My granddaughter, Abigail, and her husband became foster parents to two beautiful little girls whom they loved and cared or as if they were their own. They eventually went back to their own home, which caused much sorrow and many tears.

Abigail explained, “ I feel that we gave them a stable home and lots of love and concern. Although my heart is broken, we did what we could for them.”

A year ago, they became foster parents to three siblings, two little girls, ages 13 weeks and two years, and an older brother who was four.  (Some time later they took another baby of six weeks.)   She had three babies in diapers, but they were never neglected or uncared for. Abigail is a natural-born mother, whose nurturing ability is almost supernatural.

I cannot think of better foster parents that Abigail and her husband. With two children of their own, ages 15 and 11, they took these children into their home to love and care for them as if they were their own. They are raising them in a home of love and prayer, and are teaching them moral values and godly principles.

About a week ago, she put this letter on Facebook:

“On this one year anniversary of our foster loves: Back in the summer, a biological mom of one of our fosters brought me a gift when I dropped the kids off for a supervised visit. It was a gift from the heart to try to show her appreciation for our care of her kids. It was the smallest, cheapest set of wind chimes that I had ever seen, and I cherished them. I brought them home, oohed and aahed over them, and had the kids help me hang them on the porch on the opposite side of my big, expensive melodious set.

I loved seeing them hang there because it was a tangible reminder that I’m walking beside a real person, caring for and loving the kids of a real, feeling (albeit messed-up person) and I was appreciated.  A tangible reminder that what I was doing was not in vain. How egotistical.

Then the tides turned.  With her back against the wall, she needed someone to share the heat, and the accusations started flying, causing the relationship I had worked to sustain to fall to pieces. And there hung my wind chimes. My cheap, tinny, barely noticeable wind chimes. They suddenly looked smaller than ever. I remember straining to hear the weak discord they gave off in the strongest wind.

In frustration, I almost took them down.  I even reached for them one day, tired of the reminder of hurt and heartache, but I couldn’t make myself take them down.  Not understanding this hesitancy within me, I continued to notice them for weeks, but instead of disgust, I started feeling sadness.

One day, I pulled in the driveway.  Unable to reach for the door handle, I sat there looking at those chimes, comparing them to my other more luxurious set. Were they pretty?  Not even close.  Did they sound as beautiful?  Absolutely not. Did they look as nice?  I couldn’t even see the details without squinting. And then the wind blew. . . and they swayed on the breeze in exactly the same direction as my expensive set.  With all the power in their tiny design, they did the absolute best they could to produce the familiar tinkling we all recognize.  Oh, the music was off key—puny sounds not even very pleasant to the ears.

I was flooded with conviction.  Conviction for not seeing, that although she’s very different, and even wrong on so many levels, I had lost the burden I once carried for this momma. She was less than, messed up, sinful, addicted, and unworthy of my time, my prayers, my burden.  And there I was, gliding on the wind, my beautiful life full of righteous choices, fully aware that my song was prettier, louder, more noticeable, right even—without ever taking into consideration “But God, who is rich in mercy, for His great love wherewith He loved us . . .  (Eph. 2-4) and verse 8-9, “For grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: It is the gift of God:  Not of works. Lest any man should boast.”

And so the wind chimes remain in their spot, serving as a constant reminder of a momma that needs prayer, needs hope, needs salvation—the kind that only comes from above.  And mine stay there too, but these days I find them looking gaudy, too loud, overzealous, obnoxious. . . “

May God richly bless the foster parents who give of their love and time unselfishly to provide homes for these helpless children.

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Groundhog Day is peeping around the corner, and with it, the promise of spring. I don’t think that this little varmint is really afraid of his shadow, but horrified of how he looks after a winter of hibernating.  When he first comes out of his burrow, he is still nice and fat.  When he sees his shadow on the ground, his impression is the same as a lot of ours after Christmas is over  and we get a look at ourselves in a full length mirror—“Oh, my goodness, how did I get in that kind of shape?” He then dives back into his burrow to sleep of a few more pounds.

I wish sometimes that I could do the same.  When he does re-emerge for good, his diet of twigs and fresh sprouts soon has him long and lean.  Therein lies the answer—I don’t think you can lose weight on cherry pie and ice cream.  Speaking of food, we received a pie recipe from Christi Boggs that sounds interesting. She says that it is yummy!

APPLESAUCE PIE

2 eggs

1 cup sugar

½ cup butter, melted

1 cup applesauce

2 tablespoons flour

2 tablespoons lemon juice (unless apples are tart)

9” unbaked pie crust.

Mix all ingredients; pour into pie shell. Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes.  Christi said she baked hers ten minutes longer, as the crust wasn’t quite done.

Abigail says she wishes I would print some recipes that would feed ten or twelve people!  How about a big pot of brown beans and a skillet of cornbread?  That, and potatoes, was the basis of most of our childhood menus.  Maybe you could cook the groundhog to go with it.