One never knows what a week will hold, how the Lord will use us, and what we must lay down or sacrifice for Him. One also never knows how He may pour out His blessings in the midst of our turmoil. We desire routine, calm, and peace. No one intentionally seeks crisis or tragedy. Most of us strive to avoid chaos. Sometimes we find trying circumstances regardless.

Lately, I have enjoyed the peace and solace of our daily routine in home schooling. The house once reflected the tragedy we endured. It was messy: dirty dishes strewn all over the counters, laundry undone as my life was lived out in court. I look back at those days with disdain. I have seen enough tragedy for a lifetime. Those days are over. The dishes are done; the laundry is folded and put away more often than not. Praise God for repairing the waste places. I have learned to be more flexible, to not place so much pressure on myself to accomplish, and to rest in His grace to see me through the chaos.

My week started out just like any other. Monday morning I woke to the dimple-faced smiles of the twins. They still rise before the alarm, insisting they are dairy farmers. I forced myself out of bed to scrounge up breakfast for the crew. We opened the best of the best curriculum, the Bible, and began our journey into the quest for real education. Wiggles beset the children, calling for a change in routine. We broke, and then returned for riveting adventures, back in time to colonial America. The children remained on the edge of their seats. They long for the America of old just as much as I. The wiggles set in again. It was time for lunch. I scanned the eager faces and smiled. We continued on and completed our school day. Later we welcomed our all-time favorite visitor for supper.

He is a man of God who has found his way into our evening routine. The children flocked around him, soaking up the attention he gives them. Once dishes are cleared from the table, washed , and put away, the ultimate joy begins. We pull out our Bibles again, for my friend leads us in family worship, complete with songs he composed. His seminary training gives the children a robust training in scripture. Their delight in the one, true, living God has soared since my friend started participating in family worship.

Tuesday took on a different spin. I woke to the same dimple-faced dolls. We drove to Overland Park, Kansas for speech therapy. It was a long day, but the chatter of enthusiastic children in the back seats kept me alert. Every now and then the children would break out in song, repeating the songs taught to them by my friend. They are sponges, soaking up and regurgitating all that is instilled in them. We arrive barely in time for supper. Our favorite visitor arrived, too. I noted a paleness to his face. We ate dinner and then it happened. My friend began having chest pains. After conferring, we decided it best to go to the hospital. Doctors administered one test after another. IVs were inserted and the final conclusion was made. The patient must be transferred to the cardiac care unit at another hospital.

I watched as they loaded my friend in the ambulance and readied him for the transport. He handed me his cell phone and I began placing calls to his loved ones. The adventure continued from one day to the next. Before it was over, we spent two full days at the hospital.

My plans for a smooth and peaceful week were replaced with the beeps and whirs of hospital room monitors. Loved ones arrived, gathering, encouraging, and comforting. My friend comes from a faithful family. His father is a pastor, too. We waited together for test results. Time was passed recounting the wonders of God in a life dedicated to ministry. Later my friend’s son arrived on the scene with a guitar and a songbook. Soon the beeps and whirs were drowned out with the harmony of voices united in song, praising God. My children gathered ‘round, joining the chorus. Nurses trickled in, attracted by the unusual scene in room 792. Little did they know, they were witnessing three generations in the act of worship.

A few days have passed since this ordeal. As I reflect on the events, I marvel at how a crisis event was reduced in intensity by a family dedicated to Christ. What seemed to be an opportunity for anxiety and fear became an opportunity for three generations to worship in an unlikely place. I returned home to piles of laundry and stacks of dirty dishes. But, I returned refreshed and restored. As I cleared away the dishes and folded the clothes, I reminisced about all that took place. Gratitude washed over me for this family’s faithfulness. What could have been complete turmoil and chaos transformed into peace and assurance. Relying on God calms the storm.

Dear God:

Thank you for the opportunity to serve and help in a time of crisis. Thank you for pouring out your blessing in the midst of the turmoil. May all men everywhere turn to you in uncertain times, relying on you for peace and comfort. Grant more families the opportunity to break out in songs of praise, even when it would seem easier to fret and worry. Amen.

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

In case you haven’t noticed, my computer woes are over.  My notebook computer needed a new hard drive and CD-ROM drive.  Dell replaced it as it was under warranty.  A dear friend and computer genuis extraordinare rescued the data off my hard drive.  I am certainly praising God!!! Let’s hope that my bad electromagnetic field will behave for a while.  I have lost too much data on so called advanced technology. 

I am back to surfing the net some.  I thought I would share a few of my finds with readers.  Zach and I were surfing together and researching information about hatching chickens.  Here is a site packed full of information for the chicken lover.  I appreciated the nutritional information on eggs.  Don’t forget that eggs from chickens that free range offer a nice source of Omega Three Fatty Acids.  This is important for expectant moms.  Omega three fatty acids are linked to increased intelligent quotients and lower chances of mood disorders.  Other helpful information provided on this site is how to cook with fresh eggs and how to handle and clean them.  I was rather dismayed when I tried to make deviled eggs with fresh eggs.  No one told me about pricking the egg with needle to help peel it better.  Well, if I had known about this site, I would have been less frustrated.  Readers, enjoy!!

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The comments from readers have created fascinating dialogue as of late.  I have also enjoyed visiting the websites of readers and learning more about those who visit here.  I took special interest in Ruth’s article about her desire to help women and children of domestic violence.  As a survivor of domestic violence, I know the feelings she describes in this article.  We did not have to use a safe house, but had support from friends to get safe when in danger.  However, it is good to know that God is moving people to help with this need.  Christian’s especially can make a difference in the lives of people affected by domestic violence.  I still remember how Mrs. Renfro helped my mother flee my step-father. You can read about her help here.  I am also grateful to the many who reached out to my family in our time of need.  Working with the local shelters can be a rewarding experience for families. Providing for tangible needs is beneficial because as Ruth points out you have nothing and you feel like nothing.  Others may want to consider taking up this important work as the Holy Spirit so leads.

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

The crisp air and bright sun penetrated my melancholy mood. Winter is like that. It is blah. Perhaps, it is more blah because as I look at the landscape, I see the familiar. Yet, I know something is missing. Cows dot the pasture here and there. Where there isn’t a cow, the evidence of the cow remains in the form of a large pile. I must not get too lost in my thoughts for I may step in this evidence. For as many years as I have walked pastures, I still encounter the ooze because I don’t watch out. Not today, for my head was down. The landscape was a painful reminder of the winter season of my life. There were cows, but no dairy barn, no buildings, no home. I long to live in the countryside again. The children do too. One whispered dreams of being on the land again. I gave him a gentle pat. “It will happen again…in time…in time”.

The ladies noticed me from a distance. Their heads turned, their ears perked up. Some started toward me. It has been five months since I sat on a milk stool beside them listening to their gentle breathing and the rhythmic clicking of the pulsator. They still remembered me. Emotions well up inside of me as I look at them. I don’t know why I am this way. I shouldn’t be. I was born in the city. I am living in familiar territory now, the city, but I don’t feel at home. I want to be back in the country. I belong in the country.

There is a hint of green in the pasture. Excitement rises up in me. Oh but winter is still here. The cold air reminds me we will see a few more winter days. Sure, I see hints of green in this winter season of my life. But, winter is still here. There is more cold to come. Hurdles must be jumped to get buildings on this landscape. God only knows the details of how it will all come together.

As I step through the pasture, I feel my faithful companion brush against my leg. Hank, the cow dog, joined me in my trek through the field. His tail wags as he too feels the joy of the familiar. He missed his cows and kids during our long separation. He seemed at home as we walked.

Lost in thoughts of longing and prayer for a return to the land, I miss the sound of soggy earth beneath my feet. Subtly the path is growing more swampy. I look to find the truck. It is still a good distance away. The watering trough is between me and the truck and so is a stream. The ground will only get less passable. I heave a sigh. To get around the muck, I will have to go well out of my way.

Intently, I assess the ground before me. I almost missed the withered patches of grass. They offer me a foot path between standing water and oozing mud. I can do it one step at a time. Surveying the sight as a whole overwhelmed me. I thought about giving up and walking a quarter of a mile out of the way. Yet, if I kept focus on one step at a time, I saw the clumps of grass inviting me to give it a try. The ground slurped as I took one step after another. But, it worked!! Before I knew it, I was on dry ground again and within feet of the truck.

This jaunt through the pasture is symbolic. Our struggles, our desire to reach a goal or destination upon first glance is overwhelming. There seems no way around the mess and complications. It would be easier to toss our hands up and walk away. Yet if we, with the aid of God, take on the challenge, the trial, the heartache one step at a time, we can pass through the muddy waters. We must examine the pathway and find a way to pass through to the other side. Moreover, there are always hints of green in the winter season of life.

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
   and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,
   and the flame shall not consume you.

The Kansas Milkmaid

In my interview with Rick Saenz of Cumberland Books, I state “I learned a woman should not rely on a man. They can disappear, there is death and divorce. A woman must have a career in order not rely on a man. “I learned this early in my life and it was reemphasized in my training as a feminist. In my conversation with Rick I pointed out that I believed this was faulty thinking and unbiblical.

Recently, I listened to my interview with Rick Saenz again. As you would expect, it was painful considering the turn of events in my life.  During the interview I was hiding the pain of domestic violence. I embraced my ex-husband’s dreams to farm whole heartedly hoping beyond measure our marriage was salvageable. As I look back, I have no regrets about assisting him in his dream to farm. My only regret is that my efforts did nothing to end the violence in our home.   All of my efforts were misconstrued and distorted as is often the case with batterers. I still suffer from the grief of this broken dream.  As time passes, I am sure I will learn to apreciate God’s will more.

But you may wonder, do I still promote biblical womanhood, agrarianism and honoring men as leaders? I submitted to a batterer and the pain we endured as a family is difficult to describe in words. But, ask again.  Do I believe women should still submit? Indeed, I do. You see, my feminist colleagues from long ago would scoff at such a statement. They might even state: “Christina, you should have known better. Don’t rely on a man. You submitted to a batterer. You gave up your career and became a house wife. Look at the results. He beat you down, trapped you, impregnated you to helplessness and left you with life long scars.” Yes, well…feminists are deceived by fear. And, I was too when I was a feminist.

My agrarian journey began two weeks into my second separation from my husband. Yes, it was two weeks into that separation that I learned I was pregnant. After five years of infertility, God answered my prayer to conceive. But, wait! I gave up on my marriage. The cycle of violence was present early in my marriage but my own loyalty to feminism and materialism left me full of doubts. How much of my feminists attitudes provoked and antagonized? My heart was not focused on home or God. The only way to clear those doubts was to follow the advice of the spiritual advisor overseeing our marital problems. I went back to my husband and gave a hundred percent (as best I could for a sinner).  My assumption was that God would bless my obedience with a long and happy marriage. Now that we were able to have children maybe the violence would stop. True, God blessed my obedience, but not with the outcome I wanted.

How can I make such statements that God blessed my submission to some one who hurt me? At the end of this diatribe, I hope to show you that I didn’t submit to a batterer. I submitted to God. Let me explain. First, you must know a little about batterers. They tend to isolate women and define their worldview. When I went back to my ex-husband, he did just that. I was very isolated after I gave up my career. However, I devoured the word of God to cope. Upon further study, I found that my role as a help meet and that meant taking on his dream to farm.

Farming was foreign to me and my life style took a drastic change. My business suits were replaced by manure-stained chore clothes. The air conditioned office replaced with sweltering heat and then freezing cold. As I helped farm, I found a tremendous joy and peace that I had not found in my career. I learned I could teach my children constantly and focus on discipling them. Sure, we suffered tremendously but there was still joy in our lives. The joy was contagious and soon people learned we were selling fresh milk.

The raw foods movement led people to our farm in droves. My ex-husband isolated me, but God saw to it that as I embraced his dream that I would not be isolated. Customers came to our farm all throughout the day, often when he was not there. It gave me an opportunity to fellowship and socialize.

As we continued to apply biblical principles to our farm, there arose another phenomenon. Customers became friends and there was a synergistic interaction of building up and edifying taking place. My ex-husband’s negative criticism became miniscule in face of all the edification my children and I received from customers. We became empowered. Finally, it was through my customer base and website associations that God delivered me. Pastors and elders from churches in my customer base learned of our private pain and confronted my ex-husband. When change was not promising, they provided a safety plan, helped me get a protection from abuse order, counseling and various forms of aid. Customers and blog readers rose to the occasion helping us in so many ways. God delivered me through obedience to him. He provided an escape route.  For the most part, the severe financial hardship is over.  We live with our physical needs met.  I still train the children at home for multi-generational faithfulness through home education.  God has set me free.  And, all that without returning to feminism and a career outside the home.

My decision to reconcile my marriage ended up with undesirable results according to the world’s standards. If we define success as a long and happy marriage, indeed I failed. However, if we see success as knowing God and changing our lives according to the truth revealed, then my life has been a success. God transformed my entire being through this experience. I became agrarian not just because I milked cows. There is more to being an agrarian than that. In part three, I will discuss this more. Stay tuned for more.

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

Greetings from the Kansas Milkmaid!!

Posts could be sporadic this week. Do check back often for my series on my agrarian journey.  I promise I will get back to this important series.  I usually write articles on weekends and schedule them to come out in advance.  This last weekend was filled with celebrations with family and friends.  There were many wonderful memories created.  We are enjoying great fellowship with a body of commited believers.  This weekend I witnessed a baptism, celebrated a special friend’s birthday, and participated in a fellowship meal.  It was an awesome experience.   

In the midst of it all, I stopped in and visited the ladies.  The cows are still doing cow things and looking like they are enjoying the pasture.  Which reminds me, I must digress. I haven’t had time to share that we were reunited with our beloved Hank the Cowdog after eleven months of a separation. 

Hank came home two weeks ago.  A friend and former customer traveled from Kansas to visit us, to bring Hank home, and pick up some products I used to make that are missed there in Kansas. For those who are new to my blog, you may not know how I involved the children in the farm business.  Each of the children were involved in the farm enterprises in some fashion.  Moriah, 9, began milling flour at age seven.  She would weigh and label the bags.  She created her own special label stating, “Milled with love by Moriah”.  She also had to list out the weight in pounds and ounces.  She created her own flyer advertising her work and explaining why her flour was beneficial.  Moriah also helped make three types of bread on our farm.  She made whole wheat, cinnamon swirl and oatmeal.  She kept busy and so did I helping her.  She was very determined to be a part of this business and keep it going.

Since leaving Kansas, I have had several calls about Moriah’s wheat flour.  Customers have not been able to get the same flavor to their breads since we left.  Moriah used a flour mill that does not heat up the flour as it grinds.  My friend called saying she was bringing Hank and pleaded for some of Moriah’s flour.  We sent some complementary flour back with our friend.  I believe this makes a great statement to my daughter.  She was missed and what she did filled an important need.  The quality of her flour was good enough that people went out of their way to find us in our new home and get some.  My friend left saying if we visit Kansas be sure and call them and bring flour with us.  Moriah made a difference in Kansas and this was a great affirmation for her.  She still talks of growing her own wheat and harvesting it for a flour and bread business some day.  She has been talking about this since she was six.  Moriah is very determined.  I imagine she will hold me to making her goals a reality.

More about Hank:

 Hank was our farm dog.  However, he got luxurious treatment by my dear friend.  He is now a house dog and seems to be enjoying his new status in life.  We took Hank to see the ladies too.  I could tell by the excited wags that he was over joyed to be back on the farm.  I am sure we will all be delighted to get back on the farm soon. 

In the meantime, we are enjoying this time of restoration.  We count it a privilege to hear from our Kansas friends who miss us and our products.  There were times I thought it was just food we were providing.  A farm based on Christian principles is more than just physcial food and the feedback we are still getting is a witness to this statement.  I praise God for privilege to serve people through our farmstead ministry.  I wait joyously for the opportunity to serve in this capacity again. 

Udderly His,

 
The Kansas Milkmaid

I would like to express my heartfelt gratitude to Barbara Curtis of Mommy Life for her kind words, friendship and support over the past few years. My friendship with Barbara began over a picture I posted on my site of my children washing eggs. She asked to include the photograph in her book, “Mommy Teach Me”. It is a thrill and honor to go into the book store in the city and find Barbara’s book on the shelf and see my kiddos on the page. The children are especially enamored to find their picture in a book in the store.

Barbara kept in touch with me during our crisis with domestic violence. She also provided connection with my readers when I was forced into silence due to the divorce and criminal court case against my children’s father. Barbara kept readers informed when I didn’t have the strength to talk about the debris field I saw in my life.

Barbara has also encouraged me to examine writing on a more professional basis. It is an honor to get the kind of feedback Barbara has offered. Other good writers have also encouraged me in this endeavor.  I am grateful for the kindness as I have returned to blogging.  Writing is a deeply personal activity. Expressing myself in this modality requires vulnerability, discretion, and transparency. Discernment is also necessary to maintain balance. Frankly, I don’t always manage this aspect well, but readers still offer mercy and great feedback.  God is using this site in spite of myself and may He alone receive glory.

I am not sure what is the future holds for me as a writer. Rebuilding my life and caring for my children are a top priority. So, writing is currently placed on the bottom of the list. Barbara has encouraged me to attend a writer’s conference. The time to attend a conference is while I am on sabbatical from dairy farming. Now would be a good time, though I feel no compulsion to write any particular book. I would like to learn more about professional writers. God only knows the plans He has for me.

I would also like to thank my readers. It is good to hear from people who have followed my journey since 2005. Blogging has enabled me to make many new friends both near and far. It amazes me that anyone would find meaning in my arrangement of words on a paper or computer screen. Thanks for your loyal readership and continued words of encouragement as we pick up the pieces and rebuild.

Stay tuned for the series titled, “My agrarian Journey”.

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

In a recent article titled, “Life lessons from a four year-old”, I commented on the prayers I offer for my daughter. You can read about it here.

God is good to answer prayers (though sometimes slowly, thus facilitating the Christian character, patience).  Sometimes He does His work quite apart from parental involvement.  Other times, I feel inspired by the Holy Spirit to help God along the way.  I did just that the other day.

First a little background information. Charity, the four-year-old in question, loves to run around with her long hair down.  She is free, reckless, and untamed in her daily adventures.  As a result, combing her long, straight hair involves howling due to tangles.  I have been trying to civilize her, make life a little easier, and emphasize the gentle and quiet spirit.  I have tried proactive biblical instruction on the topic (a meek and quiet spirit) and have prayed without ceasing.  The outcome is still not quite as I would like.  Not yet.

In my career days, I learned we are to dress for success.  I felt the notion apropos to my daughter.  I dressed her in a dainty full length dress and lovingly braided her hair.  There was even a laying on of hands and a prayer for a gentle, quiet spirit.  Surely, God would bless my efforts to civilize the child.  Her hair was combed and plaited.  Her dress was flowing and gave an air of gentleness.  I added more prayers, too.

The result:

My daughter stalked her twin brothers, hunted them down, and filled them full of imaginary bullet holes from her makeshift machine guns.  She didn’t just have one.  She had two!  She converted her lovely braids into weapons of destruction.

Oh well.  She has too much of her momma in her.  I was listening tonight to Mark Driscoll who taught at John Piper’s Desiring God conference this past fall.  In his message, he described 4 things that shepherds do.  They feed the sheep, rebuke swine, shoot wolves, and bark at dogs.  (That’s why the sheep should pray for them.)  I have an itchy trigger finger about shooting a few wolves.  I guess Charity has noticed that, and has her own itchy trigger finger.  May God deliver our children from their parents!

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

Talk to anyone in their seventy’s and eighty’s and they will emphatically declare, “times have changed.”  If you are intuitive, you can sense the grief in their time weathered facial expression.  We used to balk at the older generation.  They were holding onto the past and refusing to embrace progress. 

We were an arrogant lot…and truthfully some of us still are.  We lie to ourselves saying we have got it made.  Progress made things so much better.  It is getting harder and harder to lie to ourselves.  Progress has progressed enough that now the younger generation examine the findings and emphatically declare, “Times have changed.”  Except, notice their demeanor.  It is different than the older generation.  They are filled with fear and anxiety rather then grief and longing for what was lost.  The fear and anxiety heighten because we don’t know how to butcher a chicken or preserve food.  We are totally helpless.

We don’t have to look at the statistics anymore for proof of progressive failure.  Most anyone can look into their own life and see the effects crime, divorce, suicide, depression, wolves in sheep’s clothing, crooked politicians, violence, and the list goes on and on.  And, if that was not enough, most American’s are personally experiencing hardship because of high energy costs, credit card debt, rising grocery bills, increased health care costs and this list goes on and on too. 

Eleven years ago, I echoed the voices of the older generations.  “Times have changed.”  I turned my back on my modern counterparts.  Stubbornly, I forged a new culture/lifestyle for my family.  I became an agrarian.  Many mocked me.  But strangely mockery has died out.  The economic crisis warranted this change. 

So, I am an agrarian.  I dislike calling myself agrarian.  Don’t worry, my blogging friends.  It’s baggage, plain and simple.  Denying that I am an agrarian is like denying that I am a woman.  It is like this.  There are many expressions of womanhood.  For example, there is ardent feminists and biblical womanhood. These are polar opposites.  Also, there are many variations in between these two opposites. 

I have experienced first hand the consequences of feminists.  My college course work included three credit hours in  “Feminists Perspectives.”  Yes, I was a feminist.  Gasp!  But, God got a hold of me.  When I saw the error of my way, I had a knee jerk reaction.  I wanted nothing more to do with being a feminist. So much so that I loathed being a woman.  Yet, I had to face the facts.  I was a woman and I was a sinner.  I could never change these facts. 

As I have come to terms with being an agrarian I have wrestled with myself and with God.  I have seen many expressions of the agrarian life on a fascinating continuum.  Most are struggling honestly to restore what was lost.  They see the horrific consequences of our industrial society and are seeking to live a biblical worldview.  By and large, agrarians are good, honest, humble people working to glorify God and to reform their life to the bible. 

However, wherever man is involved there will be total depravity.  We just can’t get away from that T in TULIP, can we?  Unfortunately, I have had first hand experiences with people who have taken this very good thing and twisted it and distorted it for selfish agendas.  The consequences were painful for all involved.  I wrestled with myself because I wanted to abandon being associated with agrarianism as I saw it being presented in a distorted and maligned way.  However, denying that I was agrarian because of these negative experiences is like denying that I am a woman.  It is not reality.  I am an agrarian woman. 

Yes, I have wrestled with God.  When He opens our eyes and calls us out of darkness, we are under compulsion.  Our lives must change. I didn’t really want the change that God put before me.  After all, I was a pampered city girl who had a career.  I had one child and a baby on the way. Two children were plenty, right?  I hadn’t shoveled manure, milked a cow in stifling heat, or freezing rain.  I didn’t know the first thing about milking a cow or what to do with the milk afterwards.  God called me to reform my ways which meant work and I am not talking in an air conditioned office.  He called me to leave my nice new car, my Dillard’s business suits and replace them with black chore boots and manure stained T-shirts.    When God called me to an agrarian life, he didn’t just call me to milk a cow.  Nah, I got to milk thirteen.  He called me to murder chickens, eat my own pet steer, collect eggs covered in manure and then sell the extra all while raising and home schooling six children.  Before it was all over, God called me to milk cows alone with my six children under extreme duress.  I had no idea what I bargained for when I became agrarian.  This may be nothing to die hard life long farmers, but it is quite a change for a feminist city girl. 

Over the next few days, I will share how God called me out of darkness and began to transform my life radically through becoming an agrarian.  I will share common challenges and joyous triumphs.   I am anxious to hear how God laid agrarian longings on the hearts of others as well.  I am sure there are common patterns and inriguing stories to tell.  Stay tuned!

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid

Squeals of delight emanated from the spare bedroom.  “Mommy, Mommy!  They are hatching!  The baby chicks are hatching!” 

Countless times I have witnessed this  scene  in my life.  I felt sure that the children would tire of new baby chicks hatching in the incubator.  Nah!  They are my kids.  They have a thing for babies.  Yes, that is human babies and critter babies.  In fact, Zach’s enthusiasm for chicks continued to grow over the years.  He still longs to start a hatchery some day. 

Charity’s enthusiasm for human babies continues to swell too.  She has taken to begging me to buy her a baby at the store.  She sees mothers pass by with a newborn in an infant seat and the pleading begins.  “But, why won’t she sell her baby to you? Please mommy, buy me one.”

No one can deny the awe and wonder of new life whether it is human or an animal.  It is refreshing and as my favorite saying goes, “Babies are proof that God believes the world must go on.”  I feel that way about farm animals too.  Calves and chicks were a sign of spring, renewal and an affirmation that life goes on. 

I held up the smooth warm egg my children handed me.  I tapped the egg and put it to my ear.  A smile spread across my face.  I could hear cheeping though the egg showed no sign of a pip.  “Hmmm…looks like this one may hatch yet.  It is late, but it may make it.”

The children pleaded with me.  “Mommy, please.  Can you help it?  Can you save it?  Just break it open a little bit, please?”

I explain, “Guys, We have been through this before.  If I free this chick, it will surely die.  It has to break free from the shell on its own. The struggle strengthens it.  Without the hard work it will surely die.” 

Even though I explain and re-explain season after season my children see a chick struggle to get free and the begging begins anew.  Some hatch and thrive.  Others never make it out of the egg.  Compassion sweeps over my children and they beg to help free the ailing chick. 

The hatching provides a great object lesson for the children and for us.  They need to hear over and over again how the struggle to be freed from the shell strengthens the chick.  They easily forget. 

We are like that too.  Man suffers from short term memory loss.  We forget the need for struggles in our life.  We see little profit in bondage.  We can’t help but cry out for someone anyone to free us, help us and make our lives easier.  We make a tremendous amount of noise as we work through our struggle.  Just like that baby chick cheeps up a storm, we too carry on and complain announcing our struggle.  Our heavenly Father reminds us countless times throughout scripture that trials, suffering, and bondage are for our benefit.  Without the struggle we would die.  How easily we forget! 

Dear God:

Thank you for new life, for baby chicks and for inquisitive children.  Sometimes I dread the constant reminders about the need to struggle and the fruit it bears in my life.  I am thankful that your patience does not wear thin as mine does with reminding my children.  You are gracious and merciful God. Amen.

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid.

Author’s Note:

Welcome to the final installment of the series on “Finding God in fallenness”.  I pray that you have been blessed by this story of trauma turned triumph.  If you are just joining us, please be sure and read the rest of the articles in the series.  May God be glorified!

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I will never forget my first grade teacher, Mrs. Collup.  She saw the suffering and took special interest in me.  She put my desk next to hers to stop the children from making fun of me.  She had her daughter become my big sister as a part of the Big Sister’s program.  And the one thing I remember most was that long ten block walk from school to home that I had to make.  Sometimes it was terror filled as kids are cruel.  I was poor and everyone knew it.  I wore plastic bread sacks on my shoes as galoshes when it rained.  It was not uncommon to be shoved down by bullies I didn’t even know, and run home crying with bloodied knees.  But one day, my teacher saw me walking home.  There was a stiff Kansas wind with a real bite to it.  I was walking home barely able to contain my school papers.  After several blocks, I started to cry.  I had no idea how much farther I could walk.  The whole thing seemed so overwhelming.  Just when I thought I could go no further.  My teacher pulled up to the curb and asked me to get in. 

God is like that.  He sends help when we need it the most.  My teacher was a gift from God.  She always had something positive to say about me.  She called me Sunshine.  I still remember those kind words after the passage of many years.  I will never forget the day she took me home.  As I reflect on those early years, the pain is still so vivid.  The frustration of living in a world that is so cruel and so filled with violence tears at me.  I didn’t ask for these circumstances, I was just given them. 

While the pain still draws tears, there is one thing I note.  The presence of God’s people scattered lovingly throughout my life.  Some of these people I only knew for a while.  They came and went.  But the message of love they had for this little girl was life altering.  There is nothing like being born into dysfunction, poverty, and violence.  It scars one’s life before it even begins.  Yet, Satan is not successful in his quest.  For God has a lovely plan. 

You know, a person could almost miss God’s handiwork.  He works ever so subtly.  Sometimes in the midst of all the pain, I forget to recognize God’s presence.  It seems almost like luck or chance.  I used to believe that … until, I learned of God’s providence.  After many more years of heartache and pain, I look back over my life and see an ALMIGHTY God who has been working steadily to call me home.  Just like that teacher who picked me up to take me out of the chilly cold air, my Father is working to take me home, to ease my pain and give me comfort. 

God is truly amazing and life is worth a good review.  Recounting history is good for the Christian soul when we understand his plan to redeem his people.  The pattern is clear and looking into our lives we can see His work.  He usually comes when we don’t think we can take a step further.  Why does he wait so long?  Often times, it is so we can see that it is truly God who is redeeming us.

I have come to appreciate the dysfunction.  Though, every now and then I read of lives of pure peace, functional families, and I long for the family I never had.  I long for my children to have the family I never had.  However, God speaks clearly through the lives of the weak, disabled and dysfunctional.  It is a painful way to learn, but it is a powerful testimony. 

But there is another lesson here for those who may be less familiar with the devastating effects of abuse and heartache.  Never forget you are called to do good works.  He created you to reach out and to minister to the unlikely, the deformed, the shunned, and the hurting.  As I review my life, I can’t imagine what would have happened if Becky or my first grade teacher or Mrs. Renfro had forsaken their call to be an instrument for the Lord.  I know it is challenging to reach out to the downcast.  Sometimes the power of darkness and evil seems to so consume a person.  The hope of reaching the broken for the gospel seems so elusive.  It takes years for those seeds to grow and you never know who you might help along the way.  I am thankful to all these people for doing what God called them to do.  As I look back at those painful years of my childhood.  I could have called them wasted.  But, God saw to it that I would not do that.  In the midst of the pain and the hopelessness he places people of hope to show me my only hope in Christ Jesus.

Dear God:

Thank you for this life of pain and brokenness.  I thank you for showing me the pattern of work in my life.  You placed people quietly at different command posts of my life to keep watch over my soul.  Lord, I pray for those reading this.  I pray for those consumed with bitterness of pain.  Release them Lord, Guide them to look into their lives and see your hand in all the hurt.  I pray for all my readers that they would hear your call to good to others.  May they become another Becky Peters, Mrs. Collup, or Mrs. Renfro.  May they never shy away from your work no matter how hopeless it may seem.  Thank you for delivering me and giving me a reason to look to you in hope.  Amen. 

Udderly His,

The Kansas Milkmaid