About Me

I believe my sidebar has said "full bio coming soon" for about a year or so now. So here I am, finally getting around to fixing that :) 

I've been a writer for as long as I can remember, but I often feel like an impostor calling myself such. As a quick look at the archives of this blog will tell you, I write in fits and spurts at best. Somewhere after college, I seem to have misplaced my discipline and self-motivation, and that part of me sort of died. But as my favorite writing professor pointed out when I mentioned this to her a few years back: "Thankfully, we are people of the Resurrection!"

Still, in light of the dizzying number of bloggers like me out there--women who are more prolific, more business-savvy, more eloquent and have a far bigger platform--I often wonder why I feel compelled to keep this up. I've been writing on this blog for over ten years now (here's where the title came from, in case you were wondering), but I don't have a lot of followers or a significant reach; I don't bring in any side income for my family. Why do my words here even matter? Am I just one more unnecessary voice adding to the cacophony of internet content clamoring for your limited and valuable time?  

I don't know, but I'm realizing more and more that I *need* to be writing--even if I am not exceptional, even if there are a million other bloggers out there. As Jennie Allen so helpfully said recently, "Before killing your dream because someone else is already doing it, remember there are 7 billion people on the planet. I am just saying there is a chance that the other person is not reaching all of them." Point taken! Whether there are many or few who read my words here, it is a privilege to have even a single soul visit my little corner of the internet and consider what I have to say. I don't take that lightly.

Beyond that, I write for my own health. If I am not writing, I am generally not seeing, not preaching to myself, not mapmaking. If I am not writing, I am not thriving.

So I write to preach the truth to myself, and welcome you to listen in along the way. I write to reflect on the joys and trials of living in a testosterone-filled house. I write to process the challenges of pointing two impressionable little ones to Jesus (and the ways they point me to Jesus). I write to practice gratitude and remembrance. I write to capture and celebrate the extraordinary stories of ordinary people and the Grand Storyteller behind them all. I write to keep the Main Thing the Main Thing--to redirect my focus to Christ. I write to remember who He is, what He did at the cross, what He has done in my life, and what He promises to one day complete.

And I also write about random and/or frivolous things like my pen obsession (which, incidentally, is still the #1 most viewed and commented-upon thing I've ever written...keeps me humble) or grammar (I will freely admit to chronically overusing the ellipsis and the em-dash). 

A few more rooted, less lofty specifics: I grew up in Ohio, graduated from Indiana Wesleyan University, and married a boy I'd known since we were seven and loved since we were seventeen. We moved to the Nashville area immediately after our wedding, and I will be forever grateful to the South for introducing me to tomato pie.

When I'm not writing, you might find me making said pie and other kitchen messes, singing and snuggling and reading with my boys (ages 7 and 4), ballroom dancing in the living room with Mr. Wonderful, pretending to be a photographer, or working on one of our many never-ending home renovation projects. Or, OK, let's be honest: I'm sorry to say you're also likely to find me wasting time on Facebook and procrastinating from cleaning my shower.

At any rate, if you’d told me ten years ago that I would even think of mentioning cooking in a bio, I would have declared you certifiably insane…which helps me remember that God is in the business of changing people, even if the process is slower than my perfectionistic self would prefer.

Thanks for stopping by. I hope you'll stick around...maybe even leave a comment...or subscribe via email or Facebook.

For My Grandparents, and Veterans Everywhere

Given how needy I am during labor and in the first weeks postpartum (not to mention how having his babies has made me fall more deeply in love with my husband), I can't imagine not having my husband present for the birth of our children.

Yet it's a reality military families have always faced. This Veterans Day, those families and the magnitude of their sacrifices are on my mind: families like my friend Lisa's, whose Marine husband missed the births of *both* their babies...and families like my grandparents.

My mom's parents, high school sweethearts, got married in September of 1941--hardly able to fathom how their lives would change less than three months later when Pearl Harbor was bombed.

My grandfather joined the Army in early 1943, and he was in basic training when his first child (my beloved aunt) was born in May 1943. The Red Cross notified him by telegram--failing to mention whether it was a boy or girl.

He was allowed to come home for a brief visit when his daughter was about six weeks old before deploying to England that summer. He wouldn't see his wife and daughter again until my aunt was two years old.

***

I never got to meet my grandpa; he died just two months before I was born. And the more time passes since my grandmother's death in 2012, the more I wish I'd asked her more questions, listened to more stories, preserved more memories. I have just a couple of letters and cards she and my grandpa sent to each other while he was overseas: a letter she wrote on their third wedding anniversary; a Valentine and a Christmas card he sent. They are precious beyond words; I remove them gingerly from yellowed and torn envelopes, greedily wishing there were more.

One is a "Wish for the New Year" card he sent her in December 1944. He signed it, "With all My Love and may we be together to celebrate the next one." I'm grateful that his wish came true. My grandma was one of the lucky ones; her husband came home from the war (making my own existence possible, when my mom was born nine years later). Still, I can't imagine what she went through as a young, new mother, with her husband fighting half a world away--especially before the days of Skype and emails or even easy access to make international phone calls!

***

Over the last few years, especially with living relatively close to an Army base (Fort Campbell), I've developed friendships with a couple of military wives/former soldiers, and I'm frequently in awe of how they do what they do. Most of them downplay it as no big deal, but I don't ever want to take it for granted: because they give up their husbands, mine gets to stay home. Because they sacrifice to serve our country, my little boys can be free to wave flags at a Veterans Day parade totally oblivious to what it is like to have war in your country, or even to have your life touched by war in any way.

So this Veterans Day post is my feeble attempt to honor the memory of Ed and June Wise, members of "The Greatest Generation," and to say to veterans and their families everywhere, with the most inadequate but sincere words I have: Thank you.

Multitude Monday, Take 335

Thanking God this week for...

6650. Jude lifting weights with us in his Spiderman costume + cowboy boots
6651. FaceTime
6652. grace to walk into the light, confess sin
6653. Elijah asking for clarification: "Mom, could you give me some more information about that?"
6654. the right to vote

6655. boys' being super cooperative for a quick, impromptu photo shoot
6656. a sunny afternoon spent at the park
6657. the color of cranberry chutney
6658. early morning prayer with a dear friend
6659. antique photographs, rare and precious

6660. the fact that photos of my boys and other loved ones *aren't* rare
6661. rush shipping on a computer cable for only $4
6662. fresh air
6663. sore muscles
6664. grace to control myself and not yell

6665. leaves in our neighborhood still beautiful

6666. the courageous people who fought for civil rights in the 1950s and 60s
6667. two crockpots full of vegetable beef soup, plenty to share
6668. the safe arrival of a dear friend's new baby girl
6669. Steve's help with hospitality
6670. fellowship and great teaching with friends

6671. all the messages from TGC's women's conference available for free download
6672. perspective that changed my 4AM parenting
6673. boys cleaning gutters with Daddy
6674. Steve having a rare guys' night
6675. pumpkin pancakes with cinnamon cream syrup

6676. a new cardigan in my new favorite shade of blue
6677. Elijah's finally being hooked on the Wingfeather Saga
6678. conviction and repentance
6679. not restraining His mercy from me
6680. this encouragement from Jennie Allen:

6681. the means to buy the clothes my kids need
6682. the Coupon Sherpa app
6683. friends being vulnerable about their weaknesses and struggles
6684. this early morning moment with my boys

6685. the fact that I happened to have my phone in my pocket to capture it

Little by Little

"The LORD your God will drive out those nations before you, little by little. You will not be allowed to eliminate them all at once, or the wild animals will multiply around you" (Deuteronomy 7:22).

How often I want things taken care of RIGHT NOW. I want the problem solved immediately; I want the character refined instantly; I want the knowledge gained all at once. But I can't handle it that way. The lessons are learned and the real growth happens along the way, little by little, in the midst of the journey.

I heard somewhere once that the sturdiest, strongest trees are the ones in which the rings are impossibly narrow, where the growth is nearly imperceptible. And the slowest-growing trees also live the longest. Though I want the immediate gratification that our fast-food, instant-winner world demands, God knows it'd be too much for me. So I press on, little by little, trusting Him to grow me at a rate that will last and run deep.

“Trees that are slow to grow bear the best fruit.” ― Molière

Better Than Ex Nihilo

 "...the God...who gives life to the dead and calls into existence the things that do not exist" (Romans 4:17).

Primarily Paul is referring here to creation, of course--the wonder that God created everything out of nothing. But, as a friend of mine once suggested, couldn't it also apply to what God can do in my own heart?

There is HOPE in who God is! He is the God who calls into existence the things that do not exist: love and compassion for others; joy in difficult circumstances; courage to speak hard words; trust in Him despite the unknown future...He is able to create all these things and so many more, out of nothing.

In fact, His work in my heart is *more* impressive than creating the world out of nothing, because apart from Christ my heart was not empty, it was full. It wasn't simply without form and void--it was crammed with rebellion and unbelief and love for self. When He breathed life into my heart and gave me faith in Him, He was not just creating out of nothing; He was creating the exact opposite of what was already there!

This powerful, life-giving, transforming God continues His astounding work in my heart. He is committed to remaking me in the image of His Son, which means I can have hope--not in my own efforts to change or ability or knowledge, but because of who He is and what He has done and continues to do. He calls into existence the things that do not exist in my heart.


[edited repost from the archives]

Beautiful Through Dying

The most beautiful season is the dying.

Winter holds its own appeal, though my ability to appreciate it is brief (the snow is beautiful; the cold and the dark, not so much). I delight in spring, when everything comes alive again. And the color green never looks so beautiful to me as in early summer, after so much gray and brown and white. But it isn’t until the autumn, the dying, that the trees which seem the most ordinary—the ones that otherwise blend together in a nondescript blur of green or a tangle of bare brown—make me stand in awe.

I somehow spent the first two and a half decades of my life not paying attention. Oh, I might have paid the blazing trees a passing compliment each October; some years I suppose I marveled a little. But I never got up close, never slowed to take in the details and ponder their significance.

Then we moved to an old neighborhood, one whose streets are shaded by trees that have seen more than my grandparents. And on long walks up and down its sidewalks, I learned to see. I picked up a bright yellow fan-shaped leaf and taped it in my visual journal, not knowing what it was, sure I’d never seen one before. Did we have that kind of tree up north? (Yes, it turns out; the photo below is from Ohio.)

When my firstborn was three, we checked out Autumn Leaves from the library. We embarked on a hunt, collecting as many different specimens as we could find from the trees near our house. I had known the basic oak and maple, but now I learned the shapes of tulip poplar, smoke tree, sweet gum and linden.

The burning bushes turn scarlet, and this really does feel like holy ground. Every November is new; every year I wander slow, unable to believe that perfect blue shade of the autumn sky, exact complement to the orange trees…awed by the intricate shape of a maple leaf…thrilled to watch the gingko turn glorious yellow.

I try to capture it in pictures, occasionally getting lucky but mostly frustrated by my inability to freeze-frame the way the light plays off the warm, rich colors. I think vaguely poetic thoughts, haunted by poem-ghosts that make their homes in the fiery maples and the oak across the street whose brittle brown leaves hang on all winter, refusing to fall.

Day after day, I am reminded that this beauty comes in dying. And this is no happenstance, no mere natural occurrence that coincidentally points to a spiritual reality. It is the wise and wonderful design of a Creator who intended the metaphor even as He gave each leaf its color and then cloaked them all in green. He painted the trees for the very purpose of testifying to His Son, the One He had already planned would die in the most terribly beautiful way.

And I am reminded that His design is for me, too, to become beautiful through dying--and that when I lay my life down, my flesh crucified with Christ, I can rest assured that a resurrection spring will always, always come. 


Previously in the fall (aka, I write a version of this post every year, with photos of our gorgeous neighborhood):
Autumn Beauty
Contemplating Beauty
Death and Beauty
Part of the Whole
Compelled to Capture Beauty

Things I Learned in October

It's that time again: a miscellaneous collection of things I learned this month, linked with Chatting at the Sky. Here we go...

1. The heart could actually be removed from the body, placed in saline solution, given oxygen, and still continue to beat. I found this out in the midst of a fascinating online discussion about a news story involving "brain death," a controversial and confusing medical term.  

2. Early versions of the smallpox "vaccine," called "variolation," involved scraping an infected person's pox sores and wiping it into a cut in a healthy person's skin. After seeing this happen (or rather, having to avert my eyes because it was so disgusting) during the John Adams miniseries Steve and I have been watching, I had to find out more. YIKES!

3. Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood is a clever riff on Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. I'm sure most of you moms out there are facepalming with a huge "DUH"...but we don't have access to regular TV, so the only time my boys get to watch PBS Kids is at my parents' house, and I hadn't seen or paid any attention to the show until they were watching it a couple of weeks ago. The main thing I wanted to note, though, was a clever little song taught on the episode the boys saw: "Saying 'I'm sorry' is the first step--then 'How can I help?'" I absolutely loved the concrete lesson on not only saying sorry, but learning to make amends after you've done wrong or hurt someone. Brilliant!

4. Arkansas Black apples are the hardest, most crisp apples I've ever encountered--so crisp I was sure I was going to cut myself trying to get a knife through them--and, oddly, they taste like grapes. Strange and interesting, but not my favorite apple. By the time you finish chewing, the bite has no flavor left, just really starchy. (Cameos are still number one in my book.)

5. An "eggcorn" is when you replace the original word in a common phrase with a new word, such as "old-timers' disease" instead of "Alzheimer's disease." Different from a malapropism (where your substitution is just nonsensical), an eggcorn is an error that displays some degree of creativity or logic, where the meaning is connected. Often it happens when people replace an "unfamiliar, archaic, or obscure" word with a more familiar modern word (i.e., "baited breath" instead of the original "bated breath"). I often notice people doing this, but I had no idea there was a word for that!

6. The world record for the heaviest pumpkin was set in 2007--it weighed 1,689 pounds. What in the world?! Found that tidbit on a poster of random facts about pumpkins in the bathroom stall at the Warner Park Nature Center. 

How about you--what did you learn in October?

Treasures :: Flip-Flops with Holes Worn Through the Heels

Inspired by Leigh McLeroy's book Treasured: Knowing God by the Things He Keeps, I'm asking: What tangible pieces of my spiritual history would I place carefully in my own cigar box for safekeeping? What stories have shaped my journey with this ever-faithful, treasure-keeping God? Below is part seven of the "Treasures" series. 

*** 

VII. Flip-flops with holes worn through the heels

One of the main reasons I chose to attend Indiana Wesleyan University was because I hoped to join a ministry team. The teams who sang and traveled to camps each summer had been so instrumental in my own salvation, and I dreamed of having that kind of profound impact on other kids’ lives. So when I arrived on campus as a freshman, one of my first priorities was auditioning and interviewing for a team, praying fervently that God would grant my heart’s desire.

I wasn’t selected for the more prestigious/well-known team I’d been hoping for, but I did get to join a team. And while initially I wasn’t thrilled about singing all a cappella music instead of the cool Avalon and FFH tracks the other teams got to sing, I learned to love what we did (and I grew exponentially more as a musician).

Brother's Keeper 2000-2001

Singing with our team, Brother's Keeper, was a more intense time commitment than I could have imagined. During the school year, we were on the road every single weekend except for school breaks (fall, spring, Thanksgiving and Christmas). We’d sing at a church Sunday morning, sometimes having to drive several hours on Saturday afternoon and stay overnight in a host home. (I slept in more strangers' homes than I can begin to count--some experiences were phenomenal, others...strange.) Other times we had to wake up at the buttcrack of dawn on Sunday morning to drive to a church. Then we’d get back in our van and travel to a different church for a Sunday evening service. Each concert involved unloading and reloading the van, setting up and tearing down an entire sound system.

Brother's Keeper 2001-2002

In June, the university would send us on a ten-week tour of youth and family camps. I packed a summer’s worth of belongings in a giant Rubbermaid bin on wheels, and my team drove from Iowa to northern Michigan to New Brunswick and various places in between, serving as counselors, leading worship, singing our own music, whatever the camp directors wanted us to do.

A navy blue pair of $3 flip-flops hardly left my feet those summers, except at bedtime. They took me in and out of community showers, through recreation and fast-food runs and worship services and small group meetings. Those flimsy rubber sandals were, in a sense, shoes of the gospel of peace, and I wore them out. By the time I got back to campus in August, the heels had worn so thin that stepping on a sharp rock would cause me to yelp with pain. Soon an actual hole appeared, and they had to be thrown out.

The miles those flip-flops carried me were unforgettable. Along the way I learned to play the guitar and to beatbox; I cultivated some of my most significant relationships. I poured into junior high girls and soaked up teaching from phenomenal speakers. I leaned on my teammates when I was weak and at my worst; I laughed with them at 2AM Canadian border crossings. And again and again, I marveled at the faithfulness of God, at His profoundly generous answers to prayer, at His patient condescension to accomplish His work through flawed and messy me.

The highlight was when those flip-flops took me back to Lakeside, the beloved camp where God had first drawn me to himself four years earlier. On a humid July evening, as our team gave the traditional concert featured every year, I shared my testimony with kids who had been my fellow campers the summer before. I explained that I was living proof that a commitment made at camp could be real. It didn’t have to be a “camp fling” with God, experiencing a little taste of Him for a few days and resolving to "do better" at the Christian life, only to slide back into old ways after just a couple of weeks at home. God had transformed me permanently, I told them—and He wanted to capture their hearts, too.

I don’t know how many of those kids are walking with God today and how many have long since abandoned the façade of faith that they pretended to carry through their teen years. But I do know there have been few experiences in my life as powerful as watching two of my teammates perform the skit (“The Pretender”) that pierced my own heart at age fifteen, then proclaiming my own story of God’s glorious grace and singing Third Day’s “Love Song” with my team. I stood in those flip-flops proudly, humbly, overwhelmed at His goodness to me and grateful to have beautiful feet bringing good news.


Treasures, previously:
A broken piece of cornerstone
A sharp pebble
A pastel index card
A Bible with a broken spine
A rainbow lanyard with a pewter cross pendant
Pages of prayers scrawled in a journal

Ninety-Three Percent

That's how many newborns going home from the hospital for the first time are buckled into their carseats incorrectly, according to the most recent data.

Based on what I have seen, I don't believe the statistics for older children are a whole lot better.

It is not a rookie mistake: I have seen first-time parents misusing carseats...and I have also seen parents of six kids misusing carseats.

And it is not just newborns: I have seen brand-new babies buckled incorrectly...and I have also seen kids turned forward-facing way too early, and kids in boosters way too early, and kids out of boosters riding in the front seat way too early.

Think I am overly anal-retentive about carseat safety? Think about this:

"...car crashes are the leading cause of death for children 1 to 15 years of age, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention."

Yes, when you were a kid, you rode lying stretched out across the bench seat in the back of the van. Yes, when your mom was a kid, they put her in a basket on the floorboard. Yes, when Grandma was a kid she just sat on the luggage rack and held on tight. But when we know better, we do better.  Knowledge and technology and safety standards have all improved--WHY wouldn't we take advantage of these advancements to keep our kids safer on the road?

You're not stupid if you're doing it wrong. You're the majority! And there is NO SHAME in asking for help. Seriously, there are a hundred variables. Every seat is different, every car is different; rear-facing is different from forward-facing is different from belt-positioning booster is different from small booster. It's enough to make anyone's head spin.

Confession: Elijah was one of those newborns. I absolutely cringe when I look at the pictures of him in his carseat, coming home from the hospital. He was buckled nice and snug, but the seat (despite being labeled as appropriate for newborns) was too big for him; the harness slots didn't go low enough. And it was so hard to get a good installation in that seat when rear-facing, I'm sure it wouldn't have passed a check. I thought I knew about carseat safety! But I have been one of the parents getting it wrong. 

I have learned a lot since then, and I'm thankful for all the passionate Child Passenger Safety Technicians who work tirelessly to distribute good information online. Yet I still struggle to know what to do when I see parents, in real life or in photos posted on Facebook, using carseats incorrectly. No one likes to be told "you're doing it wrong," and no matter how gently and carefully I speak, no matter how much my heart is humbly and sincerely desiring to help as I was helped, people think they are being judged and get angry and defensive (no, I am not speaking hypothetically).

So for all the times I lack the courage to speak up to the parents of kids who are buckled too loosely or in the wrong kind of seat, I will keep posting links on Facebook, and I will spread the word here. Because 93 percent is too many.

Please, don't let your pride or self-sufficiency or over-confidence or lack of information get in the way of your child's safety.

• Find a CPST in your area and find out in person whether your seat is correctly installed in your vehicle. 
• Review the owner's manual for your seat (they're all easily located online, if you've lost the paper copy). 

And make sure you know about and are avoiding the most common mistakes. The top two are the ones I see most obviously and often:   

• harness too loose (you should not be able to pinch any slack--the right fit "is snugger than most think it should be," according to the study's presenter) 
  
• chest clip too low (it should be at armpit level--which is "higher than most families feel it should be," said Dr. Hoffman) 

Take a moment to look at these photos for clear "correct" and "incorrect" examples of these and other mistakes. As the author of that post notes:

"...it’s OKAY if you’ve got something wrong. We all have screwed up at some point. ...It’s not a problem if you make mistakes…when it becomes a problem is when you’d rather be right than DO right, at the cost of your child’s life."

Multitude Monday, Take 334

Thanking God the last few weeks for...

6597. that color of blue the sky gets in the fall
6598. Steve making extra efforts to thank me, encourage me, make me feel appreciated
6599. a visit from my parents
6600. the boys getting to go home with them for a few days by themselves
6601. two boys = getting to reuse adorable clothes I loved when Elijah wore them

6602. date night

6603. long overdue reorganizing and decluttering accomplished while the boys were gone
6604. my boys feeding the ducks with their Grammy at the park where I used to feed the ducks with my Grammy

6605. freedom to be a night owl while they were gone
6606. the ability to memorize Scripture and the grace to start doing it again
6607. big hugs and snuggles with boys excited to see us again
6608. Jude's face when he opened birthday gifts
6609. his quickness to share his Spiderman costume with Elijah

6610. old home movies
6611. my parents' loving me even when I was six going on sixteen with a huge attitude
6612. texting clips to my childhood BFF and her delighted reaction
6613. funnies from Jude, written down for posterity
6614. getting to spend time at my parents' house while Steve was traveling for work

6615. getting to be in Ohio while they were in peak color

6616. Steve and his younger brother designing an awesome cake for Jude's birthday

6617. a big family birthday party with cousins and great-grandparents
6618. curls at the back of my one-year-old niece's neck
6619. six-year-old niece's tears when it was time to say goodbye
6620. late night theology discussions
6621. knowing that in 30 or 50 years, I'll still being seeing new things and being amazed by fresh truths from Scripture

6622. stunning landscapes on autumn drives
6623. striped baby acorns

6624. four years with our Jude
6625. a delightful one-on-one date with him

 

6626. birth photos representing sweet memories of abundant grace
6627. incredible grain-free, sugar-free chocolate cupcakes
6628. friends' 22-month-old with chocolate frosting all over her face saying "Fank oo, Amy!"
6629. grace to apologize and reconnect after being a jerk
6630. finally getting to volunteer in Elijah's classroom

6631. pumpkin cake with salted caramel buttercream frosting
6632. crayon leaf rubbings
6633. the incredible variety of shapes and colors

6634. spiritual lessons and reminders through a morning of yard work
6635. family hikes at Warner Park

6636. wonderful soccer coaches who helped Elijah have a great year

6637. Cameo apples
6638. soup weather
6639. pink sneakers

 

6640. opportunity to babysit two sweet little girls

6641. grace and humility to recognize my privilege and my blindness

6642. Steve's DIY skills

6643. a field trip to the pumpkin patch with my favorite preschooler

6644. hundreds of pretty pumpkins on a perfect fall day

6645. Jude wearing his new stuffed animal on the walk home from preschool

6646. free blizzard on an after-school date with this Student of the Month

6647. fellowship with friends, great conversations
6648. the smell of sawdust
6649. leaves all letting go in a flurry of yellow

The Simple Woman's Daybook ~ 11.2.14

So it's Day 2 of NaBloPoMo, and I open my computer with twenty minutes until bedtime, having no idea what I'm going to write about. Off to a solid start.

I haven't done The Simple Woman's Daybook in over a year and a half, so I think we'll start the week with a little throwback... 


Outside my window...
darkness--but this morning was much more interesting. It wasn't even windy, but for some reason all the leaves on a huge tree outside our back door decided to let go all at once in a flurry of yellow, carpeting our patio and driveway. Strange and beautiful.

I am thinking... 
that I would rather be relaxing and reading right now, like my husband is next to me, than writing this post...but also that I'm super thankful to have a laptop now so I can be curled up in the big chair-and-a-half with him while I type.

I am thankful for... 
the above :) plus a hike with my guys this afternoon and sweet fellowship with friends over dinner both last night and tonight.

From the kitchen...
Steve made pumpkin pancakes for breakfast this morning, which sounded amazing but totally wasn't--we need a better recipe. The cinnamon cream syrup (a Pancake Pantry knockoff) was delicious. Tomorrow I need to cook a pork loin that's been in the freezer for almost a year, but I have no idea what to do with it. I also need to bake something for MOPS--probably something pumpkin-y, but I haven't decided. Scones? Bread? Muffins? Cookies?

I am wearing...
an old pair of jeans and a royal blue fleece sweatshirt with a white tank top underneath.

I am creating... 
a gallery wall for my dining room, after thinking/talking about it for five or six years.

I am going... 
to be getting two significant things in the mail soon: a final letter from the Compassion child I've sponsored for 14 years, and a packet of information about the new child we started sponsoring in her place. Love being a part of the ministry of Compassion International and excited to build a relationship with an older girl who's been waiting almost a year for a sponsor.

I am reading... 
Coming of Age in Mississippi, an autobiography about a woman involved in the civil rights movement of the 1960s; Jesus on Every Page; Extravagant Grace; North! Or Be Eaten (to the boys after school); The Boxcar Children (to Jude during lunch while Elijah's at school); Bittersweet. That's the short list of what I've had going recently. Bible-wise, I'm studying 1 John using Jen Wilkin's curriculum.

I am hoping... 
to start a Simeon Trust online course soon, after hearing a rave recommendation from a friend last night.

I am hearing... 
the exhaust fan in the bathroom and the white noise machine upstairs. We are big fans of white noise around here. Also, random bits of Taylor Swift songs running through my head after passing her on the trail at Warner Park this afternoon (for real!).

Around the house... 
y'all. I am afraid to say it out loud...but I have a solid prospect of AFTER photos this month!! My husband has been working hard. He measured and cut the rest of the oak treads for the stairs yesterday (half of them are already finished and installed). A little staining and varnishing, plus some nail-hole-filling and painting of the risers on my part, and we will be officially finished with the stairs, upstairs hallway and downstairs hallway!

One of my favorite things... 
the fact that my boys have terrible taste in candy, meaning they are content to enjoy Tootsie Rolls and Dum-Dums and Laffy Taffy while I eat all their chocolate. How anyone would choose a roll of Smarties over a Snickers is utterly beyond me.

A few plans for the rest of the week... 
my Monday starts with spending the morning at a friend's house, chatting and studying Genesis. Tuesday is our monthly MOPS meeting, with a friend and her girls coming over for lunch afterward. Wednesday night we host dinner (a weekly thing) with our small group. Thursday morning I volunteer at Elijah's school. And on Friday a couple of friends are coming over to finish watching the videos from The Gospel Coalition Women's Conference--we watched together live back in June, but didn't get to see any of the Sunday sessions. Lots of great stuff going on!

A picture thought I am sharing... 
my favorite superheroes: Spidey (Cowboy Edition) and Super E.

NaBloPoMo 2014

It's that time of year again...you know, the month when I kill myself trying to come up with new content every day and operate under the delusion that this frenetic writing pace will magically translate into more regular/frequent posting in the months that follow.

But hey, it's fun while it lasts and it's better than nothing.

In other words: National Blog Posting Month (aka NaBloPoMo)!

I've got all kinds of stuff on deck for the next few weeks: several more installments of the "Treasures" series; fall recipes; parenting reflections; Scripture meditations...even another book giveaway--plus of course the usual gratitude lists and adorable photos of my boys :)

So I hope you'll make time to visit a little more often these next few weeks--I'm looking forward to settling into a neglected but needed writing groove.

Treasures :: Pages of Prayers Scrawled in a Journal

Inspired by Leigh McLeroy's book Treasured: Knowing God by the Things He Keeps, I'm asking: What tangible pieces of my spiritual history would I place carefully in my own cigar box for safekeeping? What stories have shaped my journey with this ever-faithful, treasure-keeping God? Below is part six of the "Treasures" series. 

*** 

VI. Pages of prayers scrawled in a journal

I spent my entire senior year of high school (and most of junior year) proclaiming loudly how I couldn’t wait to get the heck out of Dodge. I had dreams too big for my small town; I had places to go. I sneered at the state university an hour away where ten percent of my graduating class would attend together, like some sort of Grade 13. No way, I said. Not me.

Instead, I agonized for months, trying to choose between New York University and Indiana Wesleyan University--two schools that could not have been more opposite. I started assuming the fetal position every time someone asked, "Where are you going to college?" I delayed the decision until the last possible day, when I signed the housing contract for IWU and prepared to move to Marion, Indiana.

Manhattan it was not. While I was excited about IWU, I also mourned a little bit, wishing I’d been offered more scholarship money for NYU, wondering what it would be like if I were transplanting from rural northwest Ohio to the coolest, craziest city on earth.

Fourteen years later, I still wonder sometimes. In retrospect, I can see that IWU was best; I marvel at what God poured into me and over me there. I shake my head when I remember how hard my first semester was, wondering how I would have survived at NYU. I imagine I might have flown home at Christmas a sobbing, shaking wreck of a freshman, unmoored and floundering, alone and ashamed of my weakness.

Yet that mental picture doesn’t wholly satisfy; I think I'll always wish I’d had an opportunity to live in New York for a summer, a semester, a season. It’s one of life’s great “what if” questions, where you *know* that what God had was best and yet you still can’t help feeling a little wistful. As Sue Monk Kidd puts it in The Invention of Wings:

"I longed for it in that excruciating way one has of romanticizing the life she didn't choose. But sitting here now, I knew...I would have regretted that, too. I'd chosen the regret I could live with best, that's all. I'd chosen the life I belonged to."

Anyway, I digress. I packed up at the end of the summer, said a fearful goodbye to the boy I was secretly in love with, and spent the weekend of freshman orientation blinking back hot tears, willing myself to swallow hard, embarrassment suppressing my fear. It seemed like everyone else had attended a seminar on “how to make friends instantly,” and I watched in self-pitying despair as they all paired up and formed groups and didn’t need me.

I chewed up all my proud words about my friends who'd gone off to college together, realizing now that my slice of humble pie would taste much better with one of those familiar faces sitting across the table. I was only two hours from home, and I had my own car on campus, but I didn’t let myself go home until fall break, afraid that if I drove those 110 miles too soon, I might not be able to drive back.

My dorm had a prayer chapel, a little room on the third floor with a couple of chairs, a few cushions, maybe a cross. I don’t remember much about the room, only the sinking feeling I’d get when I found its door already closed and I had no place else to go. I spent hours in that chapel my first semester, taking my anxiety to the feet of Jesus and begging Him to bring me just one friend.

I’d known Him before that; three years earlier I’d clung to Him decisively, taken hold of a real and living faith of my own. I loved His Word; I trusted Him. But I had never before had to rely on Him so exclusively. So again and again, because I had no one else to turn to, I climbed the steps to the third floor, journal and Bible in hand.

Somewhere along the way I learned to write out my prayers, discovering how much better I was able to concentrate and express my desires and praises with pen in hand. And somewhere along the way, someone had given me the idea to pray Scripture. So I paged through the Psalms and pored over Paul’s letters, scanning the heavily underlined text, copying out passages paraphrased into my own prayers.

I’d never choose to relive those lonely months, but, as we often say when we look at trials in hindsight, I’d never trade them, either. My roots went deep into streams of life that first year of college, and my prayer life in particular would never be the same. It was that semester that I learned to saturate my prayers with Scripture, learned the power of praying God’s Word back to Him.

In the end, God was faithful to answer my tearful pleas, lavishing on me not just the one friend I hoped for, but more incredible women than I could hope for in a lifetime--amazing women who would love me and sharpen me and add beauty to my life. And even more amazingly, He gave me Himself, more intimately than I had ever known before--a Friend faithful beyond all others. And so my written-out prayers continued.

I’m up to volume 105 in my personal journals now; they have evolved quite a bit over the years. Through middle school and high school, my diary was mostly a chronicle of what I did, who said what, how I was feeling, who I was madly in love with, etc. In college, the written-out prayers started, so it was a balance of processing my feelings, recording significant events, and prayers. After I got married, the daily entries all but disappeared, leaving only the prayers and some occasional reflections on Scripture. These days, sadly, I've gotten out of the prayer-writing habit; my journal-filling pace has slowed significantly. 

Still, being able to go back through decades of recorded prayers is an immeasurable gift. To see my own growth; to see clear answers to desperate prayers; to be able to pray through them again as I read…just priceless.


Treasures, previously:
A broken piece of cornerstone
A sharp pebble
A pastel index card
A Bible with a broken spine
A rainbow lanyard with a pewter cross pendant

What to Do With Mom Guilt

October is my first month writing for Ungrind, a website dedicated to "churning out encouragement for women." Ungrind founder and editor Ashleigh Slater describes it this way:

Let’s face it, sometimes the daily grind of life leaves us discouraged. We desire to effectively serve God, our families, and our communities, but we often feel like we aren’t doing enough. Well enough. We find ourselves in desperate need of a word in due season.

At least, that’s been true for me.

Here at Ungrind, I hope you’ll find that word. It’s our goal to churn out weekly encouragement by being honest and transparent about our struggles, but in a way that inspires hope, faith, and perseverance. Consider us friends. The kind you feel comfortable sitting across the table with at the local coffee shop.

Due to all the writing I had to do for last month's women's retreat, my first submission was a revision of an article previously published here--full of truth I know I needed to hear again, as I so easily forget. The title refers to mom-guilt, but while the examples may be motherhood-specific, there's hope here for ALL kinds of guilt--I think men, singles, and those whose kids are grown can benefit from it, too!

Click on over to read about two kinds of mommy guilt...and a solution for both that provides far deeper and lasting hope than simply, "Stop feeling guilty; you're doing a great job, mama."

Gifts From Coming Home (Take 333)

Another 700 miles on the car over the weekend--that makes three out of the last four weekends spent out of town!--but so worth the exhaustion and the hassles. I got to go to Indiana Wesleyan University for homecoming again this year and sing with the chorale again! It's become an every-other-year event. The first year, I was out-to-HERE pregnant with Jude and was so disappointed I couldn't go. In 2012 they put together an alumni choir again, and I wouldn't have missed it for the world. This fall, we were slated to sing with Michael W. Smith (instead of the Gaither Vocal Band as in the last two times), and I was all over signup as soon as I found out!

We had originally planned to go as a family, but at the last minute, Steve decided he'd just stay home with the boys, and I think (especially given the not-so-nice weather) that turned out to be for the best. So I drove up on my own Friday night, arriving at a dear friend's house at 12:30AM, and packed it in over the next 48 hours. The weekend's blessings included...

6568. Steve's willingness to stay home with the boys and let me go
6569. family members taking our extra concert tickets so we didn't have to eat those costs
6570. standstill traffic = opportunity to practice my music in the car :)
6571. a sweet old friend waiting up until 12:30AM for my arrival and hosting me

6572. a walk around campus, seeing my old dorms and townhouses
6573. extended time to catch up with a dear friend and hear her heart

6574. a brief chat with my wonderful thesis and newspaper advisor
6575. lunch at an old, beloved Mexican restaurant whose name I still don't know how to pronounce
6576. the harmonizing scale in D
6577. Prof's hilarity, and the impact he's had on my life

6578. third sweet friend and second-soprano buddy

6579. the way I can still sing "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God" after years, with no struggle to remember
6580. all of Prof's familiar conducting gestures, like the way he points upward in glad worship at "Were not the right Man on our side..."
6581. current chorale members swiping us into the dining center for a free dinner
6582. a chorale table full of old friends and laughter, like old times (except now we're old!)

6583. hugs and familiar faces

6584. the opportunity to come "home" and sing with the chorale and Michael W. Smith

6585. Steve putting the boys to work while I was gone and sending photos

6586. Prof taking a photo with Michael W. Smith when he came over to give us a pre-concert pep talk

6587. a fantastic, worshipful concert
6588. Michael W. Smith unexpectedly asking us to sing one of our own songs during the concert

IWU Chorale singing "A Mighty Fortress"

6589. his response: singing "Friends Are Friends Forever" with us! so funny.
6590. my voice holding up through way more singing (and oversinging) than I'm used to

6591. another dear friend hosting me at her house Saturday night

6592. the way we can go deep and be real after so many years of friendship
6593. safety on the road
6594. Paige Benton Brown preaching so powerfully to my heart in the car (seriously, download these! SO GOOD)
6595. a big hug from Steve
6596. kisses for sweet sleeping boys