By Your Agony and Bloody Sweat

I originally wrote this post on Good Friday two years ago (for reference, Pearly Girl was a few months old, Superman was almost two, and Little Professor was three and a half). Here it is for you on this Good Friday.

On this Good Friday, the title above is both fitting and--I'll admit it--a deliberate attention-getter (that's Comp 101 on "Attracting an Audience" right there). I don't actually like to think about what Christ went through on this day. I don't even like to use the proper language to describe it. Thanks to the Litany (again!) for the right words when my sinful flesh cringes at the truth.

Today the kids and I went up to church at noon for an informal prayer service. I told Papa I could walk there, no problem--he needed to take a few boxes of books earlier so he drove the not-quite-two blocks with our one vehicle. But after strapping on Pearly Girl (roughly fourteen pounds) into the sling and pulling the boys (roughly sixty pounds) into a twenty-mile-per-hour wind for about one hundred yards, I realized I was tackling more than I thought. By the time I got to church, my back and arms were aching-sore and I was totally out of breath. But no big deal, I told myself. Jesus hung on the cross for three hours and endured hours of torment and torture before that, so a little sweat pulling my kids isn't anything to complain about.

We went into the dark church where Papa had covered the cross with a black veil and lit a few candles. A few women from church were there, and we sat in front of them in the first pew. The sanctuary was very dark and quiet. But not for long. Pearly Girl wanted out of the carrier. Badly. My muck sweat from the walk doubled as I wrestled the now-squirming, flailing, wailing girly out of the Baby Bjorn. Then Superman got ants in his pants and would not hold still. After trying unsuccessfully to rock our Pearl and shush Superman, Papa stopped his prayers so I could hand Superman over to him. Then I took PG and left the sanctuary, mere minutes after we first had walked in.

I sat down on the pew in the narthex with the door to the sanctuary closed and began to feed PG. And I couldn't help it; the tears started pooling in my eyes and running down my cheeks. Why, I thought, why can't I just go into church and be able to sit quietly and hear your Word without interruption? All I wanted was to hear and remember your Passion. 

I could hear the quiet murmurs of Papa and the women praying the Litany. The soft, muffled cadence of their voices calmed me down, and I gradually just sat still and tried to remember the parts where I thought they were. After a few minutes, they came out of the church and stood by me for a few minutes. The boys, now quiet, went with Papa to the van.


"How is she?" one of the women asked gently, gesturing to PG.

"She's almost asleep now," I said. "I'm sorry about all the noise."

Before I could say anything else, all three of them shook their heads and started talking at once.

"They're no trouble--"

"No, don't you worry--"

But one of them spoke most firmly.

"Don't ever apologize for your children. They are a gift to us, and we are so, so happy to see them here. Always remember what a joy they, and you, are to us."

I was touched by her words and the obvious agreement all of them had for this woman's sentiments. In fact, I was overwhelmed. What I saw as burden and interruption, they saw as gift, total gift. What I saw as irritation and distraction, they saw as reminders of the abundance of God's grace.

That afternoon, I got an email from the same woman with the comment. She wrote:

Thank you both so much for taking the time today to worship with us.  It was a special service and I appreciate the focus during this time, especially as the work day passes, it’s wonderful to break away and focus on what matters in this life – salvation through Jesus Christ our Lord and the new life He brings!!

 I also want you both to understand, please never feel the need to say “I’m sorry” for those 3 blessings that you have in your children.  You cannot imagine the feeling of joy that I had when I heard Paul’s voice join in on the Lord’s Prayer.  Hands down, highlight of my day.  It’s always wonderful to have them there.  Both Nancy and I were so thrilled to see the wagon outside of the church when we arrived, and we were so thrilled to spend that time with your family – our church family!!  It speaks to the kind people that you are that you apologize, but I want you to know that you don’t have to.  There is absolutely no apology necessary, ever.  Children are to be in church, and we are SO GLAD that they can be at Our Saviours!!

Love, because of Him,

Linda

The subject of her email was "This was truly a Good Friday."

So often I forget what's important in this life. Yet in the midst of sweat (literally) and tears (literally, all around, everybody join in!), Christ comes. My agony might seem terrible, but it's nothing compared to what He bore for me. He came to bleed and sweat and cry and die on the cross for us so that we won't always. I thought I'd missed His Passion. But He brought it to me anyway, just in a way I hadn't expected. And His word, that does for me what I can't do for myself, keeps me always. For this I am eternally grateful, just as I am so incredibly grateful for the love He gives through women at our church who remind me of Him so steadfastly.

Happy Good Friday.

An old man, a young girl, and their Brother

Heinz Otto Bleinagel was born into a north Prussian farm family in 1918. He shared hard physical labor with his father, mother, four brothers, and three sisters. He was hard of hearing in one ear. He didn't like corn because pigs ate it. He was a Lutheran.

Near the end of World War II, Heinz fought for Germany on the eastern front. Russians took him prisoner. When the war ended, the Russians told him and the other prisoners to walk over a hill, toward freedom. When the prisoners started moving in that direction, the Russians started shooting at them. Heinz escaped and walked all the way home, from western Russia to northern Germany.

While Heinz was escaping and then walking, his brother Oscar was in Milwaukee, wondering if he was still alive. He sent money for Heinz's passage to America. When Heinz got home, he left again, for good, for a new home in Wisconsin.

In Milwaukee, Heinz met Betty. Betty was a Catholic. They got engaged, and Heinz found himself taken into a room with Betty's aunt, a nun. Heinz told Sister, "I'm staying Lutheran, and that's that." They emerged, and the aunt told her brother, John, Betty's father, "He's okay." John then approved of Heinz and Betty's marriage.

Heinz and Betty's first child was Linda. Two sisters, Lee Ann and Lori, later joined the family. On Sundays after church, the Bleinagels would get together with Oscar and his family, eat ham and hard rolls, and play Sheep's Head for hours.

Heinz worked in manufacturing, worked with his hands. In his spare time, he smoked a pipe and carved animals and people out of wood in his basement shop that was filled with tools. He liked to fish and play more Sheep's Head with friends and relatives, including his grandson Jon, at Carl Schurz Park on Moose Lake. He had a sense of humor and enjoyed telling stories. His bright blue eyes would twinkle and his hands would gesture.

Heinz rarely talked about the war.

On Sunday, March 2, Heinz passed away.

Many, many years after Heinz was born, a little girl named Jordyn was born in the north central United States. She spent a lot of time in farm country.  She rode her bike while she wore her favorite skirts, and she giggled with delight. She loved her dog and kitties, her big sister and little brother, her mom and dad and grandpas and grandmas. She loved many people in her life, and they loved her. She was a Lutheran.

Jordyn was diagnosed with cancer when she was seven months old. She fought it for six years.

On Thursday, March 20, Jordyn passed away.

Heinz was our grandpa, grandpa-in-law, and great-grandpa. Jordyn was our neighbor, the great-granddaughter of friends.

In these days of ever more deliberate rhetorical choices to downplay death, Heinz was just another old man whose time had finally come. He nearly made it to his ninety-sixth birthday. The last few months--okay, years and even decades--were hard. But still, he'd had a long life. Okay, maybe that long life wasn't totally great and wonderful, but what more could anyone ask for?

In these days of ever more impressive efforts to show sick kids how special they are, Jordyn was just another young girl who tragically suffered. She didn't even make it to her eighth birthday. The last few weeks--okay, months and years--were hard. But still, people sure made great efforts to show how much they cared for her. Okay, maybe those efforts weren't as impressive as they could have been, but what more could anyone ask for?

My rhetorical questions are glib, even snide. They certainly belittle the very real pain Heinz's and Jordyn's relatives and friends felt, still feel, and will continue to feel. They especially undercut the lives, the precious lives, of Heinz and Jordyn. What little we remember about Heinz and what little we remember about Jordyn is nowhere near to what God the Father, who designed and created every hair on their heads, remembers about them.

The truth is, no matter how long human lives might last, no matter how much effort loved ones can love, the only end any of us really want for Heinz and Jordyn and ourselves is that there isn't one. No, we don't want them to suffer, and we certainly don't want to suffer in this life that is full of it. But death is no rosy, easy substitute for the slow debilitating decay of a body long used or for the terrible marks of cancer treatments on a young one. No, death merely reiterates to us how wrong it is to say goodbye to a grandfather or father, to a sister or daughter or great-granddaughter. Death is not natural. Returning to dust is not natural. Twinkling eyes and giggling laughter in dear ones that suddenly and forever end is not natural. Mortality in life made immortal is not natural. It is horrifically wrong, terrifyingly real, and hopelessly inevitable.

Heinz did things in his life that he wasn't proud of. I'd venture a guess that he regretted some of the choices he made up until his last breath. And Jordyn, sweet girl that she was, broke commandments. They both did. We all do. They just suffered the ultimate bodily consequences of sin before we did.

This week we remember Jesus, who rode on a beast of burden to His death. Who sacrificed Himself and feeds His own body and blood to our failing flesh. Who drowns us so that we will breathe in perfect bodies, forever.

Who took our putrid, stinking mortality and gave us His perfect, spotless, immortal righteousness instead.

Who remembers Heinz and Jordyn and all His saints even now.

Who made the hopelessly inevitable impossibly hopeful.

But I'm getting a little ahead of myself.

For now, I remember these words from a Holy Week hymn:

What Thou, my Lord, hast suffered 

Was all for sinners' gain;

Mine, mine was the transgression,

But Thine the deadly pain.

Lo, here I fall, my Savior! 

'Tis I deserve Thy place;

Look on me with Thy favor,

And grant to me Thy grace.

~O Sacred Head, Now Wounded, v.2

Far as the curse is found

Every year on Christmas Eve night, our church's Sunday School presents a pageant. The pageant includes lessons and carols, with some shepherds' robes, microphone feedback, candlelight, and the usual-yet-unexpected poignancy whenever children are involved in public confessions of faith. This year, the Sunday School teachers did an exceptional job preparing our youngsters to read and sing of Christ's coming. And despite a last-minute rash of kids getting the flu and a snowy, blowy Eve, Our Saviour's Sunday School did a wonderful job. Here they are right before the service.

Our small group is blessed to include Ali, a lovely, energetic girl who is developmentally disabled. She cannot walk without help and she cannot speak with words that we understand. But she smiles often, participates vigorously, and shows us how God makes beauty out of brokenness.

Ali's mother is one of our Sunday School teachers, and one of the ways Ali participated in the pageant was to light candles during one of the readings. Her mother helped her walk up to the Advent wreath. Then, she carefully wrapped Ali's fingers around the acolyte's brass lighter and lifted the flickering end bravely toward the candles. It took some doing, for it was difficult for Ali and her mother to get the lighter wick lined up just so against each candle wick. But as we watched Ali's rapt face glow in the soft light she lit and listened to the Old Testament prophecies and New Testament narratives of Christ's coming, we saw exactly why Christ came: to give light to darkness and to give hope to the weak. Later, while Pastor read of joyful noises and praise for God's good gifts, Ali lifted her voice to share her excitement. Her timing was perfect. She literally made a joyful noise as we heard about all of creation rejoicing in God's greatest gift.

One of my favorite Christmastime readings is Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. In the story, Bob Cratchit tells his wife about taking their son, the saintly Tiny Tim, to church. "He told me, coming home," Bob says, "that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see." 

Parents of disabled children, including Ali's mom and dad, will tell you that their children are not perfect. They know, just as parents of able-bodied children know, that despite glimpses of sweet innocence and selflessness, children act in savage, selfish, sinful ways, ways that belie their angelic appearances. That's one reason why Lutherans baptize babies--we know our months-, days-, or even hours-old children have been infected with the sin of Adam. Their behavior shows this, but their bodies show it, too. Children scrape knees, break limbs, get infections, battle cancer. Some of the scars heal, but none of them disappear forever. And even the most saintly kid can't fix himself. Tiny Tim recognized this. Even at young ages, we see our children marked for death.

Papa and I witnessed this firsthand in our own home this week. Superman developed a low-grade fever a few days after Christmas. I kept him home, snuggled him, gave him lots of 7-Up and regular doses of bubble-gum Tylenol. But he still felt badly, and his body suddenly reacted to its illness by triggering a seizure. We took him to the Emergency Room within ten minutes of his seizure, and he revived, especially when the nurses prepared his hand for an IV. (Oh, the great patience of pediatric nurses!) He spent the night at Sanford Children's in Sioux Falls, at what we call the Castle (it looks like the Cinderella castle at Disney World). And we were relieved when his temperature disappeared after a night and the doctors concluded that Superman is one of about five percent of kids who experience febrile seizures, or seizures causes by a fever. He might have another one, but he might not. It's most likely that he will grow out of them. And we are very thankful that he is well now, asking for candy at every meal, and asking us, "Do you remember when I got to spend the night at the children's doctor?" Yes, Superman. We remember. And we always will.

In a feeling-apple-eatin'-good moment.

Few things are as terrifying to parents, I think, than when their children become physically unresponsive. Right after his seizure, Papa scooped up Superman and held him like a baby. Our son was helpless, and so were we. All we could physically do was to rock him and place him in the care of people who know how little bodies work and what they need. The experience with Superman was a mighty, visceral shock to remember that our son is not ours, that we did not make him, and that we cannot keep him well, or even keep him at all. His days on this earth are numbered. And this knowledge can cripple us with fear and anger.

Too often, I think the world manipulates the weakest among us. Many are manipulated because they are small or voiceless. Many are exploited as powerful political or religious examples that we thoughtlessly or knowingly parade in a voyeuristic show of pity to achieve other ends--our own selfish ends. But Christ came as a weak Babe precisely to show us that He loves each little one unto death. Because that's where Ali and Sam and every child, from the red-faced newborn to strongest Olympian to the frailest centenarian, is headed. And the Child gifted with myrrh, the embalming spice and funeral incense, reached for Death and struck it away, for us, forever.

On Christmas Day, we sing joy. We sing, "Joy to the world, the Lord is come." But even more, we sing healing. "He comes to make His blessings flow/ far as the curse is found." In the Christmas season, and for the rest of this year and every year, we need joy. But we also need to know that His blessings flow even into the very crevices of our sinful lives, into every dark and putrid corner, into every broken heart and annihilated hope that we suffer due to our terrible physical and emotional and spiritual frailty and that of those we love. We need to know that He, the mightiest and the greatest, made Himself the smallest and weakest and most nothing of men to save us, the ones who so desperately need Him. As this Christmas season closes, I pray you know and remember that He comes to defeat every curse that haunts and plagues you. He comes as the lowliest to lift you lowly ones up, to hold you like babies, to heal your brokenness. And he comes still to make His blessings flow.

Running the Neatness Marathon: The Help

...who make life's work possible.
BTW, read this book.

Last year I blogged about beginning my years-long dream to declutter. Here we are, thirteen months later, one more baby later, and what do I have to show for it?

To be honest, I'm not finished with the project yet. But however slowly, decluttering has happened in bursts, small jumps, and after long interruptions of illness, travel, and life in general. Ultimately, I've learned that some of the biggest forward-moving parts of this process have involved the help of other people. And I don't mean "help" in a weasel word kind of way; I mean it in a "we couldn't do any of this stuff without the time, physical labor, and generosity of these people" way. We can't maintain God's gifts to us without help from our neighbors. Ooooooh! I'm sensing a wider lesson in all of this. Can you smell, too? (Go ahead. You can grin at my silliness.)

I'll give more details about the Olson family decluttering project later. I think you'll understand, though, if I first give credit where credit is due. So without further ado:

• Let me strike that "I" for a "we." If Papa wasn't on board for this long project, then progress would be infinitesimal at best and, um, negative at worst. What's negative progress, you ask? That would be moving backwards into a dung heap of squalor. It would be decline of the one-step-forward, twelve-steps-back variety. Without him, our floors would remain dirty because he would ignore the mop and vacuum or our children so I could clean. But to his awesome credit, he wields mop, vacuum, OR kid duty. Plus, he jumps in with gusto to our heavy duty declutter projects (i.e. he does most if not all of the heavy-duty physical labor). He initiated the steam-cleaning project, in fact. All this on top of his normal yard/garden/outdoor work--he's hauling leaves right now as I type and feed Small Dude. One word for this amazing husband: swoon!
• Another huge contributor to our project, though she doesn't know it, is my mom. She's visited a couple times this year, always at times where we desperately needed full-time assistance (i.e. after Papa's emergency surgery and after Small Dude was born). While she didn't sit and sort old papers or move furniture or tag items for the yard sale, she did wash dishes, clothes, kids, floors and generally keep our house spic-and-span so that once she was gone we didn't have to recover our house and so we could do other purging projects later. This is one of those small-but-huge gifts. If you get the inherent paradox.
• Then there's Dan, who moved furniture with Papa out of our house for our yard sale and a few things back in, all for a measly plate of sweet treats. I don't know about you, but people who move furniture without major rewards are self-givers of the heroic kind. 
• As are people who gift us their time and energy to watch our children! My friend Devina deserves a shout-out here. She, in her great conscientiousness, heard and remembered my lament last spring on my stalled cleanliness project and in her great kindness offered to take the three older kids (I was still pregnant) for an entire day so I we could clean. Then, when she had to reschedule the original date, she showed up an extra day and took all the kids--including her four--to the park! 
• In that category also there's also Gary and Carmen, who took Little Professor and Superman overnight and for a whole day so that Papa and I could steam-clean the carpets, move furniture, hang pictures on walls that have been bare for years. The same day, the uber-awesome Terri watched Pearly Girl, even when she and Joel had a relative coming to visit. Because of that one night and full day, Papa and I got stuff done that can only happen without little ones around (even hanging frames without pictures in them because if it's going to survive long in this house, as all parents of little tykes know, it cannot. be. on. the. floor. Or anywhere remotely accessible. Which means if Papa and I don't see it, it don't get done). So thanks to these awesome folks' help, we were kidless on that productive day. I mean, except for Small Dude, who was blessedly quiet and only needed feeding when I really, really needed to sit down anyway.

Such help like this is humbling because it reminds me of my inadequacy to do everything myself. Yes, "smart" as I might be, I actually fool myself into thinking far too often that I can actually accomplish everything on my list single-handedly. Which is ridiculously impossible. And so I give thanks for all of these people and their time and efforts, who--whether they knew it or not--were giving us the ability to run the neatness marathon in front of us.

Fruitfulness, Round Four

Last week, post-yard-sale and some back labor excitement, Papa picked tomatoes from the garden. This is what the counter looked like after I'd cleaned half of the take from three five-gallon buckets.

As they say up here: Uff-da.

Suffice it to say, we've had a bumper garden harvest this year. Since early August, I've been freezing green beans, sweet corn (not from our garden but from three different church members--sweet corn had a good year here, too), preparing eggplant and squash and cucumbers, and this month we've been tackling the pepper and tomato haul. Yes, it's been a lot of work. We're also very thankful the garden has borne such bounty, especially considering the late spring and the fact that we were gone for four weeks after Papa planted. So Nancy, if you're reading this and still at all concerned that your watering efforts in July went to waste, please, PLEASE fret no more. God used your efforts to great success. In fact, our tomato load last week was the fourth round of our tomato haul. The first resulted in twelve pints of hot salsa and seven quarts of tomatoes in their own juice. The second begat twelve pints of mild salsa and multiple quarts of peeled, frozen tomatoes. The third produced over twelve gallons of frozen tomatoes (see how my energy with each round diminished?). The fourth round, by sheer size alone, demanded extra effort.

So last week when I decided to make tomato sauce with all two-thirds of Papa's latest picking, I had a lot of time to think about garden harvests and familial blessings. Sitting in the kitchen, destemming and slicing up countless tomatoes for what turned out to be over ten quarts of sauce (which, if you've done this before, means roughly sixty pounds of tomatoes were involved), and wincing every time Baby decided to make his presence known (the guy's running out of room!), I pondered the mysteries of fruitfulness.

Papa's planted a garden every summer we've been here, and we've had some good years. He's rotated placement, Miracle-Gro-ed, swapped out different varieties of produce, tried different spacing. He's tried onions and radishes with little success. This year, he tweaked again, but not enough to account for the haul. Our backyard neighbors planted a few tomato plants scarcely twenty feet from our garden and didn't get a single tomato for their work. Yet we planted and basically left the little green squirts alone and now find ourselves inundated.

It's not fair, in the whole scheme of things. I'm ten months pregnant. Why all this work at this particular time? But what a silly response. I could dwell on the effort such bounty requires to preserve and sustain, but that seems beyond ungrateful. It doesn't even make sense. Gardens by their very nature are supposed to produce. And when they do, we give thanks. On the flip side, our bounty seems unfair to all the gardeners who spend this month wondering what went wrong. It would seem judicious if everyone got at least a little something for all of their gardening efforts, but sometimes it just doesn't happen. Sometimes the rabbits and birds wreak havoc. Sometimes the weather soaks or scorches. Sometimes seeds and seedlings just don't take due to soil or weeds or for causes we can never determine. Experts have spent and still spend countless hours attempting to explain why things grow and why they don't. But even finding reasons why things don't grow can't suddenly make them grow. Even having all kinds of scientific answers as to how and why life can happen can't actually create and sustain life itself.

Gardens are one thing; families and children quite another. I think of my friends and others whose arms and hearts ache with emptiness, from children desired and children taken to Jesus. Like agricultural scientists and researchers and farmers, doctors and specialists can only explain so much. This is not to diminish their God-given expertise and aid in any way. It is only to say that they are not God, and they cannot act as Life-creater. Sometimes we fool ourselves into thinking they can be, that technology or drugs or some combination of scientific theory and practice in the hands of certain people can do what only God can do. But we also see too much suffering and tragedy to believe such a lie. Seemingly healthy children die young. Healthy women are infertile. And children who should not statistically survive do. My sister and I are such exceptions. We were born over thirty years ago at  twenty-eight weeks gestation. We were given less than a ten percent chance of survival at birth, but we both did. And only God knows why. We can speculate, of course. But the truth is that we don't know. And we can only trust that God's ways are best, even when we don't know His reasons for life or for death, for fruitfulness or for barrenness.

Such may sound glib or callous, an easy write-off for unanswerable burdens that provides no comfort. Instead, it is a life-saving trust in a sea of loss and suffering. We pray a meal prayer sometimes that begins with verses from Psalm 145: The eyes of all look to You, O Lord, and You give them their food in due season. You open Your hand; You satisfy the desire of every living thing (14-15). We give thanks for the nutrients God provides us for our bodies. We acknowledge that only He can give us what we need, when we need it, be it food or health or children or any number of gifts. And ultimately, whether we like it or not, we bow to the inevitable scarcity or abundance that He provides, as He sees fit. We don't like this, because it means our efforts mean, well, nothing in the face of whether God withholds or blesses.

But we also know that His gifts are always good. His good gifts always satisfy our greatest need--that we need Him, that we are, in fact, completely helpless apart from Him. And He provides for us in multiple ways, too, just not always in the forms we desire or expect. Neighbors bring extra asparagus and apples (or get five-gallon buckets of tomatoes). Some years are corn-heavy and tomato-light. Some arms hold one child or two or many, biological or adopted, and others hold nieces or nephews or godchildren or congregational children. Regardless, we receive. And--this is a hard truth--if God ordains that we should bodily starve or bear the cross of barrenness or loss, we trust that His ways are not our ways, His care not ours. This is a terrible truth, but one on which our very lives depend. Abraham wielded a knife over his only son. Mary watched hers be pierced and nailed and suffocate and die. Both wept and ached and suffered. But none more so than He who made them to begin with, Who bore and bled and died and rose to give us life that would never end, that would never stop giving.

Our family waits and prays in these days for God to bless us with another child, who is our fourth living one. This baby has grown unseen and mostly unknown, though we cherish our time with his kicks and his hiccups, even his sunny-side up turn. God knows the days He has prepared for this little one, and we trust in His promises for us and for our child, that He will never leave us or foresake us, though we all will pass someday from this veil of tears. And so we give thanks for His mysterious bounty, in all of its forms. Bless us, O Lord, and these Your gifts, which we receive from Your bountiful goodness. Through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.

On the Ninth Postpartum Stable Day

Everyone knows "The Twelve Days of Christmas." And if you don't, then you've really missed out--on turtle doves, geese-a-laying, and lords-a-leaping. But seriously, I think we all miss out on the full twelve days of Christmas too, beyond the song that's kind of annoying (okay, really, depending on who's singing and how creative they get).


As we head full-boar into the New Year of 2013, though, I've been thinking about 2012. More accurately, I've been thinking about Christmas, and what we remember and commemorate that day, and what comes after. Namely cows.

Whoa. I mean, "Moo."

**

A few months ago, a church member invited us out to her farm. She and her husband have milked for years, and they were slowly selling off their cattle. She wondered if we'd want to come over and see how they milk the cows and how she bottle-fed the calves.


We drove east out of town around sunset one night. Gloria met us at her house and we drove about a quarter-mile south to the barn where the cows are milked.

A wind turbine we passed in the early twilight.

The kids were super excited and eager to get out. Once we went into the barn, they were a little--ahem--cowed by the size of the animals. And the sounds. And the smells. And the, erm, floor.

P is impressed.

Gloria and Mike's operation is like most small diary farmers in America, I'd guess--efficient and impressive. The machinery is amazing; I know mechanical milkers have been around for decades, but still. And the way the milk stays clean in the midst of the cows' regular digestive events (that's gotta be a new euphemism for, well, you know) is really amazing.

Then we watched Gloria mix up the formula for the calves. Our little C's formula seemed downright paltry in comparison; Gloria made a few five-gallon buckets of the stuff several times a day. Then she poured it into individual bottles for each calf.

Good thing calf formula isn't priced like Similac. Shudder.

Then we left the barn to go out to the little sheds where the calves lived. In the early November air, they needed some shelter from the coming winter freeze, Gloria explained, so they lived in the little huts until they were weaned. When they saw her coming with the bottles, they wiggled and groaned in excitement. They were adorable. And hungry.

Heading to the little calf sheds.

Smiley S, posing next to the busily eating little guy. Or gal. I couldn't tell.

 The final thrill was that Gloria's grandson, Austin, gave the boys a ride in a tractor. I couldn't get a picture of them, but they loved it (especially when S finally realized we weren't leaving him. Because parents abandon their kids by putting them in tractors). We shivered (well, more like tried not to freeze) as we watched the tractor lights glow and descend over the dusky winter fields. It was beautiful. 

**

Ever since our little visit, I've been thinking about Joseph and Mary and Jesus in the stable. All the pictures we see of the holy creche look cozy, even downright comfortable. But the real deal was--had to be--the pits. It's likely Joseph and Mary had been in the stable for days before Jesus' birth; there's no indication that Mary bore him immediately. And who's to say that they left the stable after the first twenty-four hours? If Bethlehem was bustling, even stuffed with people, all waiting to be counted and taxed, where else could they go? If no one had room for a woman on the brink of labor and delivery, who'd have room for a mother and a newborn?

So we're nine days into Christmas, and while much of the world has already packed away their Christmas trees and moved on, in their ninth day postpartum, Joseph and Mary and Jesus probably were living in the warmth and the hay and the refuse of the animals that witnessed the birth of our Lord. I can't quite wrap my mind around what that must have been like, let alone that the begotten Son of God likely spent his first days, even weeks, sharing space with livestock.

So let's all, ahem, chew on that for awhile, and merry Christmas.

So Long, Turkeys

After an awesome Thanksgiving (over three weeks, we enjoyed four amazing Thanksgiving dinners and innumerable fantastic people! Our church family is great!), we're taking down the Thanksgiving and harvest decorations now. So sadly, our little turkeys are going into hiding for the next year. Thanks to Aunt Rachel for the foresight to send these guys our way in time for Turkey Day (the boys LOVED gluing on the feathers!). Though Mama helped with the writing--and, okay, a little bit with the thankful things--the boys ultimately decided what went on 'em. And where they went.

May your heart always be thankful for Jesus, fruit snacks, and monster trucks! (And your family, too.)

S's turkey. He let me help with placement.

P's turkey. He loves his family--and gluing by himself!

Micellaneous Milestones

Since my last post, we've had some busy times! Here's a brief update.

Papa attended a Doxology seminar in Nebraska, where he learned about the devil and his wily ways from Dr. John Kleinig. He, and several pastors from our circuit, greatly enjoyed their time together (scrumptious food enhanced their experience, I've heard) learning about how to beat down the Evil One. The boys are into superheroes and "getting bad guys," so I'm still stewing about how to make a connection for them with this.

We celebrated my birthday with my lovely mother here (who also enormously helped out with the kids while Papa was away)! Turning 31 feels great, in a very achieving gravitas kind of way (especially when you leave sentences like this dangling for a week on your blog. I am FULL OF GRAVITAS. :)) And thanks for the "Happy '29th' Birthday" card from my brother, who's unofficially moved me into the "older person" stage. :) The boys spontaneously sang me "Happy Birthday," which brought me to tears. Little C shrieked and grinned, which brought me joy. Papa bought me a beautiful card and some pretty earrings--and the boys helped with both! I'm very thankful for all the wishes and cards and gifts; truly, my cup overfloweth.

Papa presented on "Family Matters" at an LWML Fall Rally at our church, which I was able to attend (thanks, Mom!). It was great visiting with many women, singing for the group, and even participating in a skit without knowing what I'd have to say or do ahead of time. Let me just say that Mrs. L.E. is hilarious and utterly trustworthy! Papa's presentation was fantastic, too--as he's prepared for this, he's helped me prioritize our children's spiritual care (more on this in another post). That's always a "win, win, win," as I teasingly tell the kids.

P's reading. I mean really reading. While he phonetically sounds out words sometimes, many times he just looks at them now and just says 'em. No help. Just the other day, he brought me a baseball thing and said, "Does this say, 'Get in the game'?" Yep. You read that right, buddy. So his "Letter Lessons" have been really fun! We just started Section Eight of The Ordinary Parent's Guide to Teaching Reading, so we're about halfway through that book. He's been practicing holding a pencil correctly with the help of a gripper, and we'll start a formal writing program soon, mostly because he keeps bugging me about learning how to write more than just his name. Hey--I'm not complaining!

P and I have also been doing "Math" (or what he sometimes calls "Number Math"), where he practices counting to 100 on the abacus or I write simple addition on our white board and he figures them out by counting dots. The first time we tried this a week or so ago, he literally quivered with excitement. "Mom, I just love this!" he said at least three times. I had to quell thoughts of him, at nine, performing complicated equations with a dry-erase pen on a window (I saw some news segment on a young math whiz years ago who'd do that). So far, I'm just glad he thinks it's all fun. We'll be starting weekly science and history lessons in the next month, too.

S has developed into a tackling machine. Not out of any desire to hurt stems his sudden pouncing; he's just a really physical kid. He's been giving hugs a lot, which is fantastic! I just find myself bruised more frequently. We're working on his gentleness around C, because while she laughs and grins every time he "hugs" (see: pushes, sits on, drags) her, we don't want any trips to the ER. He also is still our little singer. Last week, while he and P played in the leaves, we caught him yelling--YELLING--the Stephen Starke version of the Lord's Prayer. He also randomly bursts into song, sometimes mid-sentence. He also regales us with random comments, like the one just recently when I was helping him in the bathroom: "Mommy, I won't poop on you." I was so relieved to hear that! :) Yesterday we heard him walk into the living room and see something P had done, and he goes, "WOW! A-MAAAAAZ-ING!" His enthusiasm is contagious!

C is testing the waters with walking! She'll pull herself up by a chair or something and then let go--and stand for a second or two by herself. She's definitely thinking about letting go and taking steps (believe us, we can see that look on her face). She's also starting this cheesy-grin/grimace thing. It's so big, it looks like it hurts her face, and we can't help smiling every time she does it! She's a happy little girl. She's eating table food all the time now, and in a month or so we'll start introducing whole milk already. *Sigh.* My baby's not really a baby anymore! P will play with her by himself, and he just loves her, and she him. It's great to see their sibling relationship develop. S and C are still at the "NO, C! That's MINE!" or the sitting-on-her stage. S loves her; he just doesn't want her in his stuff. I admit I dream that someday S and C will have a Jackson/Johannah relationship (that's a Duggar reference, for those of you who don't know).

We've enjoyed jumping in the leaves! And tracking them inside. :)

And a decluttering update: I've cleaned out the laundry room (!!!) and gone through about five bins of micellany besides. I've still got about ten to go, but it's all consolidated, and I've just been plugging away at it whenever we're watching something at night, like the St. Louis Cardinals play during this postseason. Between a clean and not-cluttered laundry room and the Cards, life is good right there.

Girls are Sugar and Spice and Special!

In honor of a few special girls in our lives, here's a special shout-out. As my mom likes to say, "You go, girl!"

We are so blessed to have a very special girl come over to our house about once a week. K plays with the boys, helps me around the house, and especially likes to cuddle with C. K even helps change diapers and rock C to sleep (one of K--and C's--favorite things). They're good pals! K gives C some girl time that she just doesn't get in a house full of boys!

Of course, our little seven-month-old C gets a big mention here. Here's some recent-ish pictures of her that you'll enjoy. Please note that she's going after her brothers' toys (watch those cars, guys!) now that she's eating baby food two to three times a day, "talking" to us by saying "Ba-ba" or "Ma-ma," and crawling. Talking about go-ing, Girl!

 

Our last little-but-BIG-news! girl we have to mention is our beautiful niece, little lady A, who arrived just last Friday. So our little ones have a COUSIN! And C, especially, will love having a girl cousin to commiserate with! We are so excited to meet her and hold her and give her kisses! Because girls are just so sweet, aren't they?

What a doll! The preciousness cannot be contained!

So go and give the girls in your life a special squeeze!

She Laughs -- On Camera!

Yesterday we held our last dinner for youth from our church. During Lent, every Wednesday, the confirmands have come over for dinner with our family and then watched portions of The Passion with Papa's commentary (while I clean up and read to our three littles, who won't be ready for that kind of visual depiction of Christ's suffering and crucifixion for a long time). Then we all go to Lenten service. As much as I would get slightly stressed out about the cleaning and cooking required for these days, they truly have been special, and Papa and I both hope we can continue to do this in the years to come.

Yesterday we had an additional bonus. After dinner, the big kids and the little kids were hanging out for a few minutes. Taylor, who as the resident young man attracts most of our sons' attention, was making S laugh--and C, who was being alternately held by Katie and Makayla, was mesmerized by their antics and starting laughing! And we caught it on tape! Please forgive our rough camera work.

And that's S laughing in the background, saying "Do that again." Baby AND little boy laughs--great combination!

She Laughs

So our not-so-little C (she weighed in at 11 pounds, 12 ounces at her two-month visit a month ago) is fast taking on lots and lots of endearing habits. Like cooing and smiling and waving her fists in front of her face until she's cross-eyed. She's also started laughing, but it's hit-and-miss. The first two times she laughed was in her sleep--that just-drifted-off slumber where her limbs are all relaxed and angels dance in the lights sparkling behind her eyelids. Since then, she's half-giggled a few times, but mostly she goes from big smiles to concerned looks. (Although she literally wets herself as we sing "Sing a Song of Sixpence" fifteen times in our efforts to get her to expel a little chortle like she did the first time. So that should count for something... right?)

Until this afternoon. Miss L, a wonderful, awesome lady from church, stopped by so I could sign a check that Papa took to the bank this morning and mistakenly needed my John Hancock for. (Small town sidebar: where else would someone drive to your house so you could sign a check because they knew your husband was out of town with the car? Now that's service!) I picked up C, who immediately smiled at Miss L--anyone who knows her will understand the compulsion, as she's officially one of the Nicest People Ever--and then C's smile grew. And grew. And grew. Until she laughed. And laughed. And LAUGHED! Only God knows why she was so tickled, but for at least four uninterrupted minutes, C had one of the funniest moments of her life. And Miss L and I laughed and laughed and laughed, too, and shared a moment we won't soon forget. It was beautiful, and wonderful, and tear-inducing. Baby laughs are the best. Here's to hoping you get to enjoy some firsthand soon.

To Our Church Family: You are Priceless.

The front of our church. Priceless people not pictured.

Thanks to Rebekah from Concordian Sisters for this lovely post.

I've made some asides here before about how I don't get the whole clergy wife fetishism thing, but every once in a while it really hits home how much I don't get it. This parish owes me nothing. They called my husband, not me. I feel like I owe them for their willingness to call a married pastor. He is less available to them than a celibate pastor would be. They have also accepted the burden of providing a wage fair to a man with a family. They are the ones making the sacrifices. I cringe whenever one of these dear people apologizes to me for having called upon him in their need. That's why he's here.

Do not ever hesitate to call or to keep him as long as you need him. You gave me this great big house to keep me busy while he's gone. You are the ones who have given us this life which we love. You have adopted my children and me as friends and neighbors. Thank you. Thank you.

Other than the parsonage reference, she speaks my thoughts better than I could, and she got me thinking. I often am overwhelmed by how much I will never, ever be able to adequately thank, much less repay, all of these wonderful people we know as our church family. That we (meaning us Olsons besides Pr.) give any of them anything of value is accidental and mere tuppence compared to what we get from them. And maybe that's the point, we all being part of this family of God: that we, unable to give Him anything, receive everything from Him in return. Wow. Thank you, dear Church Family, for all that which you bless us.

Benediction

The last few days have carried an absolute cacophony of news of life and death for lives touching ours. Yesterday in the wee hours of the morning, a sweet lady, Dottie, from my home church (that is, the church where I grew up) passed away. I learned just a bit ago that one of my best friend's father, Jim, died late last night night. He was to begin cancer treatments yesterday and was instead admitted to hospice. Though I know little about Dottie's passing, I know that Jim's was expected, but not quite so suddenly. These lines do nothing to emphasize the jolting shock of death to children, to grandchildren, even when those dying are old.

In the meantime, church members we know celebrated the birth of a grandchild and great-grandchild. In an odd and humorous twist, the parents had been informed that their child was a girl. But on Sunday, they welcomed a son instead. Rowan is healthy and strong (and, presumably, not going to wear all the pink waiting for a baby girl at home).

On Friday, a friend forwarded me a prayer request for the son of her friends, who've been experiencing a tumultuous pregnancy due to their son's major medical problems. At that time, Tim and Paige expected to deliver their son Issac today, not knowing if he would live more than a few hours. Instead, he was delivered yesterday, and he screamed and peed--despite the non-existent kidney function the doctors all expected--and wiggled. His prognosis is still being discovered, but Tim wrote that when he left the hospital, "Paige was awake and laughing."

Few joys are so acute as those that are miracles of life; few sorrows are so intense as those that are losses in death. As Christians, we trust in the hope that is Christ and His resurrection from the dead for us. We look to He who tells us, "See My hands and My feet, that it is I myself. Touch Me, and see. For a spirit does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have" (Luke 24:39). He does--and we do--live, and will live. Issac and Rowan live on earth now until the last breath that God has ordained for them. Dottie and Jim have died on earth now and await their final bodily raising. But they are alive in Christ. They are in heaven, awake and laughing. And this helps us go in peace. 

Seven Things I Wish I Would Have Known Before Becoming a PW

You can see this post--and even more wonderful conversations between PWs (pastors' wives)--at this blog.

 

We've marked that sacred date known LCMS-universally as "Call Day" in the spring. Now we've heard about ordinations and installations of candidates all over the country (and maybe in your neighborhood) throughout the summer. Due to these blessed events, I've been thinking about my experiences with that stressful, awesome process and, well, some things I wish I would have known before my wonderful husband (MWH) and I headed out happily into the mission field. After a lot of head-scratching, I came up with this list.

A few clarifiers:

My husband and I (both non-pastor's kids, or "PKs" as the mostly fond acronym goes) and our growing family have enjoyed five years in a church that was his first call out of seminary. This hardly makes me some sort of pastor's wife expert to women who are married to men who are near, either direction, ordination and installation, but lots of you pastor's wives reading this have much more insight, experience, maturity, and patience than I do--so please add advice and comments below! Our sisters--future and perhaps present--will benefit.

There's no particular order to my list here. I wrote them as I thought of them, so don't take the numbering too seriously.

1. Your life as a pastor's wife is not like your life as a vicar's wife.

Our vicarage year was honestly like a year-long vacation. Yes, it held stresses and crosses, but mostly it held joy, much MUCH support, immediate and sustained friendships with people who loved us literally on sight. It was everything anyone could want in a vicarage--which is how vicarages should be; safe, learning experiences. But life at a church as a pastor and pastor's wife is very different. The timetable is different, the responsibilities (seen and unseen) are different, the stresses are far different. And this is good. It's real life! But you can't expect a replica of your vicarage. (And for those of you who had an awful vicarage, this is really good news!)

2. Your congregation needs time to get to know you...

That's "you" meaning your husband, "you" meaning you, and "you" meaning your entire family dynamic. I thought friendliness, vivacity, warmth, and learning people's names really fast would mean people would warm up to and trust me, and us, fairly quickly. For a few (like a handful), it did. For most, it didn't. After almost five years and some really, really tough times, people are starting to really open up to us. Congregations are full of--news flash!--sinners, and sinners have wildly different ways of approaching and trusting others. I've learned that most people have to see, literally, that others care, and at least in our situation, that meant seeing that we'd stick around long enough to prove that we weren't just looking for somewhere else to go. Three years is about the max for young pastors in our area, and we heard that a LOT from members and non-members. "You've been here three years? I guess you'll be moving on soon, huh?" said one local to us a few summers ago, not realizing how clearly she articulated what many people were thinking. And every congregation's time frame for getting to know you is different, too. But I'd guess it's almost always in the multiple years category, not the multiple months category.

3. ...and you need time to get to know your congregation.I'm an outgoing person, and I'll have one terrific conversation with someone and think I really "get" them. I guess this is good in its own way. But it's not great for applying the time rule. The first people who really reached out to us when we first arrived--invited us over, helped us out a lot--are terrific people. In our case, they also were the ones who wanted certain actions or acquiescence from my husband that later turned into problems and, subsequently, a much more impersonal relationship with both of us. That was hard for us, and me in particular, who thought we were all friends! At the same time, people who were friendly but a little distant to us initially have become more and more close to us over the years. And I've learned that learning about people and what they're like over time--like, YEARS--is probably best. You want to try to meet everyone anyway (if that's possible for you), and you'll need lots of time for that. And it's nice to age with your congregation. It's special. You suffer together, you joy together. But none of that happens during a 30-second commercial break.

4. Together with your husband and family, establish what formal church involvement you will have.

I heard this from veteran pastors' wives before we arrived here, and this has proved invaluable. Many wives learn to say "no" after years of struggling with too much responsibility in the parish. It's much easier if you start out with certain parameters in place--that is, you stay uninvolved for at least six months, then converse with your husband and family, then slowly begin getting involved.

The opinion of most importance in determining your (and your children's, for that matter) involvement is your husband's. This is an extremely controversial thing to say, even to traditionally conservative Lutheran women! But this is true. Your husband is the pastor. He will know the church people and the various church organizations far better than you, even if you tag along with him frequently. He also knows you! I have been blessed by a husband who, at times, has told me he wants me to do something that I don't think I want to do, but, after doing it, I realize that it is for the best. He also has told me what organizations or participation he thinks I should NOT get involved with. He has saved me from much frustration and hardship and heartache by helping me say "no." So talk to your wonderful husbands and trust them! Then you can muddle through together.

I have found, as a mother with young children, that some of my most meaningful "involvement" is not formal; it happens with the occasional visit with shut-ins, sharing conversation with people over coffee at various church events (even really informal ones), standing in hallways (or store aisles) and updating, talking on the phone. We like to entertain and have people over, which we're not able to do as often as when we first arrived, but I recognize that my involvement at church--just like my life as a wife and a mother--will change over time and with circumstances. Yours will, too.

5. Your husband needs you to be his wife (and your children's mother) before he needs you to do anything else for him.

Not church involvement, not community involvement, not continuing your education, not advancing your career. Not anything else. This is controversial--and if I'd heard a pastor's wife say it five years ago I know I would have been offended. I thought then that I could do pretty much everything in my life well if I had the chance to prove it. That was laughably naive. Here's what I've learned: if you desire your husband to be faithful, to be dedicated, and to persevere through hardship, he needs you to be his rock at home. My husband says he does not regret that I went back to school almost as soon as we moved here and that I spent our first three years in the parish immersed in a graduate program. I can't change it now (and I'm not going to give back the fancy piece of paper I got for it, at any rate). But I look back, and for many reasons, I wish I would have waited. The most important reason I wish I would have waited was because I think my husband missed receiving my full support because my energy and focus were divided between him and our life at church and my own studies and teaching. Maybe other women can balance this successfully. I know that he, and actually both of us, lost opportunities in those years to talk and support each other in our marriage. Now I realize that my life revolves around my husband's need for my support--which has already changed over the last few years as he's learned a lot!--and our family. If God wills for me to pursue a career outside the home at some point, I pray He makes it really obvious to me and to my husband. In the meantime, I know He is strengthening our marriage by drawing us closer together as a family. And that can only benefit us--and the church!--in the long run.

6. Life is now in a fishbowl. Therefore, get a father confessor--for your sake and your husband's sake.

Vocations cross now in ways they don't elsewhere. It's not just that people can see what you do and judge you accordingly; you will be held to higher standards that can be unfair. It's also that your own individual lives get bound up in your husband's vocation as pastor. You can't go anywhere--especially in a small town--without knowing you'll be seen as a (or "the"!) pastor's wife. This is a sacrifice of individual autonomy for you that's inevitable. And you will resent it at times, and this comes out most often as resentment and frustration toward your husband--for not having enough time or energy for you or your children, for not making enough money, for not being in a field that gives you "me" time, whatever. And because of this, you need to find a father confessor, a pastor you can talk to or call to confess your resentment, frustration, selfishness, and all those other sins and receive forgiveness without having specific spousal issues get in the way.

My husband and I have relied sporadically upon a pastor that served as a mentor for my husband before his seminary days as a father confessor. We both have called him at different times; he's listened to our confessions and given us absolution. When we are in his area (he's in another state), we visit with him and his wife. I think a more regular pattern would benefit us, but for now, this is what we have and it is a blessing.

7. Be patient and pray for contentment.

I hate this one, because I'm impatient and a control freak. But God is teaching me patience over time, and in the process He is drawing me closer to Himself. Here's how it might play out for you:

You might love your congregation and want to stay forever--and God might call your husband elsewhere right when you think everything is how you want it. You might want nothing better than to move one thousand miles away--and God might want your husband to serve where you are for years--maybe a few decades. You might wonder why your husband doesn't seem to be doing as a pastor what you think he should be doing. You might wonder how your husband can be working so hard and trying so hard to pastor people and they don't seem to want his service, care for it, or accept it unless it's on their terms. But God wants your husband and you in this particular place. You might not know why now or ever, but He does. He also knows how much you both can handle, and if you are struggling with burdens that seem unbearable, He will guide you out of them. Sometimes this happens with time, or with another call, or with a resignation and a life elsewhere.

A very real truth little known or understood in the "outside" world is that many pastors and their wives suffer from depression. I understand now why the percentage of ministers and families who suffer from this is so much higher than in the general population. And I thank God He provides us with loving friends, experts, and resources to deal with this. Depression and its iterations are not weaknesses borne by the less-than-stalwart among us. They are crosses God, in his mysterious, infinite wisdom, that try our patience, test our commitment, and ultimately draw us closer to Him. And we can be thankful, even with the awfulness of mental illness, that He walks with us in this, too.

God also gives us joys as pastors' wives that far outweigh the burdens. The burdens can be hard, extremely hard. But you will witness countless examples of Christ's love from members to your husband, to you, to your children and maybe even your extended family. You will be privy to baptisms, catechizing and confirmations, weddings, funerals of saints called to glory. You will see Christ loving people from conception until death. Real life, real, intense, overwhelming love from our Savior to your dear congregation. And you get to witness it every week, every day. This is a miracle. Few people share this perspective--and those who do, like other pastor's wives, understand what you suffer and what you joy. And we are here for you!

***

A pastor's wife enjoys a wonderful vocation. For those sisters struggling in this vocation, take heart. Christ has already overcome the world for you. For those sisters just starting in this vocation, take heart. Christ knows the plans He has for you, and your husband, and your family--plans to prosper you and not to harm you! I, and so many others, am excited for what lies ahead for you. May God keep you in His wonderful grace always!

HOW many kids did you say?

Thanks to Rebekah for her post "Six" on a blog I read frequently (see CSPPon the right). It's short, so I'm shamelessly reprinting the entire thing here.

Here is how I understand family size (with the caveat that among Christians who have given no indication to the contrary, I am so mired in my own reality as to consider non-contraception to be the default practice. Terribly naive of me, I know, though I mean for it to be charitable):

1=small (may indicate fertility problems)

2=Normal! Way to go!

3=trying for a boy or girl, or a "mistake"

4-5=bigger than normal (indicates mild or moderate parental zaniness, or twins)

But six is where it gets serious. Six kids doesn't happen by accident. Six kids is beyond zany. Six is full-on crazy. Six kids very likely means a weird vehicle. Six is Big.

Six is also where some people (not all) seem to begin considering themselves major parenting experts and get real annoying. I promise I'll try not to do that. (It would be hard to come off as a parenting expert when my oldest kid is eight, anyway--lots of critical stages still not even touched.)

I think six will have some advantages, though. No odd box of raisins left to fossilize in the cabinet. That's been a huge problem with five.

I don't know about you, but fossilized raisins are definitely my motivation for having more kids.  :)

C'mon! What more reason--raisin?--do you need?

I've been ruminating lately on the differing attitudes between people on "appropriate" numbers of children. It never ceases to surprise me when I hear people ask about non-relatives' reproductive intentions. Pregnancy just seems to bring out the tell-all in people, doesn't it?

That aside, I think most people probably accept the norms they're surrounded with. My great-grandparents were in the "crazy" category; several of them had ten and twelve siblings. My grandparents were in much smaller families, either from family disruption or fertility problems or the Depression or any number of things, even a combination. My paternal grandparents were only children. My maternal grandparents had two other siblings (three total). That being said, my dad has three siblings, my mom has four; my father-in-law was an only child, and my mother-in-law has two sisters. Maybe the slightly higher numbers of kids in my small example reflect the post-WWII boom. Who knows?

My parents had three (twins first--that's me and my sister) and then my brother; my in-laws had two (Papa and his sister). In my very unofficial opinion, I think these numbers probably reflect the norm for the times. Of all the hundreds of kids I knew growing up, I only knew a handful who came from families with more than three kids. I was always fascinated by families with four kids or more. As I've gotten older, I've noticed that most of those families that have more kids are mixed; that is, the parents were married before and their children aren't biologically related. Maybe that phenomenon partly fuels the fascination of families with more than three biological children. One mom! One dad! Many babies! (+ a little reproductive technology) = Perfect Recipe for Reality Show Success!  

In our rural area, people in my generation seem to be having, on average, three or four biological kids. In fact, I read in a recent novel that "four is the new two" with kids. I don't know if this is true, but it seems to be, at least with those younger-ish people I know who are old enough to have been married and procreated quatro times. At any rate, there's several people in our congregation who came from or have had families of six, eight, nine, twelve children. When there's a lot of examples of "big" families around, it doesn't seem so weird to have more than three.

No one's asked us--yet--if we're "planning" on having more kids. I'm thinking that day is coming...soon. Especially because now we know we're expecting a girl.

But doesn't a girl need a sister? :)

Highlights of VBS...So Far

The only prop potentially better than a felt board.

 I'll admit it; I was not looking forward to this week. And then it happened. And now we've got one day left and I'm actually disappointed (even if Papa, especially, and I are exhausted). Maybe next year we can go for four three-hour days!

•  It's summer, Bible stories and hymn-singing, treat-eating and little-one quality time... what's not to love? (Despite all my misgivings?)
  
• Finding uses for colored Popsicle sticks.   
• Teaching the Creation narrative and Jonah's hair-raising adventure to non-readers by reading from the Bible and using a giant felt board. Felt boards ROCK. And ours has about a zillion pieces. I should have taken a picture--truly, the lions were laying down with the lambs. And fish were in the sky. And trees were perilously close to mid-seas. And God evidently created lots of reptiles and not a lot of mammals. But these felt boards make for some gorgeous masterpieces!
• Seeing how kids (mostly) get along right away, make friends, and help each other out. And occasionally get so crazy wound-up they run in circles, literally, with each other. 
• Making friends with a 7-year-old over mac and cheese while she tells me about her baby doll who talks--and says "Poo" which means she poops. And she tells me this twice! Because I might have missed that detail the first time around. I LOVE kids! (And you all know I really do--there's never any guessing what they'll be saying next!)
• Watching teen leaders adapt to the 110 degree heat index by moving "Games" inside (who plans on inside games in July? Only in... Minnesota?). The result? Our eldest, P, kind of playing bingo the first day and saying, "Are these little pieces candy?"--after he'd already put three of the plastic things in his mouth. Today, onlookers--and participants--laughed non-stop as the little ones tried to play Twister one minute (hilarious anytime, but especially with kids who don't quite get the directions) and "Duck, Duck, Grey Duck" the next (which involved a lot of running down the halls and group chasing). P had another one-liner: "I didn't know I could do somersaults in church!" Yeah, Buddy--try that in the nave one Sunday! :)
• Visiting with church members for hours every night, because we have as much help as we do participants. 
• Listening the kids belt out, "But now has Christ ariiiiiiiiiiiii-sen, ariiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-sen, ariiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii-sen!" from "This Joyful Eastertide." Thinking, "God must find no greater joy in praise than from the mouths of children." What a gift to hear it!
• Having everything come together at the last minute--and even if adults can tell the difference between super-organized, super-prepared, and super-by-the-program, kids can't.
• Hearing a kid say, in the brief silence following the final "Amen" after we'd all just completed the "Close of Service" devotion out of LSB, "That was fun." Whether she meant following a short quasi-liturgical service or the whole VBS she-bang, I don't know--but that was a definite highlight.