Musings from Hickory Lane,  the web site of Brenda Zook, aka Hummin'B
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It's (another) "Sanctity of Human Life" day!

1/28/2012

17 Comments

 
I know what you're thinking; "Wait, wasn't that last Sunday?"  Yes, and there was a big (400,000 people) march in Washington D.C. on Thursday. So if you thought the anniversary of the Roe vs. Wade decision was January 26, you were right.  To a point. 

But have you ever paused to wonder what happens to all the babies who are "saved"? I'll tell you what happens: Each one needs a home, a forever family.  Those families may or may not look like yours.  Sometimes a newborn is raised by a (very young!) woman who chose to give him/her life, often without a father present in the home. Sometimes a birth mom starts out to raise her child but becomes completely overwhelmed by all the pieces that led her to this point in the first place, and the little one lands in foster care. Sometimes grandparents find themselves suddenly in the role of primary caregiver for a little person they had hoped to dote on and send home.  Sometimes the child goes directly to foster care because of the birth mother's issues with alcohol or drug dependence.   Sometimes this, sometimes that, but always, always, a home is needed. Any decent home will do, but of course, not every decent home will do it.  There are the valid (but unacceptable) excuses:
 

-We are too old. (And this child, what, he is too young? At least he's here, remember?)

-We've already raised our children, now we want to relax and enjoy life.  (And this child, he doesn't deserve to have a chance to be raised in a stable, settled place where it's safe to relax, and he can learn what it means to enjoy life?

-We're too busy. (Doing what of eternal significance?)

-We didn't sign up for this.  (And this child did?)


Yada, yada, yada.  At Hickory Lane, we echo all of the arguments stated above: we're too old, we've already raised our children, we're too busy, and we didn’t sign up for this… But here we are, and every day is sanctity of human life day, sort of.  Not that we are always thinking about it.  Life is way too lively, too hectic, too intense, for much of that kind of introspection.  We are busy creating lesson plans or making doctor appointments or finding library books or rushing out the door to piano lessons/ Kids' Club/riding lessons/basketball…pick one, pick several!  All of which probably sounds a lot like any other family with school age children.  But, but , but…

There is another dimension to Roe vs. Wade that those of us who are foster/adoptive parents and families don’t talk about much with "outsiders."  We aren't sure people will get it and we don’t want to be misunderstood.  The last thing we want is for people to think is that we want pity or that we are complaining about our lives, our choices, our children.  We talk among ourselves, we nod knowingly, we commiserate on facebook, we say a few words or a lot of words which all mean the same thing.  (I'm taking a deep breath here.)  IT IS HARD.  Yep, hard. Please don't misunderstand.  We love our kids, we know this is right and good, we are as pro-life as anyone you'll find anywhere.  But, for all of the above reasons, and a few (dozen) more, this might be the hardest thing we have ever done.

See, our children don't come empty handed, however small they may be when they arrive.  From the earliest moments of their existence, their little life suitcase was being packed.  So, our tiny (or not so tiny) sons and daughters arrive lugging the luggage they did not choose and we help them discover what's in the bag and figure out what to do with it - For.The.Rest.Of.Their.Lives. 

Being pro-life isn't a one day bus trip for us; it's a forever journey, and the baggage is formidable.

Some of the baggage is immediately obvious.  For reasons out of their control, some of the babies being saved from abortion will never walk, will never talk, will never reach the milestones most parents take for granted.   A child might come into the world screaming, withdrawing  from chemicals you can't spell and would never consider taking into your adult body. (You wouldn't give them to your cat.)  Some of what they carry is less noticeable.  A silent child arrives on the doorstep, watchful and sober, having already learned at some deep pre-verbal level that crying doesn't help because no one is there.  Being prenatally bathed in alcohol and severely underfed is another common scenario that has lifelong repercussions. Other wounds are carried deep, deep and the impact of the oozing pain colors every day of their/our lives. We don't know how to heal them or if they can heal. 

Of course, it isn't always this way.  Sometimes a mom chooses life for her child, and the result is Steve Jobs or Tim Tebow. 
And what a feather in the hat of the prolife movement is such a story, an obvious illustration of why every child needs a chance.  And I agree. Strongly.  Every child must have a chance to live the fullest, best, most loved life possible.  But if this is to be true, someone, lots of "someones," (possibly even you?!) must step up to the plate to do the filling, the blessing, the loving.  And those actions exact a great cost.  Because for every Tim Tebow, there is another child standing, sitting, fidgeting, maybe even drooling, on the sidelines who will never operate a computer or throw a football.   

My mind pages through pictures of these shadow children.  Sweet, smiling, seven year old Josiah sat, wordless as always, in his wheel chair in his parents Sunday school class last week and needed suctioned just before prayer time (no nursing coverage that day) and his mom longed to breakfast out with the girls on Saturday but couldn't (again, no nurse, you can't have them all the time, you know, and it was her husband's weekend to work.)  Dan is an adult now, living on his own, but throughout his teen years he regularly ravaged his parents home and lives (mirrors, hearts, drywall all in need of major repair,) because the baggage was overwhelming and he couldn't find hope.  Little Matthew lived his early months in a box, underfed and neglected, and his brain will never, ever catch up to what he missed.  Freckle faced Bobby can run and play and laugh with the pack, but watch out when he's upset. His fears power his anger, and for a six year old, he can throw a hard punch.  Ask his mom.    

These too are the children for whom you marched last week.  And you meant well. You stood for right and truth and you were a voice for the voiceless.  And I want to thank you.  For what you did last week.  But it is a new week, another week, and what does being pro-life look like for you this week?


Look around you.  Find the shadow children, watch their parents.  Do they look tired to you?  Are you apt to judge them as disheveled or disorganized, do you think their kids are disorderly? One Sunday morning after a particularly challenging church service with a troubled toddler, a man behind me commented directly to me, "My, you have your hands full." In all fairness he was stating the obvious, but…did it need to be stated?  I wanted to grab his (unwrinkled) lapels and shout, "And the alternative would be what?  My hands should be empty?  Then where would this child be?"  These type of interactions are what make us foster and adoptive parents skeptical about pro-life proclaimers.  It isn't that it isn't good, it just isn't enough.   

Maybe it's okay to march, but maybe there is much, much more you could do to show your pro-life-ness, for God's sake.  

Maybe you can't become "home" for someone who needs a forever family, or 

Maybe you can. 


Maybe next year instead of marching you could save the bus fare and the restaurant meal charges, and contribute it to someone for quality respite care or a night out with their spouse or new winter boots.

Maybe you can look around with new eyes.  Instead of passing judgment on a single mom, pass her some groceries or a gift card. 

Maybe that boy you (rightly) marched to save is going to need some help figuring out what it means to be a good man.  That's one thing his brave mom can't show him, and most days she can't tell him either, because she's not sure there is such a thing.  Give up a round of golf once a month and teach him how to repair his bike or pay him to help you clean up your yard or help him participate in 4H or take him to the library. Anything really. 
And while you're at it, he's got a sister who is also clueless when it comes to men.  She's trying to figure it out on her own, and she's going nowhere fast.) 

Maybe you could march up to that family's door with a bag full of disposable diapers. (Even though her youngest is now in second grade, my friend still has two in diapers.  It adds up.)


Maybe you could tell a family that you are praying for them every day and mean it.  March to the door of heaven, to the throne of God every day on their behalf.  Pray for each one of those children by name.  (Every "saved" baby has a name.)

Maybe you are noticing biological children whom you think might be coming up short on parental attention because the extra kid(s) need so much care.  Instead of condemning, contribute – your time, your interest, your services, yourself!  Become as trained as you need to be in order to qualify as a respite care provider for their child.   

Maybe this list should be longer;  God knows it could be.  But I'm tired tonight, and maybe it's time for you to do your own thinking, to make your own list, to march away from judgment and foolish busyness with non-essentials.

Maybe it's time for the church to become truly, fully pro-life, 24-7, 365 days a year. 


Maybe you could start tomorrow (today?!) - for God's sake.

It's another sanctity of human life day!

                                                                                                                                                                                            -Hummin' B.






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17 Comments

Thursday are for thankfulness...a half dozen oddments of gratitude.

1/19/2012

6 Comments

 
_  Thursdays are for thankfulness. Sometimes I forget to give thanks for a glass half full instead of half empty when it got that way by being sloshed all over everything.  By me.  It was yogurt in the making, and I was alone, with no one else present to whom I could give credit for the mess all over the countertop/floor/cabinet door/inside-the-cabinet (it was, of course, the one door that doesn't quite close…)  I looked down at my happy shoes, sweet baby blue crocs, right in the middle of everything...(no picture of this.)

Being where my feet are gets very messy some days.

Just in case you read this blog regularly and think, "Now there's a woman who has it together and keeps it that way," here's your notice to think again.  And even if I could somehow manage to have it all together and keep it that way, I'm sure I would forget where I'd put it.  Lately, I'm having (a lot of!) trouble keeping track of my belongings.  As a mom, it's always been my "job" to keep track of other people's stuff.  You know the drill:  "MOM, where are my_______???" - you fill in the blank.  It just goes with the territory.  But lately, I've been looking for my own stuff.a.lot.   Glasses, to-do list, keys, mug of coffee, phone, shoes…and my gratitude perspective.

Oh that.  A perspective of gratitude.


Hard to get it, harder not to lose it.  Fortunately, God's persistence knows no bounds.  He is forever creatively pulling me back toward the center, toward gratitude, and ultimately, toward Himself.  On a recent walk, I thought back through a rather bizarre list of oddments (yes, this is truly a word, I looked it up), and God persistently turned my mumbling grumblings into something much better, oddments of gratitude.   So for what it's worth, here's one day's odd little list.

1.  I'm thankful for the band aid plastered onto the bottom of my sock.  Again.   Bandaids adorn our driveway, stair steps, lawn, and, frequently, my socks.  I've lost track of the places I've found them, but maybe I have also lost track of why I keep finding these discards:  the boy's body has healed and the bandaid is no longer needed. That long scratch he got "trying out" the (very thin) board he was nailing onto his latest hideout is now just a three inch scar, soft pink reminder that no internal organs were punctured, the tetanus shot was up to date and he didn't even need stitches.  Just bandaids.  Lots of bandaids.  Over and over, healing comes, for that is how his body, my body, every body is created.
I'm grateful for bandaids no longer needed.


PictureYep, there he is.
_  2.  I'm thankful for the tiny frozen corn snake in my freezer.  I had kind of forgotten he was in there until, scrounging around to see what I could creatively include in the supper prep, I suddenly (OH!!) remembered.  Shiver. He's such a narrow fellow in the bag, his lovely colors still visible, though not as bright as the day we brought him home.

It took me longer to get to thankfulness for this one.  Sure, home school moms are notorious for swapping one-up tales (tails?!) about bizarre science projects in the fridge.  The cow's eye was a big deal 15 years ago – a popular curriculum included this item for reasons I do not recall/cannot imagine... (not the curriculum I selected!!!) 

But gratitude for this snake, now?  Frankly, 15 years ago it was easier.   All of it.  My students were more typical, my energy level was higher, my fascination with home school possibilities was fresh, my life was less complicated.  Now I've been doing this awhile, say 20 (twenty!) years, and the novelty has, shall we say, worn off.  I still believe it's the right choice, the absolute best option for Youngest Mystery, but now I am compelled primarily by faithfulness. So, being thankful for the corn snake in my freezer meansgratitude for the opportunity to do what is best even when it comes at high personal cost, when I find myself wishing to find only frozen food in my freezer (how boring?!).  It means adjusting my perspective to remember and give thanks for the look of hesitant wonder on his face when Youngest Mystery gingerly brought me the tiny perfect, dead reptile. He who avoids odd textures and unpredictable creatures brought me a snake.  Sometimes gratitude is a matter of being attentive to and giving thanks for small amazements.  So, tonight...
I'm grateful for a certain fleeting look of wonder and a (very small) dead snake.


_ 3.  I'm thankful for sheep tail bands (unused!) in the laundry.  Little green bands rain quietly from the work clothes, skittering across the floor like silent hail.  It's hard to remember to be thankful as I'm scrambling around, gathering the errant supplies.  And sighing.  I might still be sighing as I head out for my walk, dodging sheep "stuff" on the driveway.  The critters have been wandering again.  But these oddments are simple realities in the life of the shepherd to whom I am married.  And I love him, so I love his sheep.  His shepherding reaches way beyond Hickory Lane, and some days it seems like we're stepping over sheep stuff, so to speak, at every turn.  Ask any pastor, if he's honest he'll tell you. (If he won't, his wife will!)  There's a lot of sheep stuff out there, and someone has to deal with it. I sigh, then remember how grim life would be with a shepherd who had no sheep, or sheep who had no shepherd.  I'm grateful for misplaced sheep stuff.     

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_ 4.  I'm thankful for bb's in the potpourri.  I did a double take as I was un-Christmasing my house, putting away, rearranging.  The candle on the table nestled in festive potpourri would stay.  And suddenly, I saw it, a shiny clear reminder that my world is a testosterone laden, fire powered, ammo-omnipresent place.  A bb in the potpourri?!?  I have no idea how it got there, and I'm not going to try to find out.  It's not all that unusual, and that's the part I was mumble-grumbling about to God. 

I often feel like the journey toward entropy is accelerating on Hickory Lane, aided and abetted by my housemates, ever and always male for more than thirty years now.  It's enough to make me burp or something. Ammo any/every where, sock balls in the laundry, dirty shoes trying to "tiptoe" into the kitchen, tanned rabbit hides draped on the rocking chair, tools and sheep poop in unexpected places… an amateur tracker could "read sign" in my house and know which gender has the highest head count.  But I don't give up.  I light candles and decorate seasonally and use "the good plates" regularly.  And now I am being joined by daughters-in-law and they are girls!!  I know, I'm stating the obvious, but it is so astonishingly delightful, I can't help myself!  Consider this a shout out to the girls...oops, women...in the lives of my sons.  Even from an ocean away, M. adds joy to my life with her love for my son, her artistic style, and her wonderful laugh via skype.  The cider-pomegranate table candle came to me from A. who shares my love of all things glowing and scented, and I am grateful for what she adds to my life.  Without her lovely Yankee candle gift(s), that bb might have been all alone on the table.  So, maybe it's a stretch to give thanks for bb's in the potpourri, but I know this-
I'm grateful for the girls who love my sons, for candlelight and for potpourri in which a bb can hide!    


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_ 5.  I'm thankful for duct tape on the afghan.( I know this sounds a lot like #1, but stay with me, it ends up somewhere else.)  Duct tape is ubiquitous in this household, and I'm an equal opportunity contributor.  "Can't you fix this with duct tape?"  "Where's the duct tape?"  But last evening when I wrapped myself in the afghan, an errant scrap from a recent project caught my sleeve and my attention.  Like a combination of a bandaid on my sock and a bb in the potpourri, duct tape on the afghan made me sigh/groan/mumble.

I thought wistfully about the goofy, unifying roll/role of duct tape in our home.  For nearly two decades, the Christmas stockings always bulged with a roll for each eager repair-son.  And even though the stockings were put away when the fixer guys became men, somehow the duct tape tradition has continued.  (We even carried a roll to South Africa this year, stashed in the gifts to be opened by Barefoot Wanderer on Christmas morning.) 
 
My pace slows and I sigh again, swallowing a lump in my throat.  With our family scattered across ideological and actual oceans  some days I wonder what, if anything, holds us together.  I'm often not sure what a mother's love should look like in this season; I don't get it right.  I make messes and I wish for relational duct tape to hold us all together. Our family feels fragmented. But on this day's walk, God points me in another direction; kindly, gently he redirects my thoughts.  Perspective shift...oh, there it is.  God's unfailing love for each one of us, wrapping around us, pulling us toward each other, patching our errors, repairing our mistakes, holding us together. He is both afghan and duct tape in our lives.  "Love covers over a multitude of sins."  Even mine. I'm grateful for duct tape on the afghan.      

6.  I'm thankful for walks late in the day.  My life used to include a brisk morning jaunt, but that hasn't been happening lately for a whole list of (undisclosed) reasons.  Maybe someday I'll be back in the steadiness of that routine, but for now I am slipping away quite late in the afternoon. Some days I barely beat nightfall, other days the window of opportunity quietly closes while I'm still hunting my gloves/phone/camera.(pick one.)

  I miss my morning walk.  I miss bird chatter and the way the sunlight slants across the woodlands, gilding every common twig.  I miss starting my day with the feeling of accomplishment that awaits me at the mailbox upon my return.  But for now, my reality is late walks or none at all.  And I'm making peace with that.  I hold my breath and hear the owls calling.  I breathe deeply and see the wonder in the hushed dusky world around me.  On this walk, it was as if God smiled at my feeble efforts at thankfulness, and said, "Here, you'll never see this on a morning walk."  I'm grateful for walks late in the day. 

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_
Thursdays are for thankfulness.                                                                                                                      Hummin' B                                                                                   

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Creating a home, Part 2 ...In which Joseph and Meredith begin forever together...

1/4/2012

7 Comments

 
PictureCould he look any happier??
_The marriage adventure took place on Tuesday, November 29, 2011.  But it truly began the day before, on Monday when they...

no, actually it began on Sunday when he picked her up at the airport bearing precious gifts...

well, probably Saturday when she ventured off to Africa to meet her one true love...

or perhaps on Friday when she packed and weighed the last, last bag…

back and back and back.

But truth be told, it did begin here at Refilwe nearly four years ago.  When everything had been said and done, it made so much sense to mark the official beginning of their married life right here.  But that was not the initial plan. 


_  The plan was to travel to the Department of Home Affairs in a certain city at an appointed time on Tuesday afternoon, pay the necessary fee, sign the proper papers, and without further ado to become a married couple.  The two of them spent the day Monday, as planned, traveling to the US embassy, the Dept. of Home Affairs, and various other offices, making sure all the paperwork was in order, and basically preparing the way for a simple, no-hassle marriage certificate the next day. (I thought of it as their unconventional version of wedding rehearsal.)

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_  But it was not to be.  Although the jetlag tired girl stood before the official with her proper identity information and her correctly stamped passport, it was "not possible" to verify her presence in the country so of course getting married was out of the question!  "Come back in a week or so," the unhelpful person suggested. Talking and negotiating made no changes in the outcome, nor did numerous additional stops and phone calls.  The weary two who returned home late Monday evening barely resembled the pair who had set out with such high energy and enthusiasm earlier in the day.  What to do now, that was the question.

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_We ate our lentil stew in stunned silence, trying to absorb all that had (not) happened.  Bit by bit, the story was told, the exhausted couple tried to look at new options for the coming day. What to do, what to do...  Nothing seemed clear.  A few possibilities were tossed on the table, but they just sat there. None stood out as brimming with potential.  Those who know me best know I like to weigh pros and cons, talk through various scenarios, and come up with a plan.  But this moment was different.  It became very clear to me that this was not my problem to solve.  I probably couldn't come up with the right solution anyway, and it didn't matter because I didn't need to do that.  For me, this was an "ah-ha" moment.

                                                        God will make a way where there seems to be no way,
 
                                He works in ways we cannot see, He will make a way for me…

There they were, in my head, the words of the little chorus by Don Moen that I've loved for a decade (or two?!) I remember quite clearly driving to piano lessons down a Pennsylvania valley one day, my heart aching with an especially knotty foster parenting problem, and Joseph reminded me,  "Mom, God will make a way…"  Now it was my turn.  I spoke the words, "God will make a way, when there seems to be no way…" it was not my problem, not really their problem; it was God's opportunity to lead, to make a way, to create something better than any of us could have imagined.  We prayed together and agreed to meet again in the morning to look at the next step.

 
We went our separate ways, quietly, somberly.  Thoughts were chattering in my head – "surely we had not come all this way to miss the actual event…maybe we could …oops, not gonna go there... God will make a way.  Rest, rest, rest in that truth."  And I did.  I fell asleep thinking those words, and when I awoke throughout the night, I would simply say to myself, "God will make a way."
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_  Morning came; I watched them on the steps, heads together, talking, talking, shooing ants, talking.  They came in to the living room having made a decision.  They would not spend another fruitless day chasing papers and forms. We would simply have their marriage in their new home across the river.  They would write vows and speak them to each other; I would write a prayer of blessing; Papa Max would bring words from the Word, and pronounce them "one." Heads nodded all around, yes, this is what we would do. God had made a way.



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_and headed off to the recently prepared  rooms across the river. We had a parade with one entry...
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_ 

_ the lone float rider calling out,  "Smile and wave, boys, smile and wave."  But maybe sometimes he forgot to smile? 
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_ But first, it was moving day!   Joseph and Meredith rounded up the tractor, wagon, and a few crates, and the moving began.  We loaded up all of Joseph and Meredith's worldly goods...
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Those handywoman skills came in...handy!
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I know, socks in crocs. My toes requested this.
Of course, there were some adventures along the way...
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_ Joseph is telling a guy with a weed whacker, "Hey, don't do that right here right now, it'll throw grass all over everything..." which of course it did!

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_ How is it that no one saw this chair fall off?? (And was this Mama guarding it or waiting to see if anyone claimed it?)
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_ Max had the camera and wouldn't quit so Joseph called him "Papa- razzi;" there may have been threats of bodily harm…

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_ Two loads later, the deed was done, and unpacking was underway.  It was a memorable time, and the day was far from over.

But suddenly, everyone was exhausted.  It was time to take a break, change gears, relax, refresh, prepare for the next step in this unforgettable day.

For me, the next step involved ironing a very lovely linen dress which had been safely sequestered in a (very small!) zip lock bag for a few days!  I headed back across the river one more time to find what I needed for the job, and although the electric managed to go off midway...

...I was able to flatten most of the wrinkles into oblivion. 
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_Suitcases were unpacked and repacked for the honeymoon,
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she was radiant (and barefoot!), _
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he was ready (and barefoot!) It was time!

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Max spoke words from the Word for each of them, for Joseph from Genesis 49 and for Meredith from Mary's song of joyful praise in Luke 1. 

Together they braided the cord of three strands,  Joseph's strand dark brown, the color of the earth, Meredith's strand purely, simply white, and the golden strand of God to intertwine, connect, strengthen the bond which none shall break.
  _

_
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 I read my prayerwords of blessing and release for these two setting out toward eternity on a single path.   _
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Vows were read, heard, received, words binding two lives into one.

_
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___   There were tears and feathers (no birdseed or rice, no shoes either) and heartfelt chuckles, and of course, a kiss.
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_ "I now pronounce you…." and it was finished.  Or, begun. 

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_  God had made a way.  
Looking back, we could see the beautiful threads 
with which He was weaving the tapestry of their lives right up to this day, 
this moment, 
this place.  
And looking forward?  The same will be true.  
God will make a way.    

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God will make a way...
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    Author

    I'm finding my way beyond the maze of the "middle" years
    (if I'm gonna be 100 and something someday...) 
    ​living life as a country woman who is a
     writer, gardener, wife, mom,  nature observer,  teacher,and most of all a much loved child of God.  

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