Rob's interaction with his dad was always mellow, like Rob - and Bob. But now with two additional boys in the two digit age bracket, this woman is treading where she has never trod before.

Tonight I yelled.

I loudly declared, "I don't want hitting in this house! You just can't do that!"

Oh,no?? Three growing boys, and no hitting? I don't think so, Lady.

Someone rescued me from my delusions of sweetness-and-light the other day by calmly telling me that boys are physical. Well, I know, but with a ready-mix pack of teenage boys, it is requiring a 'paradym shift' for me. My girls and I always related with our emotions, while guys seem to relate with motions.

Peter had had a hard day at school, and I think it spilled over. So he told James several times that the model ship he was building was not pretty. I did not hear it, but I did catch Rob's even voice warning me, "Mom, let James handle it." As I feared, James handled it. Just as I was walking through the bedroom door, he pounded Peter one good one in the shoulder.

That was my cue to forget reason and godly self control, and instead yell. Then I sent myself to my room and prayed for the Lord to come and restore order. I know enough that He always hears those prayers, and after a short wait for the dove to find a resting place in the muddy flood waters, I went and asked James to come to the family room.

Peter had suddenly fallen asleep in his bed, as if God had waved a hand over him. His mouth was open in mid holler, and his head was thrown back on the pillow. Rob heard me ask James to come out, and he meandered nonchallantly out of his room to join us by the fireplace.

While Peter snored on, God gave us a wonderful talk together. Rob and I were treated to a very mature side of James, who told us story after story in very humorous and touching manner of orphanage life, how the kids looked out for themselves and each other and how they'd bounce back from altercations. His cute demeanor set me smiling and realizing that we weren't doing so badly after all.

With amazing equanimity, the two big brothers shared with this unclued mother how boys relate. When I told them to relax their watchful duties over Peter enough to have fun, they asked me to release them to handle some of the interactions with Peter as the need arose, in their own way. In other words, "Mom look the other way while we teach Kid Brother."

Listening to them talk I was really touched. These are good boys. Each one told me he prays for Peter every night. Then each of them prayed right there out loud, Rob for Peter to grow and mature and become more socially aware, and James that Peter would learn to trust him and allow him to instruct him in the way he should go.

Their daddy would be proud. Soon he'll be getting home from his conference and into bed, where I can give him his vitamins and a backrub. May God strengthen him, exhausted and alone in a hotel room far from home. I want to go and get him because he is so fatigued. I am concerned for his heart, but I know God is too, so it's ok.

Just Pray!

In our wanderings as a family over the years we have opened our home to any "extras" who God might give us to share our Thanksgiving feast. This has partly filled the empty gap left by not being near loved ones. God has kindly given us some interesting guests around the table, from the mailman one time to some honeymooners caught in an ice storm another time.

This year we knew we would have our "family away from family" with us, the sweet Californians, but weren't sure who else. I asked God to give us somebody who might also be away from loved ones. I left it to Him while I thawed the turkey in cold water in the sink and thought about such things as whether to use paper plates for dessert or not.

Two days before Thanksgiving I was driving home from my ladies' exercise place and stopped at a light behind a little pick-up with the words, "Does Something Need Fixing?" and a cell phone number. A thought inside me said, "Call the number and get him to fix that broken door jam."

I fumbled for my cell phone before I'd forget the number, and got the guy on the phone. Sure, he'd be over in a few minutes.

When I saw his big friendly frame at my side door, his smile said, "Believer", so I let him in and showed him the repair job. All day the boys who were off school followed him around, handing him hammers and screws, and listening to him talk about how Jesus had saved him.

Someone in California had knocked on his door to share the Lord with him, and he finally sat down and listened and given his heart away to the One Who loved him enough to die. After that, everything in his life as a professional racer had done a 180.

After a relaxed day of hanging curtain rods and repairing jammed windows, including a trip to the store to help me pick out a really good door knob, he moseyed on into the kitchen to be paid.

I asked what he was doing for Thanksgiving, and he said, "In the morning serving folks at the homeless shelter, and then nothing in the afternoon."

"Well," I said, "why don't you come on over at 3:00 for dinner with us?"

"Sounds good," he replied.

Now, California is a pretty big place, but God is bigger, and He made that man be friends of our other Californians, who had arrived first and were already fixing tea in the kitchen.

Long story short, they had a fun reunion. Around the table we sang, "We Gather Together," and consumed in a half hour more turkey stuffing and cranberry sauce than the Pilgrims did in three days. For fun we spread butter the boys made by shaking cream in a jar onto the hardtack sea biscuits Rob had baked.

Long we lingered at the table, as the flickering of the friendly, yellow candles glowed in the orange pumpkins on the buffet. As we talked on, Sherry told us how she had been saved at age 28 and how thankful she was for the Holy Spirit changing her heart. The kids went round the table, thanking God for family, Maggie for the things in one's life that draw us closer to God, Bob for equanimity in difficult times at work, and Rob for a mom who would work two days on a meal only to watch it disappear in a few minutes.

After everyone scraped his own plate and the dishwasher was set, we put a fire in the family room and spent the rest of the evening playing American Trivia and Guesstures, divided into two teams. Too much for this sleepy mother, I dozed off in the middle of a dispute over which was the seventh largest city in Montana.

Later I woke to find the visitors had tiptoed out the door.

Ahh,Thanksgiving Day!

Happy Thanksgiving, Lord

In everything give thanks.

While we are missing nine who are Up North for Thanksgiving, those that are here were sweet as anything yesterday, preparing to celebrate with friends at this house.

Rob and Peter had cleaned the windows as they looked through at each other, and at least one side was not streaky. Rob's were better, but then he just turned 15, so they should be. James had sat in a dry bathtub for an hour peeling off old caulking. And Maggie came home from college to bake her famous pumpkin pie.

Just as I was needing her, she drove up the driveway in the dark. I was having a little walk down the drive to the road with James, praying under my breath as we went, "All right, Lord, how are you going to handle this one?"

Peter had come into the kitchen, his face all red from shooting baskets with James. He wailed, "Mom, I hate it when James grabs me around the neck like that!"

I hate it too and had talked to James about it before. I wanted this time to be the last. My first reaction was to think, "This has got to stop! I'll tell his father!" But I really didn't want to simply change his behavior. I wanted him to not desire to strangle his brother, once and for all.

Even though neck grabbing shouted at me that it was the big issue here, I think God did not want me to focus on it. So we walked.

"James, can you tell me what happened out here? What did Peter do to make you want to strangle him?" He explained that Peter was being annoying again. James had asked him to stop and to give him the ball, and Peter wouldn't. (Come, please, Holy Spirit, and say something.)

Now, the pecking order among the three boys has been working well. I wish I had emphasized it more with our girls. The younger must obey the elder. But, the elder must not abuse his authority. The one on the bottom of the pile has the advantage of having big brothers to protect and defend and help him, while at the same time they can send him to chase balls, etc.

So...it was a matter of Peter's infraction of the 'Who's Older?' rule. (Oh Lord, what shall I say?) I called Peter, and in front of James I said to him, "Peter, if James tells me again that you are not obeying him, I will have you sit on the kitchen stool next to me while I work."

Whew! that was enough to get Peter back into line fast. Then I could address the matter of the strangling one's younger brother as a way of showing one's authority.

Softened by my respect of the rule, James was ok with continuing the discussion. So we walked on farther down the driveway into the dark. It was quiet and peaceful down there. Venus was shining brightly to the west above a faintly pink horizon. The air was pleasant and cool. After a minute, James said, "Mom, there are different ways you can put your hands around someone's neck."

Well, isn't that special? I thought. I bet you learned that one for survival.

He continued, "One way you can really hurt a person, and the other way is how I did it with Peter."

"I see, I answered, "Well, James, if I promise you that I will put Peter on a stool when he is annoying, will you promise me that you will not go for his jugular for a minor offense? I don't want there to be any grabbing of necks in our family. It isn't God's way of handling things."

"OK, Mom," he promised.

Just then, Peter came riding down the driveway in the dark and we all got over on the grass together laughing, because a car was slowing down at our house, ready to turn in.

It was Maggie, the big sister who makes the wonderful pumpkin pies, who bosses her three little brothers in a way they will take it, because they also love that she brings music and fun home from college with her.

Thank you Father, You did it again. You never fail me or forsake me. Happy Thanksgiving to You, too!

A Letter

One of the hard things about going into an orphanage in Ukraine to adopt a child or two is the wishing you could come away with several. We actually carried three dossiers with us - just in case. There were some other children, one in particular, whom I had met last year when I first saw our boys.

I had put it to Bob, but he felt we were not to get three. Still, I carried three pictures in my wallet. When we actually went there, I saw the third, and I had to do something hard. Steel my heart, at the same time as being friendly. I had written, but I hoped that I had never given the impression that I would come some day and adopt him.

God kindly made this one scarse during our time there, and we gathered our dear Peter and James and bundled everyone off to Kiev and the plane back to America. When we got home I felt lousy about continuing to write him. How could I write, when we had left him behind?

Well, I got busy and just didn't. Having the new boys home was a handful, and when I did send off a note, our missionary friend said she just didn't see him anywhere around.

Time passed and so did a birthday. A sixteenth birthday means a child can no longer be adopted. Sigh. If I let my heart go there, I would cry my eyes out. So I didn't... until someone sent me a picture...

Then yesterday I got a letter. The first question was, "Did you forget me?" No, my dear, I remembered you every day for the past year. I whispered a prayer from a little spot of hurt deep in my heart. I asked Jesus to touch you and give you a good day.

We are still friends, and writing again. I now have a chance to love another "son" from a distance. Thank you, Lord, for emails and for missionaries there it translate them.

Who knows what the future will hold, even for a child who is too old to be be adopted.

Abundance of Rain

It hadn't rained in our area for at least fifty days. Since good steady rain for the land is a sign of God's blessing, day after day we were not being blessed.

Jude talks about ungodly men as waterless clouds. Waterless clouds drifting by at a time of drought are also an ungodly thing. The pond was way down and the birds were coming to its edge to drink. Looking up at our skies, James occasionally would frown, "Mom, look, it is strange. There are clouds but no rain."

The other evening he and I watched the sunset paint a pink glowing frame around several odd, small clouds. Strange tufts reached down from them towards earth making them look like cotton balls someone had pulled at. They appeared to be trying to pour down rain, but it wouldn't come.

We saw how rain could fall from one of those small clouds onto one neighborhood and not another, or even one house and not another. It happened to us last week. For five minutes early one morning our house got wet.

But still the weather man looked for rain. Later that night the wind came up, and he got lots of small, white puffs scudding across a bright waxing moon on a black sky, but still no rain. Every day, clouds but no blessing.

This morning I rose early and went to the backyard to read Isaiah 64. "Oh Lord, that thou wouldest rend the heavens and come down...make thy name known to thine adversaries, that they may tremble at thy presence."

I had to agree, O, Lord we need Your presence. We need to see you in the sanctuary. We are so dry, dry in more ways than one! The pine trees are dropping their red pinestraw and the bushes are drooping. But worse, our hearts are so needy.

Then I saw the reason. "There is no one that calleth upon thy name, that stirreth himself to take hold of thee: for thou hast hid thy face from us and hast consumed us" (and here is the key to the rain not falling), "because of our iniquities...

But we cry out, "I will stir myself! O Lord, thou art our Father!"

When God gives a spirit of repentence, and tears of grief rise up from deep inside one's belly and rain down one's cheeks, it may well mean that He is about to bless. Through tears I unwound the hose and began dragging it around the yard, stopping at each bush to soak it and then passing to the next. I heard in my heart the words, "priming the pump," Curious, I continued watering and weeping.

Then, startled, I looked up to see a few small sprinkles of rain on the pond. "Oh God! Would you do it? Would you be so gracious as to send us rain this morning?" and I knelt on the patio and cried. "Please, Lord! You are our Father, send the rain!"

All around me gentle raindrops began falling, little spots darkening the pavement. When Elijah besought the Lord for rain, he did not stop praying when a tiny cloud arose from the sea. "It's about the size of a man's hand," his servant reported. Seven times Elijah sent him out to check. He didn't even stop praying when the cloud became huge. He prayed "fervently" until the sky was black and the rain fell hard.

So I continued my prayer with a fervent heart full of thanksgiving. The rain splashed around me and soaked my back. Just as many people had also prayed, it dropped, steady and continuous, gentle, but hard enough to soften the hard earth. All morning long it fell.

The afternoon remained dull and the rain soaked in. The next day it rained again, and the next, slowing softening the bone dry forest floors and settling the dust on the construction sites.

No flooding, just a blessed relief from the drought. God be praised. Again.

Ouch!

It says, "Thanks be unto God who always causes us to triumph in Christ Jesus." I have a feeling that it means that in Christ we always win. But when the referee calls you on touching the ball, when everyone saw it bounce between your legs untouched, you endure hardship while you are triumphing.

That's what happened at our last game of the season. We had made two great touchdowns, and then the bottom fell out, and we lost the game.

Ok, now what? Our big boys had gone, shoulders drooping into the locker room. They cried in there. So did the coach.

Outside the rest of us stood waiting to clap for then when they came out. We consoled ourselves that it was only a game. We were not going to spend the whole next year talking this to death. It had happened, and we must be godly about it. This kind of thing reveals the men from the boys.

If God scourges every son He receives, and real sons of a caring Father get firm discipline to pound them into better people, then so be it, Father. Bring it on. But, ouch!

Out In the Sticks

Don't laugh if you are from Mississippi. After two plus years I am still just catching on.

Last evening was the final football game of the season, and Bob being in New York at a Continuing Medical Ed conference, I was the designated driver for James and Peter and me. Although it would be dark driving in the country, I was of a mind to take the guys to see Rob's Jr. Varsity and the Varsity teams combined play one last time under the big lights.

So, armed with our map, a flashlight, and sketchy directions a Mississippian friend had dashed off for me, we packed a lunch of sandwiches, bottled water and the ever favorite, apples. We could not follow the bus because the team had left on that hours ago, so we turned down our back road and onto the highway near us. As we headed east, the road became darker and darker, and the headlights coming towards us fewer and farther between.

Above, the stars were as thick as Abraham's, and if we weren't on our way somewhere I should have stopped at the roadside just to gaze a while. Wow, I have still not figured out the Southern night sky. Just when I find the Southern Cross, the sky turns and I lose it again. I told the boys, you look and I'll drive.

Soon we spotted our turnoff and our journey turned northward. Occasionally after going through a strip of pitch black, we would pass a lighted gas station or country store, but never the Fish Restaurant that we were told to watch for. Farther and farther we drove without seeing the little road that supposedly led to the school.

After many miles of darkness and the occasional local truck, whizzing past us against a solid line on a curve, I finally suggested we pull to the roadside and turn around. No sooner said than we noticed the shoulders on our road had disappeared and the darkness around us had become slightly shiny. We were on a causeway undoubtedly spanning the huge man-made reservoir that collects water for the Jackson area.

"I think we've missed it, boys. I am sorry," I confessed. "I just don't think the school is this far." "Mom, call Miss Nancy," suggested James. "We can do it. We can all things."

So I did, and she encouraged me, "Hey, girl, you're on the raht road. Just keep comin'. When you see the lahts of the stadium yonder to the left, the school road will be there." She laughed, and we hung up.' Haha to you too, I thought.

Well, shore nuff, after what seemed like a long time, there was the fish restaurant and the "big curve" just as my directions had said. Only trouble was they'd failed to mention the fifty or so miles in between!

Next, to find the road to the school. Well, we missed it at first shot because it was rather woodsy and had no lights. Futhermore...the letters on the sign were only about an inch high. But, hey, Ah should consider maself blest it had a sign. Real Mississippians don't need road signs 'cause everyone in the state knows where everywhere is. Blank stares at you northerners.

Gotta love this crazy place.

Chat with Dima

This morning Peter got a call from the orphanage. It was his old friend Dima. Our dear missionary friend has been greatly concerned for his life, as he has run away several times in the last month.

Dima has a congenital hip, I believe, causing him to have a limp, not a very bad one. To me, quite minor, but enough to give him trouble when he plays tag.

The authorities had decided that he needed to be transferred to an invalid home, where many of the children are mentally slow in addition to having various handicaps. Dima has been worried about going there and felt that maybe he could live on the street like another boy they call One-armed Peter. I have met One-armed Peter. He is a sharp kid, quite naughty, and at last report still alive, even on the street for some time.

The street however is not the place for little Dima who is called "good and obedient" by his teachers. Each time they find him he is filthy and has glue in his hair. Yesterday he had head lice and so his hair is now shaved off. The authorities are now thinking maybe he should be transferred to the mental institution, an even worse suggestion than the handicapped school.

I had written to him and he would get the letter this morning telling him there were a least three people in the world who care about if he lives or dies. One, the missionary, two, me, and of course our Peter who prays for him every night. Not only that, Jesus wants to enter his heart if he will let him, and to be his Rescuer and Savior, and bring him into his Father's Big Family forever.

Lela thought maybe a call from his dear buddy would help Dima to straighten out. Peter carried the phone around for an hour this morning until finally the call came. However, to his great dismay he could hardly converse with Dima. His Russian was so rusty. He did however manage to ask him why he ran away. His answer was precisely as I would have expected, "Ya niz nyo," "I don't know."

How could he explain why he was running away? Would a little foundling 12 year old boy who has been in an orphanage for several years be able to put that into words? It will take more than a phone conversation for Dima to tell how the deep hurts in his heart caused him to leave the relative warmth of a dimly lit old brick building where his real friend no longer lives and go onto the snowy streets of Odessa without a proper coat.

Maybe there is someone in this country who has a warm bed and a warm heart for our Dima. Someone who will set aside their busy schedule and give life to a little boy who only wants someone to tuck him in at night and wipe away the tears.