If you think Jesus would have come into your home that day and not issued a strong rebuke to the head of household, you are mistaken. These words of condemnation have been haunting me for days now. They aren’t all that different than the soundtrack I play in my head on an almost-daily basis. It’s…




Our kids’ first tractor-pulled ride to the pumpkin patch to pick out their own pumpkins. Corban is a little concerned here because the tractor, which he couldn’t wait for, was a little noisier than he thought and the ride was bumpy. Isabelle is already plotting her strategy, I think. Pumpkin picking is serious business.
“Oh, it’s a baby one. I have to watch over it.” She found this pumpkin seconds after we got off the trailer. And we had to gently persuade her to pick out another, bigger, pumpkin. She’s turning into quite the little mommy. We also picked out a family of gourds to help her watch over this little one. We probably could have walked away from the pumpkin patch with $5 worth of tiny gourds, but Phil and I insisted on at least one big, orange pumpkin. Creative persuasion for the sake of tradition, if you will.



