Happy Birthday Obadiah!

St. Rugglings Day!

This lovely centerpiece was on our front lawn this morning.

The candle smelled yucky! We now have 4 opened LAVA bars in the upstairs bathroom. I could not convince the children to open one at a time. Thank you St. Ruggling.

Joel's Parade!

He brought manure up from the Elliott farm in stages. He would fill that bucket up carry it a few yards down the road then leave it turn around and then go back to get the wagon. Then he would pull the wagon a ways then go get the bucket . . . well you get the idea! He did all this with a diaper-less Obie on his back.

Christine's Parade: I let Obie go the entire day without a diaper on no matter what the outcome was. Extra laundry, random messes, and the anxiety of never knowing what he was going to do and where he was going to do it were the results of my parade. I also had the opportunity to deflect some of my pain onto other family members!

Grace & Elisabeth's Parade: They carried a large metal bucket around the yard and scooped up two months worth of dog poo. They also started the school day off with their least favorite subjects.

Lucy's Parade: She rode her bike, with training wheels, down River road. It is a dirt road full with ruts and potholes. She was a trooper.

A birthday package arrived yesterday . . . Thank You Dave, Caroline, & Reba!

A book . . . Shiver Me Letters! The funny thing about this book was that we just returned it to the library earlier that morning.

Tools!

. . . fixing the coffee table.

. . . jumping on the bubble wrap.

Just Now at Lunch

Obie was whining and asking for his "night-night."
Lucy replied with "Why would you nap on a beautiful day, when you can go out and play?"
Grace, muttering disdainfully, "Why do you have to talk like Dr. Seuss?"

St. Rugglin's Eve

It's St. Rugglin's Eve and I was going to collect all of the shoes in the house and take every left shoe, put them in a garbage bag, and hide the garbage bag in the woods. But now I'm too tired.
Next year.

And that's too bad because this is a special St. Rugglin's day for us Tates. Job, having forsaken all worldly refreshment and having taken the vow of reluctant celibacy is now a novice in the monastic order of St. Rugglin. Job, your ongoing plight has touched us . . . touched us with the cold, clammy hand of romantic futility. You make us proud when we're not wincing.

So, I haven't put all of the effort I wanted to into this year's celebration, but the parade routes have been mapped out, the expletive candle has been lit, and the grim foreboding of this special season has made us all somewhat jumpy.

We are wishing you and yours a very trying and difficult day tomorrow.

Eccles. 7:3 (ESV)
Sorrow is better than laughter,
for by sadness of face the heart is made glad.

Happy Birthday John!

From the mouths of babes . . .

The girls and I were watching Disney's updated version of Little House on the Prairie and they immediately decided that Mr. Edwards looked just like Uncle Josh. When I agreed, Elisabeth quickly commented and declared, "And he lies just like Uncle Josh too!"

Happy Birthday, Grandma!

Tate Men working on the house . . .

Last Night's Menu . . .

Featured goat. And it was delicious.

It was curried with potatoes and we ate it served over rice and green bananas.

There's still some in the fridge, if you're curious.

A Post-Christian America

I have not yet read the Newsweek cover article about "the decline and fall of Christian America" but I have to think that, though the timing of the article is offensive (coming during Holy Week), the conclusion is unavoidable. Whether or not this is a post-Christian America, I am certainly living in a post-Christian Vermont.

But the fruit has been rotten for some time, even if it's only now falling off the vine.

Pin oaks die back in autumn. Their leaves turn leathery and brown while the maples turn a vivid red. And then, when the ground is crunchy with every other sort of leaf, the leaves of the pin oak hunker down for a winter of dead lingering.

When those leaves do finally fall off in the first flush of spring it is because of the inauguration of a new set of leaves. It is only the exuberant vitality of the new things that shrugs the former things away.

I believe this is the season of dead lingering for much of the American church. There will be a time when the last of those leathery leaves falls away, a time when the pews and pulpits are even more empty than they are now. Praise the Lord for that! The welling buds are just beneath.

Consider this from John Newton:

Though cloudy skies and northern blasts
Retard the gentle spring awhile;
The sun will conqueror prove at last,
And nature wear a greener smile.

The promise which, from age to age,
Has brought the changing seasons round,
Again shall calm the winter's rage,
Perfume the air and paint the ground.

The virtue of that first command,
I know still does and will prevail,
That while the earth itself shall stand,
The spring and summer shall not fail.

Such changes are for us decreed;
Believers have their winters too;
But spring shall certainly succeed,
And all their former life renew.

Winter and spring have each their use,
And each, in turn, his people know;
One kills the weeds their hearts produce.
The other makes their graces grow.

Though like dead trees awhile they seem,
Yet, having life within their root,
The welcome spring's reviving beam
Draws forth their blossoms, leaves, and fruit.

But if the tree indeed be dead,
It feels no change, though spring return;
Its leafless, naked, barren head,
Proclaims it only fit to burn.

Dear Lord, afford our souls a spring,
Thou know'st our winter has been long;
Shine forth, and warm our hearts to sing,
And Thy rich grace shall be our song.