Leaving the beach, we then head south on I5 to my parents house in a small town with only two stop lights. Once we get out of the city it’s mostly farm land with the occasional billboard advertising weed or that 1-888-TRUTH number asking if you want to go to heaven. I’ve always been tempted to call just to see what they would say.

On these long stretches of highway are signs telling you what is ahead; gas exit 216, historic site next right, etc. I mostly ignore them because we have driven this route hundreds of times and the farm land is prettier, but what catches my eye is a big white sign that reads, “Please Don’t Drink and Drive. In Loving Memory of Carla.”

I think about Carla and where she was going before her life was suddenly taken. How the reckless act of one person caused such a ripple of grief. How her family is trying to keep a piece of her story alive by reminding people to be careful, but all we really know is the tragic end.

I look at this sign and pray. I pray for Carla’s family because grief never really stops. I pray for my boys sitting in the backseat watching Bluey and ask that they never become a sign on the highway.

We reach my parents house which is filled to the brim with family. Everyone stops by without asking because they see all the cars are in the driveway, a sign that everyone is home. We all pile into the house. I ask about Aunt Addie and how she’s been doing since uncle Keith died. “She’s hanging in there” they say. I ask about grandpa because Keith was his best friend. “Not good” they say.

So grandma and I load up in the minivan, her right arm getting soaked by the sun while the AC blasts her face because it’s hot as hell outside. We pull up to the trailer park where my grandpa lives, an old ford in the driveway, a sign he’s home. His tiny lawn is scattered with animal statues and garden gnomes. We arrive unannounced because that’s just how it is in this town.

We gently knock before letting ourselves inside. I’m almost knocked over from the nostalgia from the cigarette smoke. I see him sitting in his old recliner, a cigarette smoking from the ashtray sits mostly untouched. Pictures of my dad and aunt are all over the walls. Dream catchers and wolf figurines fill the shelves. He loves collecting all kinds of tchotchkes. There sits my grandpa wearing his trucker hat, old blue jeans and a long sleeve button up even though hell itself is outside. But what really knocks me out is the look of surprise on his face when I walk in, quickly shadowed by deep sadness. His trailer is dark, piles of dishes in the sink, dust everywhere. It’s obvious he hasn’t been caring for himself.

My grandma, his ex-wife, and I gingerly sit on the chairs across from his recliner. Small talk gets us going, but it doesn’t take long to get to the topic of his dear brother. Here one day and gone the next. Massive heart attack they said. His grief is so palpable it shatters my heart. He points to a picture behind my head, one of him and his brother hunting. Grandpa is looking at the camera holding the antlers of the biggest elk I’ve ever seen. Uncle Keith is looking away to the left, smirking at something. He tells me “you hated when we put that giant mother fucker in the back of the truck. You started crying, you were so horrified.” I didn’t know I was there in this memory that hung on his wall.

He lights up a little as he shares the memories of the other pictures on the wall of him and his 10 brothers and sisters. All of them are gone except for 4 of them. All the living siblings’ names start with D. We wonder what that means. He then tells me what a brat I was as a kid, but there is fondness in his voice. I tell him God is fair because gave me a wonderfully difficult child just like me.

Him and grandma reminisce about the time I had a little toy that made noise which I hid it under grandpa’s pillow. One night he rolled over which caused the toy to go off. He got so pissed, and so scared, that he took my toy and threw it out the window into the woods. I couldn’t be consoled when they told me the next day. We all laugh at the memory, but grandma asks if it ruined me as a person. I tell her I think I turned out okay.

A gentle silence falls over us. Grandpa tells me, once again, how sad he is, that he doesn’t want to keep going. How he’s always been the loner in the family, but uncle Keith always saw him, sought him out. We’re similar in that way, the black sheep of the family who found our people and clung to them tightly. Now, he has to let go of his favorite person.

I tell him it’s okay to feel sad, to grieve, but he’s not allowed to give up. Not yet. He’s got a few more miles left on his engine. He tells me maybe I’m right.

As we drive back I notice another white sign: “Please Don’t Drink and Drive. In loving memory of Joseph.” A signpost for loss, but also for hope in trying to keep a small piece of their story alive.

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication! The purpose of sharing these short stories and poems are to keep myself in a place of awe and wonder instead of losing my soul to doom-scrolling. My writing will always be free to read, but if you would like to support this tired mom you can buy me a coffee.

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It reminds me of my best friend and I trying to learn how to skateboard to impress the neighborhood boys, giving up, and riding the boards on our butts down the giant hill near her house. No helmets, just adrenaline and a little fear for the thrill. It was in her large house that I tried Greek food for the first time.

Her mom smoked like her life depended on it, but wore the most beautifully expensive perfume to cover the smell. I loved walking into the kitchen and catching the scent of her freshly doused cigarette and perfume spritz as she put together homemade tzatziki sauce for lunch.

Tonight, as I walk my dog on the shadowed sidewalks, the smell hits me. Faint smoke and just a hint of Chanel Number-who-knows. I stop and take another whiff while my dog follows her own curious snout. Both of us continue walking, on the hunt for a scent that will lead us somewhere that feels like home.

Joy Bomb

This issues joy bomb is very simple, it’s officially summertime for my kids! While the logistics of our life get slightly complicated (work + no school = major creativity), this time of year has become my favorite season.

Last night my kids and I came up with a summer schedule. It is not strict nor rigorous, it’s simply things they like to do, plus things we need to do (chores) with a dash of (free) adventures. It gives room for us to be more intentional as a family since we have less obligations.

I love it and it’s hard. My 4 year old has already had three major meltdowns and erased a proposal I was writing for work. But with iced coffee in hand and Noah Kahan playing in the background, it’s still been a wonderfully simple start.

I’d love to hear what’s bringing you joy this week.

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication! The purpose of sharing these short stories and poems are to keep myself in a place of awe and wonder instead of losing my soul to doom-scrolling. My writing will always be free to read, but if you would like to support this tired mom you can buy me a coffee.

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One of my favorite poetry practices has been erasure poetry. I’ve often described it as a word puzzle meets treasure hunt. I look for words and themes that are the most sticky and then find filler words to connect it all. It’s been a wonderful slow dopamine practice.

There have been two poems that I have come back to in this season of raising young kids, selling our house, pastoring a church of people on the margins, all while trying to maintain a healthy marriage and a resilient mind. It’s brought my anxiety to surface, and tries to keep me in a place of worry. (See also exhausted and soul weary)

All that to say, these two poems, created about a month apart, give language to the heaviness that worry can bring, while shining a light on the antidote that is hope itself.

May these words be a balm to your soul as they were for mine.

Erasure poem #13

Worry can bond a man

if calm gets quiet

and still.

Erasure poem #16

Hope knew enough to stay the worry;

working around time,

narrowing the ravine

carefully.

Joy Bomb

Every time I post I try to share what is bringing me joy in the moment. Right now, I have been taking all of my erasure poems and attempting to create a collage based on the theme of the poem. Here was my first attempt:

Do I feel like a kindergartener asking you to look at my messy art project? Yes. Yes, I do. But I firmly believe joy should be shared, mess and all.

P.S. If you would like to learn how to make your own erasure poems, check out my friend who has a great how to guide.

Please, as always, share what is bringing you joy this week.

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication! The purpose of sharing these short stories and poems are to keep myself in a place of awe and wonder instead of losing my soul to doom-scrolling. My writing will always be free to read, but if you would like to support this tired mom you can buy me a coffee.

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A false spring echoes through my neighborhood.

The sun awakens after a long sleep.

All the world sings with its brightness.

The cherry blossoms begin their blooming ritual,

only for a late winter rain to thrash the blooms from their branches.

As I passed the petals, discarded on the ground,

I longed to gather them up, arrange them just so,

and place them back on their resting place.

Beauty restored.

I continue to walk through the loss, and my heart says a prayer–

Gather me up like fallen petals on the ground.

Assemble me into something that resembles beauty,

and place me safely back on my resting place

as if all eternity exists in pink blossoms.

Post Script

This poem came about through a poetry prompt from , and their wonderful writing project based on the poems of Mary Oliver. Check out their publication to see more of the beautiful work coming from this project.

Joy Bomb

Every time I publish here I always try to share what’s bringing me joy. With all the craziness on the internet, this helps me stay connected to my humanity.

This week’s joy bomb is brought to you by Noah Khan. His new album, The Great Divide, might make you cry, but incredible, well made art will always bring collective joy. I think that is the unique experience of music.

Please share what’s bringing you joy this week!

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It has saved my life to know this—

Surrender to being held, 

By the soft grass as you lay upon its tendrils. 

Or the gritty sand as it supports your sinking feet. 

Surrender to the warmth of the sun

as it kisses your bare shoulders. 

Or the light of the moon

as it illuminates the darkness you’ve found yourself in.

It has saved my life to know this—

Surrender is strength 

clothed in tenderness. 

Surrender to being held.

Joy Bomb

Each time I share on Substack, I try to include what is bringing me joy in this moment. I live in the Pacific Northwest and for most of the year we have gray skies. But when Spring and Summer show up? Dang, it’s beautiful.

Well spring has sprung, and the cherry blossoms are bringing me tremendous joy at the moment.

I’d love to hear what your source of joy is this week.

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The gap between where I long to be and where I am stirs up winsome heartache. Causing me to fight for still, quiet moments when all my mind hears is noise, noise, noise. I must wrestle serenity into my soul and cling to it for dear life. This sweet serenity resembles a butterfly captured for its gorgeous wings, only to be frozen in death for the gaze of others. A grotesque beauty—made for our delight, but never for our dominance.

As I walk this mild trail listening to this babbling brook, I will savor what is mine to hold and release what is not. May my body remember this precious kind of peace. May it flow, flow, flow with me all the way back to gum-stained sidewalks and fluorescent lights.

Joy Bomb

I love music. My soul thrives on the sounds of a good beat and catchy lyrics. Music and dance are highly valued in my family. I can’t get through my work day without one of my playlists going. Most nights, my kids and I have a dance party to one of their favorite songs.

For this joy bomb, I’m sharing with you my (current) favorite tune:

Glimmers Everywhere by Lunar Vibes

Please share your favorite song or playlist! Music is joy that should be shared.

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication. The purpose of sharing these short stories and poems are to help keep myself, and hopefully others, in a place of awe. My writing will always be free to read, but if you would like to support this tired mom you can buy me a coffee.

Perhaps he knows, and each day he gives it all he’s got to get enough scraps for the long journey to the sea.

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication. The purpose of sharing these short stories and poems are to help keep myself, and hopefully others, in a place of awe. My writing will always be free to read, but if you would like to support this tired mom you can buy me a coffee.

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It’s important to remember, at least for me, that we are finite AND we can be made into works of art in the Creator’s hands.

All those days

you felt like dust,

like dirt,

as if all you had to do

was turn your face

toward the wind

and be scattered

to the four corners

or swept away

by the smallest breath

as insubstantial—

did you not know

what the Holy One

can do with dust?

- Jan Richardson, Circle of Grace

Have you ever practiced Lent? If so, I’d love to hear your experience and any guides or scriptures that have carried you through.

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication! The purpose of sharing these short stories and poems are to help keep myself, and hopefully others, in a place of awe. My writing will always be free to read, but if you would like to support this tired mom you can buy me a coffee.

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Sorry it took me so long. You waited patiently at our favorite spot. Coffee steaming in front of an empty chair. I've never been good at being on time. Then again, time doesn't hold you captive the same way. Still, I was caught up trying to busy myself with stuff I thought would impress you. My heart buzzing an anxious rhythm, my mind pacing like a prowling lion. But you waited without spite, like letting a toddler throw a tantrum before offering a hug; calm and reassuring. With the first sip of freshly brewed coffee, my heart sighs in relief as I take my seat in the presence of your loving care.  

Postscript

The birth story of this poem comes from being caught up in striving while I was working in ministry. I felt like I always needed to do more to prove I was a good leader. Yet, I felt like I was behind for some reason—like I needed to be where all the great saints were, miles ahead of me.

(As a side note, my toxic trait is that I’m very rarely on time to anything. Not because I don’t value people’s time, but because in my mind, I always have time to do one more thing before I need to leave or get ready. Aka ADHD math according to TikTok).

Anyway, over the last two years Jesus has shown me that he’s not after my striving, but my whole being. He never asked me to kill myself slowly through performance, but was asking for my presence. So this poem is also a prayer offering to the strivers out there. We’re not late, we’re just in time <3

Joy Bomb

This week’s joy offering is a little niche, but I hope you enjoy it regardless.

I’ve been trying to find ways to be on my phone less, but still wanted something tangible to do that helps my brain chill out. Enter in erasure poetry. It has been a great slow dopamine hit trying to piece together poems from literature. I went to the thrift store, found an old western novel for two bucks, and have had tons of fun making poems.

Here’s a little example from the other day:

I was lovely and flighty

But turned toward

reputation

not acknowledgement

Smile again

You called

If you ever give this try, please tag me! I love reading what people come up with.

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication! The purpose of sharing these short stories and poems are to keep myself in a place of awe and wonder instead of losing my soul to doom-scrolling. My writing will always be free to read, but if you would like to support this tired mom you can buy me a coffee.

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Lost kids. That’s what we called ourselves when we played this survival game in the forest behind my grandparents’ trailer park. We would spend our time gathering twigs and leaves for our fire, and broken branches to make a shelter. We’d break and shave large sticks to form rifles to hunt the birds and squirrels for food. We would be in those woods for hours. Pretending we were running from the big, bad orphanage that kept us oppressed.

During those summers, our imaginations saved us. Protected what innocence we still carried in our small and growing bodies. We were children of divorce, you see. Not orphans by the dictionary definition, but orphaned from true love at times.

Our parents tried their best with what they had given the circumstances. But at the end of the day, his mom was a drug addict, his dad was absent, and my parents were teenagers who still liked to party and smoke weed instead of raising a toddler.

One of the earliest memories I have is being at a party at 3 or 4 years old. My eyes drooped so heavily I couldn’t keep them open. Mysterious arms scooped me up and put me on a bed somewhere in the boathouse. Goosebumps prickled on my arms as I rolled over on the plastic-covered mattress. No blankets, just the cold and uninviting air covering me, causing comfort to slither out of reach. The pungent smell of spilled beer and fish bait hit my nostrils, keeping me from a deep sleep. I toss and turn over and over and over until the memory fades.

I don’t know if I ever made it home that night or if we stayed at the boathouse while my mom slept off her hangover.

My cousin also endured his fair share of exposure to drugs and abuse. Half of it, I can’t even comprehend, nor is it my full story to tell.

But this I know – our imaginations rescued us until it could no longer hold our sorrows.

We got too old for the game. It morphed into other ways of escapism. My cousin coped with his own drug addiction. I found solace in perfectionism and an eating disorder. Both of us stumbled through our teenage years trying to make sense of a childhood that held both fondness and terror.

Because at the end of the day, we were loved, but it hurt like hell. We were taken care of, but often not wanted. Our needs and emotions were a terrible inconvenience.

My boots crunch as I walk through fallen leaves and dead branches, my 4-year-old and 2-year-old trail behind me, looking for treasure in the soft dirt. Their beautiful curiosity calls to the little girl inside of me who sought refuge in a similar forest. I stand before them as the guardian of their playfulness. One who will tell them they are loved and wanted; that their imaginations can be a place of rescue.

We all walk back to the house, greeted by our family. My aunt and cousin are sober now, and they smile at us as we walk through the door. My dad sweeps my youngest son into his arms and gives him some kind of treat.

I still believe our creativity can save us. After all, we’re just some lost kids trying to make sense of the world and find our way back home.

Postscript

This past weekend, I attended a Christian conference. I’m always a little apprehensive about these things because I think we, as followers of Jesus, can over-sensationalize the move of the Holy Spirit when you’re in a room of filled with thousands. But the speakers were wonderful, and the worship was beautiful.

One of the speakers had the daunting task of teaching on shame. While there’s lots to say about it and how we carry it, what stuck with me was how he explained that we (as a society) co-author each other’s stories. We are not necessarily blank pages when we are born. There were many pages written before our chapter began; good, bad, ugly, and beautiful. We carry these stories with us whether we like it or not. Our shame can often grow and develop because of these stories and their authors (our co-authors), but Jesus gives us a way to name the shame, and he can help rewrite our stories of chaos. “God runs toward and hovers over chaos”, he mentioned several times. And that struck me most of all.

Just like the beginning of creation, what was once riotous and disorderly, God hovered over it and gave it shape, texture, and color. He called it good. Where I feel chaotic and lost, God runs toward it to bring order and beauty. We help each other (through Christ) co-create beauty through the telling of stories, and call others to their truest narrative.

And so, by telling this small part of my own story to you, you get to co-author it with me, as maybe I’ll do for you, by calling out the shame and remembering what is true. God did bring order to the chaos I’ve lived through. It was not tidy, but damn if it isn’t beautiful.

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication! The purpose of sharing these short stories and poems are to keep myself in a place of awe and wonder instead of losing my soul to doom-scrolling. My writing will always be free to read, but if you would like to support this tired mom you can buy me a coffee.

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This was true of my 3-year-old as we walked from the bookstore back to our car. His footsteps bouncing confidently down the sidewalk, cookie in hand, and singing, rather loudly:

You put your butt in

You put your butt out

You put your butt in

To which a woman with a dusting of gray through her brown hair, a bright rainbow sweater, stops in front of him and sings, rather loudly:

And you shake it all about

You do the hokey pokey

And you spin yourself around

We all finish in unison –

That’s what it’s all about!

She and I smile politely at each other as we pass. My son looks up at me, baffled yet bewildered with a huge, toothy grin. A stranger had entered into his world, the silliness of his song, and decided to participate rather than belittle. Our giggles lingered as he asked me to race him to the car.

The moment was brief, but it brought so much delight to our walk. It made my heart swell with hope. It felt holy. That might sound dramatic, but earlier, as we trudged through the city block, each person we passed was looking down at a phone. Not a single one made eye contact as we passed.

There’s a famous line in Matthew where Jesus says, “But blessed are your eyes because they see, and your ears because they hear.”

As my son grows from being a boy to a man, his memory will forget this small act of playfulness, but I pray his heart will carry it forever; that his eyes will learn to see the wonder in plain, ordinary things, and his ears will be attuned to songs sung with strangers or the melody of chirping birds in the middle of a cold January day.

My heart swells with holy hope because our world is not a lost cause; it just needs to be reminded that we have eyes to see and ears to hear the wonder that surrounds.

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication! The purpose of sharing these short stories and poems are to keep myself in a place of awe and wonder instead of losing my soul to doom-scrolling. My writing will always be free to read, but if you would like to support this tired mom you can buy me a coffee.

Happy New Year!

To those of you who are new to Craving Creation — welcome, and hello! I started this Substack to keep myself in a place of wonder after experiencing a year of grief, postpartum anxiety, and an ache to get back to my creative roots. I hope this small corner of the internet will inspire you to be in awe of your own life because all of our stories matter.

This, dear son

Leading up to Christmas, we walked our oldest boys through the themes of Advent with the first theme being hope. My husband used a beautiful analogy to explain what hope means, and thus this poem was born. This will be my posture walking into 2026:

Joy Bomb

Over the years, I’ve discovered that January 1 is not the best time for me to make the most audacious goals. I’m too emotionally hungover from the holidays. Harry Baker shares a delightful poem about achievable resolutions.

Catching something mid-air is a personal resolution for me as I have an 8 month old who likes to drop/throw everything he’s holding.

The Beginning of Something

For those of you who are excited about starting the year with new goals/resolutions/intentions here's a poem for you I wrote going into 2024:

Until next time!

This story came about through a writing competition held by Every Day Saints called Tell Me Something Beautiful: About Suffering. Thank you for giving space to share some of our deepest hurts.

Grief is like an ocean.

It will come in waves.

It’s best not to fight them.

Anger punches me in the gut at her analogy. The metal legs of this old, plastic chair creak as my body shifts uncomfortably at the counselor’s words. It was the water, after all, that took her, filled her lungs until everything ceased, and dragged her down and away from those whom she loved.

To fight the wave is the only response, to push against the wall threatening to crush me—the way it did my friend one summer afternoon.

Memory is a strange thing when viewed through the lens of grief. The most vivid feeling from that particular summer day was the temperature. July heat mercilessly beat down on my parent’s unconditioned home. Even the breeze scorched. Everything about it was average – sunbathing, popsicles, and watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer on the CW.

Less vivid was the reaction. The scream that escaped when the words “she’s gone” rang through the receiver. Or the slam of my car door as I drove from my parent’s house, weeping, scared, and unsure how grief would come to me.

She doesn’t come like the ocean. No, she came to me at the edge of darkness. Asking me to come and see what she has waiting.

I begin to see her path is laid with stones of memory. Draws the cold and weary soul to her pit with warm light, much like a campfire.

The trek into her wood begins with reluctance. Your only supplies are the big three: anger, sadness, and denial. And yet, you go because grief is hardly ever a choice.

Boots crunch as you disappear into darkness. You draw a shaky breath, and the smell hits you. A rich aroma of cedar and smoke tickles your nostrils, beckoning you onward.

Soon, you see the tails of smoke dancing from flames in the middle of a clearing with camp chairs and familiar faces. Those who also trudged into grief’s wood, praying to God to come out the other side, wait for you to join.

You take a seat, arms wrapped around yourself, a protection of sorts. Warmth hits your chest as the biting cold tickles your back. Food and drinks are dished out. You take it even though you can’t eat. Everyone feels cared for by the fire. By nature, it freely gives its resources to those who come and dwell. Stories and laughter are the fuel that keeps the fire lit.

Comfortable silence falls. Everyone stares as the flames mirror silent memories going through our heads. The tears that glisten reflect the grief burning in us. The crackle of the wood is our soundscape to the dark hole that’s hollowed out our spirits.

Time suspends us. We try our best to ignore the noise of what lies beyond the woods. The world cruelly moves on, expecting you to pick up your camp chair, pull up your boot straps, and soldier on.

The embers of grief keep on burning, giving off the slightest warmth, holding our hearts hostage — begging to stay a little while longer on the threshold of before loss and after.

We all go eventually.

The descent from the wood is not as daunting. Legs a little steadier. Boot straps tight. Eyes bloodshot, but dry. You emerge marked by the fire, the smell of smoke still clinging to your hair, and a map for how to get back when loss comes knocking once again.

You realize the passage of time burns less and less, just a scar now. The original wound is cauterized.

But every July smells like burning cedar.

Grief’s campfire is rekindled. An invitation to come and sit for a while and relish in the warmth of memory and times forgotten. The hike is not as dark or looming. Empty camp chairs are filled with the same familiar faces. Cups are filled with something strong. Laughter and tears are the soundscape to this odd reunion. Bonds are formed, like magic, through our tragedy — a club none of us asked to be a part of.

To know grief is to feel the heat of hell while being kissed by the breath of heaven through the mouths of those brave enough to tell our stories by her fire.

I hate being needy. Part of my childhood trauma most likely. But the life of a Christian, life to the full, requires us to lay our needs at His feet. To trust he will take care of your deepest and darkest, your most tender and sacred.

The psalms teach us it’s okay to need God. In fact, it calls those who rebel against needing God “wicked”. For the rebellious, wicked hearts like mine — a prayer for you.

A Psalm

The inspiration for this prayer was Psalm 34:5 from The Message:

Look at him; give him your warmest smile.
Never hide your feelings from him

Joy Bomb

There’s a phrase we often refer to in my household, “Life is a battle. Silly is a rest.” It’s from a great comedian, Russell Howard. When my heart needs a gear shift, especially as I parent young kids, I do something weird or silly.

If you need a good belly laugh, check out Russell Howard’s recent comedy special on Netflix.

Until next time!

A burst of giggles and screams erupts through the crisp autumn air as the springs of the trampoline groan under bouncing feet.

It’s still light out. Barely. The sun is holding on to the last of its golden rays. The soft breeze against our static hair reminds me that these sunny autumn days will soon transition to rain and gloom.

“Land on your bum”, I remind them, “it’s your squishiest part!”

Their little bodies shoot through the air over and over as I double-bounce them to the sound of laughter and autumn leaves rustling in the biting wind.

I’m shot back to my own childhood, jumping on my best friend’s trampoline. We’d bounce each other so high in the air we could see the neighborhood – Mrs. Nelson raking her yard next door, cars pulling out of their driveways, and the feeling of being closer to the sky than ground. Then comes the best sensation, your stomach bottoms out with the exhilaration of height. You’re suspended in space and time. Then you begin your descent. Adrenaline shoots through your veins as you crash into the tightly knit fabric of the trampoline. Sturdy, but also giving. It allows you to land with tears in your eyes from the cool air and laughter in your belly.

Faith is similar, I’ve found.

Leap of faith, they call it, when you’re in one place but hoping to end up in another with no idea how you’ll clear the middle.

Courage must be mustered, either from circumstance or choice, for your leg muscles to fire up. Your heart, too, must be willing to mind the gap between the reality you’re living in and the one you’re hoping to land on safely.

But one crucial thing should also be mustered—the willingness to die.

Faith requires death; death to self, death to what was, death to certainty, death to control.

You must die a thousand times in a thousand different ways to experience the freedom that follows the big leap.

Thankfully, we’re promised that death has no victory and our faith is assured. We can stumble forward knowing the promises we have received.1

I’m clumsy, often naive, and more often wrong. But I know that I can jump from shaky legs because I’m surrounded by a Savior who is good at catching clumsy, messy things.

When I’m in seasons of my faith being tested and fortified, standing at a divine precipice, I find courage from the end of St. Patrick’s Breastplate Prayer:

Christ with me

Christ before me,

Christ behind me,

Christ in me

Christ beneath me,

Christ above me,

Christ on my right,

Christ on my left,

Christ when I lie down,

Christ when I sit down,

Christ when I arise

My spiritual director has to remind me (more times than I care to admit) that I’m not powerful enough to wreck my own life. “God is bigger than your worst decisions”, she says.

Christ is all around.

I don’t have anything figured out in this life, but I do know that we are called to take up a shield of faith. At this moment it feels heavy, burdensome, like David wearing armor that was too big. I’m in the process of dying at the altar of control, getting ready to vault into the unknown.

Dying to myself sucks. It’s painful. What’s ahead seems impossible to my human mind. I can’t quite activate my holy imagination at the moment. But I’ll land, and so will you, on the strong yet giving fabric of the God who weaves our hope. Because we’re not powerful enough to mess up the promises He’s given, not even close.

You’ll land on your haunches a few times, sure.2 I know I have. But take heart. The God of the universe is a safe landing place who has given you a body, squishy parts and all, in order to withstand, to fly, to jump and leap, and laugh.

“Ouch! My buttcrack!” My three year old shouts as he lands from a big jump.

More laughter and giggles revive me from my reverie.

Little bodies tackle me, and we haphazardly roll to the middle of the trampoline, landing on our backs, gazing at the pink and orange sky.

Our breath comes in heaves. Our bodies revel in the exertion of jumping and chasing.

Boy, how good it feels to have a safe landing place.

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication. My purpose with sharing my writing is to remind myself and others to stay in awe, in a world that is constantly dividing our attention.

If you enjoyed this reflection, please consider subscribing or sharing with a friend.

Until the next one!

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An elderly woman (why is it always the elderly?) says to me as I push my three boys through the hellscape of Costco on a Monday night.

My husband returns with our favorite bread. The same old woman told him he’s “doing a great job” a moment ago when I went off to find pasta sauce.

Are my hands full? Yes. Quite literally.

My 6-month-old refuses to stop crying and only wants to be held by me and me alone. My other two boys are currently fighting about how many chocolate chip cookies each one will get on the car ride home.

After our entourage gets to the car, my mind is stuck on that woman’s statement. Are my hands full? Too full? How absurd.

Most days, I feel like I’m drowning in diapers, dishes, and dirty laundry.

Other days, my heart feels like it’s about to burst because I have all these sweet humans to love.

My husband and I turn to each other and share a funny anecdote about something our 3-year-old said in the frozen food aisle.

“We really gotta write this shit down. It’s comedy gold.”

Ah, there it is—the engine behind the big idea.

My husband and I have often said the above statement throughout our parenting journey and marriage. Simply because when we’re old and gray, and our kids have moved out of the house to start their own wild journey, we want to remember.

There are lots of instructions in the Bible about remembering and how bad humans are at it. Specifically, when it comes to God’s goodness.

I, too, have spiritual amnesia that sometimes bleeds all over the monotony of each day.

This is a simple attempt to remember.

To celebrate.

To mourn.

To offload the burden of being human.

Because if we’re lucky enough to grow gray hair and wrinkles, all we’ll have are stories. All kinds of stories, no matter what kind of life we end up living.

Are my hands full? Too full? How lucky.

If you’ve found my little corner of the internet, thanks for being here. I’m not a famous author or spiritual guru. I’m an ordinary person, sharing ordinary stories about my ordinary life. Because I have a hunch the Bible is right in its call to remember.

There’s holiness in the ordinary. The internet says otherwise. We’ll see who’s right in the end, I guess.

May reading these little stories light a spark in your heart to remember every ordinary moment you’re lucky enough to stumble through.

Cheers,

Lyndsey

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication. If you have an ordinary story about your life, I’d love to hear it!

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Because it seems easier than letting God into my mess

I want to be led to greener pastures, but my mind returns to worry

I want to sit at the table and enjoy the feast, but my body keeps craving worldly junk

I want to dwell in His house all my days, but my spirit was tricked into believing Instagram will give me the formula for freedom

This needy flesh makes me weary

My rebellion claws and shreds at my peace

“I love you,” He says

The storm clears

The warmth of being loved kisses my sensitive skin

A small mercy I don’t deserve

//

I want the world to save me

Because it seems easier than letting God heal my brokenness

Broken memories

Broken heart

Broken body

This needy flesh makes me heavy

My unruly heart drags me under the waves of darkness

I hear a shout

“Boo!”

What?

“Remember how easy you used to laugh,” He says

A smile slowly breaks free from my lips

A small mercy I don’t deserve

His joy saving me once again

Joy Bomb

Each night before bed, my husband and I share things that made us laugh that day. Our “funnies,” we call them. It’s typically Instagram Reels, but since I’m limiting my time on that app, I’ve had to get creative. I’ve shared this before, but my favorite podcast at the moment is Good Hang with Amy Poehler.

I can’t recommend it enough. If you need a good laugh, check it out!

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication. The purpose of sharing my poems on the internet with total strangers is to remind myself and others to stay in a place of awe and wonder. Plus, share a little joy instead of doom-scrolling.

Until next time!

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Seems easier than letting God do it

I want my job to save my bank account

I want my environment to save the peace I try to cultivate

I want people to see me and give me praise

Instead of a Friend who knows how many strands of hair on my head

My flesh cries out like a jealous beast, begging to be fed through stuff and status

Want, want, want

Never satisfied or content

This needy flesh pests me to take the easy way out

Clawing to be the loudest voice

“Hush” He whispers

And the tide of envy rolls back

My mind calm for a moment

Peace

Turns out I can’t cultivate her my own

She washes back to shore

Saving me yet again

A small mercy I don’t deserve

Joy Bomb

Summer officially ended for those of us in PNW. As a last hurrah, my husband and I took our kids to the local aquarium. On our way home we were pondering how amazing, odd, and other worldly sea creatures are. It got us into a funny conversation with our kids about what God was thinking when he made them, which led us to remember this hilarious video. (Not click bait, just good ol’ fashioned silliness)

Please tell me, what’s making you laugh these days?

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication. The purpose of sharing my poems on the internet with total strangers is to remind myself and others to stay in a place of awe and wonder. Plus share a little joy instead of doom scrolling.

Until next time!

My soul tired
My mind scattered
My world a disheveled mess 
My bones carry the weight of it
I am weary 
I long for my weariness to be transformed into rich soil
instead of a sea for me to drown 
Will you plant your comfort in my worry?
Will you let these tear soaked prayers water what hope is left? 
You promise you're near the broken hearted
But what about the weary soul?
Till the dirt and grime of my brokenness until new growth arises
As I wait, crushed in the depths of weariness
May I taste and see your goodness still  

Joy Bomb

One of my favorite things to watch/listen to right now is Amy Poehler’s Good Hang. With so many podcasts out there, this one is just pure fun! I wanted to share with you my favorite episode so far with Paul Rudd. Enjoy two good friends making each other laugh and being silly.

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication. The purpose of sharing my poems on the internet with total strangers is to remind myself and others to stay in a place of awe and wonder. Plus share a little joy instead of doom scrolling.

Until next time!

Share Craving Creation

Nothingness

That was the beginning, the start to this story 

The Creator had an idea, an ache

That idea became a word 

That word became the ocean, the sky, the air in our lungs

What joy there must have been at the start of it all

The ability to create, to bring something into existence — pure elation

Another idea sparks

Give this gift away

Continue this cycle of joy and delight knowing it would not stay as He intended 

To think, we are the only creatures on this earth who can continue the succession of creation

And it is not reserved for the elite or those deemed artistic

No, we all carry this gift 

This propensity to contribute to the world around us

This ache to participate in the rhythm of delight and disappointment, nothingness to existence 

A song in your heart, a painting in your mind, words you must put to paper, a business you long to start

These are the echoes of our Creator 

Expressed uniquely through your hands, your mind, your spirit 

May this gift yield more flourishing 

May it give birth to more wisdom

May it break way for more creating, more life

Joy Bomb

The internet can be a huge bummer sometimes, so each time I post I hope to share a piece of it that brings joy and laughter.

We’re officially entering my favorite time of year, fall! (Hi, I’m a basic white woman) So with that, please enjoy this adaptation from one of my favorite shows, Schitt’s Creek.

Thank you for taking the time to read my publication. My purpose with sharing my poems on the internet (with total strangers) is to remind myself and others to stay in awe of a God I’m basing my whole life around in a world that is constantly dividing our attention.

If you enjoyed this poem, please share. Not because I want more followers, but to remind others to keep their eyes filled with wonder.

Until the next one!