And this morning, I am thinking about setting my affections on things above and not on things on the earth, for ye are dead and your life is hid with Christ in God. EE writes, “What do we love? If our hearts are set on people and possessions and position, the loss of those will indeed be irreparable. To the man or woman whose heart is set on Christ no loss on earth can be irreparable.” We enjoy God’s good gifts, but God Himself is the greatest treasure.

We’ve hit the wall on the whole moving thing. Our lives have been packing and unpacking for many weeks now, and I’m starting to think there must be more to life than just rearranging and dusting clutter. In the middle of all of this, I kept having this fantasy that someone would buy my house with all the stuff in it, so I could just hand over the keys and walk away. I know God laughs—maybe cries His eyes out (if I may be allowed the freedom of anthropomorphism) —at our attachment to stuff, and it reminds me of what Rich Mullins said, “The stuff of earth competes to the allegiance I owe only to the Giver of all good things.” In a touch of irony, that song is my cell phone ring tone.

The gloom of being unsettled is why we ignored the boxes at home and went visiting yesterday. We’ve had people stopping in just to say “hello” everyday now, and it seemed OK to us to do the same. A couple different folks have stopped in to ask if they could put cattle on our pastures, and so we set out yesterday to talk about that. It seems like a good idea to get our fields in shape. We had someone cut hay on it for a portion of the take, but the fields are overgrown again. Cows would return some fertility instead of just taking it away with the hay cutting. So one week in, and we’re agreeing to cows. Remember though, the cow manager takes care of them everyday and we just look at them. That’s my kind of deal.

It seems appropriate to refer to the man with the cows as The Cow Whisperer. He’s magic. He showed us his tricks with his herd on a neighbor’s land he leases, and the green city folks were awestruck. We are told he is an excellent manager, and after several hours talking, it seems we have good information. The kids rode in the back of his pickup while the cows chased after them, and you should’ve seen their faces. Why don’t I ever have the camera at the right time?

If the day couldn’t get any better for the kids — no unpacking, no school, and getting chased down by cows in a pickup over hay fields – my two oldest decided to go down to the swimming hole to fish after dinner. That’s when the excitement began. My son’s first cast pulled in a bass, and my daughter’s second cast pulled in the same. The grasshopper lure barely hit the water. It was like they just jumped out of the water onto the pole.

I hope this is a sign.

I never make this stuff up. We have an old oil well on the property. I might need to go look at that. Heh. Yesterday’s visiting not only brought in a generous mess of green beans, cucumbers, tomatoes, pears, peppers, and zinnias, but also the blessing of new friends. (Do you like how I just said “mess”? You know I love zinnias. There are zinnias without powdery mildew in heaven.)

Back to the work of moving stuff today. Has anyone found the fitted sheets yet? They are somewhere next to my brains. Argh.

Friday began early at 6:00 a.m. with a trip to the farmer’s market. We have boxes to unpack, shelves to install, appliances and mirrors to find, and a million other details to attend to, but everything seems more manageable with food. Good food is one of the pleasures of life, and I am hedonistic when it comes to God and food. I drove down to the extension office to meet my new neighbors and buy meals for our empty house. I already delivered my soil sample earlier in the week, because I am Type A.

Tomatoes, squash, apples, onions, cantaloupe, honeydew, watermelon, sweet corn, and onions are in season (among other things), and so the men filled up my van with those. I paid .60/pound for non-sprayed tomatoes and felt guilty. I bought a little something from every table. I gave my foreign self away when I talked, so I tried to do more listening than talking. “Ma’am,” which is funny to me when I’m called that by a gentleman old enough to be my grandfather, “Everyone knows you’re from somewhere else by the way you talk!” I wish I learned to talk less and listen more about 32 years ago, but I’ll do my best with this newfound knowledge here on out. Think of all the time I’ll save when I don’t have to apologize so much.

Back from the farmer’s market, I headed over to a small Amish-owned bulk foods store deep in the heart of Gradyville. About five or six children rang up my order of cinnamon sticks and rice. On my way out, I noticed some very skinny kittens and asked if they didn’t mind if I took them off their hands. We have a mouse problem in the shop, and I thought this might be a solution. They rounded up two more in the litter, and so I was off with three mousers for Greg’s shop. We brought home a fourth yesterday, after a little begging from the kids. I’ll make a decision on what to do about the mixed gender/more babies issue later.

I stopped at another Amish man’s house who was selling some furniture. He didn’t have what I needed, but we talked about the history of the farmhouse I just renovated. He knew all about it. It seems everyone knows about Jake’s place, which is now our place. After that, I was on my way.

It was mid-morning when I returned, and my children were ecstatic to see their new kittens. Of course, these are soon-to-be barn cats, but I let them play in the house for the morning anyway. They need to gain weight and grow a little still. One ate a poisoned dead mouse by accident, so we’re not sure how he’ll do. They’ve been sleeping in the shop at night. I don’t know about letting them loose too soon with the coyotes howling at night. We also have seen foxes, deer, and a skunk. I thought skunks were just in cartoons.

[If you're wondering what happened before this weekend, I'm doing my best to forget the whole 20 hour drive and campout in the house part. Moving is like childbirth: there are just some hard parts to do before you get to the good stuff.]

The movers took the whole morning to solve the problem of a truck too big for the country roads, so they didn’t get started until Friday afternoon. They parked the 53 foot truck several miles away and shuttled in the furniture. It was a long day on Saturday too.

As evening came, our Mennonite builder came by with his wife to welcome us, do a final walk through, and deliver some homemade peach pies. The hired trash collectors never came this week, so we had a bonfire to close out the evening. Now if I can just get the one finger wave from the steering wheel down, I’ll be good. Where I came from, if anyone motioned from their car, it was bad. So this takes getting used to. At Wal-Mart, two people helped me for a half hour checking out and loading my car. I couldn’t believe it. “Ma’am,” says another elderly gentleman, “You’re in Kentucky now.” Yeah baby.

We head out tomorrow to move to our south central Kentucky farm. It is crazy busy over here. But it’s really happening. In my dreams, we didn’t have to worry about having enough packing tape. The details continue to pile on top of each other, but I haven’t forgotten the children.

The last couple days have brought us parties and pictures and a lot of hugging and crying. Usually you have to wait until your funeral to find out how loved you are, but we were blessed to find out this week. You have no idea how much that means to me. I just feel so glad to have been loved so well, and I can only hope that we’re embraced half as much in our new home town.

Talk to you later. Signing off for now.

Just when I thought I was busy enough. It gets much better. I never make up this stuff. So anyway, apparently, our local news broke this story last night about identity theft.

BREVARD COUNTY, Fla. — Hundreds of people in Brevard County found out Thursday if their personal information was stolen. Names, social security numbers and even personal medical information of more than 500 patients at Wuesthoff Medical Center were posted on the Internet.

I got a call this afternoon from damage control at the hospital where I’ve been a patient many times. You’ll never guess who was among the 500 patients with all their financial and medical information posted for everyone to steal. Let the games begin!

Even a pessimist like myself is incredulous on the timing of this. This is unbelievable.

Life is not fair. It was in third grade that I got my wake up call. Sally Henson said that I was talking when she was the hall monitor. I was not talking. I was listening, but I was definitely not talking. I got my name on the board, and I’m still in therapy. I wasn’t ready to be marked as a rebel yet. I’d wait for sixth grade to rebel, but it was not time for me to begin my life of crime.

Talk about not fair. As of today, I’ve got five evictions going to the docket. (Please don’t ask …unless you need drama.) This would be OK if I owned a big complex, but I only own seven units. I’ll let you do the math. This is how it works. I have to pay maintenance, electric, water, insurance, and taxes for folks who are taking a free ride. If I stop doing any of these, the law will get me. And trust me, remember the guy who tried to kill the cops? He’s walking free, but I KNOW that my behind would be in jail for shutting off the $1,000/month heating in the winter on non-paying tenants and squatters. That’s how my life works. That how the system works. I’m double doomed.

My personality type is ENTJ. If you’re familiar with the Myers-Briggs personality tests, you know what I’m talking about. ENTJ’s are the CEO’s of the world. We pull off the 100+ cast twinkling singing Christmas tree extravaganzas flawlessly every year. Your neighborhood PTA leader with a chip on her shoulder is an ENTJ. So is Bill Gates.

If that doesn’t make sense, there is a quicker way to explain it. It just means that I’m a ruthless dictator. (Ask my kids on a bad day.) I disagree somewhat with this assessment, because I do try to curtail the negative aspects. I understand that this take charge approach doesn’t fly in relationships, and to that extent, I’m able to perceive how other people perceive me—and then adjust to what it is that they need from me, which is usually more of a servant instead of a leader. But still, it’s my natural bent. The desire to empathize with other people has grown as life deals me hard blows. (Note: I write about my life here, not how other people make my life miserable. That’s why so many details are missing.) I know that the end game isn’t always about being right, but to love others at the same time. But generally, it’s something I have to work on; it doesn’t come naturally.

Greg can’t take me anywhere. We were in a worship service once, and I leaned over and whispered something about the modulation technique. He said, “Why can’t you just enjoy things?” But I was. I just can’t go driving in the countryside without knowing about property values and if it can be bought, split, and sold for a profit. (Incidentally, I’m trying to buy the piece across our farm so some nut job investor doesn’t do the same thing to me. That would be tragic.) The point is, I’m always “on.”

This is why I’ve thought about a certain passage for awhile. I don’t get it, and ENTJ’s hate not getting things. Each night this week after the kids were in bed, I thought about what exactly the Bible is saying to me. The passage is James 3:17:

But the wisdom that is from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, willing to yield, full of mercy and good fruits, without partiality and without hypocrisy.

There is not a prayer offered more from our family than the request for wisdom. Here we see that God’s wisdom is peaceable, gentle, and willing to yield. In other words, it’s pretty much everything that I am not. I can only imagine that the writer wasn’t a downtown landlord. At least that’s what I tell myself. Is there anyway to deal with my week right now and be gentle with people? Harsh words get results in my business, and I reconcile the need to make a living with the need to obey the Bible. If one gets “ungentle”, you can usually avoid the costly court process. This is 100% always better, no exceptions. Of course, there is no room for my pragmatism here. I belong to Jesus Christ, and so there is no choice but to obey.

“That’s the way I am,” is no excuse to disregard Scriptures words. The way we are is corrupt and sinful, as all have sinned and fallen short. Jesus died for the fact that you are who you are. We all need a Savior. I think it’s an awesome thing that we all have different bents and personalities. I find it fascinating. I need to figure out how to keep the spunk and lose the attitude, because there is a fine line that could be pretty cool if I can figure out how to walk it well.

5. I can barely keep track of my kids. Now I’ve got to keep track of the guy who sat behind me in 10th grade Geometry?

4. Greg said last week, “I think I have a My Face page.” Obviously, we’re behind over here.

3. IMHO, LOL!

2. Twitter sounds like pitter. And I like to pitter more.

1. For the life of me, I can’t think of one person who cares that I ate spaghetti for lunch.

Do you Twitter?

If I’m in your address book, please change my email to

emailamyscott (at) gmail (dot) com

We can’t take our earthlink accounts with us when we move on Monday. This is a bummer, because I think I’ve had the earthlink email address for at least six years.

This always happens to me. Why is it? I can’t say. What am I talking about? Well, I’ll tell you. We have a signed contract on our house here in Florida. An actual contract for sale, not for a hit. “Well, that’s great,” you say. Hold on for a minute. It’s not that easy. It never is.

I’ve been showing this house for three months. In case I haven’t mentioned it lately, I have SIX KIDS that stay home all day playing with toys that have too many pieces. They keep eating and making laundry, too. In that time, several dozen people have traipsed through my house asking me how old is the roof. I once had three showings at the same time, but try as I might, nobody got into a bidding war. (Of course I think of these things. You would stage them too if you lived in Florida, California, or Detroit.)

While Greg twirls around in his Caddy, I’ve shown this house to bankers, to baby boomers, and to bust my choppers—that’s anyone without a preapproval letter. And in the end, you’ll never guess who wants to buy my house.

I knew you wouldn’t guess, so I’ll tell you: someone who has never seen it. That’s right. They put a contract on it without the contingency to see it. Are you kidding me? Of course I took it.

So all this time realtors are calling to see the house, “I’m on your street now. And we have to see it NOW or your chance will be lost forever,” I could’ve just said, “Ahhh…no” and saved all my flailing around like a mad woman for homeschooling. All the hours we spent spit-shining and then waiting for The No Shows– down the drain. But my life is like that, and I think I’m getting used to it.

We at the Scott household are frugal. You know Scott toilet paper and Scott tissue? That’s us. It was named after our family. I’ll fight you tooth and nail if you call me “cheap” because I’m not. There is a difference, but if I told you my “for instances”, I’d be accused of letting my left hand know what my right hand is doing. I spend well where it is necessary and generous, and I conserve on depreciating assets and things we don’t find pleasure in.

We wear our shoes until there are holes. I really don’t see why you shouldn’t. Perhaps you take pleasure in shoes and fashion, but my kids aren’t old enough to be picky. They also aren’t rich enough. Nevertheless, my oldest son’s big toe was peaking through, and since they weren’t sandals, I conceded that it was time for new shoes.

When we got to the shoe store – Payless, of course – I decided we should measure his feet. We tried, but like Cinderella or Johnnie Cochran, take your pick, the thing didn’t fit. The store lady suggested we try the adult shoe sizer, and lo and behold, it worked.

My son wears a men’s shoe size 6. What am I going to do now.

Men’s shoes cost more than boy’s shoes, of course, but I’ll deny my shock and awe over that. It wasn’t about the money. Really. It’s just that, hear me: the years are going by, and I can’t slow it down. I will blink, and he will be gone. My daughters will marry, and I don’t even have a lap cat. (I forgot, I don’t like cats.) Can somebody just stop for a second? I am so busy with babies and bottles and banging my head that I only get these glimpses every so often.

They grow up. They–whoever they are– told me that, and I already told you that. And the despair and sleepless nights fade into the joy of finding a friend. There are many stressors vying for me: moving, meal planning, schooling, diaper changing, and the play-doh that won’t come out of the tile grout. This is the thing about a large family: balancing the physical needs of the younger children with the emotional needs of the older ones. But my children are walking in truth and there is no greater joy than that. Even a cynic like me can’t argue that point.

I love my girlfriends. They’re great. And nothing beats a good game of Childbirth Swap. Now, this isn’t a game where you do anything illegal. I’m just talking about the stories. Have you ever stood in a circle munching carrots sticks and ranch dip while you exchange childbirth horror stories? You haven’t lived until you’ve done that.

It all starts with the first lady. I don’t know why she goes first, because as you’ll see, the first person is doomed to lose. You can’t win if you go first, but someone has to get the ball rolling.

“I had a cold when I delivered my first. You wouldn’t even believe….” [Score: 0]

“Oh yes I would. I had THE FLU!” [Score: 1 if she was vomiting]

Then the third lady tells about the doctor who didn’t get there in time, the nurse who yelled at her, the needle that was 10 feet long, or some other variation of a hospital staffing problem. [Score: 1 point for each error.] I don’t usually talk about the 20-year-old gangster EMT trainee boy they asked to bring in for my fifth birth. Nah, you’ve got to hold out for the big guns. I’ve got better stuff up my sleeve, and so I wait.

If the group of ladies is large enough, someone surely died and came back to life Jack Bauer style. You must attentively listen to the postpartum hemorrhage details and nod in empathy. This lady is king and you must pay homage. Begin subtracting points for any natural childbirth ladies in the room who had a 20 minute labor. Give her the evil eye. Do not offer her your formula coupons. Play hardball.

Dying in childbirth is incredibly rare these days in our country, and I count it a blessing that we’re able to play this fun game. It is common grace, evidenced by the fact that everyone is swapping stories with reckless abandon.

During my fifth birth, I closed my eyes and thought, “So this is what it is like to die in childbirth.” That moment changed who I am forever, and it is rare that I meet someone with the same scar. I do not share my story, because it isn’t time for that. It is never time.

When the birthing stories begin to resemble men’s fishing tales, I pull out my only claim to fame, “I’ve delivered six.” The crowd gasps, and I say, “Pass the carrots.” And life goes on.

My son got a Pokemon bookmark from a magazine.

“Look Mom. A Poke Man bookmark.”

He pronounced “Poke” like what you do to someone’s eye.

Last night, I said that I was going to bed to count my blessings, but that didn’t happen. There’s always a kink in my plans. Instead of going to bed after a long day of sipping umbrella drinks, I hauled six sleeping kids down to the station at midnight to bail my husband out of jail. I never jest.

It all started when Greg left for Miss-iss-ippi on business. I didn’t mention that he was meeting clients at restaurants in other states while twirling around in a convertible Mustang (while I vacation at home…), because I didn’t want to whine. Whining is annoying, and I knew nobody’d want to hear it. Anyway, in a stroke of “now-that’s-more-like-my-life,” our family van broke down at the airport on his way there. Of course, things work out for him, and he coasts into a parking spot as if he meant to break down right there all along. His luck never happens to me.

I had to tell you all that, so you’d know why he was driving home in a leather Caddy from the airport late last night, just in case you recognized him on the causeway. (As a very valued customer, he always gets upgraded. Last time I rented a car, it was a Hyundai without automatic windows.) On his way home, a man ran a red light as Greg was in the intersection. The (drunk?) driver slammed on his brakes, skidded across the intersection, and hit Greg. The iron Caddy stood strong. Make sure your next wreck is in one of those. Leaving his car parts all over the intersection, the driver took off. In an odd twist, Greg’s pinched nerve in his neck feels much better. If it was me, I’d be in a body cast.

When the police officer arrives on the scene to record the hit-and-run, she pulls up Greg’s license. Apparently, there is another man with the same birthday and last name wanted by police. Poor Greg just wanted to go home to his family and now he’s in handcuffs? Maybe this is like my life after all!

OK. I didn’t really have to bail him out of jail. Greg is so honest, he won’t even share free refills at a restaurant. But sorting out the whole mess last night and all day today seems like an appropriate end to yesterday’s vacation. Don’t ya think?

Many writers use something they call “writer’s freedom” (or some phrase like that) in order to make their stories good. I like to call it “stretching the truth” or “embellishing”, but whatever you call it, I don’t have to do that. For one, I’m not a writer, and for two, my stories are juicy enough. Remember the tenant who tried to murder by garbage can? That was all true.

For the first time in a long while, we had no house showings today. This means I didn’t scrub, hide Legos, clean, and spit shine like a mad woman for buyers who’d be here in 20 minutes. In my son’s mind, according to 10-year-old logic, this meant I was on vacation. “I’m glad you got a break, Mom!” What’s annoying is that he was serious.

How they make it to adulthood, I don’t know.

I am too smart to jest with God. It’s a good idea to honor God anywhere, but I’m just saying that it doesn’t hurt to double honor Him in Florida, the lightning capital of the world. But I do often wonder in the deep parts of my heart—between the baby going down and the toddler popping up– what in the world He meant by “keep the Sabbath holy” when one is the mother of little ones for 10 years straight. Maybe the emphasis is on “holy” and not “rest” like we thought all this time. I don’t know.

Let me tell you about my vacation today. There were diapers, schooling, three meals at home, lots of refereeing in the swimming pool (that I wasn’t in), laundry, devotions to steer their wayward souls, floor scrubbing, cleaning unidentifiable yuckies in the carpet, and a partridge in a pear tree.

I didn’t mow the lawn in the 100 degree heat and my van didn’t break down, though that would’ve made my story better. I hope you don’t mind. Regardless, there is no use in feeling sorry for oneself. I have a lot to give thanks for, which I will do, right after I fall into bed.

The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases;
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
“The LORD is my portion,” says my soul,
“therefore I will hope in him.”
~Lamentations 3:22-24

I just wanted to check in here to let you know we’re alive.

We’re still showing the house a few times a week to people who (a) want to wait until the bottom falls out, (b) want to wait until the bottom really falls out, and/or (c) just want to see the competition. I thought I’d reeled one in yesterday, right up until the point she asked for tax and insurance numbers. People keep gushing about my “beautiful home,” but nobody wants to buy it even though it’s the cheapest in its category. I’ll tell you why: taxes, insurance, and the further declining market. Everyone is dumping, and it’s simple supply and demand.

I’ve got an idea. Put the numbers for California and Florida in a bag and mix it up. Throw in Detroit just to keep it real. There you’d have a crystal ball for the rest of the economy. This week I paid $4.99 for seven apples. This lasts about as many minutes in my house. People used to make fun of me when I told them about my dream of an orchard to feed my family. Now they’re going out to Home Depot to get a fruit tree for the backyard. Somehow the validation is no consolation.

Look, I think I might’ve bought an extra bag of rice and maybe some matches (you know, to cook it) for Y2K. I’m not saying we’re doomed. I’m just telling you what stuff looks like right now for someone with three houses for sale. (Our rental properties in Virginia won’t sell either.) Suddenly, my whole backyard chicken thing went from crazy fringe to a pretty good idea.

I didn’t mean to go on about the economy, but I guess that’s what spilled out when I sat down. The economy never bothered me much until it bothered me. Does that make sense? I know there are Bible verses for that. These are the things to think on right before and after you plant your fruit trees. Can you tell my practicality gets in the way of my spirituality? Yet heaven is more real than what’s in front of us.

I saw a list written by my 10-year-old yesterday. It read like this:

1.) A sheepdog for my farm

2.) Cows and goats

I asked him what his list was for. He said, “At church we had to make a list of what we’d buy if we had an unlimited amount of money.” (I assume there was a point to the exercise, but I decided not to ask.)

And I said, “That’s what you wrote?!”

“Yes,” he said, “What else could a kid want?”

I tell you this story to illustrate that our children are watching us. They know what our passions are. They love what we love. Make sure you are passionate about the right things. I’d rather have Jesus than anything, but I wonder if my children really know that. I hope so.

Gotta run. Two showings today.