What's the Plott?

- October 13, 2022 (Originally penned in an older blog I used to have that no one read - But Truth does not change - a few details were adjusted to reflect our current year plans for the weekend!)  I was withdrawn from a school when my mom got wind that a Halloween festival was being hosted in the field behind the playground, and the nuns could be seen wearing witch hats from her kitchen window. We did not celebrate Halloween. Instead, our church hosted an All-Saints’ Eve, a festival of harvest and a celebration of saints. There were games, cake walks, candy treats, and costumes. Everyone was challenged to prepare biblical costumes. The intent was to keep the event family-friendly - Jesus-centered. We had your typical shepherds, a few sheep or other ark animals, the occasional Mary, and so on. But every year, someone would knock it out of the park. I remember one All Saints'. Eve, my sister’s gown was beautiful. She was Esther the Queen, and boy, did she look it! (Esther Chapter 2...

As we make our way through fall, my kitchen leaps into its finest season. By now, we have figured out our school schedules, and things are humming along towards the holidays. Every night, everyone is hungry, and - in finding ways to enjoy the kitchen grind and keep them fed- sourdough found its way into my routine. In my best Frankenstein voice, I hear myself saying, “It’s alive!” way too often. But in fact, it is — growing, bubbling, needing daily attention. You can’t just toss it on the counter and walk away. It demands presence. Feed it too late, and it weakens. Neglect it too long, and you’ll be starting all over again. Around here, our sourdough starter has become part of the weekly chatter. It sits near the oven vent next to my cooking utensils and favorite burner, in sight daily and quietly reminding me that some things only thrive through daily care. I don’t bake bread every day, but every day I must attend to the sourdough. I aim for nothing to go to waste, and we make snack...

There are days when I wonder if my boys will ever get along. Most mornings start with bickering over bathroom time and their small shared bedroom, and most afternoons end with a disagreement over something as small as who’s wearing whose socks or who ate the last cookie. But every once in a while, something shifts. Lately, it’s been the treehouse. Now, let me be clear — I don’t actually know what they’re building. All I hear are bikes clattering back and forth from the barn, the rattle of old nails being hammered into scrap wood, and their voices calling each other’s names (without fighting!). From a distance, I catch glimpses of creativity in motion: one boy inspecting scraps of wood to be repurposed, the other balancing items on the back of an old golf cart to be hauled to the construction site,  both of them lost in a world where adventure feels bigger than any argument they’ve ever had. They call it a treehouse, but I’m not sure that is what’s being built. What I do know ...

Today was a big day on the Plott farm — the kind of day that hums with excitement and smells like hay and fresh beginnings. We brought home three new sheep — 2 year-old ewes and 1 ram — rescued from a nearby herd. They were headed for slaughter, but instead, they came home with us — hand picked  — chosen! What was a terrifying day for them was, in truth, a day of salvation. The truck ride was bumpy, the new pen unfamiliar, and their wide eyes and quiet stares said it all — fear, confusion, and uncertainty. But what they didn’t know is that they were being rescued. They were being set apart for something better. They were being saved to start a new flock.  It struck me in that moment how much we’re like those sheep. We cling to what’s familiar — our routines, our habits, even the things that hold us back — because they feel safe. We resist the unknown, not realizing that sometimes God is leading us away from what’s comfortable so He can bring us into something better....