June on the Farm

June on the farm is BUSY.

Not just a little bit more BUSY. A LOTmore busy.

Like, a lot.

In addition, my body is fighting off a run with anxiety and depression.

Today, I filmed this video describing the crazy day we were having here. 

But this friend was here with me ...

I wrote a post documenting this friend's involvement in my life back in 2017. 

She is such a gift to me.

I am blessed with such amazing people in my life. And each of them has a different role, a different strength, a different gift. 

"Stebbs" gets me when the anxiety of life takes over. She knows how to talk me down off cliffs. She can be brutally honest with me. She can call it like it is.

In addition, her young William is one of my Sidge's best friends. He was here with Sidge this week. My Sidge, who is in his own hard times. And we watched as Sidge healed while he was here. Belly laughs. Big smiles. Peace. Even momentary.

I am so blessed to have her in my life, and so blessed to have had her with me these last few days.

Life is now going to take her from the Washington D.C. area to Nebraska as her husband finishes up his time in the military.

I'm not sure when I'll see her again, but this visit was a great BIG God hug.

Getting a bird to eat out of your hand

I am going to be documenting Sidge's journey to getting-a-bird-to-eat-out-of-his-hand. Stay tuned for updates and pictures.

Ballet Camp 2021 (Part I)

This past week, both my girls attended a ballet camp. For Hannah, it was an older version of "Princess Camp." This was perfect for my youngest. While she has an athletic body and all the potential in the world, I'm not sure her desire is anywhere close to her potential at this point. Here is a video of their closing "show":

Hannah Ballet full dance

In fact, you can see from this video below, that even when doing ballet, she figures out ways to be silly:

Hannah Ballet (short, silly clip)

Abigail, on the other hand, is all-focus. When she was Hannah's age, she participated in a six hours a day camp. (Hannah would never want to do that.) But Abigail is a very serious dancer. This was actually a "beginner" camp, however, the girls in it were her age, and I thought it would be nice to do something "short and sweet" (two hours a day) with kids her own age for once. (She's often with older girls.) She ended up getting to "lead" one of the dances as you can see below. (I know I am partial, but I think she did an amazing job).

Abigail Ballet full dance 1

And here is the second dance they performed:

Abigail Ballet full dance 2

Any guess which one is Hannah?

I love this picture (above) of some of the ballerinas in princess camp ... no big surprise that the one that's my daughter ...

... is the one without shoes on. So like her to beat to her own drum. All the time!

Thanking my husband

 

Will y’all do me a favor?

This man John Kitsteiner has loved me for almost 30 years. He has supported me during infertility, anxiety, depression, in ten homes on three continents.

This last year kicked his butt as he managed a pandemic as the co-director of a rural ER. He never wanted to be the director. And he certainly didn’t want a pandemic, but he did it.

Ask anyone who works with John and they will use the same adjectives to describe him: kind, intelligent, humble, down to earth .... he’s an incredible doctor ....

.... but he’s an even more amazing husband and father. During the last month our family has come out of covid and been hit by anxiety and depression — in me and in two of our children. We know this is probably both hormonal and situational after the year we’ve gone through.

But John doesn’t blink. He continues managing his ER (which is seeing record numbers of patients beyond what their capacity can handle after losing many nurses during the pandemic) and then comes home to a fragile wife and struggling kiddos and wraps us up and guides and loves us while still managing the farm that waits outside his door.

I know it may be corny to shout out to him on social media, and he would tell me not to do it, but I want to.

If you have read this far, will you leave a comment with an adjective to describe John? Or share a story or memory? If you’ve seen him as a patient, please share! He would never ask for encouragement but this year truly took it out of him, and I want him to know how many people value his wisdom and character and the amazing man that he is. I love you JB.

Sweetness

The Internet is always coming up with something new! Here's the latest! Thanks Kristin Girton!

Chapter 7: Back Dosling/Guck

We are going to be doing a science experiment around these parts. First, we must formulate a hypothesis. If a goose hatches a duck egg and thinks that the little baby is her gosling, will the bird grow up to be more duck-like because of its nature ... or will it grow up to be more goose-like because of its nurture. 

It reminds me of a favorite book in our house: A Blessing from Above which details the story of a kangaroo that adopts a little blue bird. 

As an adoptive-family, I am constantly amazed by the lessons I witness and could give on nature vs. nature. 

Here's the truth: there are things my son that does not share my DNA does that remind me so much of his birthmother. A movement he makes. A facial expression. A look. 

And then, he'll do something that makes me think: he's definitely a Kitsteiner. 

And now, we will have the opportunity to see how this works with ducks and geese! 

So fun!

Losing in Chess

Sidge snagged these pictures of me attempting to beat my eldest in Chess. 

Truth: he beats me nearly every time.

Truth: if I stand a chance, I have to concentrate very hard.

Truth: While I can sometimes get all the way down to a "win", I stink at preventing a draw!

Truth: Who invented this game? I mean, it has to be the best game of all time? Would anyone argue that?

It's summertime here. School is done for the next two months. So I am trying to spend my days playing games with the kids, getting some long-overdue organizing around the house done, and of course, the farm calls our name even louder in the heat of the summer. 

I have begun to recognize that May may be the hardest month for me on the farm. I think it's because the farm has started to pick up for the June/July push, but I'm still trying to educate my children. We haven't completely finished schoolwork, and yet, the farm is requiring my presence more and more.

June, on the other hand, is actually an easier month than May because the pull to both things has ceased a bit. The kids don't need me for their education. The farm needs me more. 

Chapter 5: Therapy

Hard labor may be some of the best therapy there is. 

I suppose, in my growing up years, that therapy was my athletics. I can clearly remember struggling with my emotions during my senior year of high school. I asked my English teacher, Mrs. Mackey, to excuse me, and I think, sensing I was struggling, she let me go to my athletic director father's office. (She was a gem by the way)

My wise Dad sent me out for a jog. 

Therapy.

I don't shoot baskets anymore or kill a volleyball to release anxiety and depression. But I can unload the back of a Ford with two tons of chicken feed and feel better. 

Here's what I'm learning ... more and more as I spend extensive time in this rural bit of America ...

We are designed to move. We are designed to work. Both sexes. (Although I really think, boys especially, need work and girls have the ability to find outlets through other things.) I think athletics helps replace that fact, but I truly believe the absence of movement is affecting our children. 

Our boys are turning into me, and they crave responsibility and jobs and purpose. Today, Sidge successfully pulled John's tractor out of a ravine with the side-by-side. What a moment for him!

Truth: our family is dealing with some anxiety/depression right now. One of my sons is battling. I'm battling. A daughter is struggling with some sleep issues related to anxiety. It's awful to feel this beast as a grown-up. But to watch your child face that same beast and be helpless to fix it, is gut-wrenching. 

But as son and I unloaded these bags of feed, you could tell: this movement, the strength required, sweat, heat ... it's good for the soul. It means something. It's ... therapy.

Pine Cove Camp 2021

This is my oldest daughter. Like any child, she's incredibly special, and it can be hard to put her into words. 

And because I love her so much, I can't even stop myself from posting BOTH of these pictures of her this morning, out with me on the farm as the sun was rising before 7am. 

And while I find it very hard to put her into words, her camp counselor, after just five days with her, was able to put her into these three words above -- which truly highlight her nearly perfectly.

Both my daughters just finished a week at Pine Cove Cam, hosted by my church: First Christian Church Greeneville. This is the second year we've had an opportunity to be involved with this amazing "traveling" camp, and I seriously cannot put into words how impressed I am with every aspect of what this camp does.

Three years ago, our church decided to stop doing "traditional" VBS camps. Instead, they "hired" Pine Cove to come to our church and put on a camp. The first time, my oldest three went. Then came a year off with COVID. And now this year. The boys are too old, Abigail could return, and Hannah could attend for the first time.

From the moment you pull into the property, these counselors are demonstrating more energy than I could have ever thought possible for 9am in the morning. I got a video of our "morning arrival" here. 

I love that my girls were sad the week was over and so blessed by the opportunity they had to attend!

Every time I watch the sunrise on the farm I think, I should do this everyday. Until it’s 6am, and I’m cozy in my bed, and I don’t want to get up to go outside yet. 

But this morning, it’s a perfect 57 degrees, and my heart is resting in the sounds of the world waking up. Everyone needs a chance to hear nothing artificial. I can’t hear any vehicles or sounds but the world waking up. 

Chapter 4: The Basket in the Tub

This happened when we were moving 400+ meat chickens across the property in our side-by-side. We needed one more container to put the chickens in so I asked Isaac to go find me something as I kept my brain sharp for the counting I was doing. Gabe and Sidge were loading the chickens into the bed. I was in charge of keeping a close count on how many they were loading. 

Trust me on this. You don't want to get your count off when you are loading multitudes of chickens. The counter is very important. Focus. Let the loaders load. The counter counts. 

Writing that paragraph makes me think of the song: And the haters gonna hate. Perhaps my chicken-loading could be set to the tune of some sort of pop ballad someday.  

Keeping my focus, I yelled over my shoulder to Isaac: "Find one more container for the last 20 chickens!"

Had we put the chickens directly into the "bed" of the side-by-side they could have easily jumped out. So we had put three boxes in the back. But we needed one more. 

Isaac came back with one of my clean laundry baskets from the house. 

I honestly should have told him that was a terrible idea and please find some cruddy, broken down box somewhere. But it was very hot. The chickens that we had already loaded were waiting in that heat to get to their new home. And I just wanted to move 'em out. So I said "okay!" and the laundry basket became holding tank #4. 

After it was done moving chickens from one side of the farm to the other, it got chucked to the side of the brooder when the bed needed to be used for something else. This morning, I brought it back into the house and tossed it into the tub to wash when I could get to it. 

Later, my husband would say: "Why didn't you bring that outside and wash it with a hose?"

Why didn't I wash it outside with a hose? I honestly have no idea. That's a WAY better idea.

I used to dream of a pristine farm. One where every single thing was where it was supposed to be. There would be no random pieces of wood scattered around the driveway. Everything would be perfectly mowed. No extra feed containers littering walkways. Tools hung up perfectly in their pre-determined spot.

But what I have learned in five years of farming is that a working farm means work is occurring. And that work means scattered messes here and there. You can try to keep it fairly clean. But pristine farms mean one of two things:

1. No work is actually occurring. The farm looks great, but it's all just a facade. It isn't a real working farm.

2. No money is being made. They are spending all their time worrying about how things look and spending tons of money on barns and shelving and not on the things that really matter. 

If anyone can find a farm that is pristine and making money and really working, more power to you. I don't believe it's a reality. A reality is laundry baskets in the bathtub.

It's why I laugh when I see pictures of people decorating their house in "farmhouse" style. It's very white. And very clean. Is this the perfect definition of irony. A real farm has mud and boots and dirt and scuff-marks and seed catalogs and buckets. 

It's real. Real isn't what my mind imagines. But real is what it is.

Chapter 3: Finding Treasure in the Weeds

 

This white post sits in the middle of our duck paddock. And if you didn't know any better, you'd probably not question its existence. But I know. We all know. It's marking the spot in the paddock where our one remaining female duck has gone broody with a nest. 

We have one loan remaining female and one loan remaining male duck ... due to a coyote. About a year ago, a coyote decimated our duck paddock. It was, as it always is, terribly sad, and, as is often the case with a coyote, he ate very little of what he killed. He simply went on a rampage, killing and not eating. It's nature's way of course. 

But it's still incredibly disappointing.

When we found the dead ducks, there was a nest of eggs out in the paddock that we had overlooked when collecting eggs. We collected the eggs and incubated them. Seven went into the incubator. Three hatched. And after months of raising them, when their feathers came in, we discovered they were ALL MALES.

Seriously?! Not a single female ... what are the odds.

Kind of good I guess.

When it comes to animals on a farm, males are less-then-desirable. You must have a very low number of them or else fighting and death occurs. If you have too many male ducks, they'll kill each other or their ladies. So we were forced to process those three ducks we raised. 

All year, we've waited to see if our remaining female and her male counterpart could create a new nest. And now, here it is. Each day, we patiently wait to see if any of the eggs will hatch. If the Mama will raise these, it's way easier than us trying to raise them in a brooder. So we are hopeful.

If you closer, right at the base of the white post, you will find the nest. It's nearly impossible to see. She's done such a good job camouflaging it and covering it with her own feathers. Not only is it nearly invisible, but her presence keeps predators away. Normally a duck will run away from us if we enter the paddock. But Mama Duck will not get off that nest. Even if I reach down and pet her, she stays firmly planted to her nest. 

Usually, the Mama is sitting on the nest. But if she isn't, and you weren't paying attention, you could easily step on those eggs. 

So we put in a white post to make sure anyone enters the paddock remembers where the Mama is nesting.

I have learned so much about the nature of life due to living on a farm. So much about death and birth. About adorable little lambs and a violent death where its head is eaten off because it wandered too far away from the herd.

I've watched a bear take down a lamb, moving across an entire pasture in just a few huge pounces. We've seen bobcats and coyotes and raccoons on our game-cams, investigating our animals to see if we left any of our t's uncrossed. 

You see the importance of the herd. The importance of protection. The importance of safety in numbers. The importance of electric fencing.

And after a tragedy, you wait to see if a story of survival can emerge from the ashes ...

And you wait to see if the eggs hatch.

Chapter Two: The Perfect Farm Dog

My very first dog was a Dalmatian named Scrubs. My husband got him for me right after the doctor told us we probably would never have children. He purposefully picked out the most high-energy, high-maintenance, biggest piece-of-work dog he could. 

 

(We would go on to have four children in five years after his arrival. But of course, that's another story entirely and will have to be a different chapter in this book.)

Scrubs moved with us from Eglin AFB in the panhandle of Florida to Turkey to the Azores to Middle TN before finally helping us settle on this farm in Bulls Gap, TN that we have called home since 2015. 

 

In 2016, at nine years old, he decided his work was done, and we burried him at the hairpin -- a tight turn on the back road -- halfway between our house and my in-laws' house. Right smack between the people he most loved.

We knew we had to get another dog. We knew that our six-year-old Sidge, especially, needed another dog, and that the grief would be too intense for him without a new animal to pour into.

We decided that with a farm overrunning with chickens and geese and ducks and sheep, we needed to make sure we had good dogs. They had to be trainable. We couldn't risk having to get rid of a dog because he refused to not dine on peasant. Or lamb chops. I mean what would we do if he had a lamb chop addiction?

 

We researched extensively, and we decided to get an Australian Shepherd. But because they were expensive dogs, especially when purchased from the high-level breeder we were looking at, we decided to get two of them. (That makes sense, doesn't it?) But the two was so that we could breed them and make back some of the money we spent.

 

And that's the story of how Bauernhof Kitsteiner came to be a farm that raised Aussies. And that is how we ended up having Ritter and Arabelle.

 

Ritter is the big Daddy. He's over 60 pounds. A red-merle. And a huge pile of loving fluff. He has very few needs other than belly scratches. And he's yet to meet a person he does not like. While Sidge likes to claim Ritter as his own, he really does belong to all of us.

But Arabelle? Her black-tri-self is my dog. I didn't set out to make her that way. She just chose me. She was born a farm dog. Today, after dropping my daughters off at church camp, I went for a walk/run on the track that circles the hospital my husband works for. Arabelle ran next to me off-leash. She stays in a heel when I tell her, and runs free when I let her. Half a dozen people stopped me to comment on her impeccable behavior as I let her run off-leash next to a busy road and tons of people.

But that's Arabelle. She lives to serve me and to be out with me on our farm. John captured the video of her jumping over one of our electric lines today. She does this often. If I give her the command, she jumps. If I tell her to stay, she will. Her hardest responsibility is when I ask her to leave me. She hates that.

I'd like to pretend that I am a professional trainer, and I simply conquered this dog with my impeccable training techniques, but that would be a mighty large lie. She honestly, nearly completely, trained herself. She often looks at me as if to say: "C'mon human. If you could get your act together, I'd be able to do a whole lot more."

I never dreamed any dog could replace my Scrubby. But Arabelle has nestled herself deep within my heart. I'd like to say I'm a two-dog woman, but as I look around these acres, I know that I will most likely always have a dog by my side. 

They are made for these hills.

One of my favorite quarantine pictures

And here’s another: 

Chapter One: Rumination

I've decided that if I don't write it now, I'll never write it.

My book that is. The book that my mind is continually writing and rewriting. I write it as I fall asleep. I write it as a I drive my brood hither and tither. I write as I read other people's writings -- loving a way they captured words and hoping I can do it as eloquently. 

As I move around our farm, my mind writes. It's how my brain has been wired since I was a little girl.

I write words in my head.

And if I am really focusing, I am t-y-p-i-n-g those words. 

It's an out-of-body experience of sorts. My fingers fly around the keyboard, hitting the letters as my brain says the things I want to say. I picture the fingers moving as I let the words flow silently through the recesses of my mind. 

I returned this afternoon from a weekend away -- some time with my childhood friend, Michelle, and her three children and husband. Her oldest was having a birthday, and my Sidge has become his good friend. So we drove the five hours to North Carolina to celebrate with him.

I returned this evening from a weekend away and was swept into the paddock nearly immediately to catch five sheep. 

Catching sheep is a game. It's a chess board. There are moves you can make. And moves you can't. A bad move can put you in checkmate nearly immediately. And if you are really on your game, you might be able to win in just a few choice steps. 

But the chances of success with the "easy choice" is usually poor. Tonight, I knew it. John had an idea using Jacob and Anni and myself out in the open field with only one hard fence to use for "trapping" the sheep. There were some cattle panels available, and he thought we could use those and win the battle.

It's always a delicate dance out in the paddocks ... not wanting to shoot someone else's idea down to quickly. Pretty sure an idea will be successful or trying not to be pessimistic that it's doomed from the beginning. Tonight, I told my husband I thought we'd be better off skipping to plan F. We've done this so many times, I knew what A thru E would be, and I didn't think they would work. 

While we didn't skip immediately to F, we did move there quicker than normal. We spent just a few minutes taking a step at A and B and C before deciding to forego D and E and jump to F. This means taking twenty extra minutes to set up some netting. It's winning the chess game by making thirty extra moves, and your body instinctively wants to find an "easier way" to do it. You want to find the faster way or the easier way. 

But the slower more deliberate choice is often more successful.

That sentence holds so many layers of lessons, I know it would take me more hours than the few minutes I have before bed to unravel them. I am sure while I am in bed minutes from now, my fingers will start flying around my imaginary keyboard, typing thoughts I probably won't be able to recall come morning. 

Returning from my friend's house, I start to second-guess our life, taking my husband on an emotional roller-coaster. This farm. These sheep. Michelle doesn't have these. And her life is simple.

"It's not simple," my JB reminds me. "That was a weekend. It was not reality. Reality is real. And real is not simple. It's messy. It's challenging. It isn't fixed by getting rid of sheep or living in suburbia or quitting the real life you have been chosen."

The slower more deliberate is often more successful. 

Like a sheep, I must go ruminate. 

Aunt Hannah

We have my little Hannah in our life. But we also have Hannah Kotynski. And she just celebrated a birthday. 

Aunt Hannah is married to my first cousin, Eddie. 

This is a picture of her with her sixth child, Theo. Her oldest son, Gabe, is 15. She is truly a Proverbs 31 woman. Her family comes first. She loves her husband. She serves. She loves. She gives. 

Four years ago, I didn’t even know my cousin-in-law. The last time I had seen her was at her wedding, many moons ago. 

But when we bought the farm, they lived in Asheville, about two hours from us, and they came for a visit. 

A long story evolved and suddenly; they had purchased a house just seven minutes down the road. (That’s really close in the country!)

Before Aunt Hannah arrived, there was one small part missing in my new life as a farmer’s wife. I didn’t have “that family”. The one that I could drop my kids off with at a moment’s notice. But I got that with Aunt Hannah. We started homeschooling together, and three years later, we are going strong. 

We are such different women. I am loud and opinionated and fierce and fast. She is soft and patient and deliberate and patient. I am an extrovert. She definitely is not. But we love our family and our community and our Jesus and each other. We are helping each other raise our children — we are a solid and unified team. 

She has become one of my dearest friends. She is such a beautiful person who truly wouldn’t hurt someone if her life depended on it. She and Eddie met in the Philippines at boarding school — both children of missionaries — and their family is unique and diverse with Bolivian and Chinese and Australia wrapped up into their families. Skin and nationality means nothing to their hearts. 

I want to wish her a happy birthday ... she is an incredible gift to me, my children, and our entire community. 

I am so blessed the Lord purposes our lives to intersect so beautifully, and I hope to grow old as her friend. 

Update on my Dad from my mom

George is improving every day.  He is still showing some pneumonia in the x-rays but is not using the oxygen anymore.

The doctor put him on an antibiotic to try to eradicate the pneumonia but it made him sick and set him back a bit.  He seems better today.  It is a process.  We are praying for that infection to leave completely and please pray that he gets good rest at night. 

My boss has been very generous.  I started back to work 1/2 days.  I hope to increase it a bit next week but taking it one day at a time.  All is well!  Thank you again for the meals, messages and prayer support.

Some photos

What a great getaway weekend we have had. Sidge and Edward got to ride go-carts for his birthday, we went to Mellow Mushroom for lunch, I got to go shopping at Trader Joe’s (always a treat for this farm girl!), and I went to Fleet Feet (an amazing shoe store that helped me pick out a pair of shoes based on MY feet!) 

My dear friend Michelle is such a gift to me. She’s really provided me an opportunity to get some rest and take a break from all the things requiring my attention back on the farm. 

Michelle has been my friend since we were 5 years old! What a gift to still have her in my life. 

A visit

I’m in North Carolina, with my childhood friend, Michelle, and her wonderful family. Her oldest son is very good friends with Sidge, and we wanted to give them an opportunity to spend some tome together. 

This is a picture of their youngest snd my youngest: Benjamin and Hannah who are both 7. Benjamin will turn 8 in a few days. 

Friday Funnies

Conversation with Mr. Billy our 70+ farming neighbor who speaks with such a strong country accent, I usually have to tilt my head and squint to get 50% of it. 

“Them there neighbor of mine done took her chicken to the vet. Her chicken! You don’t take a chicken to the vet! You chop the head off the chicken.”

Please ...

I received this note from Abigail today ... John is on nights and she wanted to do something "special." Seriously. How does a Mama say no to that.

In other news: 

• Hannah came down the stairs wearing suspenders attached to her underwear as if that was the most normal thing ever.
• Another "anonymous child" told me they couldn't figure out why their comforter wasn't drying. (It's because they kept rerunning the washer.  Wrong machine.)
• We are super excited that our friends, Shane & Linda, have purchased a home down the road from us. While they are still in the military, they plan to use this as a "home base" and an AirB&B property. Super fun! Shane has been here most of the week while Linda is in D.C. securing housing for the year of schooling she has to do there next year. 
• Tomorrow is our last day of the 2020-2021 school year. Summer here we come!
• I am heading out of town with three of the kids to celebrate Sidge's friend, Edward's 14th birthday. Because of COVID, Sidge has been pretty isolated from his friends so we are excited for this opportunity.

Recovering

Our friends Shane and Linda gave John this bear! 

Update on my Dad from my Mom:

Update on George:

We saw a pulmonologist & our primary.

They reduced oxygen use to just when he exerts himself & he has been tolerating that well.

His lungs sound clear but x-rays still show some pneumonia so we need to watch that.

Breath of God flow thru his lungs!!!

He lost 20 lbs!!! 

We have some God stories to share sometime! God did some amazing things!!

Thank you for the texts, calls, cards, meals and mostly the prayers!

We are so grateful!!!

Onward & upward!

Thank you for all the prayers for my Dad.

This has been a VERY emotional time for me. To be quite frank, my Dad getting sick with COVID right after we sort of "released" ourselves here in TN, was like a fierce sucker punch. I feel prepared to lose my Dad. I know and pray that he goes before me, as it should be. But I just could NOT bear to lose him to this stupid virus that had rocked our world here in TN for so long. 

I am NOT trying to make this about me. It isn't about me. It's about my Dad, but the truth is, I struggle with anxiety and depression. I am medicated and practice a lot of good techniques to avoid going into that pit. But this event, started me down there. I am doing fine, but am truly SO thankful that COVID did not cause me to lose my Dad.

P.S. A complete sidenote. I really do "dislike" the word "essential" when it comes to people involved with this crisis. Aren't we all "essential"? However, I appreciate the sentiment and the effort to say that those on the frontline need some extra "strength" during this time.

Refill your tank

The whole world paused this morning. 

Do you know why? Because an 8 year old’s tank was empty. 

The boys had already started their school day at their desks and I was preparing to leave for work when I noticed my littlest standing in the bathroom wiping his face. 

I paused at the door and asked if he was okay. He looked up with tears silently dripping and shook his head. When I questioned if something happened, again he shook his head. 

So I sat on the side of the tub and pulled him in my lap. I told him sometimes our heart tanks feel empty and need to be refilled. 

He cried into my chest and I held tight. 

I asked if he could feel my love filling him up? 

A nod, and tears stopped... 

I waited a minute... 

‘Has it reached your toes yet?’ 

He shook his head no... 

‘Okay man. We will take as long as you need. Work doesn’t matter right now. School isn’t important either. This right here, is the most important thing today, okay? Filling you back to the top. Is that good?’

*nods* 

One more minute... 

‘Is your heart full of mamas love now?’

‘Yeah...’

*looks in his eyes* I see it shining in there, you’re full to the top, and you’re smiling! 

Y’all. You may not be 8- you may be 28, 38, 48 or whatever- but ALL of us run on empty just like he did. His weekend was so busy and so full and his little soul was just dry!!! 

We all have to pause, and take a moment to refill with the good things. Scripture, prayer, sunshine, worship, song, laughter, friends, hugs. Refill your empty, or you’ll find those emotions (tears, anger, snappy words) overflowing with no reason why. 

Take a moment. Refill. It’s the most important part of your day! 

☀️ 🌻

#momentswithmisty

I turned 44

OH HAPPY DAY PRECIOUS WENDI!

44 amazing years!!!

Not enough words to describe you!

You are a true Proverbs 31 woman!

Caring

Creative

Energetic

Industrious

Wonderful wife

Amazing mother

Farmer

Loving, honoring daughter!

That just scratches the surface.

We love you Wen!

We hope you are celebrated big today & that this year is amazing!

— Mom

Marriage Advice

Wednesday Wee-wind (on a Tuesday!)

A look back at May 25, 2016

My boys have a piano recital tomorrow. I happened to wait until today to ask their teacher what they were supposed to wear. No jeans, no sweat pants, and no shorts. I looked in their closet and they do not OWN another pair of pants. Is this a major mom fail? Is this because we have become farmers? They wear blue jeans or nice dress shorts for church. I really thought I had covered all my bases. Until the day before the recital.

Mix and Match People Craft

I wanted to share a fun craft that my Abigail (almost 10) did with "the littles" at school the other day.  Here is a link to the place we got the template from. These are super cool books that kids can make where they flip the pages to do mix-and-match people: