The Living Without Series

This is a series of posts that I wrote back in 2006 on living with less stuff. Check them out: liv011Living #2liv031liv04

Coal Creek Farm on Facebook

The Chicken Doctor

April

The Architect

Clay

A mop and a bucket

Well, Clay came home and sopped me up with a sponge and wrung me out at Bread Company. I ordered the butternut squash soup and then I spent the entire time I was eating it wishing I had ordered anything but. It was like a large bowl of baby food heated up with a bunch of brown sugar. Blehky.

Now let’s see if I can give you something to smile about…

For Thanksgiving, I have to admit that I was very creative in the decorating department. I put a glass hurricane on a white salad plate, put about half a bag of coffee beans in the hurricane, stuck a candle in the beans, tied a bow around the outside of the hurricane and there you have a delicious smelling center piece.

Now, don’t forget to blow out the candles when you’re done with dinner or you might come back into the kitchen to see the coffee beans on fire and you might have to run the cute plate and blazing coffee beans to the sink and then the hurricane might burst into a few pieces.

Home is where, exactly?


Lord? Are you there? It’s me, April.

I know I haven’t been talking to you about the house thing lately, I sorta figured you were tired of my incessant whining. I envision you clenching the bars on the Pearly Gates and banging your heavenly head against it while screaming to Saint Peter, “Why?! Why won’t she just do what I want her to do?!!!”

So, here’s the thing God, I think I may not have been paying attention when you told me where you want me to be. Is it here? In Missouri? Because my heart just really isn’t here, I’m pretty sure I left it a few hundred miles west. I’m trying, really, I am. I’ve been trying for eight years to make this place my homeland. I have moments when I start to feel all warm and cozy here and then the chills take over again.

I feel like we moved to Missouri to be spiteful. I think we thought there would be family here, there’s not. I think we thought we would find that niche, we haven’t. I still feel like I’m a visitor, an outsider, the person that doesn’t really know how to act, what to say, where to be, what to do. I don’t feel like that when I go back to Kansas.

When I’m in Kansas I immediately connect to people. I feel comfortable walking in my shoes. It’s all so familiar, pleasant, comforting. I speak their language.

Lord, I long for community. I know we’ve shot ourselves in the foot many times by commuting to a church twenty miles away, home schooling our children, living in an interstate community where people drive to work miles away. Are you nodding your head in agreement, Lord? Are you telling me to wake up? Smell the chicken shi…uh, crap?

Is it me? Am I just not accepting what you have given me? How many times have I looked around and mumbled, “What the heck am I doing here?” I never did that in Kansas. How many times did we silently struggle with packing up and moving back? But, we stuck it out thinking You had brought us here. Were you saying go back? Was it so hard because You thought eventually we would open our eyes and see the blinking neon arrow pointing back home?

I don’t feel like I’m living the life that you gave me. I’m in a foreign land. Is it too late to go back? Can I get a do-over?

Am I suffering from comparison? Is my sinful nature getting the best of me? Can you shut off my desire to be elsewhere? Can you take away my fantasy of finding a home that fulfills all my desires? Can you show me where the heck you want us to be?

Lord, I’m trying to put it all in your hands. I’m trying to see the bright side, which is difficult when I live in a big, long, dark, brown, turd that I can’t call my own. Show me something Father, this time I’ll try to listen with my eyes on you.

Your ever questioning servant,

April

Pick up some take out!

I’m gonna write this real quick before all hell breaks loose in my kitchen, oh wait, that already happened.

So, I’m making the whole feast by my little old self and I’m dragging my butt getting it all done. Duh, I’m in here blogging instead of cooking. Last night I tried to make pie crust and it turned out all weird and gucky (yes, that’s a word in my house). Usually, I can fix it, but nothing I did made it better, so I threw in the towel and let the kids play with it.

I think I cursed myself when I was in line at the grocery store yesterday. The clerk was saying how she can’t make a pie, never has, is scared to attempt that blah, blah, blah. I was thinking it’s not that big of a deal, the crust is only like three ingredients, you really can’t mess it up, geesh, follow a recipe. Yeah, I’ve been trying to dislodge my foot from my oral cavity all morning.

I did buy a couple of frozen pie crust so I baked one for a pudding pie and made a pumpkin pie in the other. I set both the pie and the empty pie shell on the oven. You know what what I’m gonna say, don’t you? Was your thought going in the direction of the two year old? He decided to eat the empty shell for breakfast and after I calmly threw away the rest of it and removed him from the scene he snuck back in to get a few finger swipes of the pumpkin pie. He really is the cutest devil I’ve ever known. I hope he lives long enough for me to retell this story to him as an adult. I’m thinking his life span is getting shorter by the minute. Actually, I think he’s driving me to an early grave. He’ll have to tell his kids how rotten he was to his mother and how she died so unexpectedly one Thanksgiving day.

Back to the kitchen I go. Happy Thanksgiving.