Birdhouses

Before I moved to the country I thought that birdhouses were only decorative accessories. You know, like the cute little miniatures you find in gift stores that aren’t even really hollow? But the birdhouses my boys made and brought home one day actually looked like they were meant to be nailed to a tree. They were made from very rough dry boards that looked weathered and worn and once hung seemed to become one with the bark. Still, I wondered, do birds ever really use such houses? The answer is yes! We often sit at the dinner table and watch birds go in and out. It is great entertainment, and we sometimes take turns trying to narrate the scene or imagine what the birds might be thinking or saying:

“Here’s a nice one. No bathroom though, that could be a problem. Still, it is close to work…”

“Look dear, this one has a view of the garden! And can you believe all those worms? It does need a coat of paint, maybe that’s why it’s so cheep!”

“What do you mean this is your house? I don’t see your name on it! Besides, we’ve been summering here for ages!”

I guess before moving to Spangle I didn't paid much attention to birds, I just thought they all lived in nests. But the birds really seem to enjoy the birdhouses on our trees. They snuggle in them through thunderstorms, perch on top of them and look deep in thought, and even seem to play games around them. Birds somehow know that these houses are provided for their use, and readily occupy them without thought of lodging fees. Our feathered friends do not seem the least bit bothered that they did not earn the right to use the birdhouse or pay their own way. They simply accept the gift.

It reminds me of another gift that was nailed to a tree. A gift that cannot be earned, but must simply be accepted. He is a refuge from the storms of life, but, oh so much more. He offers me a home for all eternity…a mansion really. And while many go through life believing the idea of heaven to be more of a decorative accessory than an actual reality, I am convinced that heaven is not like the solid birdhouses with fake doors painted on them. Jesus, nailed to a tree, opened the door to heaven for me.

He himself bore our sins in his body on the tree, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; by his wounds you have been healed. I Peter 2:24

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Jack and Josie

Ever since Libby got her picture on the blog the cats have been whining about equal time. Here they are in their favorite chair, which they mostly fight over, but occasionally agree to share. Jack is the orange tabby and Josie is the grey tabby. Jack loves everyone, including Libby and Josie. We are not sure if Josie likes any of us at all, but all of us, including Jack and Libby, love on Josie whether she wants us to or not. We have asked our vet about the requirements for moving cats to Europe, and it seems very do-able. Both felines will have to be given a euro-micro-chip and a rabies shot AFTER having the chip implanted. The worst part for the cats will be the actual journey...couped up in a cargo bin for hours on end. Jack will recover, but Josie may never forgive us. Then again, she already treats us with disdain so perhaps she will seem just like herself after the trip. All that to say...we are planning on taking the cats when we move to France.

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Conversion Van?

We were running errands in Spokane and saw this van in a parking lot. So I'm just wondering, does anyone besides me find this to be an interesting combination of window decals? On the left window we see the face of Jesus and the words "Jesus is God and He loves you!" Then on the right window we see the name of the band KISS, complete with the four painted faces of the band members. Do you think Jesus would sing along? "I-I-I I wanna rock and roll all n-i-i-i-i-ght, and party every day!" Over lunch the boys were brainstorming to try to determine the link between the two windows:

"Well, they all have long hair."

"KISS plays ROCK music, and Jesus IS the ROCK."

Yeah, we were pretty much grasping at straws. Some things simply cannot be explained.

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Legos in My Living Room

I am expecting a friend this morning, and I hope she isn’t shocked at the condition of my home. I actually love my home. I love to have people over, too. Guests are welcome anytime, and I’ll even promise to offer a cup of tea and something sweet to eat. The house will be warm, the bathrooms will be clean enough that no one will suffer embarrassment, and it’s likely that my bed will even be made, should anyone care to peek in my room. While I’ll be able to offer a comfortable place to sit, I suppose I feel the need to warn guests about the Legos that will be scattered across the living room floor. You see, it is not that I am an inept housekeeper. My children are not so spoiled that they don’t know how to clean up after themselves. I have learned to love the Legos in my living room. They remind me of where I am in life, and what really matters. To tell you the truth, as my boys are now eleven and twelve, I am already dreading the day when Legos no longer adorn the floor. But when that time comes, I will (hopefully) move to embrace the next stage as wholeheartedly as I embrace the one in which I am now. Perhaps in the years to come I will be blessed with a living room overtaken by teenagers watching action movies, or covered with guitars, drums, and sheet music, or wired for computer game designing, or hosting fantasy football parties. But for now, you will simply find Legos in my living room. I let them be because of a lesson I learned from a regret-filled stranger who wrote a letter to Dear Abby.

When I was a teenager, young and invincible, my mother had me read a Dear Abby letter from a woman who was recently widowed. She wrote to tell how through 50 years of marriage she had nagged her husband about all sorts of things…leaving lights on, leaving shoes in the middle of the floor, leaving cupboard doors opened. Now that he was gone, she longed for those once annoying evidences of his presence. I don’t know that I pondered the column too deeply as an adolescent, but I have thought of it many times since. Sometimes I can find myself starting to huff when David leaves his jacket out or dresser drawers opened, and then that Dear Abby column comes to mind, and I try to change my attitude. I hang his jacket in the closet while thanking God for the joy I find in my lifelong companion. I close his dresser drawers, aware that the act is but a small chore compared with the delight I still feel in having him for my roommate. Every now and then, I still nag or sigh or huff a bit. And David mostly takes it all in stride, kind and gentle man that he is. But the other day, when I began a minor tirade about the books and papers strewn across the living room and spilling over to the dining room table, he looked at me sideways, with a gleam in his eye, and said, “You’ll miss these little messes when I’m gone!”

And he is right. And soon enough I will miss the Legos in my living room, too. In the meantime, I celebrate them. The evidence of the presence of my boys is more valuable to me than a spotless floor. Oh yeah, well, once a week we do scoop them all up so I can vacuum, and sometimes, like for Christmas and Thanksgiving, the boys actually put the Legos away in their rooms. And it is nice for a while. Like having company is nice, for a while. But when a few days have passed, and the Legos have found their way back down to the living room, I know that things are back to normal in my house, and I am content.

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It's a Dog's Life

It seems that Libby is wearing one of my socks. No, this is not just because after growing up with four sisters I was missing having someone with whom to share my clothes. She has suffered an injury to which no woman I know is a stranger: a broken nail. David and I took Libby on a walk last night, and noticed that she stumbled over her front right paw once or twice during our trek, which we both found rather disconcerting. But when we got home, all seemed fine and we turned our attention to the business of sampling the pies I had attempted to make that afternoon. (By the way, my Butterscotch Meringue was a flop! The flavor was alright, and the meringue turned out great, but the butterscotch portion never firmed up past the pudding stage. Anyone who knows what my mistake(s) might have been, I welcome your input!) Other than my pie disaster, the evening went on as normal until bedtime. David was putting Libby into the mud room, when he noticed a trail of blood following her. He got down on the floor with her, and found that she had cracked one of her toenails and it was bleeding fairly heavily. David looked up remedies on-line, and carefully cleaned and wrapped the wound according to the video-lesson he had watched on some pet care website. Graham (bless his heart!) knowing how squeamish I am, took the job of cleaning up the bloodstains upon himself. Today the bleeding seems to have stopped, and Libby is mostly herself, though she isn't moving around much. I have been tasked with a trip to Petco for Dog Nail Clippers and antibiotic ointment so that David can clean and re-wrap the wound tonight in a way that will inhibit any infection. It appears that somehow her nails got too long, and while I think her groomer clips her nails each month, I guess we need to keep a closer watch on them to prevent this injury.

People who know me and my fondness for Libby often ask what we will do with her when we move to France. The truth is, I really don't know. I haven't been able to bring myself to the point where I could ask that question yet. France is a very pet friendly country, we just aren't certain of what our living arrangement will be, and if it will be conducive to having a large dog. She is such a great dog, and we love her to bits.

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Vroom! Vroom!

We celebrated Father's Day with a tour of Spangle on David's bike. Yeah. I know. We're pretty cool. The boys have spent the day calling David "Your Majesty" and "Oh Great Father of Ours," showering him with such selfless gifts as offering to play Star Wars Battlefront II with him and suggesting how much he might enjoy going out to a movie...with them of course. But all in all, I would have to say it has been a pretty relaxing and fun filled weekend.

Adding to the joy of our Sunday motorcycle tour was the new knowledge of that fact that when we move to France (which, again, won't be until we have raised 100% of our support) we will take much of our home furnishings with us. It turns out that shipping our belongings is more economical than having to replace them once we are there. When we heard the size of the shipping container that we will have, we realized that we will be able to fit pretty much everything we own, including the motorcycle. I guess that means, contrary to popular belief, you CAN take it with you!

By the way David, on or off your motorcycle, you still make my heart go Vroom! Vroom! I'm so glad that you are the father of my children!

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Alarming E-Mails

Occassionally David receives e-mails or text messages at work that cause him some concern. Last week Graham used my phone to text the message "The bar is on fire." David was imagining a scene similar to this in our kitchen:
Graham, however was witnessing a small spectacle on main street in Spangle, where the local bar, which changes names and owners about four times a year, was on fire. Here is the photo that Graham took with my phone, which might have been a helpful attachment to send to David, who called me in a panic believeing our kitchen bar to be on fire!David recovered quickly! Probably because he is used to receiving messages like that at work. I have sent e-mails that have caused similar anxiety in dear David. Here are just a few:

"Hi! I was just wondering, where's the plunger?"

"Hey, the boys need the hatchet, do you know where it is?"

"There is a wierd electrical smell coming from the living room. Any ideas what that might be?"

"Something fell off of the dishwasher, but I think I fixed it."

Don't you just LOVE e-mail?

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