When I Was 11

It was the summer of 1997, and I was 11 years old.  My grandpa hired an 18-year old boy, who was a friend of the family, to work on his farm for the summer.  After approximately two days of watching him help Grandpa and Dad on the farm, I had developed a huge crush.  Actually, as most girls who have been 11 can attest, I thought it was more than a crush.  I thought I was in love.  It wasn't unusual for me, my 10-year old sister, my 11-year old cousin Laura, and my 8-year old cousin Taylor to run all over the farm all day long, but that summer, there wasn't much that could have kept me in the house.  Looking back, that young man must have been very patient and kind, because I don't remember him ever telling us to leave him alone or go play somewhere else.  We followed him all over the farm, riding in the tractor with him, riding on the hay wagon, helping him do whatever Grandpa had him doing. I remember one day, watching him ride in a feed trough like a bobsled while Dad pulled it to a back field.  I produced plenty of embarrassing school girl giggles, because I thought that he was the most hilarious thing I'd ever seen.  I also remember thinking, that as I handed him a cold rag to cover the wasp sting on his eye, that he would suddenly turn to me and say, "I'll wait until you grow up.  I know you're the one for me."  I clearly had watched too many Disney movies.  I even told my cousin Laura that I was going to marry him someday.

One day, this boy let me tag along with him in the tractor while we moved hay bales from a back field to the barn lot.  We had to drive around the farm on the road to reach the back field, and I thought I was big stuff sitting in the buddy seat in the tractor with the boy of my dreams.  He was being quite a show-off, as I remember, and kept leaning forward to rest his elbows on the steering wheel.  The only thought in my head that summer was impressing this boy, and so while watching him let go of the steering wheel, a perfect idea popped into my head.  I would just reach out and jerk the steering wheel a little--just enough to make him jump.  I just wanted to make him laugh.  So, in a flash, I reached out, and pulled the steering wheel, expecting to just give the tractor a little lurch.  As it turns out, I pulled the wheel so hard, the tractor headed straight for the opposite ditch.  For a split second, I thought for sure the entire tractor was going to tip over and the big, round bale we were carrying was going to go flying away.  Luckily, that boy was quick enough to grab the wheel and right the tractor.  I tried to laugh it off.  "That's what you get for letting go of the steering wheel," I said.  When we got back to the house, my mom was waiting for me.  We had to be somewhere, and I was making us late.  She was upset with me, but I was so relieved to have an excuse to get out of that tractor.

I was heartbroken when school started that year, and I had to leave my careless days on the farm, mooning over that boy.  Soon after summer ended, the boy took another job, and left Grandpa's farm.  I found a picture of him in a stack of pictures Mom had taken that summer.  I took it to school to show all my friends, and then hid it in my room for a long time.  However, the worries of my  social status, playing on my first traveling basketball team, and surviving sixth grade, quickly replaced the boy in my thoughts.  His sister married my older cousin, so we saw him from time to time, but as I grew up, I realized how silly I had been to think I'd find my husband when I was 11.

I remember that summer fondly and the many adventures we had almost seventeen years ago.  Not just because of the boy, but because those moments on my grandpa's farm were some of the happiest of my life. I have grown up since I was a little 11-year old girl with eyes only for a dark-haired boy.

And what happened to that boy, anyway?  I lost track of him as I went through the drama and trauma of junior high and high school, but seven years ago, on this very day, I walked down the aisle and became his wife.  It only took Greg eight years to come to his senses, and realize that the 11-year old girl who nearly killed him, was the one woman he couldn't live without.  He should have known from that one summer, that life with me would be one wild ride.  I'm sure our marriage hasn't always been what he expected (I have given him four children in less than six years, convinced him to raise a herd of dairy goats, encouraged him to learn how to make soap and start a business, all while crushing his dreams of owning an airplane and a 34-foot RV after all), but I must say, I don't think our life has ever been boring.

On our wedding day

So, happy anniversary, Greg.  Life doesn't always turn out the way we planned, but in my case, God gave me everything I had always wanted when He gave you to me.  Thank you for being my partner in this crazy adventure we've begun.  There is no one I'd rather have by my side, and I love you more every day.

Oh, and I'm sorry I almost wrecked the tractor and gave you a heart attack.  But at least it's given us a really funny story to tell.  And just remember I've done a lot dumber things, like back your car into a trailer.

Okay, maybe we won't remember the dumber things.  There's too many good things to remember anyway.

Hard Work Never Hurt Nobody (or How We Get Our Kids to Work)

We have a saying around our house.  The kids have heard it at least a hundred times, and I'm sure that by the time we're done raising our children, we'll have said it at least a thousand times.  "If you're going to be a part of this family, then you're going to have to help!"  Our boys are expected to work hard and help out--around the house, at the barn, and wherever else someone may need them.  There's too much to do around here for just two people to do.  The boys do a multitude of chores from big tasks like watering, feeding baby goats, sweeping the barn, cleaning out the dog pen to little tasks like making their bed, clearing the table, picking up their toys, and putting their clean clothes away.  As Gideon has gotten older, it's been exciting to see the new things he's capable of doing, and watching the boys all work together to accomplish harder tasks.  Not to mention, it's a relief to not have to do everything myself!  So how do we encourage helpfulness and a strong work ethic in our boys?  What are some things that have worked for us?  Here are five things we do to help our children learn the importance of helping and working:

1. Have Patience
I'm a perfectionist.  I'm also always in a hurry.  But, to include your kids you have to lower your standards and slow down.  Lincoln is almost four, but he loves to help.  In the winter, when he can't be outside (his favorite place), he loves to help me in the kitchen.  He also loves to make a mess and is the slowest mover of all of our children.  So when Lincoln "helps" me in the kitchen, he more often than not creates more work for me or makes me take twice as long.  None of this really matters.  What matters is the lessons I teach him, as I grit my teeth, and (semi) patiently watch him fill a measuring cup with flour (and cover the counter, and the floor, and his clothes).  He's not just learning how to make supper.  He's learning that he's important to me; that there's room for him to make mistakes and learn; that his help is valuable to me.  Teaching my kids tasks is sometimes exhausting.  They will break things.  They will totally mess it up.  It takes a lot longer than if I just did it myself.  But teaching them independence is so much more important than whether or not they got their covers completely wrinkle-free when they made their beds.

2. Encourage, encourage, encourage!
When the boys complete a task, even if it's not done perfectly, we thank them and tell them they did a good job.  Nothing is more demoralizing than completing a task (especially one you might not have wanted to do in the first place), and then being told all the things you did wrong.  So we always tell our boys thank you for helping.  We also tell them they did a good job.  If they're struggling, or they did a sloppy job, I may offer suggestions for how they can do something more easily, but that's it.  I refuse to swoop in, sigh, and say, "Just let me do it."  Or, "Hey, you missed a spot over here, here, here and here."  Yes, we have to train our boys so that they know how to set the table, clean the bathroom sink, or feed baby goats.  But, if we always meet their accomplishments with criticism, our boys will just give up before they've even started.  Hearing encouragement (even when they don't do things perfectly) helps foster in them a helpful spirit, a strong self-esteem, and courage to try new things.

3. Make things easier for them
Lincoln feeds the baby goats.  He gets their little feed pans our of their pen, brings them to the milk room, fills them with feed, and then takes them back to the kid pen.  But, he couldn't climb the fence into the pen while holding the pans of feed, so he always had to set them down and let me finish his task.  One day, I went to do this, when I realized the goat kids were sticking their heads through the hole in the wire fence and eating out of the pan.  Lincoln didn't need to put the pans back in the pen!  I was making it way to difficult.  Now, I just let him set the pans right outside their pen.  The kids get fed, and Lincoln can complete this task 100% by himself.  The problem wasn't him; it was my method.  So I made things easier for him.  My kids sometimes would get up while I was still in the shower, and some mornings they wanted to get their own cereal (when we have it).  But they couldn't reach the bowls.  So I moved them from the top of the cabinet to under the sink.  So now, they can get their own cereal.  I put a row of hooks at just their height in the laundry room, along with a shelf with cubby holes for all their shoes.  When we come home, now they can, and are expected to, hang up their own coat, and put away their own shoes.  The problem isn't always that my boys aren't capable of something, but that I just need to change one part of the process to make it easier for them to accomplish.  Sometimes, I must step aside and think, "How can I make this easier for their little hands, legs, and bodies?"

4. Expect their help
I have too often been guilty of thinking that my kids weren't old enough or capable enough to accomplish a task.  Then I realized, I was the reason they weren't being more helpful.  When I started thinking they could complete certain tasks and expecting them to do certain things, I realized that they all got a lot more helpful.  Gideon has had the job of watering the goats for a while now.  When we do the milking, he does the watering.  But there's one pen I always do.  Right now, we have one goat penned up alone.  I water her, because I have to open the door to her pen, and stand in the way to keep her from getting out while I fill up her water bucket.  Last night, I made Gideon do it.  I was milking, and I heard him say, "Shocker's out!"  I expected him to call for help.  But he put her back in the pen, filled up her bucket, and shut the door, all by himself.  He did it because I expected him to.  All this time, I've been doing it for him, but all I had to do was let him try it.  I find that my boys usually pleasantly surprise me with all that are actually capable of doing, if I just give them a chance.

5. Reward them
Right now, we pay our children randomly for more difficult jobs that they get done.  When they get a little older, they'll receive a weekly "salary" for the work they do.  This money is not only a reward, but also a way to teach them how to handle their finances, how to save, and how to give.  We also reward with certain privileges, surprises, and I will shamelessly admit it--candy.  Our boys work hard, but they aren't slaves.  Some things don't receive a reward.  There are some things in life that have to be done, whether or not we receive a reward or even a thank you.  But, for the times when they complete an extra difficult job or consistently do a good job or have a good attitude while completely a mundane task, rewards are well-deserved.

There's our five tips for helping kids work.  Does the fact I have this nice, neat list mean that my kids do the same exact tasks, at the same time every day?  No.  Does this mean that my kids are always eager and ready to help out?  Ummm, no.  Does this mean that we never have to fight one or two or all of them tooth and nail to get them to complete something as simple as putting their plate in the sink?  A definite and resounding, NO.  Yes, my kids are big helpers and hard workers.  Yes, they do more at their age than I ever thought possible, but they are still little kids, and we struggle through consistency, bad attitudes, and uncompleted tasks.  But we're laying a foundation for the kids, teenagers, and adults that we pray they'll become--responsible, hard-working, self-reliant ones.

Now, some of you may have gotten to the end of this, and think that Greg and I must be terrible taskmasters who use our children as nothing but slave labor.  So, I'll tell you a funny story to lighten the mood.  One day, Gideon had finished shoveling out the dog's pen and re-bedding it with new straw.  Greg was discussing his payment with him.

Greg: I'll give you a dollar for cleaning out the pen.
Gideon:  No, how about five dollars?
Greg: Five whole dollars?
Me: That is an awful big chore for a 5 year old to do.  You should at least give him two dollars.  (I'm so generous, I know.)
Gideon: How about thirty dollars?
Greg: Thirty dollars?  You're way too expensive.  You're fired!  Lincoln, will you work for two dollars?
Lincoln: No!  Seventeen dollars!!
Greg: Seventeen?!  You're fired too.  Canaan?  Will you work for two dollars?
Canaan: SEV'TEEN!!

Hey, I may be shamelessly raising them to do all my work, but at least I'm not raising any dummies!

Happy Birthday, Deacon Park!

On Sunday we celebrated Deacon's first birthday.  (His actual birthday is April 8.)  I have written a birth story after all my kids were born, so I can remember later all the tiny details, and it always makes me smile to go back and read about the moment each of our children were introduced into the world.  Deacon has quite an interesting birth story, and I will share a bit of it for you.

Me, milking the goats at nine months pregnant

On Sunday, April 7, I went into labor with Deacon.  It was the first time we knew that our baby would be a boy before he was born.  The midwife had sent us in for an ultrasound because we suspected a possibility of twins, and even though we had asked the ultrasound tech not to tell us the baby's gender, she very clearly showed us that he was, in fact, a boy.  My labor was not very intense right at first, unlike with my first two, which were unbearable from the get-go, but we sent the other boys to their grandparents, because usually my babies come quickly, and I can relax more in labor when I know the kids are taken care of.  My contractions were on and off all day, and Greg and I spent a nice day relaxing, talking, and spending time together.  I remember it was very warm and sunny--a wonderful day to have a baby.  Except, that was not the day I would have a baby.

Deacon, within an hour of his birth

We finally called our midwife, Lynda, who lives in Indianapolis (about an hour away), and she arrived about 9:30 pm.  I had not progressed much, but I knew after having my other babies, that things could change and go very quickly, and so I wasn't very worried.  We all slept some, and around 3:00 am, Lynda checked on me.  I had not progressed at all, and she began to think that these light contractions were my body trying to get Deacon in the right position, instead of actual labor contractions.  Canaan had been backwards and in a bad position, and his birth was much more difficult and painful than the others, so I knew that I wanted Deacon in the right position to make this labor as easy as possible.  But I was also discouraged, because I wanted so badly to meet this new little one.  Lynda decided to go home because she thought it would take a while for my labor to really get going.  She suggested I lay on my hands and knees to encourage the baby to flip over.  So, I laid like that while she packed up her things.  As soon as I heard the door shut behind her, I had my first really strong contraction.  At first I thought it was my imagination, but the longer I laid there, the faster and harder they came.  I got up and walked around a little.  Greg could immediately tell the change in me.  I remember him asking me multiple times, "Should I call her back now?  Now?  How about now?"  This was our third baby to be born at home, and Greg has learned one thing: he does not want to deliver my babies alone.  After 4 babies, I have learned one thing: labor NEVER follows a pattern.  It can seem that your body will never progress and you can be holding your baby within the next 15 minutes.  You can feel like the baby is coming out right now, and it will take another 2 hours.  Or, you can wake up in labor from a dead sleep and be holding your baby in less than three hours (This was Lincoln.)  So, I kept answering, "I don't know.  I don't know."  Finally, Greg went ahead and called her.

Lincoln was such a proud big brother!

This is where I must stress that I have the best midwife in the world.  It was now around 4:30 am.  Lynda had been sleeping on my couch for the past 5 hours, then driving for an hour, and had just stepped foot in her house when Greg called her back.  I could hear her laughing on the phone.  She just gathered all her stuff again and drove right back!  She knows how fast my labors go, so she reminded Greg that she could call another midwife who lives closer to us in case we thought things were going to escalate even further.  My contractions were getting stronger, and Greg was getting really antsy, so he went ahead and called Lynda, asking her to call the other midwife.  She arrived about 5:00 am, Lynda returned around 5:30 am, and Deacon was born a little before 7:00 am, surrounded by two midwives, two assistants, his dad, and of course me.  It was quite a roomful! He was my biggest baby at 9 pounds, 2 ounces.  I remember that his shoulders were a lot harder to push out than the rest of my other boys!

Don't you love it when they are squishy and new?

I asked Lynda if she thought when she headed home the first time that she would be delivering my baby at 7:00 am, and she said, "No way!"  There is one thing predictable about labor: it is unpredictable!

Four! boys

We have had three wonderful home birth experiences, after Gideon's so-so hospital experience.  Deacon's birth was eventful, but it was peaceful and happy.  We were so excited to be a family of six, and houseful of boys.  And of course, about ten minutes after he was born, Daddy had to go out and milk the goats.  I even walked to the barn that evening, and sat in a chair, snuggling Deacon in the barn while Greg did the evening chores!

Deacon and his Mickey Mouse cake (minus the ears!)

Now he is a year old already, and the happiest, most content baby we've ever had (and they all have been really, really good babies!)  Happy Birthday, Deacon Park.  We love you so much, and we're so thankful God blessed us with a fourth baby boy!

Kidding Season is Over!

Sunday morning, right before we were supposed to be leaving for Sunday School, our final goat, Prima, kidded.  She had twins: a buckling (boy) and a doeling (girl).  Gideon has been watching a fun movie we got at the library about the kings of Judah and Israel in the Old Testament, and he decided to name the buckling Jehoshaphat.  He apparently thinks that name is insanely hilarious.  We named the little doeling Pippi.  Here they are sleeping:

Pippi on the left, Jehoshaphat on the right

Thankfully, that ends our kidding season.  No more walking to the barn for what felt like 99 times to check on goats when labor is imminent, no more feedings in the middle of the night, no more worrying about newborns in the freezing cold temps, no more mad rushes to the house to get birthing supplies while in dress clothes because we're 5 minutes out from going somewhere important....until next year.  Kidding season is exciting and new babies are cute and fun, but it's a little stressful, and I'm thankful to have a successful kidding season behind us.  We ended up with 11 babies: 3 girls and 8 boys.  Yes, apparently we aren't the only ones who don't know how to make girls.  Here are some pictures from the last couple of weeks:

Tornado on the spool.  Goats love to jump and climb, even as babies

Allegra (left) and Zelda (right)

From left to right: Andrew, Mr. Howell (dark brown), Lightning, Sally

Aren't they so cute, carrying the milk bucket together?

Feeding time!

Lightning

Deacon helping with the barn chores

Staying warm under the heat lamp

Lincoln helping to feed the babies

We love being able to drink as much milk as we want again!

Gideon and Sally

What a relief to finally be outside again!

  

Goat pile!

We'll continue to bottle feed the baby goats until the first of June.  Then some of the goats will be for sale and finding a new home.  Don't these cute pictures make you want to buy a goat?

Milk Maid Memories

We've been milking again for about three weeks now, and even though it's slightly difficult getting back into the swing of doing milking chores twice a day, we really do enjoy it.  Whenever I'm milking the goats, I can't help but think of my grandpa Gene who milked cows for 40 years.  So, it must just be in my blood.  I wrote this essay in college about my time spent with him in the milking parlor.  Grandpa has been gone almost three years, but I can still see him standing there by his cows, and I can still see and hear the sights and sounds from that milking parlor as if it were yesterday.  So many people don't understand the farm, or the work and love that goes into caring for animals everyday for your entire life.  So, here are the memories of milking with my grandpa, and the moments of my childhood that profoundly have affected the way we live our life today:

Milk Maid Memories

                From outside, the milkhouse calls to me with its familiar song—the clanging and loud whirring of a motor, the lowing of the cows as they await their evening chore, and the Reds’ game that blares loudly from inside.  The vivid memory flashes across my brain as clearly as if it happened yesterday; I am suddenly five years old again, and it’s milking time.  Quickly, I jump up the steps and open the door.  I run past the milk tank, wince past the deafening roar of the motor that powers the milking machines, and open the door into the parlor.  The pungent smell of warm milk mixed with weathered cows hits my nose, and I smile at my grandpa.  Sitting between two doors, the metal stepladder waits for me to take my post.  Since my little five-year-old arms are not long enough to reach up to the soft, pink udders, my grandpa lets me push the button that opens the sliding door the cows enter through.  I am so proud that my grandpa gives me such a heavy responsibility, and I focus hard on him and await my cue.

                At Grandpa’s signal, I push the old, crusty button; immediately the door shudders and scrapes open.  A pink nose peeks around the corner, before the rest of her lumbers through the doorway.  I count out three more black and white beauties, and before I can shut the door, another cow tries to slip through.  When I squeal as the door clips her nose, Grandpa assures me she’ll be okay.  The cows stop, evenly spaced, in a straight line, and immediately begin crunching grain.  They wait knowingly, and carefully, my grandpa begins his dance. 

                He slowly shuffles down the line; his heavy rubber boots pound on the cement in short, clipped clomps.  Slivery tufts of hair peek out from underneath his wide-brimmed straw hat, and his big glasses nearly hide the soft, gray eyes that love me.  His yellow apron, spattered with years of toil and manure stains, flaps as he reaches for the milkers.  He does not even think; his cracked and dry hands grip the milkers automatically as he deftly slips them on each of the four teats.  The milkers begin to bob up and down as they suction the milk out with sharp hisses.  Wary of the jumpy cows that have caught his hand with a sharp hoof many times before, he checks the pipes to make sure the milk is flowing properly, then crosses the parlor to finish with the other cows.  He gently lifts an open-mouthed bottle filled with green, bubbly liquid to clean each teat, and then opens the chute to allow the cows to exit the parlor.  He moves down the line, back and forth, in a stiff but beautiful dance with the animals that have been his livelihood for over 60 years.  He signals, and I push the button once again, and four new cows enter, ready to be milked for the night.

               As soon as the milkers slip onto the next round of udders, the milk gushes through a tube toward a large, oval jar.  The milk tumbles in, spurting as it is vacuumed from the cows and pumped to the top of the jar, sloshing and frothing, as it shoots around the inside.  I press my hands and face to the glass to soak up the warmth of the foamy milk.  I run back and forth with glee between each cow’s jar to see which fills up first and which cow has the most milk tonight.  One jar is full of crimson milk, and Grandpa says it’s because the cow is sick, and her milk has to be thrown out.  When the cows finish, the jars quickly drain round and out the bottom; the milk winds through more tubes and pipes—up, down, across, through, until finally the main pipe disappears into another room where I know it will deliver its goods to the giant cooling tank.  It is time for the next group, and Grandpa has to call my name; the waterfalls of milk have distracted me, but I run to the door, startling a cow who then kicks off her milkers, and quickly punch the button.  Four new cows saunter in, and I peek around the open door to see how many are left in the holding pen.

Grandpa Gene

              Grandpa finishes with the final four cows; the Reds have won, and Grandpa shuts the radio off.  The last cow leaves the milkhouse and wanders out into the starry night, sleepily looking for the rest of her herd and a warm place to sleep.  I unscrew the black rims of the milkers to remove the dirty filters inside and throw them away into a cardboard box in the other room.  Grandpa starts to spray down the platform, while I struggle to scrape the muck into a big pile he can scoop out into the lot.  The door opens and my mom walks in.  I’m not ready, but she motion it is time to go.  I quickly hug my grandpa, avoiding the dirty mess on the front of his apron, and promise I’ll be back another night.  My innocent childhood mind assumes he cannot possibly milk his cows without his little partner.

                It has been many years since I stepped into that milkhouse with Grandpa and pushed the button to open the door for his cows.  But every baseball game I hear on the radio sends me back, and I can smell the cows, see the warm milk sloshing through the jars, and hear the clangs and dings of the loud motor which call me to my beloved stool.  Time has separated me from those happy moments, but the poignant memories still come to me as clear as the country summer nights I knew long ago.  

Why I'm thankful My Fridge Stopped Working!

Last Friday, I opened my fridge and poured the kids some milk.  The milk wasn't extremely cold, but I really didn't think anything about it.  Then I opened my freezer, and everything was soft.  And drippy.  And melty.  OH NO.  Almost nothing can strike fear into my heart like a faulty freezer.  We grow and freeze a lot of our own food, and our two deep freezers are full of produce, meats, and milk, which we freeze for soap.  So, a freezer that is on the fritz means wasted money and a lot of extra work.  Luckily, this was just the freezer above my fridge, so it contained less exciting (and less expensive) items like ice packs, ice, shredded cheese, and a couple unidentified objects I had stuck in a Ziploc bag, left unlabeled (because “I’ll remember what these are”) and thrown in the back of the freezer.  The fridge however was full of milk for feeding baby goats, vegetables, condiments, butter, eggs—things I definitely did not want to throw away. 

BUT, luckily, THANKFULLY, we have an extra fridge in the garage.  We bought it a couple years ago to store extra milk in.  Currently, this fridge was empty.  I had debated turning it off a while ago because we haven’t used it as much in the past few months, but again, thankfully, we had not.  So the kids and I began to transfer all of the salvageable stuff from our kitchen fridge to the garage fridge.  Unfortunately, this fridge was, as I have stated in the garage.  Because it’s a pretty small garage, we have only parked a car in there maybe once, and before we acquired a garden tiller, 4 tricycles, 2 bicycles, a stroller, a meat smoker, and a myriad of other random things that find their way to a garage.  I would show you a picture, except it’s a little embarrassing and a lot like hoarders, but trying to push the door open that connects the laundry room to the garage was slightly difficult.  I did get a little space cleared, but the door still didn't open all the way, which made things uncomfortable when trying to carry three large jars of milk to the kitchen.  So for three days, every time I needed something from the fridge (which seemed like every five minutes), I began the task of pushing open the garage door, trying to avoid stepping on some spare screwdrivers, and carrying whatever I needed back to the kitchen without dropping anything or hurting myself. 

Yesterday, my kind husband had mercy on me or he got tired of my complaining, the latter is more likely, and together we cleared the garage, moved the dead fridge out of the kitchen and moved the cold, working fridge into the kitchen.  Also, for a while we've considered getting an old chest freezer and using it for feed storage at the barn.  So we took the old fridge, turned on its side, and it is now protecting rabbit/dog/goat feed from marauding mice and raccoons.  A win-win!! 

So, no I’m not thankful my fridge stopped working.  I’m thankful the fridge stopped working.  We had a spare one and we needed a broken one!  I am so thankful that even though God doesn’t protect us from all the bad and annoying things that can happen in life, He does watch over us and provides for us in times of need and inconvenience.  I’m so thankful for our spare fridge and the fact that it still works.  I’m so thankful we didn't have to buy a new fridge.  (It took me 2.5 seconds of looking on Sears.com to realize new refrigerators cost more than what we paid for our old mini-van!)  Imagine if my dryer had stopped working, or my deep freezer, or the computer?  I don’t have a spare one of those laying around, but on second thought, it wouldn't surprise me if I found one buried under the junk in the garage!