Add a little Wordsworth, and it seems more aspiring…

I’ve watched you now a full half-hour;

(William Wordsworth, “To a Butterfly”)

Hoping you find joy in something simple and uncomplicated today, too.

“He’s a dandy,” an old cattle rancher told us.

Translation: he’s a big, fine-looking calf.

But he wouldn’t nurse. We don’t know why.

He was separated from his mother for a short time. Maybe he couldn’t nurse, or maybe he was traumatized.

Then his mother, in pain, wouldn’t let him nurse.

I found him curled up in the tall grass the morning after he was born. His nose was cold, his eyes were rolling back in his head, and his mother was nowhere near. With my husband at work and helplessly unable to leave, I rushed to town to buy colostrum. The calf wouldn’t take the bottle. My mother-in-law came to help, and we got him to drink a pint of colostrum from a bowl – a relief, but hardly enough for that critical first 24 hours.

The colostrum didn’t sit right with his insides. Scours threatened to dehydrate him before antibiotics could take effect. Mabel, smelling foreign milk, began to abandon her baby. Things looked pretty grim.

“Feed him his mother’s milk,” the old rancher said. “She’ll take him back, all right.”

Translation: We had to milk the cow.

We had never milked a cow, nor were we set up to milk a cow. The cow, for her part, probably had never been milked, either. She wouldn’t even let us near her.

Standing out in the freezing cold near midnight on the third night, waiting to pull a rusty chute gate closed, I began to think cattle ranching might be the end of us. Mabel didn’t want to go into the cattle chute. Mabel didn’t want to be milked. Mabel weighs appx. 1,200 pounds.

That third night, she lowered her head and charged. My husband leaped out of the way, onto the nearest round pen panel. Mabel caught his leg and pinned it there. I, not having any clue what to do, started clapping my hands and charging and yelling at Mabel. It was a fine moment. Mabel was a little bewildered at this behavior (perhaps she’d never seen this old cattle ranching trick), and she backed off to scratch her head in puzzlement. My husband, being astute, seized the opportunity to get out of the round pen.

We did feed the calf his mama’s milk. Never mind that we gave it to him through a tube inserted down his esophagus. Just as the rancher said, Mabel started sniffing her baby again, remembering him.

We milked and tube fed for nearly a week, watching for any sign that the calf would take over and nurse. There were high points: Junior got to experience milking a cow, laughing and aiming the stream of milk at his dad. Mabel liked the grain that she got when she was locked into the chute. The calf was perking up after each feeding.

But we couldn’t keep this up. We were getting up early, going to bed late, each time wondering whether we’d be able to get Mabel into the chute with everyone’s bones intact.

Yesterday, the day before Mother’s Day, I was feeling sleep-deprived, snippy, and overwhelmed with farm life.

I took my camera out for a couple final shots before writing a contemplative post about the sometimes long and helpless wait for God to heal families.

When I went out to take pictures, Mama Mabel was stamping her feet to shake off the flies. The calf was flicking flies off his ears. Flies were showing up in all my pictures.

I got the livestock fly spray and carefully opened the cattle gate, talking to Mabel in low tones… hoping she wouldn’t lower her head at me while I sprayed her, too.

The calf, roused by the spray, got up and ran to his mama. He butted her neck. He tried to nurse at the loose skin. This was new. He was just in the wrong place. He wandered to the water tank, sipping for a long time. I shooed him away, back to his mama.

And then…

With Mabel finally standing still, the calf figured it out.

Do you know… that calf was mad! Poor Mabel raised her leg to deter him, but the secret was out. The calf ducked under her and butted his head to let down the milk. He raced from side to side, frantic and happy, as if to say, “That’s where this has been! How could you have hidden it from me all that time?!”

Now he knows, and there’s no going back.

The waiting is over.

Happy Mother’s Day. Please pray today for someone who might be wishing the waiting was over in some way.

but no, no one got cut, and yes, the other vase was spared.

Monday, it looked like it was shaping up to be “Duck Week.” An egg hatched in our incubator overnight! It was at least a week early, so the first thing on the agenda involved ditching our original plans and driving into town for a heat lamp.

My older daughter (now dubbed “Nutmeg” for the blog) is thrilled with the duckling (who hasn’t been dubbed anything yet).

We’re reading fairy tales this month. We added The Ugly Duckling to this week’s plan. The kids got very quiet at the part where the harassed “duckling” sees his grown-up reflection in the water. I’d forgotten how moving that story can be.

Nutmeg figured out how to make ducklings with her pattern blocks.

Later in the week, in addition to the usual phonics and math, we worked in the garden. “Junior” planted watermelons in a newly-mounded watermelon hill.

I planted marigolds to keep bugs out of the garden.

Sunday had included a trip to Nana and Papa’s house. Papa did an amazing demonstration of magnets.

See the horseshoe shape of the iron filings on the piece of paper? That was just a start. By the time they were done, they had a huge nail with wires wrapped around it, attached to an even bigger battery. That was one impressive magnet.

Below, they’re working with the materials that came with our magnet kit. Papa thought he could do better (which he did, of course – the duct-tape-wrapped nail in the foreground is one of the sizes they used).

We also visited Grandma and Grandpa’s house. The kids explored their beautiful yard, which led to learning about maple (“helicopter”) seeds.

We are learning about habitats this month. The kids colored a savanna and stuck stickers on it. A couple animals from other habitats visited, too.

We had a good mix of following our interests and completing planned work.

Today is Monday again, and our plans have already been ditched. We had to run into town this morning for milk replacer for a newborn calf who isn’t nursing well. We hope he makes it. If he does, I may be posting a “Calf Week” overview!

Part 1: The Hiving of the Bees

My husband built several hives. Then he ordered our bees, and we drove to Kansas City to pick them up.

On the way home, some bees escaped and buzzed around the van. My older daughter was delighted: “Can I keep them as pets?” Like any good parent, we said, “Go for it!”

(She didn’t get stung.)

This is how the bees came:

Five boxes are nailed together, each full of thousands of honey bees. One box went to my husband’s parents for their new urban beekeeping adventures.

With dwindling daylight, we headed to the apple orchard for the “hiving” of the bees.

A tree nursery expert had come out several months ago. He showed my husband how to mercilessly trim those old, half-dead apple trees. Now they’re loaded with apples.

We hope the bees will make themselves busy next spring, pollinating the blossoms.

Each bee package had a tin can that had been full of sugar water. We sprayed the bees with more sugar water to keep them occupied. Then M pulled a can out and extracted the queen bee’s tiny castle-cage.

Usually, the opening of the queen bee’s cage is sealed by:
1) a piece of cork, and
2) a chunk of marshmallow candy.
The beekeeper removes the cork. Then the bees eat through the candy while the queen acclimates to her new home. This reduces the chance that she’ll fly off to a different home.

We discovered the hard way that there were no marshmallows in our queen bee boxes!

The first two queens dropped straight into their hives, fortunately. They must have liked it, because they stayed. We added marshmallows to the other two cages. M shook the other bees out of the packages into the hives, like so:

When each set of bees had been shaken into its hive, he tacked the queen bee’s cage inside, added a jar of sugar water, and closed up the hive.

The picture above shows a Langstroth hive. We have two of those, from my in-laws. Langstroth hives have sheets of plastic that mimic honeycomb. But the “top-bar” hives that we built have strips of wood across the tops of the hives, and the bees build the comb from scratch.

The bees’ sugar-water is made by boiling a certain measure of water, then stirring in the same measure of sugar. (Keep refrigerated.) Each hive can go through a jar of sugar-water per day. Purists feed their bees honey, as it’s more natural. Honey bee numbers are dwindling, so some beekeepers are fairly passionate about their bees’ health.

The bees above are fanning the queen’s pheromones with their wings. This tells the stragglers where their new hive is.

Part 2: In Which I Get Stung

It was getting dark. We had been so careful not to kill a single precious honey bee. Then…

My husband accidentally stepped on a big glob of them. We backed off slowly… hoping they weren’t sending out a collective chemical “alarm” signal.

Right then, a bee climbed up my jeans leg! I freaked out… internally… while externally trying to make like a statue and freeze! While I was slooowwwly helping the bee find its way out, another bee stung my thumb – and right near the joint, where it really hurts!

For a minute, I thought I might die. Bee stings sting, and I’m a wimp. I may have asked for an epidural, but it was all a blur.

Several days later, undaunted, I went along on a trip to the hives to get pictures of the bees’ progress.

Part 3: A Tour and Update

Since it was daylight then, I was able to get better shots for a “tour” of the hives.

This is a top-bar hive with a hinged lid. Very nice.

(By the way, I think my husband looks very nice in his Brave Beekeeping outfit. )

The white lid of our other top-bar hive has to be removed and set on the ground.

Opening a little side window gives a peek inside without disturbing the bees. They’ve been busy!

The bees’ entrance to the top-bar hive is on the other side. In the winter, we’ll close the hole with a cork.

Now for the good part!

M lifted one of the bars out of the hive… very, very slowly…

See the smaller piece of wood on the underside of the bar? It’s just a triangular rod attached to the main bar. I coated all along the triangle with bee’s wax before we put the bees in the hives.

And here’s what they’ve done with that little coating of bee’s wax!

Isn’t it beautiful?!!! I love how the bees seem to drip off the honeycomb.

Work hard, honey bees! Our mouths are watering!

I feel like I’ve kicked a wasp’s nest, and there’s no undoing it. Normally, I really dislike conflict. It makes me very uncomfortable. I’ve been sleep deprived this week. (Never post something big when you’ve been staying up late researching homeschool curriculum – or staying up late cleaning up sick kid messes – or staying up late doing anything.)

I also think this issue served as a scapegoat for worries that are more personal.

But God can use all things to turn us to him.

When we first moved here, there were so many things to do that some chores fell off the priority list… like watering my philodendron. I decided to let it die, and I left it in a storage area for at least six months.

A few days ago, I wanted the planter pot for something else, and when I went to get it, this is what I found:

After all that time, I cannot figure out how this “dead” plant had energy to put out a new leaf!

I let the ivy keep its container, watered it, added fertilizer, and cleared away the dead leaves.

I want to believe that I’ll make it through long, dry stretches, when survival means I don’t always get to church on Sunday, and I don’t always read my Bible. Will God still find any signs of growth?

Over the next couple months, I’d like to memorize Philippians – renewing my mind, washing it with the water of the Word.

In the end, the thing that will matter is how deeply I dug my roots in to God. Everything else should fall into place from the roots… right?

Psalm 1:1-3

Blessed is the one
who does not walk in step with the wicked
or stand in the way that sinners take
or sit in the company of mockers,
but whose delight is in the law of the Lord,
and who meditates on his law day and night.
That person is like a tree planted by streams of water,
which yields its fruit in season
and whose leaf does not wither—
whatever he does prospers.

Philippians 4:8

Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable–if anything is excellent or praiseworthy–think about such things.

I started teaching my kids several years ago, before school choices were even on our minds. As they grew old enough, and it was time to start thinking about enrollment decisions, I dragged my feet. Eventually I had to say, “We’re sort of doing a trial year of homeschooling… ” And I’d add, lamely, “We can always send them to school next year. At this young age, they won’t have missed much,” which was not what I was thinking at all.

The truth is, I always wanted to homeschool. I love learning, and I love teaching my kids. I nearly jump for joy when my son wakes up in the morning, and the first thing he says is, “Hey, did you know that if you have eight two times, it’s the same as having four four times?” Homeschooling, for us, has very little, if anything, to do with religion, politics, or dislike of public schools. It has everything to do with me not wanting someone else to have all the joy – and responsibility – of guiding my kids to learn.

I’ve approached homeschooling with fear and trepidation, though. I’m a Christian stay-at-home mom who lives on a farm. Add homeschooling to the equation, and I’m guaranteed a certain stereotype – one that I’m not sure I want.

A few months ago, I found The Well Trained Mind, written by Susan Wise Bauer. Like me, Bauer is a Christian who lives on a farm and homeschools. But her homeschooling is aimed at a rigorous education, not at a particular lifestyle. Her online forums are open to any homeschooler, from atheists to the most conservative Christians.

I already knew, before finding her forums, that my faith takes a slightly different turn than that of some Christians. I knew there were some who believe that everyone should homeschool or that all people should have self-sustaining mini-farms. I’m in favor of promoting homeschooling as a valid option (although I don’t believe it’s for everyone). And I’d be thrilled to be an advocate of gardening. But these have almost nothing to do with my faith.

What I didn’t know, before beginning to homeschool, was that there are Christians who believe that if you don’t espouse a literal seven-day creation, you aren’t saved – or at least you occupy a lower rung on the spiritual ladder.

As I best understand it, Christianity is defined by:
1) a surrender to and dependence on Jesus for forgiveness,
2) a secondary response of willingness to forgive those around us and live in grace with each other, and
3) a reliance on the power demonstrated by the resurrection to continue in a living relationship with God.
Many other issues are important – some of them may be important enough to preclude ministry – but not essential to being a valid Christian. Christianity is not about knowing the right answers to everything. It is about being in a Relationship – about being loved and redeemed.

But that only addresses the controversy on the faith level.

If you happen to believe in an old earth – or you’re affiliated with someone who does – you might be uninvited to speak at homeschool conventions, or you might be asked not to mention certain topics (like the scientific “e” word). As a homeschooler with an atheist homeschooling friend, I’m struggling to understand the reasons behind these sanctions. Homeschooling is not equal to being a Christian. Christians teach their faith to their children whether they homeschool or not, and not all homeschoolers are Christian.

My hyper-analytical mind is going into overdrive as I try to understand all the sides of the issue. Maybe the convention planners are just trying to keep the controversy from spoiling a convention, and the un-invitations only seem unfair from the outside. Maybe, from a business perspective, it makes sense to cater to the interests of the majority of homeschoolers, who may have very traditional, conservative views. (To be clear, I don’t take issue with these views, just with the lack of inclusion among homeschoolers.)

On a personal level, I’m looking for the courage to homeschool in a way that reflects our family’s values, hoping we won’t be stuck with stereotypes. My most inspiring guides happen to be speakers whose ideas are being restrained at homeschool conventions. Even as I strive to buck stereotypes by maintaining a tolerant, balanced approach from the beginning of our homeschooling journey, I’ve found myself already getting sucked into taking sides.

It’s not really a place I wanted to be.

This spring, it was worth it.

It probably would have been worth it to trim the grass around the edges of the bed, too… but then, of course, it would just grow back.

The toddler loves the tulips. He pulls their petals off ever so tenderly, saying, “Beau-ful!!!” Here he is, reseeding the dandelion patch:

For all the trouble he causes, he’s a cute one.

The mundane cleaning up of spilled milk and the laundry hamster wheel are a little more bearable when he produces his special smile intended solely for the camera:

God did his work and then said it was good. There are brief moments when I feel that way, too.

While I’ve been buried in a dark cocoon lately, a few other metamorphoses have been brewing…

When I was young, someone described me as “complacent” – in a good way, I think. Peaceful. Eager to please. Not wanting to ruffle feathers.

Lately, though, I’ve been Forming Opinions, and there has been no place for them to come out. Here are a few that have been collecting… exploding here in an untidy, splattery list:

– I’m grateful for evidence-based medicine. It saves lives, and if more doctors paid attention to good research, more lives could be saved.
– I’m grateful for the right and ability to raise my own organic food. If more people grew gardens, we wouldn’t need so much medicine. (Sometimes health is not a choice at all; sometimes it is.)
– Many forms of evangelism feel more like an attempt to justify the evangelist, rather than actually loving people as they are, as God does.
– Confession: I didn’t want to live on a farm. But I’m finding plenty of reasons to love it.
– I’m not a bit sure the earth was created in exactly seven 24-hour days, and I’m still convinced I’m saved.

Why does having an opinion feel like a grumpy thing to do? To me, none of these statements should be a shocker, but lots of people get really heated up over them. Michael and I continue to settle into our farm – our first long-term home – and our new, rapidly forming paradigms keep popping up like asparagus in the unwieldy patch in our yard. It seems like a shock to the blog to start posting these things here. I considered starting a new blog – The Grumpy Blog – but I don’t have time for the setup, so here they are.

And now for something that’s not a bit grumpy (except maybe the oldest boy, who was freezing cold on that first day of spring, and who wanted my keys so he could load everyone in the van):

With much love from your curmudgeonly, sporadic blogger friend.