Look at Jon’s long hair! We took this photo at Delancey, one of my bucket-list pizza restaurants — and it lived up to its reputation.

A highlight of our trip was dinner at one of Jon’s favorite restaurants, The Walrus and the Carpenter. This establishment is known for their fresh oysters, and although I’m not quite as enthusiastic about that delicacy as Jon is, I was immediately won over by the enormous salad bowl of whipped, salted butter that stood on the counter, from which they scoop generous mounds to serve alongside homemade sourdough bread.

Bowls of butter at The Walrus and The Carpenter — but I never did get a picture of their legendary plum cake.

And even after their bread and butter had captured my heart, they served us the most incredible plum cake we had ever eaten. I came home from that trip determined to recreate this plum cake, diving headlong into research and making cake after cake until I felt satisfied.

I am prone to this kind of project — a sudden and fervent passion to develop a particular recipe, especially one that I’ve tasted out in the wild. I had no interest in purchasing more of the plum cake, but rather I wished to become the proverbial Golden Goose from whom dozens of glorious plum cakes flow forth at a whim. I wanted the recipe.

As a rule, I enjoy becoming captivated by the hunt for a recipe — the vision, the desire, the quest, and the fulfillment. I think often of Gretchen Rubin’s aphorism, “A quest is more fun than a jaunt.” The inverse can be understood through Tracy Gee’s term desire fog, which she describes as the feeling of lostness and confusion when faced with the question, “What do I want?” It’s a sensation that can emerge on many levels, from the dilemma of what to eat for dinner to the question of what goals to pursue in life. From experience, I know that the first step toward answering these questions is to take the pressure off a little bit and enter into a spirit of play. It’s no wonder that my plum cake quest originated on a delightful mini-break with my favorite guy.

I did eventually find success in August 2021, achieving my plum cake goals through a muscular modification of a Zöe François recipe from her book Zöe Bakes Cakes. Since then, I have made this plum cake multiple times every August and September, sharing it with friends and family for birthdays, dinners, or just a special coffee hour treat.

One of the first plum cake experiments I was satisfied with, back in August 2021.

In the spirit of experimentation, I have made this cake with a number of different fruits including aging cherries at the brink of wrinkled despair (once I pitted them, they were fine) and a splendid cranberry version, perfect for the holidays. But the plum cake will always hold a special place in my heart — and I hope in yours, too.

With cranberries, January 2026.

Click below for the recipe! (I couldn’t fit it all in one post.)

Tidbits

I can tell that I’m starting to get acclimated to this new season of life — fewer worries about the children, more spontaneous ideas and enthusiasms. Jon was away in Dallas over the weekend, so the house was very quiet, but I kept busy with the cats ….

Glam Kitty.

… and a visit to Wheaton to see Romeo & Juliet in the park with Rosie …

I brought lots of cookies to share with all of her friends!

… and trying out some ways to keep my ideas and projects organized this fall …

I’m obsessed with cork boards at this moment.

… and I got a haircut! It’s not terribly different, but it had been a year since my last trim and I was sorely overdue — and it was a dream to have my hair cut by a stylist who really understands curly hair.

Lucy reports that my selfie-taking skills are improving.

I’ve also found a few fun things to share:

• There has been a lot written about Dolly Parton in the past week. Here is one of my favorites. Also, I decided to watch 9 to 5 while cleaning out the closet and oh boy! What a bizarre storyline! I was infatuated with Dolly when I was a kid and I’m sure I watched this film, but I had no memory of the screwball plot.

• We’ve also lost poet and author Wendell Berry. I took a walk this week and re-listened to this wonderful interview between Ellen Davis and Krista Tippett, accompanied by Wendell Berry reading his own poetry. My favorite poem from the episode is “How to Be a Poet,” which you can read and listen to him recite here.

• Did you catch Ina Garten on The Interview this weekend? I listened to it twice. Ina’s confidence and self-knowledge is so inspiring!

The word was ecotone, and neither of us had ever heard of it before that day. (Props to the wise Al Hsu for enlightening us both! Learn more about this from Courtney Ellis’s Weathering Change. ) Ecotone refers to the border areas where two ecosystems neighbor each other and create a transitional zone with unique qualities. The Ecological Society of America describe the origins of the word like this:

eco•tone from ecology (eco; Greek οἶκος, oikos “house/dwelling”) + -tone from the Greek τόνος tonos, “tension.”

Two houses in tension: an ecotone is a border zone, where ecological systems meet and mingle, sometimes forming a new and different community.

I think this man-made rock garden is not technically an ecotone, but maybe just a little bit?

Examples of ecotones can be found where fresh water and salt water meet, or at the border of water and land, or at the top of a forest canopy where leaves meet the sky, or in a mountainous region where altitude and climate changes frequently. An ecotone is a place where plants and organisms thrive even while their environment exists as a varied, shifting space.

The more Jon told me about this new word, the more I kept thinking, This sounds familiar…

As I’ve been pondering our new stage of life, I’m conscious that we’re not simply crossing a boundary never to be revisited. College students come home for breaks long and short, sometimes with friendly companions and almost always with a number of physical items that need to find a temporary home in our little bungalow. Looking toward the future, I know that post-college life in this day and age can often involve a stint or two of living at home again, but with an adjusted family dynamic of adult freedoms and responsibilities.

This painting of the shore of the river Seine is giving ecotone. “Fishing in the Spring, the Pont de Clichy (Asnières)” by Vincent Van Gogh, 1887.

There is a distinction to be drawn between a liminal space and an ecotone. The long preparation between the college acceptance letter and dorm move-in day existed as a liminal space, full of questions, uncertainty, and anticipation. But now that we have crossed a threshold into open door life, I see that this next season suggests the undulating nature of an ecotone.

Some might describe human existence itself as participating in an ecotone, living as we are in the “now and not yet” of the Kingdom of God. The kingdom is near, it has come, but it has not yet been fulfilled. But here we live, stumbling through the daily challenges and rejoicing over daily delights that we encounter in our native surroundings.

The Indigo Bunting breeds in the ecotone between forest and meadow. (Thanks to Jon’s colleague Kelli Trujillo for teaching us this fact!)

The inhabitants of ecotones are drawn to them, appreciating the special environmental qualities of these zones where two places meet and flourishing into the creatures they were created to be. Humans might crave a bit more stability, but perhaps an ecotone can present the atmosphere of growth that we need.

So how can we learn to thrive in this malleable space? How can we develop the flexibility we need, the pliability to roll with whatever conditions are presented to us? Perhaps it is our calling as humans to plant ourselves in the complexities of each stage of life as they come, learning to bend with the needs of our current ecotone in order to live with full presence, joy, and intention. It’s not always easy, but a new vocabulary word might just be the thing to help us express the nuances of life and grow into our evolving habitat.

Tidbits

The girls have been at school now for almost two weeks and we’re all adjusting. I’m writing this in a very quiet house now (Jon is at a concert with a friend) and that always feels a little strange, but I do find that I can frequently count on a cat to keep me company.

Kirk sometimes gets in the way of my computer, but that’s okay.

A reunion at Wheaton!

Long before move-in day, we planned to have dinner with Lucy and Rosie the day after Rosie returned from her orientation week. It was lovely to see them after just a week away! And it’s a special gift that they have the support of one another at school.

Classes began this past Wednesday, and they complied with my request for a first-day-of-school selfie, with bonus friends! Left to right: Lucy, Rosie, Gloria, Ella.

As I mentioned above, Jon and I went to a spectacular book launch event this week, celebrating Rev. Dr. Charlie E. Dates and his new book What Hath Justice to Do with Righteousness? which explores the partnership between prayer and social activism. We drove down a little early to beat the worst of rush hour, then spent some time at the Seminary Co-op Bookstore near University of Chicago, and then a very quick (by necessity) but incredibly delicious meal at Mahari. We are excited to return sometime to this wonderful restaurant for a more leisurely meal!

Happy and well-fed, we took a selfie on the street since we forgot to take one at Mahari. Next time!

We’re taking one day at a time and learning what habits and practices we need to flourish in our new reality. Onward!

A rainy goodbye before putting Rosie on the bus.

We drove Lucy to school the following day, and Jon and I went out for a special dinner to inaugurate this new season of life.

Dropping Lucy at her dorm.

When people ask how I’m doing after having sent the girls to college, I keep thinking about this scene from Star Wars in which Han Solo tries to deceive the Imperial guards over the intercom: “Everything’s under control. Situation normal. Everything’s perfectly alright now, we’re fine, we’re all fine here now, thank you. How are you?”

In all the important ways, everything is fine and normal. The family is healthy all around, children are off on adventures, Jon and I are enjoying life together. I even went to the local farmer’s market. Life is pretty great.

Jon and I went out for brunch at The Yellow Rose Cafe after dropping Rosie off.

But under the hood, I’m a bit discombobulated. (“We need to combobulate you!” says Jon.) I’m not exactly weeping through the depths of grief, but everything feels a little weird, a little strange, a little off. I had expected these feelings and scheduled a few retreat days for this week to help me find my footing. I even asked my friend Tish Suk to craft a custom retreat for me to help with the experience. Tish’s roadmap (highly recommend Tish’s custom retreats!) walked me prayerfully through questions about the past, present, and future in a gentle and intentional way. Although the retreat time has been truly nourishing, I perhaps thought that allocating dedicated time would help me to speed through the disorientation of transition, kind of like a summer intensive class.

It did not.

Rosie and I ditched chapel and chatted in the lobby on the day before she left.

Alas, it appears that I am merely a typical human who needs time and space to allow emotions to run their course and new rhythms to emerge. There are no shortcuts. I knew this, of course, but apparently I didn’t know this. Even so, this week has illuminated a few things for me, allowed me to name tensions and contradictions and feelings. It’s still messy, so the only way I can move forward here is with bulleted lists, and incomplete ones at that. A work in progress!

Things I Know

• Sending children to Wheaton College is a huge privilege. I am so grateful for this school, for the way it is situated a mere hour away, for the girls being at the same school, for the lovely, supportive environment, for everyone’s health, for our family relationships, etc. So much to be grateful for!

• At the same time, it is okay for me to feel: sad, excited, curious, grief-stricken, free, glorious, fearful, unmoored, unsettled, ill-prepared, proud, surprised, happy, silly, delighted, and full of rage at the limits of the space-time continuum.

• I like Jon Boyd. He’s pretty great. :) I’m glad we get to hang out more now. When I remember that I get more time with Jon, I feel better.

• I feel both eager to start on many projects and plans I've envisioned for this season AND I want to hide under the covers.

• It’s no surprise that this transition feels a little challenging for me, so the main thing I need is to give myself grace and time and kindness. Even though I have a little voice in my head that keeps reminding me of the immense privilege it is to be in this situation, I must allow for the full range of emotions.

  

  On a walk at Peterson Park in Chicago.

Images on My Mind

• I feel like … a garden plot that has been cleared of previous plants, but I don’t know what to plant there yet. Also, I’m a terrible gardener (literally) and I have a lot to learn.

• I feel like … a shore after the tide has gone out, and there are all kinds of mysterious objects at the bottom that are now revealed and I have to sort through them. Some are cool! Some are yucky. But all of it takes time to sort through.

• I feel like … my insides are made of jigsaw puzzle pieces and they’ve all been spilled on a table. I have no idea how they all fit back together again, but I need to start matching pieces together.

• I feel like … I’m in an airplane that has just taken off. I am an uncomfortable flyer and I do not like this sensation. Gravity feels weird. I brace myself every time the airplane turns. I know that I’ll feel sort of okay once we achieve altitude but take-off is a terrible sensation.

  

  Help me, Georgia O’Keefe! “Sky Above Clouds IV” is a soothing sight.

Tidbits

Continuing in the spirit of lists, I’ll share one of my favorite lists that I created this week. Author Gretchen Rubin often talks about the benefits of giving yourself healthy treats, especially in times of stress. The “healthy” part can be subjective, but a good litmus test is asking, “Will this make me feel good or not so good afterward?”

Treats I Enjoyed This Week

• I went to Jeni’s in the middle of the week and treated myself to ice cream for lunch — healthy for mind, body, and soul!

  

  Cherry Vanilla Waffle Cone, Strawberry Pretzel Pie, and Gooey Butter Cake in a waffle bowl.

• I watched About Time and cried. (This is a very good movie.)

• I splurged on lunch al fresco at the Art Institute courtyard.

  

  The best $20 avocado toast you can find at an art museum outdoor cafe.

• I took pictures of kitties and sent them to our family.

  

  Jon calls this one “Meowin’ in the Rain.”

• I made yummy dinners for me and Jon — using farmer’s market produce!

• Jon and I took several walks in the evening after dinner.

• I went for a long walk to Peterson Park and the North Park Village Nature Center.

• I ate a tomato sandwich for dinner one night when Jon was out and it was amazing.

  

  Pay no attention to that cat behind the salt crystals.

• Jon and I started watching Ted Lasso again and it is so great!

• I listening for the umpteenth time to Krista Tippett’s interview with David Whyte.

• I chatted with Lucy over FaceTime most evenings.

• I painted my toenails.

I think I’m gonna make it!

I read this book scores of times with our young daughters, reciting lines from it whenever we visited ducks in local public parks. Even today, I hear Mrs. Mallard’s words echoing in my mind whenever I’m struggling with a challenging parenting situation: “I know all about bringing up children.”

Although some might find inspiration or encouragement from Mrs. Mallard’s confidence, others of us feel inferior and ashamed. I know it sounds ridiculous to experience imposter syndrome through the words of a fictional duck, but this is the case for me. When praying for the right next steps to help a child manage anxious feelings, when wondering how to find that sweet spot between comforting and challenging them, when preparing a child for a new adventure in the big world, I wonder what to do — and I think, defeated, “Mrs. Mallard would probably know.”

Baby Rosie enjoyed being wrapped in a ducky towel to dry off.

But for all of her self-assured maternal confidence, I think I’ve finally come to understand that I do not wish to be like Mrs. Mallard. The gift of my stumbling, uncertain parenting gait reveals itself as a wilingness to learn and grow and question alongside our children. I don’t “know all about bringing up children” — and neither does Mrs. Mallard, because no one has ever brough up these children in this time under these circumstances. As uncomfortable as uncertainty feels, I prefer to live with it, creating space for the newness and surprises that emerge beautifully as we make way for children to grow into young adults. And honestly, I bet Mrs. Mallard would, too.

Lucy at the Chicago Botanic Gardens, where we often greeted the local ducks (and usually obeyed the warnings against feeding them). July 18, 2009.

I wrote this short piece as my introductory personal narrative at the beginning of my spiritual director training program in 2024. Although I still feel intimidated by Mrs. Mallard’s unflappable confidence, I’m growing steadier in my skills of listening and adjusting — and I do think even Mrs. Mallard might need these skills when sending her children off into the big world. :)

Lucy and Rosie at the Botanic Gardens in the winter of 2015.

Tidbits

By the time you read this, we will have moved our dear Rosie into her dorm at Wheaton College. Jon and I are spending a few days shuttling ourselves back and forth from the school to participate in the welcoming programs for parents of new students. And soon, we’ll be sending our baby off with the rest of the new students for a week-long orientation starting on Saturday, August 15.

Outside of Rosie’s new dorm, on our way to one of the many orientation events.

We had originally planned for Lucy to join us in the festivities, but the poor kid has come down with a cold — so we’ve tucked her into bed and trusted that rest, soup, and the tender care of our cats will be healing for her while we are moving Rosie into her dorm.

There is more to be said about this experience — such a big transition! — so stay tuned for future reflections. But for right now, I’ll say that this whole event takes a lot of physical, spiritual, and emotional energy!

Even so, there are moments of peace, like a few minutes late Wednesday night when Rosie and I sat together and journaled, grateful for each other’s presence and conscious of that last sleep she would have at home before heading off to school. Parenting — it’s not for the faint of heart! ❤️

Five years after I read the article, Jon took this picture of me our front porch on the afternoon of March 13, 2008. Rosie would be born about 12 hours later.

The article explores the spiritual elements of the experience of transition during labor and delivery. In birthing terminology, “transition” is a distinct period at the end of labor’s first stage when the contractions finish their work of stretching the cervix completely and before the pushing stage begins. It is often described as the most intense period of labor, when birthing women feel a visceral sense that they simply cannot go on — they will surely perish, or split in half, or perhaps erupt into flames.

Not in transition, but in labor with Lucy — one of those calm moments in between contractions.

I remember the transition period in both of my births. It did not feel delightful. I also did not love the next stage, in which I pushed a baby out of a small orifice. My records from Lucy’s birth are hazy on the moment of transition, noting only:

“Ann remembers feeling quite uncomfortable at this point — not constant pain, but the breaks between contractions and pushes weren’t comfortable like they were before, since now there was a small child’s head in her pelvis.”

But I have these observations from Rosie’s birth:

5:50 a.m. Ann rocks, floats in water, make low moaning sounds through hard contractions. Definitely hard work. Ann inexplicably starts saying, “Yar! Yar! Yar! Yar!” at one point. Inner pirate is released. We think this is transition.

My overwhelming sense after birth was a sense of shock at the violence of the whole experience. I had studied a great deal about the process to inform myself before the blessed event, but nothing could have prepared me for the way forces seemed to take over my body with little input from me. I remember feeling, ridiculously, a little bit offended, as if my body had rudely grabbed the mic and started shouting expletives at passers-by while I had merely been reciting poetry. It was a strange sensation to reconcile the recent appearance of my inner Tasmanian Devil with the delightful prospect of snuggling our bouncing new baby girl. I don’t remember thinking that I would necessarily die, but I did feel like an earthquake took place in my body.

The first picture taken of me and Lucy, seven seconds after birth — the low light made for poor quality but Jon was able to adjust levels to see the remarkable facial expressions. (April 25, 2006)

Beth Junker writes of her own experience of transition:

“I did not die, nor was I likely to die. But I did experience a real and frightening death that was spiritual. In transition, I lost the pre-maternal self: the self that did not yet have a mother’s unique responsibilities, the safe self who had loved only adults who could survive my periodic emotional unavailability.”

I read this article years before our daughters were born. I was working hard on repairing my own inner wounds at this time, healing from unexpressed grief and a chaotic childhood. Although I didn’t yet know the physical pain of birth, I sensed that I was undergoing my own kind of transition period. The intense pain, the inability to back out, the hope for the future, the only way out is through, the possibility for resurrection — it all spoke to me. And today, I feel like the metaphor rings true once more.

Rosie’s vibrant voice was heard moments after birth.

Rosie leaves for college in less than a week. I have at least two feelings: 1) How is this even possible??? and 2) I am so excited for her! I truly believe that Rosie will thrive in her new environment, and I also believe that Jon and I will thrive at home in our new “open nest” stage of life. But this in-between period is definitely unsettling. We’ve spent the summer talking about plans for the fall, acquiring sheets and shampoo, sifting through memories stored in Rosie’s childhood bedroom, and swapping her into a new college-girl bedroom/Ann’s office. All of these things have helped prepare us, but we’re now in the final countdown and it feels weird — exciting, sad, thrilling, and painful all at once. We cannot bypass it. The only way out is through.

Rosie at two days old. (March 16, 2008)

I’ve been thinking about an interview I heard with author David Whyte recently in which he talked about the nature of love and the way all relationships must grow and change:

“…One kind of love often needs to mature into another kind of love…. It’s not sustainable in the form that you first started…. It’s going to break your heart to actually get to that next form of witness and presence.”

This period of transition, uncomfortable though it is, will help all of us — our whole family — to do the work of transforming our relationship from the young family stage into a new young-adult family stage. Transition feels like a death because something is, in fact, dying. But it is also a birth — or perhaps even a resurrection.

Fully in young family stage circa May 2015.

And so I am preparing to experience something I cannot prepare myself for — a new kind of independence for kids and parents alike. We’re raising baby grown-ups, and this is a big next step. Just as we learned to feed, bathe, and diaper these kiddos, we’re going to learn how to manage this next stage, too. The period of transition is rich in mystery and possibility and wonder. What is going to happen?

Rosie, age two months, also wonders what will happen. (March 8, 2008)

The transformative power of transition extends far beyond childbearing and childrearing, presenting an earthy metaphor that offers perspective and wisdom to those who find themselves in any painful stage that lasts longer than seems reasonably tolerable. As I prepared for labor, I learned that the most important thing I could do to help birth unfold was to regulate my anxiety and receive the experience with as much openness as possible. This meant paying careful attention to my breathing, surrounding myself with calm people, and uttering low-pitched groans rather than screams of pain (an odd practice, but an effective one, curiously reminiscent of Romans 8:26) These principles are broadly applicable in any prolonged, challenging experience, I think. What would life be like if we tended to our life transitions as diligently as we tend to laboring mothers?

Beth Junker ends her article with this thought-provoking statement:

“…The experience of birth that is uniquely women’s could then provide insight into the essential Christian understanding of human struggle as death and resurrection. Through transition we learn that death turns us toward life’s lesson of unconditional love.”

Isn’t that beautiful? Let us all move forward with transitions in our lives in such a way that we learn to walk through the valley of the shadow of death and toward unconditional love.

Lucy and Rosie, Halloween 2009.

Tidbits

This week has been filled appointments and errands and tasks, all necessary before Rosie heads off to school next week. In the midst of it, I’m discovering that I have enough white space to follow my whims more often than not — and this is an experience of rest for me.

The other night, I was talking on the phone with Lucy and telling her about my day. She giggled as I recounted: “Well, I went to the gym, and then I had the urge to mow the lawn, so I did that…. And after Rosie and I went to the eye doctor, I had the urge to visit my mom, so I saw her — and then I had the urge to stop at Home Depot to buy a few flowers for the garden.” Somehow, having enough flexibility in my calendar is helping me to accomplish tasks that previously would be managed through a disciplined list (or ignored out of inner rebellion). I’m appreciating the sense of freedom that propels me into doing beautiful things, even when they’re a little difficult.

In addition, I asked my dear friend Linda if she would help me plant those flowers I purchased, and now we have a lovely little pop of violet in our front yard! We reminisced over planting holly bushes in our front yard together in 2004! What a sweet joy it is to work together with a friend.

Sunrise in Grand Rapids, Michigan. April 13, 2024

During those three days of listening and talking with other writers, I learned many things about craft and publishing practices and inspiration. But I felt most impressed by the honor and space attributed to the work of play in the writing process. People nodded with understanding when someone spoke of spending a few hours observing a butterfly, then crafting a poem to express the truth they found. I wrote in my journal on April 12: “Fun to be around so many creative people who value digging into small, specific ideas in search of wisdom and connections and creativity. I love it when I’m in that space and I would like to be more! How to silence the voices that say it’s not worthy?”

This spirit of playful exploration has eluded me for many years, dampened and stifled by the unrelenting tasks of daily life. Not that I’ve minded terribly — I can usually find joy and meaning in those menial tasks, or at the very least I pair the task with something diverting, like watching a movie with the family while folding laundry. And of course, play erupts easily in the context of family and community. But the challenge comes when I attempt to walk away from the tasks and to-dos and simply do something very inefficient, following my whims wherever they may lead. That’s tricky for me these days.

In my twenties, I was a little better at play — partly because I had fewer responsibilities at the time. I took half-day retreats at a coffee shop twice each month, journaling and reading and enjoying my own company. I’ve been inspired by Julia Cameron’s suggestion to take oneself on an “artist date” which she writes about in The Artist’s Way, but it’s been difficult to establish this practice as a regular feature in my life.

My most successful experiments with play over the past few years have come through my day-trips to the Art Institute of Chicago. I’m always surprised to see how much inspiration I gain through these visits, especially as I don’t consider myself to be someone who knows much about visual art. But taking time to wander around a beautiful, open space and consider the work of so many artists proves restorative to my spirit.

I visited the Art Institute on July 13, the first day of my sabbatical. I hadn’t been in quite a long time — perhaps six months — due to the extra demands on my time this spring. I followed my usual custom and visited the featured exhibit first — “Willem de Kooning Drawing.”

This video, which plays at the start of the exhibit, offers a helpful introduction to de Kooning. You can see Willem de Kooning Drawing at the Art Institute of Chicago through September 20, 2026.

I had truly never heard of Willem de Kooning before, but I gamely began reading about his life, his craft, and his artistic development, walking through the exhibit and listening to the audio commentary available for a few of the pieces. And, as sometimes happens, I decided about two-thirds of the way through that I did not like Willem de Kooning or his art.

Untitled [man and woman], about 1947–48

This guy is really weird! One of my habits in a new-to-me exhibit is to wonder, “Which of these pieces of art is my favorite? Which would I enjoy having in my home?” But I was having a hard time finding even one that I would tolerate. The images de Kooning produced were so experimental and abstract — yet often still recognizably human — that I kind of recoiled from them. His images of women were embarrassingly ugly and graphic. No, no, no, I did not like it. I felt a little bit like I was viewing the work of a mad cartoonist.

Trembling Woman, 1963

Of course, walking through a gallery in the renowed Art Institute of Chicago and having these negative reactions made me feel like a real simpleton. I must be pretty unsophisticated to not understand the importance of Willem de Kooning’s work, I thought. But I also couldn’t pretend that I was enjoying the art. I decided to lean into the tension and go back through the exhibit again.

Pink Angels, c. 1945

Interestingly, on my second round through the rooms, I didn’t mind the images quite so much. Having gotten past the jarring surprise of the first viewing, I was able to look a little more closely and see the appeal of some of them (but not all — I don’t think I’ll ever really like Woman I). And as I learned more about his creative process, I became more interested still. This man knew how to play.

from a series created in Rome in 1959 — I think this is Untitled?

Willem de Kooning experimented endlessly with unusual techniques. In his early adulthood, he worked in a commercial signage business and later used some of those same tools (not typical artist’s brushes) to paint. He bought scads of fixative spray and applied it so thickly that it became a medium itself and added to the paintings. But perhaps the most interesting room in the exhibit featured a whole series of paintings, drawings, and sculptures he made under strange circumstances: some with his eyes closed, some while watching TV, some using his non-dominant hand. It’s as if he was constantly asking, “What fun and weird thing could I try next?”

I was taken in by this spirit of play, amazed at de Kooning’s boldness and (apparent) disregard for the way others would respond to his art. He just kept fooling around with different ideas, always looking for something new to keep his art fresh and vibrant, at least in his own mind. And even though I didn’t enjoy many of the finished works, I did respect the integrity of this artist who relentlessly followed his own curiosity.

Toward the end of the exhibit, I found one piece of art that I truly loved. This piece is called [no title] and it was dated 1985.

This painting feels completely different from the rest of de Kooning’s work, free and sweeping in a way that contrasted with the rest of the art in the exhibit. As I looked closer, I saw that the date of the painting captured a special meaning for me, too.

Willem de Kooning painted this in 1985 — the year my dad died suddenly, on February 9. I marveled at the confluence of time: this serene painting was created during one of the hardest seasons in our family’s life. And then I thought about my own work of grief and healing that took this shape in my mid-twenties. There was something about de Kooning’s image that echoed back to that particular era in my history.

A word sculpture of mine from October 2001.

During a season of intense anxiety and panic attacks, I had learned from Gabriele Rico’s Pain and Possibility to create something called a “word sculpture” — simply a visual way to start articulating some of the pent-up emotions that were stuck in my inner self. The idea was to start with a free, abstract shape, and then explore the shape through words and color. I created dozens of these word sculptures, finding the practice to be very healing for me as I sorted through the unprocessed grief and anger I had stuffed deep down in my childhood.

Another word sculpture from September 2001.

Isn’t it funny-strange that my tools for emotional healing took place in this swirling shape that vaguely reminds me of my favorite 1985 painting by Willem de Kooning, masterful play-expert? It’s an instance of the way my own habits of play helped me to grow. Of course, mine were never intended for display, never remotely approaching the skill of an artist, but the recognition allowed me to feel a strange kinship with de Kooning.

So, I guess I like his art after all. :)

I’m still not sure what to make of all of this. But what I am sure of is that my visits to the Art Institute create space for this kind of playful exploration and thought, and I am craving more of it. Finding space for creative play is one of my hopes for this sabbatical season. I’m eager to lean into this time to explore ideas I’ve been pondering since April 2024. And I’m especially glad for the dear readers who are journeying along with me. What does your own exploration of play look like in your life? I’d love to know, and I’m so glad you’re here.

Tidbits

On July 26, 2026, I and twelve other members of Cohort 20 of the C. John Weborg Center for Spiritual Direction participated in a commissioning ceremony to mark our completion of our training program. What a joyful time it was! These past two-and-a-half years have been rich and intense, nourishing and bonding. We’re all grateful to have honed our listening skills and be sent into the world. Jon and Rosie attended the ceremony with me, and Lucy cheered me on from afar. Huzzah!

Rosie, me, and Jon on the North Park campus after our commissioning ceremony.

Now that my week of intensive training has finished, I’m finding my way into more restful rhythms. I’m regularly getting eight hours of sleep (bliss!), starting my day with a bit more leisure and reading, and taking plenty of time to prepare meals. (Yesterday, I made hummus from scratch with this excellent recipe, plus a cherry version of my favorite plum cake from Zoë François — my much-altered version of that recipe will be coming your way soon.)

One little snapshot of rest came this week as Rosie and I continued to unfold into our new spaces, having swapped our rooms a week ago. Rosie’s former bedroom became Jon’s and my room. (We often refer to it as “the bedroom your father and I share,” which becomes funny if I’m talking to someone who isn’t one of our daughters.) Our former bedroom became a combination of Rosie’s-room-when-she-is-at-home and Ann’s-office-when-Rosie-is-at-school. (We need better names for that room — any suggestions?)

The moment of rest came when I had the glorious opportunity to unpack several shelves’ worth of books that had been packed away in boxes for about ten days. Keeping the books packed up was necessary as we rearranged bookcases and claimed our shelf space, but it was a trial. I kept thinking, “Oh, I need to look up [book] about this idea,” but could not access them. There was at least one time that I considered checking out a book that I owned (but was packed away) from the library so I could read it. But on Monday, Rosie and I sorted out our shelf space, and how glorious it felt to unload all of those dear books! Hello, old friends! I felt like I could breathe freely again. Next step: organizing the shelves!

A blissful moment on our comfiest daybed with a fat cookbook.

My affinity for cookbook-reading won’t surprise anyone who has been around here for very long. I’m currently serving my church by gathering recipes for a new in-house cookbook — a project that gives me a little thrill every time I receive a new submission in my inbox. I wrote at length about cookbooks not too long ago, and yet the topic is still not exhausted for me.

I recently cozied up with Anna Stockwell’s For the Table, a gorgeously produced cookbook that promises “easy, adaptable, crowd-pleasing recipes.” My vast appetite for cookbooks requires that I check them out from the library (if possible) before purchasing to get a preview before investing the cash and bookshelf space to a new volume. As I crack open the book, the lush photography and appealing recipes pull me in. Soon I’m lost in a dream of all of the effortless parties we might host in future days. The author gains my confidence even more through her introductory notes, explaining that the book is “here to prove that a dinner party doesn’t need to be formal or fussy or even a lot of work to be celebratory and meaningful, and I’m here to teach you how.”

Yes! I am always delighted to find a capable and confident teacher. Perhaps it is because of my birth order (being a younger sister by fully seven years), but I am always ready to learn from someone I’ve grown to trust. Of course, one must keep a watchful eye for charlatans and swindlers, but this kind of chicanery is pretty simple to detect in a book that overpromises and underdelivers — and the cost of gullibility is quite low when you’re talking about a cookbook (especially so when it’s free from the library). But once the author has earned your trust, you can surrender to the exploration of their vision for a joyful life full of good food and warm togetherness.

Who can resist this gorgeous melon, cucumber, and avocado salad?

It’s easy for me to sidle up to a vision like this, because it is my vision as well. I, too, wish to fill my home and my life with people and food and abundant joy. How thrilling to imagine roasting an entire salmon for a party and serving it with a stone fruit salad! Or to present a deep bowl of homemade aioli alongside an enormous platter of colorful vegetables for dipping! The sensory imagination fills in the space around the edges — the candlelight, the fresh spring breeze from an open window, the overlapping chatter and laughter, the ease of leaning back in the chair, satisfied and content.

Samin Nosrat writes in Good Things that she has “come to think of recipes as not rigid prescriptions but as ‘rituals that promise transformation,’ as the poet and pie-maker Kate Lebo so beautifully put it.” (This phrase “rituals that promise transformation” sent me in a desperate search for Kate Lebo’s writings, and now The Book of Difficult Fruit is on hold for me through our beloved Chicago Public Library — more delights to come!) That promise of transformation starts with the vision of a future, a vision that leans into our embodied senses and the anticipation of joyfully sharing the creation with others. The true gift of the cookbook author lies in the ability to spin this vision into something so real that the reader wishes to exert effort to bring it into reality.

But as I’ve said before, the success of a cookbook is not necessarily measured in the number of dishes recreated in my kitchen. I will likely never make even one recipe out of Anna Stockwell’s book. As I inspect the recipes more closely, many of them include flavors or textures that don’t quite work well for our kids, and frankly I am not 100% confident that her recipes are foolproof. (Anything written by Melissa Clark, on the other hand, is completely reliable.) Perhaps these recipes will find their way into our impending empty nest, but I cannot quite envision it yet. But even so, Stockwell’s book has done its job. I am inspired.

Melissa Clark’s cookbooks hold a special place on our shelves.

For me, the cookbook holds an immense power to refresh my vision. The daily stuff of life — the loads of laundry, the need for an oil change, the just-discovered moldy jalapeño pepper, the rushing off, the dashing home — these things slowly grind away my wide-eyed wonder. It would be easier, more efficient to check off task after task, working under the reliable overhead light and marching through the day systematically. But the overhead light hurts my soul and the checkboxes deaden me inside. For life to retain its richness, I need the warmth of lamps, a sweetly set table, a flickering candle, a perfect little butter dish — even if that means the laundry is stashed in the other room until nighttime and the oil change has to wait. (The jalapeño pepper, however, must and did get composted immediately.)

Anna Stockwell and her compatriots also do me the service of reminding me that it’s perfectly reasonable to let someone tell you what to do. As a proud 51-year-old, I still have to say: it is exhausting being an adult. All the decisions! We are unceasingly in charge. We are the expert. We have the final say. I can execute this role adequately, but not without fatigue. And so it’s no wonder that I’m drawn to a cookbook on a Sabbath afternoon. All I need are a few moments to listen to someone else’s instructions, someone who shares my vision for a life abuzz with chopped garlic and dripping candles and full-throated laughter — or at least a hot cup of fragrant coffee and a quiet, meditative moment. If my imagination can reach that magical place, maybe I’ll be able to take the next step — just as soon as I can find the energy to get up from this very comfortable daybed.

Tidbits

Honestly, this past week has been sorely lacking in the kind of rest one might expect from a sabbatical! However, this is all by design. We spent a weekend moving heavy furniture and books (hundreds and hundreds of books!) as Jon and I swapped rooms with Rosie, creating a home-base bedroom for our burgeoning college kid that will also serve as my office in ordinary school times. The dust barely settled from our moving project before I dove into the final intensive week of my spiritual director training at North Park Theological Seminary. I’ve been appreciating the 12-minute naps I can snatch during my lunch hour (since the seminary is just a 7-minute walk from our house). But when it comes to rest, we can always count on our cats, who seem to find rest wherever they can. May we take lessons from them!

Kirk likes nothing better than to use a cactus as a pillow.

Pepper pretends here that he has been moving all the books single-pawed.

Elusive Franny spends her days in a deep basket.

The big journal can also serve as an ample platform for a watermelon.

Some might say we are maximalists, surrounding ourselves with books and oddities that bring us much delight — and although we are perhaps a little cramped, it’s always hard to let go of the things we love. In my jumbo-journal era, our lives were rather maximalist as well, full in only the way that others who lived through a pandemic with two teenagers might understand. Don’t get me wrong — I loved the daily rhythms and family togetherness and interesting work. But still, I wished for a bit of space to stretch out, to find some elbow-room for thinking through complex concerns like aging parents and growing children, maybe even finding a bit of margin for creative pursuits to breathe. I was squeezing it all in with a fair level of competence, but sometimes I just wanted to spread it all out. And since I couldn’t magically manufacture extra time, I sought out large pieces of paper to help simulate the space I craved.

But as of this week, that magical extra time has appeared.

I’ve written before about entering my sabbatical — six months to spend tending to my soul, my space, and my creative whims — and the day has come. I can hardly believe it. Last Friday, I finished all of my work, passed it along to my capable and generous colleagues, and set my out of office notice for the next half-year. The experience feels surreal and thrilling and somewhat disorienting, and I can tell I need a little time to find my footing. But I’m also pretty excited.

Walking to the ‘L’ on my way downtown.

I spent my first official day of sabbatical (Monday, July 13) at the Art Institute of Chicago. I love going there for retreat-ish experiences, and I hadn’t been in months, certainly not since Betty fell ill in February of this year. I took in the current featured exhibition of Willem de Kooning’s art (there is more to be said here), and I spent a couple hours journaling in the blissfully air-conditioned member’s lounge. It was a glorious way to start my sabbatical, helping me to get clear on a few things of note:

• Acknowledging the privilege. The outrageous generosity of six months to replenish my soul feels almost embarrassing, as if I’ve won the lottery of time. Internally, I keep needing to reorient myself away from a sense of time scarcity, turning myself toward this state of time abundance, and then remember that the best thing I can do is use this gift well. Which brings me to my next point:

• Not squandering the gift. One of my fears is that I would get to the end of my sabbatical with regrets about how I spent these months. I have scheduled a few things here at the beginning that will allow me to check off concrete goals (including my final week of spiritual direction training starting Monday), but I am eager to create some habits to bring order to the inner and outer chaos that needs attention. I know that I have more projects and plans that can reasonably fit into a period of several months, but I’d like to make some meaningful progress on many of them.

• Reckoning with reality. I see that, in this season, I am faced with the chance to take responsibility for my dreams. For many years, the phrase “I don’t have time” has been a realistic excuse when I didn’t finish my novel, or didn’t organize my recipes, or didn’t sort through the “panic box” of papers I cleaned up in 2018. I don’t regret spending my time the way I did, nurturing a family and serving students and faculty with InterVarsity. But what happens now that I do have time? Were those limits truly preventing me from taking action, or were they simply excuses that hid my fears (or worse, laziness)?

• Holding everything lightly. Sabbaticals seem to have a way of becoming interrupted by regular and critical life circumstances. I am excited to make headway on my plans, but I’m also conscious of the possibility of needing to pivot and attend to a timely situation. This is one of the gifts of a sabbatical, and although I hope I don’t have to use that flexibility often, it’s a comfort to know that it’s available. (This kind of thinking is often on my mind as my mom continues on her journey under the care of a wonderful hospice team, for which we are very grateful.)

And so, I am beginning to settle into my sabbatical, offering myself grace and kindness as I discern the shape of this season. Maybe that giant sketchbook will come in handy once again in the coming weeks as this vision comes into focus. And maybe even some of you might enjoy participating in the journey along with me! What projects might you want to work on in these next six months? What dreams of yours need attention? There’s plenty of room here for all of us.

A restful moment

Here’s an experiment: a little descriptive scene from a sabbatical day. Maybe I’ll continue this for my posts in the coming season?

On July 14, our family celebrates Bastille Day by making crêpes for dinner and listening to Edith Piaf. We’ve done this for years, ever since the girls were small.

The filling options are vast.

On this day, I decided to up my game by making a batch of the “Extremely French Carrot Salad” from Rebekah Peppler’s À Table. I found a couple bags of carrots in various states of freshness, then settled in to peel, trim, and grate them. This kind of work takes time, but not much concentration, so I watched an episode of This Is Us. (This show was popular around 2016 so I’m ten years behind, but I’m in the middle of the sixth season now and it is just right for me as I think through complex, changing family dynamics.)

Once I finished, Rosie joined me in the kitchen to cook the crêpes (I had made the batter ahead of time) while we watched the final episode of Heartstopper, season one (again, I’m catching up here — Rosie has seen the show before). We worked together companionably and I puttered away, grateful for the freedom to work slowly and the luxury to watch a TV show with my 18-year-old in the middle of a Tuesday.

Extremely French Carrot Salad

(Adapted slightly from Rebekah Peppler’s Á Table, where she uses cumin rather than mustard.)

3 tablespoons olive oil
3 tablespoons lemon juice
1 teaspoon honey
1 tablespoon dijon mustard
fine salt
1 pound carrots, washed, peeled, and grated on the large holes of a box grater
1/2 cup washed and chopped flat-leaf parsley

Mix together the dressing ingredients and add salt to taste. Toss in a large bowl with the carrots and parsley. Set aside to marinate for at least 30 minutes. We’re still enjoying the leftovers a few days later.

Serves 6 (or maybe more)

A literal threshold into the chancel at St Fillan’s Church in Aberdour, Scotland.

In this season of my life, I find that I’m surrounded on all sides with these kinds of thresholds. As older relatives pass on and our children find their own places in the world, I find that my caregiving responsibilities are greatly in flux. My personal rhythms of life, work, home, and leisure are all about to be transformed in many ways. And so, when my supervisor offered me the chance to take a sabbatical from my work with InterVarsity Christian Fellowship at this particular juncture, I gratefully accepted. I’ll begin this sabbatical on July 13 and returning to work six months later, on January 13, 2027.

I am keenly aware of the precious gift I’m being given and wishing to steward it well. My main course of study will be the completion of my spiritual direction program at North Park Theological Seminary. But in addition, I plan to invest intentionally in creative work. My local church, North Park Covenant Church, has agreed to host me as a Writer in Residence for this season, making space for some symbiotic creative projects that will help me to think more broadly and invitationally about creativity. If you wish, you can follow along as I chronicle my sabbatical here at my Substack in the posts with the tag “sabbatical.”

Meanwhile, my colleagues and I have been diligently preparing and planning so that our work at The Well and The Women Scholars and Professionals Podcast can continue serving our readers and listeners in my absence. I’m so grateful for the support of my colleagues and my support team, without whom this sabbatical would not be possible. Your continued prayer and financial support during my sabbatical is invaluable to me.

I am excited to enter into a time of exploring my liminal spaces and understanding thresholds. Please pray for me — for my own spiritual replenishment, for my family, for my team, and for the work of Women Scholars and Professionals. Let us go forth with joy! ❤️

And then I woke up.

Megalithic passage tombs at Loughcrew, an hour outside Dublin, Ireland. (Photo credit: Rosie Boyd.)

This dream came to me on our family’s recent trip to the UK and Ireland. Our trip was full of joy and daily adventures, but under the surface I’ve still been processing all the changes happening around me. (Note: My mother is, in fact, still living, and she greeted me happily when I visited her the day after our return home.) Between the death of Jon’s mom Betty a few weeks ago, my own mother’s hospice care status, and Rosie’s graduation from high school and upcoming move to college, we have a lot of active transitions in our family. In particular, I find that the intensity of my caregiving for Betty over the past couple of months has raised questions about death, life, aging, and that eternal mystery: What really happens when we die?

In ordinary times, I’m able to hold this question at a distance and rest somewhat comfortably with a combination of trust in my faith tradition, a belief in goodness and love, and an acceptance of the impossibility of our ever knowing for sure. But lately, I keep returning to this question: Where did Betty Boyd go? She was just here.

Sheep grazing on a small hill near Castlehaw Tower in Sedbergh, England.

I’m reminded of a fascination I had in my high school years with the 1992 book Embraced by the Light by Betty J. Eadie, an account of one woman’s life-after-death experience. I remember a combination of skepticism and longing as I read this book, hoping that the beautiful ideas in it were true but not completely certain how much to trust this book — especially as it has gone on to fund a small empire of sequels and merchandise.

I read Eadie’s book in secret, hiding in my room and exploring questions of life and death that weren’t safe to talk about in our house after the sudden death of my father seven years earlier. These questions still feel a little forbidden to me, but I’m all grown up now, so the time has come for me to ask and wonder and normalize the process. Perhaps I’ll need to read Betty Eadie’s book again to see what my adult self thinks of it.

In our travels, we attended a stunning musical performance at The Glasshouse in Newcastle upon Tyne. I was struck by organist Anna Lapwood’s remarkable personality, especially the contrast between her bouncy, fun commentary and the intense, emotional music she drew forth from her instrument. The accompanying light show added to the dramatic effect until there were moments when I felt like I might need to escape — it was all just too much and it brought forth too many powerful questions for me.

Anna Lapwood at The Glasshouse in Newcastle upon Tyne, England.

How could I stand it, just sitting there in the dark with my unarticulated questions? Instead of escaping, I practiced my breathing and tried to put words to the bigness. I wondered, “Why is it so hard to accept that our fate after death is simply a mystery?”

It’s funny to me that this is the question that has been tugging at my soul. Our kids would tell you that I’m often encouraging them to lean into the uncertainty of life, accepting the fact that we cannot control it all. I’m a great preacher on the topic, and I worked hard to speak eloquently to Betty about the certainty of God’s love taking care of us and filling in all of those mysterious cracks of unknowing that death presents. But as I thought about my deep-down discomfort with death’s unknowableness, I was propelled instantly to that hospital waiting room in 1985 when we were told that my father was dead. My emotional response in that moment, as I remember it, was not sadness, nor fear, nor anger, but a crushing loneliness that felt like it would consume my almost-ten-year-old self. The fact that my father was gone — poof! — was impossible for me to make sense of, to square with the reality of the world. My mother, drowning in her own grief, could not help me, and so those months after my dad’s death echo with memories of my mother sleeping for hours, often in the bathtub, often after a few glasses of wine, as she desperately pretended that my father was on an extended business trip. My own efforts at self-preservation took shape as I learned to escape into school and Nancy Drew books, and then later into my Walkman’s headphones and as much time as possible at my friend’s houses — always with a personal understanding that my father’s death was not a safe topic to speak or think about. No wonder the concept of death is, for me, completely entangled with the experience of deep loneliness.

A textile art installation at the Dovecot Tapestry Studio in Edinburgh, Scotland.

Author David Whyte refers to death as a “disappearance,” a description that I find so helpful. But is there a way to live with that sudden goneness while also remaining connected? To accept death while understanding the companionship we have with others, both living and dead? Is there a way to transcend the severing of all earthly connection and still experience a closeness with others, even after death?

And so in these weeks after Betty’s death, as I folded laundry in Edinburgh or washed dishes in Keswick, I found myself drawn to episodes of Anderson Cooper’s All There Is podcast where he interviews people about their experiences of grief and loss. It was such a relief to listen to guests telling their stories of loss, asking vulnerable questions, and describing the connections they still feel to those loved and gone. These are conversations I never had in my childhood, and I’m curious to see if there is a way to move through the loneliness into a more loving understanding of death.

I recently came across a journal entry from my junior year in college in which I wrote, “I’m still afraid of death, but I am slowly getting more comfortable.” I admire my 21-year-old optimism that she would overcome her fears of death, and I send her mounds of compassion as I think of the inner work ahead of her as she began to heal some of that trauma. But what would my 81-year-old self say to me now? What can I do today to prepare myself for understanding these inevitable disappearances with a spirit of softness and openness and curiosity?

When Betty was in her final weeks, we talked frequently about death. I told her that the love she gave and received on earth is just a tiny foretaste of what our futures will hold, that this love offers a promise of the safety and connection she would experience in death. I do believe this — and yet, it is hard for us earth-bound beings to not receive the silence of death as an impenetrable barrier. But these days, I’m cracking the door open to the possibility of a new story, one that is softer and more complex than I’ve been able to understand previously. Who knows? Maybe even just asking new questions will bring fresh ideas and insight. And in the meantime, I’ll cherish my visits with my mom as long as we have her here on earth with us, until that day when the loved ones who have gone before us come to bring her home.

Tulips at our farmhouse north of Dublin, Ireland.

Tidbits

I’ve been gathering a number of books on the topics of death, hospice, and grieving over the past few months. I have not read all of them yet, but I am comforted by my giant stack that waits for me to dip in when I have time. Here are a few to note:

• Being Mortal by Atul Gawande. This classic is the first book I picked up in the category a few months ago, when the words hospice started taking shape. I liked a lot of it, but it wasn’t answering my questions about how those final days and weeks take shape.

• Pamphlets by Barbara Karnes, including Gone From My Sight and The Eleventh Hour. Both Betty’s and my mom’s hospice agencies recommended these pamphlets, and they are indeed helpful, compassionate guides to those final moments.

• Death of an Ordinary Man by Sarah Perry. I heard Sarah speak about this book at the Festival of Faith & Writing and immediately knew I must seek it out in England. Sarah writes carefully and compassionately about her father-in-law’s final week of life and all the changes she witnessed in the process.

  

  Sarah Perry’s book isn’t even out yet in the U.S., but I purchased it in England! This is nap time in Keswick, England.

• On Living by Kerry Egan. This is the first I’ve read in a whole stack of “stories from hospice nurses.” Egan’s stories fold into her own journey of personal growth, which offers an interesting take. Others that I have in my stack and haven’t yet read include:

  • The In-Between by Hadley Vlahos, RN

  • Peaceful Passages by Janet Wehr, RN

  • Final Gifts by Maggie Callanan and Patricia Kelley

• As Long as You Need by J.S. Park. A hospital chaplain, Park’s stories are not strictly hospice-related, but still speak of that threshold of life and death. I heard Park speak at the Festival of Faith & Writing and have been eager to dip into his writings.

• The Wild Edge of Sorrow by Francis Weller. This is the one book on the topic of grief in my stack. I heard Francis Weller on Anderson Cooper’s podcast twice and each time found his words to be full of wisdom and depth.

• Henri J. Nouwen on death and aging. I have a stack of Nouwen waiting for me as well, including:

  • Aging (with Walter J. Gaffney)

  • Befriending Life

  • Befriending Death

  • Beyond the Mirror

  • Our Greatest Gift

Grammie with Rosie and Lucy in summer 2008.

Betty entered hospice care on April 6 of this year. About six weeks later, on May 16, she exhaled her final breath and died.

We all knew this day was coming, but it still somehow feels like a shock. Just as when Betty’s husband Bill died in January 2025, we feel as though the world has shifted. Everything is off-kilter, out of balance. When I heard the news on that Saturday night, I was alone in the house: Jon and Lucy were on a long-planned backpacking trip in the Porcupine Mountains, and Rosie was at a celebratory beach event for her senior class. What do I do now? I wondered. So I sat, with cats nearby, and sent messages to family and friends to share the news. I looked up a few photos and videos of Betty from years past. I took a short walk. I ate ice cream with Rosie when she returned home. And I thought about my last visit with Betty.

Sunrise in the Porcupine Mountains on May 16, Betty’s last day. (Photo: Jon Boyd)

I’ve been visiting Betty daily for almost three months. Part of my elder-care policy is “daily visits when someone is in the hospital.” Betty was admitted to the hospital on March 6, and for about one month she bounced between hospital and her nursing facility. Once she entered hospice care, I knew the daily visits needed to continue, at least until we had a better sense of how the future would shape up. So on May 16, I drove up to Evanston to visit Betty as usual — and I could tell that something was different as soon as I walked into the room. Betty was often sleepy when I visited, but on May 16 she was unresponsive, eyes open, and I heard evidence of the breathing rattle many people talk about as an indication of the final hours of life. So I checked in with the nurse to talk things through, then got to work.

I arranged some new flowers for Betty’s room. I sat next to her and told her how much we all love her — Jon, Ann, Lucy, Rosie; Jim, Lisa, Violet — we all love her so much. I told her that she was safe and we were taking care of her. Jon had written a beautiful letter to her several days before which I had read to her twice already, but I read it again. I prayed the Lord’s Prayer with her — a prayer that she had mentioned years before that she liked, one that she recently told me she prayed every morning. And then, just because it seemed comforting, I read aloud the final chapter from A. A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh, “In Which Christopher Robin Gives Pooh a Party, and We Say Goodbye.” At times, Betty seemed to be trying to speak, but she was never able to get any words out. I gave her a kiss, put on my shoes, and I told her once more that we loved her as I stepped into the hallway.

In conversation with the hospice nurse, my suspicions that Betty was in the final hours of her life were confirmed. More medications would be ordered to ensure her comfort, but her end could come at any time or in several more days. As it turned out, Betty lived just about four more hours after my visit.

Betty loved the English countryside so much. Her son Jim, traveling in England with Lisa and Violet, sent this photograph of the Rollright Stones, taken just a few hours before Betty died. (Photo: Jim Boyd)

These past several weeks have been beautiful for our family. Jon’s brother Jim and his wife Lisa came to town for a long weekend visit in mid-April. Jon and I had a sweet hour with Betty on Mother’s Day. Lucy and Rosie came along with me on Wednesday afternoon for what turned out to be one final, loving conversation with Grammie. So many friends have called or visited or sent letters — almost every day, I’ve been able to read a new note or message to Betty from someone who loved her.

For me, these weeks have been so tender. I’ve felt a strong sense of calling to accompany Betty in this final stage of life. As she has needed to reckon with her own embodiment and her discomfort, I’ve been able to listen and serve as a warm presence for her. Our visits were often quiet, with me giving an update of the everyday tasks of life (“… and then I made blueberry muffins…”) and assisting Betty with those little, physical things she needed help with — adjusting the covers, offering a sip of water, shifting a pillow. I showed her pictures and fresh flowers and opened the window “just a crack.” On a few occassions, we spoke of the most important things — of love, of God, of God’s love and our family and the beautiful life Betty helped to create. And then when we ran out of things to say, I would read to her. We got halfway through The Secret Garden and frequently dipped into Winnie-the-Pooh, and I was always pleased when I ended a chapter to see her eyes closed, Betty breathing peacefully, asleep. I’d give her a kiss on the cheek and tell her I’d be back tomorrow.

Betty’s teddy bear, “Sparky,” a friend she made when Bill was in Alzheimer’s care.

Over these past several weeks, I’ve marveled at the strength of Betty’s life force. Incongruously, I keep thinking back to Lucy’s birth and of Jon’s comments about Lucy’s umbilical cord. He told me that the cord was surprisingly strong and ropey, that he had to really use some force to cut through it. Betty’s hold on life seemed similarly tenacious, persisting for fully six weeks after making a conscious decision in the hospital to allow her life to come to its natural end.

Betty’s curiosity about the world kept her going. At 91, she was clear about being ready to relinquish her life, but she also continued to be interested in life. “I do want to know what happens next,” she told us. She wanted to know what would happen in the lives of her grandchildren, curious about what their futures will look like. She also wanted to know what would happen with the world, especially as she had pretty strong opinions about the unsuitability of our current American government. And, in quiet moments, she was curious about what comes after we die.

The afterlife is a mystery to all of us. My role, as I’ve understood it, has been to embody God’s love for Betty as fully as possible. As Betty and I talked about the future, we talked about this mystery, and God’s deep love for her, and how she will be surrounded by love — love that she’ll recognize from all the ways she has given and received love through her 91 years.

And so, even though today Betty isn’t seeing the sunshine and the leaves with her earthly eyes, I believe she knows it is a good day.

Tidbits

When Jim and Lisa were in town on April 28, Jon and I joined them in Betty’s room and we talked about all of the marvelous foods Betty used to bake or cook or otherwise feed her hungry young sons. Here is the list we came up with (and we’re certain it’s not exhaustive). This woman was an incredible cook!

Baking

• Grasshopper pie

• Blueberry buckle

• Orange sweet rolls

The day after Betty died, I made my first attempt at recreating the Orange Sweet Roll recipe in her honor. A good effort, but it needs some tweaking!

• Granola

• Angel food cake with chocolate whipped cream frosting

• Cheesecake pie with graham cracker crust and sour cream topping

• Cookies

  • oatmeal raisin

  • peanut butter

  • chocolate chip

  • molasses crinkles

  • snickerdoodles

  • angel cookies with coconut

  • sugar cookies

  • macaroons

• Gingerbread cake with lemon sauce

• Mexican wedding cakes

• Spritz cookies

• Gingerbread cookies

• Whole wheat bread

• Grandma’s white bread (in a big loaf pan)

• Bran muffins

• Blueberry muffins

• Orange muffin with drizzle

• German’s chocolate cake

• Apple Betty (aka Mrs. Vanamerangen’s Apple Torte)

• Chocolate fondue

• Pudding

  • butterscotch

  • chocolate

Meals

• Chicken Marbella

• Porcupine meatballs

• Chicken cacciatore

• Taco night

• Chop suey

• Chicken stew with biscuit/dumpling top

• Cream chipped beef on toast

• Pork chops

• Italian dressing marinated chicken breast

• Prime rib with Yorkshire pudding

• Broccoli salad

• Green bean casserole

• Cranberry relish

• Mrs. Biederman’s casserole

• Waffles

• US senate navy bean soup

• Split pea soup

• Meatloaf

• Sloppy joes

• Oscar Meyer hot dogs

• shoestring potatoes

• Lots of juice

• Popcorn, peanut butter, cheese, apples

During the pandemic, I wore pearls almost every day (and you can see evidence here on Day 393). Pearls often show up on the day I’m scheduled for my annual mammogram or if I’m speaking in public. On ordinary joyful moments like birthdays and graduations, pearls strengthen my spine, tempering the bittersweet feelings so I can be present with a smile even when tears are falling a little bit on my insides. Lately, I’ve been wearing pearls every day for visits to the hospital to see one grandmother, and another grandmother.

I mentioned briefly in a previous post that my mother-in-law has met with some recent health challenges. A few broken vertebrae landed her in the hospital for a successful repair, but at age 91, complications ensued that have left Betty bedbound and weak. In accordance with her years of expressed wishes on the subject, she decided voluntarily to enter hospice care in early April.

Right around that same time, my own mother took a turn for the worse. What I had expected would be a typical friendly visit on Easter Sunday turned more serious as the cough and warm cheeks I drew a nurse’s attention to were diagnosed as a fever of 103 and aspiration pneumonia. Although they tried to manage her illness at her residence, they sent Mom to the emergency room two nights later. Mind clouded with dementia, Mom long ago signed all decision-making responsibilities over to my brother, and together we agreed that it was time for hospice. We were told that she had hours, maybe days left, but she miraculously pulled back from the brink! Her prognosis has now extended to weeks at least, and she is back at her residence, under the care of the hospice team. She has gone from closed-eyes-silence to full sentences and eating meals again. We’re all glad that she is not in pain and being cared for. But what a ride!

Lucy and Rosie on a tour of the grandmothers with me.

The past several weeks have felt topsy-turvy as we’ve all been balancing near-daily grandmother-visits with the stuff of everyday life, school, work, laundry, and claiming five minutes to just sit down. It takes about three hours to do a full double-grandmother circuit, which is perhaps manageable on a short-term emergency basis but a little unsustainable long-term. Now that conditions have stabilized for Betty and Sara, I’m thinking about ways to downshift my visits into something slightly more manageable, but the unpredictability of their health makes it feel pretty complicated. Jon joins me on the weekends (workday schedules and commutes make visiting on weekdays difficult for him) and I’m always glad for his companionship on those days.

Clearing my head on a walk.

Besides the operational challenges of adding a three-hour-circuit to my daily routines, the emotional rigors of these visits are not to be underestimated. Conversations with the grandmothers are mostly friendly chatter — perhaps problem-solving a caregiving issue, perhaps giving an update about the grandchildren, perhaps reading a chapter of a favorite book aloud. Sometimes we wade into deeper waters, but I follow their lead, waiting to see how real we are going to get. But even on those shallow-water days, my heart feels spent with emotional exertion, exhausted by the work of being a non-anxious presence in a very serious context.

I’m living with a series of questions these days:

• How can I live with integrity now so that I’m not filled with regret later?

• How can I express love to mom in her dementia?

• How can I best accompany Betty on her journey?

• What does it look like to live life in this time? What stays the same and what should get interrupted?

• Are there things that I need to do now to prepare myself for the moment of death for each grandmother? Is there even anything I can do?

• How can I cultivate my own emotional flexibility? (more on this below)

You can wear pearls just to go to Target.

Miraculously, everyone seemed stable enough last weekend that Jon and I followed through on our plans to attend the Festival of Faith & Writing at Calvin University. The trip was a delightful respite, full of wonderful conversations and lectures. Jon and I even had a chance to go out for a dinner together — our first date in two months.

My favorite conference buddy!

At the Festival, I had the chance to hear one of my favorite poets, Ross Gay, in conversation with his fellow poet-friend Patrick Rosal. As they spoke, I marveled at their ability to hop from everyday topics like gardening and basketball down into the depths of grief and sorrow, then back up again in a flash. Is there a way to cultivate this kind of emotional agility? I’m not afraid of entering the depths, but it takes me a long time to recover from those journeys. Sometimes, the call of practicality makes me hesitate to jump down because I know it takes me so long to climb back up.

Waiting for a session to begin at the Festival of Faith & Writing.

I don’t have many answers to my questions and wonderings right now. I find myself wishing once again for a superhero ability to pause time for everyone around me so that I can just sit down and think for a few minutes. But I’m not a superhero, and I can only take one day, one hour at a time, moving forward with the holy work of caregiving and trying to metabolize these important moments as fully as possible.

And when things get rough, these pearls help me to dig deep and take just one more step.

Tidbits

What else is happening around here?

• Lucy turns 20 years old today! Can you believe it? I remember walking (or rather waddling) through our local park in 2006, trying to get labor moving after baby Lucy had been chilling in utero fully nine days after her due date. Now she is at large and taking the world by storm! We are so proud of her. ❤️ Here is a photo Lucy sent of a moment the other day when a butterfly landed on her and warmed itself in the sun for a few minutes. Classic Lucy!

  

• Rosie graduates from high school in less than a month! There is a lot to be packed in over the next few weeks: four AP tests, senior prom, senior banquet, and I’m sure lots of heartfelt conversations and tender moments. What a milestone!

• I’m on the fourth volume of The Thursday Murder Club series and I love it so much for a bedtime book — short chapters, compelling characters, and not so alarming that I can’t go to sleep afterward.

• I’ve taken to packing a little comfort kit in a picnic basket to travel with me for my grandmother visits. I like to pack a bowl of yogurt and fruit for lunch (in an insulated bag), plus a cup of coffee and a fun beverage. I keep protein bars and fiber bars on hand for emergencies. I have stashed a little journal in there for emotional processing, and the open basket makes for a handy place to put my sunglasses. Self-care for the win!

  

Hospitals are strange, liminal spaces with rotating casts of characters, beeping machines, and a feeling that you can never quite relax. I am keenly aware that my experience in hospitals is extremely limited compare to that of others, and I’m quite grateful that I haven’t needed to spend more time in them than I have. But perhaps my novice status gives me a unique perspective. Let me offer this hot take: hospitals are like air travel. Jon Boyd agrees, and we spent one hospital-bound car trip compiling this list.

Hospitals are like air travel because…

• You’re dependent on the staff for every little thing. Best to ask with a smile because it helps if they like you.

• You can’t open the windows.

• You’ve got to get permission to walk around. And don’t even think about walking into a “staff only” area.

• You’re glad to be there, but you’re really hoping you don’t have to stay too long.

• Your best hope is to either watch a great show, read a good book, or sleep.

• The food — if there is any at all — is terrible.

• No smoking allowed. (At least, not since 1990ish.)

• No peanuts.

Emergency room or airplane tray?

• It takes forever to get in, and it takes forever to get out.

• They have wings.

• You really hope the professional in charge graduated in the top half of their class

• It’ll probably go just fine, but you really could die.

• Until recently, all the hotshots were men and their helpers were women.

• You probably want to buy insurance.

• They’re prepared to strap you down if necessary.

• They have ambulances on call 24-7.

• It’s important to put on your own mask before assisting others.

• They’re both expensive. One you pay up front. The other one will surprise you later with a bill.

Where am I?

Tidbits

The big event over the past few weeks was Rosie’s stunning run of performances as Princess Fiona in her high school production of Shrek — what a blast! She had tons of fun and turned 18 years old in the midst of all the festivities. Lucy brought a few college friends home to see the show, some other beloveds came from near and far, and everyone had an incredible time!

Princess Fiona with her mother

In other news — come this summer, Jon Boyd will bear the title “Vice President of Editorial for InterVarsity Press.” A big promotion and a bigger responsibility! Congratulations, pookie! You can even read about it in French, if you like.

Fiona’s parents awaiting one of the many performances.

Jon’s mom, confined to the hospital, had the wonderful idea to treat the cast to a big basket of snacks for opening night. Everyone loves Grammie!

Kirk is not afraid of spiders.

Over the past several years, I’ve noticed a strange, episodic nighttime occurrence. A few times a year, for a period of three or four nights, I experience this kind of sleep hallucination. It’s always some kind of insect or bug approaching me through thin air, I’m always unable to escape, and it always alarms me to the point of vocal cries for help. Strangely enough, it’s always within the first hour or so of going to sleep. Last week brought a series of these unnerving nights, and Jon eventually found that he could calm me with just two words: “no spiders.”

I’m not entirely sure why this happens — perhaps stress? Perhaps mild sleep deprivation? Or perhaps it’s one of the 400+ symptoms of menopause? Rosie points out that I can count Harry Potter’s best friend Ron Weasley as a fellow spider-dreamer, and maybe there are others who experience this nighttime specter. But I am guessing that whatever the reason, my spider-hallucinations point to some feelings of anxiety rumbling in my subconscious.

Suffering from mild anxiety isn’t terribly surprising given the state of the world, not to mention the ordinary trials of an overly-long to-do list and the rapidly turning calendar pages that hasten our empty-nest initiation. These days, I find myself stopping to take deep, gulping breaths several times a day, as if my task-orientation is like the sea and I’m working hard to avoid drowning.

“Besieged,” writes author David Whyte, “is what most people feel most of the time.” I think often these days of his essay in Consolations where he describes both the gift and the burden of our commitments, the connections and dependencies that enrich our lives but can also, at times, overwhelm. Whyte’s sensible recommendation: finding one’s quiet, still center. He writes, “Creating a state of aloneness in the besieged everyday may be one of the bravest things individual men and women can do for themselves.”

I can tell that my nature wants to live at a slower pace, but the pace of the world does not cooperate. And so I must establish my own boundaries, my own rules, like the crossing guard who stops traffic with an ordinary wooden sign in order to protect the children who need time to scamper across the street.

Double-kitty moments are the best.

Sitting with a cup of coffee, optional cat adjacent to me, offers one small opportunity for centeredness, especially when taken in the morning at the cost of getting a jump on the tasks of the day. Later in the afternoon, treating myself to a snack and a chapter of my novel allows me to feel more human. A few nights ago, Jon and I got really crazy and sat together in the same room for a calming five minutes to read before heading into bedtime chores.

These are the smallest of nods to David Whyte’s “state of aloneness,” but their smallness offers their greatest strength: accessibility. Multiple daily moments can sustain us like quiet-snacks throughout the day, helping us to remember that we are human, not to-do-list machines.

One more tale: the other day, I visited my mother at her nursing home. In contrast to her usual, cheery self, Mom woke from a nap in distress, anxious and disoriented. Among other things, she kept asking, “What am I going to do?” clearly feeling that she had a number of responsibilities to manage and an inability to act on them. Nothing I could say would relieve her anxiety, and I finally left her in the care of a nurse, praying for comfort and grieving over my powerlessness. But her question, spoken in desperation — “What am I going to do?” — stayed with me, a kind of memento mori gift from her dementia to me. The truth is: sometimes it’s okay just to not do anything but rest and receive love.

There really are no spiders.

Tidbits

Little things from this week!

• Lucy has returned home for spring break — hurrah! Rosie’s break is misaligned with Lucy’s this year, and in fact Rosie has been in the throes of tech week for her school musical all week. But even so, they’re enjoying being together in the same house. It’s a special kind of mama-joy to hear giggling children in the next room while finishing my nightly journal entry.

• Speaking of Rosie’s musical — come on down and see her perform! She’ll be playing Princess Fiona in her school’s production of Shrek. The little bits of rehearsing that we hear at home cause me to believe that the show will be delightfully amusing — and I can’t wait to see the ogre makeup! You can see details and buy tickets here. (Note: The Princess Fiona understudy will perform on Saturday, March 21 at 2pm — so if you’re hoping to see Rosie as Fiona, come to one of the other shows.)

• Last week, Jon performed a beautiful saxophone solo to accompany our church choir in John Rutter’s “Out of the Deep” from Requiem. The piece is usually accompanied by cello, but our choir director asked Jon to adapt the part for saxophone. It was lovely! You can hear it in this recording.

• I have been volunteering once a week at our local school crossing to be an extra set of eyes, but last week our usual crossing guard was away — so I filled in! I am pleased to say that all pedestrians got to the other side safely. Talk about an object lesson in setting boundaries!

• Jon and I had a fun date night with live jazz at the newly re-opened Gale Street Inn. This restaurant will forever have a soft spot in our hearts due to that one time I was pregnant with Rosie and desperately craved a baked potato at 10:00 pm. Jon phoned many restaurants in search of the potato, but only Gale Street Inn came through — and Jon drove over for the beloved take-out baked potato to bring home to me. :)

A trip to the North Park Village Nature Center, circa 2016.

My own reminisces include thinking about our girls, just 8- and 10-years-old in those days, with wonky teeth and big energy. Our homeschooling rhythms allowed for leisurely mornings, trips to museums, and days at our local nature preserve. Ten years ago, Jon and I had been married for 15 years (going on 16) and we had celebrated our October 2015 anniversary by dressing in our wedding outfits and heading out to dinner at a brewpub (plus, inevitably, a stop at Jeni’s Ice Cream). In my imagination, my 2016 self seems hopeful and full of promise.

Our friend Jane took a few snaps of us in our wedding day outfits.

Yesterday, I decided to pull out my journal to get an inside glimpse of those 2016 days. My recent birthday (51!) inspired reflection, so I felt curious to see what my 41-year-old self was like. As I read my journal, my idyllic image of 2016 dissolved into something much more real and complex. Sure, I was a few pounds lighter, my hair had a lot less gray in it, and I wasn’t enraged by the state of our democracy. But real struggles filled the pages of my journal.

Although I’m very glad we educated our girls as we did, homeschooling was really hard — especially in 2016, as our kids seemed to fall into unresolvable conflict day after day. I was pretty good at helping them to manage these emotional landmines, but it took lots of time and got in the way of teaching actual school stuff — which I didn’t like anyway. This was the season before I “fired myself” as their math teacher and hired a tutor (which was one of our best homeschooling decisions ever). One moment from the journal recorded my therapist’s observation that “I don’t like homeschooling, it’s boring, and I would rather bake cookies — this is true!!!”

Celebrating Beverly Cleary’s birthday with D.E.A.R. time — “drop everything and read.”

When I had a trip to take for work, I brought the girls along with me — which was fun and educational in some ways, but also exhausting. In my journal, I read that I was constantly exhausted and constantly stressed, which led to frequent bouts of insomnia. I was terribly self-critical and overly demanding of myself. Good grief! I wish I could take my 2016 self aside to assure her that she looks fine, it’s all going to be okay, and then put her in a quiet room to take a nap.

Franny poses in the dollhouse as “Giant Cat.”

Reading my February 2016 journal gives me compassion toward my younger self, and compassion for my 2026 self as well. Looking back ten years offers some perspective. The work I did back then was hard, but I didn’t need to feel quite so anxious about it. Perhaps this bodes well for ten years hence?

Today, our children genuinely seem to love each other, and they even picked up those math and spelling skills somewhere along the way. Jon and I celebrated our 25th anniversary with delight in one another’s company. I’m not thinner or faster or more efficient, but I am kinder to myself and to others. I’ve swapped Jillian Michaels workout videos for Yoga with Adriene. Although 2026 brings us a world on fire, I think these past ten years have taught me a little bit about how to manage my own response to these days, leaning into compassion and courage.

2026 brings coffee and reading time — and Kirk, who wasn’t even born until 2022!

Yesterday, after a long day of work and errands, I sat for a chat with Jon while Franny affectionately demanded some kitty-head-scratches. I went for a short walk in the unseasonably warm weather and took in a glowing sunset. I gathered my courage to do a bit of gardening — “a crappy job done fast,” as we say. I made homemade barbecued-chicken pizza and welcomed Rosie home from school after her rehearsal. I texted Lucy to encourage her on a school project.

After dinner with Jon and Rosie (and Pepper, who had taken up residence on my lap), Jon and I cleaned up the kitchen. I was feeling the fatigue of the day as the task drew to a close. “Jon, can you make that bottle of barbecue sauce go into the fridge?” I asked wearily. Without missing a beat, Jon looked at the bottle, extended his hands dramatically, and started trying to move it using The Force. “I can’t do it,” he finally bemoaned as I giggled. “There is no try,” I said, “only do,” as we sauntered into the living room to watch an episode of Gilmore Girls with Rosie. It was a pretty nice day in 2026.

Tidbits

I turned 51 years old on February 21 and I had a great birthday! Here are some of the fun things we did:

• We went to a play at Wheaton College on Friday night (February 20) — and we picked up Lucy and brought her home for the weekend!

• My birthday dawned sunny and bright. Jon picked up gorgeous pastries from Del Sur, I assembled a beautiful platter of fruit, and I whipped up some very cheesy scrambled eggs — family brunch!

Pastries from Del Sur.

Fruit platter! (Photo credit: Lucy Boyd)

• I spent a quiet hour reading a novel and drinking coffee.

• Lucy and I baked my favorite chocolate cake. (In 2016, I made this cake incorrectly — another grief! — but this year’s cake was delicious.)

Lucy frosted and decorated my birthday cake.

• Our whole family went to dinner at my favorite Neapolitan pizza place, Spacca Napoli — it was amazing AND they gave us a complimentary tiramisu.

This is 51! (Photo credit: Rosie Boyd)

Family selfie!

• We came home and watched Sabrina (1995), one of my favorite movies.

I like being 51 years old so far!

I’m at a retreat with my writers group this weekend, so our family celebration looks a little different from usual. We likely won’t indulge in our typical Violet Beauregarde gum-inspired meal (tomato soup, roast beef and baked potato, blueberry pie and cream). I’ll return home with enough time to share some chocolate with the family, and I’ll tell you now that I began the day with a Wonka-honoring treat: a slice of David Lebovitz’s chocolate pavé for breakfast.

Let me back up to say: at our writers group retreats, we eat well. Four women who know their way around the kitchen and enjoy good food makes for a pretty spectacular culinary experience — and I was pleased to contribute a modest flourless chocolate cake to the spread last night.

I confess that I took an hour away from our designated afternoon writing time to bake this treat, and I’m not sorry. The intoxicating aroma of melted chocolate and butter stirred together into silky smoothness makes it all worthwhile, even before taking a single bite. Six eggs separated methodically, whipped separately, then combined with sugar, a pinch of salt, and the chocolate-butter mixture yield fluffy clouds of batter that bake into the tenderest flourless chocolate cake that will ever melt in your mouth.

In his wonderful book Ready for Dessert, David Lebovitz instructs us to bake this cake the traditional way, using a 9x9 pan that yields sturdy square slices (thus the name pavé, meaning “paving stone” in French). But I like fancy, so I tend to bake it in a 9” springform for a glorious round of chocolate goodness. We dressed it up after dinner with fresh whipped cream and homemade ganache. This morning at breakfast, I omitted the ganache (that would be excessive), but noted that with six eggs, this cake is practically an omelet — one that Willy Wonka would be very proud of.

Tidbits

A few special things I’ve read lately and loved:

• Today, I learned something else about February 1: This is the 66th anniversary of the Greensboro Sit-In, the days when four brave Black colleges students sat at the lunch counter in non-violent protest of segregation laws. (Thank you, Emily P. Freeman, for educating us!)

• Krista Tippett writes compassionately about our sore hearts in these days.

• I keep thinking about this new poem by Michael Bazzett entitled “From Minneapolis in January.”

• I’m curious to explore Oliver Burkemann’s freewriting recommendation as a problem-solving tool.

We call this photo “The ballerina hippo.” Here I am at 41 weeks pregnant with Lucy. Spoiler alert: It turned out okay!

As I look back on my younger self, I might say that I knew all along how to become a mother. I knew how to nurture and care for vulnerable beings, and I knew how to listen to my body. Although the mechanics of the whole gestational mystery were interesting, I didn’t really need to read two dozen books on the topic. Probably even just one or two would have been enough. But the tasks of reading and research, of listing labor pain-management techniques, of marking diagrams for swaddling babies with colorful little tabs for easy access — this was all profoundly comforting to me, giving me a sense of control over the unknowns of this next stage of life. The information gave me courage to move forward.

Apparently, my very pregnant self also found comfort in cleaning the house. Don’t worry — this urge dissipated quickly.

I’ve been thinking about my reading-and-research comfort practice as I find myself cycling through periods of semi-compulsive news consumption. Between podcasts, newspapers, Substack commentary, Signal chats, and the inimitable wisdom of Heather Cox Richardson, I can easily spend hours daily absorbing information to help me to get a handle on the changing state of our national political landscape. I remember this feeling from the early days of the pandemic — the regular jolt of anxiety that arose as I wondered about the tenuous sense of safety in the world and tried to get clear on the rapidly changing hazards of ordinary daily activities. As is my custom, I sought to find courage through information.*

These days, I’m trying to comprehend the task of being an ordinary American citizen, one who would prefer to live in a society that treats others with basic human rights. In some ways, I feel like I’ve taken on an extra job — one with no pay, no benefits, a constantly changing job description, and an uncertain outcome. It’s impossible to know when I’m done with the work, or what strategies are effective, or when I can punch off the clock. I’m trying to faithfully participate in this project by adding my little piece of this jigsaw puzzle, but I can’t see the whole picture — and even if I could, the work will never be complete. The constantly-changing information leaves me unsettled as I strive to find my own place in this evolving landscape.

I think often lately about George and Mary Bailey from It’s a Wonderful Life. (As one of my favorite movies of all time, It’s a Wonderful Life takes up more mental real estate than is perhaps normal.) The part that keeps running through my mind is the account of the roles this power-couple took on during World War II. Neither George nor Mary do anything hugely brave (that honor goes to Harry Bailey, George’s brother), but they live their regular lives while participating in small ways to support their community and nation. It all adds up, everyone doing their little bit of work. How did they know what to do? How did they know what to say “yes” and “no” to? where to contribute? In this fictional story, their choices look so clear. But perhaps in my own choices today, I also know what to do.

On my way to take my weekly post at a community corner!

In this season, I’m volunteering once a week for ICE-watch at a local elementary school during afternoon pick-up. I’m listening to podcasts and reading the news (with some limits). I’m praying. (I woke up this morning with the name “Corey Lewandowski” running through my head, so he got added into my prayers today.) Sometimes I go to a protest, sometimes I call my state representatives, and sometimes I don’t. I’m doing normal things, like cooking chili and practicing yoga and singing in our church choir and reading good books. Part of the task, it seems to me, is knowing myself and my own limits, growing in my ability to lean into hard work wholeheartedly when I can — and retreating guilt-free when I need a break. Sometimes everything feels so scary and overwhelming that I just need to hide under the covers, and that’s okay because I know that, eventually, I’ll come out again.

Pepper chooses to camouflage himself in the blanket rather than hiding beneath it.

I’ll be honest: sometimes I’m discouraged. The progress bar moves slowly, and the future feels so bleak. Sometimes I fantasize about quitting, about moving to another country, about hiding under those covers and just staying there. Sometimes I imagine what life would have been like if 2024 had yielded different results and if we never saw days quite like these. Sometimes I really resent this stupid new job that I never applied for, this job that takes up a huge amount of my brain space and energy.

But I won’t quit. I may need a break, but I’ll find the courage to come back. Even though this whole situation feels overwhelming, the truth is, we know what we need to do. We know how to look out for the vulnerable in our midst and care for one another. Things look a little different today, in this context, but the bones are familiar — watching out for the needs of one another and offering support. I’m determined to keep leaning in to love during these challenging days — and when things feel really tough, I imagine that maybe someday I’ll tell this story to a person who asks me, “Grandma, what did you do in the Uprising of 2026?”

*Fans of the Enneagram might find it amusing that my beloved spiritual director Alice Fryling, an Enneagram instructor, would always refer to this behavior by noting, “Your Five-wing is flapping.” It’s true — in times of stress, my Four nature leans toward the gifts of the Five, gathering information for support. No wonder that I married a Five and lean often on his steady wisdom!

Tidbits

I’ve been reminded lately of a quote from G. K. Chesterton: “It is easy to be heavy: hard to be light.” In this spirit, here are a few frivolous and fun things that have caught my attention lately:

• Jeni’s ice cream has come out with an ice cream collaboration to celebrate the new season of Bridgerton. It’s delicious! And I’m so excited to watch the new season!

• Speaking of Jeni Britton, I’ve been loving her Substack newsletter. I find her to be so inspirational!

• A few years ago, I decluttered my phone — and I’m long overdue for another swipe at this. I’ve got this article open in one of my many tabs but must put aside some time to do the work! I know it will bring a breath of fresh air.

• I’m late to the party, but The Thursday Murder Club book series by Richard Osman is so much fun. I’m on the second book now — and Jon and I both loved the Netflix movie based on the first book!

• We also loved Wake Up Dead Man: A Knives Out Mystery — we were so hooked, we even stayed up extra-late to watch the whole movie in one go (rather than over two nights, as is our custom).

• I was sorting through some recipes (more open tabs) and spontaneously tried this cookie recipe, swapping out some of the chips for a bunch of chopped up leftover Christmas chocolate. Rave review!

• And I baked a couple of apple cream pies for a party recently and they are really good — who can object to vanilla pudding + apple pie all in one delicious, glazed package?

Since I was heading downtown anyway, I decided to stop at the Art Institute on my way to the venue. As the day progressed, it became clear that I’d have only thirty minutes to spend there, which felt a little stingy. I considered skipping this leg of the evening altogether, but I finally decided that I would stop in and just head straight for the Neapolitan crèche.

Handmade wreaths adorn the lions every holiday season — and you can read all about the how it’s done.

Every year, the Art Institute displays a few special things for the holidays. You can usually find holiday decorations in some of the Thorne Rooms, Christmas wreaths around the necks of the iconic lions flanking the museum entrance, and the Neapolitan crèche, so fragile it’s only on display for these few weeks every year.

The Neapolitan crèche

The Art Institute acquired the Neapolitan crèche in 2013, right around the time I began visiting the museum at Christmastime with our elementary-school-aged homeschooled daughters. (Our December homeschool activities revolved exclusively around Advent and Christmas, which created lots of space for delightful cultural outings.) I always wanted to find some kind of special meaning from this nativity scene in the context of 18th century Naples, Italy. I’ve looked at it from many angles, pondering any personal significance I might find in connection with my own Italian heritage and my faith. But I always come away overwhelmed and somewhat exhausted by the Richard Scarry’s “Busytown” vibe.

It’s a truly strange and expansive scene. They’ve crammed more than 200 figures into this space, illuminating little vignettes of everyday life in 18th century Naples — townspeople dancing at the tavern, a nursing mother on a donkey, animals in a pasture. In the middle of all the hubbub, you notice the Holy Family, the Magi, shepherds, and angels taking center stage. The accompanying literature describes the intricate construction process: delicate wires in the flowing cloth of the angels, tiny authentic stringed instruments, glass eyes in the face of a woman. And although I appreciate the impressive craftsmanship, I also find myself tilting my head at all of these unusual figures packed together. Honestly, the whole effect feels pretty weird.

But as I took in the Neapolitan crèche this time, the truth of the tableau grabbed me. This bustling scene reflects the very energy I feel at this time of year — a bit frantic, a bit overwhelmed, but longing to catch of glimpse of the baby Jesus in all the busy-busy-busy. Even after I left the museum and walked north on Michigan Avenue to the poetry event, the Neapolitan crèche stayed with me. I noticed all the strange and varied people around me — what stories do they carry? what burdens, griefs, joys? I became conscious, too, of my own quirky appearance — red bobble-hat, plaid tights —and the swirling inner life that includes me in this strange city community. We’re all doing the best we can with our unpredictable lives, looking for a quiet experience with the Divine who, if we look closely, just happens to be around the corner.

Jesus seems pretty relaxed here, although perhaps a little chilly.

So this Advent, I’m carrying the Neapolitan crèche in my heart, remembering that Jesus is fully present even when (or perhaps especially when) the busyness and complexity of life feels overwhelming. The cares of this world don’t weigh him down, and Jesus willingly carries these burdens alongside us — even if it can be hard for our tired eyes to locate him at times. In the midst of it all, I’m practicing remembering Emmanuel, God with us.

And as for that poetry event? I did get there in the end, finding a seat with just a few minutes to spare. Then I turned my head … and unexpectedly connected with two friends whom I hadn’t seen for months. And then after the performance … I discovered another friend I hadn’t seen in years! The message of the crèche continues. Who knows what delightful people can be found in those busiest of scenes?

Photos from the Art Institute’s pages on the lions, the Neapolitan crèche, and resources from a 30-minute talk on the crèche.

Tidbits

Busy and fraught and complicated though it may be, I do love this time of year. Here are a few things I’m enjoying especially in December 2025:

• Jólabókaflóðið. For several years, our family has shamelessly adopted this Icelandic “Christmas book flood” tradition, tweaking it to fit our holiday rhythms. In the Boyd home, on the night of December 23, each person gets to open a gift of one new book — and then we spend the evening reading by the fire and eating chocolate. I can hardly wait!

• Tiny, salty, chocolaty cookies. I made a batch of these earlier in the month with the addition of a teaspoon of peppermint extract and some crushed peppermint candies. Amazing! They aren’t sturdy enough to ship, but they do freeze well.

• Creme Brûlée French Toast. We make this baked french toast every year for breakfast on the morning we open Christmas gifts (which, in our house, is December 24 — it’s a long story). It bakes for almost exactly as long as it takes to open stockings and one gift each. Serve with freshly squeezed orange juice (using those oranges from the toe of your Christmas stockings) and a side of bacon!

• This essay from Anne Lamott on Advent might be the best thing I’ve read all season. It’s classic Anne Lamott — unapologetically earthy and gritty — and zeroes in on the most important truths of the season. An excellent companion to the Neapolitan crèche!

• Stranger Things. Most would say this is not a Christmas series — and I agree with them (despite the Christmas lights in the first season). But I keep thinking about the incredible courage of these teenage characters, especially in the most recent episodes — and it’s helping me to continue my meditation on what it means to be brave. I can’t deny that I’m looking forward to watching more of the series when the next episodes drop on Christmas night.

Kirk offers his quiet support.

Nourished and watered, I sit with my mug to write the post that I’ve been mulling over for a month or so. A cat curls himself at my feet, a small artificial fireplace glows beside me, a seasonal blanket insulates my legs — all providing a bit of solace. I gather my courage and write about my mom.

A few weeks ago, I moved my 89-year old mother into a nursing home. Well, technically I didn’t move her in — she was already there, having been admitted in July for rehab after hospitalization. But in October, the time had come for me and my brother to make a decision about her future. It had become clear that she was not well enough to return to her assisted living apartment, and honestly, she didn’t seem to want to. She appears to enjoy staying in bed all day, sleeping through the constant (and desired) glow of the television on her wall. She perks up cheerfully when I stop by for a visit, then settles back for another nap or to finish her meal of mechanically soft food. She’s mostly blind, her memory worsening, and she can hardly walk, but she seems content to choose this path. So while my brother covered all the paperwork, I sorted through her meager belongings in early November and started to come to terms with a new normal for our mom.

Life seems to continually demand courage. Between sending children off to college and living through the decline of our democracy, I’ve also been finding the courage to watch over my mom and to try to figure out what a good day looks like for her now.

In the face of existential threats and seismic life changes, regular life needs to happen, too. I still need to chop onions for soup, replace the empty bottle of conditioner in the shower, log on to the Zoom meeting, pair and fold the socks, reply to the email. It’s okay to pause for a moment and regroup, but tasks demand attention even when emotions are in turmoil. I must find strategies to persist when I long to hide under the covers.

The question of courage continues to tug at my sleeve, persistent in every context. How am I called to live in these times? What is mine to do? How shall I preserve my spirit for the long haul while also doing the hard work before me? I’m appreciating the gifts of structure in my life right now, patterns that serve as a kind of scaffolding when my emotions leave me teetering on the edge. Habits and practices run my engine these days, especially in those moments when I can’t even start to make a decision. And when my routines are interrupted, I can snap back to the grid gently, finding my way back to those comforting habits that help me feel like myself.

Pepper knows all about cozy routines.

Would you like to hear about a few of my grounding habits? This list is not exhaustive, and it will surely change before long, but here are some practices that help keep me going:

• A daily walk, usually within 30 minutes of waking, helps to get me outside, remember the world outside the screen, and to clear my head. Walks are infused with some prayer time, some poetry memorization, and some silent meditation. At the end, I might catch up on audio notes with Lucy, or I might listen to a nourishing podcast like On Being.

An intersection on my daily walk.

• Finding healthy rhythms for news consumption challenges me, but I think I’m getting better at it. I don’t allow myself to look at news apps or listen to news podcasts until after my morning walk routine. At the same time, I try to discipline myself to look at a reputable news source at least once per day, resisting the temptation to just look away or hide. There are times when the news of the world just feels overwhelming, and I try to take a break in those moments. The news sometimes invites an active response, sometimes grief, or even sometimes a moment of hope or joy — and in my best moments, a prayer. I recently heard someone suggest that we choose an image from the news and sit with it, visio-divina style. Perhaps I’ll try this next.

• I have been wrestling with my social media engagement, and for now I’m taking a break. Instagram and Facebook were dear companions to me through the pandemic, connecting me with friends and loved ones in our shared time of reclusiveness. But these days, even if I can get past the idea of Mark Zuckerberg and his empire, I find that the vortex of social media content leaves me feeling empty and drunk, like a cartoon character with eyes spinning in an endless spiral. Best to abstain (mostly) for now.

• Over the past few years, I’ve developed a routine of lifting weights — like, at a gym, with barbell back squats and weight-lifting gloves and little grunts. I started this practice as an effort to maintain any muscle at all, having read of the ways menopause causes one’s muscle tone to evaporate into thin air (and watching the evidence of this in my own mother). But I’ve found, especially in the past year, that there are spiritual and psychological benefits as well. When I come across a difficult challenge in my life, I have the opportunity to say to myself, “Well, if you can deadlift 155 lbs, you can do this.” I schedule my workouts to avoid lots of people and listen to podcasts while I lift, channeling my unexpressed emotions into my effort.

Crushing my goals.

• I like to read books that foster courage, a little bit at a time, several times per week, like a vitamin. Inspired by her sermon at the inaugural prayer service, I’ve been slowly making my way through Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde’s How We Learn to Be Brave: Decisive Moments in Life and Faith, finding a helpful framework for difficult times. I’m dipping into Atul Gawande’s Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End as I reckon with my mother’s new stage of life. The small doses of reading help me to digest the ideas and find ways to integrate them into my life, bit by bit.

• For months, I’ve been watching for ways that I can use my energy and gifts to support efforts to shore up our democracy. I’m keenly aware of my own limitations, but also wishing to join others in raising our voices in opposition to this administration. Right now, my practices include:

  • Attending rallies and marches when I can. Lucy and I had a blast at Chicago’s No Kings Rally in October, playing tambourine and kazoo as we marched with thousands of others!

  • Participating in our neighborhood community support group. (“Yes, I can bring cookies to this meeting!”)

  • Volunteering once a week to patrol corners with others at the start or end of the school day, ensuring that all members of our community feel safe, no matter their immigration status.

This is what democracy looks like!

• I’ve been adjusting my Sabbath-keeping practices to align with this season of life. In August, I read a Substack post by author Elizabeth Gilbert in which she wrote about slowing down and resting. One phrase stood out to me: taking some “no solving any problems” time. I can’t always set aside a full day for Sabbath rest, but I can find an hour or two to declare to my family that I’m entering into a little Sabbath time. “Do you have any problems that you need me to solve? Allow me to solve them now, before I enter my ‘no-problem-solving’ zone.”

  

Pepper knows how to enter into Sabbath rest.

• Learning to practice yoga has been an unexpectedly fruitful habit for me, something that happens perhaps twice each week on my non-weight-lifting weekdays. Yoga with Adriene videos teach me to breathe, to treat myself with kindness, and to remember my body. I’ve been noticing an urge to lean into my breath in other moments of stress throughout the day, which I think may be the real treasure of yoga practice.

• Singing in our church choir provides another respite for body, mind, and soul. Wednesday night rehearsals can feel a bit like an interruption, but once I settle into my seat with my fellow choristers and begin singing scales, the combination of breath work and community resonance activates my joy. Hymns find their way into my mental soundtrack throughout the week, reinforcing the satisfying choral and organ sounds that we generate every Sunday. “Praise God from whom all blessings flow!”

• Watch for little joys. Most mornings I read to Rosie at breakfast — a joyful little habit. Jon and I are celebrating our 25 years of marriage all year long with lots of dates — including this trip to our first-date dinner destination! Lucy and I exchange voice memos to keep one another updated on life events while she is at school. And our whole family anticipates delightful holiday festivities together! Watching for — and planning for — experiences of connection and gratitude reminds me of what’s most important.

Grateful for 25 years with Jon!

More routines will certainly find their way into my life, but these few give you a taste for the kinds of habits that keep me on track. I reject habits that make me feel bad — we either cut those completely or revise them to a point where they feel somewhat pleasant. I’m always looking for a combination of soft pants and hard work — enough comfort and gentleness to be nice to myself while I pursue my difficult goals. We’re living in challenging times, and we need all the support we can muster to stay aligned with our values while also acknowledging our humanity.

How about you? Do you have habits that are keeping you steady and stable? I’m always looking for new ideas — drop them in the comments if you’d like to share your wisdom.

Franny exudes a non-anxious presence.

Tidbits

We’re wrapping up Thanksgiving weekend and speeding our way into Advent! Here are a few things on my mind:

• Desserts. As is my custom, I’ve been baking up a storm this Thanksgiving as we celebrate all week with our dear farm friends. Hit recipes this week include:

  • Chocolate Peanut Butter Pie from Sarah Kieffer’s 100 Afternoon Sweets. The recipe doesn’t appear to be online, but this one from Sarah’s blog is pretty close — the recipe we used substitutes a sturdy almost-flourless-cake base for the cookie crust.

  • Cranberry Pudding. An unexpected delight, especially when layered in a gorgeous trifle bowl. Bonus: best made the day before the big event!

  • Butter Toffee Crunch Shortbread. This has become a favorite holiday cookie — still so delicious even in its familiarity. A special treat: nibbling the warm edges after the cookies emerge from the oven.

  • Cranberry-Raspberry-Pomegranate Pavlova. All of the egg-yolk-forward recipes left me with 20 egg whites, so I made two glorious, giant pavlovas based on this recipe. It scaled well and looked very festive!

• Advent Plans. I’m looking forward to two resources that I hope will aid my reflection this Advent:

  • Emily Freeman’s annual Advent Quiet Collection. I enjoy the new version every year, and I’m anticipating that “Light” will be just as delightful as the others.

  • With Heart and Soul and Voice: Advent Devotions on the First Christmas Songs by Tim Chester. I learned about this Advent devotional from the Upwords Podcast hosted by my friend Susie with guest Byron Borger of Hearts & Minds Books. It’s worth a listen, and you can refer to their helpful pdf of resources for more ideas.