The grand(est) parents

While waiting on the internet to work again, I had some time to think about the kids' three grandparents. I thought and thought about which of their qualities to highlight.

Should I focus on their wisdom? That would be a long post. Perhaps their goofy antics? My dad has plenty of those. What about their good health and impressive energy levels? Their commitment to their families? Their devoted faith in G0D? Their intense interest in the kids (which we all know kids crave).

But in the end, it wasn't their cleverness nor their generosity that I chose to highlight, nor their good advice, their colorful stories, their delicious food. It was not the years of life experience that I chose to go with, nor their quick smiles, long fuses, or constant availability.

Instead I chose to praise them for their vulnerability.

The other day at the breakfast table, we had a little talk with our kids about friends. We tried to explain to them why some kids act mean, and can't seem to handle being close to other kids in a sincere and happy way.

"Difficult things have happened to them," I said.  "Even if it's just angry parents, or parents who don't pay much attention to them, and they've learned that in order to survive in this world they must wear a tough outer shell. When you bump up against that shell, it isn't pleasant. We're sorry about that, but you must remember how blessed you are. You must always be thankful, not judging. And you must not worry too much if you don't have loads of friends. A few real friends are all you'll need."

The conversation then went to grandparents. The kids brought them up, as examples of people in their lives (besides Daniel and me) who do not wear tough outer shells.

"Like how Grandpa gets down at our level with his arms open wide at the airport, to receive all four of us at once when we get off the plane," Gene said, his eyes dancing at the thought.

And how Grandma talked Zion through his troubles while we were away this summer, helping him to see his worth regardless of his size.

And how Momo lives her life, alone in the world's eyes but in actual fact she enjoys a loving relationship with her Lord that the kids see and emulate.

There is no way to put a value on good grandparents. Time will tell of their worth, in the fruit that our children bear, as a result of having these three gems in their lives.

Grandma and Momo at Port Sheldon, Michigan, summer '16

Grandpa, living the dream on Portage Lake, summer '16

Momo staying out of the son at Hermosa Beach, summer '16

Grandma looking like one of the kids. xoxo

Gramps on the trails with Gene and Zion, summer '16

Our summer confession

To be fair, we didn't expect to visit America this summer. Well not all of us, anyway.

Daniel was of course scheduled to be in Los Angeles for two weeks in July with his family, as usual. And this was the long-awaited summer for our two oldest, Gene and Zion, to be with their grandparents during that time, fishing and camping in Michigan.

But when it became necessary for all six of us to touch down on American soil (long story), we frantically pulled together a whirlwind, planet-crossing family travel plan.

I decided to go to L.A. with Daniel and his family, taking Brave and Jubilee with me, in order to give the big boys their promised Grandma-and-Grandpa time. It goes to show how much I love Gene and Zion, that I would forgo two weeks fishing in my home state with my parents on their new boat!

I did see my parents a little, on either end of those two weeks, and I saw my grandma, some aunts and uncles and cousins, and my one Michigan-residing brother and his family. I also snuck in some time with Liz, obviously. But other than that, I kept quiet about our whereabouts. There simply wasn't enough time! A pop-over hello, with me constantly checking my watch, would have been worse than nothing at all, I figured. It would have been like sending an email to a friend to whom I hadn't written in years, in which all I wrote was, "Please resend your recipe for creamed spinach. I seem to have lost it. Thanks."

So if you didn't see us this summer, now you know why. We never even made it to Arkansas:( Too short. Too, too short.

But we love ALL of our American friends and family, and we can't wait to sit in your homes and play with your kids when we're back for a proper visit in 2018!

Cousin stack-up, per Grammy's request. 

A tired father is a good father.

Father's Day came and went without a blog post, but not without breakfast in bed. His first ever, he says. It's hard to believe we've never made him breakfast in bed, but I guess he's right. I can't remember any other time.

And then we took him to the movies to see Finding Dory.

You'll notice that he looks quite sleepy in both of these pics! But in the same way that a messy kitchen indicates a well-fed family, a tired dad points to well-loved kids.

A tired father is a good father.

Look at this hammock stand he installed onto the boys' triple bunk bed. Now I guess it's a quadruple bunk bed.

He has taught his young sons to push Mom's grocery cart without complaint (with the help of their buddy Zeb, who is also being brought up right!).

And he has taught his young daughter that in Daddy's arms she can rest in peace.

In the midst of all this fathering, he has time to surprise me with a roaring fire on our rooftop - one of my favorite things.

And if need be, he'll even carry his friend's baby on his back.

(Sweet Addy Girl xoxo)

So there you have it, Man Of The Year if you ask me ( or Gene, Zion, Brave, or Jubilee). Happy belated Father's Day, babe! We love you so very, very much.

p.s. Happy belated Father's Day to the best grandpa who ever lived, but that will be another post;)

Seven years of Brave-ry

He tells me almost every day, "You're the BEST mama." I smile and kiss the dimple in his left cheek, or bury my face in his thick brown hair, or look into his puppy-dog eyes the color of wet stones, and I say, "You are the BEST Brave Ransom."

I love my third son. His butter-toned skin is always soft, like his dad's. His big hands are strong for a kid, so that he gives better back rubs than his dad. His favorite five things on this planet are his parents and siblings. He really would rather that I never be out of sight. Daddy has super powers, as far as he's concerned. Math and music are his strengths in school, while running and pummeling are his strengths outside. He is big-hearted, big-boned, and a huge goofball.

He makes decisions quickly and with conviction. He protects people, especially his beloved "twin" sister Jubilee. He watches the faces of those around him, looking for signs of happiness. Then he breaks into a dimpled grin when he sees it.

Seven years ago this month, Brave came into the world, quickly and with conviction. I thank G0D for blessing my life with Brave-ry.

His brothers stayed up late the night before his birthday, adding reptile scales to the "7" on his poster.

Little Rupps looking on as presents are opened on Brave's birthday morning. All eight bare feet on a single bench...be still my heart.

Reading the back of the box is seeeerious business.

Zion is pumped about this particular gift (I think it adds to a collection of some sort).

Siting-in the new gun.

And then there was the night-swimming birthday party in the neighborhood pool, complete with water-squirter party-favors, glow sticks, and cupcakes. Look at Brave's guns! And I don't mean the water gun, either. 

Standing behind his left shoulder is his best friend Zeb. Gotta mention Zeb.

Happy 7th birthday, Handsome Brave Ransom!

14 years, and still true to our word

Daniel and I recently celebrated our 14th wedding anniversary, and as I watched my husband crack crab legs across the table, I felt one overwhelming emotion.

Gratitude.

There truly aren't words for how blessed I feel. I know not all women are loved like I am. I know not all kids are healthy, not all jobs are fulfilling, and not all homes are happy. Not a day goes by that I don't thank G0D for what I have.

But all marriages are hard. No matter how submitted one might be to the L0RD, sin never stops plaguing us in this life. Daniel and I have both been known to succumb to selfishness from time to time. I have a quick tongue, one that lashes out like a whip if I don't keep it tied down. Daniel, as close to perfect as he is, forgets to think about my feelings sometimes. We hurt each other. We lose sight of where we were headed when we started out.

We stumble. We fall.

But we never quit. We always repent, always forgive, and always move forward together.

Why?

Because we said we would, that's why.

One of my favorite quotes from Samwise Gamgee of The Lord of the Rings: "I made a promise, Mister Frodo. A promise! 'Don't you leave him, Samwise Gamgee.' And I don't mean to! I don't mean to."

I love this pic of us, from our 14th anniversary, because Gene took it, and those are our wedding picture and invitation on the wall.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. STAY MARRIED. It's the best promise you'll ever keep.

The pleasure is mine to say Zion is nine

For his ninth, we went to a local mall where a fantastical trampoline jump-around had been constructed atop the ice rink. That was a blast and a half!

He requested my mom's family recipe shortening cupcakes, topped with our favorite fudge icing. They disappeared very quickly.

It was a lovely group of chiddlers (as The BFG would say).

Jubilee hand-sewed this owl for Zion (a kit she received months ago for Christmas). Zion loooooved it, and name him Steve.

Gene spent his own money on these Lego knock-off buildable figures for Zion. Lego would be appalled if they ever sent a rep over here, to see what is being faked. Makes for a bountiful birthday, though!

A few days later, on his actual birthday, Zion requested a pumpkin pie "just like Grandma makes." Grandma uses the recipe on the back of the can of Libby's, so that is what I did. I remember requesting pie for my birthday when I was a kid. Only I always wanted lemon meringue.

Here is the birthday boy sporting his new Tiger's hat from Grandpa and Grandma.

And here he is making a wish.

Sweet Zion Daniel,

You.

How do we begin to describe you? To express our thankfulness for you? I'm not sure, but I'll try.

Sometimes I find you reading your Bible to the bunny out on the veranda, looking down at her every now and again, to be sure she is listening. When I walk by you in the house, you often launch into me, wrapping your wiry arms around me and burying your dimpled face in my shirt. When someone is hurting, you break for them. When you have an idea, you sizzle and pop with excitement. You are polite and kind, funny, empathetic, and delightful.

And with each passing birthday, as you mature and grow, the little person who is you unfolds to delight us even more. The L0RD outdid himself when he made Zion Daniel.

All my love forever,
Mamma

Moms beget moms

As a child I had a doll named James. He was one of those realistic baby dolls, if you know what I mean. Apparently they were something of a craze that Christmas, because when my parents went to buy one for me, the girl dolls were sold out. They had no choice but to bring home a boy. Foreshadowing, perhaps?

Well, I didn't play with that doll. I mothered that doll. James was a son of mine, as far as I was concerned. I remember a time when my friend came over to play and I sent her away, saying, "I can't play now. James is asleep. We'll come out when he wakes up from his nap."

Mother's Day 2016

And now I am mother to three little boys, and one little girl who's eyes disappear when she smiles.

Someday Jubilee will likely be living in another country - because she's a girl after my own heart - and she'll likely be sending me flowers on Mother's Day like the ones I sent to my mom this year. Aren't these gorgeous?! My mom took this pic when they were a couple of days old! Hats off to the florist.

My mom. Gosh I love her. This picture from summer '15, baking one of her famous blueberry pies in her kitchen at her condo in Zeeland MI, is one of my favorites. Everything about it. That smile-laugh of hers, which only a child can bring out (her grandkids are off camera). Her sleeves ever rolled-up on weathered arms saturated with freckles. Endearing arthritic hands, the bane of her adulthood, still gently rinsing berries, still pressing shortening into flour just enough, not too much, nor too little, for a perfectly flaky crust.

I'll never forget calling my mother from Kentucky the night I went into labor with my oldest. It was her birthday that night, her 53rd, and she didn't hesitate for a moment. Dad jumped in the driver's seat of the RV and drove my mom through the night so she could be with me when I became a mother. When the pain became too much for me, with my eyes squeezed shut, I could feel the warmth of my mom's hand resting lightly on top of mine. Her palm, worn smooth from the hot soapy water of domestic life, was a great comfort to me. She didn't have to say a word. I knew she was there, and I knew everything was going to be okay.

And now that wrinkly baby who made me a mother is an eleven-year-old boy, big enough to take me to the movies on Mother's Day for a 9:30 p.m. showing of Jungle Book in 3D. We screamed when the animals jumped out at us and marveled at the special effects, both of us appreciating a good movie when we see one. There is no other way I would have rather spent the last few hours of Mother's Day.

I am thankful beyond words for the kids who call me mom, and for the woman who showed me what it means to love children. To motherhood! What a gift.