Dogs and boys and old pickups

Day three of the Very Bad Head Cold is leaving me home-bound and wretched.

Outside my wonderful husband is hauling Trevor (age 14); Daniel (age 8) and James (age 5) across the farmyard in the back of the old pickup.  Miss Kitty, the puppy in a dog’s body, is prancing along behind them.  She has a humongous chew bone in her mouth.

James is hollering at the top of his lungs, something I cannot make out from here inside.

Ostensibly, these men-folk are working.  Dear Husband has manufactured several tasks for these busy hands.  Trevor is turning out to be a very good worker.  He lives with his grandmother, mother and siblings about three miles away.  He is the latest in a long line of hired young men trained up to hook trailers, load bales, go-fer stuff and generally help my aging farmer get ‘er done.  Trevor is recently born again.

Daniel and James? These boys have three other siblings, two sisters and an older brother.  Their mom is raising them.  They are well-behaved and polite and boys through and through.

I let the curtain fall back over the window as I head for yet another Kleenex.  I turn the fire up under the tea kettle.  I smile as the sound of Miss Kitty’s excited yelping answers the voices of the boys in the back of the truck.

And I pause to say thank You, Kind and Holy Abba.  Thank You that You are bigger than all of us. Thank You that Your mercies endure forever.

From generation to generation, You are God.