“The Tellings” is a series of stories, musings, and link love for paid subscribers.
Thank you, as always, for supporting my crew through “Let me tell you” 💚

Oh friends, we summered hard. We celebrated our wedding with a picnic for 180 people. We drove to the mountains and hiked into the woods to pick wild huckleberries—a very Pacific Northwest thing that I’ve always wanted to do. We jumped off rocks into the river and taught a little boy to swim without his puddle jumper. We made (and ate) a lot of homemade ice cream and put our wood-fired pizza ovens (yes, we have two; there are a lot of kids to feed) to very good use. We rode bikes and scooters and played basketball in the driveway and only had two broken arms between June and August. Fixed a few holes in the wall—standard procedure, you know. We did not miss a World Cup game. I launched a book into the world. We got sunburned and sweaty, chased dandelions through a parking lot, and despite the best of intentions only one out of eight children actually finished their reading chart.

But mostly, we became a family, all ten of us.

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Alas, we do. He does. (But honestly, the padding doesn’t look so bad, once you get used to it.)

It’s getting closer to bedtime, but I see a window to get to Home Depot, and an opportunity to bring Cannon with me by himself, which I so rarely have. Getting out in public, walking through stores appropriately, learning to pay for things before leaving said stores with those items in his hands—that’s all good practice for him. Plus it’s 7:00pm, there will be lighter crowds, less wait time, it all feels right. I can finish my wall padding, get Cannon out of the house for a real-world lesson, come back home for bedtime and call it “done” on another long summer day.

I’m very familiar with where to go for what I most often need at our local Home Depot at this point—dry wall patch kits and putty are straight ahead and to the right, near the paint; and the wall texture I like, the one with no odor that dries the fastest, is one aisle over. But since I only need a pack of very small finishing nails this time, I have to find someone and ask them where to go, and this raises the stakes just a little. What no one else in the store could know is that the timer on Cannon’s internal compliance clock started the moment I got him buckled in the backseat of the car. I have no idea when it will go off, or when this shopping trip will be over, whether I like it or not, and whether we have what we came for or not. But I can hear the imaginary ticking in my head and I start walking faster. I need someone in an orange apron, stat.

Thankfully, it takes only a minute, and the kind young man points me and Cannon to aisle 18. We find our package of nails, and head for the self-pay kiosk, where I have Cannon help me with the scanner—because somehow, I am still holding on to hope that maybe, if he can learn this skill, someday I’ll be able to send Cannon into a store to buy something all by himself.

But all in all, this five-minute trip into Home Depot has gone perfectly. And plenty of five-minute trips in the past have not, so I don’t take any store trips for granted. Cannon has held my hand, gone where I’ve led him, never looked at me with a devious smile on his face while reaching for a hammer or drill or any other potentially life-threatening tool, and stayed next to me while we paid. I tell him, “Great job, buddy!” and give him a high-five. “Should we go home now?” I ask. He takes my hand and says, “Yes.”

The two automatic doors open to the breezy summer evening as Cannon and I step outside. The air is warm, and the sun is setting to our right, over the horizon in the west. And there, just two feet from the door, it flies by in a flash, right in front of us, floating along wherever the wind chooses to take it: the dandelion.

Before I can even say a word, there goes Cannon, straight into the parking lot, running after it.

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The dandelion plant, also known as the taraxacum, is found on every continent on earth except Antarctica. There are hundreds of variations of the plant, but mostly they are known for their bright yellow hues and weed-like leaves. A few weeks after it flowers, the yellow petals become a round seed head—some are small, others can grow as large as a basketball—and the wind can carry the seeds up to 60 miles away from its previous location, which makes this the farthest traveling passive seed known in the world. It’s really an engineering marvel, and scientists have even worked to model drones after the dandelion seeds, to see if human ingenuity can keep up with a miraculous, God-given ability to fly.

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The evening breeze is strong; not quite a wind gust, but not exactly gentle, either. The dandelion flies on, dipping down then up, eluding the reach of my 12-year-old as he yells for it to stop and chases for the next 50 yards into, blessedly, a mostly-empty parking lot.

Dandelions do not listen for their names to be called, unfortunately. Parents of a child with severe autism know this reality all too well.

I’ve kept up with Cannon into the middle of the parking lot, where he gives up as the dandelion flies out of sight. But I know, I already know before I open my mouth, what has just happened to my buddy is not consolable. Cannon immediately starts screaming, winding up as if he plans to hit his head at full force on the cement, pleading with a natural world he cannot control, “Plant come down! Plant come down! PLANT. COME. DOWN!”

“Buddy, the wind blew it away,” I try ever so gently to explain to him, hoping logic can intercept the impending meltdown. But Cannon already knows this. In spite of his limited communication, he’s very smart. It’s not knowledge that Cannon cannot grasp, it’s acceptance.

Which I understand. Acceptance, too, is the hardest part for me.

“No wind blew it away! No wind! No wind!” he repeats, trying desperately to undo the last twenty seconds, to rewind and make the wind slow down just a moment longer. Half a second more is all he needed for that dandelion to stop on the ground long enough for him to grab it. The disappointment is too much.

“I’m sorry buddy. Do you still want to go home?” I offer.

“No home! No home! No home! PLANT. COME. DOWN!”

With a small package of nails in my hand, a purse around my shoulder, and a boy far too big and strong to force back into the car, I grab Cannon’s hand, and right there, in the middle of the Home Depot parking lot, sit down with my son.

Because this I have accepted: We are not going home right now.

Luckily, I have the sunset to watch while we wait.

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In addition to their remarkable talent for flight, dandelions have been used in food and medicine for most of recorded human history. The entire plant is edible: the leaves, stem, flowers, and roots. It’s a good source of vitamins A, C, and K, as well as calcium, potassium, iron, and manganese. And that’s not just for humans. The dandelion is a life source to many animals, like bees, squirrels, deer, and other wildlife.

There’s just that one small issue, I’m sure most of you know: the dandelion is considered a weed, which is why I’ve been digging them out of my front and back yard all summer. A weed is any plant growing where it isn’t wanted, and dandelions seem to be pretty good at that. They thrive in lawns, fields, and sidewalk cracks. In Denali National Park in Alaska, they actually have an annual event called “Dandelion Demolition Day”, where the public is invited to help staff get rid of as many dandelions as possible throughout the park.

So it’s complicated to find a category, isn’t it? Because the dandelion is a creative, engineering marvel, and an important food source, and helpful—even vital—to the ecosystem around it. And it can also be so pervasive it invades and ruins crops, so it’s been reduced to a noxious weed we try desperately to get out of our yards.

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After five, maybe six minutes waiting on a cement parking block (I don’t actually know how long it was, time is strange in moments like this) and one friendly man making sure the crying boy and his mom in the middle of the parking lot were okay, I ask Cannon, “Do you want to go back to the car buddy.”

“NO!” he retorts, but he gets up and walks to the car anyway. His words have always had a hard time matching his body.

I open the car door and guide him to his seat, then ask him again, “Should we go home?” but his emphatic response is, “NO! PLANT. COME. DOWN!”, so I open the driver’s side door and sit down, too, letting my legs hang off the side of the seat. The breeze is actually very nice tonight, a quintessentially “summer breeze” if you will—not too hot, not too cold. Refreshing, really. Just strong enough to blow a dandelion out of reach.

But as Cannon looks into the sky, willing his dandelion to come back, it occurs to me that maybe I should talk to God about this. Maybe I should just start praying for another dandelion to blow by our car, so we can go home.

I’ve not been shy about how hard prayer has been for me in the past few years. I have felt, and often still do feel, that my prayers for God’s intervention hit the ceiling before they get to his ears. I know they don’t. I know He hears every single one. It’s not so much his ability and presence I’ve doubted, it’s his kindness. Because I’ve been so sad, and so frustrated that so many longing prayers have gone unanswered. That my boy still struggles in his own mind so much, when all I’m asking for is his peace.

But one thing I am not is a quitter. So maybe it’s been retired-athlete grit or flat-out stubbornness, or simply the grace of the Holy Spirit to not give up on me (it’s definitely the last one), but I’ve been trying desperately to train my brain to keep praying. To channel the persistent widow and pester God incessantly for a little of His time and a lot of His intervention.

And right now, I need a dandelion.

So I start asking for one.

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Calling dandelions a weed really is unfair, I think. Dandelions are one of the first food sources of the spring for bees and other pollinators, who come out of winter hibernation hungry and ready to get to work for, you know, our entire food supply. And the dandelions are there when very few other pollinating flowers are. Their deep taproots also pull nutrients up from the soil and break up compacted ground, so the soil can breathe and actually grow more. The same toughness we find annoying in a perfect, pleasing-to-the-eye, manicured lawn is exactly what makes dandelions so useful. That’s interesting to think about, isn’t it? That the inconvenience is actually the best thing for the soil. It makes me wonder, is that what inconvenience does for a soul, too—helps it grow?

A florist once wrote that the dandelion’s symbolism is so much more meaningful than we give it credit for, because “it blooms where it is least expected, [and] survives what tidier plants cannot.... Hope, endurance, and new beginnings: the dandelion earns every bit of that meaning honestly.” [1]

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Tyler Staton wrote in his book about prayer that we should, “Ask vulnerably, with enough specificity that God has the chance to disappoint you or surprise you. Ask boldly, with enough empowerment that you wonder if you’re allowed to be this forward with God.”

Specifically, I need a dandelion seed. And boldly, I need it now. So, here we go:

Dear Lord, I am asking you please, right now, from the front seat of my car, on a breezy evening in July, would you please send another dandelion through the wind, near this car, and within reach of us, so that Cannon’s mind can rest, so he’ll stop hurting his head, and so that we can go home? Amen.

I wait a few seconds. And ask again. And again. And again.

Cannon is still whimpering in the back seat, quietly muffling “Plant come down” through a defeated voice. So I keep going:

Lord, I don’t understand autism. I’m really tired of trying to. But I do know this boy needs a dandelion. I’m asking again, please send one.

I scan the parking lot. Leaves are blowing about, a few more customers are making their way to their car, and then home. It seems so easy for them, and I admit, I’m a little bit jealous of people who can just walk in and walk out of a store.

Cannon is still begging for his plant to come down. I am weary, and I want to go home. This was supposed to be just a quick trip to Home Depot for nails.

And then…

Y’all, hand to heaven, I would never lie to you, there it goes. Another dandelion, being carried by the wind through the parking lot.

I jump out of my seat so fast and say “Cannon, mommy will get it!” It blows ten feet further and hits the ground, but as I reach for the dainty white whisps, it skips a little further away. I dodge a parking block, a cart return corral, and reach again, and miss.

The dandelion makes one more hop, lands near another parking block, and the gentle seed decides to wait there for me, and for Cannon. I reach down and grab it, careful to keep it from falling apart in my hand, and turn around to see how far across the parking lot I’ve actually run. Half a soccer field, maybe? I cup the fragile little seed in my hand and run victoriously back to Cannon, who is waiting for me eagerly.

“Cannon! I got the plant! Here you go buddy!” I gently place it into his not so little anymore hands. He smiles, holds it, and promptly blows it away again.

And I start laughing. Because we sat in a parking lot and waited, and waited, and then I chased this thing down, and it’s gone again already, off to somewhere in the world where it will seed and take root and help the soil, or be torn up by a homeowner who wants more curb appeal, or turned into tea or added to a salad, or maybe it will just die somewhere. I don’t know.

I don’t know much about God’s ways, if I’m honest. What’s meant to sanctify us, what’s simply the reality of a broken world? What am I frustrated with that He is actually using for His glory and my good?

Life is so full of complicated, paradoxical truths, isn’t it?

But I do know this: my son just really needed to make a wish tonight. And so God sent another dandelion, and I helped him chase it down, which I think is important work in the world, don’t you? And now, Cannon is at peace, which, really, is the answer to my prayers.

Is God smiling at us as we drive home right now? I think about that, and how He really could have made this easier, but maybe, sending the middle-aged mom of eight running through a parking lot chasing the wind felt more fun.

But, I’ll also never forget the sunset behind Home Depot tonight, and I’ll never see a dandelion blow by without thinking, What prayer are you answering with that one, God?

[1] Ace Flowers, Houston, TX

And mostly, I buoyed my own heart every single day by telling it, You will be okay alone. I told myself that until I believed it to my bones.

Here’s the thing: I still believe that. The tangible support of friends and community notwithstanding, I think believing that and living toward that end is why I was prepared to meet Benjamin exactly when I did. Because I wasn’t looking, and I wasn’t desperate, and I was working on my healing so that my life and testimony could matter for Jesus, so that I could be strong and whole for the six children he entrusted to me.

I was not trying to get better or flourish in my life so I could get married again, because I genuinely never thought I would. Romantic love was maybe a distant, Oh, if God just drops him in my lap, that could be nice kind of thought, but that is all it was.

So when Benjamin walked into the room and into my life—when God actually dropped him in my lap—what transpired over the next few months was a gift, an absolutely unmerited and gracious delight from the Lord.

And yes, has brought a new dimension to my own healing, and there is absolutely no doubt he loves me so selflessly, like Jesus does. But he wasn’t a missing puzzle piece in my life. Because if singleness was the life God had called me to, I was content with that, and I was going to fight for the faith to stay content. Honestly, after a traumatic first marriage, singleness felt far easier than thinking about trusting someone again.

But my relationship with Benj is an entirely new puzzle, one we are working on and putting together as a team now, as we blend our families and build a new life. And with eight kids and a dog and two ex-spouses and something like five jobs between the two of us, I can assure you, our hard work has just begun.

But this distinction—between being people who couldn’t live without each other, and being people who are just so unspeakably grateful that we found each other—will always matter to me, and to Benj, and to our story together.

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I was pretty sure it was either Benj or no one after our first dinner date together. We had been to coffee twice, had a few weeks of texting in between, and it had never been so easy in my life to talk to someone. He’s kind, gentle, humble and also brilliant. There is no arrogance in this man; he never needs to prove or defend who he is to anyone. There is no one else I can imagine who would have been able to break down the walls I had built up around my heart to guard it from ever being hurt again. And no one patient enough to not leave when he ran into those walls (and trust me, he did). I knew after a four-hour dinner that his kindness would lead the way, and that I felt confident that this dating thing—that Benj—was worth a try.

Everything about dating Benj was easy. I mean, kids and full lives and jobs and trauma and trust issues—none of that is “easy” at all. But Benj? He is easy. His intentions were clear from the jump. During that first dinner together, he made a commitment that he has never wavered from: Whether it is next week or next month or when we die, I promise to leave you better than I found you, Katie. For reasons I cannot explain other than the peace of the Holy Spirit, I believed him when he said that. I always felt safe, knowing if we didn’t work out, it wouldn’t be because Benj hurt me, but because God had something else entirely.

He didn’t though. He had us in His plans, and that’s been so clear—that kind of clear that you just know, this is right—and I am forever grateful.

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We circled July 2nd on our calendar back in March, a week or so after we got engaged on a perfect evening on the white sand beaches of 30A. But we were ready. And our kids were ready. As ready as they could be, because you can only prepare little (and big) hearts for so much change—and then at some point, you just have to do the hard work of living it.

Our relationship felt fast to a lot of people who cared about us, and I get it. All I can say to that still, is that it has never felt too fast for us. And so when I told my parents—who I lived with and who got close up, real time experience with Benj more than anyone else—that we were thinking of getting legally married in April and then celebrating with family and friends in July, they were whole-heartedly on board. So that’s exactly what we did.

We spent the weeks between April 23rd and July 2nd baby stepping into our new lives as a married couple: being intentional about counseling, learning how to work through hard stuff, and giving the kids the space they need to process with the clear goal in mind: to become a family. I don’t know if we did it all perfectly. I don’t know if we are doing it all perfectly now. If anyone has a handbook for blending two families without making mistakes, I’d be so happy to read it! But I can say that God has felt present in every single step, and that’s all we could really ask for.

But as July 2nd approached, life did feel too stressful. Benj had a big project he was working against tight deadlines to finish, and so did I. I was traveling two weeks before the wedding, the kids were finishing school and starting new summer routines (read: Cannon was adjusting to the no-school schedule 🙃 and had a growing penchant for hammers that I am still navigating with dread on the daily), and then we were surprised and truly jarred by some extra life stressors that needed our time and attention the week of our wedding. Benj was staying awake until 2:00am most nights attending to that. The permits for the park were missing, and we didn’t know until the eleventh hour that we needed insurance. And then, my best friend suffered an unthinkable loss—which is her story to tell—but I couldn’t really be there for her, the person who has always been there for me, and that will forever be a painful reality. I told Benj the day before the wedding, “This doesn’t feel like I wanted it to feel.”

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One of the projects I am working on right now has me writing through the Old Testament, so I’ve been spending the last two months in Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers. If you know the story, it’s a record of the Israelites being freed from slavery in Egypt, and Moses leading them out toward the Promised Land. Except making it to that Promised Land is anything but a smooth journey, because honestly, we are people, and the Israelites were people, and we all know, people can be the worst.

Still, I am continually surprised when I read about the Israelites complaining again. And again. And again. Miracles upon miracles, glory upon glory, met with complaint upon complaint. In Numbers 21:15, they people actually tell God, “...we loathe this worthless food.”

Y’all, “this worthless food” was manna. The miracle food of provision the Israelites had to do nothing to receive every day except wake up, and there it was—enough for the day and a promise that more would come tomorrow. And that miracle had become monotonous.

How many miracles in my life, under the stress of responsibility and the weight of all I cannot control and the low hum of Cannon’s hammering downstairs, had I allowed to become monotonous, too? For a moment, right before our wedding celebration, I think a lot of them had.

But for two hours in the middle of the day on our wedding day, I somehow was alone in my house with just Cannon—who was not hammering anything in that moment, bless. My friends Emily and Aubree called that morning and asked to take the big kids swimming, Benj was running a few last second errands, my mom took my little three to her house, and my other crew of angel friends were at the park setting everything up. I never anticipated a margin on this day to just sit with Jesus but there it was, and there I sat.

And I’m not proud to admit this, but for the first time in weeks, I started breathing in and breathing out prayers to God. Prayers for peace, prayers for provision, prayers for my kids and my husband and my heart. It took almost no time at all for calm to wash over me, and quickly that calm turned to joy, the joy I had been wanting for a few days. Because no matter what else was going on around us, Benj and I were going to find each other in all of it, and we were about to celebrate what God had done in our lives with so many people who love us. And that is a miracle. The people in our lives are a miracle. The children God has given us are a miracle. Getting a second chance at marriage is without a doubt, a miracle.

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The wedding celebration was everything I wanted it to be. We rented a picnic shelter for $55 at one of my favorite local county parks, ordered sandwiches from the very best sandwich place in town, had the Kona Ice snow cone and the Crepe Sisters trucks park nearby, and told everyone to bring their own blankets and chairs for a picnic party. And that it was.

Pastor Joe welcomed the crew and prayed for the day. Benj’s mom blessed the kids in a sweet moment meant just for them. Benj and I each read something we wrote for each other. My friend Natalie led all of us in worship to one of my favorite songs, “The Love of God,” and almost 200 people sang in unison the most important words I know: for all our days we will sing our savior’s praise…

There were 75 kids at this picnic—which was as fun and crazy as it sounds—and they played Nine Square and football and threw frisbees and climbed trees and dripped red juice from their snow cones down the front of their shirts. My stepson told me he had eight Krispy Kreme donuts, but I guess when you leave the donut boxes open on the table that can happen 🫣 My two sister-friends, Ashlee and Emily, made us all simultaneously teary-eyed and laugh with their perfect toasts. And my daughter, Harper, brought us to tears with her words, her maturity, and her heart.

Nothing about the challenging things we have to carry in our lives went away because we were celebrating our marriage that day. But Benj and I got to hold hands and thank God for each other, and the people who have held us up for the last several years got to see the fruit of their prayers, and if this day—the one we circled on the calendar four months before—taught me anything, it’s that celebrating miracles is one way God sustains us for the long haul.

And for all of us, life is long, and it’s hard, and it’s miraculous.

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And now, I have a new last name, and Benjamin and I are committed to finding each other every day, no matter what. Are we perfect? Ha. Hardly. No one who has been divorced gets married for the second time with rose colored glasses on. But we have learned a few things. We have a good counselor, and I, for one, didn’t know how badly my first marriage really needed that—not to referee what was wrong but to help me examine myself more. Benj has the patience of a saint, and while that is a cliche, it is absolutely accurate. He’s my calm waters. And we have the Holy Spirit, who has not given up on me and gently gives me an elbow in the side when I’m being absurd (yeah yeah trauma responses maybe, but also, sometimes I’m just selfish).

So many people have told us, “Your story gives me so much hope!” and y’all, I’m so honored by that, I want it to! But I don’t want the only hope you draw from us to be about marriage. I want our story to scream of a good God, who is always doing far more than we could ask or imagine. Who will never stop providing grace for each day, each season of life, each moment we would never have asked for.

And I want you to also know, He can do that through community. He can do it through deep and sacred friendships. He can do it through the love of a spouse. He can do it through a life’s purpose you believe in so deeply, you’ll chase it every single day of your life. There is no limit to His creativity or His love, and I hope that is where we keep our hope.

P.s. Cannon is not in these photos, because he was safe at home with his dad, where the crowds wouldn’t bother him and the social expectations wouldn’t be too much. We missed him, but I am so glad he got what he needed that night, too.

P.s.s. As much as I’ve been writing about grace in the last few years, God still out-did himself with this story. But in just two weeks, a whole bunch of other stories that I am so honored to share with you will be out in the world, and I hope when you read this book, you’ll feel seen, you’ll laugh a little, and mostly, you’ll start tracing the threads of grace in your own life. Pre-order your copy today to have it on your doorstep on August 4th 💛

“The Tellings” is a series of stories, musings, and link love for paid subscribers.
Thank you, as always, for supporting my crew through “Let me tell you” 💚

I honestly don’t remember the exact conversation, or the final moment the discussion went from maybe we should just… to “how about Thursday morning before school?” But at some point in the middle of April, my fiance and I decided that we just couldn’t think of a reason to wait any longer to get married.

So on Thursday, April 23rd, at 8:15am—on our back deck with our kids, our pastor, my mom with a phone in her hand, and his mom on FaceTime—Benjamin and I said yes to forever. And made it legal. Then we had cookies and donuts and left to take all the kids to school sufficiently sugared up, and carried on with the rest of our day.

And it was perfect.

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But friends, it is officially launch season, and Grace Will Be There will be out in the wild in just three months.

I thought it might be fitting for a little timeline, especially if you are new around here. I started writing a proposal for this book in 2017. It was originally called Perfect Start, Perfect End. I had 700 social media followers and 110 people on my email list and yeah, that felt like the perfect opportunity to pitch a book.

Strangely, no one was really interested.

Early in 2019, I picked up some momentum again and even had a small Christian publisher interested in what I was writing. The agent at the publisher asked to see my proposal and I just knew, This is it, this is the time! He took about a week to get back to me, and I only checked my email 47 times a day that week waiting for my offer to come through. But one evening, just before I was about to start teaching class, I saw his name pop up in my inbox and I took a deep breath while giddily thinking, My life is about to change, I’m going to write a book! But this is what he said:

Stories don’t meet a need. Stories won’t sell books.

(I don’t know, ever heard of Anne Lamott?) (Don’t worry, I did not say that. I told him “thank you” and carried on.)

Then in 2020, I queried a different agent (three of them actually!). Two did not respond. One took a look at my social media following first and recommended I build a bigger platform. (And I’m real skeptical that she read the proposal but who knows?)

So I put everything away for a few years, but I kept writing for me, and for you, for the readers who do think stories meet a felt need, who feel a little less alone when you read something that makes you laugh or think or go, Oh man, she’s a mess, too!

And then, early in 2023, someone took a chance on me. Catherine Parks, an acquisition editor at Moody publishing, reached out after reading one of my Substack posts and said, “Katie, if you ever want to talk about a book, I’d love to hear your ideas.”

And team, Catherine went to bat for me, for Grace Will Be There, for an out-of-the-ordinary Christian nonfiction book, one that’s not exactly memoir, but not at all expositional or descriptive, either. It’s just me, it’s the writer I’ve always been, it’s the stories I love sharing, all in a book. And Catherine believed it in.

And then stuff hit the fan. Six weeks after I signed the contract to write this book in the summer 2023, my marriage ended, for good. It was me and six kids and a black hole of grief I thought might swallow me alive + a book contract. Not at all how I thought getting the thing I wanted for so long would ever feel.

I wondered a hundred times, should I get out of this contract? The great team at Moody would have understood completely. Should I keep writing and just say f-it, I’m not sanitizing anything, I’m angry, women are allowed to be angry, and that’s how I’m writing this book? That would have been a harder sell.

But my best friends encouraged me, What about just asking for more time, Katie? And yes, that felt right. Within an hour of my email, Catherine wrote me back and said, “Absolutely, Katie. Take a year. We are here when you’re ready.”

So I did take a year: a year to live into this new story, a year to start healing (one needs more time than that, but I’ll write about that in the next book, Lord willing!), a year to find my voice again when I wasn’t so angry, a year to laugh with my kids, a year to sell my house and figure out my finances and ride the Peloton. And finally, last September, I turned in a completed manuscript, a collection of 14 essays, backed by the proof of my own life: grace will be there, friends.

This book is not a typical Christian nonfiction chapter book. There are stories and braided essays and a defining word piece. There’s a lyrical essay called “How to Fix a Hole in the Wall” that’s a little bit about learning to patch drywall and a lot about longing for God to patch up my heart. There’s an essay about what childhood trauma and redwood trees have in common. There’s the one about me turning my very large broken TV upside down and using it as a coffee table for a full year (with absolutely zero shame, I might add). I’m so humbled these stories made it onto the page; it’s an only God thing that they did at all. The little book that could. And I am beyond honored to share it with you.

So, friends, this is where I need your help:

1. Will you pre-order the book? One for you, and maybe one for someone you love? 😉 I am absolutely certain that the best marketing strategy in the whole world is the recommendation of a friend, and so this is me humbly asking you to tell your people about this book, too.

2. Join my launch team! I’m looking for 25-30 women to join me starting in June to help get the word out about this book. Being on the launch team means you’ll get a digital ARC (advanced reader copy), 2-3 Zoom calls with me to talk about what resonated with you, and a “launch team only” pdf. of creative writing prompts to help you trace the thread of grace in your own stories. It also means I’ll be relying on you to get the reviews going… more on that below!

3. Ask your local libraries to order a copy of the book.

4. When the book hits your mailbox, photograph it! Share it! And leave reviews, oh my! (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.) But truly friends, leaving reviews helps the book’s visibility so much, so please as you’re able, put all the kind words on Amazon & Goodreads, as it really does help others find the book.

And one more thing I need to tell you: before this book comes out, I’ll have a new last name 🥰 You’re going to start seeing Katie M. Kelley in lots of places where it used to say Blackburn, but rest assured, same girl. I just have the sweetest guy in the world next to me now which is an even bigger Only God thing, but much more on that to come. (And no, my dating and remarriage stories are not in this book, but stay tuned, I have lots of them!)

Thank you for being here, dear readers and friends. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

One evening a few weeks ago, Cannon started doing some very odd, almost seizure-like movements. It is not uncommon for kids on the autism spectrum to experience seizures, anywhere from mild to severe, so my radar has always been scanning the horizon for them. And while these movements look “jerky”, and like he is not in control of himself at all, I don’t think they are seizures. His breathing is fine. He’s conscious. But I take videos and call the doctor and within 36 hours, we are in the office with his pediatrician where Cannon continues to hold his arms in the air and jerk his head forward and backward, again and again. It’s awful to watch. The consensus is that Cannon has developed a very rare case of pediatric Tardive Dyskinesia, a difficult side effect of a medication he takes to help mitigate his self-injurous behavior. I cry all the way home, because I am the one who chose to try this medication 14 months ago. Has it helped? A little. But did it also hurt? I can’t answer without feeling like I failed him, and failed speaking correctly for him.

A memory came up on my phone a few weeks ago: a picture of my two little toddlers at a park by our old house. I remember this day well, not so much for the cute little three-year-olds bundled in their cozies, but for what the picture doesn’t show—my oldest daughter, who was there that day as a nine-year-old, along with a few teenagers. There was also a girl with an obvious disability, walking around a bit aimlessly and making strange noises and attempting to connect with the other kids, and she had become the brunt of jokes among the group of teenagers.

As long as I live, I’ll never forget Harper running up to me from the other side of the playground, absolutely indignant, saying, “Mom! Those kids are making fun of that girl! But do you know what I told them?”

“What did you say?” I asked, genuinely excited for her answer.

I remember she threw her hands to hip with gusto and re-enacted the moment like the most confident human being on the planet: “I said, ‘Hey, you should stop, because she has a disability and that is NOT her fault. She didn’t choose it. So you should be kind and help her, and not make fun of her!’”

“Harper girl, I’m so proud of you for standing up for that girl,” I said, tears forming in my eyes as I listened to my brave daughter give an education to the teenagers who needed to be reminded of kindness that afternoon at the park. I don’t know yet if it comes more naturally to her than to me, or if she’s just been watching me stumble through and by the grace of God picking up the good moments more than the tearful ones, but somehow, this girl already knows, she has a voice, too

.

Notes:

[1] John 14:16

[2] For more “Defining Word” pieces, check out Sacred, or Single.

[3] If you’re looking for more writing on autism, you might enjoy my book, Gluing the Cracks, which is a collection of my pieces on disability all in one place.

I’m putting my makeup on in the morning when a text from my fiancé, Benjamin, pops up on my phone screen. It’s a single, frustrated emoji: 😒.

My stomach instantly drops. I know this feeling. Something is wrong. I wait a moment for a follow-up text, a photo, a screenshot, anything to explain this lone emoji. But it’s just the emoji. Two minutes go by and I text him, “Are you okay babe?” An eternal four minutes later he responds, “Yeah! Sorry, that was for JINK.”

jink (noun) a quick evasive turn; dodge or juke

Of course it was. Fifteen minutes before my stomach dropped, I had played JINK against the man I love and also love to beat in Crossplay (an online version of Scrabble), and he reacted with mock aggravation that I had just surged into the lead with an obscure 58-point word. But me? I actually spent seven full minutes near panic, thinking that really bad news was coming.

The amount of times I have asked myself out loud, What the heck is wrong with you, Katie? Innumerable.

“I wish you knew me when I was younger, before everything [2] happened. Because I wasn’t always like this,” I tell Benj. I can see him adjust his posture on our FaceTime call, sitting up a bit more, just enough for me to be able to see how much he wants to hold the weight of a comment like that.

“Well, tell me about who Katie was when she was younger,” he says.

I think for a minute before saying anything, because I don’t know how to respond, not exactly. “I just know,” I muster, “that I was different. I didn’t feel like I was always bracing myself for the worst.”

Trauma, man. All I want in the world is for the way it seeps out of my body to go away.

///

Parenting my oldest daughter has always come easily to me. She was born confident, assertive, sure of herself. And while that, of course, has meant more than one struggle of wills between the two of us in her life, we’ve always come out the other side just fine. She’s a leader and a go-getter, and more than that, she’s now a young woman I’ve relied so much on.

But she’s 13, and what 13-year-old is still sure of herself?

She’s also followed in her mother’s footsteps: she’s buried what she doesn’t want to feel.

///

“You can’t lead people where you’re not willing to go,” our couples counselor tells me, and damn it, I know he’s right, but I’m not sure how he knew to say that.

(Okay, God, I get it. You’re good at set-ups.)

Because here’s the thing, I hate going there, to those places where feelings take over your body. Where memories give you whiplash. Where you have to try to understand what happened to you again with new information. I hate it. For more than two years I have absolutely, positively insisted that my body do nothing but parent and Peloton. No feeling. Just moving forward.

And that would have been fine, (maybe?), if I never planned on loving someone again. (Which I didn’t). But an unspeakably amazing gift is sitting next to me—my future husband—holding my hand on the couch, listening to an objective and very wise man say what has been obvious to everyone but me: you are okay, Katie. And you’re also not.

“If you tell me I have to try EMDR [3] again, I’m going to be mad at you,” I joke with our counselor. But then I add, very seriously, “I don’t know why, but I cannot access the parts of me that need to go there for EMDR.”

He smiles back, “No, I’m not going to make you do that if you’re not ready. There are other ways we process trauma and its ripple effects. But,” he adds, “You do have someone safe next to you now. I wonder if it would be different with him here? What would it be like for you to let him really feel the weight of you sometimes?”

And Benj squeezes my hand tighter.

///

My daughter and I have just had our third late-night argument in a week. The third time she’s gone to bed frustrated, and I’ve gone to bed frustrated, and this is not who we are. Middle school is hard, hormones are unfair, teenagers are inundated with pathologizing language for their angst, but I do fear they are making it an identity and not a normal tension in life. That’s tough, to think you are something when you might really just be feeling something.

But there is more she’s holding: over two years of being the other mother in the house.

Harper, can you hold your brother?
Harper, can you make your sister a sandwich?
Harper, can you watch Cannon while I take Jordi to baseball practice?
Harper? Harper? Harper?

And my girl has answered to her name every time. She’s carried a lot. I don’t know if it’s more than most—there are many seventh graders who have seen a lot by 13—but it is still a lot. Her parents promised her something and we did not keep that promise. Broken paradigms, like parents staying married, are especially jarring for kids.

And I think I am seeing with much clearer eyes now: she’s okay, too. And she’s also not okay.

///

“You two have homework until I see you next time,” the counselor tells us “I want you to practice being a burden to each other.”

My eyes get a bit wider, because that sounds truly terrible.

“Seriously, I want you to work on being a burden: ask for what you need, tell each other what you’re feeling about something. Don’t stuff it when you’re scared. This is how you keep healing: you give someone a part of you that you’re scared to give him, and he holds it safely.”

I know he’s right. And I do believe that the man I love, he’ll hold the weight so patiently. He already has. My calmest waters are with him.

///

My daughter comes home from volleyball practice and after a few minutes of debriefing, of one topic leading to another and another, I can feel us going there again. An argument is brewing. Except this time, I’m getting on the balcony of my own mind a bit, and I’m real clear on something: these moments are not just about her. They are about me.

Because you cannot lead someone to a place you’re not willing to go.

I have been running hard from what hurts. So much so that I’ve damaged my own capacity to sit with what hurts my daughter, to attune to her in the exact moments that she’s rubbing up against pain and learning where to put it. Because all I’ve wanted to say since 24 hours after my life changed was, Look everyone, I’m really okay!

So the truth is, I would not have been okay, even if I had just stayed single, if God had never brought someone to love into my life. I would be strong on the Peloton, I would be efficient in my work, I would be doing my best to put a brave face on for everyone else and probably doing so impressively.

But I would be, quite honestly, jinking my feelings–quickly evading and dodging all I still need to dig out. My heart and mind would always be flailing, still protecting my body from the terrible feeling of dread that overtakes your stomach and your limbs and your nervous system without your consent. That is not someone who is really okay.

///

“Babe, I have to admit something to you: I kind of always thought of couples counseling as a referee of sorts. Like, two people have an issue and they bring it to a counselor and the counselor tells them which person is right, then the other person has no choice but to fall in line.” I say it lightheartedly, but I mean it. Benj laughs at me. “Seriously. I did not understand that counseling was about this much work on myself. But it’s so obvious now: healing everything [2, again] is how I’m going to show up best in the world. For everyone.”

“So, will you let me feel the weight of you?” he asks.

///

It’s all a miracle, isn’t it?
That somehow we grow and we don’t stay the same.
That healing really does happen, if you don’t run from it.
That our capacity to love might get buried by life, but it doesn’t have to stay buried.
That our safest places are with people who are not afraid to feel the weight of our burdens.
That teenage girls can be so strong and still need their mom to hold them.
That we’re all a mess, and God is still reaching for us every single day.

///

[1] Anne Lamott, Hallelujah Anyway

[2] Everything: addiction, betrayal, a near constant stream of “finding out”, half-truths, and ultimately, divorce. Being lied to is impossible.

[3] I know EMDR has been nothing short of miraculous for so many people. I have just had a hard time with it in the past. Our couples counselor shed some light on this for me when he said that for some people, EMDR can circumvent the self-protection they still need, and that’s okay. But that’s why we are in counseling 🙃 I’ll get there. I see the goal with clear eyes more than ever, and it’s not just for marriage. You can read more about EMDR here: https://my.clevelandclinic.org/health/treatments/22641-emdr-therapy

“The Tellings” is a series of stories, musings, and link love for paid subscribers.
Thank you, as always, for supporting my crew through “Let me tell you” 💚

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How did you know it was time to leave?

A heartbreaking question. And one I cannot, and would not, attempt to answer for anyone else.

So while I will never hold myself up as someone with advice to give, I will tell you stories. And as I do, I will pray with you for the community, clarity, and Holy Spirit conviction you need to be strong enough to stay, or strong enough to go.

As always, if accessing content behind the paywall is a financial hurdle for you, please reach out to me directly 💚

//

I got married on a beautiful Saturday afternoon in August, at the park down the street from my childhood home. As a five-year-old girl, I spent summer days collecting acorns off the ground near the creek there, capturing tadpoles in small mason jars to study before setting them free. I climbed the big oak tree just up the slope from the water’s edge with no shoes on, wrapping my toes around a sturdy branch for balance, feeling the carefree invincibility of a child who had not yet fallen, who didn’t know how much that could hurt. The air was always fresh and clear at that park.

My wedding ceremony took place right above the creek bed, looking directly over the place my mind once ran wild with imagination. A white dress worn where my hands and feet used to get covered in mud as I lost myself in worlds where acorns were magic and tadpoles could talk. My dad walked me across a bridge over the creek and gave me away to the man I promised to love forever. Afterwards, we danced under twinkle lights and toasted to always as the frogs sang to us from below.

Twelve years later, my marriage ended on a Wednesday morning in September. And I’m still trying to figure out how to explain what happened in between.

This is a long story, my story, made short.

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Well. What a year.

Published a children’s book.

Committed robbery from a popular retailer.

Checked Yellowstone and Charleston off the bucket list.

Turned 40.

Rode my bike 50 miles in the hills and lived to tell.

Broke in half over disability.

Got put back together by my people.

Finished three (yes, three!) book manuscripts.

And surprising no one more than me, I met a really, really good man.

There’s really no proper summary for a year like this, except to say that, as ever, the thread that persists in the thick of the tangle is God’s grace and kindness. So without further ado…

What worked for me in 2025…

*Discipline: The amount of pride I have wrapped up in my Peloton streak is silly, I know this. But I cannot help myself, I just love this bike so much. I rarely miss a morning ride. Even if I slept terribly the night before (which, oof, lack of sleep has been a whole situation for me the last few months of the year), I still get up with my alarm clock and ride before the rest of the house needs breakfast. It is how I face my day best. I rode 3,670 miles this year, and that feels significant, because they were miles I had a million reasons not to ride. I still get some of my best life metaphors from the bike, so as long as my body can show up there, I plan to. I didn’t ride 500 miles this December like I did last year, but I’m thinking 500 miles in January to kick off the year sounds good, too? Don’t worry, there will be a bubble chart.

*Stopping to celebrate: My sister-friend Emily told me during my birthday in Charleston that “celebration is the antidote to burnout” and that sentence stopped me for a moment. The antidote to burnout, what a beautiful thought that is! Who among us doesn’t feel burnout in some area of our lives—motherhood, work, professional endeavors? I have really tried to embrace the practice of celebrating the latter half of the year, like my friends toasting me over text when I finished a manuscript, or making ice cream sundaes when Ava lost both of her front teeth on the same night. And you know, Emily was absolutely right: it changes your posture when you are actively looking for reasons to celebrate, because like everything, you find what you’re looking for.

*Life administration: Solidified my new will (has anyone else done this and felt eerily like your death is imminent for a few days?) and met with a financial planner for the first time in my life. (I know, I know). He happens to be a good friend so I totally trust him, but getting another set of eyes on my finances was both good accountability and a good reality check, and he really did set me up better for the long game.

*Prayer: Probably should have listed this first, but since this list is in no order of importance, I’ll keep it here. But prayer, y’all. Simple, beautiful, pure prayer. When I tell you I have spent hours in my car absolutely begging God to help get Cannon through each day in his first year in middle school, believe me that it has been actual hours. And you know what? He’s making it. He’s doing better than I could have dreamed in school and that has changed my whole life. You’ve heard me mention this book probably 247 times but I’m telling you, it is one I will read every year. It helped me realize that what I really want to be when I grow up is, quite simply, the annoying girl who always prays.

*Girlfriends. [Cue my tears]. Where would I be without my girls, my own personal board of directors? Our Voxer thread has hours upon hours upon hours of conversations, and that was just from last week. If we added it all up, whole days and weeks of our lives were spent talking to each other in four different corners of the country. We cry, we swear a little, we ask for prayer, we celebrate, we set goals, we ask hard questions, and we tell each other, “I don’t even know what to say, I’m just sorry, and I see you” in the hardest moments. The amount of angst and sadness this group has absorbed for me so that I can go back into my real life as a better, healthier, version of myself is unreal—if I’m doing anything well it’s because they have helped me live through what’s hard, first. They are my first line of defense, my best hype girls, my accountability. My prayer for every woman I know is an , , and in their lives. Girlfriends were one of God’s very best ideas.

What didn’t work for me in 2025…

*Saying yes (to good things) too much. Bottom line: I’ve got to rein in what I say yes to. Things I don’t want to do are easy. It’s the things I do want to do that I’m struggling with. There are so many good things I don’t want to miss. But life and work and responsibilities right in my own home are busier than ever, and 95% of the time it is the people closest to me who pay the price for my overcommitments.

*Trying to sort through the past few years on my own. I thought I was doing just fine since my divorce, and in many ways, I was fine. I felt strong, healthy, like we were all flourishing. Until there was a reason to be vulnerable again. So I’m (somewhat reluctantly) back in counseling, not because I am not obsessed with my counselor, I am! But because feelings are hard, revisiting painful memories is really difficult, and digging deep to do even more of a postmortem on my old marriage is really exhausting. But you know what I don’t want to live with? Fear. Especially fear that doesn’t belong in a new story. And that’s worth the work.

Being the prolific reader I want to be. Goodreads sent me an email yesterday with my yearly reading recap (that I did not ask for), and they made a whole bunch of graphics that I could share on social media that said some version of “18/20 books read!” and basically all I saw was a reminder that you did not meet your goal, Katie. I really admire the people who can read 30, 40, 50 books a year. You all are amazing. That’s who I want to be. But I keep falling asleep after a few pages. In 2026, I think I’ll set a lower goal and hope Goodreads sends me a trophy.

Social-freaking-media. I just…don’t even know. I really don’t love it, you guys. For much of the last few months I’ve only been logging in on Fridays and that’s felt very balanced—though over the winter break I’ve been on much more and my soul feels that. So it’s back to Fridays only in 2026, and that’s 90% for the reels Benj or Ashlee send me.

In sum…

In Jewish traditions, there is a prayer called “Dayenu.” It means, “It would have been enough.”

It would have been enough, God, that you gave me mercy today, but you also gave us this sunset. Dayenu.

It would have been enough that we have food at the table, but we also have ginger cookies and homemade pizzas and butternut squash soup and sourdough bread. Dayenu.

Thank you, God, for doing more than I could have imagined. It would have been enough to be held by you through another year, but look at all you’ve done?

Dayenu.

One more thing…

a sneak peak for let me tell you subscribers. I still can’t believe this little book made it, and I am so humbled to share it with you next year 🥹

Notes

You can read Ashlee’s “What Worked” post here. She’s the coolest. And she also took all of these pictures of me and the kids. (It’s really a nice hookup when your best friend is as talented as mine.) We also did a podcast episode over on going through our lists with some stories, too, so jump over there to listen.

A note for paid subscribers,

I am still undone that you are here, not only supporting my family through this work, but praying for us relentlessly in a story we didn’t ask for, but by God’s grace, have found our way through. We’re still finding that way, certainly. Isn’t everyone? But it is so important to me that this space serves you in meaningful ways. If you have 2 minutes to fill out this form, I’d be so grateful. It will help me make 2026 content with as much intention as possible.

**You’ll see a little space to “Ask Me Anything” and I mean it, you can ask anything. You already know I’m pretty much an open book here. I even told he needs to get ready to answer so if you have questions for him, he said he’s game (he might regret it, we will see 😂)

Love y’all.

With gratitude,
Katie

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Sacred, (ˈsākrəd), formally used and defined, is an adjective that means “worthy of religious veneration.” I looked up veneration, too, because that’s a big word and it felt important, and veneration means “respect or awe inspired by the dignity, wisdom, dedication, or talent of a person.” I like it. The dignity part, particularly.

A second definition of sacred is “highly valued and important.” In many of the faith circles I run in, “sacred” is often used in opposition to “secular”—the former being good; the latter, being “things of the world” and largely, less good. I can mostly get behind all of this. There are absolutely sacred experiences, moments in life that are worthy of being set apart as such. But where is the line that sets them apart? Who draws it? And perhaps most importantly, how do we see it, and know where to turn our awe when we do?

//

[1] a quote I stole from (who happens to be the really good man I reference above 😉)

[2] He’s borrowing this from Daniel Siegel and Tina Payne Bryson: https://drdansiegel.com/the-power-of-showing-up-handouts/

[3] Here’s the Curt Thompson podcast:

If you enjoy this essay form, and I would love to have you join us for a micro-workshop in Defining Word essays 💚 Find all of the information here.

“The Tellings” is a series of stories, musings, and link love for paid subscribers.
Thank you, as always, for supporting my crew through “Let me tell you” 💚

Every day at 2:15pm, I walk down the hall of our local middle school and wait at Cannon’s classroom door for his dismissal, a few minutes before the bell rings for the rest of the school and the hallways turn into a jungle of pheromones. But on this day, a Thursday, one of the para-educators—who I have seen at different points helping out in all of the disability classrooms at the school—walks out of Cannon’s classroom with red eyes and wet shirt sleeves.

Oh no, is my first reaction. I hope he’s not hurt. Did Cannon hit him? There was a bite incident last week with a different student, was there another? I didn’t hear any screams from the classroom but maybe it’s just been a really long day—I know the feeling. But here we are, the obviously crying para-educator and me, two feet from each other and before I can stop myself, I reach out to touch the forearm of the crying man and say, “Oh gosh, are you okay?”

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I’m in my big gray van in the carpool line at school, dropping off two of my boys. It’s a small school, and a narrow carpool line, and I know the school staff likes to keep things moving. I pull up just ahead of the door, where I am now first in line, put the van in park and turn to tell my boys, “I love you, have a great day!”

My first grader, Beckett yanks and pulls backpack that is probably too big for him from under the seat, but one of the black straps is caught and he can’t quite get it out, so his big brother, Jordi, shimmies his way—with his own backpack on and getting held up in the seats, too—to the row behind to help. Okay guys, there’s two cars behind us, you have to get out, I think, but don’t say anything. With the backpack free, Beckett slides his arms through the straps and heaves the large and heavy van door open with all the weight his six-year-old body can put behind it. He’s small for his age, but we have yet to run into the thing he can’t do for himself. I’m impressed every time he pulls the door that is three times his weight open.

Beckett jumps out of the van to the ground and turns to look for his brother. The two of them always walk into school together, big brother and little brother. The sight of their backpacks bouncing up and down in tandem through the front doors is the last thing I see before driving off every morning. So Beckett, instinctively, knows it’s not time to walk into school until the moment his brother is on the ground next to him.

But Jordi’s not next to him yet. Now there are four cars behind us, guys, and out of a sense of urgency, I actually do say it this time. I love you, have a good day! [Or, get out, boys, I’m being judged from behind and I can feel it!] There is no written agreement anywhere I know of that sets a time limit on how long someone can idle at the front of the carpool line, but every parent who has ever sat in a carpool line knows that time is wildly misleading when you’re waiting to get on with your life, so the vague answer for the driver stopped in the front of the line is “not very long.”

But Jordi is climbing over rows of seats and boosters to me, reaching his arms out in a hug. I turn around and crane my neck to kiss the top of his head and say again, “I love you, Buddy,” but that’s not the only thing he wanted. His arms keep coming and wrap around my neck, as if to confirm, Everything is okay, right mom? I’m okay and you’re okay and we are okay, right? That’s what he wanted. Needed. Needs every day. Because he knows what it’s like when things are not okay. We all do.

He loosens his grip enough to pull his head back and his blue eyes—the brightest blue you’ve ever seen, honestly—hold mine for a moment. “I love you, Mom.” He smiles.

“I love you, too, Buddy.” He hugs me again. There are five cars behind us, one is pulling around me and I notice her looking over into my driver-side window, surely trying to figure out what the hold up is. At least, that’s what I would do. I wish I could tell you I’m above the side-eye but alas, I’m always trying to get on with life, too.

I put my hand on Jordi’s left cheek, and take in his smile. A few adult teeth, but still more baby teeth. Little and big. A mixture. His heart, the same.

“I hope you have the best day, Buddy!”

“I will Mom. I love you.”

Another car cannot wait any longer, and pulls around us.

Jordi finally jumps down where Beckett is waiting, slams the heavy van door shut because it does take a slam to do so. Waves and smiles at me again through the window. And two backpacks bob up and down toward the school door.

So I’m sorry I held up the carpool line today. But it took five I love yous, a hug, and his blue eyes meeting my green ones for a little-big boy to know, everything is okay. It may not all be okay outside our van. But inside of it, we’re okay. That’s what is going to allow him to face the world that isn’t. That’s what will make him brave.

You can be little-big as long as you need to be, Buddy. In a million ways, I still am, too. I have to look to Someone bigger than me all the time. And I need him to assure me that somehow, we’re okay.

And I just wanted the cars behind me to know.

“The Tellings” is a series of stories, musings, and link love for paid subscribers.
Thank you, as always, for supporting my crew through “Let me tell you” 💚

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“The Tellings” is a series of stories, musings, and link love for paid subscribers.
Thank you, as always, for supporting my crew through “Let me tell you” 💚

Sheesh, it’s been heavy around here lately, yes? I’m sorry about that, friends. One of the many tough aspects of being a writer who largely mines her own life for stories is that when life is life-ing, so goes the writing. And the truth is, this has not been the easiest season of my life and I’ve been feeling a teensy bit sorry for myself lately 🙃

But I need you to know I am okay! I always want to be an honest writer. I want to invite others into the ways God is teaching me to lament, but do so knowing confidently—perhaps for the first time in my life—that lament does not cancel out praise. Life can be both, simultaneously. I’m starting to think it usually is.

But lament has had the spotlight here in my last few essays lately and I, for one, am ready for a change of pace. I’m trying something new with “The Tellings” this month, both to make these little newsletters more manageable for me to keep up with and more fun for you to read. They are simply going to be a list of five. Five what, you might ask? I don’t exactly know yet, other than the broad and rather ambiguous category of “Five things I want to tell you”, I think we will figure it out as we go. So without further ado, here’s what I want to tell you…

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But what about the things in life that may not ever end? How do you get through those?

//

My two daughters and I are at Target picking up a few last minute items before the oldest heads off to summer camp: Instax film for her camera and Benadryl for her insane reaction to mosquito bites, which she will have by the dozens at the end of the week. We are in a hurry, trying to get out of the store and on the road in time to beat the long line for camp registration. But as we power walk past the women’s clothing section, I notice the pajamas, which come in a variety of neutral options and look irresistibly comfortable. I cannot fully explain why, but I slow my brisk pace enough to take a closer look.

At this point in the summer, my mind has been spinning for many days. (Weeks? Months? Years?) Any mama will tell you that the summertime with all of her kids home is wonderful and fun and a needed break from the rush of school mornings and making lunches and holding to routines. I love the memories we’ve made: movie nights and park trips and friends over late and bags upon bags of Johnny Pops. But any honest mama will probably also tell you that that summertime is a full-on assault on her nervous system.

“Mom, what are we doing today?”
I don’t know, find something.

“Mom, what’s for breakfast?”
You just ate breakfast.

“Mom, he hit me!”
Work it out, bro.

“Mom, what if lightning strikes our car when we are in it?”
Pretty sure we’d be safe but we should Google that.

“Mom, are we going back to Silverwood this summer to use our Read-to-Ride tickets?”
We will try.

“Mom, can I have ice cream?”
You didn’t eat lunch yet.

“Mom, where’s the remote?”
No idea, you just had it didn’t you?

“Mom, is pee just yellow water like lemonade?”
Big no, please don’t mistake the two.

“Mom, I’m bored.”
Need a chore?
“No, I’m too tired for that!”

“Mom.”
“Mom?”
“MOM!”
Good grief I am in the bathroom, just a second!

On top of a baseline feeling of overstimulation at pretty much all moments of the day, the number of tabs open in my brain—school supply lists, dental and orthodontist appointments, middle school + disability prep, volleyball tryouts, camping dates, playdates, summer reading logs, my own work and the growing list of deadlines, financial pressure, caregiving to a not-so-little boy with lots of challenges and of course, the holes in the walls, has felt like it is all crashing the hard drive at this point.

(Me. I’m the hard drive).

So why am I slowing to look at these pajamas when we are in a hurry to leave, when there is so much still to get done in the day, so many hearts and minds to tend to?

I tell my girls to stop, so I can reach out and feel the fabric, which is as soft and smooth as I thought it would be. It just takes a second. And then I let my hand drop back to my side.

“Okay, I just wanted to see how soft they were,” I tell my daughters. “Let’s go.”

//

When my ex-husband walked out the door of our home for the final time, I didn’t feel much. I had been crying in the hours before that, when the final reason I asked him to leave came to light. But then I stopped. I remember the door shutting behind him, looking over at my friend and pastor—who had come over to be with me—and then the next image in my head is the living room carpet, covered in dominoes. I’m the only one here to clean those up, I thought. I’m the only one here.

Even though I am surrounded by people who love me, even though I have help, as a single mother, I still feel the weight of that sentence every day.

//

Cannon’s new middle school principal emailed me a few weeks ago, a very kind, personal “welcome to school” note that I’m sure was spurred on by conversations with Cannon’s old principal, Miss K, and the fact that my little boy’s reputation from elementary school and the broken windows and such has preceded his start in middle school. I cringe at the thought, but I am genuinely thankful for the communication between the two. The middle school has to know what is not only possible, but imminent, with my buddy.

It takes a week for me to type out the response to his new principal, because every time I sit down to do so, to put into real words the real behaviors Cannon is going to struggle with this year, and all of the things the new staff needs to be prepared for, tears start streaming down my face. I really hate this, Lord, you know that right?

They are tears of fear, because I know how much it takes out of a person to handle the hardest moments, and I’m afraid not everyone who comes across Cannon’s path will have a well of patience deep enough him.

But they are also tears of complete and total weariness. Can he do this, can he make it through a whole day in middle school? What happens if he can’t? Can I do this? Can my nervous system do another year of waiting by the phone? God, why do I have to carry this alone?

Maybe the question I am really asking is this: Can I really live in this story, the one where I cannot see an ending, or a brand new chapter? One where there is no guaranteed moment somewhere in the future when everything will change? This story, the one I’ve been given, where I have no idea if relief is ever coming?

And I know, the answer is built into who I am: a mother. So yes, of course I can live in this story.

So the better question is really: how will I live in this story?

//

A few days later, I am back at Target, this time by myself—a small miracle. I came back for the pajamas, because I can’t stop thinking about how soft they are. They drew me over like a magnet when I first saw them, which is so silly because on the long list of things I genuinely need in my life—gas and groceries and enough money to pay my medical bills—I don’t think I can say new pajamas make the cut. But for 48 hours I thought about these pajamas and budgets be damned, I came back to spend $30 on them.

There are a lot of tough things in my life that I do not know when, or if, they will ever end. Will Cannon hit his head for the rest of his life? Will I ever have the chance to say “I’m not the only one here” again? Will any of this ever get easier?

And I think the reason why I bought the pajamas was simply this: because they signal the end of another day.

I don’t know if the things I long to come to an end will ever end this side of eternity.

But this day will end. And I can make it through this day.

And if I can make it through this day, I can make it through tomorrow. And if I make it through tomorrow, I can make it through the next day, and the next, and the next. And when I do that enough, well, I’ll make it.

How am I going to live in this story? I’m going to live in it scared, and tired, and weary, and desperate every single day for new mercies. New miracles, if I’m honest. Because changing deeply embedded behaviors or loving someone again or things of that nature are going to take exactly that. But I also know that tonight the sun will go down over the hills on the west side of our home, right before sending one final blast of bright light straight through our front door, so bright I have to close the curtains to soften the shine. And then it will get darker, calmer. One by one the children will go to sleep and quiet will fill the space their voices and questions and constant yells for “mom!” left.

And tonight, I’m going to put new, soft pajamas on. A little bit of a nod to the day, to the work behind me. We made it. And that’s enough. Now rest.

   In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety. Psalm 4:8

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