the risen Christ, and it will be impossible for drudgery to discourage you.  Never allow yourself to think that some tasks are beneath your dignity or too insignificant for you to do, and remind yourself of the example of Christ…” (Chambers).

Mother's Day in Quarantine (Megan)

A recent study claimed that “ the average mother devotes a staggering 57 hours a week to tasks such as cooking, cleaning, washing and playing nurse to the family...  They say that “typically a mum carries out 34 tasks per day, a grand total of 238 each week”  (Rebecca McKnight).  This estimate seems a little low to me.  I have to wonder if it fully accounts for the mornings when twin toddlers hop into their mother’s bed to wake the baby at an ungodly hour or the frenzied home school day when Mother scrambles to teach multiple grade levels in between dentist appointments.  Does it include the afternoons and evenings when she scribbles grocery lists while prepping dinner or the nights she tackles laundry mountains while engaging in the heart-to-heart conversations with teens?  Or the countless times she has rallied to calm her toddler’s night terrors and then finally, collapsing in bed, nursed the baby who won’t leave her arms until morning dawns and she begins all over again?

Since the COVID-19 virus sent our nation into lockdown mode, social media has been flooded with stories of deflated mothers whose routines have been turned upside down by tedious days at home with their children.   As I’ve scrolled through these accounts of miserable isolation, cancelled vacations, unsatisfied cravings for  fast-food fixes, and hair crises (due to closed salons), I’ve felt my own agitation and discontentment increase.  Admittedly our own family vacations and trips to restaurants and salons are few and far between, but somehow reading my friends’ protests has  stirred up in me a sense of being deprived of my rights as a woman and drained by the demands of motherhood.  Suddenly I’m finding myself tallying each of these 238 daily tasks I perform each week and wondering when I’ll ever have the chance to “clock out.”

Following a particularly impossible morning with countless potty training accidents, a failed attempt at writing a sonnet with my elementary kids, and confirmed reports that my 3 year old was doing planks and push-ups with a broken arm, I put on my running shoes and fled the chaos of my household long enough to do some ranting and soul searching.  A few miles into my run, Psalm 43:5 came to mind, “Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my salvation and my God.”

I held tenaciously to these words, letting them penetrate and calm my anxious heart.  Suddenly I saw my restless discontentment for what it was and knew that I could make the conscious choice to shut down the toxic, swirling unrest in my spirit and, instead, number the unmistakable answers to prayer and unexpected blessings I’d received in just the past year.  I recalled the startling, yet joyful, surprise that I was expecting our ninth baby.  So many friends prayed me through a difficult pregnancy, collected all of the maternity clothes and baby gear I was lacking, and lavished us with meals when our seventh son was born.  I considered the sisterhood of sweet ladies at our homeschool Co-Op who cheered me on as I struggled through the doorway each Tuesday with half a dozen children, including my squawking newborn in the front carrier and wild twins on monkey leashes.  My brave smile thinly masked the inadequacy I felt and the overwhelming fear that I would prove to be a failure and a burden.  Yet these women sought me out, empathized with me in our common plight as mothers, listened with compassion to what they couldn’t comprehend, laughed through tears over what none of us could control, and blessed us immeasurably with their extraordinary creativity and skill as teachers…  They quietly picked up the pieces I awkwardly dropped and served my family with such an abundance of  grace that I couldn’t help but feel loved and treasured.   When I’ve thought of these dear women and the strength they shared with me when I felt most weak, the image of Moses has come to mind.  This meek leader of an unruly people was called on by God to raise His hands over the battle with the Amalekites.  And when his hands grew too heavy for him to lift, Aaron and Hur stepped in to support his aching arms so that the  people of God would prevail.  What a humbling image of human frailty and our calling to support each other!

”  Strengthen the feeble hands,
    steady the knees that give way;
⁴ say to those with fearful hearts,
    “Be strong, do not fear;
your God will come,
    he will come with vengeance;
with divine retribution
    he will come to save you” (Is. 35:3-4). 

I think that one of the saddest elements of the COVID-19 restrictions is the fear of contaminated hands.  While some people have hoarded a lifetime supply of Purell and Clorox wipes, the rest of us have obsessed over how we’ll keep our families clean and safe from potentially life-threatening illness.  With the necessary evils of quarantine and social distancing, we have been prevented from engaging in the life-giving connections with other believers that feeds our spirits and empowers us for the daunting job of motherhood.  Could this be the root of our unrest?  Have we allowed the uncertainties of these times to take our eyes off the God who saves us and to distract us from our divine calling to serve His people?  Let’s not throw up our hands in defeat or fold them in apathy during these days when we’re apart.  Maybe, instead of scrolling and comparing each other’s Facebook feeds, we could pause to pray or send a text of encouragement to a friend with drooping arms…

Today, as I celebrate my twentieth year as a mother, I am flooded with a myriad of rich memories I’ve made with my children.  It amazes me how a couple of decades can mellow and sweeten what I recall about the often-traumatic days as an exhausted, new mother with postpartum depression.  What I wouldn’t give to revisit my 21 year old self, give her a gentle shake, and promise her that she would indeed survive the tantrums and sleepless nights.  I’d reassure her that the spunky little daughter who was feeding bees to her baby brother would grow up to be a passionate nurse and that the little boy who couldn’t make it through his first grade math lessons would graduate summa cum laude and earn scholarships to an honor’s college.  (It remains to be seen what will become of my vivacious twins who ride the ceiling fan and pick our locks with flossers, but I can hardly wait to find out!)  Looking back, I would gladly relive even the most difficult days in order to snuggle the baby versions of my adult children just one more time, to enter into their antics and messes, or to simply laugh with my husband at the end of an interminable day, instead of dragging him down with me into my slough of self- pity...

My mom is a thousand miles away from me on this Mother’s Day, so I comfort myself with treasured memories of the hundred times she held my hand and rocked my babies.   One of the important lessons Mom taught me that we have power over the narratives we tell ourselves.  With a slight adjustment of our “lens,” we can transform a limited, bleak viewpoint into a panorama of joyful, childlike expectancy and hope.  We can airbrush even the bleakest pictures with humor and grace to make them beautiful!  We can bemoan the disaster our kids left through the house when they “cleaned” with “Styrofoam,” or we can laugh at the blizzard and add this crazy snapshot to our album of hilarious memories.

Take heart, you mamas who are in the trenches with me!  The same God who defeated the Amalekites through the ministry of trembling hands has promised to renew our strength, lavish us with new mercies every morning, enlighten us with wisdom when we ask for it, and when we find ourselves isolated, support us with His own “hands.”

“Like as a father teaches his children, so the Lord teaches them that fear Him. He puts His arms upon them. Marvellous condescension! God Almighty, Eternal, Omnipotent, stoops from His throne and lays His hand upon the child's hand, stretching His arm upon the arm of Joseph, that he may be made strong!” (Spurgeon)

A Letter to My Mom on Mother's Day (Siobhan)

Mom, today is Mother's Day! A short letter can't begin to capture how thankful I am that you are my mom, but I do want to take a few moments to let you know how much you are loved today and every day!

If I had to pick one word to describe you, it would be "strong." You have been through a LOT throughout the years, and yet you have never given up on your family and your hopes and dreams! Life hasn't ever been easy, but you have always faced it with a calm certainty, determination, and faith. You went to college at 16 with honors and pursued your culinary degree, which you received with flying colors! When you met Dad, you willingly set aside the prospect of a flashy culinary career in order to begin your family. You worked tirelessly as you became a mom of nine kids, and you have held onto your dreams and passions by sharing them with each of us. Throughout the years you introduced us to the joys of cooking and trying your incredible culinary creations. You have shared with us your talent for writing through our family blog. Most recently, you have begun a flourishing family business, whipping up batch after batch of mouthwatering granola. Your job is the hardest I could possibly imagine, but you love it and fully embrace the laundry mountains, heaps of diapers, piles of dishes, and sticky kitchen tables with grace and an unbelievable amount of patience!

You always put your family first, but somehow you have managed to find the time to train for and run in two marathons! You have shared your passion for running with the rest of us, and some of my favorite memories with you in high school were our weekly track runs with the Granite State Racing team. There's seldom an Alabama morning you won't be found out on the road, weaving through our crazy construction and dodging armadillos! You have shared your running journey with us and described your first marathon in this way: "I ran with all of my heart and crossed the finish line to be greeted in the rain by everyone who loves me most - my mom and dad who can't imagine why I would run so much but support me anyway, the beautiful children who drove me crazy enough to pursue this dream and cheered the loudest when I succeeded, and my loving, attentive husband who gave me the gift of my first marathon." Watching you cross that finish line was yet another memory of your strength and determination that I will always cherish!

One of our greatest blessings has been growing up with you as both our mother and teacher! You have poured yourself into our education and have so faithfully taught each of us day in and day out. Whether we have been tracing our letters in pudding, classifying sentences, or solving complicated algebraic equations, you have always been right there by our side, motivating us to succeed! I couldn't have possibly made it into nursing school without your love and faithful encouragement. I still miss our daily Omnibus lessons and discussions, and I realize more and more every day how rich my school years were! You were my first teacher, and you will always be the one I go to when I feel completely overwhelmed by enormous study guides, essays, or deadlines.

Through the years and no matter what, you have loved me unreservedly. You are the best role model I could possibly ask for and continue to inspire me each and every day. I have no idea how you possibly do all that you do, but today I just want to say thank you...for everything you do and all that you are to so many people. You have impacted each of us in so many ways, and I could not be more proud to call you my mother. I hope today is filled with joy and gives you a little taste of how much we love you and how rich our lives are because you are in them. I love you so, so very much, Mom! Happy, happy Mother's Day!

Forever your little girl,

Siobhan

Wild Oats Granola (Megan)

Once upon a time I worked as a culinary intern on Nantucket Island and learned how to make the most delicious granola. Over the past two decades, I’ve tweaked this recipe and developed my very own Wild Oats Granola. This treat has fueled my boys through sports seasons and sustained my daughter and her roommates through late-night cramming sessions for college finals.

Recently I decided to market my granola locally, and it has been flying off my kitchen shelves and receiving rave reviews! Each bag is custom-made to suit the dietary needs and preferences of my customers. Although my aspirations of becoming a pastry chef were put on the back burner for the sake of my “Maker’s Dozen,” my kitchen is still the sweetest place I know.

Click here to go to our Maker's Dozen Bake Shop page!