A year ago I thought I'd have to give it all up. I'd already seen my eldest graduate and head off to university, but now it looked like I'd have to release my younger two to the brick-and-mortar schools of our town or some neighbouring city. 

Because I just couldn't do it.

Everything in me was breaking down, from the physical to the emotional. Years of chronic debilitating headaches, steadily getting worse and more frequent, had worn me down to nothing; the culture shock and identity crisis of returning to Canada after four years on the mission field with my family left me floundering much longer than I'd expected. Facing extreme fatigue, inability to concentrate, being bed-ridden with pain three to four days a week, tears pouring down my face constantly - I was no longer able to imagine how I could continue schooling my sons who would be entering grades 9 and 6 in the fall. Panic attacks coursed over me whenever I considered what seemed to be the only way forward. But as things stood, I was not going to be doing them a service by keeping them home, as much as my heart longed to. 

Prayers. Tears. Crying out for help. Long conversations with my Dear Man. Asking God. Pleading with Him to give me the strength and health to continue.

But it was not His direction for me. Not the way I pictured it. Not the way I planned. Because God gave us two paths to follow this year, two routes unlike any I'd expected when I fell at His feet and begged for answers a year ago.

My Little Man, now 14, has entered a brick-and-mortar school in town. And it's okay. I'm not thrilled that he's there, but I'm content that this is how it must be. It's been a learning curve for him and for us, entering the school system after a family absence of 24 years! We're making it work. (And I really need a new 'name' for him, as he's not little anymore!)

And Brown-Eyed Boy, who's 11, almost 12? Through miraculous provision he has been able to continue being home schooled. The miracle of it? I didn't have to sacrifice our philosophy of education and turn to a curriculum that didn't fit who we are in order to continue. We've been gifted with the opportunity to participate in the pilot project for a Charlotte Mason curriculum which has truly been the one thing that allowed me to keep this youngest child of mine at home at least a while longer. It is God's gift. 

The loss I feel over my second child's abrupt and unexpected early departure from our daily school is waning. I see him thriving in many areas that I couldn't have served him. I see him tackling things that are causing him to grow in new ways. Daily I pray for him; daily I reaffirm God's covenant promises to him; daily I trust him to the care of the One Who knows him and loves him more than I do. It's the only way.

At the same time, I'm thankful for this year (dare I hope for 'these years'?) with my third child, for an opportunity to give him the best that I can while I still have the chance. Because I realize now that I might not have him here as long as I originally thought. 

Though I pray it won't be over soon.

I've committed to coming back to PeaceLedge, to exploring once again the writing path that the Lord has used so often to teach me, to heal me, to convict me, and to love me. He is here. He IS "The Place Called Peace". Maybe you'll join me in looking for Him on this precarious edge between safety and vulnerability, between contentment and complacency?

Longing For Home

Home. It is more than location.

I'm thinking of home these days past, wondering where it really is. 

Home is where my family is. My Dear Man, who is so dedicated to all of us. My Girl, who is now becoming a young woman with independent thoughts and maturing outlooks. Little Man, not so little, but still unaware of so much. And Brown Eyed Boy, whose charming nose crinkles make my heart glow.

Not just them, though. 

My parents, far, far away. Wherever they are is also home. In their familiar presence, with their familiar love.

My sisters, my brother. They, also, make home for me. Memories come when I'm with them more than when I'm in a specific place.

Home is where I share history with those around me. Friends. Neighbours. Brothers and sisters in Christ. Those who know me and love me anyway. Those whose presence makes me smile. Those who will embrace me when I need it, and not just when I ask for it. With those ones, too, is home.

A nomadic upbringing, never living more than five years in one location, having seven homes in four different provinces by the time I was 18. And another eight homes in the first 12 years of my marriage. Is it any wonder that 'home' isn't a place?

::

When I think of 'home', I think of this line from Steve Bell's song "Home" on his "Simple Songs" album.

"Home is anywhere He leads me."

 It's true. Anywhere with Jesus is home for me. And if I'm where He is leading me, there's no better place to be. 

::

You can listen to a short sample of that song. Click the link, scroll down, and click the play arrow beside "Home".

My Best Isn't What I Want It To Be

Every time one of my children has a birthday, I imagine the birthday cake I'm going to make, and it's lovely.

Then I make it, and it isn't.

Oh, the cakes are usually okay, but they aren't lovely. Sometimes they aren't even special. They're just cakes.

This year I stepped toward My Girl's 15th, I knew my weakness. I wasn't going to make anything special, just a cake.

And slowly I got sucked into the same spiral: I started looking for a recipe (because my traditional carrot cake with cream cheese icing doesn't work quite as well here as it does in Canada). And I found one. And it was more than a recipe. It was inspiration.

Six layers of rich dark chocolate filled with luscious Swiss meringue butter cream icing, and covered, top and sides, with thick ruffles of the same icing. Beautiful.

I knew there was no way I was going to make it look like the picture, but I thought I could still make it good.

So I started baking. Borrowing pans to make all those layers. Googling icing recipes, since the Swiss meringue buttercream wasn't really an option.

And the layers were beautiful, but there was no way there were going to be six of them.  All my baking resulted in four layers, but at the time of assembly, one suffered a sad fate, and I was left with three. Still, three layers of wonderfully moist rich dark chocolate cake? Not too bad.

And then, once the icing was over the cake, it didn't look nearly as wonderful as it was meant to.  And I was, once again, disappointed.

Why do I set myself up for this? Every year I think it will be different. And every year it's the same: high hopes which, like my fourth layer of cake, suffer a sad fate.

This cake was supposed to be different. I wanted it to be different. My Girl's 15th was going to be special, even if it wasn't a traditional South American 15th. And I'd hung my hopes on the cake.

A bit of consulting with my friends started me thinking about chocolate ganache. One of my friends came over and walked me through the surprisingly simple process of making the exotic-sounding ganache, and the transformation had begun. A bit more advice, four women in my kitchen, all embellishments considered, and the transformation was complete.

No longer a sad, slightly lumpily iced cake.

This was now a treasure.

This was the cake I'd waited my whole life to make.

Sure there were imperfections. Lumps beneath the ganache don't simply disappear. Slightly slanted layers from a slightly non-level oven can't be magically made symmetrical.  

But that's okay. I don't even mind. 

I love this cake. 

I love it for what it represents:

My Girl; team-work; restoration; hope; beauty out of what was considered lost; my imperfect-best made more lovely by those in my life.

A Link for Mother's Day

For the Mother Who Fears Failure

Are All Gifts Good Gifts?

Several years ago I spent two days and nights at a silent prayer retreat not too far from my home. While there I met with a spiritual director who, in the only two hours of speaking-time allowed in those days, gave me guidance through that unique experience.


We spoke of many things, including the ways I had seen God work in various situations in my life:

"Through that time I couldn't do anything and I really wasn't worth anything to anyone. But My Dear Man stuck with me, caring for all the things I couldn't do. He is a great gift from God in my life."


She looked at me quietly. "Yes. God gives only gifts."


That I could agree with. But she went on:


"Everything is a gift."


Now I wasn't so sure. Everything? Even the years of clinical depression? The losses that many I know have faced? The insecurities and pains I experienced as a child? These, too, are gifts? Could it be true?


And she continued:


"The gift in everything is the potential for a deeper relationship with Him."

::

I've thought about those words almost daily ever since, and you've seen them here on PeaceLedge, heading every post I've done of the One Thousand Gifts. They've changed the way I look at everything, and, in reflection, I see that they were part of how I was already thinking when I was in the midst of some of the most difficult times.

These One Thousand Gifts are no light "thanks" for nice things done for me. Nor are they a "look at the bright side" kind of living. The Gifts are a way of honouring of the Giver for every part of life, for life itself, with all its bright and dark parts; the Gifts are a recognition that all things, ALL things are from the Hand of Him who has my name engraved in His hand, and that all things, ALL things require a decision from me: Will I receive it with thanks, even though it might look ugly now, trusting that He will draw me closer to Him through it? Or will I throw it back in His face and let resentment separate me from His perfect love?

Each day there is a decision to make. Do I really believe that everything is a gift? Or not? 


Truth be told, some days it is easier to receive the gifts than others. Some days my eyes are so tightly closed that I don't even see the easy-to-recognize gifts, let alone those gifts that take some searching to uncover.


As I learn to live the Gifted life, I find it more natural to see the Gifts, to notice the small ones, to accepts the difficult ones, and to reach out toward the Giver. And that is the whole point. 

The Gifts only draw me closer to the Giver. 


As the Father gives, I receive. And I give back to Him thanks.


God has given everything.


I give thanks.


Is there anything more I can give?

Improbable Weapon

Love.


Satan can't stand in its presence, for it is the essence of God the Father Himself.


Love leaves no room for him to worm his way in, no place for a foot-hold.


An improbable weapon, love is assuredly the strongest one we have against him.


So I pray for love for each child, for each parent, for each unintentional adversary, for the heart of the person, not just actions done or undone.

Choosing to Step Out of Default

What will I choose?


Will I choose to be content when

• the daytime temperature hovers between 28 and 33 degrees Celsius and the only summer skirt I own gets caught in the door and tears and I don't know where to buy sewing supplies?
• my bedroom is also a storage space?
• the things we use daily don't have 'homes' and make a visual clutter that is oh, so distracting to the mind?
• I can't find the kinds of things I'm used to cooking with - like tomato sauce and sour cream?
• the dogs in the neighbourhood bark so incessantly that I can't sleep during the night?
• my efforts at learning Spanish are making such slow progress?

None of these things are big. None of them are life-threatening. But each do threaten to destroy my contentment and peace.  I know that none of them compare even closely to the apostle Paul's challenges when he writes in Philippians:  "I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances."  (Philippians 4:11)

So I have a choice to make:  Get bogged down by inconveniences or

• be glad that I have a sister who could mail me a patch for my skirt
• thank God for all the good things we have in our home and the way He arranged for us to be in it
• be thankful for the living that happens in our home every day
• appreciate the adventure of new foods and flavours
• use awake-at-night moments (or hours) as time to talk to my Father
• remember how far my ability to communicate has come and for the fact that my mistakes are at least getting more sophisticated

Each day is filled with these choices. And they are decisions that have to be made consciously or they won't be made at all, and, sadly, the default mode is 'discontentment'.

::

(I think it's time for me to get back to regular posting of the Thousand Gifts list. It's too easy to let the habit/discipline of thankfulness slide, to forget to look through the eyes of thanks.  So, regardless of how many gifts I've listed privately in my own writing in the past months, I'm going to pick up my list on PeaceLedge carrying on from the last number recorded here.)

Costs

She's wondering how friend-love can stretch across distance, how long she can go without connecting. Her tears are real. So is her pain.


What can I do?


We're here because of a calling, a calling we believe is her calling, too. But there are costs involved in answering a calling. When those costs are mine, it's one thing. When the costs are borne by My Girl, it's another.


I turn her to the only true and lasting Comfort that she has. And I leave her with a Book and a pen. And I pray.

Preparing for Christmas without Sensory Cues

Christmas comes where there is no snow. Truly. 


I have to wrap my mind around that and work to begin preparing for Christ's arrival. 


That's what Advent is for, and here I'm finding that observing Advent is ever so much more personally necessary than it was in North America. Somehow the snow, dark evenings, cozy indoor times wearing sweaters, and snow gear all through the front hall became huge cues for me that Christmas was on its way. 


Not so here. There is no snow. The sun is still up at 9pm. Shorts and t-shirts are what we're wearing. And all the windows get opened once the air cools off in the evening (at least the ones with screens). None of those sensory cues are here for me to prepare my heart for Christmas. 


So we've started our annual Advent readings a couple of days late, but with much more longing than usual. Something has to remind us that we're about to celebrate the greatest gift of love!

What's in a Name?

For years I've wanted to be able to name our home. But it just isn't something that's commonly done in Canada. So, even if I did name it, the likelihood of the name ever coming into common use was pretty slim.

Then I moved to Uruguay.

People in Uruguay name their houses! Practically every home you see has the house name posted on the gate or on the lawn. In fact, the houses don't have numbers in most neighbourhoods of our city, just names. So when you get an address it sounds something like:

     Bay Street

     between Brunswick and Douro

     House: Talsma

     City

     Postal Code

(makes me a bit curious about mail delivery, but it seems to work)

The home we have rented already had a name: Yuchan. Yuchan is a variety of tree here that is growing in the front yard. But there was no sign, and we thought this might be my chance to name a house. 

Before long we had chosen a name.

When my Dear Man and our colleague went to work out the final rental agreement with the owner and the lawyer, they asked if we could choose our own name. The owner balked.

"You can't change a house's name! It's bad luck! It would be like changing the name of a ship or boat; it just isn't done!"

We thought that was the end of it, and I resigned myself to living in a place called "Yuchan".

And I tried not to be too disappointed.

Later that same day the two men met again with the owner about something else, and he brought up the naming question. "You go ahead and give it a name if you'd like," he said. "In all the years we've lived there we never even made a sign for it. It will be fine."

So, here we are, in a home we love, quirks and all, AND I was allowed to give it a name!

A couple of days later we realized that we needed to work fast: the telephone company was sending their workers to install our phone line and the address we'd given included the new name.

One of the teen-aged boys on our team got out his sautering iron and burned the name into a leftover piece of lumber that was in their yard. On our next trip to our house we set up the new house sign.

It is my prayer that everyone who enters our door will find refuge: a place of sanctuary and peace, welcome and safety:

Bienvenido a El Refugio

Welcome to The Refuge

50(5x2 + 6) + 5x17 + 5x5 = stress

The morning began the night before.


I stood in the living room, tears in my eyes, and sobbed to my Dear Man "It's not going to work!"


The reply came with a gentle hug. "You go to sleep. And imagine that while you're sleeping the packing elves will be hard at work."


So I did go to sleep, lying beside a tearful daughter, praying silent prayers of peace and comfort for a girl who is aching.


Wakefulness came early, just as sleep came late. The autumn sun wasn't yet risen when I returned to the living room.


Sure enough, the packing elves had been busy through the night. There were more bins sitting ready to go on the airplane with us. Unfortunately, the little piles of personal belongings seemed to be just as plentiful as they were the night before. And so the tears returned.


Another trip to the hardware store to purchase two more bins.


Another period of rearranging the binned items to keep the weights below the magical 50 pounds.


Loved Ones came to give last minute assistance and to give good-bye hugs; their help was like gold.


And by the time our scheduled departure came we were ready with our 10 allotted bags (2 each at 50 pounds) plus 6 extras (50 pounds each) and carry-ons (one carry-on of 17 pounds plus one personal item each - we quickly learned not to call those 'purses' for the sakes of our little boys!).


Let the travelling begin!

Listen Earlier

I ask a question of my Lord and wait for His answer.  

Nothing.  Silence.

But I continue, pressing on with the guidance of others who are more experienced listeners. 

And then the sky opens over me as I realize that while the question is still in my mind and the words are still on my tongue, the answer is being given!

The blessing of His answer is ready for me even before I speak the question!  I don't need to listen more closely.  I don't need to listen longer.

I need to listen earlier.

I have a God who wants to speak to me, is longing to hear my heart, and to pour His words into my heart!

He waits for me to be ready to listen, but He knows the question before it is formed and His answer comes.  His answer comes.

"Before they call I will answer, while they are yet speaking I will hear."  Isaiah 65:24

Do Not Lose Heart

Therefore, since through God’s mercy we have this ministry, we do not lose heart. (2 Corinthians 4:1 NIV)

Tumbling Over the Edge

Why is it the little things that push me over the edge?

I’ve been balancing for months, strong winds buffeting from all sides, and now, one little gust, one little atmospheric irregularity, and I’m thrown into the abyss of tears.

Those who know me well might debate my perception that I’ve even been balancing, but it seems so to me: Preparing our home of 9 years for a new owner - balancing. Anticipating an inter-continental move - balancing. Leaving the security of Dear Man’s salaried position for raise-your-own-support full time ministry - balancing. Looking for answers about home education in a new country - balancing. Precarious, wobbly, but still balancing.

Then today a single phone call and over the edge I go. Plummeting into tears of frustration, anger, resentment, loss, and, finally incomprehension of my own response. Why does this feel so big? Why, with everything else that is happening, is this the thing that releases the sobs and tears?

Maybe it doesn’t matter so much why. Maybe it was simply time for the release, and this was a safe place for it.

Law and Love

... this fear of consequences should not be a fear of losing love.  Your child needs to know you are constantly and consistently connected and emotionally there with her, no matter what the infraction.  She only needs to be concerned about the loss of freedom and the possibility of pain.  the message is, "I love you, but you have chosen something difficult for yourself."

...Remember that the law restrains our out-of-control selves enough so that we can slow down and listen to the message of love.

Boundaries with Kids by Dr. Henry Cloud and Dr. John Townsend

Chapter 8: Life Beyond "Because I'm the Mommy" - The Law of Motivation, page 126, 127

How hard it can be sometimes to maintain emotional connection with my children when I'm 'being their boundaries'.  Finding that balance of softness and firmness - like a spine, maybe - is hard.  I lean one way or the other and the balance is lost.


But if I can keep my balance I know my children will be able to see the real consequence as their problem, and not 'mean Mommy'.

::

Isn't this really the same way that God works with me?  The law shows me my sin, and without it I wouldn't know I needed Him.  But it is there to point me to my need for Him, not to focus me on my sin.  To paraphrase Drs. Cloud and Townsend, "...the law restrains my out-of-control self enough so that I can slow down and listen to God's message of love."


Spriritual disciplines function in much the same way.  The disciplines are not faith.  They are not salvation.  But prayer, fasting, worship, simplicity...they slow me down and put me in a position where I am more attuned to hearing the voice of God.

Life Blood

Winter slowly loosens its grip on the earth. 

Deep within, trees awaken. 

Liquid sweetness moves through tall spines, nourishes long-waiting cells.  

Life giving sap runs.

Eager hands have plunged metal spouts 
deep into the hearts of these Canadian symbols, 

now tin pails wait to be filled.

I, too, feel the lifeblood begin to move

as spring makes its return within me.

Winter is gone.

::

It seems that I'm not the only one inspired by the running of the sap.  Young R, on our nature walk with friends, was moved to catch that liquid joy in his mouth where there was no pail waiting.

Wondering

What does one do when

• one has a cold and can't breathe through one's nose but has to read out loud, and,
• one is trying to keep the house tidy so it's ready to be shown to potential buyers, and so
• one doesn't want to DO anything because it might mess up the house, but
• one's children need something to do, yet
• one is too tired to run interference with all the squabbling?

Just wondering.

Moving Forward

After lots of prayer and searching, I think I've found a way to keep PeaceLedge open (i.e. not by invitation only) and yet not searchable on the Internet.  This helps me feel a bit more comfortable writing about some sensitive topics.  So, for now I'll continue as I have been:  sporadically posting my thoughts, experiences, joys, and more for those who care to read them.


Thanks to all who expressed interest in being invited should I go that route.  Time will tell.

Blessed Words

Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap.

Luke 6:38

What To Do?

I don't like getting dirty. I don't like icky things. I don't like slimy textures.

That has made the past couple of weeks a bit difficult, as the front porch has been occupied by some uncooperative residents who are pushing my limits of gross-tolerance.

It wasn't meant to be this way. These little residents were supposed to grow, transform, and amaze. They were supposed to inspire us with their beauty and add vitality to our lives.

Instead we got this:

A tropical milkweed that was stripped of its leaves by the 6 resident caterpillars within a week of bringing it home. We went traipsing into the Old Grove to see if the common milkweed we'd seen last year was still there, pulled some leaves and brought them home to our hungry caterpillars.

The first caterpillar had by now pupated and was hanging from a leaf in a pale green chrysalid, but as the supply of leaves was so scant for a day or so, another caterpillar ate away the entire leaf, leaving the chrysalid hanging precariously from the leaf rib.

A phone call was placed to a friend who lives in a lovely rural setting, asking for help; she found three plants growing at the back of their property, dug them up, brought them to us. We planted them in the garden, hoping to be able to maintain a supply of leaves for the remaining critters.

As the first chrysalid hardened, we noticed that it wasn't right. Its shape was slightly warped; it had a dent in the side. Concern for that monarch's survival began. Today, after its hanging for over 3 weeks, our hopes for it maturing to an adult monarch are gone. What is left of him is a discolouring, very sad looking chrysalid, a mockery of the jewels we had last year.

The second caterpillar to pupate found a safe spot on a twig, but recently fell to the floor of the mesh monarch cage.

A third enterprising caterpillar climbed to the top of the cage, hung there, formed a "j" and pupated, suspended from the mesh. This one still looks a bit promising, but hope is pretty thin right now.

His little friend followed his example and suspended himself from the ceiling of the cage. However, he wasn't strong enough to maintain his life through the days needed to pupate and died there.

So I'm stuck. I don't like these little dead bodies in my front porch, so I want to toss the whole works. But there's the possibility that one of them might still make it, so I want to keep it going. If I try to clear out the debris it's likely that I'll knock that last chrysalid from its anchor.

Truly, the whole thing is quite disturbing to look at, and while I can't bring myself to dispose of it all for the sake of that one little fellow, I'm repulsed by it every time I go into the front porch and think of visitors coming to the door and being greeted by this sight.

What to do?