The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.
Here's an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,800 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 47 trips to carry that many people.
Ever since the guinea pig died I’ve been thinking a lot about hands. Working hands. What kind of work our hands do, to be precise. My husband’s hands pet the soft hair of his baby daughter with her tears falling on his big shoulder as she says good bye to the little sick animal she’s loved for years. And then those same hands take a frail and fragile creature that breathes and they turn it into a still and lifeless form with no air left in its lungs. 
How many times has he been the one to do this? Oh, I could lose count. And on butchering day he is the one to do the killing part, and he teaches his boy to be a gentleman and do the killing part too… …because my soft mama hands are healing hands, not hurting hands he tells me. What about your hands? What kind of work do they do? What do I do with mine that sometimes look pretty but usually have dirt under nails that peel? Up until recently, they used to change diapers. And prepare bottles and pick noses and wash sheets. Today though, they tap out words. And comb hair. And pet horses. Help with schoolwork and fold clothes and read books. But mostly… …they just point the way. Today in church I thought of the smells in the stable because I know what it would’ve smelled like. When I think of a barn…my barn…my brain automatically makes the smell, and it’s hay and it’s wood and it’s cobwebs and manure and animals and life and earth. 
I might know the smell, but what I don’t know is who built the manger. Who wove the reeds or who cut the tree and if it was a tree, who chose the wood and who planed it soft so that it wouldn’t rip the lip of a feeding animal? Who made the joints and dovetailed it all together so it’d last long in the stable and not fall apart? My husband used his hands to make a trunk for me once. Took wood and tools and a brush and some stain and made it all into a box so simple and beautiful I love to just run my hand over its smooth sides. What does a man think of when he crafts a manger? His hands must’ve been sure and confident but he probably didn’t even have a thought that the box he was making would someday hold the most important baby ever born.
And what about the hands that took tools and a tree and worked just as hard some thirty-three years later? Were those hands rough and were they accurate and did the mind that made the hands move think of what he was making his hands do? How strong do your hands have to be to plane the pole that will bear the dead weight of the savior of the world as He hangs onto every sin ever committed?
photo credit: the gospel coalition
Did a little sliver of that tree get stuck into a rough callous…a little stick, wedged tight and prickling under the skin of a knarled finger that helped craft the tool to crucify. How long does it take to make a bed for a king? How long does it take to carve an executioner’s tree? And what do those hands look like? My mind sees the task and my mind sees the tools and when my mind sees the hands, they are strong and they work hard and they all look the same.
Hands that build good. And then those same looking hands…constructing for evil. What about yours? What are your hands building? We laid the guinea pig in the ground and my girl took her little nine-year old hands and she shoveled dirt and she tamped earth. And we all circled round and said something sweet. You get used to this dying when you live on a farm. That didn’t stop a tear from coming to her eye though. And when we walked away and started back to the house, she walked with her Daddy… ..and he held her hand.
The fancy computer folks might be scratching their heads and trying to talk programming and v-glitches and so on…but this mama can easily explain it.
LIFE IS MESSY.
And mistakes get made and things get switched and sometimes there’s just no good and plain reason for it.
So. For my gadget-eyed reader friends, that means that the official, ready-to-publish ebook won’t be ready until after Christmas at the earliest, New Years at the latest. I’m working on making it available for preorder on Amazon, but you know me, between my internet connection, the kids and the farm, -and this week, Christmas- things sometimes happen in fits and starts.
So sorry for the delay, it’ll happen soon though. While I wait on the people who are smarter than me to fix this…I plan on putting my feet up, making a pot of coco and snuggling my babies for the beautiful weekend set aside to celebrate the birth of our Savior. May His peace and joy rest on you and yours this weekend as well.
We love you. Merry Christmas from me to you.
Big news on this little farm…
Our first short run of Annie Spruce is nearly sold out and we’ve had to throw ourselves at the mercy of the printer {{bribe them with cookies}} to try and get a second short run all the way up to our neck of the woods by our next book signing on December 20th. We’re currently in family negotioations as to what is the world’s best ever cookie recipe while we hang onto our BIG faith and confidence in the production team at our awesome print facility that they’ll have it done.
Bigger news that than though, is that while they are slaving away on our print project -and the many others that are operating under the holiday crunch- they are also preparing the E-BOOK ((Wooot!)) for Annie Spruce and are working hard to have it done by Christmas. Can I get a high five??
I’ve had SOOO many people ask me when I was going to put the book into digital form and then I’ve watched their eyes glaze over when I told them “soon” and gone on to explain how I wasn’t smart enough/patient enough/confident enough/time endowed enough/hairy enough to undergo such an undertaking. See? The whole thing just sounds so undertaker-y. Why would I want to go there myself when a little check and a few dozen cookies will do the trick? I get an eBook out of the deal, my head gets to keep its hair intact, and my readers get their precious little digi book. Many of my people -besties…mother…children…- love and adore their digital readers. I myself, remain a purist and have not yet crossed the techno threshold and will forever and always be a devout and loyal paper sniffer. I acknowledge the world has turned, alas, I try to turn with it. Albeit slowly.
Our expected release is Christmas.
{{Maybe Santa will put one of those Kindle gadget things in this paper snob’s stocking this year…}}
E-Book’s a’comin y’all!!
So tonight we had a little incident with the paparazzi.
While at the bonfire right after the parade a nice young man walked up to me and the kids with a big smile on his face.
I smiled back and when he said he was from the local newspaper and was wondering if he could talk to me…my smile got even bigger.
{{Think SPARKLE y’all.}}
He asked if I had a moment and of course I told him “Well, uh… okayyy”
{{I MAY have even flipped my hair a little but I’m not sure. MAYBE.}}
Seriously. How did he know about the book SO SOON?
I cleared my throat and prepared to answer some questions.
Then he turned to my kids and said he was here talking to people about the parade and the fireworks and since their mama said it was okay, he’d LOVE to ask them some questions.
{{Writer ego deflates quietly and oozes out the bottom of my boot…}}
He professionally takes out his recorder, asks us a few questions, smiles when I snort laugh and tell him I thought he was coming to talk to me about my book that just came out {{ha ha polite laugh “oh a book. that’s nice”}} and walks away to interview the next person about our little town’s fun tradition.
Can you EVEN??
I crack myself up sometimes.
And then, in the middle of the fireworks that make us all feel like we’re eight again and that there are no troubles in the world except needing a hot cup of coco to make our life perfect, my little girl, my one who hides her true feelings deep down where I usually have to carefully excavate them, well she looks up at the jet black sky that is bursting with every color you ever thought of, and as the fire flowers dance in her eyes and her round cheeks glow pink, she randomly and casually says “I love you Mama”.
My kids scream at the sky right up through the finale and I howl loud along with them.
And when we pull out, my other daughter holds my hand and the twin snake lines of red tail lights blink on and off with the stop and go cars and Kenny’s on the radio telling us what I already know.
The closest thing to Heaven is a child.
And this writer will take that over paparazzi any day.
Most every day after morning chores and breakfast, I read to the kids around the table. We’ve come to simply call it our Table Time. Some of our biggest family conversations have happened during this time. We lay out our day, we discuss issues in the news, and we tackle major topics that come up from our daily Bible reading.
When we first started homeschooling, I’d read a devotional or a book about the Bible, and then a little bit from our current chapter book.
But in January 2012, I decided that I no longer wanted to read a devotional book, or a book about the Bible, so I dropped all devotionals and I began reading to them straight from the Word. I found a One Year chronological Bible in an easy-to-read version. It was a habit of mine to read the Bible straight through every couple of years in my own individual reading, but my children had never been through it from cover to cover, so I decided that winter that we’d take a year and do it together.
And here we are, almost three years later and we are just coming onto the halfway point. Out of 1432 pages, we are on page 702.
I got over being discouraged at our slow pace about two years ago.
Because what has happened is this:
We talk long about what we just read. Over our oatmeal we talk about rape and incest and adultery and murder and hatred and insanity and all the ugly things that people do to one another. We talk about evil and Satan and why sometimes it’s hard to believe and why sometimes people might not. We talk about doubts and questions and commandments and sin.
And we talk about grace. And love. And paying a price so high that the only fee you could offer is your very life.
So we hit the halfway point this week at our Table Time and I realized something. Not only were we halfway through the pages in the book, we were halfway through the story too.
Because you see, we’re just hitting the point where God’s chosen folks are hauled off into exile by some very bad people. Big Meaners as my kids would call them.
God’s been telling them over and over and over to JUST BEHAVE. Love one another. Love ME.
But all those hundreds of years, they stray. Oh they SAY they love Him. They SAY they’ll do what He wants them to. They SAY they’ll obey. They SAY they’ll treat each other right.
But they don’t.
They kill and they rob and they worship the gods that are made of wood and they cut themselves thinking they need to please those gods and they commit adultery trying to please those gods and they offer up their children and burn them thinking they need to please those gods…
And those gods are silent.
But ours isn’t is He?
The One TRUE God, well He says I love you, but this has gone on too long, you can’t behave like that, like these folks who follow these false gods and now, there is going to be a consequence for your straying.
And that’s where we are in the story. The sad, sad time when the big fat meaners come and lay siege to Samaria, then, three years later, they walk the Israelites on out of their homes and into a foreign country to keep them as slaves.
It’s hard to read.
Except.
Except as I realize what page we are on, and how God so strategically placed THIS incident smack dab in the middle of the time table of the happenings of the Bible, I put my bookmark on our page and flip back to the beginning.
God had a plan. Way back when, He told us that His son was going to come and smash evil to the ground.
And then, about a quarter of the way through, He reminded us that even though all the groups of His people were straying, there would be One to come out of Judah that wouldn’t stray, and that He would go one further and show us all how to remain true.
And then, flipping on ahead, we see that that One really did come…that what God said was going to happen really did.
And then, flipping on up to the end, well, we know what happens.
Because we have the whole story. No matter how much we stray, no matter how much we tend to forget, no matter how many times we have to be reminded to come back, we’re not stuck at the halfway point.
This time-out in the middle won’t last forever.
And knowing that makes us look forward to the rest of the story. It makes us want to read on and keep on and press on… no matter how long it takes us.
It might take us a short time, or it might take us a long time, but when we belong to Him, we know the ending.
We’ll see Him at the beginning.
We’ll see Him at the middle.
And we’ll see Him at the finish. 
My kids read.
A lot.
If you were to get my kids a gift card to the book store, or a pre-paid Nook account, or say, their very own hardback series of Rick Riodan’s work, they’d pretty much think you were an angel from Heaven.
My eight-year old has been hauling around Great Expectations.
Yeah, they’re those kind of kids.
And they don’t mess around with junk. They can sniff out literature twaddle from a mile away and have z-e-r-o patience for it. They’ve brought me books from their Battle of the Books pile before, tossing it on the desk and rolling their eyes when I asked how it was. These are books chosen by our nation’s top librarians y’all.
If we wanted to label here, we could maybe go so far to say my kids are book snobs.
So when their mama’s book came in the mail this weekend, they naturally all wanted to grab a copy and go hole up and read it.
Now can I interject here that they’ve read the story already. Heck, they LIVED the story right? And as a family, we spent some time reading it aloud before it went off into the wilds of publication. They know this thing inside out.
But their very own copy of their very own Mama’s book?
What young reader could resist that right?
So last night, from the dog pile of kids and parents and prayers, all snuggaboo on the big bed before tuck-in, I was surprised that instead of the normal good-night talk, my oldest started a conversation by saying “Mom I did something I never thought I’d be able to do.”
“Ohhh? What’s that?”
“I just took myself out of our story and read it like I’d never heard the story before.”
“Wow. You were able to do that?”
“Yeah. I didn’t think I would be able to, but I did and I read it like I wasn’t in it and you know what? It’s a really good story!”
My face flushed a little like the sweet bakers on Cupcake Wars when the stingy-to-compliment-them Florian says youhr buttuhr cweam fhrosting dahnced like a balluhreena eenn my mowth.
“Wow son. That means a lot coming from you.”
“No, really Mom.” The kid keeps going and I’m standing there like an eager freshman when the senior decides to talk to you in the hall. “It just read like a really great story, like one I’d normally read even if my mom didn’t write it.”
I’m beaming now I’m sure and all this praise from my cut and dry twelve-year old man child is going to my head so I push it one more and prepare myself for the letdown.
“How would you compare it to say….Gary Paulsen?”
Gary Paulsen is this kid’s all time favorite author. There isn’t a book Gary’s written that my kid hasn’t read, most of them at least three times.
I feel bad that I’ve maybe pushed him too far and have forced him to put his loyalties to the test.
“Actually Mom, it reads a lot like Gary Paulsen’s stories do. You write a lot like him. It kinda felt like I was reading one of his books.”
BE.STILL.MY.INSECURE.HAND-WRINGING.AUTHOR.HEART.
My head spins a little and I steady myself with the help of the footboard and I’m sure I heard angels singing from just outside the door.
And as if that wasn’t enough to cement myself as an okay enough author, my daughter (also a true-blue-to-the-bone bona fide book snob) interjects, “Yeah. I think so too. Your book might not be quite as swashbuckling as some of his are, but they were a lot alike.”
I’m not sure what swashbuckling is, or how Gary does it, but to have two of my kids put me in the same league with a long-time bestseller whose work has graced our bookshelves for years has been the best review of my work I’ve ever had and I sit there beaming, glowing I’m sure, in the sincerity of their words.
These kids love this story. They love my writing and it kept them engaged and even if I wasn’t their mom, they’d pick it up and read it on through.
My artist’s heart is full up and my confidence is a little stronger and my author status is a little surer so that it doesn’t even hurt my feelings one iota when, before he heads off to bed, he looks at me imploringly and says, “But Mom? Please just don’t ask me to put it up against Rick Riordan. You won’t do that to me will you? Because I don’t think I could do that.”
Ha.
No son, I won’t.
It doesn’t even matter. Because tonight you’ve given me a little (a lot) of extra added confidence and you’ve confirmed what I’ve known all along.
That God gave us one heckofa beautiful story when He gave us this dog.
That you are a discerning and wise reader.
That you have great taste in literature.
And that you are lovingly…and loyally…dedicated and faithful to your favorite authors.
❤
http://www.cassandrarankin.net/annie-spruce/
To much excitement, two boxes of books arrived today! The sweet lady at the post office tracked and dug for them, calling me forty minutes before closing time to let me know that yes, our highly anticipated packages had arrived safely.
Even though they know the story inside and out, I’ve currently got three children curled up in their beds reading, and a bff texting me her favorite lines, as they all savor their way through our much-awaited book while a basket sits signed, wrapped and ready for delivery tomorrow and in the days to come.
Hop on over to my website to place your order. The first 75 copies ordered will be signed, and ALL copies come with many hugs and much love. I am scared silly and excited as all get out to share the story of this dog…our Annie Spruce, The Dog That Didn’t Die.
He’s a little bit like James Herriot, a little bit like Dr. Pol. and a lot like our elderly, laid-back pediatrician, and all of that in one package makes the man our farm could never do without.
He hasn’t been out since there was last winter’s snow on the ground, and as much as we love him, that’s a GOOD thing. It’s been a pretty easy year as far as the critters go.
But he came out yesterday because my little mini needed her teeth done, the pony was dropping feed and my youngest daughter’s guinea pig had the slobbers.
We crawled around on the ground holding tools while did the yearly maintenance on the mouth of my little horse, my daughter listened intently as he explained how her pony’s teeth are aligned as close to perfect as a horse’s teeth can get, and then we all came inside and had a cup of coffee while he performed a kitchen table dental exam on the guinea pig with the massively overgrown incisors.
He left like always, leaving us with two things: a pocketful of country wisdom and horse sense…
…and a smiling and grateful heart for small town farm vets.
~
All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.
~
There it was.
Straight from the pulpit, the hint of a word…the shadow of shame that comes with a history of being promiscuous. The sting of the suggestion that if you were…you are a less than.
A not-worthy.
And my spine stiffened right there in my seat.
Because like the woman set before Him on the temple grounds[i]…like the woman who spilled her tears on His feet and then wiped them with her hair[ii]…like the prostitute who stood up for His people and wrote herself into His story because she understood His power and decided to choose Him instead of the world[iii]…I wasn’t defined by the shame anymore.
But what if I was? What if I sat there, still working it out…still coming to it…still just starting to understand? What if I didn’t quite grasp the grace yet? What if I didn’t know? What if, even though I may have been taught, there was still a broken inside that hadn’t yet healed?
What if all the men in my past echoed the shadow of that dead word I heard hinted, so that even today it was hard to make eye contact with my new brothers based on the fear that they might bring that word back to life if they were to show me coldness with their eyes?
What if I didn’t have a strong man who loves with faithful steadiness and muscles that protect and patience that perseveres and a servant’s heart that has worked hard over decades to dust corners where dirt sometimes likes to hide and while he dusts he reminds me of what the Creator says…that I am fearfully and wonderfully made…and all his dusting makes me radiant?
What if I wasn’t as strong as some think and don’t we all carry a little bit of fragile deep down and I thought we all knew that words really can bite even when we’re tough cookies.
And what if I had not even noticed that day the subtle hint of scorn over bad choices and confused self-identity and forgotten lessons?
Would she? The pretty one there in the back row who came here looking for a lifeline to help pull her out of the quicksand life she’s stuck in…
Or how about that one over there? The tired middle-aged woman whose husband isn’t as strong as she’d hope him to be, and he only comes to church on big days because he hasn’t realized how lonely she is or how lost she feels or how saved he could be and how powerful that would make him…
Or what about that grandmother? That beautiful wrinkled woman who mourns the lifestyle her precious granddaughter has fallen into, refusing to see the truth she’s been taught no matter how many prayers her grandma offers up…
But I did notice it, and with my back straight and my hope steely, I could only wish they hadn’t. Because how could I look into each of their beautiful eyes and hold each of their hard working hands and tell them that if you were…if you are…if that was you…if that is still you… or someone you love…you are still worthy. That they are still worthy.
That we are still loved.
How could I tell them about the beautiful mama who was once so entrenched in the lifestyle of the streets that she lived for a time within literal prison walls and that she once found herself near buried? How could I express to them her tenacity in not listening to the voices of this world that would keep her down and prevent her from living full and growing strong and reaching still? How could I explain that she listened instead to the voice of her Maker and that because she did, she heard clear the voice of her Savior and eventually found her stumbling grace-filled way to Him?
How could I tell them that sometimes people speak without understanding the weight of their words and that though even those words may sting and make the voices seem demeaning, the ONE voice we need to hear doesn’t bring degrading or condemnation but tender, restorative conviction?
And always hope.
How could I tell them to find that voice, not the voice that battles daily – our own voice – or the voice of the enemy of our soul.
How could I tell them that the voice in my head that resolves and restores is the voice of the One who made me…the voice of the One who spoke the stars into the sky…the voice of the One who reminds me that He, the LORD my God, is with me. That He is mighty to save. That He takes great delight in me and quiets me with his love. And He uses His voice to rejoice over me with singing.[iv]
And that voice tells us that when we hear words that hurt or remind us of the shame, we can remember…we are His.
When we belong to Him, we’re like the woman who’d been crippled for eighteen years. She was bent and couldn’t straighten herself up. But Jesus saw her and called her forward and set her free from her infirmity. And He put his hands on her and she straightened up and praised God.[v]
His is the voice that we need to hear.
And then, no matter what confused messages we may hear, no matter how many times grace isn’t spoken, we’ll know.
We’ll be able to stand straight and remember radiant just like King David did. We’ll remember what we could almost forget if it wasn’t written on the pulpit of our heart and the palms of His hands.
He reached down from on high and took hold of me; He drew me out of deep waters.[vi]
And if our sisters forget, we’ll remind them too. We’ll remind them that the deep-down fragile is held strong with nail-scarred hands.
We can remind them to be like our ancient sister who understood that even though this world was full of name calling and battles and wars and crippling spirits, we can still choose the right way.
That we can see His might and His strength and the love He has for His people and that we can face our fears and trust the power of the one true God and that when we do, He’ll write our beautiful story and reward us for our faith that follows Him.
We can remind them that when we touch Him, we’ll no longer be bent over. That no matter what we hear…or what we tell ourselves…or what the world tells us…or what well-intentioned friends and family tell us…
…what matters is what HE tells us.
That’s who we are.
We can remind them that all the names from all the men don’t matter because HE has a name for us and that name is Redeemed, and My Child, Forgiven and then…one day when we stand before Him, He’ll give to us a brand-new name, a name that no one else knows[vii], a name that He’s had for us since the second He thought us into His story.
We can remind them that the words that matter are The Word and when we remember that, we’ll remember that we’re healed and that we’re whole and that He made us then and He makes us now and that He makes us new.
When we remind them to remember that, it’ll help us remember it too.
And when we remember, we’ll stand.
We’ll stand tall and we’ll praise Him.
[i] John 8:1-11
[ii] Luke 7:38
[iii] Joshua 2
[iv] Zephaniah 3:17
[v] Luke 13:11-13
[vi] 2 Samuel 22:17
[vii] Revelation 2:17
Cassandra Rankin 
