As we kick off a new school year filled with All The Things, I think we moms need the reminder that we’re all collectively waking up each morning clinging to our mugs of coffee and to the promise of a new morning with new mercies. We try to let go of yesterday and move forward with an optimistic outlook on a new day of motherhood. This takes a lot of grit and determination when you already know you’re probably not going to meet everyone’s expectations. There will probably be some stomping, disgruntled looks, eye rolls, or extra schwa sounds added to the end of words (but whyyyyyy-UUH??).

And yet, we still do it. We actually get ourselves out of bed and walk onto the frontlines of parenthood. Why? Because love propels us. Optimism nods her head and lures us closer. “Fun mom” persona hypes us up. We walk through the house in the wee ours of the morning, coffee cup in hand, declaring that today will be the day for whatever lofty endeavor we plan to accomplish.

Because we’re strong, hope-filled, slightly sleep-deprived, a little frazzled, somewhat scatter-brained (friendly reminder to not forget to sign your child up for fill-in-the-blank extracurricular activity), unapologetically determined, unconditionally loving moms.

One peek into the life of a mother will prove that “regular” is not a word anyone would use to describe what they’ve witnessed.

And to prove my point, I want to take a moment to share three brief stories. All three stories were moments I decided to be a “YES mom.” All three stories involve me asking myself: “why do these things happen me?” (seriously, whyyyyy-UUH??). And I hope all three stories will stir a sense of camaraderie deep in your soul, leading you to lift your coffee mug toward the general direction of mothers everywhere in solidarity.

The Magic 8 Ball

Several years ago, my son discovered the amusement of a Magic 8 ball. He loved asking it all types of yes/no questions to see how The Ball would respond. As you might expect, this amusement was short-lived and eventually ran its course (after all, there are only so many times you can allow The Ball to answer life’s deepest yes/no questions before you turn to other sources). But first, The Ball had one more decision to make.

Could my son take it with him across the ocean to Indonesia?
:: shake, shake, shake ::
"Signs point to yes.”

And so began The Ball’s journey across the globe. My son decided to put it in his backpack.
The backpack he would carry on the plane with him.
The backpack that would need to be checked in every airport we stopped at along the way.
The Ball, which contains liquid and had a cartoonish resemblance to an explosive device.

Naturally, none of these things came to my mind when my son decided to pack his Magic 8 ball inside his carry-on. All of these realizations hit me during our first security checkpoint when my son’s backpack was pulled to the side.

“Is this your bag,” the TSA officer asked.

“Yes, it belongs to my son,” I confirmed, as I followed the officer over to the table.

The officer carefully unzipped my son’s backpack and began poking around with her gloved hands. She pulled out the Magic 8 ball and held it toward the other officer sitting at the monitor. He gave a nod that I can only assume communicated this well-known toy object held no threat, considering it was in the possession of an adolescent boy.

So, The Ball was returned to the backpack and we carried on with our travels.

Eventually, we arrived in Dubai for our first layover. We exited the plane and spent several hours meandering through the posh airport. And as we made our way to our gate for the next flight, it was time to go through another security check.

“Be ready to get pulled aside again for that Magic 8 ball,” I said to my son as we got closer.

Sure enough, as his backpack came through the machine, it was picked up by an officer and set on a table. Once again, the backpack was carefully unzipped and the officer poked around with gloved hands. As he pulled out the Magic 8 ball, I waited for the other officer to give the nod of approval.

But the nod of approval didn’t come.

“What’s this,” the officer asked.

Oh, that’s right, I remembered. We aren’t in the States anymore so this isn’t a toy they recognize. I decided I would describe it to him.

“It’s a ball and you ask it a question and it gives you an answer.”

The officer stared at me, blankly.

I continued, “Well, it has to be a yes/no question.”

The officer continued to quietly stare at me little longer before I realized I sounded like a complete nut job who talks to a ball and shakes it for an answer.

“It’s a toy,” I finally said, wishing I had led with this response.

He took a moment to do that little wipe down thing to check for explosive material before handing it back to me, still staring at me with a look of concern for my mental health.

I zipped The Ball back into the backpack and handed it to my son. “Next time you want to bring this thing across the world, it’s going in our checked luggage,” I told him.

But would there actually be a “next time” for this ball to travel?
:: shake, shake, shake ::
“My sources say no.”

Just Call Me “Patron Saint Alicia” Now

Some of you who’ve known me for a while have probably already heard this story, but it’s worth including in my Greatest Hits of motherhood.

It was winter and we had been doing the public-school-life with four kids for a solid six months. Prior to that, we were living overseas and homeschooling. I still had the footing of a newborn baby deer during that re-entry phase.

The biggest reverse culture shock was how quickly our schedule filled up. Hardly a day went by when I didn’t have emails reminding me of parties, dress-up days, gift swaps, sign-up sheets, and volunteer opportunities. Because the holiday season was upon us, my inbox was bursting at the seams with reminders about four class parties, three gift exchanges, two holiday-themed dress up days, and maybe there was a partridge in a pear tree I missed because it went straight to my spam folder.

On one particular evening, I was cleaning up after dinner when one of my children asked, “Where are all the cans we recycle?”

“Why do you need cans,” I inquired.

He then proceeded to explain to me how the school was collecting cans “for recycling” (direct quote) and the class with the most cans wins.

After a long siiiiigh, I slipped on my shoes and jacket, walked out to the end of the driveway in the freezing cold, and proceeded to dig out the bags of cans I had just tossed in the recycling bin.

“Our class will definitely win,” my child said, after seeing all the cans I retrieved.

The next morning, I watched as he carried his brown paper bag of cans to school and hoped he would lead his class to victory. I had one of those Christmas Story-esque visions like Ralphie—where the teacher beams with pride and the whole class cheers, “hip, hip, hooray!”

Feeling (a little too) proud of myself, I returned to my chair—cup of coffee in one hand, phone in the other—resolving to finally catch up on all those emails.

And that’s when I saw it…

A friendly reminder…‌

“Families, don’t forget to send in your canned goods for the food drive. The class who collects the most cans wins!”

CANNED goods.

Not CANS.

And definitely not CRUSHED CANS from the GARBAGE.

Friends, I don’t know what unmerited self-criticism you’re carrying around, but I want you to lift that burden off your shoulder and remember this truth:

If you haven’t accidentally donated recycled trash to a food drive…

YOU 👏🏼ARE 👏🏼 DOING 👏🏼 A 👏🏼 GREAT 👏🏼 JOB.
FULL STOP.

Yours truly,
Alicia, Patron Saint of Crushed Cans

P.S. I still regularly see the teacher who graciously received our bag of crushed cans when my son handed them to her. She had simply responded, “thank you” without ever asking why he was handing her our recycling. She’s the real saint.

Butts on Things

Our public library is truly the best. Not only can you check out books, but you can join a class on erasure poetry or a class to learn the basics of Microsoft Office. You can rent a telescope or a candle-making kit or check out the latest vinyl from Taylor Swift.

The library offers so many opportunities to learn and create and grow!

One weekend, while my parents were visiting, I decided to have my youngest son and my dad tag along while I returned books and picked up a book I had on hold. Before we made our exit, I remembered the library had a ton of puzzles available to check out. My dad is quite the puzzle enthusiast, so I thought it might be fun to get a 500-piece puzzle we could all assemble together during their weekend visit.

There were so many options. We could get the puzzle with a beautiful mountain scene, or maybe the one featuring all the classic novels. There was one of a Van Gogh painting and another with a garden of flowers.

An abundance of options and what puzzle did we end up grabbing off the shelf?

“Butts on Things.”

This particular scene was set on the beach. And just like the puzzle title suggests, there are butts on everything. I scanned my library card, checked out my items, and we three bright, intelligent humans walked out the door giggling immaturely about everything on the puzzle having a butt on it.

Lest you think that’s the end of the story and assume the embarrassing part is that I actually checked out this puzzle from the library, just hold tight.

By the end of the weekend, we had put all the butts in place. And because we have a cat who would love nothing more than to demolish it and swat puzzle pieces underneath furniture, I wasted no time disassembling the puzzle, returning the pieces to the box, and heading to the library to return it.

Normally, I would have used the drop box outside the library, but I wasn’t quite sure of the rule for returning a puzzle. Since I didn’t want the box to somehow turn upside down and spill out inside the drop box, I decided to run in real quick and return it at the desk.

As I walked up the steps, that’s when I saw her, at the counter chatting with the librarian— a mom who is amazing and has three amazing, high-achieving children who excel at all the things. I’m not saying this in an “ugh, they’re so annoyingly perfect” kind of way. I truly think they are wonderful human beings. Our children all know one another and hang out and I love that my kids are surrounding themselves with people who give their best and don’t settle for less than what they’re capable of.

It would have been one thing if I had been dropping off a stack of amazing literature as I approached the mom. Hey! Let me squeeze by you and drop off the read-alouds we just finished. Anne of Green Gables, The Hobbit, The Magician’s Nephew… just to name a few.

But no. I’m returning Butts on Things. And the only book I have in my hand is one about an adventurous chicken (by the amazing Kate DiCamillo, for what it’s worth).

I smiled and gave a warm hello to the sweet mom friend and to all her wonderful, intelligent children as I squeezed by her and discretely dropped the puzzle into the box with the book strategically on top.

Success! For all she knew, I was dropping off a Van Gogh puzzle.

I turned to chat with the mom for a bit and was interrupted mid-sentence…

“Oh, I love this puzzle, too,” the librarian exclaimed as she immediately retrieved the box from the bin.

No, no, no. This is not happening. I could feel the heat rushing to my face. Maybe she wouldn’t announce the name of the puzzle and it would just be a little inside joke between the two of us. Maybe she’ll just set it aside and move on.

Instead, the librarian held it up to show the mom and said, “it’s a puzzle where everything has a butt!”

The mom nodded her head, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly opened with a smile—as if she wanted to say something in response, but her thoughts hadn’t quite formed to words yet. I mean, who could blame her? What does one say about a puzzle like that?

Her kids stepped forward to take a closer look as I attempted to fill a space that was void of comment but bubbling over with timid curiosity.

“Yeah! It was a puzzle we did while my parents were visiting for the weekend. We thought it was funny, ha!”
Ha…ha…

“Well, I gotta get going,” I continued. “It was good seeing you guys!” I hurried out the door without a glance back. I didn’t want to accidentally catch the look of disgust that might have come across their faces once my back was turned.

I wonder if she’ll still be okay with our kids hanging out, I thought to myself while driving off. Or do they draw the line at butts on things?

Once home, I replayed the whole situation in my head, doing my whole “let me overthink about it” routine I love to do after awkward social encounters. Finally, I decided to text the mom and just lay it all out there.

“I feel the need to let you know I do check out actual books and thought-provoking literature from the library. But of course I’m returning a very ridiculous puzzle and a book about an adventurous chicken on the day I bump into you and your whole wonderful family. I suppose there’s no time like the present to let you know I’m a mom who both encourages my kids to set the bar high for themselves AND lets them check out puzzles called Butts on Things.”

I exhaled. Now she had a more complete picture of who I am and I could let that side of me shine just as bright.

The ellipses started to pulse as she typed her response.

“We also checked out the puzzle after you! I am that kind of mom as well! I so enjoyed seeing you. It’s good to have some brevity in life as well as good solid literature.”

I smiled, both relieved and encouraged by her words.

And so, on that note, I raise my coffee mug in the general direction of mothers everywhere in an act of solidarity…

“To brevity!”
::clink::

Pages From My Meme-oir

What’s one of your greatest hits as a parent? I want to hear the stories!

First of all, I want to apologize for pausing on this series for a couple months. I shared more about what was going on in my mind and heart in this piece, but I’m back in the saddle! My plan moving forward is to share a new part of this series every other week until September, then I should be back to my one-a-month rhythm. The next one is already in the queue in my drafts!

It would be remiss of me to move forward through the Old Testament without talking about one of the most famous bread references of all: manna.

“Manna from heaven,” has become somewhat colloquial in its usage, often referring to any unexpected, small blessing from God. But what is manna, why did God start providing it for His people, and how is this passage still relevant for us? I was in an alliterative mood when I first wrote this, which means this devotional will be sponsored by the letter M. So, join me in Exodus 16 where we’ll be talking about the murmur, the manna, and the mandate.

The Murmur

At this point in scripture, it’s been one month since the Israelites left Egypt. They had just left Elim (which, according to Exodus 15:27, was lovely) and they’re on their way to Sinai. But the place they find themselves now is the Wilderness of Sin (which doesn’t sound as lovely).

It didn’t take long before the murmuring started. They were hungry and tired. They had a selective-rose-colored-memory of their past life, and they were hungry. They were convinced Moses and Aaron wanted to kill them, and did I mention they were hungry?

All Israel could see was their present difficulty. They conveniently forgot all God saved them from and they didn’t have enough faith to trust God with their future. In order to justify their murmuring, they twisted the reality of their past to make it seem like it hadn’t been so bad, and they made absurd claims about the intentions of Moses and Aaron.

In response, Moses said to the people of Israel, “God has heard the complaints you’ve made against Him.”

Can you imagine? All this time, the Israelites felt justified in their murmuring against Moses and Aaron, when in reality, they had been murmuring against the Lord. (Cue my brain stitching together a montage of all my recent complaints “against others” while God gives me a moment to connect the dots.)

The Manna

As a child, I always pictured loaves of bread, or maybe even Sister Schubert’s rolls, falling from the sky. Naturally, I was confused by the explanation of the word “manna” literally meaning, “what is this?” How could they not tell it was bread, I would wonder to myself.

It is very likely my young imagination carried me off to visions of bread loaves falling from the sky, causing me to miss when verse 31 describes it as, “like coriander seed, white, and the taste of it was like wafers made with honey.”

Once the morning dew had gone up, this flake-like substance was left on the ground for the people to gather. I think it’s worth noting here that God always referred to it as bread, or bread from heaven, but the Israelites always called it manna, or what is it.

When God’s provision comes in our life, we don’t always recognize it immediately for what it truly is.

The Mandate

The blessing of bread raining down from heaven came with the responsibility of obedience.

Read more

1. What’s your relationship with noise?

I was, admittedly, not completely focused on the sermon minutes earlier—but I felt called out by this question. It was like a single lightbulb was swinging over my head while the rest of the congregation sat in darkness.

When everything feels like it’s too much…
When anxious thoughts swirl in the mind…
When there’s an undercurrent of competition to “make a name” for myself…

How do I respond to the noise?
Do I turn to creature comforts to soothe myself?
Do I drown it out and ignore the world?

C.S. Lewis once said all has been occupied by noise, and yet God’s Word tells us in 1 Thessalonians 4:11 to “aspire to live quietly, and to mind your own affairs, and to work with your hands.” The Message version paraphrases it as “stay calm; mind your own business; do your own job.”

Living a quiet life seems so impractical when the world’s volume knob is turned all the way up. And I think the noise finally got to me a couple months ago. It seemed like everything and everyone needed my attention. My time. My energy.

Even when I managed to write something and share it on Instagram, I soon realized there were new loopholes to learn in order to “beat the algorithm” so your content didn’t get deprioritized. The Powers That Be behind social media apps don’t like it when you try to redirect your audience to another platform.

Defeat. That’s the best way to describe it. I waved my proverbial white flag. I couldn’t keep up.

Keep up with what? you might be wondering. I wouldn’t have been able to give you an answer, at the time. The algorithm? Other people? The speed of light? Whatever it was, I was never able to reach it.

“I’m wondering if I’m even a writer anymore.” I typed the message to my friends and pressed send so my speech bubble could mark the beginning of the end. The ABCs of moving on. A— admit you are no longer who you thought you always would be. I followed the first message with a second one, adding a dash of humor to lighten the mood, “Just an identity crisis to start my Saturday.”

The ellipsis started to pulse at the bottom of the chat feed.

“You’re a writer, alright,” my friend responded. “Even if you don’t write.”

I just wish I could have believed her in that moment.

2. Stay Calm

While the storm raged and the waves tossed the boat to and fro, Jesus was sound asleep. His disciples shook him awake and gestured wildly at their current circumstance, rebuking Jesus for being so careless.

But Jesus wasn’t careless, he was calm. When the storm was overwhelming, he didn’t panic. When the crowds and Pharisees would mock him, he didn’t retaliate. When others got loud, he didn’t try to get louder. He didn’t rage-bait people to get attention or monetize everything he did so it was profitable. In all situations and circumstances, Jesus carried a calm assurance that God was in control and would be attentive to his needs.

In the book, Praying Like Monks, Living Like Fools, Tyler Staton wrote, “When we stop moving, stop talking, and arrive present and quiet before God, he takes all of our disordered desires, distorted attachments, and codependencies and transforms them into love. God has to break our attachments to the world so we can truly love the world.”

I didn’t fully realize it at the time, but now I can clearly see how God pulled me away from the things I loved because He knew my attachment to those things was getting disordered and distorted. He didn’t want me to stop being a writer. He wanted me to stop using my writing to “make a name for myself” or “build my platform” — my Tower of Babel, so to speak.

I already have a secure identity in Him, but my misguided ambitions weren’t reflecting that truth.

3. Mind your business

Deep down, I knew my friend was right about me still being a writer. I don’t have to be constantly visible to others in order to give meaning and purpose to what I do. I’m still a writer, even when I’ve spent a long time away from it. Part of living a quiet life is recognizing that my worth doesn’t come from the adoration and praise of others. Minding my business isn’t to say I should have no concern for others and become a recluse. I just can’t keep making other people’s business the roadmap and compass that guides every step of my own life.

You are adopted into God’s family, so you already have your affirmation. You are justified in God’s sight, so you have nothing to prove. You have been saved through a dying sacrifice, so you are free to be a living one. You are loved ceaselessly, so you can work tirelessly in response to a quiet inner fullness.
— Tim Keller, Every Good Endeavor

4. Do Your Job

Whenever I’m teaching my students about emphasis to help build their fluency with reading, I like to demonstrate by emphasizing a different word each time I read the same sentence. The students quickly pick up on the fact that a slight change in emphasis can change the focus of a sentence.

So, humor me for a second and let’s try it with this sentence:

Do your job.
Do your job.
Do your job.

Which emphasis did you need to hear the most? Personally, I needed the second one. As soon as I start to focus my attention and energy back on the job(s) God’s assigned me, I feel fulfillment instead of defeat.

It’s similar to how I feel every morning in my pilates class. Whenever I start looking at the women on either side of me (who, mind you, have put in the hard work to be crushing it like they always do), my knee-jerk reaction is to lament the current state of my body. Suddenly, I ignore the fact that I got up early and showed up for a workout. Never mind that even my Apple Watch has taken notice of my “recent increase in physical activity.” Oh, and those four babies I carried and birthed and fed with this same body? REDACTED. The moment the comparison switch is flipped, contentment disappears.

But when I lock in and focus on my own progress and my own goals for showing up to class, my attitude changes. So, you can imagine how much more of a difference it makes when we align our desires with the Lord’s desires for our life. Personally, there’s no better feeling than to be doing a job that was designed with specifically me in mind.

5. A Creative Reboot

Here’s a list of things to do when the noise gets to be a little much and you need to take a step away from the things that are beginning to become an idol in your life:

1. Go on daily walks

2. Get your hands dirty with some yard work

3. Try new recipes that require dicing and chopping and whisking and simmering

4. Create a playlist and listen to it all the time. I’ll share some of my favorites below in the next section.

5. Start an exercise routine (or join a class for accountability!)

6. Go thrift shopping

7. Do those projects around the house you’ve been neglecting (it will take less time than you think)

8. Read one of the books from your TBR stack

9. Join a class at your local library. I’ve done an erasure poetry class and a miniature canvas painting class. Neither of those are the creative lane I usually choose, but it was fun to be a novice at something!

10. Write and mail letters/cards to people—no special occasion needed. In a world where A.I. is constantly mining the creative work of others, let’s start tucking some of our words and art back inside envelopes and mailboxes.

#TheGoodList

a list of things bringing me joy right now

I’ve been loving a good charcuterie spread to feed my family during the summer. Nothing fancy, just plastic trays from Publix paired with additional fruit, hummus, and crackers. I also love the tip to fill a gallon ziplock with ice, place it inside the lid, and then stack the tray on top of the lid to keep the cheeses and fruit from getting too warm.

Pilates and a scoopful of creatine in my coffee each morning. My first milestone is to do 30 classes and I’m at 22! Will I be able to drag myself out of bed and make it to the 5:15 classes when school starts back? TBD.

Favorite albums/playlists:

• Classical Trap (vol. one and vol. two)

• Windermere by Alsever Lake (for writing)

• my “sitting-by-the-pool” playlist

• and my “let’s lift…each other up” playlist for working out—or for anything else you want to be hyped up about

I’ve been having to clean some pretty gnarly carpet stains this summer (because I have 4 kids and 2 pets and white carpet on my stairs). I’ve tried a lot of different products, but this stuff and this stuff gave results that blew my mind. And I used a regular bristled scrub brush instead of the official “colorfast mop” for that Resolve cleaner.

I’ll end with one of my favorite quotes from Elisabeth Elliot in which she gives us all a word about being a writer:

“Don’t be a writer if you can get out of it! It’s a solitary job, sometimes a rather lonely one (who’s listening? you say), and it requires relentless self-discipline. The world is not waiting with bated breath for what you turn out. A writer has to be some kind of nut to stick with it. But if, like the psalmist, you say, ‘My heart was hot within me, while I was musing the fire burned,’ then perhaps you will have to write.”

Pages from My Meme-oir

The night was dark—a kind of darkness that felt heavy.

God’s people sat in their homes, anxious about what was to come.

The charred remains of bitter herbs and unleavened bread lay in remnants around the quenched fire. A drop of blood slid its way down the doorframe.

All at once, great cries of heartache and sorrow filled the darkness as the Lord passed through Egypt. The firstborns of every household without lamb’s blood on their doorframes were struck down dead.

Read more

[alarm goes off at 12:27 am]

Is it 5:30 already?
Ahh crap, I accidentally set an alarm for one of my students with “a.m.” instead of “p.m.”

[fix alarm because it will be needed later, then roll back over to sleep for five more hours]

[alarm goes off again at 5:30 am]

[snooze it before finally getting out of the bed at 5:50]

Did I remember to put my son’s karate uniform in the dryer?

I should probably go ahead and work on my classroom newsletter so it’s ready to send out to parents tomorrow.

[pour a cup of coffee and add a splash of zero sugar Chobani creamer]

[start fluffing clothes in the dryer]

Have I paid for all my kids’ upcoming field trips?

That reminds me, I need to work on typing the permission letter for my second grade class field trip.

I also need to email the venue about making accommodations for some of our students.

Oh, and that end-of-year survey is due tomorrow at noon.

Crap, the forms for the enrichment teacher are also due tomorrow.

[get to work on that newsletter]

I feel like I’m supposed to be sending something to school with my kids. Did I sign up for something? No…right?

I already sent the donuts yesterday. Isn’t there a pajama day?

That’s tomorrow.

What’s the weather today? It randomly snowed on Monday and I sent my kids to school very underdressed for the occasion.

Time to wake up the kids.

Stop scratching the eczema on your chin.

Don’t forget to move the clothes from the washing machine to the dryer so the karate uniform will be ready this afternoon.

Should I take a lunch today? What’s on the school menu?

Seasoned wings. That’s fine…I’ll just eat that.

We’re leaving for the lake in less than a week.

Do I know where the kids’ swimsuits are??

Whatever. I’ll look later. I’m already running late for work.

Don't forget to clock in.

[walk into the classroom]

Ok, mental checklist for ACAP testing: unplug the document camera and Promethean board (check); grab my devices and put them in the hallway (check); turn off my watch (check); turn off my phone…wait, let me check messages and email real quick (ok, check)

Alright, time to start putting students’ Chromebooks on their desks.

[bell rings and students start flowing into classroom]

Final day of testing. Let’s do this.

Please Lord, no more technical issues today. I don’t want to write another irregularity report.

I wish I could read a book during testing. I wonder what number I am on the waitlist for The Correspondent.

I’ll check real quick.

Wait, I can’t. My phone is out in the hallway.

Aww, look at the kids using those math strategies I taught them.

Ok, she’s trying to count the money mentally. I wish she’d use her scratch paper. It’s fine. I’m sure she’s fine.

Of course he already finished his 45-minute session with 33 minutes remaining.

[Two hours later…]

Both testing sessions are done! Praaaaise.

Alright, let’s get all the devices turned back on.

Whoa, lots of text messages in the teacher chat.

“Messages from parents are flowing in wanting to know more about the field trip.”

Oh yeah, the payment portal was opened up this morning on ParentSquare. Shoot. I should have sent out the field trip information ahead of time.

Stop picking at your eczema!

Just type up a message the teachers can copy and paste to their parents to answer the important questions.

[frantically type a message while students continue approaching to show their drawings, Boggle words, and to ask to go to the restroom]

Okay, message sent.

Wait, did I put the correct deadline for the payment?

Let me email and ask.

Nope, I put the wrong date. Alright, I’ll just edit the message I sent and change that date real quick. Done. Crisis averted.

[head to recess]

Man, I hate that I dropped the ball with the field trip information.

It’s okay. I did my best to get everything in order. Mistakes happen.

No one really cares anyway. Spring Break is about to be here.

Parents have three whole weeks get payment and permission forms turned in before the field trip. That’s plenty of time.

Oh yeah, I forgot to check if I’ve taken care of my own children’s field trip fees and forms.

I need to request off to chaperone for Thomas’ field trip.

Oh, I need to request off to take Nathan to All-State honor band.

How many personal days have I taken already? I might need special permission for these upcoming days…

Crap, I need to reschedule the kids’ dentist appointment. I’m pretty sure it’s on one of their state testing days.

[head inside for lunch]

I’m exhausted.

Aww, I forgot the PTO moms were bringing ice cream sandwiches for the kids after ACAP testing. So sweet.

Oh, one of the mom’s here has a son that’s on Thomas’ baseball team. I’ll go say hi.

Crap, she’s asking about the field trip.

Ok, that conversation went fine. She just hadn’t seen the message from her child’s teacher yet.

Go eat, Alicia. Just go sit down and eat.

[fellow second grade teacher says a parent asked for clarification about dates]

Why would she ask if the field trip is on the 3rd or the 10th?

Did I put the wrong dates in the message I told teachers to copy and paste to all the parents?!?!

[mild panic attack while looking back at message sent in the chat group]

You’ve got to be freaking kidding me.

Can I edit the message again?

No. Too late. I have to send the message again.

First, I need to tell the teachers to ignore the message I sent an hour ago.

I wonder if they all already sent that first message??

Ok, there. I sent the new message.

I STILL PUT THE WRONG DATE FOR THE FIELD TRIP.

[edit the SECOND message]

[throw away barely eaten lunch because lunchtime is over]

I need to apologize to some of my students who tried to come and hug me while I was stress texting.

I also need to go apologize in person to all my co-workers.

Why did admin choose me to be the grade-level chair? Honestly, all of this is their fault.

No, it’s not.

I wish I could eat something with a lot of added sugar in it right about now.

Why did I give up sugar for 40 days?

It was the cortisol levels. You were unwell all the time.

Also, you need Jesus, not sugar.

When is Easter?

I need to start shopping for Easter dresses for me and the girls.

[phone alarm goes off at 12:27 p.m. for that student I woke up for at 12:27 a.m.]

Just do less the rest of the day, Alicia.

AND STOP PICKING YOUR ECZEMA!!

[two hours later…]

[check phone for messages and emails before heading home]

Ok, the girls have soccer practice from 5:30 to 7:00. Thomas has as baseball game at 7:00. David can take Thomas and I can come with Lucy, Kate, and Thomas to the game a little late. This is fine. It’s all fine.

[arrive home and tell David that Thomas needs to be at the fields for warm-up at 6:15]

[David reminds me that Nathan also has karate at 7:15]

Deep breath.

This is fine. EVERYTHING IS FINE.

I’ll just pick the girls up 15 minutes early from practice, swing back by the house to pick up Nathan, drop him off at karate, head to the baseball game and catch the last half of the game. David can leave early from the game to go pick up Nathan.

I wonder if this is the pace of life I have to get used to for the next decade.

Does life slow down or keep going faster?

[pull Nathan’s karate uniform out of the dryer]

My son is going to be a high schooler in August.

He’s about to move away.

No, Alicia. Don’t spiral. Not now.

[shuttle the kids around for the next hour]

Dinner will be pizza.

I’m terrible at planning dinners.

Who cares. Fed is still best.

[two hours later, while lying in bed]

I still need to change that dentist appointment…

And finish typing the newsletter…

And find the swimsu…

…

..

.

[alarm goes off at 5:30 am]

Pages from My Meme-oir

the section where I share a little more about myself via memes

#TheGoodList

a list of things bringing me joy right now

1.) Preparing my students for state testing with a bootcamp week. And yes, I dressed in military camo every day.

2.) Doing a “Nailed It” cupcake decorating challenge for my daughter’s birthday party. They were supposed to make a frog and a rainbow with clouds, lol. We also did a gift swap instead of having the girls all bring a gift for my daughter.

3.) A surprise snow day while at school! This was the view from my classroom.

4.) Watching my husband achieve a personal best time for a half-marathon.

5.) Teaching a fourth grade life group on Sunday. When I was first asked to teach this class last year, a woman pulled me aside and said, “You know you can tell them no, right? You already teach kids five days out of the week.” I did wonder for a moment if I was crazy for considering, but it has become one of my greatest joys to teach fourth graders about Jesus and show them how God’s Word never gets old.

6.) Receiving a construction paper portrait of myself. The week before Spring Break, I was handed this little creation from two second grade students—complete with rolled hair and freckles. It’s going into my vault of things I’ll keep forever.

What’s on your “good list” lately?

Back when my husband, David, first lived in Indonesia (before we were married), he only had a few months of formal language learning before he was thrown into the deep end by way of village life. The remainder of his cultural and language learning journey would happen through everyday conversations and interactions.

He quickly became aware that the question, “have you eaten yet,” was quite common in the lineup of pleasantries exchanged by people on an everyday basis. However, during one interaction, things got a little lost in translation thanks to cultural differences.

“Have you eaten,” a man asked David.

“Yeah, I’ve eaten,” David responded.

“What did you eat with your rice,” the man asked as a follow-up question.
(Apa kawan nasinya? is what he actually said).

With a look of confusion, David responded, “I didn’t eat rice.”

The man returned the look of confusion and made sure he had heard David correctly. “You said you’ve already eaten, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve eaten,” David reiterated. Then he went on to clarify, “I’ve eaten but I didn’t eat rice.”

The man stared blankly at him, his mind trying to comprehend how David could have both “already eaten” while simultaneously not have eaten any rice.

For Indonesians, it’s assumed you’ve eaten rice during your meal. I once saw a funny post on social media where an Indonesian took photos of various items of food placed on top of rice. It started with a more common combination—noodles piled on top of rice. Then, the combinations became increasingly more exaggerated to include things like a slice of pizza on top of rice and an ice cream bar placed on top of rice. Obviously, the photos were hyperbole. The Indonesian who created the meme was poking fun at his own culture, which holds an unspoken agreement concerning meals—if you haven’t eaten rice, then you haven’t really eaten.

The same could be said about the Israelites—except instead of rice, it was bread. It was so much a part of their regular diet that saying “bread” was synonymous with speaking about food in general. Preparing bread to eat was almost as common as inhaling and exhaling. But even a task as ordinary as bread-making would become

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The Lost Wallet

One morning, not long after putting all my stuff down on the desk in my classroom, I realized I didn’t have my wallet. I had forgotten to move it from my purse back into my gigantic teacher bag after running an errand a couple days prior. I shrugged off my mistake and resolved to keep my hands at “10 and 2” and not drive a mile over the speed limit on my way home that afternoon.

The next morning, as I was rushing out the door for work, I remembered I needed to grab my wallet. I set down my things and made my way over to dining room table where my purse was. That’s when my heart tightened in my chest.

My wallet wasn’t there.

Don’t panic, I thought. It’s probably in the center console of the car. I ran out to the car and searched inside the console, running my hand along the bottom in hopes there was some sort of hidden spot my wallet might be.

But my wallet wasn’t there, either.

Now you can start panicking, Alicia. I ran back inside and did one more sweep of the house, looking again inside my purse. I glanced at my watch and knew I didn’t have time to continue the search, so I called out to my kids to keep any eye out for my wallet before closing the front door and heading to work.

It was still possible the wallet would be found. Maybe it wasn’t really lost at all and I had just put it somewhere silly like the refrigerator. But as I drove to work, mentally retracing all my steps and trying to remember the last time I had my wallet, I realized it had already been gone for three days.

I went about my day at work, trying my best to carry on as usual, but all I could think about was everything of value in my wallet:

the cash (obviously)
the gift cards given to my by sweet parents in my classroom (one for a bookstore, one for a local coffee shop, one for a favorite restaurant)
my insurance card
my driver’s license
the money from Indonesia I collected before we moved back to the States
one of the rings I needed to get resized that belonged to my husband’s Gran
the $2 bill I had just told my son I would let him take to school for his Thomas Jefferson “living museum” project

My coworkers told me not to lose hope. They shared stories of things once lost that were now found. Wallets, wedding bands, pets. The stories helped. If nothing else, I was encouraged by how many of us have “lost then found” stories, and how excited we are to tell them. The hope and joy of those stories are contagious.

I also shared about my lost wallet to my students. I wanted to connect the lessons I try to teach them about their own class cash and wallets to a real-life example. They offered their condolences and words of reassurance, attempting to help me see the positive.

“At least you still have your life,” one student said.

I chuckled. “Yes, you’re right. A person’s life is far more valuable than the things they carry around.”

The Lost Puzzle Piece

The same day I realized I lost my wallet, my parents came to town to celebrate the baptism of one of our daughters. As they unloaded their car, my dad carefully carried his rolled up puzzle he’d been working on for quite some time and unrolled it onto the dining room table.

“Oh wow,” I said as I saw the image printed on the puzzle.

It was nothing but rows and rows of evergreen trees that filled the puzzle to all four edges. With the exception of a few bare branches and pine needles with a slightly lighter hue of green, the puzzle looked like one tree had been copied and pasted 200 times.

My dad went on to explain his system of how he organizes his pieces and the strategy he uses for deciding if a piece doesn’t belong in a particular spot—even when it looks like it belongs. Any free moment he had, he would return to the dining room table and meticulously sift through the puzzle pieces.

This one? No.
This one? No.
THIS one?! Close, but no.

Toward the end of the weekend, I noticed the puzzle was no longer on the table. That’s when my dad told me the remaining pieces didn’t fit in the open spaces of the puzzle, which meant he had accidentally put some in the wrong spot. He decided to disassemble part of it once they were back home and try a different strategy he learned from none other than Mark Rober (IYKYK). My children had lovingly shown their Pop an episode about puzzles. I admired the determination my dad had to finish the puzzle, even though some of his hard work had to be undone in order to move forward.

A couple days later, after my parents had already returned home, I received a text from my dad.

“Finally finished it but missing one piece. Could you look around the table to see if I dropped it there?” Attached to the message was a nearly finished puzzle full of evergreen trees, except for one black puzzle-piece-shaped void sabotaging an otherwise satisfying accomplishment.

“How frustrating,” I responded. “I’ll look once I get home.”

I searched and searched. I ran my hand over the rug I normally praise for not revealing dirt and stains, but now cursed it for being a camouflaged backdrop for an evergreen puzzle piece. I shined the light of my phone into the darkness cast by our dining room table.

“I wasn’t able to find the puzzle piece (yet),” I messaged my dad with a dash of optimism. “If I can find your puzzle piece, it might ease the pain of me not being able to find my wallet.”

My dad was slowly beginning to come to terms with the inevitable. “The puzzle piece bag had been opened when I bought it secondhand, so it may have already had a piece missing.”

But a day later, just as we had decided the fate of the puzzle piece, my youngest son bent over near the dining room table and casually remarked, “Oh look, a puzzle piece.”

I jumped up from my seat. “What?! Let me see it!”

There it was, plain as day, no longer hidden in the darkness. The puzzle piece had been found after being deemed lost. Finding it really did ease some of the sadness I had over my missing wallet, and it fanned the flame of hope that maybe one day it would be found, too.

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The Lost Owl

Where we live, there’s an elementary school that was once a high school. When it was built in 1920, a 900-pound concrete owl was placed high on the roof above the main entrance. It was meant to be a symbol of wisdom and knowledge. The owl became so central to the school’s culture that the yearbook was called The Owl and the newspaper was named The Owlet.

In 1949, the original high school building transitioned to become an elementary school. During that change, the concrete owl was removed from its perch. However, years went with no return of the owl. It had mysteriously vanished, without a trace.

Decades later, the statue turned up on a vacant lot, reportedly sitting on a stump. Apparently, after spending many years in county storage, the owl was sold to a private party and became a garden ornament at a local home. After the owl’s rediscovery, the class of 1948 helped restore the owl to its original perch in 1978.

That totals to nearly three decades of being lost before it was found.

I told this story to one of my daughters while on the way to a friend’s birthday party.

“Is the owl still on top of the school,” my daughter asked.

“It is! Do you want to see it,” I responded.

“Yes!” She couldn’t believe she was going to see the famous owl she just learned about.

We took a brief detour so we could pass by the school. As we turned onto the street, there the owl sat on its perch, with the dusk sky giving it a brilliant silhouette.

“Seeing that owl gives me hope I might still find my wallet one day,” I told my daughter.

“Wait, you haven’t found it yet,” she asked.

“If I find my wallet, you’ll know. I will be shouting that good news to all who will listen—just like that parable of the woman who lost her coin.”

The Lost Coin
(a narrative retelling of Luke 15:8-10)

In a small, humble house, a woman once had ten silver coins—each one very precious to her. One evening, she began counting them before coming to a sudden pause.

One was missing.

She counted again carefully. Still nine.

Her heart tightened. She searched the pouch again. She retraced her steps in her mind. Still nothing. In a house with an earthen floor, a coin could vanish easily—swallowed by dust or hidden in a crack.

She lit a small oil lamp. The flame flickered, pushing back the shadows. She lowered herself to her knees and began to search.

She ran her fingers slowly across the ground.
She swept carefully, gathering dust into small piles.
She shifted baskets, lifted jars, and moved stools.
She scanned every corner and every shadow, determined not to give up until she found what was lost.

We don’t know how much time she spent searching. Maybe it was just one agonizing evening of turning her house upside down and she found it before bedtime. Personally, I think it was longer. Maybe it was a week. Or it could have even been years! What we do know is she eventually found the lost coin.

A painting by James Tissot depicts her on hands and knees, reaching to the fullest extent her arm can stretch with a rod of some kind. Maybe she had been sweeping the floor when she saw something glinting in the lamplight. There is tension in the search, but also hope.

The painting captures the moment just before joy enters the scene. But if the painting came to life, we’d see her retrieving the coin and relief washing over her. The lost coin was found! Her worry turned to joy. Her agony and grief vanished.

Afterward, she called her friends and neighbors together and said, “Everyone! Rejoice with me! I’ve found the coin I lost!”

//

As far as my wallet is concerned, it’s still lost. It’s been about three weeks at this point. But even if it never turns into a “lost then found” story that I can shout from the rooftops, God is still good. To echo what my student said, I still have my life. And not just any life, but a redeemed life.

A life that was valuable, but obscured by darkness.
A life the Lord did not give up on, but rather, sought out diligently.
A life that caused much rejoicing in the heavens when it was brought into the light.
A life that was lost, but now is found.

If there’s one thing I can learn from all these lost things, it’s that nothing is truly lost when the One who seeks never grows tired of searching.

If you have a “lost then found” story about something in your life, share it with me in the comments or send me an email. I genuinely love hearing all the stories!

Four years ago, while we were still living in Indonesia, I decided to do a deeper dive into passages from the Bible in which bread was used to point to the character of God. I worked my way from the beginning of the Bible all the way to Revelation and chose twelve significant moments to study—one for each month of the year.

I wrote devotions, weaving personal stories with Scripture, and shared it with a small audience of people. The devotions remained tucked away in a file on my desktop until I dusted it off (figuratively speaking) and decided, “these words need to see the light again.”

The lessons the Lord taught me then are still lessons I need today. I learned how God frequently uses something so common as bread to show His character, presence, power, and deep love for His people throughout all of Scripture.

I typically shy away from thematic/topical studies of Scripture. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with those types of studies—I just gravitate toward expositional/inductive studies of God’s Word. I like to stay in one book of the Bible, get some historical context, figure out who God chose to pen the words and why, and then study the book verse by verse.

But something about all the bread references piqued my interest. Seriously, what’s with all the bread? I decided to (temporarily) abandon my usual method of Bible study to follow the trail of bread crumbs through God’s Word. The excitement and curiosity burning within felt like God’s way of saying, “go for it, Alicia. Seek and you shall find.”

And I’d love to share those discoveries with all of you!

(Deep inhale)

…But I’d like to offer it to paid subscribers. (Deep exhale)

This is the part where I feel a deeply rooted need to explain myself (even though I probably don’t really need to). I’ve been writing on the internet since 2006—during the days of Blogger and Wordpress. Ten years later, in 2016, I started investing my own money in writing courses and books on writing so I could refine and sharpen my skill. All the while, I kept writing publicly. Now, another ten years have gone by and the only writing of mine that you have to pay to read is volume one and volume two of the liturgy books I co-wrote, plus an article in Truly Magazine’s “Create” issue. I’ve been writing publicly for twenty years and it’s time I start believing that my writing and the time I pour into it is worth at least $5/month.

For this year, I’m only putting the Bread in the Bible devotions behind a paywall. The rest of the things I write will continue to be free! So if you can’t join the paid subscriber group of readers, there will still be plenty to read here on tl;dr. I’m truly grateful for every single person who reads the writing I share here.

And because you’re still here, reading and supporting this passion of mine, the first devotion is free for all to read. So without further ado, let’s find out what all this bread in the Bible is about.

The morning light trickled through my kitchen window as I stood with floured hands, carefully reviewing a recipe for buttermilk biscuits.

“Mix until dry ingredients are moistened,” I mumbled aloud to myself.

“Only until moist,” the directions added. “Do not overmix.”

I paid close attention to my mixing, being careful not to overmix but wondering what that even meant in the first place. One of my children entered the kitchen, interrupting my concentration to ask for milk, so I stepped away for a moment. With apprehension and a little self-doubt, I returned to my mixing bowl.

Was I done mixing? Had I already overmixed? The mixture looked moist enough but was it overly moist? I decided to move on and hope for the best.

“Turn dough over and around about 6-10 times,” the recipe continued.

OK, got it.

“But DO NOT punch, press lightly,” it warned.

No punching. Noted.

“Do not over manage, or over handle the dough,” the recipe continued to badger me. “Try to handle it as lightly and as little as possible.”

I was beginning to think the recipe was about to tell me I might hurt the dough’s feelings if I wasn’t careful.

While the oven preheated next to me, I counted aloud to myself, turning the dough over and around on my countertop. Little beads of sweat formed on my brow as I turned the dough for the tenth time and examined its texture. I rolled the dough out and cut it into circles before placing the soon-to-be biscuits on an ungreased baking sheet.

I’m usually quick to dismiss a recipe in which the food requires a little too much tender loving care from me. But there’s something about bread that’s warm and inviting, filling and nourishing. It’s hard to think of reasons why I shouldn’t have bread, quite honestly.

///

Bread is mentioned many times in the Bible (at least 492 times, to put it more precisely). Depending on what translation you’re reading, the first mention of the word bread takes place in the third chapter of Genesis, just before Adam and Eve were removed from the Garden of Eden. The Lord spelled out the punishments—first to the serpent, then to Eve, and finally to Adam. The Lord said to him:

cursed is the ground because of you;
in pain you shall eat of it all the days of your life;
thorns and thistles it shall bring forth for you;
and you shall eat the plants of the field.
By the sweat of your face
you shall eat bread,1
till you return to the ground,
for out of it you were taken…

Adam worked before the curse, but now his work would bring pain and frustration.

The ground produced things before the curse, but now it would also produce toilsome things—like thorns and thistles.

Adam and Eve were nourished with delicacies from the garden before the curse, but now they would be nourished through more strenuous and laborious methods.

Generations to follow would hunt and gather to have a livelihood. Eventually they’d learn to produce more of the food they needed and turn the grains into actual bread. By the sweat of their brow, they would plow the land and gather grains from the field. By the sweat of their brow, they would carefully turn the dough, over and around.

They would sit down, their meal before them, and thank the Lord for His provisions. Then, they’d break the bread, eat, and feel sustained—their bodies able to work another day. Even as mankind lived out their days under the punishment of sin, God still provided them with strength and nourishment to carry them through.

And one day, the Bread of Life would be broken for not only their sins, but the sins of the world.

His presence would be warm and inviting.

His words would be filling and nourishing.

And whoever would come to Him would hunger no more.

1. Thoughts on Losing Subscribers

I know the new year is all about getting our life in order, and that includes our cluttered inboxes. Full transparency, twelve people have already unsubscribed from me this year (whomp whomp). But to be fair, I’ve probably unsubscribed from at least that many Substacks myself. We human beings were not made to take in so much at one time. Even AI can’t manage to get things right and it doesn’t have a soul to take care of.

I’m not for everybody and that is okay.

So let me (re)introduce myself to those of you still here (Spartan cheerleader style)1:

Cha-cha-chaboochie
Cha-cha-chaboochie, ROLL CALL!
My name’s Alicia *clap*clap*
I struggle with prioritizing my art and comparing my progress to others *clap*clap*
but I love Jesus *clap*clap*
So check me out!

I can sometimes be really deep and retrospective, but it’s also good for my overall well-being when I let myself write about random things that bring me joy. Sometimes I write about embarrassing moments because I love to laugh and help others have a good laugh. And I always love adding a collection of memes to my Meme-oir.

2. A Lesson on Prayer I Learned from My Daughter

For at least four years, my oldest daughter has asked for a kitten. On every birthday wish list and every Christmas wish list, she’s persistently added “KITTEN!!!” alongside other items like cloud slime and Squishmallows. We would repeatedly tell her to not keep her hopes up. We’d remind her about our dog and how we’re not too sure how she’d like sharing space with an animal she will always bark at if she sees one from the window. We discussed the extra responsibilities it would add to her plate.

Nevertheless, she persisted.

With each list of requests, she would continue to ask for a kitten. Year after year, the amount of asterisks would increase next to this line item. She was always sure to clarify to us that “the number of stars next to the item shows how much the item is wanted.”

My husband and I continued to remind her the odds were not in her favor. Birthdays and Christmases came and went without a kitten.

Until this Christmas…

I’m not sure if it’s because we’re both crazy or because we both love a good surprise, but David and I decided to take a trip to the humane society the Friday before Christmas. We walked around to all the kennels and met a lot of friendly felines. But the four-month old Calico kitten formerly known as Fergie2 was the one who won us over. While I was holding her, David and I discussed whether or not we wanted to try looking at another place. When he took his phone out to start looking at the store hours, the kitten reached out her paw and put it on his screen as if to say, “that won’t be necessary.” That’s the moment we knew we had to take her home.

We hid her in our closet for a few days. We told the rest of the siblings so they could help keep their sister out of our room. Everything was going smoothly until our dog realized another animal was in the house and she kept whimpering at our door like a weirdo. Our daughter started to notice the odd behavior, so I told her sometimes dogs can sense when things are different, so maybe she was worried about something.

My daughter then responded, “maybe it’s because you’re having to keep the bedroom door closed since our presents are in there.”

“…Yeeesss,” I responded, as I slowly realized that was a very plausible and reasonable explanation (and why didn’t I think of that…).

On another evening, after I picked my daughter up from a friend’s house, she randomly said, “I don’t think I’m ever going to get a kitten.”

“Why do you say that,” I asked, trying to hide my smirk.

“I’ve asked and asked for so many years and I still haven’t gotten one,” she said with frustration.

“If it’s truly something you want, don’t give up” I responded. “Maybe it will finally happen one day.”

When Christmas morning arrived, we decided to do the dog’s gift first. Sugar gladly received her new chew toy and some dog cookies while my husband brought in The Box. We told Kate it was another gift for the dog but we needed her help opening it.

(Sorry in advance for the low-res video. I promise the original video was clearer but Substack obviously isn’t trying to encourage a bunch of videos getting uploaded—which, as a writer who comes to this platform to read words, I can respect that choice).

Her reaction was exactly what you’d expect from someone who has, for so long, asked for something they’ve wanted so badly. I looked at her siblings and saw the joy on their faces as they watched their sister receive the gift she had longed for. It was in that moment I considered my own prayer life. How many things have I stopped asking for because it hasn’t happened yet? How quickly have I lost faith? What would it look like if I persistently brought my requests to the Lord, adding asterisks to some of them?

And how many times have I said, “I don’t think it’s ever going to happen,” while the prayer is in the process of getting answered?

3. Thrift Store Wins in 2025

I’ve been thrift shopping since my college days3 and it’s still one of my favorite things to do. Since moving back to the States, I think 80% of the things we’ve outfitted our home with are from thrifting or FB marketplace. We all have our flex moments. My flex is getting to say, “it’s from the thrift store” whenever someone compliments something in my home or something I’m wearing. Apparently, I don’t know how to simply say, “thank you!”

Our dishwasher quit working a couple days after Christmas—fun times! Lo and behold, David ended up finding one at a thrift store for $30. It was a low risk/high reward situation. Worst case scenario: we only wasted $30 and still didn’t have a dishwasher. Best case scenario: we only spent $30 to replace our dishwasher!

And I know Christmas is in the rearview mirror, but I wanted to share one of the things I collected throughout the year in preparation for Christmas 2025: my collection of Christmas mugs.

My MIL always switches out her regular coffee mugs for Christmas mugs during the holidays. I wanted to steal that idea, so I started collecting mugs throughout the year when I’d walk through thrift stores. The questions I would always ask myself before purchasing:

1. Does it have metallic features? If so, it was always a no for me. You can’t microwave those and I always have to reheat my coffee.

2. Does it have chips, cracks, or does the handle feel even a little bit loose? Again, instant no.

3. Does it bring me joy when I look at it?

4. Is it a mug I think my kids will remember seeing and have fond memories of when they’re adults?

4. “Do you miss it?”

Sometimes people will ask me about our life in Indonesia. There are so many random moments that bring that beautiful country to my mind. One time, I was teaching my students about the vowel team “oa”. I used the word “goat” as an example and my mind decided to immediately resurface a memory from deep down in the archives of my brain. It was a moment from the early years of living overseas, when I was shopping at a local grocery store and saw goat milk available to purchase. Suddenly, I’m no longer standing in a classroom full of second graders but I’m pushing a cart with my four-year-old and a baby strapped to my chest. I’m figuring out my way through a country that isn’t my own and it feels (nay, it is) so foreign to me. I’m wondering if I’ll ever get used to the smell of the fish market or the durian. Will I ever get used to seeing goats tied up on the side of the road?

“How do we spell the long O sound we hear in the word g-OA-t,” I hear myself ask, even though my thoughts are still lingering in a memory from a decade ago.

“O-A,” the students chant in unison.

I miss the goats.
I miss the goats and all the resurfaced memories the goats made me think about.

5. Asking for big things.

I’ve started doing Morning Pages4 and it’s been really good for me. It fits perfectly within that mindset of giving yourself permission to be stupid, untalented, uncool, crazy, and boring with your writing. And while most of the writing I pen on those pages will not be read by anyone until I’ve gone to be with Jesus, I do want to share something I jotted down a few days ago:

I’m starting to annoy myself with all my whining. I moved on to week two of Cameron’s book and underlined these sentences: “Part of us knows we’re more than they see; part of us fears we’re less than we hope. This inner friction is painful.” Those words did a pretty decent job articulating my struggle. I know I’m not pumping out books left and right like some authors—but I’d love to write something that stands the test of time. That’s probably a really big ask. But it reminds me of a documentary I watched about the making of the movie Elf. Someone being interviewed mentioned how Jon Favreau said, “I want this to be a Christmas classic.” For a movie made in 2003, that was certainly a big ask (maybe even some would say unrealistic). But…I guess making classics is still possible!

Hoping to write something that stands the test of time seems too big, and maybe a little too bold. Maybe I’ll ask and ask and ask the Lord for this to happen until I begin to wonder if it will ever happen. Maybe He’s smirking at me right now because He loves when we ask for big things.

I’ll leave you with this Andrew Peterson quote I think about on a regular basis—in case you’re also a struggling writer who wrestles with your art and often wonder if what you’re creating really matters in the end…

“Maybe what you’re writing is for one specific heartbroken soul who won’t be born for another 400 years, and they’ll thank you for opening yourself to public scrutiny, for striving to arrange the words just so, for learning what makes for a good melody or tight phrasing. By God’s grace, those little differences might be the burst of wind that carry the words across the sea of time.”5

Keep putting one word down after another on the page.
It matters.

Bless the teachers, O Lord—
as they arrive to their classroom early
with lukewarm coffee in hand.
They lay down the heavy burden of their oversized bag,
32-ounces of water, and a half-eaten breakfast,
so they can carry all the tasks for the day,
and hopes for the future.

Bless the voices that explain the same thing
three ways,
five ways,
and once with hand motions.

Bless the teachers who notice the quiet child,
the restless one,
the child who pretends not to care,
and the one who cares too much.

They meet each child where they are,
with a warm smile from across the room,
a gentle hand rested on the shoulder,
a reminder to take a deep breath,
or a fidget to redirect all the energy.

Bless the hands that write comments in the margins,
that gesture wildly trying to make meaning visible
that pick up lost pencils at the end of the day.

Bless the teachers on the days when they feel effective,
and especially on the days when they feel like failures—
when the lesson falls flat,
when the scores dip down,
when the behavior returns,
when they wonder if they’re even moving the needle.

Remind them that learning is slow,
that growth is mostly invisible,
and that seeds do their best work underground.

Bless the laughter that erupts unexpectedly,
the long-awaited lightbulb moments,
the small triumphs no one records or applauds.

May the teacher receive the gifts her students bring with open hands—
their creativity, quirks, inquisitiveness, and curiosity.
But also the literal gifts
like a squishy,
a handmade bracelet,
a drawing of a dragon,
and a shiny glass figurine of a dog.
The children give generously from all they have,
because they see their teacher do the same.

And when the dismissal bell rings and the room empties,
linger with them, O Lord—
in the quiet,
in the exhaustion,
in the sacred ordinary aftermath of giving themselves away.

Let them know they are seen.
Let them know they are valued.
Let them know their work will be forever stitched
into the tapestry of these children’s lives.

Amen.

Shameless Plug:
The second volume of Liturgies and Laments for the Sojourner is available on Amazon!

rigamarole (noun)
ri-gə-mə-rohl
something (such as a procedure or an explanation) that is long, complicated, and tedious

I should start by saying, “thank you.” If I’m still taking up space in your inbox because you haven’t unsubscribed from my Substack, I’m honored. I’m likely wedged between some New Year deals and maybe an airline email reminding you of miles you don’t want to let expire.

Truth be told, I’ve wanted to unsubscribe from myself sometimes. If I were to sum up my creative life this past year in a word, it would be “adrift.” I’ve floated aimlessly on my makeshift raft out in a vast ocean of potential. I’m the disheveled Tom Hanks who is determined to get off the desolate island (aka: my creative rut) and set sail on the ocean (of potential) with Wilson (my writing). But when the storms (of life) hit, my writing drifted off.

“Writing! WRIIIITING,” I wail, unable to retrieve it as it drifts further and further away. “I’m sorry, writing. I’m so sorry!”1

End scene.

If you’re still with me and haven’t unsubscribed after that random train of thought, I really think we’re going to make it. I think we’re the kind of inbox buddies that can stand the test of time.

So, what am I trying to say here?
What am I trying to say here…

(taps fingers across keyboard)

Have you ever been in a group situation where everyone is having their own conversation? You’re telling a story to a one-person audience when, suddenly, all the other conversations around you come to a natural stopping point. Now you’re left as the sole storyteller in the room and everyone is now engaged with your story.

You begin to wonder, “Wait, is this story even interesting? It was interesting for one person, sure. But it’s not polished enough to be one of those ‘Gather ‘round, everybody!’ type of stories.”

In a panic, you wrap the story up sooner than you usually would, leaving lots of holes in the plot. Also, the funny part isn’t funny anymore when most everyone missed the first part of the story you’re referencing to bring it all full circle. Everyone smiles (only to be kind) before taking a sip of their drink and complimenting someone’s shoes or asking the host for the recipe of the cheese dip on their plate. The moment is gone almost as suddenly as it showed up, and you fear you’re now known for your lackluster, unremarkable, forgettable stories.

(quietly taps on keyboard a little more)

Alright, I’ll get straight to the meat and potatoes2 before you scroll straight down and tap the unsubscribe button once and for all.

Sometimes writing scares the crap out of me.

Writing is a paradox of all paradoxes in my life. It both rejuvenates my soul, and it makes me want to crawl in a hole. I feel the freedom and the weight of arranging the words just so on a page. It is a privilege to articulate the feelings and experiences of others, …and it feels like a huge responsibility.

But here I am.
I’m holding my basket of five fish and two loaves while staring out at a crowd of hungry people.
I’ve got five small stones in my hand while the shadow of a giant looms overhead.
I’m casting my net into water, even though I’ve pulled it up empty enough times to warrant calling it a night.

“This is all I have to offer,” I’ve said to the Lord many times. And with the same faith the basket was handed over, and the stone was released from the shepherd’s sling, and the net was cast out—I offer up my writing.

I’ve wasted too much of my creative energy worrying about my writing instead of actually writing. So, in an attempt to really grow my faith in the One who made me a writer in the first place, I don’t want to walk into this new year dragging my feet in delayed obedience (because that’s still disobedience).

And that’s the whole rigamarole about why I write, why it scares me, and why I’m doing it anyway.

Thank you, again, for giving me space in your inbox to do what I love.

A Creative Exercise for Those Feeling Stuck

I’m working my way through Walking in this World: The Practical Art of Creativity by Julia Cameron. Slowly but surely, I’m going to “recover the creative self” I’ve evaded for almost a year now. The idea of returning full swing to writing regularly (while also having a full-time job) seemed a little too daunting, which is why I appreciated one particular exercise in the book. I thought I’d share it here, in case you are also feeling like your creativity is floating away like Wilson.

In her book, Julia Cameron says we “often experience a sense of powerlessness because we do not see any direct action we can take to concretely alter our sense of being stuck.” She then goes on to say “taking small creative action moves us out of the victim position. Suddenly, we realize we do have choices and options and that our passivity may boil down to a stubborn laziness.”

So, here’s the creative exercise. Take a pen (or open your Notes app) and number 1 to 20. List twenty small, creative actions you can easily do instead of grumbling about your creative rut. Here’s my list:

1. Work on my cross-stitching when I’m tempted to pick up my phone.

2. Read one of the magazines I have on the shelf in the living room.

3. Create a layout for the frames that will go up the stairs. Trace frames on paper, cut out, and arrange on the wall. (Bonus: actually hang the frames)

4. Peruse an antique market.

5. Make something from my go-to recipe books. Start writing down the ones I like in my handwritten recipe book.

6. Donate more clothes and shoes from my closet.

7. Buy some camisoles to wear under some of the tops I can’t wear without one.

8. Meet up with my friends for coffee/meal. Or spend the day of thrift shopping together.

9. Patch up the wall in the upstairs bathroom, touch up paint, and hang mirror.

10. Hang art in upstairs bathroom.

11. Buy salads for my lunch at school.

12. Take a long walk around the neighborhood.

13. Write a quick synopsis of each stop of our 2025 trip out west on the back of the postcards I purchased.

14. Have a family game night one day a week.

15. Buy a larger board for a charcuterie spread. Start having fun creating one for family game night.

16. Get some flowers or a plant from Trader Joe’s.

17. Make a playlist.

18. Paint with watercolors in my journal.

19. Finish writing/editing my “Bread in the Bible” devotional.

20. Finish my “Stories from a Sojourner”3 writing challenge.

    ---

Pages from My Meme-oir:
(the section where I share a little more about myself via memes)

The summer season is upon us and I cannot begin to tell you how different this summer looks from our summer one year ago. I almost began this email with a flashback to those months in 2024—that is, until I realized there was a lot to unpack there (emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and still a little bit of actual suitcases we haven’t unpacked). Instead, I’ll give you the abbreviated version.

Last summer was when we made the official decision to move back to the States after spending 12 years of our life in Indonesia. It feels like such a small amount of time in the grand scheme of things, and yet, it’s also a really long time. Take a moment to think about what your life looked like in 2012, because that’s when we moved to Indonesia.

Last summer was when we had to pack up our whole house and decide what would make it into the allotted suitcase allowance provided by the airlines and what would be sold or given away. So that meant goodbye to the furniture we had custom built, the dishes we ate meals off of for years, the cookware I slowly collected, the homeschool desks my children learned to write and read at, the dollhouse my girls played with, the outer space mural I painted for my boys’ room…

Last summer was when we returned to the States and piled our suitcases into the living room of our 1984 home. We slept on mattresses on the hardwood floor my husband installed himself. We sat in folding camp chairs. We ate from paper plates.

Last summer, we finished the last chapter of the book that held all the stories of our expat life and we tucked it away on the shelf. It’s the type of book we were really sad to finish, because it was so good. It’s the type of book we’ll keep thinking about for years to come.

Then we picked up the next book in the series and opened to chapter one.

But all the details of that is a story for later. A year ago, processing all we went through during the summer would have been debilitating. Now, it feels like a good therapy session. My Substack piece later this month will be full of “then and now” photos, because my photo app has been a regular source of perspective for me. When it feels like there’s “so much left to do,” I’ll scroll back to photos from months ago to remind me of how far the Lord has brought us, how much He has provided, and all the ways He answered prayers (some we had prayed for years).

Until then, I’ll provide you with one “then and now” set of photos:

Let’s switch gears to my “First Things First” for the month of June, shall we?
It’s “giving summer.”

Summer Snacks

• Alexia sweet potato fries + Chick-Fil-A sauce

• Pretzels + hummus

• Tortilla chips + pineapple salsa

• Pimento cheese flavored multigrain crackers

• Dried mango slices from Trader Joe’s

• Coconut Crème iced coffee
  (recipe: unsweet, bold and smooth Stōk cold brew + CoffeeMate coconut crème creamer)

• Marketplace chocolate chip and chunks cookies from Sam’s. They are break-and-bake and taste like they’re homemade. I’ve been making just enough after dinner some nights for everyone to have a warm, freshly baked cookie and it’s delightful.

Summer Hacks

• summer reading bingo sheets || Our children’s school provided our kids with a summer reading bingo sheet and I also provided one to my own students. There are so many freebies out there on the internet, like this one or this one. It gives kids fun reading goals and helps them branch out a little bit from what they typically read. You might also check with your public library and see if they have any summer reading program/incentive going on. The other day, we had to leave the pool because of a severe thunderstorm approaching. While on the drive back home, I heard Lucy say, “well, now I can go home to read and check off the box for ‘read a book during a thunderstorm.’” There was also a box for “read a book in your swimsuit.” I’m telling you, bingo sheets are the bomb (or fire or gas…or whatever we say these days).

• make-up brush for sunscreen application || Long gone are the days when my kids scrunch up their faces, flinch, and lean away from me while getting sunscreen applied to their faces. Bust out one of those make-up brushes and suddenly they can handle it.
  Bonus perk: the sunscreen gets applied nice and even.
  BONUS bonus perk: now my kids (minus my teen boy) want to apply each others’ sunscreen on their faces instead of needing my help.

Other Summer Finds

These are just a few of my favorite finds so far this summer. Most of the items are related to what I put on my face every day. I especially love the “on-the-glow” stick and liquid blush. It gives my face a fresh pick-me-up with very little effort.

1. Glossier Invisible Shield Daily Sunscreen // 2. High-Waisted Two-Piece Ruched Swimsuit* // 3. Pixi Glow Tonic Serum // 4. On-the-Glow Highlight Moisture Stick (Ice Pearl) // 5. e.l.f. liquid blush (dusty rosé)

* I’ve been on the search for a swimsuit I feel comfortable wearing out in public when I take the kids to the pool. After living in a very conservative country for a really long time, it’s been a while since I’ve let more than the skin below my elbows and knees show. This particular swimsuit feels very classic/timeless and I really love the high-waisted bottoms with the ruched detail of this swimsuit.

Summer Reads

1. The Wild Robot series. I love these books so much. While I was reading aloud the first book to my second graders, I convinced my own children (my 13-year-old included) to read the book, too. I said we could all watch the movie together if they all read it. Before I knew it, all my children had finished the first book before me and went on to read the other two books in the series. My youngest son read the Wonderbook version (which are regular books with a plug-in for the audio). Highly recommend checking those out if your public library has them. And by the way, we ended up watching The Wild Robot movie on Mother’s Day and I cried.

2. Crazy Busy. As the cover states, it’s a (mercifully) short book about a (really) big problem. Kevin DeYoung gives some very practical advice regarding how to correct and/or harness the state of busyness we always seem to find ourselves in. DeYoung gives seven diagnoses regarding our busyness and finishes with a focus on the one thing we must do: sit at Jesus' feet and learn from Him in the word and prayer.

3. The Anxious Generation. I know I’m late to the game on this one. There’s probably nothing I could tell you about this book you haven’t heard already—whether through book recommendations or podcasts that had Jonathan Haidt as a guest. If I had been reading my own copy, it would be full of highlights and sticky note tabs. Instead, I have a note in my notes app full of quotes from the book. It is a must-read for those who are currently shepherding the next generation of young adults. If you’re wanting to know what a phone-based childhood is doing to children based on extensive evidence and research—this is the book for you. If you’re worried that it’s “too late” to do anything about it—this is the book for you. I love the quote Haidt shared in the book by Henry David Thoreau: “The cost of a thing is the amount of life which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run.”

Up on deck for my next read is Perfected, written by my in-real-life friend, Bethany Broderick! It’s about trading shame and striving for wholeness in Christ. Yesss, please.

And on the note of books, I’m currently looking for some more book recommendations for this summer. I’d love a little more fiction, so please give me your favorites in the comment section and support my good habit of reading (and finishing) books.

Pages from My Meme-oir

For one of my daughter’s birthdays, we took her to a Claire’s-esque store full of accessories. It was her golden birthday (turning seven on the seventh), and she wanted to get a gold-colored headband. As I walked down the aisle full of headband selections, I took one from a hook on the wall and placed it on my head. I looked at the mirror and it was almost as if Alicia from 1996 appeared out of nowhere and gave me a nod of approval.

When I turned from my reflection in the mirror, I found my birthday girl looking at me with her bright, smiling eyes and her new headband adorning her head.

“Do you like it, Mommy,” she asked while hugging my waist.

“I love it,” I exclaimed.

I returned the headband I was holding back to its hook on the wall and lingered for a moment, contemplating whether or not I was still a headband person, or just romanticizing the days of my youth.

I made my way to check out.

“Will this be all,” the cashier asked.

I looked down at my daughter’s golden headband on the counter. “Yes, that’s all.” I glanced over my shoulder, once more, at the headband on the hook before leaving the store.

Chapter Two: Borrowed Identity

About seven months after my husband and I got married, we took a trip to Indonesia. We were helping some of his former co-workers with a summer job, while also trying to determine if there was any chance of full-time work for us in Indonesia (spoiler alert: there was, and we moved to Indonesia a year later).

But let's start at the beginning of that summer, when our plane touched down and we walked into a hot, sticky airport.

No, sorry, rewind a little further back to us being stuck in the Houston airport for two nights in a row because of trouble with our flights. We were stranded, our luggage was long gone, and we were beginning to stink from all the stress-sweating. We paid about fifty bucks for a taxi to take us from the airport to the nearest mall (which just so happened to be the same mall I spent all my pre-teen years trying to be way cooler than I actually was). We had twenty minutes to buy ourselves a new outfit on Delta's dime before the mall closed. And thanks to having lived in the Houston area for my elementary and teen years, I was able to call up a mom of one of my childhood friends (and she just so happened to work at the airport).

Now, back to the hot, sticky airport in Indonesia.

We had arrived, our bags had not.

We weren't completely shocked by this, considering how our itinerary ended up looking NOTHING like it was supposed to—but we were still bummed. Our friends loaned us some clothes to wear for the first week while we waited for our suitcases to slowly catch up with us.

The borrowed clothes did their job—that is, they covered my body. However, the clothes weren't what I would have typically worn and they didn't fit comfortably. I wore them because it was what I needed for the moment. But as soon as my luggage arrived, I switched back to my own clothes—except for the one pair of pants I grew fond of and asked my friend if I could keep wearing for the remainder of our trip.

Whenever I reflect back to my first years as an expat, I think back to that summer of wearing borrowed clothes. Just like our delayed luggage, I felt like my pre-expat self didn't arrive with me. For weeks, which turned into months, which turned into at least a couple of years, I didn't know how to be me. It felt like that nightmare of showing up somewhere not fully clothed. I had been stripped bare of all I knew, so I had to borrow the expat identity of others.

I asked questions…
Where do you shop for groceries?

How do you handle this situation?

What do you normally pay for something like this?

Where do you plug into the community?

What do you do to practice the language?

I knew nothing and depended heavily on those who had been around for longer than me. I borrowed all the ideas and recommendations, even if they weren't a good fit for me. And since I needed to do this for quite some time, I didn't feel like myself. I wanted to make others laugh, but I didn't have the language to do so. I wanted to feel independent, but I didn't know how to drive yet. I wanted to find where I fit in, but I often had to be a tagalong, third wheel. I lived the beginning of my expat life metaphorically shuffling around in a baggy shirt, high-water pants, and shoes a size too big.

The borrowed identity I had in Indonesia did its job—that is, it helped me put one foot in front of the other when culture shock and fatigue were wearing me down. It was what I needed for a time. However, little by little, the self I was more familiar with started to show up.

I returned some ways of expat living back to the original owner, and wore the stuff I felt was more tailored to me. But just like my friend’s pants, there were a few things previously borrowed which I incorporated as part of my new expat life wardrobe. I learned to be me again, but in a new place.

Chapter Three: Back to the Headband

I was spending a stupid amount of time thinking about the headband I didn’t purchase, and an even stupider amount of time wondering if I was “a hEaDbAnd pErSoN.”

My last recollection of wearing headbands unlocked memories of eating rectangular pizza and a spoonful of canned corn for lunch on Fridays, sipping Chucklin’ Cherry SqueezeIts with the cap that resembled a lobster, making origami fortune tellers, playing M.A.S.H. with my friends to see how bright my future looked, and trying desperately, time and time again, to keep my GigaPet dog alive.

What was I so scared about? Why was I overanalyzing a style choice? I clearly loved the headband. I’m also the grown-up I could not wait to be when I was a kid and I could purchase these sort of things whenever I wanted to.

Get the headband, I told myself.
You want the headband.

Chapter Four: Somebody That I Used to Know

On July 6, 2011, the Australian singer songwriter, Goyte, released a single that catapulted him into all the top charts. He received platinum status in both Australia and the U.S. and peaked at #1 in 50 countries. The accompanying music video currently has nearly 2.5 billion views.

But not long after releasing this hit single, Goyte was nowhere to be found (at least not in the limelight).

While the song elevated his music career to undeniable levels, it never phased his creative ambitions as a true artist and songwriter. Instead, he diverted his attention to other projects and art forms.

"I decided it made more sense to focus on creative things and not get hung up on money and lawyers and courts," he stated in a 2017 interview.

While listening to his chart-topping song, “Somebody That I Used to Know,” these lyrics cut me straight to the core:

Told myself that you were right for me
But felt so lonely in your company
You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness

I don’t know what Goyte’s original inspiration was when he wrote the words to this song, but the lyrics made me think of the stranger I had become to myself.

As I type this, I’m currently sitting at my dining room table in our “new” home built in 1984, enjoying the first few days of summer break. I’m no longer in Indonesia and I’m no longer an expat. I’m no longer speaking a foreign language on a regular basis and I’m back to asking questions.

Where do your kids do gymnastics?

What do you do for playdates?

How do you write your lesson plans? (Also, what are PSTs and Student Focus Meetings and Math Matrixes and Esti Mysteries and UFLI and Recipe for Reading and…?)

What boundaries do you put in place for work?

How do you do dinner around all the extracurriculars?

In addition to the “I’m new here” identity, I find myself having miniature identity crises (maybe we can call the small ones “identity setbacks”) whenever I’m on Instagram.

Suddenly, I want to be a poet,
and a plant person.
I want to renovate furniture from FB Marketplace,
and start dabbling with film photography.
I want to go to a pilates class,
and then meditate on the words the instructor said and turn it into a sermon.
Should I post about my favorite products and outfits?
Should I get a LTK account?
Do I need a book reading goal?

The trouble is, I don’t do enough of any one of those things to claim it as my identity. If you were to click on my Instagram account, you wouldn’t see “Alicia with all the classroom hacks” or “Alicia’s OOTDs.” You wouldn’t see multiple reels showcasing how I thrifted and styled things, nor would you see a feed full of stunning photos.

WHO AM I?? Or rather…
Who was I when I wasn’t so worried about who I was?

Chapter Five: The Scavenger Hunt

For so long, when I thought back on the days of my youth, I assumed I was trying to be like anyone but myself.

Now I realize I was pulling pieces of inspiration and patching it together in my own way. I borrowed all the ideas and recommendations, even if they weren't a good fit for me. I kept borrowing until I found what I liked.

So, who was I when I wasn’t wondering who I was?

I’ve always seen things take shape out of the ordinary.
My mom told me I always saw things—not in the creepy, sixth-sense way, but in the way you’d see a cloud take the shape of something. Once, when she was tucking me in, I said, “there’s a W.” She followed the direction of my pointed finger and saw the door to my bedroom. After some further questioning, she realized I saw the shape of a W in the grain of the wood. Now, something so basic as ant carrying a crumb twice its size is going to weave its way into my writing.

I’ve always collected inspiration from people and places around me.
Before the days of Pinterest or screenshots or save buttons, I was making my mental boards of inspiration. I pulled things from magazines, TV shows, and what I saw in the hallways of school. I even workshopped my handwriting a few times when I liked the way one girl wrote her “a” or another girl dotted her “i.” I didn’t ever feel like I was going through an identity crisis in these moments. It was like an identity scavenger hunt— each new discovery felt like a puzzle piece snapping into place.

I’ve always loved to teach.
Teachers were my heroes. I longed for the day I would have my own classroom and overhead projector. I assembled my stuffed animals on the carpet of my bedroom, instructing them via a small whiteboard hung on my wall. Oh, and let’s not forget the grade book I made for myself.

I used to be better about making time for fun.
I rode my bike or rollerbladed all over the neighborhood. I entered imaginative worlds with my friends. If I wasn’t enjoying something, I didn’t keep doing it. Recently, an ad popped up on Netflix with the song “Are You Having Any Fun?” accompanying it.

Are you having any fun?
Are you getting any laughs?
Who cares for what you’ve got if you’re not having any fun?

The lyrics bounced around in my head long after the ad ended.

Chapter Six: Mid-Life Renaissance

At one point in her conversation with Dax Shephard on his podcast, Armchair Expert, Amy Poehler started talking about learning a new skill.

“I was just saying to a friend of mine the other day, there should be another term besides mid-life crisis. Everyone likes to say, ‘she he's having a midlife crisis.’ I'd love to rebrand some version of that where you started having a midlife discovery or breakthrough. Renaissance.”

ren·ais·sance
/ˈrenəˌsäns/
noun
a revival of or renewed interest in something

Chapter Seven: I Got the Headband

I took a special trip back to the store to buy the headband I couldn’t stop thinking about. I am a headband person.

I slowly drifted away from Instagram and didn’t share any posts for a year. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like I was in a constant state of overstimulation and “addicted to a certain kind of sadness” and loneliness.

One drizzly morning, I sat down across the table from three principals and an HR representative for a job interview for the first time in 13 years. A few hours later, my phone rang and I was offered a second grade teaching position at a school five minutes away from our house.

“It’s a terrible time to be a public school teacher,” I heard a woman next to me say to her hairstylist. She had just left the profession, and I was a month away from going back to it. As my stylist continued to trim my hair, I sat in silence, wondering if I was absolutely crazy to go back to teaching nearly midway through my life.

During a game of How Well Do You Know Your Teacher, I asked my second graders about which subject is my favorite to teach. They scribbled on their whiteboards and held them high in the air. “Writing,” they all unanimously agreed. Cue my writer heart melting into a puddle on the ground.

“You’re living out your calling,” a mother wrote in a thank you card at the end of the school year.

I’ve spent the past few years worrying about who I am—but now, I feel like I have a renewed interest in the person I used to know.

And that, my friends, is mid-life renaissance.

Pages from My Meme-oir:
(the section where I share a little more about myself via memes)

You should know this about me: I never grow tired of seeing the Justin Timberlake memes reminding us all, “it’s gonna be May.” Even when someone posts a caption-less photo or gif of Justin giving all of us a smirk on April 30th, I am delighted. As a huge *NSYNC fan growing up, it seems fitting my birthday month is introduced this way each year.

(Do you like how I teed this up so I could tell you my birthday is coming soon?)

One can’t help but get deep and reflective as another birthday approaches. We’re not promised tomorrow, so when the Lord gives us another entire trip around the sun, it’s reason to celebrate. I’m coming up on thirty-five years of life (full disclosure: I did the math on my fingers as I typed this sentence) and my upcoming tl;dr story for this month will be inspired by the question, “Who were you when you weren’t wondering who you were?”—a question Mary Laura Philpott asks in her book I Miss You When I Blink. As I began to consider how I’d answer that question, my thoughts rippled to memories of my parents at the same age.

At the time, of course, they seemed so old. But now I realize they were still so young—still thinking about the future, still making big decisions they probably didn’t feel wise enough to make. I’m sure they got excited about boring home purchases and laughed at themselves, wondering when they started to care so much about the thread count of bedsheets or great deals on fertilizer. Did they cringe when young twenty-something-year olds called them ma’am and sir? Did they linger a little longer in front of the mirror and wonder when those grey hairs and creases around their eyes started to show up?

In a full circle sort of way, when my parents were thirty-five years old, that’s when I think I was the age of being the me who wasn’t wondering who I was. What advice would younger Alicia give me (now that I’m the same age as her “old” parents)? And what parts of younger me are still very much alive and present in my life today?

Like I said, more on that later in the month! And yes, the photo above gives little hints to what I’ll be discussing.

FOR NOW, let’s talk gifts. Since my birthday and Mother’s Day (and my mother’s birthday) all take place in May, I thought I’d use this month’s First Things First email to share a little gift guide.

These are all items I currently have (or have been gifted in the past).

1. Paint By Sticker book | I have the masterpiece one and it’s really calming to sit and piece together a work of art like a puzzle— but it’s a puzzle where you’re told exactly where to put the piece. It also doubles as a way to (re)familiarize myself with well-known artwork.

2. LUGNARE candle | I’m not saying you should gift this candle in place of real flowers (because having a vase of real flowers in the house is so lovely). However, you could pair the flowers with this candle from IKEA that smells like jasmine. I love lighting this candle when I want it to smell like I have a vase of fresh flowers somewhere in my house.

3. Create Anyway | I’m a big fan of Ashlee’s writing and the way she is regularly encouraging women to pursue creativity. Not only is the book full of her beautiful words (this alone would be more than enough reason to buy the book), she also includes interviews with other women pursuing creative works alongside motherhood, and she gives the reader prompts to get those creative juices flowing. Not to mention, her beautiful photography is sprinkled throughout the pages. Everything about this book is a work of art.

4. Books on Shelves Cross-Stitch Kit | I put this on my Christmas wish list last year because I wanted to stop grabbing my phone to scroll every time I sat down. I had absolutely zero experience with cross-stitching prior to getting this kit. However, thanks to Elise’s how-to guide for beginners (included with the kit) and her “you got this” pep talk, I quickly figured it out. She also has other digital cross-stitch patterns on her site. I’m looking forward to stitching Christmas on Shelves next!

5. Substack Subscription | I haven’t actually received this as a gift before, but I think it’s a thoughtful gift idea! With more and more writers moving over to Substack and starting subscriptions, it might be worth asking your friend/mom/sister/etc. if there’s any Substack subscription they’ve had their eye on. I believe you can gift either a one-month or one-year subscription. If you’re looking for recommendations, here are a few to get you started:

   1. — Katie writes beautifully about faith, family, disability, adoption, trauma, and friendship. Let me tell you, it's worth every penny.

   2. — Elizabeth is a longtime journalist turned royal commentator. While she mostly does deep dives on royal history and fashion, she also covers other subjects like motherhood, career advice, and personal style.

   3. —the perfect Substack subscription for writers. Not only is Summer's writing lovely, she offers writing craft talks and semiannual Essay Camps (write-along nonfiction workshops).

6. Exhale Gift Card | I’ve been a part of this writing community since it first began and it has been the greatest investment in my writing—not to mention, I’ve formed so many friendships with fellow writers through this community! Even if you’re not a member, they offer so many great workshops and writing resources on a regular basis through their site. So, if you want to gift something to a writer, consider giving them a gift card to shop around on Exhale’s marketplace.

7. The Beauty of Motherhood | I would have LOVED to have this book in the early years of motherhood, and I will happily buy it for women in my life who are still in this stage of motherhood. It’s a gift mothers might not realize they need until they’re holding it in their hands, gleaning wisdom and encouragement from two women who’ve recently walked this road. This book is a collection of stories, reflective questions, and prayers written by fellow writer friends, Kim and Erin. Consider their writing to be like the friend who shows up with your favorite snack (because they could read the exhaustion in your text message)—then proceeds to wash your dishes without asking, sits on your couch folding your laundry while providing you with adult conversation as you feed the baby, then gives you a quick “you’re doing a great job, momma” before they head out the door. You know that my-cup-overfloweth feeling you have afterward? Yeah, that’s this book.

8. ABLE gift card | Several months ago, my purse was falling apart and my husband encouraged me to consider making my next purchase one that would last me longer than, ahem, two years. I decided to narrow my search to the selection available on ABLE. Their high-quality leather goods, handmade jewelry, apparel, denim, and shoes aren't just investment pieces for your wardrobe, they’re an investment in women around the world. They also have incredible customer service—body inclusivity, lifetime guarantee, and the option to swap sizes on your clothing purchase if your body size changes! I know I’m starting to sound like an ad, but I’m not getting any kickback for this. I genuinely love this company. I ended up getting the Rachel Crossbody and it is everything I hoped it would be. Check out ABLE’s Mother’s Day gift guides or just send her a gift card so she can find exactly what she wants. They’re currently having a 25% off sale site-wide with the code MD25.

9. Liturgies and Laments for the Sojourner | Time for a shameless plug, but I highly recommend this book I co-authored with my friends Heather and Tamika. If you know someone who is living outside their passport country, not only is this a book they need, it’s a book YOU need. As one reviewer said, this book “has given me a deeper insight into hardships, longings, joys, and sorrows experienced by those living outside their own culture. It will help to form my prayers for them.” With liturgies for packing, culture shock, visas and immigration, language learning, homesickness, and other cross-cultural experiences, those living abroad will be reminded they aren’t alone in their struggles. (Photo credit of the book in the gift guide goes to Anjelica Malone! I still don’t have a copy of my own book so I very much appreciate when others send me photos.)

That concludes my recommendations. What else would you add? Do you have any personal favorites (candle scents, books, subscriptions, etc.) you’d highly recommend as gifts for the awesome women in your life? Let me know!

Pages From My Meme-oir:
(related to age/aging and being middle aged because, you know, it’s my birthday month and all…)

A note for the reader: In my previous newsletter, First Things First and Long Story Short, I always started the newsletter with a quote from a TV character that related to the story I was about to tell. I wouldn’t reveal who the quote was from (just to test the reader’s pop culture knowledge) until the end of the story. Today’s story will feature three quotes because I simply could not pick just one this time.

I got my first tattoo when I was eighteen years old. My best friend and I each planned what we would get, and then conspired a plan to get it without our parents knowing. Since it wasn’t uncommon for teens in our small town to take trips to the beach, we figured it would be easy to casually request permission from each set of parents to head out of town for the day.

Maybe now is a good time to mention I was sneaking around to get a tattoo dedicated to my newfound love for Jesus (as one does). I decided to get a pair of footprints to represent “the beautiful feet of those who bring good news” (Romans 10:15). Eighteen-year-old Alicia was convinced she’d be able to share about Jesus to anyone who inquired about her tattoo. This was a foolproof plan.

And before you think to yourself, “This isn’t so bad, Alicia. I mean, all things considered, it could have been a lot worse”—I should probably also mention I got the tattoo on my lower back.1 I’ll let that detail sink into the depths of your soul where you keep all your cringe-inducing memories from the past.

Instead of black ink, I requested brown. “So you want a fake henna tattoo,” the tattoo artist joked. I’m guessing he said this because getting a real henna tattoo was all the rage for youth visiting the beach.

I laughed nervously at his subpar joke. “Ha, yeah…I guess so!”

He then informed me the brown ink would fade or darken with my skin, depending on how much sun exposure it received. Since I banked on sunbathing for the rest of my life and always having sun-kissed skin, I wasn’t too worried about the future of my tattoo.2

Fast forward seventeen years (having lived another lifetime since I got my first tattoo), I decided to get inked up again. This time, another best friend convinced me to do it. This time, I was a mom of four. And this time, getting a tattoo would require a plane trip to another island.

My friend did her research and found a reputable tattoo artist in the capital city. She was so reputable, in fact, we had to book an appointment with her six months in advance. This meant we had plenty of time to decide what we wanted and/or discern whether or not we were going through some version of a midlife crisis.

The months on the calendar flipped by until Tattoo Month was upon us. My idea for a tattoo had been decided. My down payment for the appointment had been paid. My plane ticket had been purchased.

Then, three days prior to my departure date, I felt like absolute garbage. I stayed in bed for two days with flu-like symptoms before willing myself to get out of bed the day before I had to leave. I was nauseous, I had no appetite whatsoever, my lower back and legs ached, and my brain felt so foggy. I couldn’t string two thoughts together to save my life.

I contemplated cancelling the trip, but how does one back out of a tattoo appointment that’s been booked for six months? How could I abandon my friend at the eleventh hour like that?

I went to a clinic to have an antigen test done. The results were negative for COVID. I had been fever-free for twenty-four hours. Maybe I would get better as the days went on, I reasoned. I made up my mind to push onward with the trip. The next morning, at dark-thirty o’ clock, I hugged my husband, got into my taxi, and popped mints into my mouth for the entire trip to soothe my nausea.

Once my flight had touched down in the capital city, I looked at my phone and saw a message from my husband.

“Look what the kids and I found…”

Bats swoop in the back area of our house all the time, scooping up bugs as they fly to and fro. Most of the time, they stay away from our porch—but, on occasion, they’ve dipped below the covering and swooped just above our heads.

You can tell me all you know about bats and echolocation and how “they might be blind, but they know exactly where they’re going”—but it will never convince me that a bat won’t fly smack-dab into my face at any given moment.

My husband once got trapped in a tent with a bat. He and his friend managed to catch it, but before they let it go, they wanted to get a closer look at this elusive creature of the night. They held it by its wings and stuck a twig at its mouth. The bat promptly destroyed the twig into a dozen tiny pieces with its rows of razor-sharp teeth.

That’s a nope, nope, nooope for me.

So, upon receiving the text message, “look what the kids and I found,” I stared in disgust at the photo attached. One can see why my skepticism about echolocation was further exacerbated by a picture of a dead bat lying limp on the back porch.

“Maybe it hit the ceiling fan,” I texted back my theory.

“I’m pretty sure the fan was off,” my husband responded.

“What did you do with it,” I asked.

“I got a stick, hooked it under the bat’s feet3, and threw it in the ditch,” he replied.

By this point, I was in a taxi. I turned my phone off, because solving a dead bat mystery while in stop-and-go traffic was not helping my ongoing nausea. I popped another mint into my mouth and closed my eyes. Whatever I was sick with was not getting better like I had hoped. If anything, I was slowly depleting what little energy I had left.

But on the morning of our tattoo appointment, adrenaline must have kicked in. The sudden burst of energy certainly wasn’t coming from my steady diet of extra-strength Tylenol and mints.

This was happening. I was really going to get a tattoo, and I had never felt better. (That is, until the adrenaline wore off and I was reminded that I still felt like garbage.)

In 2020, while the world was baking sourdough bread, I decided to dabble in candle making. I brainstormed a fun idea to make the candles in a coffee mug so I could gift it to friends. They’d receive a candle AND a coffee mug after burning the whole candle. I decided on a name: Mugwicks. I came up with a logo. I even came up with three signature scents: The Reader, The Writer, and The Creative. The only detail I hadn’t figured out with the whole candle-making process was, well, how to make a decent candle.

Once border restrictions were lifted and we were able to return to Indonesia, I had to press pause on my creative outlet. I decided to pack up and carry the candle-making supplies and essential oils across the globe, in the event I wanted to pick the hobby back up again.

But like most of the short-lived hobbies many of us dabbled in during the global pandemic, I didn’t immediately return to the craft of candle making. Life gradually returned to normal(ish) and my days filled up with other things.

It wasn’t until the holidays were upon us that my husband decided it would be fun (and more budget-friendly) to make our own holiday candles with the supplies we already had on hand. While I had creative ideas for candle scent names and branding, my husband had a key skillset I lacked—a mind built for understanding measurements, ratios, and calculating the proper amount of oil needed per ounce of wax.

It was an absolute delight to figure out a new hobby alongside my husband. With our creative powers combined, we were developing some pretty outstanding soy-based4 candles. We’d really found our candle-making groove—that is, until I was bed-ridden with flu-like symptoms a couple days before heading out of town to get a tattoo…

My new tattoo is inspired by the work of a visual artist and poet, Anatol Knotek, called “The Solution.”

The original artwork is a wall displaying the words, “the problem.” However, the letters r, b, and l are seen falling down. What remained?

The p o  em.

As soon as I saw this visual art, I felt it deep in my soul. I had just finished reading Adorning the Dark by Andrew Peterson and it reminded me of something he said:

“Steven Pressfield’s book, The War of Art, describes what he calls “Resistance”— a mysterious force in the world that seems to challenge every creative act. He talks about the way we have to fight an opposing force in order to bring something beautiful into the world. There is a Resistance (Eph. 6:12) and if you’re called to speak light into the darkness, then believe this: the darkness wants to shut you up.”

When my friend convinced me to get a tattoo with her, I knew I wanted mine to be a version of Knotek’s, “The Solution.”

There is so much darkness in this world, and a Resistance trying to keep Light out. We are creative people made in the image of our Creator and we can use our creative gifts to adorn the darkness. We are called and equipped to leave the space we occupy a little more beautiful, and a little brighter, than we found it.

The placement of my tattoo is on the wrist of my right hand—my writing hand—to remind me of why I write. I write because I want to fight the resisting darkness of this world with my words—not with harsh words or offensive words, but with words that bring joy, hope, and maybe a smile to the reader’s face.

And so, I tell you stories about bats and the half-baked tattoo of my teen years and about being an amateur candle maker and getting another tattoo in my thirties while plagued with some mysterious illness.5

I want, as Brian Doyle once said, “to catch stories by their brilliant tails as they rocket by, carve and sculpt them into arrows, and fire them into the hearts of as many people as I can reach on this bruised and blessed planet.” It’s hard for darkness to overcome us when we’ve got that joy (joy, joy, joy) down in our hearts.

I guess what I’m trying to say is…
let’s keep taking the problems of this world and turning them into
p  o   ems.

  r     l

    b

TV Quotes:

“For your information this is exactly what I wanted. This is a tattoo of the earth as seen from a great distance.” — Phoebe Buffay, FRIENDS

“The bat. I mean, I know I felt it bite me but look there's no mark. I feel so tingly...so strangely powerful... [pause] Oh well.” — Jim Halpert, The Office

“When I get frustrated or irritated or angry, I just come up here and I smell all my candles, and it just ~poof~ goes away.” — Jan Levinson, The Office

I don’t have any tricks up my sleeve for April Fool’s Day, but how about we play Two Truths and a Lie? I’ll share which one is the lie at the very end.

1. I’ve never seen Cast Away, so the volleyball reference is lost on me. People make a big deal about this, but I’m like, “okay, let me guess, it’s a movie about Tom Hanks getting himself in quite the predicament again…”

2. I was once a performer in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade.

3. I sent my boyfriend (now husband) on a scavenger hunt while he was on a trip in London to find a note I had left him in a hostel I stayed in during a 24-hour layover. I typed up the directions from a town in Malawi, sitting at a desktop computer, in a pay-by-the-hour internet cafe—except, there were no refreshments. They only sold internet.

Something I Recently Learned How To Do

When I was in college, there was this little place in town called “Sips and Strokes” where friends would bring their own beverage to sip on while someone gave step-by-step instructions on how to paint a particular picture. No matter your level of artistic ability, it was an enjoyable experience of hanging out with others while making art.

Last month, it was my turn to host a group of friends at my house for a monthly get-together. I decided to recreate the “sips and strokes” atmosphere. I had been gifted a paint-by-number canvas last year for my birthday and wondered if I could get everyone their own canvas to paint (because me giving step-by-step instructions on how to paint something is a disaster waiting to happen). Upon further research, I realized the cost of buying enough PBN kits was going to add up reallll quick.

So, I turned to Google: “how to make your own paint by number.”

Lo and behold, it’s possible. Just in case you’re wondering how to make your own paint-by-number art, pbnify.com is a site where you can paint-by-numberify any picture you want. You simply upload the picture, select what colors and shadings you want to replicate, and PBNify creates a color palette for you. The site will then convert your photo into a paint-by-number outline and give you a number template for each of the paint colors. The more colors you select in the original photo, the more your painting will look like the original. However, this also increases the difficulty level.

I opted for an abstract-like image with a simple color palette, then printed out the PBN outline and transferred the outline1 onto canvases. Instead of telling everyone what color to paint for each number, I showed them the original image for reference and invited them to pick whatever colors they wanted from the paint options I had available.

Here are a few of the finished products. I loved the variety of color and pattern!

The whole time I was setting up the painting activity—and later, while friends were around the table painting their canvases—my children were very observant and inquisitive.

“Do you want to paint a canvas, too,” I asked them.

They all nodded their heads eagerly.

After everyone left, one of my daughters noticed the printout I had used to transfer the outline to each canvas.

“Can I paint this one,” she asked.

I had planned to just toss it in the trash. “Sure, why not,” I responded.

I didn’t think much about it until the next day, when I saw her finished product lying on a table in the homeschool room. I love how her painting resembles techniques used in the other women’s paintings. It further proves how we all inspire one another in our creative endeavors.

I’m already planning for the next paint-by-number activity—but this time, with my kids. And I’m bringing the same “sips and strokes” vibe from my college days: making art while sipping on a beverage of choice and not worrying about the level of artistic ability I (or my children) bring to the table. I simply want to enjoy being in the company of fellow creatives.

Pages from My Meme-oir

As a reminder, this is the section where I will slowly but surely tell a story of who I am by way of memes.

Answer to Two Truths and a Lie:

I’ve absolutely watched Cast Away.
Tom Hanks is one of my top 5 favorite actors.

Book launch weekend has come and gone and I’ve been blown away by the support and kind words coming from so many people around the globe.

I’d love more than anything to be holding my own book in my hand right now to snap a celebratory picture—but alas, Amazon does not deliver to Indonesia. (Side note: please send me all the pictures of the book if you get a copy so I can oooh and aaah over it from afar).

The full story of how this book came to be is told from all three authors’ perspectives in the afterword—so I won’t give it all away here. But I’d like to tell a little bit more about the part of my story when I assumed this book idea had reached a dead end.

///

In March 2021, a few weeks after quietly saying yes to God about writing a book of liturgies for people who live outside their passport country, I was on a beach vacation with my family. While reclining in a hammock chair on the porch, I received a friend request on Instagram from an account called @liturgiesforalifeabroad. I stopped swinging and sat upright.

Wait, what?
How?
Who?

I couldn’t believe it. Someone else had had the same idea as me, but instead of a book, it was an Instagram account. And it wasn’t just some random person on the internet—it was a fellow writer friend of mine.

To be fully transparent with you all, my heart sank a little bit in that moment. How could I move forward with writing a book that had the exact same purpose and vision as my friend’s new Instagram account? I felt happy for her, knowing she would do a great job writing these prayers. But I also felt sadness weighing on my heart. I had finally said yes to a project, only to have to let it go a few weeks later.

I spent the next several days wondering why God had nudged me so much about this book idea in the first place. How could an all-knowing God (who certainly knew what was brewing in the mind of another fellow writer) put this book idea on my heart, only to take it away?

Was it because I was slow to obey?
Did I drag my feet about it for too long?
Should I have been more enthusiastic with my “yes” and announced the book idea, instead of keeping it to myself?

Ultimately, I didn’t throw away the notecards filled with all my ideas. Deep down, I still wanted the book to happen. However, I felt a lot like the Israelites standing on the shore of the Red Sea—God had brought me this far, but I didn’t see a way to keep going. When I returned home, I slid the cards into my desk drawer and closed it shut. If God wanted to make this book happen, He’d have to reveal the path forward, because I couldn’t see it.

///

“Should we take my parents to that same beach we went to for our vacation?”

It was February 2023, and my husband was trying to plan what to do when his parents came for a visit the following month.

“Sure, that sounds good to me,” I responded. “Maybe the manuscript will be finished and I can have them bring me a copy of my book,” I added with wishful thinking.

Narrator: The manuscript would not, in fact, be finished by then and she would not receive a copy of her own book she so wishfully hoped for.

By this point, the book had been brought back to life in a way only God can breathe life back into something. However, the official launch day was still up in the air. “Coming soon” was all we could tell people. We all did what we could with the time and resources we had, and continued to trust God’s perfect timing with the whole process of the book.

But when the final pieces of the book started to come together, they came together quickly. Before I knew it, we had settled on a date: March 11th. With a mere week left before launch day, I could hardly think about anything else on my calendar near or around that date—including my in-laws arriving on March 9th, and our planned beach trip the following week. But in all the hustle and bustle, when I finally had a moment to think about our trip to the beach, I had a realization that sent goosebumps up my arms. I hurried to find my phone and opened my calendar app.

The day after the book (which began as notecards) released into the world, God would take me back to the exact same place where I almost tossed the notecards in the trash—almost exactly two years later. His timing was, indeed, perfect.

I found the original notecards and slid them into a bag for the beach trip.

///

I wasn’t standing on the shore of the Red Sea, but I did get to stand on the shore of the Indian Ocean as I witnessed Liturgies and Laments for the Sojourner: Volume One launch to readers around the globe. I didn’t need a physical copy in my hands to be awestruck by the full-circle moment.

While people celebrated with us and posted pictures of the final version of the book from various countries, I stood on the shore where I thought this book had reached a dead end.

Instead of holding up my book, I held up what the book looked like in the very beginning. Instead of holding up the notecards in front of the desk where I jotted down prayer ideas (because termites destroyed that desk—and yes, there is a prayer about termites and other pests in the book), I held up the cards in front of the spot where this book almost didn’t happen.

And instead of only celebrating the book launching into the world, I also celebrated God making a way for this book when I saw no way.

P.S. Tamika, one of the co-authors of Liturgies and Laments for the Sojourner, just joined Substack! Go check out and subscribe!

On Instagram, I’ve been slowly (slooooowly) sharing “30 Stories from a Sojourner” for a 30-day series I started two years ago (why am I like this?) Since some of you just started reading my writing once I moved to Substack, I figured I’d introduce myself by sharing one of my posts from this series. Read “The Life We Know” to find out a little more about our family.

Liturgies and Laments for the Sojourner: Volume One is now available on Amazon, in paperback and Kindle version. If you purchase a copy, I’d love for you to take a moment to leave a review on Amazon and Goodreads. Thank you for your support!

TABLE OF CONTENTS:

Chapter One: Let’s Address the Elephant in the Inbox
Chapter Two: Was it a Glitch, or God?
Chapter Three: I Shattered My Phone Screen
Chapter Four: It’s Better to Have Sent the Email Later Than You Planned, Than Never to Have Sent the Email at All
Chapter Five: Looking Past the Cracks
Afterword: Pages From My Meme-oir
Acknowledgments

CHAPTER ONE: Let’s Address the Elephant in the Inbox

It’s me. Hi. I’m the elephant, it’s me.

I’m sitting here, drafting my first piece of writing on this new (to me) platform, and wondering if you, dear reader, are wondering how I found my way to your inbox. Maybe me being here in your inbox isn’t an elephant-sized issue in need of addressing. I could be exaggerating. Maybe I’m more like a bird in the airport: there’s probably an obvious explanation, but you still want to know how it happened.

It’s likely I’m just as perplexed as you are. I created my Substack account (maybe because I was having a midlife situation?) and then…I did nothing.

I didn’t write anything. I didn’t promote my Substack. No posts. No information on my about page (but now there is). No personalized welcome email for new subscribers. I found a few writers, subscribed to their publications, and then I put Substack on the shelf with all my other half-baked ideas.

But here you are on my list of subscribers. And here I am, in your inbox.

Riddle me that.

CHAPTER TWO: Was it a Glitch, or God?
(or a feature on Substack I didn’t know about at the time?)

If I had to guess, I’d say you found me here one of three ways:

1. Via the comments section of other Substack subscriptions.
2. Because I told you I started a Substack and sent you a link.
3. Katie Blackburn

Do you know Katie? I’m sure most of you do, because she’s the reason a majority of you found me. She writes , and she also has my little ol’ Substack listed as one of her recommended subscriptions.

In my eyes, that’s like having having Reese Witherspoon or Oprah slap their book club sticker on my front cover.

But before I realized it was Katie’s kindness that brought so many of you here, I had a moment of pure and utter confusion. I stood in my bathroom with my toothbrush hanging out of my mouth, staring blankly at my inbox, thinking Substack had glitched and was sending me too many subscriber notifications. But after opening a couple of emails and realizing all of them contained a different subscriber, I was back to being dumbfounded.

While I was thrilled to have so many people interested in my newsletter (which, I need to emphasize once again, still had nothing to view or read before subscribing), I couldn't figure out where this sudden wave of interest was coming from.

Then I looked up to my ceiling (but really, past the ceiling, into the heavenly realms), and raised my eyebrows.

“Lord, did you do this,” I asked.

Nahhh... I quickly dismissed the thought.
…But maybe?

I could see it in my mind's eye—a story of a writer's humble Substack beginnings and a God who is bigger than the algorithms. I prepared the Substack account, the Lord brought the subscribers. Of course, as much as I believe the Lord could totally pull that off, I had a feeling someone less omnipotent must have mentioned me and my account. (Thanks again, Katie.)

And now I know about Substack’s “recommendation feature.” So I’d like to take a moment to pay it forward and make a few recommendations of my own:

| | | | | | |

CHAPTER THREE: I Shattered My Phone Screen

I have owned an iPhone for at least as long as my oldest son has lived on this earth—so, nearly twelve years.

For those entire twelve years, I’ve dropped my phone more times than I can count, but it remained relatively scratch-free. Of course, there was that one time one of my babies kicked my brand new phone out of my hand with her spastic baby reflexes as I was taking a photo of her and the fancy sapphire crystal camera lens cracked—but we got it fixed and I only hold that incident against her on my bad parenting days.

However, a couple of weeks ago, I was retrieving a towel for my youngest child after he finished bathing and forgot I had set my phone on the stack of towels. My phone did a free fall from about five feet and fell flat, screen down, on the tile floor.

I retrieved it, assuming no damage had been done and slid it into my back pocket. After helping my son get his pajamas, I pulled my phone back out to check the time and that’s when I saw it—cracks upon cracks that branched off into even more cracks.

“Oh no…,” I said aloud, my voice trailing off as I stood in the middle of the living room staring at my shattered screen. I was legit shocked and appalled something like this could happen to a phone I dropped on a regular basis. (My husband, on the other hand, was probably more shocked this hadn’t happened sooner.)

There went my record.
Number of days since cracking phone screen: 4,380 0

Later, I messaged two of my friends in a group chat. “Well, it finally happened,” I typed, “for the first time in the history of me owning an iPhone, I shattered my screen.”

After a moment of being mutually bummed over the incident, a message popped up on the screen.

“You’ll see past the cracks after a little while and you won’t even notice them.”

CHAPTER FOUR: It’s Better to Have Sent the Email Later Than You Planned, Than Never to Have Sent the Email at All

Truth be told, I wanted to send this email on the first of the month (ehem, in January), until I realized I wasn’t going to make that self-imposed deadline. Thanks to the New Year Enthusiasm™ still buzzing through my veins, I knew a small setback like this didn’t have to completely derail me. I gave myself a pep talk. There was always the first of February.

What’s so important about the email going out on the first of the month, you might be wondering.

Great question, I’d love to tell you (hashtag Elyse Myers). I already have a newsletter called “First Things First and Long Story Short.” Eventually, I will merge it with this Substack and keep things all in one place. Obviously, the long story short portion of my newsletter will transfer pretty seamlessly to tl;dr. The only difference is I will start with the short version of the story before launching into the longer version, instead of the other way around.

But what about my first things first segment? How could I continue doing that part here on Substack? I didn’t want to let it go, because I was secretly hoping every time you hear someone say, “first things first…,” you’ll think, “I wonder what Alicia will be writing about next?” I want to pull a Pavlov and create an association in your brain between an environmental stimulus and another stimulus which occurs naturally. Is that too much to ask?

Then, I had a light bulb moment. I would do a reoccurring, monthly segment called “First Things First” with all the quick little things I want to tell you and I would share it on the first of every month.

Brilliant plan, if I do say so myself.

(This is the part where you double-check today’s date. Spoiler alert: today is not the first of the month.)

CHAPTER FIVE: Looking Past the Cracks

I debated whether or not I should sit on this email for another month so everything (this email, my Pavlov plan, this whole Substack I created months ago) could go ~*according to plan*~. But just like my shattered iPhone screen, it’s full of cracks.

Maybe this was a stupid idea.
What if no one even remembers why I’m showing up in their inbox?
Will people see the cracks sprawling across my plan like I do?
Do I even have a plan for this Substack?? WHAT IS THE PLAN, ALICIA?
I feel like I need to address the big, awkward elephant in the room—of how much time has passed between the time people subscribed and when they’re just now receiving my first email.
Or should I pretend like no time has passed?

Or maybe, I could…just start—cracks and all?

My friend ended up being right about my phone, by the way. A little time has passed and I hardly notice the cracks anymore—and maybe the same is true for the cracks in my writing strategy. I’m allowed to try something new without a fully formed plan. Maybe I could lean into the worries I have about what others might be thinking (because you’re probably not thinking those things) and use it to fuel my inspiration.

Maybe I can just introduce myself as the elephant in the inbox and go from there.

AFTERWORD: Pages From My Meme-oir

I’m 100% stealing this idea from Gina Linetti via Brooklyn Nine-Nine. She talked about having a whole book of memes and calling it her Meme-oir, but I’m going to borrow the wording and use it as an excuse to share memes that might as well be talking about me.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

For a long time, I felt completely uninspired and bored with my writing. Then I joined a writing course offered by Exhale—my favorite writing community in all the land—called Charmed: Writing to Delight. The writing prompts and exercises were gold and I walked away with at least five ideas about what I wanted to write and how I wanted to write them. Even this email and the style in which I wrote it was loosely based off one of the exercises from the course. (I will likely use this writing style again in the future, so don’t be surprised.) I highly recommend the course whenever it’s offered again!

In the very near future, I’ll be sharing my words here in this space. But until then, you can read a little bit more about who I am and why I’m here on my about page.

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