Did you know that a chicken can growl? If you don’t believe me, you should come by sometime and visit Isabella.

For anyone who doesn’t know, I should explain that Isabella is a member of our flock of laying hens. She is a bright and pretty all-black chicken that in recent weeks has become what farmer-types call a “broody hen.” As any of my kids will tell you, that means she wants babies. Every day, she gathers up as many eggs as she can find–they needn’t be her own–and sits on them in a nesting box for hours on end. She rarely even gets up for food or water and when Kateri comes to gather the eggs, she fluffs out her feathers, pecks, and even growls–yes, growls.

This is one determined chicken. Each day, after her potential babies have been stolen from her yet again, she remains undaunted. She might take a break for a snack or a stroll in the yard, but then she’s back to business, seeking new eggs and protecting them from would-be predators. I find her behavior charming in its simplicity; I admire her dogged determination and fierce maternal instincts.

With the cold weather upon us, however, we cannot allow her heart’s desire. I am beginning to feel just a bit a guilty about stealing her “babies” for the breakfast table, though. Tomorrow morning, I think we’ll have oatmeal.

The washing machine is broken. In our household, this can be as serious a situation as running out of diapers, or peanut butteror both.

I’m an eternal optimist, though. When I first noticed that the machine wasn’t draining properly a couple of days ago, I assumed it was no big deal. Being the mechanical genius that I am, I figured something must be blocking the drain and a good “stirring” of the machine’s contents would likely put things back in working order. I got a broom and used the handle to stir up the “laundry soup” inside. I closed the lid and–ta da!–it worked again. Over the course of a couple of days, the machine would periodically refuse to drain, but each time my stirring solution did the trick. I was satisfied, but for some reason Dan looked doubtful.

On Saturday, though, my luck ran out. When a load didn’t drain and my stirring didn’t work, I tried some new tricks: I switched the machine on and off, I kicked the side, and I slammed the lid shut. Nothing.

“Oh please, God, not now,” I said as I thought about my piles of post-holiday laundry and my precariously potty-trained Stephen. “This is not a good time for the washing machine to break down.”

Even as I said it, though, I had to smile at my own silliness. The truth be told, when would I ever tell God it’s an okay time to take away my washing machine? God allows little inconveniences to come our way because He knows that patient acceptance of them will be good for us, and most of us would never seek them out on our own. Thank goodness for a loving God who knows what is best for me!

Oh, and thank goodness too for the repairman who is coming this afternoon.

“O Lord, stir up Thy might, we beg Thee, and come, that by Thy protection we may deserve to be rescued from the threatening dangers of our sins and saved by Thy deliverance. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Come, Lord Jesus, Come!

Winter weather has officially arrived. The waterer in the chicken coop has frozen solid, each morning our field is covered with a sparkling blanket of frost, and I’ve changed everyone’s sheets to flannel. Though we haven’t had any snow yet, I have been suffering beneath the weight of a different kind of avalanche: the winter snow gear.

Open the famous (or I suppose I should say “infamous”) Bean Family closet at your own peril. Now, piled atop the fall jackets and sweaters are winter coats, hats, mittens, gloves, scarves, boots, and woolen socks. If you dig far enough into the rubble, you might actually see the coat hooks Dan installed to keep the closet organized. Those brave souls who dig deeper still, might even discover the long-lost milk crate on the floor which is the intended receptacle for boots and sneakers.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Being a mom makes my life ridiculously simple. While others might have to ponder and reflect to determine the best use of their free time on a Saturday morning, I have no such dilemma. When a mother opens a closet door and is buried by a landslide of winter outerwear, God’s will for her morning becomes abundantly clear: Clean out the closetnow!

Are you ready, Americans? The economy gods have spoken and they say that today is the day–the day to shop till you drop, drain your bank accounts, and max out your credit cards in order to kick off an annual nationwide frenzy of spending that retailers hope will last until Christmas.

Here in New Hampshire, our local Kmart was open late last night and WalMart opened at 5:00 this morning. The craziest thing is that there were people lined up in 15 degree temperatures waiting to get in at that time. I glanced through the sales flyers the other day, curious to see if there really were any irresistible bargains that could possibly lure me from my bed in the still-dark early morning hours the day after Thanksgiving. I saw only the usual–trinkets and tinsel, sweaters and scarves, remote control cars and plastic talking toys–all at higher prices than anyone should spend for things they don’t really need. I slept in this morning.

I try to enter each holiday season with a healthy awareness of the cultural pressures toward materialism, but I have to admit that I sometimes feel myself being sucked into the consumer machine anyway. Did we spend enough money on so-and-so’s present? I wonder, or Did we buy enough “stuff” for the kids to open on Christmas morning? All of this in the name of preparing for our Savior’s birth?

It helps to keep in mind the Advent season a few years ago when finances were particularly tight in our household. We couldn’t spare any extra money for gifts or decorations until we received Dan’s paycheck just a few days before Christmas. I fretted a bit about not being able to prepare ahead of time, but as it turned out, NOT shopping and NOT focusing on material goods for Christmas was the best way to prepare ourselves after all. There was more cookie-baking and card-making and less stress and noise in our home that Advent season. The bonus was that by the time I got around to shopping on December 23, most of the frantic Christmas shoppers had already passed through. Many stores, figuring that the Christmas season was all but over, were holding huge sales where Christmas items were marked 50-75 percent off.

On the news last night, a financial expert offered this advice: Plan ahead, stay within your limits, and don’t overspend this Christmas season. To that I might add some “expert” advice of my own: Observe Advent first and resist the urge to “celebrate” Our Lord’s coming with a bout of materialistic obsession before He even gets here. If we thoughtfully consider the best ways to prepare ourselves for Christ’s coming, we’ll likely realize that Our Lord is asking us only to turn our hearts to Him and He isn’t at the mall.

Since I am busy baking pies and other goodies today and will be busy serving and eating them tomorrow, for now I will leave you all with one of my favorite pieces of American history: Abraham Lincoln’s Thanksgiving Proclamation. Somehow, Old Abe’s words seem particularly wise and appropriate this year:

1863 Thanksgiving Proclamation by Abraham Lincoln
The year that is drawing towards its close, has been filled with the blessings of fruitful fields and healthful skies. To these bounties, which are so constantly enjoyed that we are prone to forget the source from which they come, others have been added, which are of so extraordinary a nature, that they cannot fail to penetrate and soften even the heart which is habitually insensible to the ever watchful providence of Almighty God. In the midst of a civil war of unequalled magnitude and severity, which has sometimes seemed to foreign States to invite and to provoke their aggression, peace has been preserved with all nations, order has been maintained, the laws have been respected and obeyed, and harmony has prevailed everywhere except in the theatre of military conflict; while that theatre has been greatly contracted by the advancing armies and navies of the Union. Needful diversions of wealth and of strength from the fields of peaceful industry to the national defence, have not arrested the plough, the shuttle, or the ship; the axe had enlarged the borders of our settlements, and the mines, as well of iron and coal as of the precious metals, have yielded even more abundantly than heretofore. Population has steadily increased, notwithstanding the waste that has been made in the camp, the siege and the battle-field; and the country, rejoicing in the consciousness of augmented strength and vigor, is permitted to expect continuance of years with large increase of freedom.

No human counsel hath devised nor hath any mortal hand worked out these great things. They are the gracious gifts of the Most High God, who, while dealing with us in anger for our sins, hath nevertheless remembered mercy. It has seemed to me fit and proper that they should be solemnly, reverently and gratefully acknowledged as with one heart and voice by the whole American People. I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens. And I recommend to them that while offering up the ascriptions justly due to Him for such singular deliverances and blessings, they do also, with humble penitence for our national perverseness and disobedience, commend to his tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife in which we are unavoidably engaged, and fervently implore the interposition of the Almighty Hand to heal the wounds of the nation and to restore it as soon as may be consistent with the Divine purposes to the full enjoyment of peace, harmony, tranquillity and Union.
Abraham Lincoln

I wish you all a blessed Thanksgiving holiday! “See” you Friday!

Juliette was born five years ago today–my darling Thanksgiving baby and a delightful surprise. At the time, after having two boys in a row, I secretly longed for a little girl but dared not give voice to such thoughts. Particularly in light of the health problems our third child had suffered, to say that I preferred a baby girl this time around seemed silly and selfish.

“We just want a healthy baby,” I told anyone who asked. Besides, when the baby’s heartbeat recorded at a consistently low rate throughout the entire pregnancy and people told me that meant I was carrying a boy, hoping for a girl seemed pointless anyway.

When the “Birth” day finally arrived and the fetal monitor showed a steady, low rate heartbeat even through the rigors of labor, I told the nurse to get the blue baby cap ready. Instead, she placed a blue one and a pink one on the bedside table where I could see them.

The moment the baby was born, there was a flurry of activity in the delivery room. Panicked nurses whisked the baby to a nearby table where they suctioned her nose and rubbed her vigorously with towels. An eerie, seemingly endless silence hung in the air while I waited for the usual baby’s cries and the customary joyous proclamation: “It’s a boy!” I heard nothing. From the bed, I couldn’t even see the baby and everyone in the room seemed to have forgotten my presence. No one said a word until at long last my husband asked, “Is she okay?”

“Who?” I asked. “She?”

To the visible relief of the hospital staff, Juliette responded with a sudden and forceful cry. Within minutes, she was swaddled in warm blankets, wearing the pink cap, and nursing contentedly in my arms. I stared at her tiny perfect face in disbelief. She had girlish, delicate fingers and dark eyes that looked unmistakably like my own. She had a swirl of shiny black hair and rosebud lips.

Thank you, God. Thank you for our sweet and secret surprise: Juliette Marie.

Dan and I like to rent movies and I’ve seen the beginnings of lots of great ones. I’ve watched characters develop, plots thicken, and conflicts intensify. Most of the time I never see how these dramas turn out, though, because I cannot seem to stay awake until the end of any movie. Usually, by the time the final credits are rolling up the screen, I am passed out asleep on the couch. I always say that if ever anyone puts out a DVD featuring the last 30 minutes or so of a variety of popular movies, it would be a stroke of marketing genius meeting the needs of exhausted mothers everywhere.

Sometimes Dan tries to be a little bit romantic and he brings home a bottle of wine with a movie rental. Poor guy. Will he never learn that the combination of a warm dark room, a glass of wine, and a comfortable couch is a sleep-inducing cocktail this weary woman can never resist?

If it’s my conscious attention he wants, he ought to serve me bottomless cups of espresso while we sit on wooden chairs in a chilly, fluorescent-lighted room. I know, I know, it’s not a very romantic scenario, but at least I might stay awake and these days–that’s a romantic proposition indeed!

Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into Your kingdom.” He replied to him, “Amen, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”
Luke 23:42-43

Lord, this week give us the grace we need to help You establish Your kingdom here on earth.

Christ Our King! Your Kingdom Come!

Today is Friday. That means “Chore Day” here in the Bean household. After lessons, the kids have their weekly chore lists to complete and Mama has hers. I must admit, though, that I have been a bit lax lately in completing some of my weekly chore lists. Family illness, doctors’ appointments, and church obligations have all seemed more pressing than regular housework the past couple of Fridays. Today, however, I was determined to get myself caught up. I sat down and wrote out my list: clean bathroom, tidy bookshelves, mop wood floors, de-clutter kitchen counters, scrub stovetop

It was a long list. In the end, I looked it over and sighed. In addition to my usual duties of making meals and doing laundry, my list looked positively overwhelming. I won’t say I tackled it with cheerfulness and enthusiasm, but I did get to work and I even managed to cross off a couple of tasks before lunchtime.

After lunch, I consulted my list where I had left it lying on the kitchen counter. Instead of noticing how few items were crossed off, I noted something else. At the top of my list, scrawled in Kateri’s childish handwriting, was written: “Mama’s Work. She has to do it all.”

The words made me pause. Is that the impression I give my family? That I have to do it all? That I am a victim of my household and my circumstances? I know that I am not. I know that my daily duties are the result of the decisions I have made: to get married, to own a home, to have our children. To believe otherwise would be to rob myself of the particular privilege of choosing to serve God on a daily basis through the total acceptance of my vocation. Given a second chance, I would make those same decisions a thousand times over.

I crossed out Kateri’s word “has” and replaced it. There are still a few items I have not yet crossed off my list, but now the heading reads: “Mama’s Work. She CHOOSES to do it all.”