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Eggs in my Pocket
Anna was just a few months old when Josh looked into her baby face and said to me, “She’s not a newborn anymore, let’s have another one!” He was only joking, but a couple weeks later I told him the news! Anna and Issac were soon followed by a little sister, Estera, who arrived just as the tomatoes in the garden were ripe enough to add to the salad. It was August of 2001.
While I was cooking, cleaning, planting veggies, and tending babies, Josh was devoted to establishing a computer business in Indiana. He had to let go of his flying dreams after struggling with health problems that caused migraine headaches. We were both sad to find out that he didn’t qualify for a medical certificate in flying anymore, but we trusted in the Lord who blessed us. The computer business quickly grew, and it also gave Josh the freedom to make his own schedule. He needed to work only four days a week to meet the needs of the family, so he had spare time to help me build a barn and some fences.
I didn't grow up in the country, of course, and I hadn’t spent more than three minutes with a goat or chicken until the day we drove home together in the minivan with three pregnant goats in the back. I smiled at my sweet husband—he would never have imagined the adventures waiting for us when he married me.
I learned one of life’s great lessons on that little farm: do not to put raw eggs in your coat pocket. I was new at this “farm girl” thing, but I quickly realized that it was a bad idea as soon as I dropped the fifth egg in and heard that dreaded cracking sound. My husband's yellow rain coat was a mess, and I had two less eggs for the carton. That day I also learned not to leave the lid off the goat feed, especially when rain clouds are on the horizon. Then I learned to shut the barnyard gate just a little faster. Before I even knew what had happened, I was pulling a stubborn goat out of a garbage can full of wet feed with cracked eggs in my pocket.
But I loved being a farm girl. I loved being a mommy. I loved chasing goats in the rain and tasting the sweetness of sun-ripened strawberries and wild tomatoes. I loved Hurricane Floyd for driving us out of Florida. And I loved Aunt Joan for telling us that Y2K was coming, even though it never did.