Sometimes I come across old writings of mine that never found their place online and for some reason, I feel the need to let them live here. And sometimes a writer has to write even if she only has a few sentences dancing in her head, new or old. I very much connect with Malcolm Guite’s take on being a word-whisperer rather than a wordsmith. One pounds out words knowing exactly what shape they will be in the end, the other whispers words into the air not always knowing where they will take him or what shape they will eventually form. Most of my words are written on my phone in fragmented slivers in between vacuuming or folding laundry. And oftentimes it’s months later that I believe they might have a bit of worth (even if only to me).

April 2026

I drove with my youngest to the store for a few special birthday items for his brother this past week. We giggled over the moon in the mid-morning sky looking like a cookie half dipped in milk.

I read him a poem while in the parking lot of the bookstore called Lemon Pie. Now he wants lemon pie. So, do I.

From the bridge in my town, one can stand over the St. Lawrence River. A few miniature islands dot the water and far across to the shore, green hills slope up and over, sprinkled with white stone markers wedged into the grassy hillside. Names and dates of years long before anyone known to me are etched into the stones. Names like Olga and Silvie, Arnold and Percival.

Leafless branches shiver in the cool spring air, a gripping scene of loss and love and hidden life. There are no faces to the names chiseled into stones, no understanding of what their purposes were here in the land of the living, though sometimes a clue that a person was once a professor or musician but mostly their lives remain a secret. A cemetery is where the dead wait for resurrection. We walk among the stillness, the voiceless, the stories untold or forgotten.

The river swells and deepens, bobbing with water repellent geese making their arrival North for the summer. The river is black down to the unimagined bottom though I try to let my mind pretend there’s treasure by the trunk-full there.

In summer we break bread on the shore and pass crumbling cheese and salami in rolls. Laughter is exhaled; peace mingled to the tune of sparkling water being poured into plastic cups. Living in the midst of the dead we fight back the inevitable darkness with feast and fortitude.

The moon shows through the sunlight. Both moon and sun seen together in the sky. Day and night, Life and death standing side by side. We are the living ones taking our turn under the rising sun and star-peppered skies.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust - life to death, sunset to moonlit - we are in line with life today and this day is the day The Lord has made.

We live life ahead of the ashes and dust though both are ours, like the sun and moon together in the sky. We’ll not taste one without the other. Both life and death belong to mankind. Let the taste of both be sweet. Not because you’re okay with death (by no means should one agree with planned death) but because your death is one of hopeful resurrection with Jesus.

We venture home to stretch balloon printed giftwrap out on my bed. We fold and tape down corners neatly, excitement in the air for yet another birthday celebration. The sun sets and the half-moon sits anchored alone in the night sky. We are the living ones, taking our turn celebrating the gift of life. We press on and settle into the lives entrusted to us with joy and anticipation for what is yet to come. In thankfulness we see these days as worthy of our attention.

Streamers hung and the frosting whipped, tomorrow will be a great day to celebrate!

I’ll leave you, my dear friends, with the sweetness of the lemon pie poem. May it remind you of the goodness of God in the simplest of ways.

Lemon Pie - by Edgar Albert Guest

The world is full of gladness,
There are joys of many kinds,
There’s a cure for every sadness,
That each troubled mortal finds.
And my little cares grow lighter
And I cease to fret and sigh,
And my eyes with joy grow brighter
When she makes a lemon pie.

When the bronze is on the filling
That’s one mass of shining gold,
And its molten joy is spilling
On the plate, my heart grows bold
And the kids and I in chorus
Raise one glad exultant cry
And we cheer the treat before us
Which is mother’s lemon pie.

Then the little troubles vanish,
And the sorrows disappear,
Then we find the grit to banish
All the cares that hovered near,
And we smack our lips in pleasure
O’er a joy no coin can buy,
And we down the golden treasure
Which is known as lemon pie.

At the Y where the yield sign meets the curve I slow between two fields, one on my left and one on my right.

To the left are the black mama cows with their newly birthed calves that run from open barn doors, kicking and jumping, seemingly laughing together at the sheer joy of being alive. I smile at the sight of them.

On my right a dozen or more Icelandic sheep look up at me from their chewing. Jaws that grind circles over knee-high field grasses. Their bodies are still and contented with their pasture, happy to just breathe the spring air and play hide-and-seek for a spell.

The van glides on, over hill and into valley where a yard full of free roaming chickens peck and scratch at the ground. A rooster plays “king-of-the-mountain” on an accidental dirt pile and shakes his bright red comb at a self-appointed victory.

Almost home now. Left at the sign and I’m back with my people. There’s a winding trail of cowslips through the wet part of the forest that I can just barely see the end of - I wonder where they lead? Follow the yellow cowslip road?

An apple tree tucked in with the pines refuses to go unnoticed with its hundreds of white blossoms - it can’t hide its fruitful branches. Home is just over the hill, just beyond the draping black locust trees.

There are kids on bikes in my driveway. Chickens and ducks in my yard and apple trees of three different varieties. Behind my house the field grass is stretching tall. Each week I cut paths in circles and figure-eights for those who wish to chase after midnight fairies (fireflies).

To live a life of simplicity one must do simple things with care and rejoicing.

Little wooden clips pinched on lines draped with sheets and cotton bath towels. The act of lifting and pinning, lifting and pinning, in slow silent motions with only the crows in the field calling to one another. Soft grass under bare feet; the wind’s work once I’m through hanging.

I remember my mom hanging clothes on the line and the rough, stiffness of the towels after the wind blew the wet out of them. I didn’t appreciate it at the time. But the other day I found myself unpinning a shirt from the line and compulsively pressing my face into its memorable scent. What is the scent of laundry from the line anyway? Is it the scent of the summer sun and fewer responsibilities that swept me all the way back to childhood? If an inhale could last for hours, I would’ve attempted it.

Heaven must smell like laundry from the line

And Lily of the Valley

And newborn baby hair

And bread just out of the oven…

Oh, the scent of heaven most certainly is brilliant! Thank God, He’s given us morsels to cling to. Wisps of sweet honey and apple blossoms to draw us nearer to Him and the goodness that only ever comes from Him.

The lilac branches are full. Every side table has a jar and each bathroom too. A sprinkle of beauty arranged by a daughter who also believes in peppering our space with lovely scents.

A husband’s rough hand holds mine at dinner. With eyes cinched shut I hear him exhale and hang thankful prayers to the hem of Jesus’ robe - lifted to the heavens like the laundry on the line.

Simply holy. Every moment. Every task. Every simple sunlit day that you’ve been given.

I came home to my eldest daughter cleaning the kitchen before heading off to work. We had lunch together; hot raspberry tea and toast with egg salad piled on top. We laughed and hugged before she vanished down the road.

The laundry is caught up, and the schoolbooks are creased and dog-eared in so many places. Though children are sick today, there’s remnants of learning all throughout this home. I’m not sure there’s anything more beautiful than a dwelling that’s thrumming with life and learning. Even if that means boots don’t always make it to the rug by the door and music books spread their way across the top of the baby grand. Clutter is oftentimes the fingerprint of a lovingly occupied space.

The rain and cool temperatures haven’t shifted much this week and as E.E. Cummings wrote, “April has sweet, small, clumsy feet.” Spring is such a subtle turn of season. Almost as if it’s tripping into place with only the hint of lilac and honeysuckle on its breath. We wait and remain mostly indoors while the rain tickles the tin roof and makes a mudslide out of our chicken run. There are no blossoming trees yet for us in Northern NY, that will be weeks from now.

The field behind our house is still matted down and mostly brown with only small tuffs of new grass. I walk our puppy along the stream that’s lined with pussy-willow trees. He sniffs EVERYTHING but comes to his name being called (mostly because I keep a pocket full of dog treats). We like him and he likes us.

I wake early most days and tuck my flowered pajama bottoms into rubber boots and walk to the chicken coop. I fill feeders to the sound of robins singing. The bus rumbles by our house without flinching and I see the same three neighbors leave for work every day (they too see me in my matching PJ set so we’re even!)

Inside the house the coffee pot is half full and I pour myself a second cup. My bible is limply opened to the gospel of John, and a stack of books sits beside it for extra inspiration.

Most days are like this one (minus sickness, thankfully) - commonplace and routine. The teapot bumbles, the dog barks, the children laugh and scribble down answers to math problems. The laundry spins in cycles, lamps turn off then on again, dishes clank and sometimes break inside the porcelain sink. We hum along with tunes that drift through our kitchen speaker while cutting potatoes or stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce. It’s a rhythm of life I plan never to let go of. And of course, there’s days of sibling squabbles and marriage frustrations (must I really mention the obvious?) - but the merry mundane outweighs them all.

It’s in the days of ordinary living that we tie our hearts around home and each other. Though unseen in the moment, it’s the humdrum afternoons sitting on the front porch that shapes our desire for family. Or the loving act of washing and folding laundry day after day that mirrors Jesus washing the feet of His disciples. It’s the mud-caked boots that walk to the coop every morning and the oatmeal bubbling in the pot on the stove for the third time in a week. We’re formed by the rhythms of our day to day. More than a fancy vacation, our children’s hearts will beat to the pattern of the life they were routinely shown. The merriest of days will prove to be the mundane.

Over the past 11 years that we’ve lived here my husband has lovingly designed things just how I ask. From leaving the original beams exposed in the dining room ceiling, to hanging a cheap crystal chandelier in our spare room to match the floral wallpaper. There’s still much to be done and it’s a slow process, but each tiny renovation feels like a new beginning with my initials carved into it.

I rolled out dough for a sausage and cheese filled stromboli one evening. The sun had already gone down and a half-moon hung outside my kitchen windows surrounded by a sprinkling of faraway stars. The fridged air had revealed a night sky crowded with flickering lights that seemed to wink at me like they held some precious secret I was part of. I stood shivering on the porch to gape for as long as my body would allow before grabbing a piece of firewood and heading indoors to set the table.

We can’t ever stop looking for the goodness of the Lord. No matter how dark the newsflash, or how frequently they come across your feed, you must know without a shadow of a doubt that the God who formed the stars and breathed life into your body has sewn beauty and goodness into your days. We must take a stand against evil by seeking all that is holy. We can never stop looking for Jesus in our midst.

The mornings are still dark when I wake up and meet my husband at the dining room table for a cup of fragrant coffee swirling with cream and maple syrup. We’ve made it our custom to light one candle and a small wall lamp while our eyes grow familiar with the morning light. It’s dim and a bit haunting to sit with him by the woodstove while the house still sleeps. Time slips by so quickly on these mornings as we wring out every second available to us, chatting and laughing under our breath. I can hardly believe it when he says it’s time for him to go. Hugs and a quick kiss and he’s off with boots tied and lunch tucked under his arm. The sound of his truck rolling over squeaky snow-covered roads is my cue to start thinking about my day with the kids. I want more for them than to program their minds with facts that tick the boxes designed by homeschool laws. There’s more to home teaching than filling in blanks on lined paper. Inspiring their hearts to love learning new things, to delight in creativity, to laugh throughout the day, sip tea while reading, accomplish one more math problem even when it hurts, and experiment in the kitchen (albeit at the ravaging of my cupboards) – all of this takes creativity and courage on my part to believe my simple loaves and fish will one day Initiate great thinkers and selfless lovers.

So, I pray, and I think, and I trust that God will multiply my offerings.

There’s a sweet little market a few miles from our house that opened in the fall of last year. They sell lovely things; local foods, thick cut bacon, homemade sourdough bread, fresh eggs, and perfectly grown bouquets of tulips. Shopping in quaint markets filled with colorful produce and locally sourced food is like a dream to me. There’s something delightful about stomping snow covered boots off at my door with a paper bag filled with flowers and honey that makes me want to squeeze each one of my children tightly and cup my cold-from-the-outdoors hands around their warmed cheeks. It’s the goodness of God that I have been given these things and I believe He, being the same God today as He was when he breathed the night sky into a sparkling blanket of light is breathing His goodness into us and into our moments, even now.

Samwise Gamgee said it best, “There’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo…and it’s worth fighting for.”

And sometimes the good worth fighting for are the things right under our noses. It’s the sound of the dinner bell calling children in from sledding, or the prayers said by candlelight in the morning. It’s the smell of spaghetti pie hot from the oven and the record player spinning out jazzy tunes while mom dances in the kitchen. It’s the simple things scattered throughout our days that are worth noting as grand gestures from a magnificent God! It’s the routines of daily living that bring us ‘round the dining room table again and again to feast, to laugh and stamp into our memory the goodness of God. Without dinner prep, there’d be no candle lit. Without laundry dried there’d be no wooly socks on footstool. The seemingly mundane moments are the ones that carry into lifelong memories.

I’ll never stop looking for the goodness of God because it’s right here all around me.

“How precious are your thoughts about me, O God. They cannot be numbered! I can’t even count them; they outnumber the grains of sand! And when I wake up, you are still with me!” Psalm 139:17-18

Life is swirling all around us, humming with rhythm and drenching us in grace. God’s grace. Always look for the goodness of God - ask, seek, knock, and the door to His love will be opened to you.

As a child I would play a game with my two older siblings where they’d run from the dining room, through the kitchen at full speed sliding across the linoleum and around the corner to where I sat on the bottom stair waiting. Upon reaching me I’d say the same line for as long as they’d race and glide into me, “Not ready yet!” I’d yell as I threw my head back in laughter. This went on for hours and quickly became the “not ready yet” game that we’d childishly play for years to come.

Bent and shuffling through my closet last weekend I noticed many things tucked away, things that left me thinking, “I wasn’t ready yet, God.”

An unworn toddler’s dress with tags draped over empty baby bassinet.

A tote of school papers from 16 years of home teaching gone in an instant.

Ultrasound pictures of a young pregnancy.

My late grandmother’s Christmas tea set, dusty and chipped.

Not ready yet.

How many times would I have said this if given the choice? Not ready yet, for my grandparents to be gone. Not ready yet, to having an empty baby cradle. Not ready yet, to years rushing by and a second high school graduation rounding the bend. Not ready yet, to becoming a mom at 19.

But I know this deep down in my soul; everything is sacred that has been handed to us by a sovereign God. He isn’t worried about how ready we feel in the moment. Look at the scriptures; I’m sure Eve didn’t feel ready to be thrown out of the garden, Moses wasn’t ready to lead, Mary and Joseph weren’t ready to become parents, Peter wasn’t ready to lose his companion and leader at the cross.

The only readiness we need to have is that of Christ’s return. We will never be fully ready for the load that’s handed to us, we might even be shocked by it at times, but faithfulness trumps readiness. We can decide to be faithful to the will of Jesus, to our vows of marriage, to the cultivating of our children’s hearts and to the place where we’ve laid down our roots. Faithfulness keeps oil in jars like five of the ten virgins (Matthew 25:1-13) who figuratively display to us a spiritual preparedness for the return of King Jesus. Faithfulness doesn’t need to know what’s around the corner because it’s already made up its mind to reveal itself in the moment, its jars are already filled.

My siblings and I are all in our 40’s now, we no longer slide across linoleum (on purpose anyway!) or play for hours at roundabout games of nonsense. Though I’d love to still be able to yell, “not ready yet!” And have what’s skidding toward me come back at a more opportune time, my oil jars are filled and ready.

I must start first with an apology for not standing by my word and sending forth more content intended just for you. Please forgive me! If you know me personally (hi Mom!) you know that I am often “single parenting” with my husband’s job as a lineman being very demanding and unpredictable. This makes finding space and energy to write as often as I’d prefer, kind of sparse. But let’s start fresh right now and believe in this new year I’ll have more to offer you!

The Lord is gracious as always and tenderly leads me and my lambs (though they’re not exactly lambs anymore) into green pasture. In spite of what’s hard around us (and I know some of you are in the midst of deep sorrow) Jesus is always the Good Shepherd of our hearts and souls.

The days of January are long and difficult for so many of us. The air is frigid; the snow drifts pile high and the hum of the wood stove is like an old friend I can’t imagine life without. Because of all this we (in this house) have brought back daily teatime to refuel our weary bones. Whether we’ve finished our bookwork or not, we stop and brew a mug of hot chamomile or blueberry tea. And sometimes that just doesn’t “cut the mustard” so we brew a second cup and might even throw in a cookie or two!

Here is a favorite painting of mine to strengthen your wintering soul.

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Then there’s me at the kitchen sink with the looming anxiety that sneak attacks when I’m least expecting it. Crawling over my shoulder and into the pit of my stomach where it’d like to settle and taunt. A sly whisper reminding me of where I’ve missed and messed up, of sticky floors and broken tiles, of a lost “life’s compass” that I never possessed anyway.

Yahweh exhaled into the bubbles is my life line. Jesus spoken at the stove or into the washing machine, at the steering wheel or while flipping through algebra assignments for my high schooler. Always, always connect me to you, God. I’ll reach for your assistance at every corner because I know my heart tends to lean the other way, the wider way.

We’ve tied up the bows and lit the tree. There’s peanut butter fudge on the countertop being hacked into by every passerby, I’m loose with the schooling and the sugar consuming. We let Christmas jazz ring through the house at mealtime and dance to bopping music in between. Movies play, blankets are unfolded (and obsessively refolded by me) and books are devoured in quiet corners of the house.

We light the candles on the Advent wreath each Sunday evening. The light of the world is whispered over our meal, we remember him coming as child-God into our darkness on that first Christmas night, making us children of the day. “You are all sons of the light and sons of the day. We do not belong to the night or to the darkness…” 1 Thessalonians 5:5

We, the children of the light, the people who cradle inside us the Holy Spirit’s flame by the grace of God. The ones that look for the light and wait for the dawning of the day.

I light a match and watch it fizz and grow in my hand. Match to wick and the room fills with light, warmth and life. We love the darkened days of winter but only because we have a light to pierce through its power, only because there’s an antidote to stop it from overtaking us. Jesus whispered into lamplight on a December night IS the answer to the consuming darkness.

The name of Jesus rolls over my tongue in the closet where I riffle through Christmas ornaments and stumble onto infant sized slippers - the sweet history of my very own story lies haphazard and empty on my closet floor bringing tears to my eyes, I really didn’t think they’d ever grow up.

Snow flies, children stretch into teens and teens into adults, and my husband and I gain more crows feet from years spent laughing and crying and filtering out the sun’s rays. The clock ticks on and on and ours chimes Westminster bells every quarter hour to mark the passing of moments, the etching of lines across faces.

Christ’s light swells within our frames through the years - pressing us on toward His goodness, redirecting our anxious hearts, igniting the flame dwelling within. We wait through the darkened Advent nights looking ever forward to the second coming of the King, The Light himself.

Jesus at the kitchen sink, Jesus on closet floor, Jesus by bedside of passing loved one, Jesus in line at the grocery store….we whisper God with us all throughout our days. We remind ourselves we are never really alone, that the baby-King born all those years ago remains the God-with-us-God. He has not changed since sending His son and He does not regret doing so now. His promise is made true with every whisper of His holy name.

We wake in the darkness of a new morning. The hum of the pellet stove breaths warmth into our space and the coffeepot drips and gurgles out liquid energy. All is quiet, toes silently touch wood floors and I unfold what I neatly put away the night before, wrapping myself in knitted blanket and snuggling into my lamp lit corner. Jesus….God with us…. Forever.

I find that in observing my immediate surroundings and participating in their determination to penetrate the edges of my day, by standing in them or staring at them or writing them down, gives full awareness to the glory of God.

When I look away and do not step inside each moment with breath and full acceptance of what The Good Shepherd has planned for me, I see only dirty floors and undone projects (those are to be embraced but not despised). I must, for my soul’s sake, view the secret beauty of the ordinary day as a gift to be opened with oohhs and aahhs. There is no other option for me - “blessed be the Lord for He has made marvelous His loving kindness to me in a besieged city..” psalm 31:21

I scrape potato peelings out of the sink and run warm water over the soil from our summertime garden down the drain. There’s unknown gunk and a ladybug with legs stretched out griping a peel, pleading for mercy (down the pipes she went, sorry.)

Tuesday’s list of the ordinary: Kids with colds wrapped in shawls, a guitar strummed, the washer spinning rhythm into our home, leaves raining down across frosted grass, the forgotten stonewall layered with a soft golden blanket, cranberry orange muffins and tea for breakfast, psalm 32 written out, knotted rope hanging from tree, wildly swinging boys, sniffles and coughs, bumbling tea kettle, flaming embers in wood stove, spaghetti pie for dinner, math problems worked out on the couch, cello strings tuned, a walk in the sun.

I hit play on a random playlist promising peace to my dinner prep. It’s piano music that takes me somewhere in Italy where I’m making dinner for two whilst sipping red wine and harvesting Roma tomatoes to top my freshly boiled pasta noodles. A daughter walks in cutting the silence with a hard question about human desire and the control we have over it and I ask myself, can I just stay inside my head a little longer? But I know that I must answer the questions and pop the imaginary bubble I so desperately want to live inside.

I take time in the present with my children and husband. Looking into their eyes, contemplating their questions, laughing at their jokes, aiding in all their functions, playing endless games of bananagrams at the dining room table. All is soaked in the beauty of the present hour, even if there’s squabbles (which there is).

Home. I’ve spent 16 years devoted to it and find it is the place where one is most consistently influential. You have the power to direct the lives of the people within its walls by simply living well in front of them. Everything you do or say will touch the souls around you. There’s no other place on earth where you will have such a profound impression on others than that of the abiding space of home. The loveliest people I’ve known speak of the impact of their childhood homes. The most broken people I’ve met do the same. Both deeply and forever touched by the power of home; some good and some not so great.

Let home be a place where you listen to beautiful music, read inspiring books, discuss without judgement, eat lovely food, light every candle, laugh while doing chores, forgive more often than you govern, and by all means let your teacup brim to overflowing. World changers always start at home.

Faith Soup

On Saturday evenings I’ve started putting together a crockpot of soup and calling it “faith soup”. It’s my offering to God and to others that on Sunday morning after church He’d faithfully supply a person/people in need of my faith soup and homemade bread.

It’s faith to believe someone will arrive with a belly and heart needing to be filled. And its faith to trust ahead of time my husband will not be called into work, but if he is, I’ll have the joy and humility to be a listening ear to whomever accepts our hospitality. I suggest the idea of faith soup to you. It can be simple and hardy, creamy or broth based, veggie or a full-out stew! So far, I’ve made two pots of chicken noodle, one macaroni beef and this Sunday I plan to make a beef stew swimming with rough cut chunks of carrots, onions and red potatoes!

We need faith soup makers these days. There’s a threat of hunger and an even deeper threat of loneliness pressing into our culture. It’s more than a pot of savory goodness, it’s a striking back at the darkness, a gesture of welcome and the faith to believe it makes a difference.

I set the electric tea kettle to boil rather than coffee since I forgot to grind the beans ahead and these dark mornings are best left quiet and still until the sun comes up. I squirted honey into the bottom of my mug as the kettle bumbled and puffed little clouds of steam into the air and I settled into my favorite corner of the living room.

A few weeks ago, on a Saturday morning we planned a traditional English breakfast - something we’ve done a time or two but this time I thought I’d share some of our favorite bits with you! I think if asked, most of my family would say beans on toast is high on their list of go-to English breakfast items. But since we’ve never been to England and only researched English breakfasts, it would be audacious for me to say this is exactly how the English do it. So, whether we’ve perfectly hit the mark or not, and whatever your breakfast preference may be, I hope you enjoy taking a little peek into our very English-y breakfast plate!

Nothing says English breakfast quite like beans on toast! We prefer a crusty sourdough or peasant bread with a thin spread of butter to pile our beans on, but any bread that’s thick cut will surely do. Sweet navy beans mixed with the salty flavor of buttered toast is a meal all in its own. And if you really want the best toast of your life, fry it in a pan with olive oil or butter rather than using the toaster.

Breakfast Beans Recipe (tried, true and satisfying down to the toes!)

1 1/2 cups chicken broth

3/4 cup water

3 1/2 tablespoons dark brown sugar

2 1/2 tablespoons tomato paste

1/3 cup catchup

3 cloves garlic (I use about 3 tsp minced)

2 sprigs of sage (optional)

3 cans navy beans

Bring everything but beans to a boil then simmer low for 10-15 minutes.

Add drained beans and simmer another 5 minutes.

Mix a tablespoon of cornstarch with 1 1/2 tablespoons water. Add this to the beans for thickening.

Pile on buttered toast whilst humming a joyful tune!

You can’t have an English breakfast without a vine of red tomatoes and a handful of little round mushrooms caramelizing in a pan! Just a swirl of olive oil and a tablespoon of butter and the hot frying pan will do the job of browning them up. Flip the mushrooms once and lightly salt if desired then set them aside.

I’ve yet to find back bacon in our local grocery store (which I believe is the typical choice for an English breakfast), we usually go with Canadian bacon or the easy to find pork sausages.

Growing up my grandmother happily fried her eggs in bacon grease and I’m not afraid to say I keep a small jar of old bacon drippings in my fridge for this very reason. We are a house that loves eggs - scrambled, fried, poached, hard boiled - You name it, and someone here will say, “I love those!” But for this breakfast we stuck with fried eggs - peppered, flipped and voila!

You might have noticed I skipped the black pudding, and you’d be right! Try and convince me. :)

An electric tea kettle is a game changer if you find you’re often reaching for something warm to sip. There’s a coziness connected to the popping, bubbling noises of the kettle heating the water, not to mention the kettle itself is quaint and makes teatime feel peaceful and authentic. A whisper of the coming season, a gathering sound that pulls everyone in close.

Family breakfast will always hold a warm place in my heart. Whether we’re cooking up a full English breakfast or spreading store bought strawberry jam on toast, gathering around the table, learning to pass the butter and encourage your brother is the real feast! Happy morning to you, my friends! May you find the joy of feasting around your table to be a jolly one!

We’re just sifting through schoolbooks and music lessons mixed with plenty of time outdoors while the weather continues to show off so brilliantly. There’s hardly time to keep the ceiling fans dusted, wouldn’t you agree?

We’re living life like the rest of you, and it’s no exaggeration when I say there’s constant wear and tear within these walls and over these floors. Seven people and 11 years of making this 1880’s house a home with really no break (for the house) minus a couple vacations and weekends we got away. Poor old house probably needs a break from us! I suppose Sunday mornings when we all scramble out the front door for a couple hours for church this old house lets out a big sabbath sigh of relief. “Quiet at last”, it probably says. I like this imagery enough to remember to give the ol’ siding a pat and a wink as I walk away next Sunday.

This past week my phone stopped letting me take pictures for a few days, so I decided to make a list of everything I saw without using the handy immortalizing frame built into my phone. I found I rather enjoyed jotting down snippets of our days and even after I figured out the tech side of creating more space on my phone for picture taking, I continued to pause and use words to frame my little corner of the world.

Shiny black and emerald-green hens

Boys who yell from kitchen door “goodbye!” to the geese overhead

Apple drops encircling trees, buzzing with sharp stinging bees

Teapots whistling

Carmine red mums on my porch steps - a gift from my brother-in-law

Cinnamon sprinkled apples, ready to fill pastry crusts

Haphazard books and slips of paper in need of proper shelving

Children laughing over card games

toes hidden inside woolly socks

Extra quilts on beds

Leaves stirred into a twister chasing me down our back road

Crows in twos and threes yacking it up in the swirling October sky

Crème brûlée flavored coffee

Lamplight by 7pm

Boy hair rolling over top of razor, thrown into the wind; winter nesting material.

We round our table morning by morning to read scripture together, “two verses a piece, I’ll start…” is my typical edict. Whoever’s to the left of me reads next and round we go until the chapter is through. Simple. No curriculum to follow just the holy word of God taken hold of and spoken aloud in our dining room, sticking to hearts and walls. We read; we pray. That’s the rotation of our days.

The list goes on…

Hats and mittens washed and pushed into drawers; the old dresser that needs a shimmy-shake to pull open filled with fresh smelling wintertime apparel.

Wooly bear crossing

Collecting leaves from forest floor

Bike baskets full

Dipped in a warm bath of paraffin

Colors frozen in time

Sun-streaked walls dappled by lace curtains

Socks piling up and floors sprinkled with dirt

Broom dancing across tiles

A full moon drew us outside this week. We were God-awed by the night sky - The owls hooted a game of Marco Polo, and a large pack of coyotes sent a chill up our spines (they sounded ever so close). To be awed by the night sky, lured in by its magic, twisted up by the Holy heavens…I’ll forever be. Be awed by God this week, love struck by the maker Himself. Look for him and be awed, seek him and find exactly what went missing.

List…

Blue jays tattling and chomping on sunflower seeds

Rain drops on leaf piles

Tea-stained mugs

Chicken pot pie with extra gravy on the side

Wood delivered to elderly neighbor

Drama in the sky

My husband cleaned the wood stove and pellet stove chimneys this week and I see he’s assembled and placed the wood rack on the porch for easy access while he’s working. It’s beautiful prep that settles my soul in knowing the slower days of winter are approaching. He’s a good caretaker of our hearts and home.

I’m feasting on a couple verses in scripture lately. (John 1: 36-37) In these two verses John the Baptist while taking a walk with his disciples catches a glimpse of Jesus walking by and immediately points to him and says, “behold, The Lamb of God!” Naturally the men who had been following John turned and chased after Jesus. And can I be a little more like John? Pointing out where Jesus has been walking, focusing the attention always on the workings of God? Drawing notice to the presence of The One who holds my very soul?

“Look, over there kids, that’s Jesus!”

And I suppose that’s the list - The one that’s taken over my phone and pointed out all the places where I can see Jesus. The one I speak out loud to my kids when we stand with necks craned back looking at the moon, “God did all this for you, my sweet ones.”

Or the playful walk we took into the field where we found the snakeskin and reached for the biggest maple leaf still holding onto the branch. The moments we felt the breeze and watched the puffy clouds mold into silly shapes and wisp away. God’s goodness always surrounding us.

I’d like to be a little more like John the Baptist. A little more rolling out the red carpet for the second coming of a King, pointing to all the good, true and beautiful glimpses of Him sprinkled throughout our day. A treasure hunter of God and His goodness. From reading aloud the Holy words stacked up on our dining room shelf to keeping a list of moments that could only come from The Father of Light.

“Behold, The Lamb of God!”

……..

Parsley and Parmesan stuffed into shells

Wheelbarrow turned upside down

Rakes leaning on trees

Windblown hair

Barn kittens with oversized whiskers

Husband home

Bike rides on back roads, boy arms stretched out like the yard of a sailing ship, heals up, head thrown back…. And glide those curving, bending hills down…down….

I will not list the losses, I know you’re aware. I pray you’ve been able to avoid seeing the recent blood shed shared for the world to digest. And if you missed it, I plead with you to thank your lucky stars and keep your eyes fixed on the things above instead - Thank God you were spared the sight of such evil.

So, I waited. Waited for my heart to heal enough to exhale and whisper to myself that it’s okay to press on. It’s okay to keep going - in fact it’s necessary. As in, we must.

Then I cut the last of the sunflowers and zinnias and stuffed them in a little crock my mother-in-law gave me, flipped the switch on the electric tea kettle and wrote a thank you note to my mom for helping us, yet again. Ever pressing forward. Ever pressing that tea kettle button!

The night my husband and I returned home from our train ride getaway a call came in at 1am from an ER nurse who informed us my precious mother-in-law was suffering from a heart attack. We flew from bed, brushed our teeth and left the house out into the chill of the night.

Silently we drove through empty streets and parked in an almost empty parking lot. We pulled our outer clothes over our shoulders through the brisk fall night and received our neon stickers labeling us “visitors” and entered the ER.

Praise God she’s doing better today! But not without a helicopter ride to a hospital more equip for surgery than ours and an almost 2-hour drive for us under a sky that boasted diamond riches and planet Venus successfully one-upping it all. We prayed off and on the whole way not knowing what was through the second set of hospital doors.

One day you’re sliding freshly painted toenails into your yellow Mary Jane’s and the next you’re slumped over, resting your old sneakers on a chair in the ICU waiting room. There’s no way of knowing what’s around the next corner. This can be a frightening reality. Your life is fragile and at the mercy of an all-powerful, completely loving God. Personally, I like it that way. I’ve found Him to be a kind Shepherd even in the harshness of a sin-soaked world.

Where do we go from here? How do we pierce this new darkness that’s settled on the souls of so many? My eldest daughter said to me, “mom, we have to remember that God is God and even bad events that seemingly change the world are in His hands.” She’s right.

Sometimes it’s in weakness that we must step forward into goodness and truth. Bruised and leaf-shaking we pick up our crosses; we pick up the Word of God and engrave it onto our aching hearts and decide to trust Him fully with whichever shoes we end up wearing that day.

Though I won’t tell you to rush the sorrow out of your life, it’s important to feel what is happening around you, good and bad. But let us pick flowers while we weep. Let us find a rhythm that turns us away from the screen and into the arms of Jesus. Let’s slip on whichever shoes suit the day ahead and run this race knowing the prize at the end outweighs the plight of this world.

Romans 12:21 - “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.”

Only one zinnia appeared, zero snap peas (minus what my children planted in our potato garden), and five stalks out of the dozens of sunflowers grew up over my head.

My green thumb turned gray as I whispered “uncle” into the wind.

I’m not much of a gardener and never have been. Though I have lofty daydreams of the type of flower garden that welcomes people in with stems of various heights and colors strategically placed near moss covered rocks. And of neatly arranged rows of vegetables that would make even Mr. McGregor envious! And no weeds, there’s never any weeds in my fantasy garden.

In late May we typically plant rows upon rows of potatoes to be tucked away in our cool, dark basement for the winter. Those we can grow and grow well! Hoeing potato hills in spring will forever spark a core childhood memory for me. The feel of dry earth between bare toes and the restored faith in a sun that shines warm on my back after a long spell of cold, white skies.

Did I fail this gardening season? Probably. But I do have that one zinnia that produced 15-plus golden blooms, and the cosmos that took hold when scattered between weeds in the potato garden with their delicate papery-thin petals - I’ve cut and placed those in mason jars around the house. And as always, we have the white potatoes to fill our bellies this fall. Maybe next year I’ll try again with more fertilizer in hand and hope on my sleeve.

I’ve been let down before, have you? There are things in this life that stretch us out thin and ragged, sorrows that come unexpected, betrayal that T-bones our breakable hearts unfairly, and gardens with more weeds than whimsy.

I shared some heartfelt thoughts with my husband recently and he listened hard. Without moving his mouth, he nodded small and knowingly, “We’re fragile” he said. I felt understood and able to settle again with a cup of hot black tea.

The hardness of life can shake our spirit more than we’d like to admit and without the steadfast assurance of a God who looks on with care, the risk of being overcome by it seems almost inescapable.

Combating the darkness can feel like an outright battle some days - and how do we strike back at it and win? I believe it’s much to do with the filling of our minds and hearts. Oh, the trouble we put ourselves through when steeping in a perpetual scroll of media and stories void of goodness. Are we that obsessed with bad news? Or is no one willing to tell a good tale? Can we shift our minds to what’s beautiful and true as the apostle Paul instructs in Ephesians? (4:8) Can we fill up on nobility and be the better for it? It takes a brave soul to give goodness a go!

What I’m filling up these days:

I’m filling baskets with books that inspire beauty. Filling calendars with last concerts in the park before the leaves cover the ground. Filling jars with purple loosestrife from ditches and the last of the black-eyed Susan’s from the field behind our house. Filling new sneakers with clean socks and drawers with button down sweaters. Filling tummies with homemade bread and creamy tortellini soup. Filling the school cart with pencils and unused lined notebooks. I’m filling up on all that’s good and holy, and I pray it bursts our hearts open to the outside world. But first to each of us under our red, tin roof who squeeze from the same tube of toothpaste at bedtime and pour from the one electric tea kettle in the mornings. Everything grand starts first with an openhanded generosity at home.

I’m a candle maker. Doesn’t that sound jolly? In the fall and winter months I dip dozens of taper candles to be sold at little folk stores around my town. It’s quiet work which I recently learned will always be the way I sway through life. Growing up in a log cabin built by my parents, surrounded by fields, forests and cow pasture, I was the youngest of three children and the only one schooled at home. We lived on a back country road that in wintertime was unfrequented enough to race our sleds right down the middle of it!

We lit candles on side tables and in chandeliers overhead at dinner hour. We listened to Thistle and Shamrock on NCPR radio on Sunday evenings and played back-to-back games of capture the flag with our tiny church youth group. The wind blew wild through our opened windows, and I learned to sing along with my mom playing, “take me home, country road” on her guitar.

All of this imprinted slow, quiet living into my own heart and now I kinda just need quiet (as much as one can get it living with 6 other opinionated persons). Dipping candles in my kitchen whilst teens and youngsters slather Mayo on bread and leave the refrigerator door ajar isn’t exactly quiet, but like the waves of the ocean are my children. One comes in, another goes out, and so on. There are moments of quiet, and I think there’s great benefit in my children seeing me work silently with my hands.

A Recipe:

We make a kind of shepherd’s pie that satisfies pallet and pangs (and if I’m going with the P theme, I’d also add it’s gentle on the pocketbook too!) it’s a family recipe we call Barney Delight but I recently learned it’s actually considered a Cottage pie (rather than Shepherd’s) as these are typically made with beef rather than lamb. Cottage pie has a bit of charm to it in my mind anyway so without further ado -

My Cottage pie recipe (AKA Barney Delight):

Ingredients:

1 lb. ground beef

1 can cut green beans (frozen works too)

1 10oz. can tomato soup

boiled and mashed potatoes (just how you’d whip them up with butter and milk)

Preheat oven to 350.

Brown beef in pan, drain grease but leave a little for flavor. Add drained green beans and can of tomato soup. Stir together and warm on stove slightly.

Prepare mashed potatoes with butter, milk, salt and pepper.

In a casserole dish (or if doubling a cake pan works great!) Place the beef mixture in the bottom of the dish and top with whipped potatoes. Dot with butter and bake until the potatoes look golden brown and the tomato soup is bubbling up.

Add freshly grated parmesan cheese for a bit more flavor if desired.

Feast and enjoy!

Lastly, let me share with you a very cozy collection of autumn folk/Celtic songs my daughter created. I love to bake while letting it play in the background or during Friday night pizza festivities! I do hope you enjoy it!

As always, I pray your heart is lifted, your eyes set on the things above and your arms opened wide to those around you!

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I realized recently that my life is changing with mostly older kids in the house and the two youngsters being independent of me for the most part aside from routine bedtime chats, back scratches and meals that don’t involve sliced bread and jelly. During the summer when the schoolbooks are shut and pleasure reading happens naturally, I’m mostly there to keep the peace between brothers and listen to stories of LEGO adventures, to say yes (or no) to solo bike rides or movie picks and be available to supervise afternoons by the pool.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s still plenty of guidance to be poured into the lives of my four children, and my adult child still looks for quiet teatime discussions with me (she’s actually due to arrive any minute for such things).

I have a newfound freedom that for most moms (I assume) is hard to embrace at first. My husband is always telling me to go off and grab a cup of coffee alone, I usually fight him on this with the excuse that there’s plenty for me to do at home, which is true. It doesn’t make it easier that I love my home, and the chores that accumulate here give me purpose and an opportunity to loyally serve those within its walls. 17 years as a stay-at-home mom and I’m not longer irked by piles of laundry or corners where dust settles daily - it’s all part of the job, just as raking is to the landscaper or filing records away is to the secretary. I’m satisfied by clean windows and curtains floating on the breeze. My heart doesn’t wander often from home-like things, so a park bench and a fruity muffin is all it takes for me to think I might not be in Kansas anymore (clicking my heals Wizard of Oz style).

Fall is just around the corner; do you sense it too? Maybe it’s the store shelves being stocked with binders and crisp notebooks, or maybe it’s the pumpkin flavored everything that seems to suddenly be available. Then again, one look at the calendar and it’s undisguisedly obvious we’re only weeks away from the beginning of the school year. Weeks away from trees turning to blazing fiery red torches and sunshine yellow beams of maple leaf foliage. I’m excited at the thought, though every start to an autumn feels a bit like a tragedy, a loss or the end of a tearful love story. The lax days of summertime fun coming to a close…*sigh*

From a more positive angle, it’s the season to pull out your bulkiest sweaters and dump broth and chicken mingled with carrots and spices into the crockpot. The time of year when our old house shifts in the cool, damp air giving a creak to the doors and stairwell as we bustle about. It’s that splendidly delightful time when you find your library has a used book sale going on and you’re welcome to fill a bag (or two!) - just enough to usher you through the chill of the days ahead. And it’s the perfect occasion to let your sourdough starter bubble up tangy on the countertop readying that stretchy goop for loaves upon loaves of crusty bread. *Side note, my sourdough starter has sadly passed away so I’m starting anew with a fresh jar and a hopeful attitude.

The apple trees in my side yard have dropped countless Golden Delicious gems to the ground with a THUD. If you stand out there for any amount of time, you’ll hear the thump….thump….of them falling to the earth every few minutes. I plan to send my energetic boys out with a pail to gather what the deer and bees have not already claimed as their own. A friend told me of her crockpot apple sauce and I’m all about my house smelling like a slow simmer of cinnamon, apple slush! Can I get an amen?!

I’ve decided to monetize my writing here. I hope that doesn’t scare you away! I will always write some for free, but I find that I need a bit of incentive to keep the creative words flowing. Time and words thoughtfully written are always worth something, I believe. I’ll keep it at low cost so as not to overly burden this slowly growing crowd of lovely people stopping by to read. And if paying for a subscription here isn’t in the cards for you, that’s okay, I’ll try and keep a balanced amount of free material available so that you won’t miss out on all I have in mind to share with you.

But the truth is, my heart’s hope is that you feel refreshed and alive again in your own surroundings after stepping foot here. I want nothing more than for you to look away from your screen and into the eyes of those God has given you with more excitement and joy and maybe even a plan to pop some freshly made scones into the oven for later (spoiler alert: I hope to include seasonal recipes to inspire you to make an unashamed mess of your kitchen!)

I most want you to see your garden and home, your porch swing and bookshelves as an extension of your heart to the world around you. I’m honored to be a whispering reminder of what’s pleasant and true in your midst as I look to find all the same in my own.

So, here I am trying to spin words of gold from piles of straw (remember the story of Rumpelstiltskin?) though I’m challenged by many things that leave me feeling dull and unimaginative at times, I’m giving it my best, for the both of us!

Consider this a handful of freshly cut zinnias from my soil to yours! May your heart feel tended to in every picture drawn by the words written in this space and may God show His great majesty and love to you through all the little glimpses of His glory here on earth.

As usual, subscribers who choose to read for free will continue to receive words inspired by my life as a homeschooling mom living in a quiet-ish country home.

Writing in a way that paints beautiful pictures inside YOUR mind requires a great deal of time and contemplation on my part, so if you feel so inclined to support my work financial, I do not take it lightly, it keeps me working diligently to rouse your senses to all that’s beautiful and worthy of your time.

My 15-year-old daughter said this to me one afternoon at the table where we emptied teacups into our parched mouths and snapped bars of dark chocolate into pieces to mingle with the hot peppermint liquid.

I stopped and let it sink in, her words landing on my heart at the perfect time, exactly what I needed to hear. A field over-plowed becomes hard-packed and lacks nutrients, it would be foolish for a farmer to do such a thing if he hoped for a harvest. And God is not a foolish farmer.

But had I felt like an over-plowed field? Yes, yes, I did.

This summer has had various trials and tragedies, some near to us and some an arm’s length away but still felt. Last month we officially closed our adoption process for reasons I won’t list simply due to the complexity of the situation. Adoption can be messy, and we saw this unfold in our final months with the Haiti program last year and again as we wrestled with the ups and downs of domestic adoption this summer. Something just didn’t feel right and after praying, we were at peace enough to send the final email to our agency. Within minutes a response as simple as if I’d confirmed a dental exam came through my inbox. “Okay, you’re all set then.” Was the gist of it.

Three and a half years of collecting sensitive documents, proving our hearts, minds, bodies, home and family worthy of an adoption placement. Letters written by longtime friends, pastors, psychologists, doctors, the sheriff’s office, banks and really anything that’s attached itself to us over the years. Trips to the immigration office for fingerprinting and notarized letters describing our desire to adopt sent to the Haitian Embassy for approval. All of it had to be put into words, into envelopes, into the hands of strangers to validate us as potential adoptive parents.

What a wild ride!

We knew when we started the process that it could fall apart, we knew we stood to lose a chunk of money, so this wasn’t really a surprise to us in a lot of ways. And please don’t feel badly, we truly are at peace with this decision, and we don’t regret the investments made.

So, what now? Well, I don’t know but this….

Early last week all five of my children (along with my sister’s borrowed dog) packed a picnic basket with soft white bread stuffed with salami, ham and pepperoni. Peeled and sliced cucumbers from our garden still warm from the vine were tossed in baggies as a side. We took our watercolors and headed to the park. It was the perfect day. We walked to the library and used the extra cash in my wallet for soft ice cream in cones. We read and painted and sat on park benches tipping back our heads to watch the canopy of trees flit in the welcomed breeze. I read the first chapter of a book I think I’m really going to love and smiled at people walking their dogs or rinsing their hands in the fountain water. (Update: I’m on chapter 22 of aforementioned book and I do indeed love it!)

There’s so much life right here in my midst, so much laughter and beauty ready to be consumed. Can I settle in that? Can any of us?

We should.

I’ve always been an advocate of simple living, of home and gardens and children sitting under the shade of a row of towering sunflowers. I’ve never thought being a homemaker an unworthy or boring task, but rather an adventure with the privilege of taking along a small gaggle of best friends to discover what’s under every rock and behind every tree.

How much we need to realize the benefit sitting under the stars and just breathing is to our overstimulated souls. How much I need not fear an ordinary life of dinners prepped and sheets shook out to dry under the hot summer sunshine.

This season has had its share of losses, yet I can’t help but see The Shepherd properly tending His sheep and keeping His eye ever on the fluttering sparrow. Sorrows abound as I’m sure you are aware of in your own life, so let us hold on to what we know to be good and beautiful. Let’s make a pact my friend, to seek God’s goodness, to lift those who mourn by nothing more than our presence and a cup of tea. And let us soul-sink into all that is true and delightful and right in front of us.

A prayer for you on your way today:

May you find the perfect spot to sit and soak up your surroundings, they are gift to you.

May you find peace in hard decisions knowing your heart’s cry is buried deep like an amaryllis bulb, at the perfect time the blossom will appear.

May your home be filled with the scent of late summer silently blowing through your open windows.

When you look around may you find the best way to combat the darkness is to light a candle and gather your people around the table.

May the spin of your kitchen mixer find use in folding flour into egg yolks and butter for an afternoon treat.

And may your soul find true rest in The God who sends His mercies anew with each rising sun.

Beauty chasing requires more than just a quieted heart and a keen eye; it’s the awareness that God really does love you and that His desire to shepherd you into soul satisfying rest is the ache of His Holy heart.

My husband tells me I can find beauty in anything, and I take it as a blush-able compliment. I want that reputation pinned on me with all my heart!

I watch my two boys carry glasses of iced water to the blanket I’ve stretched out in the grass, and I thank God for warm air that draws us ever more outside. We’re so close to finishing our school year I’m tempted every day to just close the books and call it good. Like God in the days of creation, “He saw that it was good” and that was the end of that day. Maybe we’re at the point of calling it good?

There’s the tiniest yellow warbler chirp, chirp, chirping overhead in the apple blossoms. I’m unsure if he’s looking for a mate or just really mad at me for intruding on his turf. I pat myself on the back for not fearfully killing a miniature spider walking across my threadbare quilt, I feel alive and I kinda want everyone else to feel it too.

“There’s lemon bars in the fridge” my middle daughter informs me. Really? You made lemon bars!? Egg-yolk-yellow and dusted with white powdered sugar, goodness in the shape of little rectangular bars. She adorns each piece with a lilac floret and arranges them on a plate.

If you know me personally you know not everything in my life is beauty-ridden and my writing here is not to pretend things never go wrong. I’m aware that bees sting and apple blossoms fall dead with the first rain. I’ve been broken by people and taken my turn at breaking others, deeply. I’ve been both Beauty and the Beast in my lifetime, but when I look ahead at the things to come, when I find God’s word to be true and lasting, grace-filled and joy-jumping-worthy of praise, the ease of finding God’s goodness washes over me and my simple life of children that track in cut grass over clean floors thrums the heartbeat of life into my house and bones. A merciful God so tenderly chose marriage and motherhood to tether my heart to all that’s right and beautiful and true.

I can look at today and all the days after this not knowing what lies ahead and still feel confident in burning my time gazing at a party of tiny sky-blue butterflies flitting a playful dance around one another. Sometimes the simplest things are the most praiseworthy. There’s no fear in a life built on the truth that God is only ever good. I’m firmly planted and rooted in Christ and for as long as I choose to see the beauty surrounding me, there I will stand, being built up in Him, resting in his care, soaking in His company. (Colossians 2:7)

There are stars in the sky tonight and a glowing moon that casts shadows of trees and our 150-year-old house onto our yard and I’m here steeping in the beauty of it all. Bonfires and hotdogs on sticks are praiseworthy, children bare footed running through wet grass laughing at the flower moon is and always will be delightfully beautiful. We can live fully into the life that’s around us, and we can breathe in God’s grace to be near us at all corners of road ahead.

A blessing for you on the trail to find beauty:

May beauty find its way to you in word or in deed, in orange setting sun or perfectly crafted coffee in your most favorite mug.

May you bring beauty with you when no one else will or can or knows how, and may you leave it behind for others to delight in.

May you settle in wherever you are, knowing God only-ever does good for you, you can trust Him.

May your travels be sun-kissed by the presence of God at every crossroad and your spirit renewed by His words.

May you rest under a tree or by a stream or in a field or on a park bench and see the beauty that’s around you.

With Love,

Emily

There’s a repetition to the day that oftentimes feels like more of a grind than a glory to behold. Can I change the grind into glory? I tell myself to consider the un-scrubbed dishes and piles of laundry as more than just another box to tick or tripping hazard to avoid but a selfless service to render, the proof of life intertwined with purpose and action. Though my surroundings have a way of taunting me and belittling my homemaking attempts, my senses remind me that an hour of focused attention and all-hands-on-deck and things will be shipshape once more.

Don’t let the little things get a rise out of you, glory in the grind of it all, without the work you’d be out of the job!

My son’s birthday is this week, and he tells me he’s wishing the days fly by until then. He’s excited and that’s okay, but I tell him never wish the days away. There’s glory to give and joy to find every day, even on un-birthdays. He tilts his head back and nods as he puts the bow back to work on the strings of his cello. Every note is needed and carefully arranged in order, if the ballad is to be played as written, every note counts. Can I help him see his days like this? Every day matters if we want our life story to ring a blessed tune!

My eldest daughter offers to take her siblings to their music lessons and church service one Wednesday afternoon and I’m all, hands in the sky, “thank you Jesus!” A few hours alone in my farmhouse to prep for dinner uninterrupted, the only questions I must answer are my own. I stuff eggroll wrappers with shredded cabbage and carrots and seal them with a swipe of my water-dipped fingertip. Has the daily grind turned to glory in my quieted mind on this day?

Afterall, not every evening is sun-streaks through kitchen windows, alone with only the sound of a hum on my lips and the sizzle of oil heating in the large skillet. Most nights are humming with chatter over who actually won the card game or my daughter and I trying to finagle sharing a vehicle in the morning. Most nights don’t feel glorious.

There’s a picture on my bedroom wall of a smiling woman I met in Ethiopia in the fall of 2023. We had hopped out of our driver’s silver van to purchase teff, the grain used to make traditional Ethiopian injera bread. She was old and branded with crow’s feet at the corners of her dark cheerful eyes. Her daily ritual was to sit in her mended rattan chair as she tossed a woven platter into the air over and over again until every foreign piece had slid through the weft. Our language difference limited us, but her smile spoke a thousand English words to me. Contented and skillfully proficient at her trade, glorying in the grind with every toss and shake. I was struck by her and still have so many unanswered questions about her life. But her smile meets me every morning and I’m reminded, on this one day I will glory in the grind.

What is your most grinding task today and can you see it as an opportunity to glorify God and serve your people? Can we link arms and say it’s better to gain crow’s feet and glory in the grind today?…I’m rooting for you!

Thursday inspirational breath to draw from (if you please):

May the sun unblushingly spill through your windows and onto the surfaces of your home.

May you find joy in sweeping a floor that will soon need it again.

May your heart be filled with God’s goodness when you look at your surroundings and see all He has done for you.

May you encourage others to find glory in the grind because you’ve found it yourself.

May the smell of spring remind you that strawberry season is just around the corner.

May the peace in your mind be rooted in God’s goodness over your life.

May you find music and laughter within the walls of your home and may you dance in your kitchen alone or with friends.

May the daily grind turn to a glory because what you’re doing matters, every quiet note played is an integral piece to the song. Your notes are needed. <3

As I write I’m sitting at my bedroom desk facing the paned window (that’s in desperate need of a good cleaning) overlooking my back yard. There’s a blanket of late March snow on the ground and the looming rumor of an ice storm approaching. I can see my ducks curled up in the snow together as is their custom after breakfast. The chickens on the other hand, refuse to touch a toe in the snow and have for the most part, kept inside the coop all winter. I find all my flock to be comical creatures, easy to care for and worth the trudges through the snow if it means they keep the door of my refrigerator full of brown and white eggs.

There’s a faint smell of gingerbread from the kitchen where my girls are. If the power does indeed go out, we will be sure to have a pile of cookies to eat. And thanks to the multitude of candles I dipped over the winter and never got around to selling, we will have plenty of light to carry us through the evening.

There’s a heaviness in the world that pushes against our doors and our phone screens so intensely at times, we scarce can find an angle to turn away from its presence. This weight that howls a one-sided story of sadness or evil and never stays long enough to bring full circle the tale of a hero or the beauty found beneath the rubble. (Is anyone even looking for the hero anymore? I pray God sends more beauty chasers into the world!) Please don’t peg me a Pollyanna, I know firsthand the dusty smell of an old apartment building filled with devious laughter and the plumes of cigarette smoke. I’ve met shysters and gamblers, been in close relationship with addicts and liars, I’ve walked the halls of the Family Court building and held the hands of friends who’ve cut short their own legacy through abortion. I’ve been on both sides of life, the virtuous and the vile, and when looking back at my past I wouldn’t change a thing if it meant I landed somewhere other than where I am today.

A walk in the field behind our old farmhouse last week to gather a handful of pussy willows that look like tiny drops of fluff teetering perfectly down each branch. I close my eyes and let my arms drop to my sides, bundles of plucked nature in hand. And I listen to the sounds of my little world. The geese coming home to us once more, the breeze over the matted down field grasses, the creaking sound of a fence door that encloses our sleepy vegetable garden and the quiet burble of the stream called Tracy Brook that twists for miles and just happens to border our home.

I’m inhaling the grace of God over a life not always well-lived, a life I’ve taken for granted by being lazy or angry, or scared and anxious. But when I look back, I see 40 years of God taking me right up until this moment. This warm air rising from the frozen ground, beauty amid chaos, eyes wide open to His goodness, planting me beside quiet waters for His name’s sake, moment in time.

Psalm 23

The Lord is my shepherd,

I lack nothing.

He makes me lie down in green pastures,

He leads me beside quiet waters,

He refreshes my soul.

He guides me along the right paths

For His name's sake.

Vs. 1-3

My eldest daughter came in from a walk recently with a tiny purple crocus blossom in her hand. And although she’s no longer dimple knuckled with a fistful of dandelion heads, she still sees the goodness of God in the world around her. You see, there is no age limit on noticing what’s good and intricately designed, there is no level of adulthood reached where we’re required to stop noticing the budding trees or the tiny painted turtle. I’m grateful she chooses to see what’s often overlooked.

That night she carried a cup of steaming tea to me after dinner and sat down for a chat.

“I can see more of God’s love in the tiniest things than that of the biggest oak tree or lofty mountain,” she told me. It’s naturally fitting that a God of grandeur would create majestic sunsets or rolling fields of lavender. But when a Holy God spins a willowy thread-like web and dots it with the first dew of the morning, we can assume we are not forgotten by a Him. That our tiny faith is worth His gaze, our handful-of-holy is cherished by The God who sets boundaries on the ocean tide and paints the underbelly of turtles to match the setting sun. The grand and the minute, the Lion and the Lamb. Both come from Him, both are to be chased down and gathered up in our hearts.

So, I’ll ask you this…

Is there goodness and beauty on your path? Are you a beauty chaser with eyes wide open?

My birthday flowers are at their peak for the next day or two. I keep turning from the browning beef on the stovetop to feast my eyes on their color and form as if they’re about to dye any second. Even their shadow hangs on the wall like a famed painting, I cannot get enough.

The goodness of God is everywhere because HE is everywhere. Before we came into being, there was goodness to behold and now as we wait for things to be made new, do not think it trite to look on the tiny things of the world as anything less than grand gestures of God’s kindness to you. You are loved and seen, faithfully accounted for and deeply cherished by Him.

The teapots bumble-whistle in the kitchen and I can hear teenagers opening cupboards and clanking mugs, sifting through to find the perfect one to steep their tea. There’s laughter and teasing and, “pass me the milk…” all happening at once like an accidental orchestral piece that although haphazard and undirected, sounds kind of lovely to me.

Drawers open and teaspoons hit the bottom of honey settled mugs and a package of chocolate covered Italian cookies I picked up at our local grocery store is torn open. Chairs are pulled out from the dining room table and a deck of playing cards is shuffled. More laughter and more banter reverberate through the home as I sit and listen to what their world is like within these walls.

The issues of the world would have you think there’s nothing good left, but I say, for as long as there’s home, there’s goodness to be found.

Home is a place of refuge and retreat, where one can withdraw from all that harasses them. A place where understanding is priority, warmth is inevitable and tea/coffee flows freely from spout to cup. Home is a place that supports and secures the heavy soul, restoring its strength for the next battle, supplying its inhabitants with life and power to bring light into their spheres of influence. Home is a shelter of beauty and creativity where one is free to shine uniquely with all that is good, true and noble. I believe we underestimate the force a God-built home has on the world.

It’s true, there’s an abundance of bad news on repeat in our ears featuring harmful decisions of broken people. I’ve heard it said, we live in an R rated world, but if you own exterior doors (which I’m assuming you do), and if you can discipline yourself to block out the roar of the noisiest time in history through televised and internet messages, home will become a shield from the harshness of the world, the shelter it’s meant to be.

It’s a lie to believe that being informed on every subject, current political stance or local news trend will give you an upper hand and keep you from being ambushed by the empty threats constantly battling for your attention.

What does this have to do with home?

A vision for home starts always in the heart of the one who manages the space. Maybe that’s you? But if the heart is muddled up in affairs not belonging to you, if the mind is clouded and lacks space to be attentive to the ones in your midst, it will be most difficult to produce a home filled with intentionality and grace. I’m reminded of Psalm 101.

“I will lead a life of integrity
in my own home.
I will refuse to look at
anything vile and vulgar.
I hate all who deal crookedly;
I will have nothing to do with them.
I will reject perverse ideas
and stay away from every evil.
I will not tolerate people who slander their neighbors.
I will not endure conceit and pride.

I will search for faithful people
to be my companions.
Only those who are above reproach
will be allowed to serve me.
I will not allow deceivers to serve in my house,
and liars will not stay in my presence.
My daily task will be to ferret out the wicked
and free the city of the Lord from their grip.” (NLT selected verses)

A home formed on God’s goodness and truth, having walls lined with images of beauty and valor and occupied by people who cheer each other on, will rank among the strongest of fortresses this world has ever seen. It takes a brave person to create a home with such significance, ever greater, to recognize its importance.

The strongest relationships are cultivated within the home, the best foods are prepared, and the freest laughter can be heard. It’s not meant to be a perfect place of flawless dining and quintessential behaviors, but rather a warm and inviting atmosphere that settles the soul and nourishes the body. A welcoming home is as well-versed in tears and frustrations as it is with laughter and celebration. There’s as much joy as there are bent knees and guttural prayers on the living room carpet. Do not be fooled into thinking homes are most lovely when untouched by real life. The beauty of home comes out of the hard places fought for even when it’s difficult; the candles lit at the dinner table when you’re feeling at your lowest, the songs hummed by beds at night when all you want is sleep, that’s what fights the darkness wishing to penetrate the walls of a home, that’s what ushers in peace.

As I type this I’m sitting up in my bed, slid between my new honey colored down comforter and the most perfectly soft sheets printed with tiny green-gray and orange bouquets. I didn’t know when I bought the duvet in a honey-brown color that the light from the setting orange sun would dance upon it giving the look of a hot sandy beach, soul satisfying to this winter-worn woman.

I’ve caught a cold so while my husband taps the maples in our forest plot with all the children helping, I sip a hot mug of lavender chamomile tea in my “beach” bed.

Rest happens at home, in fact, it’s the perfect place to settle the bones after a weary day or to nurse a cold like I have. Homes without spaces to rest are no different than a gym membership where the goal is to sweat hard and feel the burn. Likewise, homes that lack a rhythm of work and responsibility leave the body, soul and mind weak and vulnerable. Home is the perfect place to create a balance between the two. Work and rest are to be measured properly and one without the other is death to the body and spirit.

No matter how alarming our world becomes, home remains the strongest influence on the people around us.

A Prayer for Your Home:

May you fearlessly love the people who walk through your door deeply and without expectation. May you offer them twice as much as they ask of you without reservation. May you find ways to fight the darkness of this world with every beautiful thing that counters the distaste of sin and death. May you bake cookies and brew tea and know deep within your soul no small act of service is wasted or unseen by God. May you stay up after everyone falls asleep to till the ground in prayer and may you find rest and peace inside the walls of your home and see the goodness of God in the life you have been given.

I try to write well about the beauty and heartache that surrounds me, but the words don’t always come, and when I do find them, I often question my audience’s desire to read what it is that I’ve pieced together from the sacred moments of my daily life. Though that is exactly what this space is for, so I’m finding I need to revive my own brave writers-heart even when it feels silly or flawed because it takes more than sitting here with an open laptop and a quiet hour to write something worth reading, it’s a courageous act to send forth into the world thoughts and ideas that birth themselves within my heart with the aim that they settle peacefully in yours. But deep inside every hope-filled writer are words that are shaped by the angle in which she views the world. I hope you understand.

Because…This is my fish and loaves offering to you, and…

I know you’re living a life too of depth and struggles, faith and failures, and I want always to come along side each reader and point toward what is rich and healing. It’s never my desire to be another brick on your back or pile of words easily swept into the void. I believe if you have something to say that burns inside you, say it in a way that stimulates others to look for what is good in their surroundings. Especially now.

Like the final chapter in the book of Daniel where the Angel Michael says that those who lead many to righteousness will shine as the stars, forever.

Always these words leave me asking, am I leading others to righteousness? Does my life…does my leadership, inspire others to live their lives to the glory of God?

When I’m rubbing elbows with the people God has committed to my care, do they feel the peace of a mom who fully trusts God’s every move? Do my hugs, my voice, my habits send relief to the work-worn hands of the man who unties his boots at the door with a smile day after day? If I slow myself down long enough to notice the hum of the dishwasher or the snap of LEGOs framing up the walls of a pretend military fortress, if I exhale the parts of my day that spin me wild like a washing machine cycle…then…maybe, I will realize that everything means something and my calling is not in the work I do, but in the position of my heart while doing it. I can make every meal healthy, every room uncluttered and commit my days to the ones in this home for a lifetime and still miss my calling to be thankful in all things, joyful in every circumstance and prayerful at all times. My real calling is not in what I do every day, but in my love for those who fill my day.

I’ve always wanted to be a mom and a wife, no one had to convince me of it or con me into feeling like it was my only choice. I was given other opportunities and even encouraged to take them, but my heart never stopped wanting my work to be at home. I suppose that makes things a little easier for me in most Christian circles where being a stay-at-home wife and mother is typically applauded. And I’m sorry if this is what you’ve always wanted too and never received. I have no words except that God will make beauty from your jars of tears. And I wonder too if your calling is the same as mine, though your work is different, we both are called to faith driven love wherever our feet take us.

I met a man at the entrance of the grocery store sitting in a wheelchair wearing brown Carhart bibs, his right leg amputated and the empty pantleg folded up under him. He had a table before him with items neatly displayed. He told me about his church and the money he raises to keep the ministry of serving the homeless up and running. I listened to his enthusiastic pitch before dropping a ten in his donation bucket. His eyes sparkled and he smiled as we continued chatting. “Jesus saved my life” he said as I was pushing my cart away toward the van, “mine too!” I called back. I prayed Psalm 23 over him on my drive home.

Heart; resuscitated. My Calling; complete.

Inside the doors of the old farmhouse there’s kids and paper grocery bags tripping my every move to semi-neatly fill cupboards and freezer drawers with nourishment for the week ahead. Everyone has questions and sudden hungry bellies triggered by the sight of a bowl of freshly placed colorful fruit and bricks of sharp, white cheddar cheese. The trail of woodchips from porch door to the woodstove draw my gaze downward and I notice how desperate the tiles are for the steam mop. But it’s a quarter to 4 and if I plan to roast the chicken in time for dinner, the floor will just have to wait. Exhale perfection, inhale grace, love and filled bellies.

Our lives are full of rhythms, sometimes slow and predictable and sometimes they race irregularly out of our ability to contain them. But in the moments when our lives beat into arrythmia does our calling ever change? Does our love grow cold? Or can we strengthen our feeble knees, trust the God who margined the ocean tide, and humbly walk out our calling? I believe so. There’s always space for our hearts to open wide gulping up faith, to fear not what swirls around us in news reports and to step into grace for the moment, grace for those around us.

The calling is the same no matter your vocation; Act justly, love deeply, walk humbly, forgive habitually, serve freely, and trust fully in a holy God. These are the things that truly unite us.

It’s the beginning of Advent where candles are lit and the Jesus story is re-told to children with fingers wrapped around mugs of hot chocolate and hearts that thrum a snare-drum beat, bursting with excitement.

The hope candle stands first to be lit and how do I weave the story into their minds and hearts so deeply it never leaves them, and they know without a doubt, it is real and tangible and intimately for them? How can I pour out from my own faith, like a bottle of perfume the essence of God love-bombing us (in the purest sense of the word), with the gift of His Son? How do darkness and candlelight intermingled with real life brokenhearted-ness speak the truth of the gospel into the minds of those who sit at our table? How do we become more outwardly welcoming than we are inwardly overwhelmed?

Hope. Hope in the God with the starlit entrance into a world of manger straw and first-time parents. Hope for tomorrow and whatever it might bring because God is not a Shepherd that shies away from hard things but is the ultimate strength in our troubled days.

Last year I wrote about Advent this way.

“Sow for yourselves righteousness, reap the fruit of unfailing love, and break up your unplowed ground; for it is time to seek the Lord until He comes.” Hosea 10:12

Sow. Reap. Break. Seek. This is how we should be found celebrating Advent. This is how we should be waiting until He comes.

Sowing into our hearts righteous days of deep, joyous living. Letting the sound of laughter echo through halls and be heard behind walls, living a life of volume that extends to the very corners of our space and beyond. A righteous design to the humdrum of daily life, an etching of Christ around all our ways.

Reaping the unwavering response of love from above. Jesus’ arrival, the tender fruit of The Father - being utmost in determination, single minded in His love, unchanging in His pursuit of us, unpersuaded to back out of the will of God and faithful to fulfill His plan. Gather it into your heart - it was sent for YOU.

So, break open the parts of your life that you’ve held cupped in your fearful hands as you falsely imagine His forgetfulness of you. Push back on the darkness closing in, the phony whisper on the wind, and pray with fingers wrapped around life’s plow handles rather than wringing out nerves you can’t handle.

For it is time to seek the Lord until he comes…

Can we prepare our hearts for this very thing?

We are hope-filled for Advent, our hearts being topped right off like the star that tops our wildly cheerful Christmastime tree! I say, strike a match and light a flame for the hope that He is coming again.