Once upon a peaceful Saturday morning...

...the Murphys went to the ER - again. I know you are tired of hearing that, SO I will spare you the bore of having to slave through this shaken mom's post traumatic stress jabberings, and let the pictures of the day tell the tale.

A little bit of essential background:

The tribe has been doing construction on an “apartment complex” in the back yard. A slight architectural miscalculation led to a “roof tile” giving way when stepped upon.  The result was an 8 foot free fall and a scary back injury - the extent of which could not immediately be determined. After much deliberation it was concluded that Professional Movers had to be called in. 

(click on pictures to enlarge for more detail)

The "apartment complex" and site of injury.
A dear friend (and nurse) helps to calm the injured.

The "Professional Movers" assessing the situation.

Stabilized and wrapped up like roly-poly pudding.

Loading the "moving van".

Awaiting X-ray results.

The look he gave his mom when she asked a very silly question : whether he will from now on stay away from heights?
I think not.  

Checked out of ER - rather stiff, but with spinal cord and vertebrae in tact.

OUt-OUt!

The bunk bed was built extra high for a purpose: in order to allow the Under-Dweller comfortable head-space when he becomes a lanky teenager.  However, the midget currently occupying the “Down Under” is still years away from appreciating or needing that benefit.  The Over-Dweller, however, is gaining unforeseen profit from the height of his nest: it is conveniently far enough above adult eye-level that said occupant can store, gather, collect, breed or grow any combination of matter up there without parental knowledge or consent… unless the undisclosed project starts smelling or chirping, of course.

But unfortunately for Mr. Over-Dweller, his mother unexpectedly had reason to climb the ladder to his tower, and inadvertently discovered his collection of … s n a i l s.  SNAILS!  Yes, they were (somewhat) contained, but the Mother was not pacified by that flimsy detail. She promptly exiled the slime balls to the outskirts of the property and invited their caregiver back on condition that he returns sans gastropods. Further stipulations were clearly communicated to avoid any future misunderstanding on the issue: NO SNAILS are welcome in ANY room, bed, closet, space or surface of this house. 

The Over-Dweller left the crime scene with drooping shoulders and a perplexed look of complete surprise and incomprehension.  The Mother heard him mumble some parting words to the effect of: “… only snails …my bed after all…so cute…cold outside…”  Tempted to get the last word in with a reply containing the key words “my house…slime…dirt…yuck” the Mother miraculously held her tongue. And despite those puppy dog eyes that pleaded on behalf of snail-rights,  she was not swayed from her verdict: no.more.snails.in.this.house.

Later in the day, the Mother quite forgiven and the injustice done to him and his snails graciously forgotten, the Over-Dweller comes bursting into the house with a new-found friend: “Look what I found!  A snake!”  The Mother jumped up, apologized profusely to her visiting friend for the interruption and through clenched teeth... or maybe they weren't all that clenched...ordered the snake and the boy OUT. The traumatized friend understandably announced her need to depart on account of…er…an urgent errand.  She aptly offered her condolences and an escape route to Neptune should the creatures and their caretaker get the upper hand and the Mother finds herself in desperate need of a self-imposed exile. 

Four score and seven years ago...

Neels loves history. 

He is currently enamored with Abraham Lincoln 

and his children 

(because they dressed up like soldiers, 

wore swords 

and rode a cart and ponies through the White House.) 

For our church's annual talent show, 

he decided to memorize the Gettysburg Address.

(No, we did not make him do it. 

He shunned several cute poems I suggested 

for they lacked swords,

and he was not about to get on stage without a sword...)

The history teacher is smiling BIG.

Life's Simple Pleasures

While it is true that our yard is often an ER-visit just waiting to happen, 

it is also occasionally appreciated as a canvas for creativity:

Their excitement follows a documentary on 

Andy Goldsworthy 

and inspiration by local artist and friend

Tom Herzog

Lucky to have Leif

Leif Weldon Murphy
February 1, 2013
7lbs 4oz
19 3/4 inches

Why Leif? 

pron.: /ˈleɪf/ layf or /ˈliːf/ leef

• Because we have run out of Afrikaans family names pronounceable to the American tongue:-) (In keeping with the naming pattern we employed with most of our 6 boys - Afrikaans first name, American middle name - Weldon is an American family name from the Sartor genealogy.) 

• Because he was nearly a pound lighter and several inches shorter than the smallest of his bothers at birth and needed a name that would boost his small stature;-)

• And because he entered this world with beard and braids, sword in hand, horned, studded helmet adorning his head and a war cry that chilled all for miles around…   as you can clearly see:

Actually, he is soft and cute and sweet and very much not your typical Viking!  

And so was his namesake: 

Leif Ericson (970-1020AD).

(That is, Ericson was not a typical viking, history does not tell much about the sweet and soft part;-)

                                         

  Leif, Eric the Red’s son, and his viking heritage entered into our family's imagination a couple of years ago while reading history with our boys.  Though considered to be fearless, was also noted to be wise and kind.  

He preferred the path of exploration above the stereotype of vicious Viking invasions. His adventurous journeys lead him to the New World, and history credits him to be the first European man to set foot on North American soil (the present Newfoundland).

                                                     

Though considered to be favored by the Norse gods due to good fortune seemingly surrounding him (earning him the name "Leif the Lucky"), Leif converted to Christianity through a mentor, King Olav of Norway, and he committed to proclaim his faith wherever he went, making him in essence a missionary to Greenland and the west.

After studying his life, we (or mostly our Tribal chief, for he is good at using his thinker to produce thoughts such as these) mused that Leif of old has become to our family a historical surprise of sorts.  He reflected, "We live in a world of reductionism or oversimplification concerning our views and thoughts about people, places, and events  - whether ancient or contemporary - and thus often inaccurately label, misunderstand or misrepresent an individual or group of people." 

Consequently, Leif Ericson became to us a symbol/admonition of being alert to surprises and open to having our preconceived ideas challenged regarding the people we meet both in history and in our daily lives.

So although we chuckle about little Leif having been a contemporary surprise of sorts 9 months ago, and jest about his needing the stamina and perseverance of a viking to survive as the youngest of 6 boys, we sincerely hope that he will be an atypical Viking who will come to know his Creator and Savior intimately and that his life will testify that his Redeemer lives.

Of course, we have no doubt that he will wish for a long-ship of his own at times to seek greener  pastures not entangled by the intricacies of tribal life... but we do hope that he will also experience moments of considering himself lucky to be part of our imperfect, work-in-progress family.

I believe in Santa Clause!

It took me 39 years, but now there is no denying him any longer: 

Santa is real.  

Here's the proof, found in our mailbox:

(click image to enlarge, for sometimes seeing is believing)

And to erase any lingering doubts,

he confirmed his existence through sending numerous elves 

(none of whom revealed their pointy ears;-)

 to deliver an abundance of hugs, food, cards, prayers,

 e-mails, words of comfort, time and more

to encourage and care for us in our loss.

So I am compelled to agree with one of our boys who recently remarked :

 "I think Sinterklaas [Santa] must know Jesus", 

for he has a big heart,  
 and gives abundantly-
above and beyond what we could ever have 
asked for or imagined...

Thank you

to all elves seen and unseen.
You have loved us well.

a thrill of hope...

"... because the best gifts 

are to sing about and celebrate...

... and so it is wise to live life expectantly, 

alert to the surprises of God. 

- Eugene Peterson, The Christmas Troll

As we have pondered anew this season

 both the despair of our human condition
 and the hope found in Christ, 
we rejoice with you
in Immanuel!

Long lay the world in sin and error pining. 

Till He appeared and the Spirit felt its worth. 

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices, 

For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. 

Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angel voices! 

O night divine, the night when Christ was born; 
 - Oh Holy Night

Merry Christmas to you!    

from     

The Murphies

And now for something completely different…

…and unexpected… 

which maybe makes it  not all that different after all… 

for we seem to specialize in the unexpected…  

which just means that we’re still riding the New-Murphy-Normal wave.  

Make that the Murphy Tsunami.

It’s all about a garden.

And a compost pile.

Our garden.

Our compost pile.

Boring. 

I know.  

But then again, we’re talking MURPHY here. 

Murphy’s law. 

Muprhy’s life.  

Murphy’s garden. 

Expect the unexpected and consider reading on. 

Maybe.

For the last 10 years we have attempted the nurture of a healthy garden.  Some years left us with disappointing yield – like The Year Of The Ducks.  Other seasons saw such success that we deemed it wise to close down the fertile plot.  Like the year the watermelon business was closed.  Officially closed.  Because we figured our figuring and decided on not biggering and biggering and biggering. Our garden can handle only so many specimens and that’s that. Too much diversity and we get overwhelmed, exhausted and cranky. (Though I will sheepishly admit that one of us gardeners took a little longer then the other (wiser) one to firmly come to this conclusion.  But I got there.  Late, but not too late.) So we intentionally limited our garden to a variety of 5 crops max.  MAX.  And that may even have been pushing it a little…

But what to do if a mystery seed skips the established garden, disregards all boundaries of  controlled production, and unexpectedly sprouts right from within the compost pile?  A seed that grows silently and inconspicuously until, one day, you are confronted with the surprising reality of a Jack-and-the-beanstalk size vine that threatens the somewhat manageable life-with-5-crops as you know it...  for it is not a weed that can be pulled, it is…surely it is not… can’t be… but it is… a watermelon!


But the watermelon business is closed! We can’t handle another crop! Drought is lurking in our pockets, floods are thundering through our thinkers, our synapses are hosting a electric lightning storm… Our crop-transport-wagon is maxed-out on space, we’re too old, too tired, too… stuck in our own gardening plans, visions and ways… to grow another… watermelon…

But shock, confusion, trepidation, and incredulously processing the odds with the Big Gardener Upstairs has not changed any of our new reality: we are indeed growing another watermelon.  Courtesy of the compost pile.  Courtesy of The New Murphy Normal.  Courtesy of the Big Gardener Upstairs.

So if you will please be so gracious and faithful to water our garden with your prayers, we will be ever so thankful.  If you happen to see us, and it looks like we are about to plummet from the crest of the Tsumani into the even greater chaos of swirling white water, please kindly catch us.  If you dare.  For we are, after all, specialists in Murphy’s Law.  Expect.The.Unexpected.

The New Murphy Normal?

I was determined that my next blog entry would be a fun post; a report that would solidify to me (and to you, because I know some of you have your suspicions) that life at the Murphy home can indeed be normal.  But… here I am writing for the sake of sanity once more… processing the seemingly New Normal we entered 7 months ago with the first of (now 4) ER visits.

These are wonderful people,but you never hope to have them rush into your yard – unless of course there is a beloved kitty in the tree that needs to be rescued. We, however, do not have a cat.So when the 5^th rescue vehicle silences it’s sirens in front of your house, even little boys may think it scary rather than exciting.  At least initially.
So what happened this time?  

A boy fell – hard and f a r.

But, instead of a little boy,  it was a big boy in double digits.  It was Grandpa.  Now I need you to know that Grandpa knows and loves ladders – even though he is 67 years young. He also is experienced in cutting trees down.  That is why he came to help Scott get rid of this Dogwood that had an unwanted lean into the neighbor's yard.  But after an unforeseen tension mishap between ladder, tree and rope, grandpa was catapulted a guesstimated 20 feet down.

I heard a shout (one of those unmistakable something's-very-wrong howls), and a THUD... adrenaline transported me to the site in seconds.  Grandpa was alert, but obviously in significant pain. Scott was kneeling by his side.  The boys, just having witnessed one of their hero’s plummet, were a grey-ish-white.  
I f-f-fumbled with the phone… who knew that the numbers 9 and 1 could be so hard to find on the all too familiar pad?? 
When I had finally managed to communicate the necessary details (in my extra-strong, stress-induced accent) to 911, I irrationally started snapping pictures.  Yes, I hear your thoughts: "She may be the one who needed to be admitted!!"  And since there is a spark of truth to that, I unashamedly declare my crazy point-and-shoot session to have been essential therapy. It is called visual-processing-for-the-almost-but-not-quite-yet-insane.

A very observant fireman, who must have thought my actions on the wrong edge of normal, came up to me and asked if I was OK.  Guess what I did… I started crying of course!  I assured him it was just shock-ock-sniff-ock-k-k.  He was one smart man, for after assessing that I would indeed not faint or fizzle into histerics after all, he looked at the 5 sheet-white ghosts at my side, and with a most winsome and comforting smile offered: “Who wants to explore a firetruck!?”

Those guys rock.  That’s all I can say.

In the meantime, grandpa endured a horrendously painful ride to the hospital, and had the ER personal shaking their heads: “What was a 67y/o doing on a ladder?”  They just did not know how young 67 could be.  It is a boy thing, I think... I assume... I fear.

But grandpa is doing very well given the distance he fell and the body-bounce he endured on impact.  He broke his clavicle and suffers from significant back pain, but has no known internal injuries or other fractures. I am absolutely convinced that he had The Everlasting Arms underneath him even as he fell, since he barely missed the spiky edge of a chain link fence and landed literally inches away from some ominously situated, pointy tree stumps.

So… all of this sounds pretty New Murphy-Normal to me, don’t you think?  But still... I have hope that the next post will start with an upbeat: And now for something completely different! 


Update: Poor grandpa.  While his injuries are not life threatening, "it hurt him hijjus!" After 3 days in the hospital, he is facing 3 more in the same bed, and after that another week in an inpatient rehab facility.   Convincing him that this is the most excellent route to recovery has not been easy...he is strong and independent... and every bit as hard-headed as my side of the family! (And that is not a comforting thought: our children are apparently loaded  with a double dose of formidable genes from both sides of the ocean...)


Another update: Grandpa does have 3 vertebral fractures after all.  It does not change things a whole lot, except that he has an explanation for his pain and is facing a longer recovery period than the few days he initially hoped.

fried nerves and a bruised brain

Bear with me as I ramble.  This blog is about therapy.  Cheap Therapy for Unraveling Nerves.  Presently, my nerves. If you know me well, you know that I am not a very pink girl... but I am getting pinker and pinker every day.  Because of:

Wheels. Speeeeeed.  Heights. Risk. CRASHes.

The very words that cause an adrenaline-rush in boys (of all ages), just happen to cause this mother and wife to bend her knees (mostly from weakness) and clench her hands in prayer.

Do you remember the “What do you get when you cross 

a __________ with a _________ jokes?”  

Well I have one for you. 

Except that it is not funny:

What do you get when you cross 

little boys 

with 

ideas gained at an air show?

A concussion.

It is best explained with pictures:

Some of us watched this at the air show with apprehension...

others watched with eager anticipation...

image from MayAirFly Pamflet

Yes, that is a motorcycle jumping over a plane.

Then...

some of us watched this unfold at home with trepidation...

while others participated with elation...

Devan - getting ready to jump fall.

Please let it be known that the (now thoroughly) Pink Voice in this house approved of neither the contraption nor its use.  I’m just saying.  Because the Deep-Royal-Blue-Voice-In-Residence did similar crazy blue tricks and stunts when his voice was still Baby Blue... Wheels. Speeeeeed.  Heights... It seems inevitable... Boys of boys will be boys. 

So, after a number of (mostly failed) "jumps", we ended up with the inevitable face plant, resulting in a mouth full of grass, a bulging upper lip, minor scratches and... a concussion.

The CT scan diagnosis was good news: Pieter thankfully has only a bruised and not a bleeding brain.  The bad news is that Pieter now has had his first concussion… the imminent second one being of greater concern to his PT mom.

 So to his great disappointment, he is not allowed on wheels or heights for a month (Dr's orders, not pink fear)… but the thrill of finding himself on a Big Wheel Stryker in the hospital was enough to make the queasy-boy-with-headache smile.

And despite all the fried (pink) nerves, dripping (blue) blood and (intimidating black-on-white) ER bills, we too still have reason to smile.  In all our emergencies, fairies tend to show up and take care of things on the home front – they clean up the blood, feed the remaining (whole) boys, play, change diapers, conquer my  Laundry Monster, do dirty dishes, call, drop by, pray and love us well, far beyond our homecoming with the Wounded One. They go by beautiful names and have hearts overflowing with love and grace. 

Dear Fairies, know that you are the hands and feet of Jesus to us, and we are extremely thankful for each one of you.  Through you our King reminds us that

"He is before all things and in Him all things hold together... "

[even fried pink nerves and bruised brains] 

missed millimeters and miles of grace

The life of a caboose is not always an easy one.

It often means to (unintentionally) get caught in the crossfire of two warring brothers.  It is just the way it is. And it makes for (too many) close calls.  Thankfully not all wounds require ER visits, but the location of this one made us realize that every missed millimeter equals miles of grace.

The puny girl in me ordered all weapons (commercial or self-invented) to the trashcan.  NO MORE WARS.  Obediently (and somewhat shaken by The Fritz’s almost-out-eye) the Pirates, Vikings, Barbarians, Indians, Union solders and Confederates lay down their swords, sticks, PVC pipes, 2x6’s (:-o), Mazoongas and logs at the feet of their loving and long-suffering?, oppressive?, traumatized Queen Mother.

But we all know it will not last long.  Slowly, subtly and shrewdly the weapons will mysteriously multiply again, the faintly familiar sounds of war will reach my ears, but not register in my cluttered conscience as potential danger. I will label it simply as boy-noise.  I will even enjoy it…  until the next wound.   May the missed millimeters be many and the miles of grace stretch w i d e and looooong and high and deep.

BIG mess... BIG sweep

"And this mess is so big 
And so deep and so tall, 
We cannot pick it up. 
There is no way at all!" 
- Dr. Seuss (The Cat in the Hat)

They meant to give me a gift.  They meant to clean the house all by themselves.  But at some point, as the cloud of dust settled into uncomfortable piles of filth, my well-meaning  little cleaners felt overwhelmed by the enormity (impossibility?) of the task, and disappeared. They left the mess for someone else to clean up.  Someone more able, someone bigger than themselves, someone gracious enough to dig into and remove their heaps of grime.

I grumbled as I beheld the chaos they created.  Why did they have to dig deep into forgotten corners, move furniture that was effectively hiding the unseen, roll back rugs covering dead things?  Surface cleaning would have been sufficient.  We would have looked clean to the world and no-one would have known what lurked in our dark holes…

But since the stains were now exposed, I took the broom and started sweeping.

I swept forgotten stuff; I swept real things, yet almost unrecognizable for being hidden for so long; I swept things long dead, but never eliminated; I swept fresh crumbs.

And as I swept, the Light illuminated specks of dust everywhere.  EVERYWHERE.

And I felt overwhelmed by all that came out of my dark, hidden holes.

And I felt overwhelmed by the impossibility of self-cleansing.

And I felt sure that surface cleaning removed even less than I had hoped.

And I longed for someone else to clean up my mess.

And I yearned for Someone more fully able,

     Someone bigger than myself

                Someone gracious enough

                            to dig into

      and remove

             my heaps of grime.

And Someone came.  He ached for what He beheld. Yet He washed. He cleaned. He beautified. He loved.  He gave.  He paid.  And when He said: "It is finished", my grime was on Him.  And He took it... to decompose in an empty grave.  

He bowed down low and bent His head
For to sweep the Lord’s house clean...

"Yes I’ve come to wash and clean
From this floor, the stains of sin
Sweep high, sweep low
Sweeping clean as I go."

I bowed down low and bent my head
for the King did sweep and  now I'm clean...

adapted from

Bow Down Low

(an old Shaker song)

Happy Easter to all!