She thought it might inspire me. Not just spiritual inspiration but for my writing, too. She didn’t know I had been thinking about but never acting on acquiring a devotional for myself when she sent one to my mailbox.

And it’s true, it does inspire me. Daily. Sometimes moment by moment. I am reminded of God’s grace. I am reminded that He is good. All the time. I am inspired by the positivity when days seem difficult and I am inspired by the words that remind me we are all in the same boat, many of us fighting the same battles. We are never alone in our struggles.

What she didn’t know is how inspired I am by her. Growing up she was our favorite aunt. Don’t tell my other aunts that, but she was the youngest (making her cooler just by age), the one who laughed the most and the one who could, in all honesty deal with the bickering between my sister and me better than anyone. She came to stay when my mom was in the hospital; leaving her own family behind, she would come and be our surrogate mom during times of great uncertainty and worry for pre-teen kids. While we never wished Mom would have to endure another surgery or more chemo, we cherished the times when Aunt Marg would come to visit. She smiles so easily and you can’t help but feel like the world is a better place when she’s around.

I remember a time as a young teenager, when my grandpa came to visit. He always, ALWAYS, made us sit in his new car and admire the plush seats. This time, he put a tape in the player and asked me to guess who the music was by. I knew right away from the way he was acting that the pianist was Aunt Marg, but I also knew that my grandpa was beaming with pride and was showing off on her behalf. “Beethoven?” I suggested, “Bach?” He grinned from ear to ear and said, “That might be the composer, but the one performing is Marg!” I wondered that day, sitting in the passenger seat if my dad might ever be as proud of me as my grandad was of my Aunt. I knew I would never be as good at the piano as she was, but her inspiration still kept me practicing.

Just like my daily devotional, I think of Aunt Marg all the time. Perennials she blessed me with are prospering in my front flower bed. Every time I add to our landscape or work in the garden I know my standards for gardening excellence come from the beauty of her own yard. A freezer she generously gave to us holds the bounty of our garden and pasture until we are ready to eat it. My dusty piano downstairs reminds me of her amazing gift of music and how many people have been blessed by that talent.

My mom has been gone for more than 25 years and I have often wondered what it would be like to have her beside me through life’s struggles and joys. But in a way, I already know. When the devotional arrived in my box, it was just like something Mom would have done. And when Aunt Marg emails to say she thought of Mom and what an amazing grandmother she would have been after reading the day’s devotional, I felt the echo of my own thoughts in her words.

Just as I am blessed by reminders of God’s grace in my bedside devotional, I am ever so blessed by the grace and love of my Aunt Marg. She inspires me to be better than I am on any given day. She reminds me that life is full of joy if we take the time to look. And she inspires me to write and share my talents with the world the way she has done. Thank you, Aunt Marg, for the devotional. It has been, like you, a blessed thing indeed.

I grew up with the word. Diagnosed when I was ten, my mom, Jenny, suffered from a malignant brain tumor for over a dozen years before it finally took her away from us. Standing in the garage Friday afternoon, in the company of chickens, I wasn’t at all prepared for that word to be spoken, but there James stood, reading off the back of one of my completed crossword puzzles. “Malignant melanoma” he said.

“Okay,” was my entire reply. “Okay.”

He had been to the dermatologist after being referred there by another doctor. He had been having pain and a sore in his ear that kept swelling. It would bleed at the slightest touch, making it quite difficult for a man who wears ear protection every day at his job. The “ear infection” diagnosis had apparently been quite wrong as James continued to read for me the results of the biopsy.

“It’s skin cancer. In my ear.”

“Okay,” I repeated. Though absolutely nothing was okay. Nothing.

He went on to tell me that the doctor was quite concerned as the portion they removed was of “significant size” and due to its location was particularly problematic. The doctor had basically said, in more medical verbiage, to run, not walk to Ann Arbor as the “best ENT’s in the nation are at the University of Michigan.”

“Okay,” I said once again.

Over the next few days we learned several things. First, don’t google this stuff. Second, we needed far more information and had no hope for getting any until July, when we were tentatively scheduled in Ann Arbor for further testing.

After spending the weekend digesting and trying to live with this news, James and I both agreed that we couldn’t wait until July to get further answers. Before he could even make phone calls on Monday morning, however, U of M called him.

He recounted the conversation to me when I got home. A surgical ENT nurse from U of M had called him. She had received his initial information and wanted to talk with James further. She was all but telepathic, knowing how concerned we must be and immediately expediting the process and moving up the doctor’s consult to next week. She answered every question James had, shared her direct line number and told him if he needed absolutely anything, he should call her directly. James looked at me and said, “Her name is Jenny. The nurse. Her name is Jenny.”

As he told this to me, I started to cry. For the first time since the news arrived, I felt the tears roll.

Of course it is. Of course it is.

We have no idea what we are up against. We know how suddenly this came on and how concerned the dermatologist is. We know that a referral to U of M means you NEED the very best and yet, we are trying with every ounce of ourselves, to not get ahead of anything, to not rush into worry, but to take things one step at a time. Easy for me to say, I’m not the one with a raging ear infection/cancer that’s causing such discomfort that it sent my husband to the ER today just for relief from the pain and pressure.

“Okay,” I keep hearing myself say. “Okay.” Trying to will myself to be calm, rational and level-headed – not the three most frequently used adjectives to describe me for sure. But okay. If Jenny is here to guide us through this process, I cannot help but believe we are in the best hands. Whatever it is, whatever it turns out to be, however small or large or difficult or straight-forward, we are going to be okay. If I learned nothing from all the years my mom battled her own “malignant” diagnosis it’s that worry will get us nowhere but faith will get us to exactly where we need to be. Jenny’s got this. And I have to believe that’s not a coincidence.

Starting seeds while there is still snow on the ground is one of the things that gets me through the doldrums of winter in anticipation of spring. Over the years, James has helped me create our own little growing system in the basement, using a potting bench I built with my dad and a folding table or two. In the beginning, I tried to everything just so, with only certain equipment, lighting, timers and soil mixes. But, over the years, experience has taught me that the key to getting my sprouts all started has little to do with buying expensive grow lights or hydration systems. It has little to do with the exact soil composition (I’ve learned that using our own compost and a bit of seed starting mix will do just fine). What gets my seeds sprouting and growing is how close they are to the light. Not what kind of light, mind you, just how close they are to it.

• 

• 

The close light source allows the plants to grow at a normal pace, without trying to overly elongate the stems just to reach the nearest light source. Keeping the light very close to the plants lets them soak it up without compromising the integrity of the stems, which is crucial for survival out in the wind and rain.

So, our system doesn’t involve any expensive bulbs or lights. It doesn’t have a purple glow or a full-spectrum anything. In fact, we use fluorescent shop lights that we just had on hand. And they do the job perfectly.

I try to remind myself of this when I’m just not feeling like my joyful self. When I am faced with what feels like the daunting task at times of enthusiastically encouraging ten year olds when I feel far from enthusiastic about anything. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter that the light is artificial. Or that it is an old, rusty, dusty shop light. It doesn’t matter that the cords are a tangled mess and that there’s more than one multi-plug in use just to get power to where we need it to be. What matters is that I bring that light as close as I can to each student. That I spend every day saying something meaningful and positive and specific to each student to brighten them up, encourage them and to help them grow.

My plants are ready to transition to the outdoors. They have enough leaves to soak up the actual sun and strong enough stems and roots to support them in a summer breeze or April rain. I hope that the joy I bring to my students, even when it is far from perfect sunlight, I hope my proximity, my desire to be close and constant, provides each one of my students with the support they need to go out into the world with confidence and strength. I hope that this light is a blessed little thing that helps each one of them bear fruit and multiply joy.

Our new little girls arrived three weeks ago. I’ve been horribly remiss in posting pictures, but believe me when I say I haven’t been remiss in taking them. I have joked for years that I have hundreds more photos of my cow babies and chickies than I do of my only child, but it has never been more true.

My place of bliss is spending time with the five new chicks. Every day I try to sit with them, talk with them and touch them to get them used to human contact and to make them as friendly as their natural inclinations will allow. And every day I am simply amazed by the care our Creator took in these babies. When Trudy comes sniffing around the brooder or lets out a bark, the girls all run for cover and stand perfectly still. They scratch and peck at the ground without ever having seen a mother hen show them how or why. They send signals to each other with their chirps and cheeps to signal food or danger. They clean and primp their feathers as they go from downy soft to their “big girl wings”. These instincts serve them well. Better than well. The girls wouldn’t survive without them.

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

Yesterday, my principal shared with me two upcoming openings within our district. He was quite certain I would be excited about at least one of them, and on paper, one does look like a great fit for me. He knows I’m looking to make a move out of the classroom but still within the school setting and I was so appreciative of him giving me a heads up. I haven’t seen the official posting yet, and I will keep my mind open until I give it fair consideration, but in truth, my own instincts kept me from feeling much excitement about either posting. Despite my experience, my background and what my principal sees in me, these positions are not for me.

As anxious as I am to make a move out of the classroom, I do not want to jump to something that isn’t a positive, joyful move for me. I do not want to make a move that makes me think, “wow, that sounds like a lot of work” and not “wow, that sounds like a lot of fun!” My instincts are telling me no. Even though I know deeply that staying in the classroom for another year isn’t where my heart is either.

If I have learned anything from my little girls, however, it’s to listen to my instincts. To not move when I am faced with uncertainty. To wait until I have a really good morsel before chirping with excitement. To keep honing my skills and growing professionally until the right opportunity comes along. Then, with unabashed enthusiasm, I will show the world just how I can fly.

It was a charming house, full of rounded doorways and small little rooms. It needed work, for sure, but it was just right for Jacob and me at the time. When we moved in, we were excited to have a dining room in addition to the kitchen space, but we only had one table. My dad the craftsman, came to the rescue, building us a custom-fit kitchen table that was perfect for two. Carefully built out of maple, it was absolutely ideal for our needs. We put it to good use for a number of years until the move to the farm. Then, with only space for one table and knowing that Dad’s table was too small to ever host guests, the maple table was tucked away in the basement until we found the perfect new use for it.

Last year, I found the perfect new use for it. As I was searching for fun new seating options for my classroom and creating new work spaces for the students, I remembered Dad’s table and was excited about putting it to use once again. I dusted off the table, hauled it to school and surrounded it with four blue stools. The students loved sitting there to work! Whether they were reading, writing, drawing, solving math problems, working alone or with a group, they enjoyed the table and I was thrilled to have the addition to my classroom.

This year, with all the COVID protocols and precautions, the students have to stay at their assigned desk all day. Completely the opposite of my classroom the last few years where we encouraged kids to move about, get more comfortable and to choose different spaces for different kinds of learning. To make more room (six feet!) between each desk, I had to take out all my fun seating options. The little love seat and chair came home. The pillows all came home. The bed rests and beanbags all came home. “All extras” were tucked away, put into school storage or returned home for an unknown length of time. But I just wasn’t ready to put the table back in the storage closet in the basement.

As I arranged my classroom last August, trying to preserve as much of the fun learning environment as I possibly could while creating safe distances between student desks, I kept shifting the table from here to there, trying to find a home for it. It didn’t take long before I realized that despite all my years of not having a teacher’s desk (my preference), the new computer/projector set-up required something at the front of the room for the computer. Dad’s table came to the rescue. Much smaller than the school-issued teacher desks, the table provided ample space for the computer and enough work room for my needs all while minimizing the footprint in the overall room. I was even able to tuck an extra student desk underneath!

Now, every day when I am at school, every day when I face the stresses and joys of teaching, every day when I sit and answer emails from parents criticizing an instructional choice I made or more demands from administration on my time, or when I grade student work, I sit at a desk crafted by the hands of my dad.

It is never for a moment lost on me that my dad used to sit at a desk grading papers, handling criticisms from parents and demands from administrators. It is never far from my thoughts that he surely felt stressed and frustrated and anxious and sometimes maybe even as defeated as I do. But I never remember Dad complaining. I never remember our dinner conversations revolving around his stress at work. I never remember him venting about students or any of the abundant pressures on teachers. I am sure he did, in appropriate ways, but never to us kids. I do remember people, from my youth to now, always telling me what an inspirational teacher and administrator my dad was. I remember feeling pride, never once embarrassment, that my dad was my high school principal, a relationship and position that could have been extremely challenging had he been unfair, temperamental, authoritative or unsympathetic to students and staff. But he wasn’t. He was exactly the kind of administrator I wish I could work for today. Supportive, encouraging, empowering and fair.

As I sat this past week at the table Dad built for me, preparing grades, data and information for parent teacher conferences, I felt overwhelmed. This year has been like no other and the challenges have certainly taken their toll. As I found myself getting upset over a parent criticism, I sat back for a moment and noticed the table I was seated at. The sanded, polished wood. The beautiful added details to the legs. Even the little dots from a Sharpie marked that soaked through a paper at some point. I realized that I was not only sitting at a table my dad crafted, but that I am a human being that my dad crafted. Made, not just from the love between him and my mom, but raised with the same fairness, encouragement, support and empowerment that he gave to his students and staff during his career. In fact, I am sure I got heaps more of all those things being one of his daughters.

Crafted by Dad.

Today, and every day, I am blessed by my career. Even on the most difficult of days during the most difficult year, I am blessed to be a teacher. And I am blessed to have been raised by my dad (and mom), who both crafted me into the person that I am today. This table is my daily reminder that to be loved like this is no small thing. That while any table (or teacher) might do, the craftsmanship of my dad can make all the difference. This little blessing made of maple made all the difference today.

I stopped on my way out the drive the other morning to snap a picture of the pond. I shared it with a friend who remarked on the beauty of it all. I agreed, of course, and yet a part of me felt like correcting her. The pond, afterall, isn’t really that beautiful. Right now it’s at the lowest we’ve ever seen it. The trees, shrubs and grass haven’t leafed out yet so there’s really no real color in the area. On this particular morning the Canadian geese hadn’t even arrived yet and the turtles weren’t basking on logs. It really was just a plain, early spring, colorless pond.

But add in one gorgeous sunrise and presto! You have an enchanting moment.

I thought about that throughout the day. How something so routine, drab and even lifeless can change dramatically if we just alter the lens we view it through.

My mother-in-law has been staying with us and she had a friend over the other day while I was at work. She toured the friend around our property, showing off the garden, chicken coop, cows and woods like the proud mother she is. Later, as she recounted the visit, she told us how much her friend just loved our home and all our animals. How she took pictures and was amazed at some of the things we had created here.

It was a good reminder to us, that even when all we see are flower beds that need mulching, or a garden that needs weeding and planting, or even a pasture that is full of stale hay and manure, others see it very differently. We were reminded of the beauty that we can take for granted. Of all the little details that make our property our home. We were reminded to see our little part of the word with a rose colored lens. For we are, indeed, blessed by these ten little acres and all the beauty they hold for us.

I let the girls out in the yard again. For as much as James and I love to be outside, the chickens come bursting through the run door with a similar enthusiasm for spring sunshine.

We usually let them out when we are done with our projects for the day. When we are ready to just sit back in a lawn chair and talk about the day, the progress or even start planning for what’s next. The girls run all through the flower beds, kicking mulch into the yard and digging holes in all the wrong places, but it’s hard to say no when I enjoy digging in the beds and getting dirt under my nails as well.

I noticed Iris was acting a little out of sorts, however. She kept running back over to the run door and clucking away. She’d go inside for a moment and then come running back out to eat more grass, search for insects and hope for something green.

It wasn’t hard to figure out the issue. Iris needed to lay her egg for the day. But, like James and I both, she didn’t want to be inside for even a single moment on such a nice day. James laughed as I reassured Iris the sun will in fact come out again tomorrow and it was okay if she just went inside for now and laid her egg. Certainly, she would feel better after, in any case.

I opened the coop door and James took the winter locks off the windows so I could open those as well. Iris finally went inside and hopped up into the nesting box to lay.

When I peeked in on her, she reminded me of a quote from a book I am currently reading (as well as Scripture, of course), “Be still and know.”

Sometimes, we need to just be still and know that the joy that surrounds us isn’t fleeting. It’s within us all the time if only we recognize its residence. Sometimes we need to just be still and know that our daily accomplishments are no minor things, but are the very things that give us purpose and meaning and joy. Chickens might never understand how important laying their daily egg is to the world, but the world sure understands how important that single routine task is.

I am thankful today, that Iris took the time to be still and I know her egg will be enjoyed thoroughly for her patience.

I am not a fan of winter. An odd thing to say, perhaps, for a woman living in Southwest Michigan, but it’s quite true. Other than the occasional deep fluffy snowfall that makes me believe for a moment that I’m living in a snowglobe, I find no pleasure in the cold, the ice, the slick, the cold, the slush, the crunch, the scraping – did I mention the cold? But without a doubt, I am grateful for winter. I don’t usually admit that, certainly not during the polar vortex also known as January, but I am. Very grateful.

If we didn’t have winter, if we didn’t have four or five months of it, I’m not sure I would ever appreciate with appropriate depth the signs of spring. I first heard the peepers last Wednesday. I actually stopped my car and sat by the side of the road with windows down and just listened, soaking up the sound. Nothing quite says “spring!” like a chorus of frogs.

The sprouts that I started downstairs are all starting to grow. That is a delight unto itself for sure. It never ceases to amaze me how such tiny seeds can provide such growth, such subsistence, such joy just in the process of creating fruits, vegetables and flowers. I even have marigolds coming along nicely this year. A simple flower that I’ve never been able to sprout well from seed before.

James and I cherish our days spent together in the garden, or in the yard, or in the woods, or around the property. Even when we are working at opposite ends of the garden beds, we still feel a connectedness as we prepare and plant and sow and reap together. We also appreciate our different passions, as he gets giddy about running the water lines and setting up the trellises, while I am happiest scooching down the rows on my rear, talking to the seeds as I plant each one.

A year ago, our world shut down. We had no idea then what we had in store for us, nor could we have predicted perhaps how long we would stay away from our families, away from our friends. And while this winter’s weather left us with little to complain about, the compounding isolation from the pandemic during winter makes this spring feel especially freeing. Even if we still aren’t seeing our families regularly. Even if we aren’t able to do all the “normal” activities, time spent in the sun, with the earth in our hands, listening to the creatures of the world, we feel healed. And lucky. And blessed. By all these little things.

For those of you who haven’t ever had reason to try, getting chickens to move down the roosting bar to make room for one more takes a little more than just a “skooch”, even if followed up with “please”. Sigh.

Dear Ruby. She’s been in isolation for a week now. Her feathers are coming in and her wounds seem to be healing but it’s a slow process. While we wait for her to fully heal (read that: for no signs of injury that the other chickens will make worse), we have kept her in her own fenced area of the run. She’s not at all happy about it, even if it means she isn’t getting pecked to death. Literally. Chickens can be such assholes.

Tonight, with a winter weather advisory that includes high winds, cold temps and some sort of nasty precipitation, we decided to try to put Ruby back in the coop with the flock just to roost for the night.

When I first took her in, the other six were all snuggled up together, with April on the only open end. I know enough about the pecking order of my flock than to put poor Ruby next to April, so I picked up Iris and made her swap places with April. Iris is pretty easy going for a chicken, and the moment I set Ruby next to her, Ruby recognized a friend and nestled her whole head under Iris’ wing. Unfortunately, Iris didn’t recognize a friend in return and took to pecking at Ruby’s eyes and face. Again and again. When that didn’t seem to be ceasing, I decided to relocate Ruby. Trouble was, the next best place for her was next to Della and she was much further down the line. I had to “skooch” Iris, then April, then Beatrix (who wasn’t happy about it at all and sat her fluffy butt right back down). Millie was so perturbed by the notion that she fluttered up to the other roosting bar out of the way (which helped!) I eventually got Ruby situated in between Della and Hazel, and left her turned the opposite direction from them so even if they felt compelled, it was a much more difficult stretch to peck at Ruby’s face (and nearly as difficult to get at her injured wings). Hazel pecked at her once, but then everyone seemed to settle in, Millie even returned to the flock and I said a quiet prayer and went back to the house.

About an hour later, I went back out, my conscience eating at me. I know chickens can be ruthless to put it mildly and I didn’t want them to undo a week of healing in one cold night. When I went back in, I went right up to Ruby with my flashlight so I could see if either of her wounds were bleeding or seemed to be any worse. I was trying to do so as inconspicuously as possible, as I didn’t want to disturb the girls if they were settled in well together. As I checked on her wing, I thought for a moment Hazel was going to start pecking at her again and I quietly scolded her. As I did, Della took her wing and laid it right over Ruby, covering her up and hiding any injuries from Hazel’s view. It was the sweetest thing I’ve seen any of the girls ever do.

I can’t promise or even hope that Ruby won’t be worse for the wear by morning. And I can’t even truly suggest that Della’s move was intentional. But for now, I’m going to let my heart believe that it was. That even when we are surrounded by those who want to kick a girl when she’s down, by those who would rather see us continue to be hurt and troubled, when it’s in the “best interest” of the group to keep one of us from getting the respite we need, out of the blue a true friend might emerge and save us. If only for a moment. If only for tonight.

Maybe I’m too softhearted to be a chicken mama. Maybe I’m not the best farm wife or animal owner when my heart aches so much for my creatures. Maybe I’m going to have some real heartaches down the road (maybe as soon as tomorrow morning) but for just a moment tonight, I was blessed by the kindness of a chick. Of a protective wing and a hen who can cuddle up and stay warm tonight. I know it’s where Ruby wants to be. Thanks, Della, for the tender moment. Ruby was surely blessed by it as well.

I work in a female dominated profession. I once told a new, male, administrator that what we needed most in our building was a rooster in the henhouse. I did not realize at the time that the man was gay, and I am sure I could have phrased it far more professionally at the time, but I was trying to express how badly we needed someone to put a stop to the nightmarish things women do to each other. All the ways we pick each other apart; all the ways we act cooperative when we are extremely competitive. All the ways we try to justify backstabbing.

My chickens never let me forget this truth. The chooks are cute and funny and silly but also cruel and mean and hurtful. We discovered this weekend that one of my favorite girls was not just molting but was having some “help” removing feathers. Two scabby wings and a complete lack of feathers in spots made my blood boil. While I can read about and understand the realities of a pecking order, it breaks my heart to see it applied in full, literal sense with my beloved flock.

Lately, I feel like I’ve been the one doing the pecking and backstabbing. Not to a friend or colleague, but to myself. I feel like I have been sabotaging myself, convincing myself that I am less than I am, or not capable of what I dream, or that I cannot have the things I deeply crave. I feel like I have been telling myself lies for perhaps longer than I can even put a finger on and that those lies have kept me from being true or being real or being honest with myself.

Tonight, I tried to clean the wounds on my favorite feathered girl and at the advice of a neighbor who knows about such matters, I applied honey and wrapped gauze around her, all the while trying not to think it looked like I was preparing her for Sunday dinner. I’m too soft-hearted to deal with the hard side of pets and I found myself sitting on the ground, in the improvised quarantined-but-still-visible area of the run, holding my little Ruby on my lap trying to keep her calm. I heard myself telling her in my quietest “mom” voice, “Breathe, sweet Ruby, just breathe.” And after about the fifth or sixth or twentieth time of me saying that, I realized I wasn’t saying it to Ruby, I was saying it to myself. Breathe, Amy. Just breathe. Just sit on the ground with a chicken in your arms. Feel the sun. Hear her soft coo’s and just exhale for one damn second.

I wish there was a salve we could apply to the wounds we suffer, including those we self-inflict. I wish there was a way to wrap ourselves up tight, add some protein to our diet and after a few days find ourselves healed and ready to face the flock again. I wish there was someone to come in when we need it most, especially when we are least likely to ask for it, and just hold us while we remember to breathe. I don’t just mean the friends or family who will call or text to see how we are doing. I mean, the arms that hold you tightly but just loosely enough; the embrace that says, I’m here, for as long as you need, but you are free to go, too. In all truth, in every molecule of my being, I wish I could talk to my mom. Breathe, Amy. Just breathe.

I will keep checking on my injured chicken. Even in the middle of the night, I will go make sure she is okay, out in her isolated area, all alone. I will give her any comfort I can for as long as she needs to heal. I will sit on the ground and hold my dear little Ruby and tell her that she will be okay; that she can return to the flock good as new in a just few days and that I will not let anyone peck her wounds while she tries to heal. And I will do everything I can to offer the same reassurances to my own self.

Today, I am blessed by my injured feathered girl, who give me reason to pause and reason to breathe. Who put me into my own little isolation and stopped all the doubts, worry, accusations, and peck-peck-pecking in my head for long enough that I heard the migrating cranes, that I felt the heartbeat of an animal, that I smelled the damp spring earth. Thank you, Ruby. Your wings held me today just when I needed it most.