I’m thankful for newborn calves, newborn people, bumpy ant hills, jumping boys, crunchy gravel, cupcakes, Radio Flyer wagons, stuffed Elmos, hot dogs, hoodies, and naps.
And, that dreams really do come true.

We spent the weekend at my family’s farm.  We call it Busy Bee, named after a “black” church that was once located in the area.  I don’t know if anyone outside our family knows it by that name, but sometime before I was born the name stuck.  It’s 180 acres of pasture, a herd of cows, baby calves and two bulls, a giant pecan tree, and a three-bedroom farm house where my mom grew up.  And, this weekend it was the place where we realized our dreams.

I spent most weekends there as a child, and for me, it has that comfortable feeling of home that comes from close sleeping quarters, lots of laughter and powerful memories.  My dad has raised cattle there as a hobby my whole life and goes there almost every day, but noone has lived there since my grandparents moved into town.  They are gone now, and the house had fallen into tearful disrepair until a few years ago when my parents renovated it–with some sweat, sneezing and color selection from the rest of us.  I think they had some reservations about investing in the house because it is just a “second” home only 15 minutes from their house in town, and we knew we would probably never spend every weekend there again.  Still, it was time to either renovate it or tear it down–and I begged, even though I knew the financial bullet would be theirs to bite.  I wanted to be able to share the farm with my children “someday.”

“Realizing your dreams” is an interesting phrase.  It implies a sneak-up-on-you quality that separates dreams from goals.  It describes that moment when you are suddenly made aware of having something you’ve always wanted, even if you didn’t know you wanted it.  Dreams are funny things.  We tend to focus on big ones–the once in a lifetime, pie in the sky, ship comes in type of wishes.  Sometimes those big dreams are easy because our mind halfway assumes already that they are out of reach.  It’s the simpler, actually attainable dreams that can scare us.  Those are the sacred desires that reveal our hearts, and show us what we’re really about.  They require an inner commitment beyond just hard work.  They beg for stubborn spirits and firm grasps, not of things and places, but of people–through thick, thin and thorniness.

My grandmother realized her dreams looking out the kitchen window in that farmhouse.  My grandfather realized his dreams listening to beagles hunt rabbits from a lawn chair under that pecan tree.  We realized our dreams in the cab of an extended cab pick-up truck by the barn.

We were just pulling out of the driveway by the tractor barn, heading to the “back” to tour the pastures and see the cows and bulls–something that had already produced much anticipation, squealing, and a flurry to put on coats.  Dad was driving with my aunt in the front seat.  Hub had the driver’s side back seat with Squiggle, pup-pup and bear-bear in his lap.  I was in the middle getting some “sugar” (as we say in the South) from Little Drummer Boy.  Mama was on the other side with Baby Girl wrapped up like a little snow bunny.  The boys had already examined the remains of the bonfire that produced much jumping, laughing and hot dogs the night before.  The sky was crisp and partly sunny in a blue that only Autumn can bring.  I think it was my mom who said it first:

“This is what we dreamed of.”

Then, as if everyone had been secretly sipping on the same cup of sweetened bubbly joy, we all added our own realizations.

“Umm Hmm.”
“This is why we did it.”
“Our three gifts.”
“My sweet boys and Baby Girl.”
“Yes.” with an extra hug and squeeze
“Our dreams come true.”

I’m thankful for realized dreams, the fruits of our hearts’ labor with God and each other.
“For he will not often consider the years of his life, because God keeps him occupied with the gladness of his heart.” (ecclesiastes 5:20)

In my quest for a renewed season of thanksgiving, I was looking again at an old journal (the actual pen to paper kind), and an entry from Thanksgiving Day, November 24, 2002.  For me, life, and intimate spiritual life in particular, seems to move in cycles where I experience and learn, re-experience and re-learn similar lessons.  Sometimes I have forgotten or been distracted from a truth and need a refresher course.  Sometimes God brings me full circle on an issue so that I can gain a deeper understanding that builds on past lessons.  I’m not sure which one this is, but I was contemplating the season then, too.  

I was going through a time of doubt and confusion, and maybe even a little fear of God.  I don’t mean the reverent, awe-inspiring kind of fear.  This was the scared, white-knuckle grip, hiding kind of fear of what He might expect of me.  I found myself actually afraid to draw near to God because I was afraid that he would take something precious from me.  I was persevering through struggles where answers and purpose were hard to find.  I had grown to doubt His character made so evident in the Bible.

This is starting to sound familiar!

In my journal, I was meditating on a few psalms and the idea of thanksgiving as a gateway.  Actually, just two phrases:

“…Come before His presence with thanksgiving.” (psalm 95:2)
“Enter His gates with thanksgiving…” (psalm 100:4)

My musings included a prayer in four parts that offers a refresher course for this season.  It’s still a worthy meditation, and a good starting point for my 12 Days of Thanksgiving experience.  Here’s what I wrote:

“Perhaps, this is the first step in getting rid of the doubt and fear that has taken over my relationship with God.

1.  I repent of a complaining and murmuring spirit, and ask God’s forgiveness for taking His character and blessings for granted.

2.  I ask Him to open my eyes to His goodness that is evident in my life, His faithfulness, His love and mercy.

3.  I choose the thank Him for what He shows me.  I thank Him for His works.  I thank Him for His character.

4.  I ask that this Thanksgiving season be a new turning point in my relationship with God.  Let me enter Your courts this season.”

Amen.

Counting has been a big point of interest around our house for the last few months.  Little Drummer Boy has been proudly demonstrating his prowess at counting to twenty, and bravely guessing at the unknown world beyond that benchmark.  “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, twenty-ten….”

Squiggle has been learning to count to three, primarily in the context of “one, two, three, go!” and the subsequent 2-year-old land speed record.  In true Squiggle fashion, he prefers to skip right past the one and two, and focus on “three, go!”  Why take time to contemplate the process when you can just hit the ground running?  Despite our best efforts, he seems to think three is the only number at the moment.  We try to count as often as possible: french fries as they go on the plate, blocks as they go in the bucket, arms and legs as they go in the shirts and pants, steps as we go up or down them.  But, Squiggle clearly prefers three.  Each step is “three, three, three.”

On August 30, we counted Baby Girl’s fingers and toes for the first time–ten of each.  Then, because of a minor nerve injury to her right arm during her delivery, we were counting reps in her little home-grown physical therapy sessions–bending at the elbow, raising over her head, and rotating palm up and palm down.  Hub really put her through the paces with 3 sets of 10 or 12 reps.  She’s more in shape than I am.  Now, she’s pretty much using her arm normally, and we’ve stopped mentally counting each time we see her lift it on her own.

Hub has been counting pennies and desperately trying to find two to rub together.  My maternity leave was wonderful, but it meant less money from my day job and even less time for my freelance writing jobs.  My return to work full time was good, but added another day care tuition to our budget.  Winter has come early for us in Hub’s business with project work dwindling.  So, now we’re counting the days until we hear back from extra job applications.

As for me, I’ve noticed a disturbing trend.  I’ve been adopting the taking names, counting check marks, and staying in at recess approach to thinking about our worrysome circumstances–assigning blame, complaining and criticizing.  Financial struggles and concerns are the top of the list in the family-buster stress category, and it’s been all over us like white on rice (as they say here in the deep south.)  It’s funny.  I never thought I was one to take the easy way out.  But, blaming, complaining and criticizing are SO easy.  It is so much easier to focus on someone else’s short-comings or mistakes than it is to take responsibility for my own.  Nitpicking my children into frustration is easy.  It’s so much easier to push my frustration on to them than to wisely deal with it myself.  Letting uncensored thoughts fly out of my mouth is a no-brainer.  It’s so much easier than exercising self-control.  It’s so much easier because it’s all about me.  It’s always easier to take care of Haley than it is to step outside of myself and my needs.  When faced with big things, it’s so easy to be small–to let the littlest things tear down and destroy.  It seems I need to relearn to count.

I grew up going to a Southern Baptist church (a couple, actually). Not that the distinction really matters, except to say that in Southern Baptist churches you stand up and sit down a lot, usually to sing.  One of the old standby hymns we sang was called “Count Your Blessings.”

Count your blessings.
Name them one by one.
Count your blessings.
See what God has done.

Yep, counting sounds pretty important right now.  In trying times, the hard stuff muscles its way to the front.  Those are the times when counting matters.  It’s a conscious, thinking action — counting, naming.  It forces me to push beyond the easy, to lay aside the temporary frustrations or disappointments and see life-long realities.  Blessings that can’t be shaken.  To count them is to keep a record, to acknowledge them, to give them a name, to signify their importance.

It’s fitting that Thanksgiving is just around the corner.  What better time to start counting?  So, I’ve decided to embark on a mathematical journey to quantify the blessings.  Complaining and criticism, be gone!  I’m challenging myself to reflect on Thanksgiving and document my joy in posts for the 12 days of Thanksgiving (no, there’s not a song.)  Let the count-down to turkey day begin!