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My sixteen year old son and I heaved the big black trash bags into the back of the pickup. We had already loaded the wooden chair with the broken leg and the fallen branches of the cottonwood tree. After I was content that we had collected every last piece of castaways from the garage and house, we were ready to take the load to “the pit.”

We lived on a sugar beet farm and “the pit” was just that – a deep dirt pit. It reminded me of the buffalo jumps the natives utilized in the 1800’s to secure their food. Instead of bison, this pit was the final destination of anything not wanted on the farm. Worn out furniture as well as appliances, tree limbs, rusted wire, general garbage – you name it…went into the pit. It was our rural version of the city dump.

Daniel, having recently obtained his driver’s license, took on the job of driving whenever feasible – or not. He slid into the driver’s seat as I resigned myself to the passenger seat. We rounded the grove of trees that hid the pit. My son maneuvered the pickup around to face the road and began backing it up into unloading position.

Quicker than “two shakes of a dead lamb’s tail” (as my father would say), an overwhelming dread and uncontrollable feeling of fear came over me. I dove for the passenger floor board; curled into fetal position, hands and arms covering my head. But, the crash never came.

“Mom, what are you doing?” Daniel implored, in a concerned, yet perplexed voice he seldom used. It was the first moment of realizing I had a fear of unprotected edges. I climbed sheepishly onto the seat, my eyes moist with relieved tears. Daniel was still staring at me like I had lost my mind and I wasn’t so sure I hadn’t.

“You were scared we were going to go off backwards – into the pit, weren’t you, Mom?”

Still speechless, I nodded. Daniel reassured me that we were still several feet from the edge and when I got my sea legs beneath me and checked – he was right. I had had no reason to worry.

A few deep breaths later, I attempted to refocus on the job at hand. I looked down into that pit. So much trash! Had we really crashed and lived to tell about it, we would have had to climb through all “the muck and mire” to get out.

There are all kinds of pits we can get stuck in. Pits that are hard to climb out of – maybe addictions, depression, relationship battles, a financial crisis, health issues, spiritual warfare, and so many more. Is there anyone that can help when we are desperate? Yes, there is! Take a look at Psalms 40:2. He also brought me up out of a horrible pit, out of the miry clay. And set my feet upon a rock. And established my steps. No one knows this better than a recovered addict, a convicted criminal, an abandoned spouse, a rejected child, a bankrupt CEO, or a dying parent, that has put their trust in Jesus.

With Jesus, there is always hope. It’s never too late to let Him be your guide. Take His hand and let Him lift you up, out of whatever pit you might be in. If you’re not sure how to do this, find a Christian friend or pastor to help you. Planting your feet upon the Rock of Jesus is the first step to walking away from that pit of despair.

Until next month – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

It was an especially windy night on the Wyoming prairie. We had secured our lawn chairs on the patio, taken down our swinging bird feeders, and double checked the latches on the gates. It was reported that gusts could reach 75- 80 mph through the night. I slipped into bed, earplugs in place, and snuggled in, after my husband assured me everything was secure and would be fine.

In the morning, we found that the things we had secured were still safe, but an entire army of strangers were now corralled in our back yard. Hundreds and hundreds of tumbleweeds! Huge ones, small ones, in between ones. They were falling over each other – stacked higher than the fence and spread thirty feet deep across the yard. We couldn’t imagine what part of the country they had all come from , but were quite sure they were using our yard as a command center.

The tumbleweed, also known as the Russian thistle, immigrated to the United States in 1873 as a stow away in a bag of flax seed from Russia. Each winter after the plant dries, the bushy part breaks off above the roots. It now becomes a rolling, tumbling mass of prickly branches and thousands of seeds at the mercy of the wind.

Observing tumbleweeds as they bounce and roll across the roadways and prairie, makes me cognizant of the many people that are blown to and fro by other people’s opinions, or by misinformation, or even by the latest trend. This is so prevalent in our current state of affairs in the United States. Ephesians 4:14 speaks of this. We are blown here and there by every wind of teaching and by the cunning and craftiness of people in their deceitful scheming. How often do we stop to consider if these ideas are consistent with the Word of God – the one source of absolute truth? Nine out of ten households in the United States own a Bible; the average household has three. This tells me that the majority of us believe the Bible is important, yet I’m afraid we do not consult it nearly enough.

I encourage you to put down deep roots into the Word of God. Stand firm on His teachings. We can be confident that His way is the right way and that He wants what is best for us. Don’t be blown hither and yon like the dried tumbleweed. (By the way, they are considered a noxious weed.)

Until next month, keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

After I started into grade-school and heard story after story related to sibling relationships, I soon figured out there was something unique about my brother and me. We got along! Dave was three years older than me and I had never been locked in a closet, had a toad put in my bed, ate a hamburger patty made out of dog food, or had my braids tied in a knot while I slept. I couldn’t imagine. I was convinced I had the best brother in the whole world.

It seemed that Dave always knew what to do when I didn’t, and he always had my back. Two incidents come to mind immediately. When I was five he rescued me from the country school outhouse when I accidentally locked myself in. Once I realized what had happened, I had something between a temper tantrum and a panic attack. My screaming and pounding went unnoticed in the distant schoolhouse. The stinky air closed in on me and I could have sworn it was getting darker by the minute in that obtrusive structure. I began to envision my mother’s tears as they found my bones later that year.

Miss Libby, having finished reading class with the mid grades, realized I had been absent for longer than it usually takes to take care of any business. She sent Dave out to check. I tumbled out of that outhouse into daylight, fresh air, and a brother – that had no cape – but looked a lot like Mighty Mouse. He had certainly saved my day as the Might Mouse theme song proclaims. I never forgot it – as you can tell.

About a year after that incident, I again needed Dave’s help. A stranger came to my classroom door (we were now consolidated with the nearby town of Osmond, Nebraska) and asked if he could speak to me. My teacher left the shyest sheep of her flock in the hallway with this unknown man and returned to the others. That wouldn’t happen in this day, but this was 1960 when a person’s word meant something and trust was the norm. This Tom Allan from the Omaha World Herald was very friendly, but I was befuddled by what the quick speaking man was telling me. By the end of the school day, I was nearly in tears with no idea what I was suppose to do. But then, I remembered Dave! I ran to the curb where we always waited for the bus and I poured out my troubling problem knowing he would know what to do. After all – he was in 4th grade.

“We will just go home like we always do on the bus. You can tell Mom and Dad and they’ll figure it out.” I breathed a sigh of relief. We climbed on the bus together and the world was good again. When we burst through the kitchen door – there was the man at our kitchen table. Mom was feeding him donuts and coffee so I knew all was truly well. As it turned out, he only wanted a picture of me and Barney (one of Dad’s old plow horses) to go along with a story my grandfather had suggested.

Over the years, I learned that Dave couldn’t be there every time I had a problem. But, I also learned that our Heavenly Father is there through every storm we encounter. Deuteronomy 31:6 says, Do not fear for the Lord your God goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you. And likewise Joshua 1:9 tells us that God is with us wherever we go.

No matter how bad our circumstances might get, God is right beside us. He encourages us to unload our burdens onto Him (1 Peter 5:7) and then He fights our battles for us. (II Chronicles 20:17)

We have no idea how 2021 will play out for us, but God knows. I encourage you to do what I intend to do – hold onto my hat – stand firm against the winds – and let God fight the battle(s).

Until next month – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

My husband and I have lived in the country most of our lives, so when it came time to retire, we looked for a small acreage on the edge of town. We took pride in our log home with its large beautiful yard, flower beds, and fenced garden. We had ash trees, apple trees, and a huge cottonwood tree. But, it was yet another place without my favorite trees – blue spruce and red maples.  Nothing seems more beautiful to me than when nature dresses a blue spruce in a flock of white in winter or a maple in a vibrant gown of red in autumn.

As beautiful as our yard was, it took a lot of time and effort to keep it that way. We began to re-evaluate what we wanted in the golden years. We realized that if something were to happen to one of us, the maintenance would be overwhelming for the other. We visited with Jason – a trusted realtor and told him our needs and wants.

Discouragement set in the first week of house hunting. We live in a beautiful area so real estate values are high and things move very quickly – often the same day they are listed. For this reason a contingency is very seldom granted by a seller. Unfortunately, we needed to sell our log home before we could invest in a new place.

We took our concerns to God. But still, doubts crept in each time we looked at a newly listed home in our price range. The professional pictures on the website looked promising, but in reality, these places either needed a lot of work, were smaller than we wished, or were so old the heating bills would not be manageable. Many of these homes seemed dark and dreary and when we would return to our car, we carried these same sentiments with us.  Would we ever find a suitable place that had adequate space and was in good repair? We had hoped to be moved in by fall, but summer was coming to an end and we were no closer to reaching that goal than when we first started looking.

How would God manage to find what we thought we needed within a few weeks’ time and then to provide us with sellers that would allow us a contingency? My mind wanted to believe He could do it, but my flesh was lagging far behind. I reminded myself of all the miraculous examples in the Bible – the Red Sea parting, Daniel’s survival in the lions’ den and Jonah’s in the whale, Jesus feeding the multitudes, not to mention His resurrection. I repeated Psalms 121:2 to myself numerous times – My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth. All these things helped keep me hopeful until the next time we looked at, yet, another unsuitable home.

I checked the real estate ads often. A three bedroom home with a two car garage and promising pictures was listed and I called our realtor immediately. We viewed the house that day. It was bright, cozy, had adequate room, and was ready to move into. Against my nature (I like to sleep on things) we made an offer that day. Our realtor convinced the seller’s agent to accept a contingency allowing him fourteen days to get our log home under contract. It was risky – if it didn’t have a contract within those two weeks, we wouldn’t have a new home to go to and yet we’d be contracted with the realty company to continue to have our current home on the market.

Long story short – there are things I miss about our “old” place, (the new rustic hickory cabinets and the stone fireplace) but looking back, I see God’s deep handprint on our new home. He was in control all along and He cared about our desires. He even threw in some extras that touch my heart – a bright and sunny craft room and a spacious, cheery office. No need to craft and write at the kitchen table! How did I know that God’s hand print was in this? Well, he left an imprint in the backyard – the large red maple that shows off in the fall and the huge blue spruce that stands majestically in a robe of flocked white at the first snowfall.

Until next month – keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.

FYI – Before I begin my blog this month, I want to apologize that I did not publish an October blog. The reason for this was that my 93-year-old mother fell, fracturing both of her femurs, the largest bones in the body. She required surgery and I was in Kearney, Nebraska with her at the time that I generally publish my blog. I know each of my readers will understand and I thank you for that. My mother came through the surgery well and is now residing at my sister’s home and doing much better than we had imagined. For this month’s blog, I wanted to share a bit more about Mom’s experience this last month. I will call this blog:

Mom’s Quick Response

Life can change in the blink of an eye, or in my mother’s case – in the second it takes to fall. One second standing upright in the dining room of the assisted living facility where she lives, the next second lying face down on the floor, excruciating pain in both legs.

Once the devastating diagnosis was made at the local hospital, Mom took her first helicopter ride (which she wishes she could remember) to Kearney where surgery was performed. The three of us children were with her; well, at least as close as the parking lot. We are so grateful that during this Covid-19 pandemic the Good Samaritan facility allowed at least one of us to be with her, as some facilities do not allow even that. Mom is close to being deaf, even with her hearing aids – another reason we would have been especially distraught had someone not been able to be with her. Having the most medical knowledge of the three of us, I was chosen to be the one that would meet with the surgeon after the surgery was completed.

We all knew the risks of putting our 93-year-old mother under anesthesia, but in this case there really was no other option. Without stabilizing the complete fractures of these two large bones, pain control would have been impossible, not to mention the chance of walking again.

We were relieved to find out that Mom’s vitals had remained stable throughout surgery and she was now in the recovery area. We took a deep breath and relaxed a bit, but we were far from being out of the woods yet. Dr. Wright likened putting Mom’s “old” bones back together as being similar to securing Styrofoam balls together with a toothpick. She would be on strict non-weight bearing status for at least eight weeks. This in itself could set her up for pneumonia, bedsores, and blood clots.

Mom, like 37.4% of those over the age of 90, has dementia. Her most prevalent symptom is short-term memory loss. Because of this we more often visit about things that she’s been a part of in the past rather than what she had to eat for dinner or who might have visited her yesterday.

As I sat beside Mom’s bed in the hospital, I would listen to nurses, PA’s, and practitioners come in to examine Mom. They would generally start with questions to assess her level of dementia at that particular time. Questions like: do you know who the president is, do you know what day it is, do you know where you are. Mom did better than I expected with these questions but one question always stumped her. When the first person to ask her what year it was, she paused for a good minute, then looked at me, smiled, and said, “They want to know what year it is.” Leaning down, I loudly said into her left ear, “Try 2020, Mom.”

“Grandpa Harley’s car license number!” she exclaimed without hesitation. I stared at Mom. Wow…I thought…amazing. Grandpa Harley (Mom’s father-in-law) had died over forty years ago and hadn’t driven a car for years before that.

Later on that day, a PA came in to see Mom. He began running through a gamut of questions similar to the ones the NP had asked that morning. He too, ended the questioning with, “Ruth, do you know what year it is?”

Mom paused again, turning her head toward me with raised eyebrows. I leaned over next to her ear and shouted, “What was Grandpa Harley’s car license number, Mom?”

“2020,” she said, again without hesitation.

I looked at the PA and grinned, “See,” I said, “you just don’t ask the right question.”

As I’ve mentioned before, I write my blogs to keep a family history for future generations and to often share a hope in Christ. What I have gleaned from this experience is that only God knows the time he will call us home. When it’s not our time, we don’t go – even when we are 93 years-old and having surgery. He’s in control and I’m happy to give it to Him because He does a much better job than I would.

Thanks for tagging along on my family adventures and until next month….keep on readin’ and I’ll keep on writin’.