Determined to be Thankful

I watch her cross the finish line a full two hours after most runners have gone home; her body working hard for every step because her brain scrambles instructions to her uncooperative limbs. She used to run 26.2 miles in as much time as it is now taking her to walk three! With one leg straight as a board and one hand curled uselessly near her shoulder, she walks three miles, holding tight to her granddaughter; the same three miles that barely warm-up the able-bodied volunteers working the time clock and refreshments at the finish line. The same three miles that required four years of intense therapy for this Broken One after her mobility-robbing stroke.

Runners take off and come back, some burning up five miles or more like it was nothing. They pass The Broken One as they leave and again as they return, giving her a thumbs-up or an encouraging word; completely unaware that, months earlier, she ripped that advertisement for the Lord’s Acre Run from the newspaper and made her children find Powell Butte on a map. The finishers ask about her once they’ve cooled off, had a snack and are ready to head for home. They scan the horizon for her silhouette, marveling again as her story unfolds through whispers and raised eyebrows. Are they wondering like me if, faced with the cross she bears, they would have the same determination, the same strength and courage?

Do some of them feel on the inside the way she looks on the outside, I wonder? Broken, twisted, barely able to function? Do some wish they could pull the covers back over their head each morning for a myriad of despairing reasons? Are there others whose paychecks come in discouraging fits and starts or whose livelihood has been interrupted all-together?

As I serve cool water to another thirsty runner, I look up and my eyes follow another friend by the name of Rachel as she jogs by; savoring the cool morning air with her kids. Her body: waging an invisible war against some chump-of-a-breast-tumor and reeling from the chemo cocktail being dumped into her veins. But you’d never know it by the thankful radiance all over her face.

And then I remember that, in my own life, thankfulness often requires a healthy dose of determination. It’s hard to count blessings when my mind is pressed and under the impression that it’s all about ME. I need to look up and take notice of those nearby who are rising from the ashes of frustration and battle so I can follow their footprints toward hope! And once I do that, the fog clears and the determined fighters I long to emulate come into focus; high school volleyball players who defy the odds of youthful inexperience to win another state title, football players who hang up their battered helmets and head for the mat or center court with renewed vigor, the military families whose only medals are worn inside their chest, and whose very survival here at home demonstrates to the rest of the world what an invisible monument looks like when its made of strength and quiet perseverance; all these things go unseen unless I make the effort to look through a different lens.

I wish my word-lens could show you in living color what the finish line of that Lord’s Acre Run looked and felt like when The Broken One finally crossed it. Hundreds of people turned their attention from the infamous Lord’s Acre feast that was coming out of the BBQ pits; their buzz of conversation at once went eerily quiet. And when the stop watch stopped counting and our arms shot up in the air, signaling that she had crossed over, the crowd went wild; hearts exploding with joy and voices celebrating her victorious demonstration that whether broken in body or broken in spirit, we can always choose to lean into thankfulness.

#7 for good 'ol fashioned rodeos.

#8 for parents who have been married 45 years! I love you Mom and Dad.

#9 for shelter from the physical and spiritual storms of life.

#10 for a wood burning stove.

#11 for wood to put in wood burning stove.

#12 for teenagers who hang on to playfulness.

#13 for the first snow flakes of the season.

#14 for vacuum cleaners.

#15 for work.

#16 for play.

An acre for the Lord.

Sixty Three years ago they came. Farmers from all over our fine County, each bringing an acre's worth of their harvest or livestock. They gave to the church so that others would be helped. Some gave out of their abundance and others gave out of their lack. But their giving started something beautiful. The kind of charity that stands the test of time.

And grows.

This weekend marked another occurrence of our annual church celebration that has grown year by year.

Sixty three times.

The farmers still come and bring their gifts, but so do the quilters, and painters, the pie bakers and taffy pullers. And the outlying communities can't help but follow the smell of the hams and the vegetables as they simmer all night in coals underground; tended by the bleary-eyed pit-crew that watches over until dawn breaks.

Once upon a time they came on foot or horse and now they come by the carload, to partake in what the land and the Believers have to offer.

One day. One acre. One church. One Body who believes in giving and loving because they were first loved and they want the whole world to know about it.

By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another. John 13:35

Celebrate with me and the gratitude community at large by remembering the gifts in your life, one by one.

#1 Lord's Acre Day

#2 Chilly Friday night football games.

#3 Saturday night football games and laughter in the home of friends.

#4 Little hands with dimples and small fingernails that are hard to paint.

#5 Husband who is also a Statesman.

#6 Fresh eggs and friendly goats.

Learning to run.

Just a few short years ago I’d lie awake and listen to the sounds of laughter pass by my window as those crazy runners lit up the pre-dawn hours with their headlamps; Mothers mostly, fellowshipping before the children wake; dragging along the occasional husband as pack leader trying to eavesdrop into the world of the woman. Those Chatty-Cathys would tease and taunt me every morning; as if knowing I wanted to come out and play hide-and-seek in the dark, but refusing to accept my lame excuse of “not being a runner.”

Perhaps it was no coincidence that my wedding ring was becoming harder and harder to remove. Heaven knows that my ever-stiffening joints certainly weren’t winning any prizes. And neither were my arteries, which I was certain were clogging by the second, as I approached the day of forty candles on my cake. Trust me, the race I was running had little to do with shoes and trails and gentle morning breezes. And a whole lot more to do with frenzied to-do lists and sprinting around a track of repetitive tasks in search of some unattainable finish line; never really sure of that which I was seeking.

But now, I’m the one who’s laughing, because grace had a different plan and it all began with an invitation. A gentle coaxing to “come and see” that meant laying down my skepticism and trying something new. So under the cover of a lonely country road in broad daylight I placed my trust in a blossoming friendship and began learning, foot fall by foot fall, to run a different kind of race. At first, I was only able to run a few paces before my head felt ready to explode. Then, another day and another; each with a little less bending over, hands to knees. Then one mile led to five followed by ten until the self-talk of the impossible was forced to flee.

And the forty candles came and went and brought with it a new understanding of what it means to step off the hamster-wheel of constantly glancing at the clock and the list and leaning toward a tape that’s not really there anyway. The new race really isn’t a race at all, but a time to reflect on what my life seeks; a tough thing to ponder if I’m always in a rush.

Running the country roads with my pasture pounding friends has helped me establish a new cadence that has changed my day-in-day-out rhythm of house and work and kids and marriage and faith. The route remains the same but, where my gaze was once downward in a fast-paced rat race of drudgery, my eyes now focus upward in slow appreciation of the narrow path that my feet no longer have to run frantically about to find. I’m becoming familiar with the slow and steady tempo of this new race as I retrace each memorized step by heart.

And wouldn’t you know it? Those same crazy running people who bless my life every day also like to break out into the song-of-the-race darn near any chance they get. Which is why you’ll see them all, the fast ones right along side the slow ones like me, at just about any 5K or 10K or half-marathon within a 50 mile radius of our farm.

Please accept my sincere invitation to join our community the next time you see a Walk/Run advertisement and experiment in slowing down and knowing why you race. Then, perhaps you will find what it is you seek. And that would be an important thing to know.

Life Abundant.

Sometimes after a weekend chock-full of JOYFUL I'm stuffed! My cup-runneth-over as a sigh of contentment escapes while looking through images captured. The truth shines bright revealing beauty in the midst of a chaotic world and the strain of another work-week and the flu bugs that plague and plunder. LIFE ABUNDANT rules the day.

One LIFE celebrated a birthday with his grand kids. Miniature reminders of how thankful I am that he gave me LIFE!

Another LIFE ushered out the last football game of the season, wracked with cough and chill, but there just the same to lend-a-hand, bringing LIFE to the team.

The teenager is full of LIFE and LAUGHTER no matter what he does. No sign of mood or sulk with this chap. Today he is teacher - instructing his audience to yell Parkour! Parkour! when bumping into things, thereby achieving elite athlete status instead of klutz.

Who knew?

When there seems to be no end to the creative LIFE, a new game breaks out between boys.

I've played a lot of tennis in my day but...hand tennis? The red hands and Wimbledon-like sound effects must be seen to be believed. In their laughter, there is LIFE.

The tender, innocent hands of boys who are growing into men. Hands that will work and create and hold new LIFE someday. Hands that may even fight for truth and freedom so that others may know LIFE ABUNDANT too.

But for now, these young hands play and sketch and learn to work in small portions. Holding tight to the hands of their Fathers and Mothers and Grandparents, waiting for wisdom to be passed along. These young ones in a hurry. The wiser ones wishing to stop time.

Let my teaching fall like rain and my words descend like dew, like showers on new grass, like abundant rain on tender plants.
Deuteronomy 32:2

Zucchini-Cheddar Pancakes

While everyone still slumbered this morning I took one last stroll through the garden. All is bare and burned by the many frozen nights that have already passed this way. Most everything has long ago been rescued and enjoyed or is tucked away to remember the garden by later, when the snow flies.

But under the shriveled and cracked leaves there was still a sign of life. Some tender new chives just waiting to be plucked and added to this recipe:

Zucchini-Cheddar Pancakes

4 eggs

4 packed cups grated zucchini

1 cup grated cheddar cheese

1/4 cup finely chopped chives

Salt and black pepper to taste

1/3 cup flour

oil for frying (coconut oil is best for cooking at high temps)

Beat the eggs then add zucchini, cheddar, chives, salt and pepper, and flour. Mix well.

Heat oil in heavy skillet then add spoonfuls of the batter and fry on both sides until golden brown and crisp. Serve immediately with a dollop of sour cream.

After it's all gone you can wake up everyone else in the house and serve them cereal. Be prepared though, they make ask you what that yummy smell is.

The little quilt shop that could.

Somewhere, not too far from where I live, lies a little wisp of a town - population 315. And in that town is a cozy little place where darling ladies like to gather and work on quilts and what not. I'm not a quilter, and I hem pants with duct tape mostly. But when I grow up I envision myself being a part of their little bee. Every time I'm in this little quilt shop I dream about the fabulous creations I will make someday.

When I grow up.

Because, when I was little I used to tell my Mom that someday I would have a big house with a walk-in refrigerator that was FULL of cookie dough ALL THE TIME, just for the taking.

Somehow that dream doesn't sound as good as it once did because I left out the part about the kitchen help I would need to clean up the mess. Now I have more mature visions of a scrap booking room and a room full of beautiful yarns and knitting needles of every shape and size. Okay, and maybe jars and jars of Skittles candy.

And lets not forget the full-time staff that will keep the Skittles jars full and the yarn and scrapbooks dust free!

Sometimes I think this little quilt shop has big dreams of growing up too. Funny thing is, the Internet actually makes it possible for a shop in a town of 315 people to act all...BIG! Only difference is, you still get that small-town customer service and hospitality. So, if you like to quilt, or just like to hoard REALLY cute fabrics, then you should stop by, either in person or on the web. And since October happens to be an excellent time to order fabric for all your Christmas gift-making, maybe we can make this little quilt shop bust at the seams with orders like the big boys!

p.s. This is not a paid advertisement. Unless you call all the beautiful quilts and bags and pillows my Sister makes for me "payment."

p.p.s. I think when I grow up I will hire her to thread all my bobbins and needles too.

The Maizey Days of Summer.

It's almost the end of September and the mercury hovers at 90 degrees. Too warm to come inside just yet, even though the winter projects are beginning to beckon.

There will be plenty of cold days for finding the right color of yellow for the living room. But not today.

The new lavendar root stock has arrived and is ready to be planted. The aspens still need some water to store away for the long thirsty winter ahead. And flower beds are drying as the stalks head underground, back to their bulb-homes, to rest-up for Spring's splendor.

The garden has lost it's vibrant colors. Having been scorched by the fiery sun and shivered by the night's icy prelude.

How long until we are driven inside? No one knows and no one wants to guess, for fear of hastening the inevitable.

So we just enjoy the warm days and cold nights for as long as they linger.

And savor the sweetness of another harvest. Knowing full-well that another season will follow.

And God said, "Let there be lights in the expanse of the sky to separate the day from the night, and let them serve as signs to mark seasons and days and years..." Genesis 1:14