Later in 2007, Moriah attended a ladies bible study with me at Coram Deo Fellowship. The ladies were asking for prayer requests. Moriah was seven years old back then but she understood the power of prayer. She asked the ladies to pray that God would give her a goat. Moriah was providentially sitting next to a goat owner. The next day, the goat farmer called me and said, “We would love to give your children goats and help answer their prayers.” I groaned but caved. We had too much going on in our lives, but the children needed something to delight in. I will never forget the day we carted two Toggenberg goats home in the back of the van. The children were ecstatic. However, the bliss was short-lived. Our family needed to relocate. Circumstances would not allow for us to bring the goats to Missouri. We left them with their previous owners. The children never forgot that moment either. They channeled disappointment into iron clad determination.

They took to praying and preparing. Though we lived in town and all evidence suggested that we would not be farming anytime soon, my children began saving every penny they earned, found or received as a gift for goats and chickens. They determined they would some day get goats again. I wrote about their decision to save money and the progress they made here. My children are not like most children. That is, most children do not set long term goals and keep them. Most children don’t even make serious or significant strides towards short-term goals. My children never forgot the trauma and disappointment of losing their goats. They prayed, they saved and they hounded me till I couldn’t take it any more. In a few days, we will be proud owners of Nubian goats once again. Coco and Bella will make their appearance on our homestead in the near future. Coco and Bella are not just any Nubian goats. They are descendants from Cricket. They are her granddaughter and great granddaughter respectively.

The saw reminds me that I should never underestimate the power, drive and seriousness of my children’s agrarian goals. Some how the children have conned their father into building a crate to transport them. He caved too. Though I do not want to deal with goats right now, they have convinced me to get them anyway. When children save money for two years, their hope should not be deferred any longer. Hope deferred makes the heart sick. I am thankful for my children’s determination. I am sure we will have many adventures with the goats. They are just four months old. It will be a while before we breed them. Perhaps, next spring the children will provide goat milk for our family’s use. We still anticipate bringing Sunny, our Jersey cow home soon. It will be like old times before we know it.

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

Finally!  With some effort, Charity lost her first tooth.  She was so excited.  We took lots of pictures … er about 40.  She called friends and relatives sharing her excitement.

I won’t bore you with all the pictures, but maybe one or two.  Here’s to childhood memories!!!

But don’t under estimate her by her size.

When she enters a room her presence alone commands attention.

Believe me, if you ignore her, she will in a matter of seconds maker herself noticeable. It is anybody’s guess just how she will go about making herself known.

She is the youngest of six children and she WILL NOT be left out. Her birth was just 22 months after the twin boys. I fretted. How she would fare being born right after two active boys? Would they be too rambunctious for her? My concerns immediately disappeared when I saw the boys run through the yard shrieking as she chased them with a big stick.

I am not being hyperbolic. In fact, I am minimizing for self-preservation. She chased them with a PVC pipe the next time. And yes, she did take off after them with a weapon more than once. She was still in diapers and toddling then. After a few years of firm discipline, the shrieking episodes have decreased. Just this past week, one of the twins was squawking, “Charity is chasing me”. Thankfully, she had no weapon and she immediately stopped upon my arrival.

Being the youngest of six children requires a level of persistence. She demands to be included in all activities despite her age limitations or other circumstances. In fact, Charity spent the first part of her young life insisting that she was a part of the my boys twinship creating a pseudo set of triplets. She finally swapped that idea for celebrating individuality because it suited her better. However, sometimes her age difference gets the best of her. The other day we were driving to town. My husband was driving. Charity sat in front seat between my husband and me. For good measure, she said. “I just want you to know I am not driving right now. But, I will be soon”. I am not sure what to make of her assertion. So, I ignore it but am making a mental note to hide the keys.

Charity experiences frustration at being the youngest. Often she hears her siblings remark, “You can’t do that because you are too young. You are not big enough”. She recently witnessed all of her siblings master reading skills. Not to be outdone, she picks up books and reads them making up words as she goes. Should anyone correct her for not “really” reading, they will start war. She has never accepted the reality that she is the youngest . She will vehemently argue with anyone who makes that statement. Just ask her how old she is and she will tell you, “I am sixteen”.

Six months ago, the twins lost their teeth. It is a monumental event for a young boy to lose his teeth. Everyone near and far were pulled aside to view their new toothless smile. The twins amused themselves by drinking out of straws in new ways, spitting creatively and inventing a new form of whistling. Charity became obsessed. She wanted to loose her teeth. After months of telling her that she would likely lose her first tooth at six or seven like her brother’s she finally dropped the fixation and moved on to more serious pursuits which included beating her twin brothers at chess by creating her own set of rules. And then it happened…

Charity entered the room where I was exercising and exclaimed, “Mommy, I have a loose tooth. I have a loose tooth”! Her eyes were wide with excitement and she was jumping up and down. She insisted I wiggle her tooth to verify her findings. I groaned with skepticism. I thought we had put this issue to rest months ago. Reluctantly, I wiggled the tooth in question. Sure enough it was loose. It was not nearly ready to fall out but it was indeed loose. My daughter will not have to wait a year or two to lose her first tooth. I returned to exercising. Charity zoomed out of the room and loudly proclaimed her discovery to the entire household.

The children were captivated.  Charity would now face this prodigious rite of passage. It was as though they all determined she was no longer worthy of penalties imposed by age differences. The children began recounting their own rite of passage with Charity. Some of the children had words of warning and advise. Zach suggested that she should not put her tooth in a cup of peroxide because she would not be able to keep it for all posterity. He reviewed his mistake with the group. “Mom forgot my tooth was in the cup and dumped it down the drain. My first tooth is in the bottom of the lagoon in Kansas. “ All of the children nodded in agreement affirming the devastation of losing such a treasured relic of childhood. Josiah shared how he placed one of his teeth in a empty soda cup because he lost it while eating out. “Mom forgot my tooth was in it and threw it away”. Jordan shared how some thief claimed his two baby teeth. “They were in Mom’s purse when it got stolen from the car.” Jordan went on to advise Charity to never ask Zach to help pull the lose tooth. “I asked Zach to pull my loose tooth. He reached in and grabbed the wrong tooth and yanked it out. It was painful because it was not ready to be pulled, I forgave him because it meant I would soon have two missing teeth. But it sure did hurt. “ said Jordan. Who would have guessed the mundane act of losing baby teeth would produce such camaraderie. Charity reentered the exercise room every few minutes. She wanted to know if her tooth was ready to come out and how much longer she would have to wait. I dismissed her with instructions to wiggle her tooth regularly with her tongue. In time, the tooth would fall out.

We are all poised, ready and waiting for the announcement. I have the camera battery charged so we can capture this important moment on film just as I have with the other children. Charity determined to eat food differently at supper tonight. After all, she will have a gap soon. She gave us a full demonstration at supper time complete with exaggerated antics. We celebrate this childhood first knowing since Charity is the youngest to date, we may not see this rite of passage again in this generation. I will look forward to the day when my children’s children show up at the door declaring “Grandma, Grandma I lost my first tooth.” It will be a great privilege to share the excitement with them and the stories of how their parent’s celebrated this rite of passage. The simple joys of a childhood well lived warm the heart.

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

A year ago, my hair began to curl naturally. I believe it has to do with whine. Yes, whine not wine. There is nothing quite so hair curling as a child’s whine. (My husband asserts that the real reason my hair started curling is because of true love. He put a spring in my step and curl in my hair. And, I agree with him. True love transforms us in character and appearance.) Some people talk of hair raising experiences. When I hear my children whine, it is so irritating it doesn’t just raise my hair, whining curls my hairs and my toes. I grit my teeth and widen my eyes. I can cope with a lot but I can’t cope with whining.

Whining comes and goes in waves around here. Generally, it comes because I have not dealt swiftly with misbehavior. The whining swells as I ignore the need for rebuke. Lately, whining is associated with a particular subject in school. Math. The children enjoy it, but sometimes struggle with a powerful urge to go fishing. Some will try to rush through the problems just to get a pole in their hands.

 I caught on to their scheme and slowed them down. Rushing math never produces good results. The error factor was on the rise as the spring like days increased. I am no dummy. I saw the correlation. I upped the ante and required them to slow down for quality sake. The whining increased. My hair got curlier. My jaw began to spasm from tight clenching. Something had to be done.

My husband and I gathered the children for early morning bible study. It was then that I saw the opportunity. God’s word is sharper than any two edged sword. Our study landed us in the middle of the Psalms where a warning was issued not to become hard hearted. I explained to the children that refusing correction on whining was evidence of a hard heart, a spirit that was unwilling to be taught. All made a commitment to stop whining. Surely, the word of God was effective as they listened intently during our study. But we gave teeth to this study by assuring the children that whiners would not be permitted to fish.

Parenting often provides insightful moments for the believer. That is, our relationship with our children is not unlike our relationship with God. Indeed, God refers to us as His children. There are many references to God, the father too. My children’s whining exasperated me at the minimum. At the maximum, it sent me over the edge. In the middle of our study, the Holy Spirit convicted me. As a child of God, I have given way to whining. When life doesn’t go as planned, I whine, complain and moan about my circumstances. I wonder. I just wonder if my whining provokes God in the same way I feel provoked by my children’s whines? At the end of our study, we all agreed to complete our tasks cheerfully with thankful hearts set on praising God.

Today I am reminded how merciful God is to me. I am thankful He is patient with me when I grumble and complain. I thank Him for the sanctifying me through teachable moments with my children. And yes, I am thankful for the children’s whining. I have a new longing to praise my father, to complete the tasks He assigns me with a cheerful heart filled with praise. That means, I will praise Him for the trials too instead of whining about them.

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

Moriah, 10, purposes to be a homemaker. Her life long dream is to be a wife and mother some day. She intends to glorify God in this capacity. When I was Moriah’s age, I did not share her aspirations. In fact, I was nearly 30 before I enjoyed cooking and cleaning. Even today it takes effort to perform these duties. I enjoy it more than I used to but home making doesn’t come naturally for me. My daughters have surpassed me in embracing biblical womanhood in many ways. Not only do they crave being in the kitchen, espouse views of having large families and working in the home, but they also hold tightly to a particular image of a keeper of the home. Let me explain.

Moriah’s arrival in my life was one of complete joy. I had her shortly after I ended my career. As I held her in my arms, I wept thanking God for opening my eyes. This precious baby girl would never have to enter daycare. She would never enter government schools.

God impressed upon my heart the foolishness of my career. As a social worker, I was intent on saving families from common social ills while I neglected my own. I spent ten hours a day, at least, away from my own family. After a five year long struggle with infertility, it seemed idiotic to place the baby I desperately prayed for in the hands of someone else for the majority of the day. Should I have continued that path, I would have missed many of this baby’s firsts and remained oblivious to the influences counter to Christian culture. Immediately, I took action to end my career to spend the rest of my children’s childhood actively involved with EVERY aspect of their lives. Moriah’s birth came shortly after I ended my career.

Moriah flourished under biblical home education developing her own convictions more advanced then my own. She embraced biblical femininity and modesty long before I would. I still remember the day she woke up and stubbornly defied me. I laid out a pair of pants for her to wear just like any other day. Moriah loved dresses since she was old enough to make a decision. That day, she pulled out a dress and with a ferocious boldness began a stand off with me. She wanted to wear dresses and that was it. Perplexed with the disobedience, I felt stuck. Ultimately, over time I gave in and allowed her to convert her wardrobe to dresses only. Moriah was not satisfied.

She wanted all the girls in the house to share her preference. A few years later, her baby sister entered the scene. She quietly influenced her sister to wear dresses. Though it was not a hard conversion. Somehow by osmosis Charity ended up identifying with her sister’s preference to wear modest clothing. All is well that ends well, right? Wrong. Those two little girls began a full court press to encourage me to wear dresses. This was not an easy task for them. After all I was raised heavily immersed in American culture and even became a feminist for a while. Simply, I liked jeans. Dresses were for special occasions like church. The girls persisted in asking me why I wouldn’t wear a dress. They suggested I just try it for a while. My response was always the same, a firm “No.” I held onto my position until my girls met my husband-to-be. He delighted in the girls attire stating that they were “little ladies”. Many conversations took place after that between the girls and my future husband. I gave way to pressure and decided to do a trial run of wearing dresses. I was pleasantly surprised with my freedom of movement and ease of navigating through clothing decisions. That is, I felt more liberated and more comfortable in a dress plus it took less time to get dressed and coordinate my wardrobe. Often I would pull a dress over my head and be off and running for the day.

Moriah shows dresses do not stop her from catching fish!!

My conversion to dresses did not come easy. Occasionally, I still wore pants. The girls and the boys in the family would complain when I wore pants. “But, Mom you look so beautiful in dresses”. I have been wearing mostly dresses for a year now. I enjoy especially ankle length dresses. My daughters gloat that they have converted their Momma.

Charity fishes in modest apparel

I have only occasionally struggled with wearing a dress in certain social settings. But, generally, I don’t feel odd. I have been impressed with the compliments I receive from strangers about my clothing. Generally, I choose dresses I like that aren’t too plain of frumpy, nor are they attention getters. It is peculiar. If I wear pants, I feel very bound and constrained.
As I have converted to modest dress, I do not impose my preference on others. I did not come by wearing dresses easily. Frankly, I was accustomed to wearing jeans and liked it. I never dreamed I would enjoy wearing dresses or feel more comfortable in them. Largely, my daughters are responsible for my conversion. Even then, I am not sure why my daughters were so convicted. We did not have any friends who primarily wore dresses. My instruction to them was not to wear skin tight jeans, low cut shirts, but I did not require them to wear dresses in order to be modest. The girls identified dresses with beauty, femininity, and freedom. And, they come to this conclusion at tender ages. After a year of wearing dresses, I affirm their conclusions.

While I would never jump on a bandwagon and insist others wear dresses in order to be biblical, I would encourage others to try it. You never know, you just might like it. I was pleasantly surprised. For those who would like to read further on modest dress, click here.

I am thankful for my daughters whose persistence challenged me to stretch my thinking in this area. They are inspiring to me. Moriah is now asserting her position in the kitchen. Moriah enjoys and often begs to make meals. Her accomplishments include making pancakes from scratch, scrambled eggs and sausage breakfast, baking cakes and decorating them, home made noodles and homemade pizza. She completes these tasks with minimal involvement on my part.

I praise God for my beloved daughters who enjoy being keepers of the home. As they take their place in the kitchen and train for their future, they are easing my burden and increasing the joy of our family with their enthusiasm.

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

Excitement builds as we prepare to return to the land. The fervor among the children grows as they get ready to reconnect with the life we love. The children’s money jar is filled to the brim. Over the last nine months, they have gathered birthday money and allowance to contribute to this fund. The children saved this money for chickens. However, there is a mild dispute between the two oldest children. One wants goats and the other wants chickens. One rationalized they could sell eggs and use the proceeds to buy goats. This conflict continued for several days. I think a peace treaty developed as I haven’t heard any rumblings of war between the two. I lost track of the status of the conflict with the demands of keeping a home. Yet, I surmise the chickens idea prevailed. When I asked my daughter what she wanted for her tenth birthday, she scowled, glared, and pressed her lips tight before answering, “Goats!”

Most days I delight in my children’s agrarian pursuits. But, there are times, I surmise I created a monster. Their agrarian roots run deep, firm, and unwavering. They cross boundaries that this city girl cannot cross. Like the day, my oldest son used the “Encyclopedia of Country Living” to learn to cook a dish. Sure, I should be proud. He used resources much like I did to learn a skill. After all, I used this book to teach me to milk cows and make cheese. He roused me from a nap poking his dish in my face. I picked up the fork shaking the grogginess long enough to ask, “What is it?”
“It is cow tongue. It is really good. Try it, “ he replied.

Instantly, the sluggishness disappeared as I dodged to the bathroom stifling waves of nausea. All the children laughed at me from outside the door.

“But, Mom, I followed the directions. I even soaked it and skimmed the scum off the top of the water, “ Andrew added.
This new information did nothing to improve my bout with nausea. My own agrarian pursuits will be forever tainted by my citified upbringing. My children experience great privilege in being closely connected to the land. They have a blunt matter of fact approach about our food sources. They know an animal must die to provide our sustenance. They have not been socialized or educated into aloofness and distance from these hard facts of life. Training in stewardship helped them to embrace the idea of making use of all parts of the animal including the tongue. While I have made good progress in becoming a country girl. I may never attain the depth of agrarianism afforded to my children. I am thankful for my children’s desires to live the agrarian life. And, yes, I am repulsed too.

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

The exploits of boyhood continue in my home. Joseph and Zechariah reunited this weekend for fun filled adventures. It doesn’t matter where we are or what we are doing those two can transform anything dull into intrigue. I would be remiss to forget the seven year old boys. Yes, there are two more boys, the twins. So, when Zech and Joe begin their antics. The seven year-olds go through a time warp and assume they are of equivalent maturation. There is never a dull moment with two eleven year-olds and two seven year-olds who think they are eleven.

Our vehicle woes continue so we took to walking while repairs were made. Huck and Tom Zech and Joe commenced to collecting. Have you ever seen an eleven year old boys collection? Let’s just put it this way. I have been dejunking our home and the collection resembled the low primordial form of junk. The joy and delight in their expression created a conflictual knot in my stomach. On one hand, I wanted to order them not to cart the junk around. After all, I had just spent the last week chucking unwanted items. On the other hand, I enjoyed seeing how they morphed trash to treasure. It requires a unique creative perspective to see value in junk. This kind of resourcefulness channeled in a productive direction makes for well rounded agrarian men. Nurturing this behavior has practical benefits. Moreover, with proper guidance they can broadly apply the skill of seeing value in the valueless to life in general. This attribute makes for well rounded Christian men.

Christ, in His walk on earth turned to those labeled worthless. He was ridiculed for spending time with sinners. Clearly, He saw value in what the religious elite saw as valueless.  Scripture tells us in 1 Corinthians 12:22:

On the contrary, the parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable,

Life is filled with disappointment and often broken dreams. Examining pieces and parts and seeing how they fit into the whole is a much needed skill for any Christian. We are also called to “rejoice in the Lord always; again I say rejoice.  (Philippians 4:4) In order to rejoice in disappointment and brokenness, we need to be able to see the value in what appears valueless. Again, this seemingly annoying habit of picking up debris can be transformed into a vital life skill.

At the end of our walk, the junk collectors filled my purse with various debris. The ultimate prize was a four foot snake skin. It did NOT go in my purse. Yes, I groaned when I got to church this Sunday and had to sift through the boys collection. Yet, I paused and reflected on the truths found in children’s play. May we all look today on the broken bits and pieces and find treasure.

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid.

Opponents of home schooled children state emphatically, “How will they ever learn to function in the real world?”

This misguided assertion perplexes me. Here is why:

My nine year old begged and pleaded to decorate her twin brother’s birthday cake. The twins are ardent supporters of dairy farming. I decided the first cake should be mostly small animals and tractors on a cake lightly decorated with frosting. As Moriah improves her skill she can do more elaborate decorations. The twins scrounged up tractors and small plastic dairy cows to put on their cake. Some time passed. More time passed. Then Moriah called me into the kitchen to survey her work. It was a white frosted cake with green grass, a brown row of frosting simulating freshly plowed farm ground. In the middle of the green grass were piles of brown frosting. “WHAT is THAT supposed to be?”

I shouldn’t have asked.

“Those are cow pies” she replied as a matter of fact.

In the midst of toy dairy cow replicas, my daughter inserted reality, the real world, simulated cow manure.

A few days later, I visited my plain friends to pick up an order of freshly butchered chickens. I promptly roasted one complete with potatoes and carrots. It was oh so delicious. Moriah picked up the thawed bird and said,

“Just think. A few days ago this was a live chicken”. She held the bird up with her small hand thrust inside the body cavity. She wiggled her arm and began clucking like a chicken. As a citified product of a government education, I did not deal well with this reality. I ate a garden salad for supper. The rest of the family ate chicken. I skipped the cake and ate ice cream only. My home schooled children embrace reality with more gusto then my queasy stomach can handle.

So, will home schooled children learn to deal with the real world? Yes, they do live in the real world. There is no need for a reality show in this family.

In all fairness, there are some glitches in home education. My oldest son recently began working with recovering drug addicts. During a recent visit, he informed me that I failed to properly inform him of slang used by those suffering from addictions. Andrew graduated equating getting stoned with Stephen’s death in Acts. He was thankful he never learned the modern cultural meaning of getting stoned. Should I be thankful for this oversight? You tell me.
Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

Seven years old!!!

The twins celebrated their seventh birthday on July 3rd.  Life with twins is an incredible blessing and adventure.  The twins are identical but they look different enough now that most people can tell them apart.  Josiah and Jordan have never forgotten the dairy and continue to wake up before the alarm saying they are ready to milk cows.  I appreciate their desire to work hard and help around the house.  But, their love of God is the most rewarding.  The twins enjoy reading the bible.  Josiah wakes me first thing in the morning asking me to read the bible to him.  They are also notorious for singing hymns while working, playing, and traveling.  They are a great encouragement to me.  It has been a privilege to raise them for our King.  Join me in praying that these boys would have a life time of faithful and fruitful service to our amazing God.

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

Ten minutes passed. I could hear the chatter outside the window. Moriah announced through the open window the ground was covered with slugs near the washer. More time passed as I worked on supper dishes and tended to the other children’s needs. I had a faint recollection of a shriek, but the babbling of the other children drowned out the sound and distracted me. Suddenly, the door burst open. Moriah entered gagging asking for a towel. As soon as she was able, she gave me a detailed description of what turned her stomach. Her graphic description had me nauseous too.

Joseph was captivated by the plump slimy creatures around the washer. After running several articles of clothing through the wringer, he could no longer restrain his intrigue. He noted my daughter was revolted by the slugs. He took our recent bible study of boys being protectors seriously. He found a rock and turned it into a slug crusher. Moriah and Joseph developed an organized system. She would sound off a contrived damsel in distress alarm. Joseph would come to her rescue and obliterate the slug. He showed no mercy upon the oblong gooey creatures. All went well, until a force natural to pre-adolescent boys seized him. He eyed the granddaddy of all slugs (it was huge), then the rock, then the wringer. He cast the rock aside when a new enemy was detected. He grasped the slug in one hand and the wringer handle in the other. Yes, the offender met his doom between the wringer’s roller bars. The damsel in distress saw the results and headed into the house gagging as she went.

After hearing the report and stifling waves of nausea, I mustered resolve to rebuke the child. I peered out the window to bellow his name. I found him working with fervor to remove the remains of his conquered enemy. “Did you run a slug through the wringer?” I interrogated.

“Yes, and it was a bad idea.” remorse replaced the expression of satisfied delight. “It is a real mess to clean up. I was trying to protect Moriah. The slugs terrified her.”

My resolve waffled with the hilarity of it all. “Joseph, only a boy who is 100 percent All-American Boy would pull a stunt like that. I now declare you 100 percent All American Boy. ( I dubbed him with an imaginary sword) Please do not run slugs through the wringer again.” He agreed. If only he had a straw hat and if only I had a fence to white wash.

Boyhood is filled with testimonies of creative play and work gone overboard provoking even the calmest of adults to fitful irrationality. I imagine when Joseph is an adult he will recount his adventures with pride. The story of the day he ran the slug through the wringer will be retold for all posterity. What my children may have forgotten is the grandmother’s pledge. I long for the day when they bring the grandchildren to stay. I pledge to recount these stories to my grandchildren, aiding and abetting them to follow their in their parent’s footsteps.

Joseph paused for a moment, when I gave him a smile and a wink after the reprimand. He seemed caught off guard by my response. Perhaps the other children will tell him of the grandmother’s pledge. If not, he may learn about the mother’s curse that he have seven children exactly like him or perhaps a tad more energetic and creative.

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid