How to Reap a Harvest

I pull down green beans by the handful this morning in quiet dew-dampened garden. That bucket fills and fills and thanks overflows.

Why is it so hard for me to remember the harvest when planting time comes?

Come early spring, I can pile those packets on the table, tear them open and hold dried beans in hand, only to see work, futility, toil, and the everlasting wait...instead of purpose, opportunity, and invitation. Why do I forget that tiny seed, when tucked into earth and cared for, tended to, will soon reap bounty? That summer is but a blink and before long, buckets will overflow and canner- weights will rock and shelves will fill and tables will be set...bodies nourished?

Is it because during harvest, it's easy to forget that it is a result of that first planting? Do I remember that initial leap of faith that pulled me from the artificial comfort of my climate-controlled house into the untamed out-of-doors? Do I remember, as I snap and seal into jars, that the overflowing harvest is a result of patience and diligence...plain hard work?

Harvest never comes without the planting, without the toil

So it is with beans. (So it is with brains. So it is with boys.)

Proper perspective is gained through remembering the whole process..and I realize I must be fully immersed in each step if I am going to be rightly hopeful as I sow those seeds. I must delight in the hope of planting, ache through the pulling of weeds, let the sun drench my back as I guide long vines onto trellises, and feel weary bones give way to rest as I soak in cool baths. I must always keep my eyes on the harvest to come.

It is possible to love each step- to give deep thanks with each bean plucked from the vine.

And it starts with answering that invitation written in postcards disguised as dried beans.

Come, dream, discover, be filled with joy and thanksgiving...Watch what the Lord can do with bit of dead, dried bean...He can bring life.

On Unplugging

Most of my blog posts are written alongside a clothesline.

Maybe it's the soft, sweet breeze,

Or the moments of solitude,

Or the deliberate, methodical act of placing of clothes and pins that refuses to be rushed that gives time and makes space for thoughts to blend and meld and make music worth sharing.

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My sister told me a few days back about this game on Facebook called "FarmTown". In this game you grow crops, harvest crops, earn money. Online.

I have not signed up (she and I laugh, I have my own crops to harvest). Although, it should be noted that I have yet to harvest potatoes after one day, nor have they ever brought me monetary gain. (So maybe I'm playing the wrong game?)

I hear about a game such as this and I can barely help but shake my head at how disconnected we become from real life. Not because anyone playing really thinks it takes a few hours to raise crops, but that it becomes more important than those things happening outside the screen.

And I shake my head, but in some ways, some days, I find myself guilty of just such misplaced affections. My relationships are buoyed not by heart to heart talks, but by sentence-long updates. My plans for being a better mom are delayed by the desire to read more ideas on being a better mom. The fountain of overflowing knowledge is delightful, and also quite distracting.

Delightful in that it creates community that I never knew could exist- kindred spirits hundreds of miles away. Delightful in that I have found inspiration and mentoring for those roles in which I long to excel. Some of those ideas are, well, amazing. And of course, delightful in that it does pull me closer to those I love who are so far away.

And yet distracting in that it is never-ending. It pulls on my brain throughout the day; I long to be here, learning and gleaning, instead of out there- living and being.

And so my real life crops over-ripen in the fields and my kids feel second to this little box and I am off-kilter and know it.

So...because it's nearly fall, with visitors and harvest and a myriad of projects to complete before snow flies...

And because I have a list a mile long of things that I want to do and be (that involve real -life action)

I'm taking a vacation from the Internet...to spend more time out by the swing, and in the sprinkler, and in front of the sewing machine, and curled up with a laundry-basket of library books and two sun-weary, dirt-laden boys ready for adventure of another kind.

I long to make that clothesline-like space in more places in my life, allowing quiet so that thoughts can meld into things worth sharing.

Jess from Making Home decided to take a similar net-break earlier this summer, and for her reasoning, she mentioned that she desired to "neither overestimate the importance of online activities, nor underestimate the resources, wisdom, and camaraderie available here...Time away helps me to rightly value what's here, and rightly value what's NOT here."

May we always try and keep that perspective.

What would you do without the pull of media? What would that quiet space allow in your life- just for a week or two?

(And of course, though I will not have the Internet in my house for a few weeks, I will still check on emails at the library once a week or so...so if you comment, know that I will get it, it just might take me a few days to respond.)

And he turns two

He replies "YES!" excitedly and closes his tiny, chunky hand around two of my fingers. His grasp is firm, and he is ready for adventure. Of course, we both know that we are doing nothing more than feeding our sheep- the daily work of nourishment.

But when you are two, is not everything an adventure? (Isn't it too bad we lose that?)

We walk along in silence, hand in hand, and I wonder back to when the last time was that it was just he and I- not he, I, and big brother. What a different world this second one has- always in community. I marvel at how different our communication is- he with the excited one-word exclamations, me, with returned delight and awe, and then more silence.

A contrast from 4yo brother, who chatters along contentedly like a regular teenager, recounting the day that has been and the day yet to come (and the reason planes fly in the air and do they come in the day and the night like Hallie says they do? And did I know that the beans were now in the garden, also tomatoes? What should we name that cat?).

But today brother stayed inside- a rare experience for the little guy and I. Perhaps, on this birthday of his, a perfect moment. A moment to reflect on him, and the joy that he brings.

"Ooooh, wow!" he stoops down low, his entire body curled around his knees, and peers at a bee working on a bud of clover. I stay and look too, noticing new things yet again (don't we always when we slow?). For a moment, he is taken with the swing, swaying idly by and calling for us- "Wing! Wing!" He lets go of my hand and runs to it- old friends reuniting. I implore him "But Davey, we need to feed those sheep- they are hungry. Maybe another time." And he and friend part ways and he again clasps my hand.

We reach the barn and I lift down a bale of hay. He stands back, wide-eyed, looking for his chance. I untie it and he grabs a handful of dried grass and strides over to the door. He is still too short to see on the other side, to reach over with that hand, and so he stands on tip-toes and tries his best. I see him and lift him up to toss it over. He watches those "steeps" intently, eyes darting from one to another, checking, noting; farmer in training.

'Tis the work of my life as a mom: encourage, guide, correct, support. Today it looks like a trip out to the sheep barn, but it is a precursor- we are both practicing for those bigger walks, those larger lessons of life to come. Me, learning how to encourage, guide, correct and support, and he learning how to listen, learning what matters, learning how to persevere. A small dance that started back before that first birthday- foundations for something greater.

Chores done, we again match hands and start the long walk back to the house. This time when we pass the swing, he looks at me questioningly and I nod. And quietly, I push him and he flies back and forth with that wide smile that melts hearts and I take time to delight in this boy given to us two years ago today. We feel like bandits, not having to share "turns"- just he and I, I and he (and the swing, of course).

We run to the house and there is a piece of me that wonders if it's fair, this always having another around- always having brother and never just being one alone. It's not something I even consciously think, really, just a question lingering in the back of my heart.

When we hit that door, I hear the clomp clomp clomp of boots over kitchen floor and a squeal "RYYYYAN! STEEPS! WING!" And that smile of delight stretches across his face. His face is flushed and he is out of breath for all of the excitement. Ryan watches his brother closely and David again recounts our journey to his big brother, and I realize that most of the fun was coming back together with that brother of his. He's not really missing out at all- he's getting more- mom, dad, and big brother

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They say that after you have kids, it is hard to remember what life was like before them. I can remember a bit- I remember quiet, reading for hours, the freedom to come and go without carseats and sippy-cups and extra changes of clothes (or babysitters). I remember long nights of uninterrupted sleep. But then I remember two kids. It's as if they have always been here together. There is life before- and then life with kids. And I love the relationship I have with each of them, decidedly different and each delightful. And no, I can't imagine life without either one of them.

You see, I need that reminder that a trip out to feed sheep is an adventure.

Among many, many other lessons, they have taught me that slowing down brings more joy, more appreciation, more gratitude. And where there is gratitude, you can't help but feel abundantly blessed.

And sometimes, it's best to run full speed ahead, with wild abandon and without care or cause (they are boys, after all)

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Pictures: David getting boots on for chorin'; David 2 weeks old, and toy that Ryan thought he would like to play with placed carefully so he could "reach it"; David today, two years old and full of spunk.

Indoors and Out

Typed down this past April. Wiping off the dust, thought I would share...
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Having been myself, a child, content to be indoors
(climate controlled and comfortable was my favorite way to explore)

I could sell lemonade in a stand, and make a nice picnic outside
But the dirt? That could stay far away.

The garden and flowers could be tended by another
I would stay inside, if I had my druthers.

So it seems to me odd, a strange thing, for sure
To find myself with boys who can’t stay indoors
Before they even climb out of PJ’s
They are asking and pleading if today is the day
Could today be the one? Please mom, let it be
Could this be the day we are to be free?
Outside to roam to search and to climb
To seek ordinary treasures, to delight in the find?

They pull on chore boots to combat the mud
And a snap of coat buttons and off they run.
And I watch with delight as they go, one after the other
Small one working hard to keep up with that brother
They head out to discover, to play and delight
To hunt for robin’s nests, to see them take flight

How did this happen? Boys who love mud and bugs?
Kids who would choose grass any day over rugs?

That great yawning outdoors now draws me, too
With it’s warm sun for my back, it’s cool morning dew
It is true, that bright, crisp, clear day calls my name,
And that indoor-only girl? I hardly remember her name.

And now I get my grandpa’s love of the dirt
How he could work out of doors until sweat drenched his shirt
Long days you could find him, content with the ground
The midday rustling of trees and his spade the only sounds
I know the delight in that cool lemonade
Taken after a hard day’s work, sitting down in the shade.