Field of vision

 I'm watching the sky get ready for sleep and waiting for my husband

to come home from a long day. It seems like I'm always waiting for him to come home.
 The endless green of our farm laid open before me. The colors of black and white (my children)  playing on the harvested hay that is our backdrop for the day.
 Tomorrow they will be scooped up by big tractors and stored for winter somewhere but today we play on them and climb and build memories on these big balls made of grass.
 She, being small against the tall pines

of our farm, can't make it by herself so he scoops her up and carries her. It's always teaching and reminding but today, I didn't have to remind him. He just remembered.

The thick grasses hurt her feet but when he carried her she held tight

and once again when they got to the hay she couldn't get up.

He gently put her down and then felt

his own face in the grass as he used himself to lift her up so she would be
tall enough to make it. I'm there with camera in hand, I don't want
them to ever forget the times they played on sweet bales of hay that lay open
in our pasture, with the back drop of the bluest skies.
I don't want her to forget what sweet brothers she has. Our memory
plays tricks on us. We forget the sweet times and sometimes only remember
the times that we have been wronged or hurt and I, with my lens, focus on brothers who
figure out a way to get her to the top. I focus on the smallness and on
the living that is learning to give up ones right so someone else
can make it up first. She finally gets there and the brother who helped
gets a kiss that sends rollings knots in my stomach because I feel so
very blessed to witness God's beautiful gift of brothers and sisters
loving and cherishing one another.

Stains..

My clothes stained from the day. I look cautiously at the clock

and finish buttering the bread. The choice is mine.

Do I retreat to freshen up or will he understand? I keep
on and it seems like there is always something else to do.

The door opens, he's early. The kids screaming, "Daddy!!".

I have noone to hold to cover my stains. I just stand and wait my

turn. He catches my eye and he grabs me as if it's been days since he

last kissed me. I melt in his embrace and I'm thankful that I stand a little

tired, a little stained, but he pulls me to him with such ease.

His words still echoing from our morning talk,

"Lean on me Robin, I can handle it."

I believe him.

I could not possibly have enough hours with this man.

The days could never ADD up "to enough".

The table is set, the food is hot, the conversations loud, and no-one

notices that I have stains on my shirt.

Reposted from the archives...

To See is everything

 My days are filled and sometimes I get so busy that I fail to see everything that I need to. I see love, I see conflict between my children and  me and Scott on occasion.
I see the wondering of one of my children seeing something big as life when I've seen the same thing thousands of times and have forgotten that it is special. I fail to see my life through the eyes of my Father. My Father's world right here in front of me and I fail to see it.

The days around here sometime feel as if they all run together. Sometimes I have the flickering hope that they, being the children, got what I was trying to teach them yesterday only to see that flicker snuffed out today.
I scarcely know how to proceed on such days.

Everyday  my view changing so that I see things differently.( This is one of the many reasons I will never write a book on parenting or tell you for certain that the way I'm doing it is the best way because I feel terribly unqualified.) Maybe when I'm 70 and my children are well vested in their life and are walking out their faith and are not messed up to the point that they may need counseling :) then I might write a book.
I'm not saying I won't mentor younger moms because I do and I will give you my opinion if asked, but to have my thoughts on paper might just seem to me, wasted paper.

Right now my view is always changing, because the Lord is always changing and working on me. He has so much work left to do and I keep asking him if he's going to finish this work in me before I mess everything up. (He gets my humor)
So I'm forever looking at things different. Getting a different perspective each day. Always seeing if it lines up with the word of God. If it doesn't then yet again I change the way I do it because my pride leads me down deceiving paths that I almost believe that I'm right a lot of the time.

To see is everything. To see where God has you and where God wants you. To see  where God wants your children and everyday push them more to be there in that place that He wants them not where you want them.

To wake up before the dawn and see the world around you before the Lord warms it with His sun.
You need Him in this journey of mother-hood. No-one has all the answer's except for him. Glean from others but sit at His feet and pester Him for the true answer's,  and I do daily.

I see new days,  new sun-rises as a day to reteach what I taught yesterday and keep teaching it until they have it. I see a new day to love and to show such sweet kindness within my walls maybe a gentleness that is unrecognizable by the world outside my living room windows.
To see my home, my failures, my victories through the eyes of God because what I think doesn't matter anyway.

kissing boo boo's

Posted from the archives:


I feel new to this mommy thing sometimes. I'm always trying to teach my boys to be 'tough' and teach my girls to be 'ladies'. Well today, in the midst of the rush of the front door slamming for the hundredth time, I hear the cries of my little fellow. I stop what I'm doing and go to him long

enough to say "you'll be alright" and the brown eyes look back as if to say " yeah, I will, but I just wanted something". As he was walking off he leaned in and kissed himself on the arm and as if the place had healed almost instantly he was on his way. I stared and then I instantly drug this cute little three year old back and sat down in front of him and looked for his hurt. I looked for something to kiss. I looked for a way to make up for the moment I had just lost. The moment for my kisses to make it all better.The moment for me to be his hero. The moment for me to make a difference in his little life.

I have very few moments in Cullen's life where my kisses will heal his hurt. When my kisses will make it all better, and I blew it today.

I kissed him and I kissed him, over and over, until we we're both laughing.Until I could feel the forgiveness that I so desperately needed.

Last night Cullen was lying in bed beside me, under the clean crisp sheets and the warmth set in between us and I said "Cullen, do you want to get married when you grow up?" and he said, "yes ma'am" and I said, "who do you want to marry?"  and he said, "mama". I know I beamed..I know my heart flooded..

I could not possibly deserve this kind of love in my life. I know what the Lord meant when He said we have to have faith like a child, because my children love me unconditionally and without regard to how I look that day or how much I blow it. They just love me. I guarantee I will not miss another chance to share my kisses to make it all better for anyone in my house.......

Lord, cause me to draw near today--to You, to others. Relationships are all there is.

To be real.

I can never seem to find the words to what I am thinking. I mean, they are all there in my head. So eloquently explaining my point or caressing their way around my heart making me feel so warm and cozy. But when I try to write them or even worse, say them, they just don't come.

My life is sometimes.....a loss for words. If you were to stand on your tiptoes and look through the window, the one with the curtains blowing in the wind and the flowers on the pane, the window of my life, you would think that from the outside it looked clean and orderly, pretty and thoughtful. A closer look inside would reveal a parlor, where all my guest come, a place where everything has it's place. All the best books were displayed on a shelf. My handy-work (not that I have any) draped across the sofa, and a plate of cookies (or maybe a basket of my rolls) on the coffee table. Yes, it makes quite a good first impression. It has all the right charms and the lighting, along with peaceful piano music playing the background is controlled for just the right mood. Words are taped on the walls on crisp white paper. Words that seem so nice they could almost be flattery. Words that you're sure have to be sincere because, well, this parlor couldn't hold anything but perfection.

Then, a door opens and lets you peer into another room, the plain and ordinary "family" room of my life. It's decorated tastefully, just in case anyone were to look in, but it lacks a certain charm that my parlor had, a certain "willingness" to please. a certain something. You can tell that I'm more comfortable in this room. Letting my guard down, I leave things lying around. Less impressive books strewn across the table, music playing that isn't exactly "uplifting", and some crumbs of some junk food or another kicked to the side of the floor. I leave the light a tad darker in this room, so as not to expose all of the dusty nooks and crannies, because once again, someone like you might look in. The words taped along the wall here are far less flattering and far more impatient. They are written in hasty handwriting on dingy scraps of post-its and though some of them are kind most of them make you feel uncomfortable that you are looking in.

You are about to walk away from my window, thinking there is nothing left to see, when another door opens and by stretching on up to your highest height possible you can just make out what must be my bedroom.

My private room. The one that hardly anyone goes in. The room where I'm alone.

This room, is a mess. Sheets and bedding are thrown across the bed haphazardly, it hasn't been made for days. The curtains are drawn and it's almost pitch black except for a tiny lamp that is on my nightstand. You can't make out what music is playing, not because its so covered up by the sound of the classical in the parlor, and the "other" in the family room, but because its on my ipod, so that no one hears it but me.

Its my music, I love it, I'm attached to it, so it stays in my room. on my ipod. Its not bad, its just not something I would share with friends. You notice stacks and stacks of book, and a bible. The books that look interesting, things like Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, you can tell are well read but placed on a shelf. The books lying open are magazines on "the latest". Things that help me to look better. My bible? You can't tell for sure but you think it might have been read in the last few days, its on the top of the nightstand at least. The floor is a mess of clothes and shoes, and cups and plates are scattered on every free surface. There are words taped all over this room as well, but the same words have been re-wrote so many times that they are almost inaudible. You squint and cup your hands to the glass, trying to just make out one....You realize that these words are things I've said over and over in my thoughts, under my breath, by my looks, and even out loud. and you can't believe that the same person who welcomes people into the nice and pretty parlor, lives and acts in the way of this bedroom. It just doesn't seem possible.

All of a sudden you hear a noise and realize what you've been doing, peaking into my life, and you walk away......and that's it. You don't have any reason to be happy or move forward with a vigilance to "do better". You don't walk away with any encouragement. You really just found that, like most people in the world, I'm fake. I put on a good show for the first, second, and third impression. But after that? you're family, so you get treated like family, which isn't better. It's slightly worse. and if you're really special, I let you into my bedroom, because its just such a nice place, right?

.....

Oh, how I long for my heart, my "house" to be so pleasing to God so that no matter who looked in or who went by or listened in or who heard what I said would be encouraged. Not for my good name or my praise but for HIS. Right now, the above picture of a house is me. and I so want to be real and true for HIM. I want to display Christ. Why should my personal room be the darkest and most secretive? Why shouldn't it be the one you look in first? the one with the open window and the breeze blowing in? The one that is neat and tidy and encourages you with the nice words and uplifting songs? Why do we have to be fake?? Why can't the love of Christ in me flow forth out into everything I do and touch and see and hear and smell???

Oh, Lord, that you would make me into this kind of person. For your praise and not mine. For your good name and not mine. For your glory and not mine.

                                                                                    ...........

                                                                     Written by my daughter, Taylor.

Why?

It's hot. I'm not in the best of moods, but I stop and let them play.

Why?
I stop and let them out because one day the colorful park

will have no meaning to them like it does now.

Why?

The swings and monkey bars will just be something they pass by on their busy way.

It won't get them excited. It wont make them jump

and squeal with delight when you pull in.

Life gets hard as they get older. They get busy...

I stop because to have them all on the playground of life together

for these next few years should be enjoyed and as I look

out over the park and see my children scattered, but together,

I'm once again humbled at how fast the time goes by.

Their laughs mingled. Their tears shared.

Their games together.

One day these will just be pictures they look at and flip to the next page

but right now this is my life. These pictures are what I will leave

to the them when I'm no longer here on this earth.

My legacy to them of their childhood memories.

They will look back and see that their childhood was filled

with parks, laughter, friendships, discipline, and yes, hard times.

I want them to remember holding hands and playing peek-a-boo together down a short road that

they will not remember without these pictures.

That's why I stop.

I grab a picture or two and I remember for them.

I snap their daily life together because one day they will move on and these times will be pressed out.

I stop because the ice-cream eating, park swinging,

slippy sliding, cat loving, movie watching, pallet sleeping,

note writing, doll playing, days are short.

I stop.

 Maybe you're just too busy to even think about stopping or

notice the road that you're on but, can I remind you that it's short?

Their laughter is loud but when they get older their laughter is replaced with hard decisions

 and hard life choices.When they're little you can hold and rock them and fix

almost anything with a band-aid. You can stop at a park and they will

run, play, laugh and love you deeply for doing it.

When they're older you can't fix it. You just have to stand

next to them and remind them of God's mercy and blessings

and remind them to be thankful but they have to do it.

They have to walk their own road of faith.

So I stop on this day and enjoy the small pleasures of seeing them

enjoying the colored slides, the swings that make their stomach catch.

I stop to remind myself to slow down and swing, laugh, play

and take a picture to go in their future album and maybe help them remember why you stop. 

The walk to the mailbox

She does it almost everyday, takes that

long walk to the mail-box.

Her skirt blowing in the breeze and her

hair pulled up. The sun keeping her warm as she walks.

A smile comes to my face as I look

up and see her leave my sight.Anticipating which friend

will be waiting for her when she reaches the top.

   Out of sight for a few minutes

 and then I catch a glimpse of her.

Head down, there is no need to look up, she

knows her way home. She's done this

a thousand times since she could write.

Sending her thoughts across the p.o. boxes is as natural to her as eating.

                                                      

                                           Laying across her bed with new stationary and a few minutes, the sun

             melts through the windows and she writes.

She just simply writes.

 When she comes back in the house, her smile tells me that

   the mailbox has not been a disappointment.

She re-reads her letters like they hold

a secret deep in side and she must search it out.

She inspires me to write.

She makes me long to go to the mail-box

and find a letter from a friend and with the last sun

of the day on my shoulders read it all the way home.

Posted from the Archives

The Heat

The summer heat is pounding hard on the dry parched earth we call home.

The ground beneath our toes burns to the touch.

The garden almost done, barely hanging on 



 Taylor built the boys a tin foil river for the day.

The hours passed as they floated their men down.

I believe her mama is rubbing off on her.

She is always coming up with neat things to do with the kids

and I'm so thankful that one day she will share these

same things with her kids.

Channie and the girls stay in their pajamas all day.

Playing babies or blocks. They sit next to each other when there

is plenty of open chairs. Sharing a small space that only sisters

can share. 

Cullen playing in the bathtub until I make him get out. The water long cold. He plays and

cools off from a hot day outside.  

 The girls sitting in a sink full of warm coconut lavender water while Taylor and I cook.

Pulling them out and wrapping them up in a towel and smelling their skin.

Now this really melts their mama's heart<3

Yes, the heat is out there, but we're in here.

Together for the day.

I'm so thankful for the coolness of my air

and the water that fills my tubs and sinks.

I'm thankful for these long summer days that I think will

never end, but soon enough the fall wind will show herself

and these days will be gone forever, so I enjoy them now. 

My soup kitchen

There is a love you cannot hide and these two girls certainly don't try

to hide their love for each other and us their family. They keep us moving around here.

They keep us remembering our blessings when they crawl up in our lap and share

themselves with us, with me, their mama.

They run down my halls and I run after them and when I catch them

I'm reminded of God's faithfulness..

I get to raise these little girls.

 To love the Lord.

To love their father.

To love each other.  

With Gods Grace I will not forget my mission. 

Who Am I?

I'm totally not the perfect mother.

I'm unfit for such a job.

I'm unqualified.

I'm undeserving,

yet here I am.

 I'm in the middle of a huge mission field.

I'm watching my door open and close a thousand times a day.

Someone always needy.

Someone always needing water and to be fed.

Someone needing patched up.

Some days I feel like I run a soup kitchen.

The faces happy, sad, lonely coming to my table.

I speaks words to each of them and wonder if I truly

ever make a difference.

I keep going, I keep feeding, and I keep my door

always open because I never know when I just might

be entertaining angels.:)

My life has settled in to a deep realization that my mission field calls out to me every single

day. It begs to be heard and it begs to be answered.

I answer my calling better some days than others.

but today I answer loud,

"Here I am" come sit a spell and let me adore you for the beautiful

gift that you are.