The Autodidact

     The house has been half empty for three days now and I have washed and cleaned and organized about everything I can lay my hands on, trying to fill the time. The three younger kids and I have read stories and watched movies and played games to fill the quiet that permeates the house. I have seen these little ones in a new light. The 7 year-old is the oldest for the time being and has taken charge of the baby and her 4 year-old brother; she has learned how to run the dishwasher and washer and dryer, stepping up to the job well. The 4 year-old, the man of the house, has been fearless and protective and ever encouraging, doing his part to fill the shoes his brothers and father have left behind. The baby, is, well, still the baby, but has begun saying new words and doing new things that the older ones have missed and will have to hear about second-hand.      If I stop moving and working and planning, the silence becomes too loud, but I am learning to welcome the silence. It's jus

Since we said goodbye my heart keeps sinking, sinking. I know it's a short time,  but I feel like I am falling, falling off a cliff. I keep hearing your voice, your footstep,  but I am imagining, imagining. How could someone so quiet  leave such silence behind? Part of me is gone,  but it's hard, it's hard to tell what part. I keep breathing, breathing to keep from stumbling over my heart. The time passes slowly, then quickly, slowly, but not steadily. Since we said goodbye, I have been thinking, thinking of how we intertwine in each others' lives. I keep seeing your face, your eyes when my eyes are closing, closing to sleep. How can a few miles  leave such silence behind? Part of you is here, here with me, in me, and I can't tell where it hurts. I keep whispering, whispering to myself that you will be home soon. The day passes but I don't perceive, it makes little sense. Since we said goodby

     One day, a young boy visited an apple farm with some friends. It was a sunny, fall day, full of promise. The boy, 9, was excited to be with his friends, and one in particular, a 10 year old boy. The two boys roamed freely, taking in the sights of apple and pear trees, full of fruit, the tractor taking kids on hay rides, and a sea of pumpkins for sale. But soon, they were looking for something a bit more exciting and they ventured into a trail on the edge of the farm. The marked trail went into the woods a bit, woods that seemed to stretch forever, full of evergreens and  trees full of color. The forest was so enticing, so welcoming, that the two boys decided to follow the markers to the end and then turn back, but they unintentionally left the trail. They went a little bit into the woods, and tried to keep the trail in sight, but as boys are wont to do, they went a little farther and a little farther; they were explorers, after all! But the trail kept getting further behind them,

Sometimes people ask me about my bread baking. I bake several kinds, but whole wheat, Italian and artisan are my favorites. For those just curious, or for those who want to take the leap to bread made with fresh ground grains, here is how I bake my whole wheat bread. There are many recipes out there for this kind of bread, and my recipe has been tweaked a bit from a recipe I found through the Urban Homemaker. This bread is great just out of the oven and slathered with butter, makes wonderful toast and French toast, but it's not so great for sandwiches. The complete recipe is at the end. Sometimes I use spelt or a combination of wheat and spelt, but today, I used just wheat. I use a grain mill to grind my own berries, but you can use store bought flour if you wish. While that was grinding, I assembled my ingredients, put them in the mixer and greased 6 loaf pans. The grain mill will grind almost all the wheat I need, and sometimes I just add white flour until I have enough

     Well, it's official: I have 3 teenagers in the house. I'm not sure why that number is significant; I've had 2 teenagers for 3 years now. But I think for me, the significance lies in the fact that, by my calculations, I will have 3 teens in the house for the next 12 years and I will have teens in the house for 18 more years.  Let that sink in. I feel I am embarking on a new chapter in my life, one that will involve many more late nights, many tears, much counsel and listening, ministering to these teens God has given me.      Recently, I finished reading a book entitled "Yes, Your Teen is Crazy", written by counselor Michael J. Bradley, Ed. D.  He wrote the book before his kids were teenagers themselves, so he was writing from clinical experience, not personal. "Just you wait," I thought when I finished the book. But it was a helpful book, giving insight into what happens in the teenage brain, which closely resembles what happens in the 2 and 3 year

     I thought I was OK, that his passing would glide past me. He was so much older and not a part of my life. I was wrong, wrong. It sneaked up behind me, unbidden, uninvited, and before I knew what was happening, I was covered in a blanket of grief. I'm trying to sort out the various feelings and align them with things I know, but it all gets jumbled up in my head, and I feel a fatigue deep within me. Sleep, sleep feels so good now, I just want to sleep 12 hours at a time, or at least think and ponder in peace. It's hard to focus on what needs to be done; so I try to just do the next thing and no more. It's hard to see through this fog of sadness(?), regret(?), wistfulness(?), sorrow(?); I'm not even sure what to call it. If only I could name it, I could own it and understand it. Sorrow for the lost chances, the lost years, the wasted anger and confusion. Wistful for the past, for a chance to make things right, or change the course of a life. Regret that that I never

     I have a vague memory of my dad's mother; I can see her sitting in her rocking chair while I am playing on the floor. That's all I can remember.  Her rocking chair (hers because she sat in it when she came to visit) sits in my living room now, but she left something else of herself behind, something that makes me think of her and wonder what she was like. She was a quilter in her day, patiently cutting out scraps of cloth from old clothes and saving them for her quilts. Then, when she had enough, she would sew them together by hand. My dad's old pajamas, his sisters' gingham dresses, his mom's aprons, his brother's shirts, his dad's worn out work clothes: anything could end up in one of her quilts. I wonder what she thought about while cutting and sewing. Did she reminisce about those old clothes and who wore them? Was a quilt intended for someone in particular? Did she know that one day, a granddaughter would be enjoying her art work? Could she have gu

Dear Dad,                                                                                                   Feb. 6, 2004      It’s been a long time since I wrote you a letter. Remember how we would write to each other when I was away at college? Your spelling and grammar were horrible, but your letters were always funny. I could always hear your voice when I read them.      When I was little, I remember you bouncing me on your knee and singing those funny little songs like “Chattanooga Choo-Choo”, “Little Brown Jug” and “Does the Spearmint Lose its Flavor on the Bedpost Overnight?” You were always singing or whistling a tune. I remember you carrying me around as if I weighed nothing! You were so big and strong and your hands could fix just about anything. I will hang on to that memory instead of how sick and weak you were when you died.      Remember teaching me to ride a bike? You were pretty frustrated with me because I just couldn’t get the hang of it, but I managed to learn