A Promise Kept. Such a simple phrase. In a short little book. With a lifetime of meaning. My husband’s grandfather already had Alzheimer’s when I met him. I only saw Grandpa twice. I only saw a shadow of the personality that was his. But Grandpa’s military photo from the 1940’s? That smile is the same…
Ralph Moody’s Little Britches series is like the book Farmer Boy, times eight, but with biblical principles held high and important life lessons passed on from father to son.
I stumbled through the kitchen. Bleary-eyed from a night in which I was up with one girl or another more times than I could even remember to count. My husband and daughter were getting breakfast on the table. I surveyed their progress, stretching as I stood there. “I stwetch, too, Mommy!” My two-year-old raised her…
The photos I shared in the March of Books bookshelves photo gallery over at ylcf.org were realistic—they showed the bookshelves of our little pink house as they appear right now. But I was thinking back to all the different ways we’ve arranged our books through the past four years, and had to share a few…
The windows open all afternoon. Spring breezes freshening up the rooms that winter kept stuffy too long. The sound of the chainsaw, as my husband cuts brush along the ditch. The smell of sawdust and chainsaw oil brings back memories—my husband smells just the way my logger daddy always did when he came home from…
Here on the farm we are not only attuned to the seasons: we live according to them. The season just past has been one of rest and renewal. As much as I’m not fond of winter weather, I adore the time it gives me with my husband, and he with our girls. I’m already dreading…
Here on the farm, we don’t just wear green on March 17: we wear John Deere green. In fact, we celebrated a day early by stopping at a John Deere dealership on the way home from my parents’ yesterday. And as extra protection against getting pulled over, we carried the base of a John Deere…
I’ve often wondered what my writing professor would say if he ever condescended to visit FaceBook or Twitter. Would he rejoice that his too-verbose students had finally learned to condense their thoughts into a few to-the-point sentences? Or would he see those short messages as only an introductory paragraph to an essay? Maybe he would…
“I must say, Anne, I don’t think you needed the dress; but since Matthew has got it for you, see that you take good care of it. There’s a hair ribbon Mrs. Lynde left for you. It’s brown, to match the dress.” -Marilla in Anne of Green Gables, pg. 198 She was bare-headed, and her…
I have to admit: I didn’t like Nancy Leigh DeMoss when she first started Revive Our Hearts. I had my “reasons”, but the truth was that she just was not Elisabeth Elliot. No one could replace my beloved “E.E.”, and Revive Our Hearts was most definitely not Gateway to Joy. My husband would come home…
If “a cluttered desk is a sign of genius,” then that genius is hereditary in our family. My mother is a very organized lady, so her desk is neat, but it is always full. And my dear grandmother? I’m not sure where on her desk she finds a spot to write all the precious cards…
I have had a desk for as long as I can remember. There was one that went along with my mother’s childhood bedroom set, which became mine. I remember the bright blue desk blotter that sat on top of it—matching the blue embroidery on the bed’s coverlet. I remember the hours tracing the gold painted…
The End.
The End.