Look To The Hills

I'm posting today and shan't worry about what I'm going to say or who's reading this or whether I have anything to say at all (nasty blogger-paralyzing thoughts). 

Lizeth is learning to write. It's sweet. She didn't know her letters when she came and Mom has been teaching her after school and she is writing now. Some of the words I can't decipher, but she described pumpkins.

Her and Javie are taking turns jumping on the workout trampoline. I'm listening to music in my ears. It's not usual for me to listen to this kind of music. It is mournful, contemplative music and it fits my mood. Sometimes what I'm feeling and thinking contradicts with the bustle happening around me. I mean, life is not simple and I worry about you and sometimes I ache, because how can I be entirely happy when some dear people are battling and hurting. And there is nothing I can do about it but lift my eyes to our Father and lay each worry before Him. It is peaceful there, if I can let go. And while I think these things, I hear the carefree laughter of a three and a five year old and it doesn't match. We are in two separate worlds. I'm not in childhood anymore, as much as I'd like to have remained in that simple place forever.
 
I hear thunder. I just looked out the window and it is raining and the bright yellow leaves are soggy. I like rain. The leaves are falling even as it rains. This summer is quite over. I must resign to the fact.

Every evening, Javie threatens Dad that he is going to go into Mr. MacGreggor's garden and eat the vegetables. And he gets the desired reaction every time. The little punk.

It's the small things that I remember about childhood. Like Dad giving us horse back rides down the passage to bed. Or coffee in my sippy cup in my parents bed so early in the morning. And Granny reading to us about the blind man from the bible.
Last night, the two youngest were freshly tossed in their beds and looking at books. Before Mom came to sit with me in the living room, she said, "I have to put Peter Rabbit in a pie. It'll only take a minute."
As I lay on the rug with my feet in the fire, I heard Mom say from the boys' room, "Who has been eating my peas?" and some giggles from Javie. It was silent for a while, and then: "Mmm, that smells good. Ooh, yum, this pie tastes so good!" And the peals of giggles again from Javie. 
And I wondered if this will be one of those memories for the little boy. I hope so.

A goat died last week. It was Mercedes and she died in the back of our van as we tried to take her home to nurse her.

The goat's death moved Lizeth to ask lots of questions about after life. It always amazes me how deep the questions are from a child searching for truth. When she found out that some day she would be still and lifeless like that animal on the garage floor, it was as if she were desperate to find reassurance that there was more to life after death than a cold goodbye. Her questions didn't rest (as if they ever do): "I have to ask Jesus? Like...like...how do I ask Him? What do I say?" She said she wanted Him to be in her life, she really did, and I think she understood. Tasha showed her what to say. It was as simple as that.

Mom said she noticed that the desperate little one was more at peace in her heart after that. Praise God.

It struck me as interesting that her older brother was sitting at the diningroom table filling out his homework and the conversation didn't spark a bit of interest in him, as if he was some place else and didn't hear a word. 

My sister is back from the farm and I detect chocolate pudding and conversation in the kitchen.
I'll be going now.  
Have a lovely day, please try.