Hiding in My Shadow

As the sun rises higher above the treetops, I awaken still sleepy children and hustle them through the morning routine of dressing, brushing of teeth and hair, and consuming a quick breakfast of milk and cheerios.  The rush seems ridiculous on what will soon be just another lazy summer day, but no one complains.  The past few weeks have taught even the little ones of this necessity.

In south Louisiana, the ninety plus degree heat coupled with nearly 100% humidity makes for a perfect sauna but a rather difficult environment to play and work in after about 11 am.  The longer it takes to get outside, the higher the sun.  The higher the sun, the more sweaty and irritable everyone will be.

This morning, though, the air is unusually brisk for mid July, a surprise gift left behind after a late night shower that swept quietly through our farm while the world slept.   Still, I know it won't last. 

Before the stifling Louisiana heat can reclaim its summer throne, we four tumble out the door for our morning mile--two journeys up and down the gravel drive.  We walk from sun to shade to sun again.  Our feet move swiftly as the sun presses down hard on our heads, then unconsciously we slow within the shadow of the trees and hay barns.

The morning run/walk may be for exercise, but for my children, it is an exciting excursion.  This week alone, the children have spotted a fuzzy wuzzy caterpillar climbing a dewy blade of grass, a freshly squashed toad with its "heart" displayed outside its body (or so says my eldest), and piles of red and yellow leaves, a promise of the autumn to come.

Today finds all three underfoot, as usual.  Difficult for a mother trying to increase speed and heart rates. 

"We're hiding in your shadow!" says one.  The other two quickly join in the game.

Three tones of happy laughter join the songbirds' morning hymn.  I can't help but smile at this song of childhood which is contagious as the three skip and leap, jockeying for position, all trying valiantly to find my always-moving shadow and rest within its shade. 

Daughter's shadow disappears within mine for a split second before reappearing behind, her long legs stepping high to catch up again.  Both sons try but fail to completely vanish beside me.

"I'd need to be a lot wider to hide either of you anymore," I laugh. "You've gotten too big."

Logic is irrelevant, and they repeatedly keep trying to seek shelter within the thin strip of protective darkness I cast.  Soon, we turn a bend in the road, the sun's angle shifting to where our shadows now walk before rather than beside us.

All three finally concede the impossibility of what they've been attempting and race ahead.

The moment of needing mommy has passed, and all scatter to make their own way.  Daughter lags behind in pursuit of something in nature that catches her eye.  Oldest son runs far ahead, ever desiring to be first to beat his younger brother who stoops before me to examine a rock.

I can't help but think of Jesus' words as he entered Jerusalem before his death: "'O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those sent to her! How often I wanted to gather your children together, just as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you would not have it!'" (Lk. 13:34).

The verse hearkens back to the Psalmist who wrote, "How precious is Your lovingkindness, O God! And the children of men take refuge in the shadow of Your wings." (Ps. 36:7).

Even in their shadow play, my children remind me of both my desire and my inability to protect them.  I long to be that mama hen who gathers her brood to hide them in the shadow of my wings, but I am insufficient for the task.  I'm simply not "big enough"  

My God, though, is "big enough."  No matter the sun's angle, my brood can fully rest within His shadow, completely protected. 

With summer's end just a few short weeks away and my twins starting school for the first time, I rest in this thought, knowing His shadow is large enough when all three of my independent little chicks leave my side.

 

Following the Hurricane (Whether I Want to or Not)

I am not a fan of inclement weather.  My children will readily tell you the first thing this mother prays aloud for each time she sees an Elijah-sized thundercloud headed my direction is, "Please, Lord, don't let the electricity go out."

There was a time when storms were exciting--cancelled school, strong winds to play outside in, eating hot dogs and baked beans on a Bunsen burner, and the homey smell of oil lamps burning.  Then came the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina and suddenly, the romance of hurricane days was no more.

Mental images still flash through my mind as clear as any glossy photo in my hand--images of around-the-block lines at the gas stations for weeks after the storm, of bread and milk rationing at the grocery store, of the hum of generators instead of the hum of crickets and the fear that I couldn't pull start the machine again if it ran out of gas during the night. And that was all while living north of Interstate 12, away from the worst ravaging in New Orleans and along the Louisiana coast.

A month later, Hurricane Rita followed with more power outages, and a few short years later, another hurricane barreled through.  That time, I rode out the storm with a two year old and infant twins, the winds blowing hard enough to bring the impossibly tall pine in the front yard level with the earth, all while I huddled indoors concerned about my babies sleeping without their window AC unit.

Tonight as I write this, another hurricane blows sheets of rain sideways against the house windows again, only the house is not mine.

Months ago, my parents and I began planning a trip to visit my sister in love, Liza, while my brother, Johnathan, was deployed overseas on the U.S.S. Bataan.  We only thought we were leaving Louisiana for a fourth of July party and good family fun with my children loving all over their Aunt Liza.  Never did we consider God had us coming at this particular time for a very different reason.

Even when we left home and started driving north, we thought surely the storm would head out to sea, but it has persistently hugged the coast, inching westward just enough to bring the storm to her home and to me and my children once again.  

Hurricane Arthur is only a Category Two storm, with 100 mph winds, nothing like Katrina, and it's expected to make landfall just east of Liza's home later this evening, putting us on the "good" side of the storm as it glances off the coast and continues northward to New England and beyond.  Still,the winds whip hard, strange whistling noises spooking the cat who grows big-eyed at my feet and scurries for cover in some dark corner.

I don't understand the Sovereignty of God.  I don't understand how both God's Sovereignty and man's free will coexist simultaneously.  Yet, by faith, I believe they do.   I have to.  To believe in coincidence and random acts with no meaning or purpose is chaos and doesn't line up with too much of what Scripture tells me.

In that faith, I know God sent my family here to be with Liza to "ride out the storm" with her, not because she needs us to really do anything much.  But because I know it gives her and my brother half a world away both a good measure of comfort knowing we're here.

To me, our presence in this hurricane with Liza is like God saying to both Johnathan and Liza, "Do not fear, for I am with you.  I'm still here. I'm still in control.  I'm taking care of you both even though you may not see me and things may not be easy."

These are the moments when I feel God the most near, when I see the impossible line up to the possible, when I see how God uses me to bless another even when I wasn't aware I was doing anything that could be used for His glory.

When Strangers Become Family

It was August 2009 when I finally gathered enough courage to begin taking my trio of terror to the library.  The twins were a few months shy of one year old, which meant the trip involved the limousine stroller, complete with its bulldozer-type handling.

I distinctly remember keeping the babies firmly strapped in their seats--completely against their will, of course.  I also remember being hyper conscious of every sound they made and madly buying their silence with a golden bribe known to mothers everywhere--Cheerios.

Lots of them. Doled out one at a time and shoved--along with an entire fist--into little bird mouths. 

Big brother Wyatt fell instantly in love with this book haven, and just like that, we started a weekly routine of visiting the children's section.  Every Tuesday morning, I would stroll through the electronic front doors of our local branch to check out 15 books--no more simply because no more would squeeze in the cloth bag with the quaint sunbonnet dolls printed on it. And no less because if more could fit, then my then two-year-old would make them fit.

At some point during those first few months, one of the librarians at the front desk told me I had just missed Storytime, which just so happened to be held every Tuesday morning.  The next week, we made it on time. 

The library became our sanctuary.  It was the first place I felt my children were expected to be children....were accepted as children, were celebrated as children.  Tables, chairs, and crayons beckoned them to come in and stay awhile, no matter their occasional lack of inside voices. There before an entire wall of glass, we put together countless puzzles and read even more books together.

It wasn't long before we were on a first name basis with most of the librarians, and while members of our precious librarian family have come and gone over the years, there has been one constant since our first visit--Mrs. Annie.

To say my children love Mrs. Annie is to minimize how integral a part of our family she has become. 

She has read to my children almost every week at Storytime for the past five years.  She's sung ridiculously silly songs, created amazingly cool kid crafts that have lived on my fridge, and has been patient when my trio wanted to "help" restack the carpet squares before we were finished using them.

When Wyatt started Kindergarten two years ago, his greatest regret was not leaving his mother at home but rather missing Storytime.  Since then, during summer break and holidays, he has always been excited to rejoin his siblings and Mrs. Annie for this hour of fun, no matter that he's now taller than most of the other children and is surrounded by many noisy babies and toddlers.

Time with our favorite librarian didn't end with Storytime, though.  The first "Mrs. Annie" event was pumpkin decorating when Wyatt wasn't quite three.   Since then, virtually every month has found us calendaring some excitement with Mrs. Annie.    In years past, she's guided my children through Egypt and helped them become Master Librarians from The Magic Tree House series.  The past twelve months alone have seen my children playing Valentine BINGO with Mrs. Annie as well as attending Dinosaur, Dr. Seuss, Turtle Power, and Elephant & Piggie parties with Mrs. Annie.

For three summers, our friend has been the one to gently encourage my children to fully participate in the Summer Reading Program (even when this mother wasn't sure she was up to the challenge) so that now, it's not a question of if we'll read the fifty books to earn all our raffle tickets for a bike but when we'll read them.

Two weeks ago, we learned Mrs. Annie was leaving for a new job.  My heart felt the loss so much that I didn't tell the children for several days, and when I did, they met the news with an equally long pause of perfect silence.  It's not often I can leave my children speechless. 

Every day, my trio asks if today is her last day.  The second question is "Will we ever see Mrs. Annie again?"  I assure them that we will, even if just on Facebook (where I'm sure they'll stalk her photos for awhile).

In the Fall, the twins start Kindergarten, leaving Storytime behind, so in a way, it seems a fitting end to this season of life, to know that as our family is passing on to new things, the face of the library will change as well.

We will continue to make new friends and adopted "family" at our local library, all while knowing that the changing seasons of this life are made special by the people who inhabit them.  I thank God above that for this five year season, He blessed us with a Mrs. Annie whom we could love and who would love us back.

One day when my little ones are turning grey, themselves, I know we will sit around with the photo albums and share fond memories of the librarian who was the first to cultivate in them a love of books.

We love you, Mrs. Annie.

Worm Guts and Mosquito Bites

The children have begged me to take them fishing for two years now.  Begged.   As in the hands and knees kind of persistent groveling.

It's not that big of a stretch to understand why--we live on a farm with a pond full of whatever fish God has seen fit to rain in it.  My children have grown up seeing it almost every day, completely unaware of the gut-sucking panic this mother has experienced every time they have gone near its watery depths for fear of them falling in and drowning or finding a poisonous moccasin hiding in the reeds.

All they saw, though, was an opportunity for fun.

Pond = fishing.  Right?

I am many things, but a fisher-woman is not one of them.  At any given moment, I could easily rattle off a hundred or so reasons why my children + fishing  was a bad idea.  I understand the thrill of the catch.  My daddy and I used to fish at my great-grandma's old farm place, so like most people, I have my own story of the big one that got away.  I distinctly remember the day he flashed his tail fin into the air as if to brag that we'd never catch him (and we didn't).

I also remember daddy doing all the work--threading the bait on the hooks, taking the fish off the hooks, and letting them splash hard through his glove-covered hands and back into the depths.   He was the one who cast our lines far enough out to give us a chance at catching that big one.  He was also the one with the hook stuck in his skin when my brother or I failed to hit the target.

Then, there is the memory of ever-present mosquitoes who make a bee-line for my particular blood type or the very vivid memory of donating blood to a catfish's barb.  If I could get past those very rational fears, there was still the knowledge that I would be the one sending night crawlers to a watery death, all for catch-and-release entertainment, and that's not to mention the waiting....waiting....waiting (yawn!) for the fish to decide they want to eat said night crawler.

My first excuse was that my children lacked proper equipment, never mind that my brother and I routinely went crawfishing with string, a cane pole, and leftover chicken mama was throwing out. Thanks to a benevolent Aunt Liza and Uncle Johnathan, all three were gifted equipped with their own pint-sized fishing rods, complete with images of various Disney characters all smiling as if to say, "This is going to be great!!!" So much for that excuse.   

Excuse #2 was that the children didn't know how to use a rod and reel.  And so, we spent too many hours practicing our casting in the yard.  Actually, this mother spent too many hours untangling their lines from whatever they'd managed to wrap it around.  The BBQ grill, the oak tree, the cat.  No matter how far apart I placed my three children when they began casting lessons, it never failed that after a few minutes, one child's line would be knotted with another child's line, which would inevitably become knotted with the third child's line when he would come to "help." 

Even after a year of off-and-on practice, just the thought of giving my children a real hook versus the rubber fish used for practice gave me fingers-down-a-chalkboard shivers.  Excuse #2 was alive and kicking.

I tried to pawn the job off onto my husband or my in-laws, gave hints that had to be obvious.  Still, nobody took the bait. Obviously, they, too, thought this was about as fun as a root canal.

Earlier this summer, though, I finally caved in to the pleading and promises of their firstborn children and blind obedience if only I'd take them.  Please?

Instead of an easy date night on the sofa with husband, I was the sweaty, mosquito-bitten, nauseous woman repeatedly pinching thick earthworms into smaller pieces with my fingernails, all while praying aloud for forgiveness as I wove their writhing forms on the hook. I was also the woman ducking for cover as empty hooks floated perilously through the air towards me when the fish stole their bait (again).

That first evening, oldest son, Wyatt, caught three small fish. Bass.  Perch. 

Listening to the screams, you'd have thought they were great whoppers with solid gold scales.  The welcoming committee leaped skyward with child-like excitement, enjoyed the terrified fish for a minute or two, then returned them to their habitat so they could grow into a future meal. 

The twins didn't have their brother's luck, even when they cast in the same location under the branches of the cypress trees.  Amelia caught a bass but failed to land it.   And poor Emerson watched his bobber merely jiggle for over an hour with no results.  Thankfully, they were happy for their big brother and excited for their "next time" fishing, when they did catch their own fish.

As the day's light began to fade, I returned home with worm guts under my fingernails and red spotted appendages from giving blood to a swarm of hungry insects.

I headed straight for the hot water, soap, and hand sanitizer on top of that.

When my children ask what love looks like, I'll point to memories such as this one.  This is the meaning of love.  It is doing for others what you would never do for yourself.  It is self sacrifice for another's happiness.  It is doing what you thought you couldn't or simply didn't want to, all because someone else wanted you to walk with them.

Love is just as the title says--worm guts and mosquito bites.

"Summer School" Needn't Be a Bad Word

A two-week hiatus from this blog can mean only one thing—summer has returned to the farm.

The cicadas have marched forth for their every thirteenth-year visit, filling our ears with a constant background hum.  Even from inside my house, it sounds like a slowly circling ceiling fan someone forgot to turn off somewhere deep in the forest. 

All flora that is going to wake up from its long winter’s nap has already done so with great flourish, highlighting how hard this past winter’s ice storm was on the land.  I cut these losses and bury more life within the warm earth, praying for the increase.

Then, there are the longer evenings when the coolness accompanying the descending sun re-energizes both old and young, calling us all to after supper tromps through the briar patch in search of luscious blackberries for cobbler and even later dips in the swimming pool. 

In the end, all this summer means the dinner table is oft left until long after we are mere shadows against the failing light and the mosquitoes come hunting, drawn to our sweat.

And in the midst of it all comes a transformation where oldest son’s days become mine again.  We become a round-the-clock family again—always in each other’s way, for better or worse. 

An empty calendar lays before me.  Two short months.  All in the time in the world is given to me as my children’s mother.  It is mine to use or to waste, to choose what has worth and what does not.  It is this choosing that has occupied my extra hours for well over a month now, determining what mommy’s summer school would look like.

However, it’s not so much a filling in of calendar blocks with activities that has consumed me, but slowly putting into place new habits for us to all begin practicing over the summer, habits that we won’t leave behind come August but that we will carry with us over the next year and into the years to come.

Earlier in 2014, our family instituted the evening thankful journal, teaching us all to change the way we look at life, to daily give gratitude to God and find the good even in the bad circumstances.  Those lists have slowly grown over the months so that even my youngest children have listed over 500 things they have been thankful for this year.  It has made a dramatic difference in our household.

This habit was quickly paired with a second one--family prayer time where no longer would the children simply listen to husband and me pray.  Instead, we began giving them a safe place to learn how to pray aloud every day, a place where it’s ok to whisper, “I don’t know what to pray for” and ok to forget somebody’s name and have to stop your prayer until mommy fills in the missing piece.   

Two weeks ago, our family began summer vacation early, adding a few more habits to our summer calendar.  The first involved memorizing Scripture, something I as a mother have always failed miserably at.  Upon looking into my boys’ RoyalAmbassadors troop activities, there was a goal of 75 verses a year.  Let's just say that number was more than a little intimidating for this mother of three young children.  But when I broke it down, I realized that would mean working with my children to memorize less than two Scripture verses a week.  Two.  Surely that was do-able? 

This week marks our third practicing of this new habit, and I’ve been surprised with my children’s youthful ability to memorize.  Starting Monday morning at the breakfast table, we begin practicing our two verses for our "test" each Friday.  I can see in my children's eyes that it means something that their mother is taking the plunge and learning alongside them.  I correct them when they miss a word and they correct me as well.  Together, we hide those words away in our hearts for the tough days this life will bring.

The second habit added to our summer calendar involves activities to help our children think beyond themselves and their immediate sphere of influence, to become more mission minded.  One way we are doing this is by learning and praying about the countries around the world, a different country each week.  Together, the children and I check out and read several books from our local library, cook at least one authentic recipe from There's a Missionary Loose in the Kitchen, and pray specifically for the country's needs as listed in Operation World.  Last week involved playing with a boomerang and watching The Rescuers Down Under as part of our study of Australia.  This week's Mexico theme found us making maracas and dressing up in a sombrero for a photo op.   

It's fun.  It's exciting.  The goal, though, is to develop little hearts that love the nations as Jesus does.

Add in a daily dose of math and English worksheets, VBS at Grandmama's, summer reading programs at the library, and a trip to see Aunt Liza at the beach, and summer will be here and gone before I know it.

In the past, I have struggled with the months of June and July.  Summer has always been about do, do, do...along with the accompanying guilt over "what I didn't get to do."  But this year, I am trying to change the purpose of these months.  It's no longer about squeezing in as much as possible as it is about using that more relaxed space of time to develop life-changing habits, habits that we can take forward as a family throughout the rest of the year.

Finding Grace In the Sorrow

Death is common to children raised on a farm.

Those tiny baby bird eggs that fell out of the nest in today's wind storm?  Yes, it's probably too late, but yes, it's also okay if Opa helps put them back in the nest "just in case."

The football sized bumblebee barely moving on the carport?  Yes, he's really dying, but yes, it's also okay if you make him a comfortable habitat in an empty milk carton until he dies. 

Those two baby chicks crumpled and still in the corner of their pen?  No, they're not sleeping.  They're already dead. That's why God hatches so many.

Although the lady in the feed store tried to shoo my kids to another aisle once she realized there were dead chicks in the pen, I have never shielded my children from death.  To them, death has been presented as simply a part of life, not at all how God intended life to be but just how it is as a consequence of Adam and Eve's choice to sin in the garden. 

When they were still toddlers, I began taking my three children to wakes and funerals with me, not because I couldn't find a babysitter but because I wanted them to encounter death before someone of monumental importance to them died.  I didn't hold them in the far back of the room either, away from the open casket.  Tiny hands gripped tightly in mine, I would march my brood forward, then give them time to look at the shell of the person I had loved and to ask me questions.  By age two, one of my children would explain to anyone who would listen that the person in the coffin wasn't "in there" anymore.  He had "hatched."

As a result of this matter of fact attitude, I routinely find my children having "funerals" in the backyard.  Heaven only knows how many dead beetles, caterpillars, and lizard heads they've buried with my garden trowel in too-shallow graves.

As much as they understand death, though, that doesn't mean we don't cry.  That doesn't mean we aren't sad and sometimes even angry.  That doesn't mean we don't wish death didn't exist.  It simply means we understand just how much different what should be and what is are.  And it makes us long even more for the day when Jesus returns and death is no more.

Today was one of those days when the sting of death hit our whole family hard.  And yet, even in an afternoon of soul-crushing little girl tears and big boy clingy-ness, the children and I were able to see God's mercy and grace.

That heavenly grace started flowing early in the morning when husband decided to go in late to work in order to mow the lawn before the rains hit, something he never does.

An hour later, my daughter and I found Anya, my oldest son's three year old cat.  Although there were no physical marks on her Russian blue fur, it was obvious she was in bad shape, the result of a brief attack by my in-law's dog.

As I sat on the floor and ran my hand down her back, I knew it was too late.  But because he was at home, husband was able to take her to the vet.  There, the doctors were flummoxed over how no external damage could had resulted in such internal damage. 

Two hours later, they took her back to surgery and discovered the reason--her intestines were eaten up with cancer. Just as happened almost four years ago with our first cat, she simply never woke up.

Even amidst an afternoon of tears and Wyatt's sorrowful questions about "who will sleep on my bed with me?," "who will wake me up every morning?," and "who will eat cheese with me?," I was able to communicate how God had allowed this horrible thing to happen in order to save Anya a lot of pain and suffering since we wouldn't have known about the disease until she had suffered greatly.

It is that knowledge of grace and mercy that makes it a little easier even for this mother when the back of the sofa is empty tonight.  In that knowledge was even thankfulness as Amelia gave thanks that we "found Anya" and that she didn't simply disappear without us ever knowing what happened.

When the lights go down for the evening, I snuggle with my big boy and pull the universe beneath our chins.  He speaks of Hannah waking him up this morning, of her already filling Anya's paws.  Right on cue, her hulking calico form leaps onto the bed and comes to sit Sphinx-style on his chest, begging for love and attention in exchange for her rumbling purr and affection.

In that moment, we both can't help but smile and share a giggle, that gaping hole in our hearts taking its first step towards healing.



Images: Anya looking at the window at the birds & happier days with a mound of freshly harvested catnip.

An Act of Faith

The children are all tucked away in bed when I finally reach into the mail slot by the back door where husband leaves the day's offerings.  

Usually, it's just bills, insurance confusion, and enough junk mail to make me feel guilty about how many forests have been killed on my account.  But today, there's a card addressed to my three children.

I check the return address and pause.  It takes a few seconds, but the synapses finally fire.  It's a card from Liza and Johnathan, my brother and sister in love.  "How sweet," I think, and put it to the side for the children to open tomorrow morning.

Half an hour later, I glance at the unopened envelope again, my brain jolting with the realization of why it took me so long to reconcile the address with my brother and his wife.  This isn't from Liza.  This isn't her large swirling font that always fills each line to capacity.  What's more, where the stamp should be, the word "FREE" is handwritten in purple, something my unconscious recognized as "wrong" enough to make me pause even though my conscious was kept in the dark. 

The tiny, cramped handwriting belongs to Johnathan, my brother tucked halfway around the world on the U.S.S. Bataan. 

I rip open the card, no matter that it's not really addressed to me.  I drink in every word, searching for something in the nothing he's written but still thankful for the words sent our way, only the second piece of mail from him thus far.

Since Johnathan deployed in February, our family has made more trips to the local post office than normal.  In fact, the last time I was on a first name basis with a postal worker was before Johnathan was married during a tour in Iraq.

Each week, the twins and I make the trek down to the beige building with the flag flapping in the breeze overhead.  We give of our time to send love his way, the only thing we can do other than pray, a second gift of love we offer as a family each night. 

In the envelopes, I include a handwritten letter, a story or drawing the children made, and whatever nonsense and goodies can fit to send across the ocean.

Patriotic twizzlers, 400 tootsie pops with Bible verses attached, jelly beans, and 1000 piece puzzles to help pass the time.  I hand it all across the counter, pay the postage, and trust that my package will reach him.

As Oliver O'Toole says in Hallmark's sappy new television show about the dead letter division of the U.S. Postal Service, "Putting a stamp on a letter and sending it out there into the world is an act of faith."

I'd never thought of it that way before, but the quotation has resonated with me ever since.

An act of faith.

It's not just snail mail, though.  My texts and emails require that faith, too, a faith that my words will reach their destination.  I send them out, assume the recipient has read my words, and move forward.

A week before Easter, though, that faith was being tested daily.  My brother hadn't received any of my packages.  It had been two months with my weekly sending of letters, and still, nothing.  That faith in the U.S. Postal service waned a good bit as the children and I (along with my mother and his mother-in-law) wondered where all our mail was going!?

On Good Friday, Johnathan walked into his cabin to find his bunk covered in boxes--all the missing packages we'd sent so far had all arrived at once.  The next day, all our letters arrived in bulk, too....just in time for Easter.

Talk about perfect timing.

It is an act of faith for me to send a letter forth into the world.  But it's not faith in the postal service.  It's faith in the sovereignty of God.

In God's sovereignty, He knew my brother would be most lonely at Easter, a time when we usually celebrate together as a family.  And so, God allowed the mail to be crazy delayed and all arrive at once, at the perfect time to surround my brother at Easter time with the love of His family.

There's another box on my table waiting for me to send it on its way, hopefully in time for my brother's birthday in June.  But if it doesn't reach him by then, that's ok, too.  My faith is in the One who determines when and if it arrives, not in the one who cancels the stamps on my package.