Happy 7th Birthday, George!!

Dear George,

Is it true?  Are you really seven years old?  It's a funny thing how certain dates and times resonate with people.  Although we may go through most weeks asking, "What's today's date?" rarely do we fail to recognize dates with great significance.  For every mother, this includes the birthday's of her children.

I'll never ever forget the events surrounding your birth.  Dad was on the farm trying to finish fall harvest and you and I were waiting in Kansas City with Grandma Karen for him to come home.  He made it, in the nick of time.

The night he flew in to the city all weary and dusty, I was laying on the couch watching the presidential elections.  I can still recall with great clarity the wave relief that swept over me when I heard him come through the front door at that very late night hour.  He tumbled into bed to catch a few winks while  I labored on the couch through the night, waking with contractions, watching the news channels report election stats.

Everyone at the hospital, I mean everyone asked me if you were named after George Bush.  (Negative Ghost Rider. Envision my mega-eye-roll here. I'm so good at those).  I only wish I had a picture of this gentleman on hand:

Then I could have proudly told everyone that you, George, are named after my Grandpa George.

Your dad likes to say that the day you were born we moved from man-to-mam to a zone.  He was right!  Being third isn't always easy.  I'm third in my family.  I see you trying to keep up with your older brothers.  

I did that for so long, the whole "keeping up" business.  But, you won't be the same as me. Because you are content with being yourself, and you have a beautiful way of taking in all of our love and mixing it with your humor and goodness and believing in the gifts God has given you, and you share it all so magically with the world.

Almost every day I tell you, "George, if I could be six years old again, I would want to be just like you!"  Now I have to get used to saying seven!  And, you always grab my hand, skip along beside me, and say with great intonation, "Mom! You're kidding! You'll never be six again!" I love that connection we have, you and I.

Every day you show me so much mercy, so much tenderness.  Having no girls in the family and being almost completely right-brained, my creative side is often challenged when it comes to school and home-life.  

But, you come to my rescue, diving in to every craft project, gardening whims and saint celebration.  Then, I'm not alone.  And yet, you can turn right around and run with the football, climb a tree and start a Nerf gun war with your brothers.  All boy, yet tenderhearted.  Who can resist??

I imagine, sometimes, that if you get married, your wife will fall head-over-heels for you when she discovers you can create a feast from scratch while serenading her in a foreign language all the while sporting big muscles and band-aids from the afternoon rugby game.  And, you will never think much of it all.

I know that so often I am caught up with the details of running this ranch, and don't speak of the greatness, life and love that I see in you and your brothers.  But, I do see it. I feel it.  I know it.  And, I'm so thankful for each of you.

You, especially, George have a great gift of generosity, always willing to share and to help others when they are hurt or struggling or overwhelmed. I love to catch you writing secret notes to your dad, running across the yard to deliver a freshly painted picture to Granny or laying beside Charlie telling great stories embellished by your wild imagination. 

I adore you innocence, the way you are able to let all hindrances and difficulties roll right off of your back, countering the negativity with confidence, persistence and enthusiasm.  Your brave little heart helps me to face life a little differently, a little better every day.

I believe that God even hard-wired your facial expressions just for me. Because, sometimes I am too uptight, need to exhale, and maybe look at life through the lenses of a seven year old.  Ahh! So much better!

I hope that you remember this big event of turning seven. From our birthday breakfast tradition to enjoying the gifts specially picked out for you ....

Sharing them with your brothers...

Getting ready to blow out birthday cake candles, with your buddy, Colin...

"Camping" in your new tent with Colin and Andrew...

I really do mean it when I say that if I could be seven again, I would want to be just like you.  God loves me so very much to let me be your mom.  He chose me for you and you for me.  I love you with all my heart, George Patrick Thomas Husband!

Love,

Mom

Fall Harvest

“Only he can understand what a farm is, what a country is, who shall have sacrificed part of himself to his farm or country, fought to save it, struggled to make it beautiful. Only then will the love of farm or country fill his heart.” 

                                                                            ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery (1900-1944)

Fall harvest, for many farmers, is the last lap of an exhausting race that has been run since the early days of spring, when winter's frost has disappeared and specks of green, breaking through the earth, shouted "Go!" to those who work the earth. 

When the time came for our corn to be harvested, our school year had already begun. The boys could not disguise their itch to get outside and take in some of the harvest action.  So, I threw my schedule and routine and chalk and tiara out the window, piled the babes into the bus and tread down the dusty gravel to the field. Delighted in our decision to abandon school, we forgot to slip on wranglers, work boots and a caps, for one must always dress for the occasion. But, like most things in life, I'm more uptight than they are about things being just right, stars in line, always prepared like a scout.  

They just know how to jump in to the day with both feet, and and savor all that life can bring, every step of the way, unconcerned with discomforts and imperfections. Darn kids.  They always solve the Rubik's Cube of life before I do. (I'm gonna think about that while I eat another fist full of candy corn.)Life at their level just looks different.  They see things that I would never notice. Raccoon tracks and ant hills, a jack rabbit bounding down the narrow lanes. Breaking corn stalks and squishing bugs in the sand is just right for the moment. There are times when moving to the farm has admittedly been extremely difficult. And, all the little broken expectations, stored quietly in my heart, have bled frustration and exhaustion and pain.  Then, quite unexpectedly, the wounds are nursed by experiences that bring comfort, peaceful joy, encouragement.Experiences like taking my boys out to a field where they can run free, play, explore, and break into whoops and hollers at the wonder of a mighty, raucous combine eating up the acres, or a sizable semi-truck waiting in the wings to be loaded with freshly cut kernels.  They are not confined to the barriers of four walls, the invading grip of techno gadgets and ticking of the clock telling them that it's time to move on to the next best thing.    
I was free that day to choose this for them.  How good it was for their little bodies, their little souls, their little lungs, breathing in the goodness of the farm. 

They had no idea that I was actually having more fun than they were, as I watched their every move, their every expression, their every delight.  It was good for me too.