Two Thursdays ago, I got up at 4 AM and drove (completely solo!) five and a half hours to Highlands, NC. Later that day, a group of my sister’s friends would gather to celebrate her before she gets married this fall. But, several months ago, I was booked for a podcast interview I did not want to miss. No big deal, I thought. I’ll just arrive at the Airbnb a little early and record the podcast there.

The Airbnb was not available. So, plan B: reserve the study room at a local library. And if that didn’t work, reserve a room at a hotel. And if that didn’t work . . . Well, I hoped we didn’t get to that point.

Hence, the sunrise drive and audiobook (specifically, The Briar Club by Kate Quinn. HIGHLY recommend!). It was my first solo trip since Ivy was born last May, and though I don’t recommend booking a big interview and praying that all the technology cooperates when you’re also supposed to be in charge of a bachelorette trip, there is nothing quite like a beautiful all-by-yourself drive to reflect.

My book concluded, which gave me a few hours to think about my conversation, which would revolve around discipleship in the toddler years. My oldest two kids are definitely out of the toddler years and into elementary land. My littlest is (not quite) walking into her own toddler years, and I want to remember the rhythms and routines that embodied this season. So I started a voice note and recorded the things I wanted to remember most.

The library was adorable. The whole town screamed Stars Hollow, but in the mountains. And most importantly, the WiFi was speedy. My trusty podcasting mic and I had a nice long chat with Abbie Halberstadt about what it’s like to teach theology to toddlers and disciple young kids at home. Between the hours in the car and the conversation that commenced, I have gathered a list of the things I would tell myself if I could go back to when I first entered the toddler years.

Weave discipleship moments into what you’re already doing

Instagram shows me beautiful, curated families sitting at a table, opening the Bible together, and most days, that curation is not realistic. Does it happen now and again? Sure. But discipleship isn’t an extra thing we do. It’s part of everything we do. It’s opening a Bible at breakfast. Asking the same questions every night at dinner. Praying for a friend in the car on the way to the gym. It’s asking ourselves, how can we intentionally fix our eyes on Jesus amid the life we live?

Regular > lengthy

A child’s attention span is tiny, but their capacity to remember everything you say is vast. Utilize that. Five intentional minutes may not feel like enough, but you will be shocked at the fruit a consistent snippet of your day can reap.

Pray together early and often

Yes, prayer together can be around a mealtime or before bed, but we can also think outside of the box. Pray after a moment of discipline. Pray with your child when they feel sad or are angry with someone. Ask them to pray for you if you’re having a hard day. Pray as a family the minute you learn about a community need. When we model prayer and then show our kids that they can talk to God too, we open the opportunity to form a disciplined, habitual prayer life. And better yet? They learn to pray before they develop performance anxiety. These are the years for teaching kids how to ask God for what they need, trust Him with their words, and praise Him every chance they get.

Be invested (not just involved) in a local church

Being a part of a local church isn’t separate from personal discipleship. It’s part of it. How can your kids join you in serving? What would be a good opportunity to bring them into worship with you? Is your family known and truly loved at your church? Do other believers know your children well enough that they’ll also be part of their discipleship journeys? God’s design is not that we would follow Him alone. And it’s not that we would disciple our children alone, either.

Utilize memorization

Kids’ brains are like sponges. Developmentally, they memorize everything they come in contact with—it’s how their brains were created to learn. Use that to their advantage. Memorize Scripture together, practice catechism questions with your child, and set in place a foundation of language for a faith that will unfold over the rest of their lives.

Fill your home with books that spark conversation

Books are a great opportunity to create conversations. They invite a parent and a child to snuggle up together and begin a conversation. Consider how the books in your house might spark a discipleship opportunity. It doesn’t have to be a book that shares the gospel. It could just be a story that leads to a conversation about grace. Sprinkle them everywhere, and as much as you can, say yes to the question, “Will you read with me?”

Bonus plug: grab one (or all) of my Toddler Theology books

The reason I got to be on that podcast in the first place is that I wrote some books that tie these last two tips together. The Toddler Theology series is a set of six board books that use catechism questions alongside beautiful illustrations to help families begin conversations about God. I would love for you to check them out and incorporate them into your family’s discipleship rhythms.

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There are about a million right things we could all do as we disciple our kids. There isn’t a formula for success. But gosh, what an opportunity we have to be part of our kids’ testimonies, should the Lord draw them to Himself.

You can listen to the whole episode of the M is for Mama podcast here.

What practical family discipleship tips do you have for the little years? Drop ideas below! I am not done with the little years quite yet!

At some point in the next 24 hours, I will stand in Target dollar (or $5?) spot, stare at plastic Easter grass and a $4 rubber duck, and think, there has to be something better.

There is.

I know this because I do it every year. I love making childhood magic for my kids, but amid this busy life, I am about 50% on top of planning. And that is why I am making this post today. If your Amazon is anything like mine, you can perhaps still get a few things in the mail between now and Easter.

I want to argue that the best last-minute thing you can put in your child’s basket is a book.

A $15 book will outlast every piece of candy in a basket and every cheap Easter-themed toy from the dollar spot. It could become a family heirloom—a collection of pages that your children’s children go back to over and over again.

In this post, I’ll list some of my favorite new books (out in the past year!) that you can and should grab for your child’s basket.

Of course, I’m biased. I work as an acquisitions editor at B&H Publishing Group, and the books on this list come straight from our catalog. But there’s a reason I’m recommending them, and there’s a reason I acquired each of these books a handful of years ago.

They are good books.

Each holds a strong, biblical foundation that could travel with your child for a lifetime. The theology is trustworthy, and these books help you jump into discipleship work, giving you real words and real messages to use with your kids starting Sunday.

The Dragon Slayer and His Super Special Suit

Best for ages 3–7

When Kyle Worley’s name first came through my inbox, I was thrilled. I’ve loved Kyle’s podcast, Knowing Faith, for much of my adult life. I loved the idea of putting theology from his mind into a book I could then press into my child’s hand. Getting to help bring that book to life was a gift, and I’m so glad I got to spend the last few years working with Kyle.

This book has every ingredient of a gospel-centered masterpiece. An allegorical story arc. Exhilarating rhyme. Inviting illustrations. The first thing I thought when I read the manuscript was: Ezra is going to love this book. There’s not much that will captivate a 3-to-5-year-old boy like a dragon and a hero who defeats it.

Kyle did a wonderful job creating an allegory in rhyme (which—a little editorial insight—is extremely hard to do, friends.) It’s a fun and bouncy read, and the illustrator we chose together, Kaja Kajfez, made it into a fairy tale masterpiece.

Kyle is the dad of two daughters and made sure the book would appeal to girls and boys alike, featuring a dad-and-daughter duo at the heart of the story. If you have kids who love fairy tales and dragons, and you’re a parent who loves a metaphorical gospel story, this book is for you.

Yara the Brave and the Swirling Worry

Best for ages 4–8

This is another sweet one I had the opportunity to work on, this time with Blair Linne. Blair is an incredible spoken word artist who beautifully blends words with theology. She has an incredible story about anxiety in her own life that resonated with me in a season of lots of triggered anxiety.

On the day I first spoke to Blair about the potential of doing a children’s book, a storm was raging outside, and my heart was in my throat. Six years ago, a tornado ravaged my family’s home, ripping the walls off of my husband’s and my bedroom and shaking everything from the crib to the dresser in my daughter’s room. Thankfully, we weren’t there, but I haven’t handled storms well ever since. (You can read about that experience here.)

As Blair spoke of her battle with anxiety, I wasn’t just listening as an editor evaluating a project. I was a mom who understood. My heart felt some version of understanding—the kind of understanding that comes when someone names something you’ve been carrying, putting words to it you haven’t been able to place. Her voice was an important one to bring into the Christian space. Blair brings the real-life experience of someone who has struggled and can say, with credibility: The Lord is faithful through it all.

In the book, a young girl named Yara is the bravest person many people know. One day, Yara begins worrying.

A worry worm becomes a metaphor for her anxiety, spinning silk that winds around her, entangling her, making her feel like she has to run. When she does, she goes into the woods and encounters a raven, a lily, the wind, and a sheep. Each personified being offers her a different way to face worry rather than flee from it. Most importantly, she learns that the best place she can run is into the loving arms of the Good Shepherd.

Yara’s story matters because it holds kids in that tension: ridding our hearts of worry may not be as simple as running away from it, but we have a Good Shepherd onto whom we can cast every care.

What’s the Good News?

Best for ages 0–4

This one is a little personal. It’s one of my own board books from the Toddler Theology series. The previous two books are picture books suited for kids around 3 to 8, but this one is for the littlest ones: anywhere from newborn to about four, or for an early reader who can start engaging with it on their own.

The Toddler Theology books use catechism questions to help kids memorize basic theological concepts from the very beginning. What’s the Good News? dives straight into the gospel, asking kids what the good news is, and answering clearly.

The gospel content is what makes this book best suited for an Easter basket, but its size is a close second. It’s small enough for little hands to easily grasp, and small enough to leave plenty of room for a stuffed animal, some summer sunglasses, and that dollar spot item that is actually pretty cute. Of all the Toddler Theology books, this is the one I most want kids to have on their shelves, helping them learn the basic language of the gospel from the earliest age possible.

Your Worth Never Wavers

Best for ages 4–8

These last two books are ones I’ve already spoken about here on Substack (read about Your Worth Never Wavers here—every word remains true), but it absolutely belongs on this list. It’s a book for girls about their worth in Christ, and the colors are beautiful and pastel — perfectly suited for an Easter basket.

I love Laura’s message: a girl’s worth is defined by the God who made heaven and earth. He is a Creator with the creativity to make honeybees and glaciers, and he is the same God who formed and knit each girl together. This would be a beautiful addition to any Easter basket. It’s gorgeous in both content and color.

God Is

Best for teens and young women

If you have a teenager, particularly a teenage girl, I’d love to point you toward God Is, written by my friend Alina Franklin (formerly Alina Pitts). This girl is wise beyond her years. Several years ago, Alina and I set out to create a book that speaks directly to the question that almost every teenage girl asks in some form: Who am I?

When that question is asked, we have an opportunity to point girls not only to who they are but to who God is—because we are image bearers. We bear the image of a God who is so much bigger than us and so much better than humanity in every way. And still, he allows us to look like him in certain ways, to image him. By learning who God is, teens who trust in Jesus can answer the question of who they are with confidence: they are children of an incredible King.

This is another gorgeous book that will fit beautifully in an older child’s Easter basket while still looking mature and sophisticated.

A Few More Books Worth Filling Your Basket with

Honestly, I could keep going. Here’s the rest of my shelf — books I love just as much, that are slightly older or that I haven’t had a chance to write about here yet. Consider these just as highly recommended:

The Boy Who Was Bold by Adam Griffin

Left Out by Jill Atogwe

When Our New Baby Comes by Aubrey Coleman

Don’t Forget to Remember by Ellie Holcomb

Who Sang the First Song? by Ellie Holcomb

The Lord Is My Shepherd by Jay and Kristi Smith

In Case You Forget by Hannah Conway

New Year, New You by me

You Count by Champ Thornton

The Very Best Baseball Game by Katie Blackburn

When God Makes Scribbles Beautiful by Kate Rietema

and the rest of the Toddler Theology series, if you really want to fill up a basket.

Any of these (plus so many more!) would make a beautiful addition to your child’s basket.

In a world overflowing with picture books, I love sharing the real stories behind how these messages get into your children’s hands. Every book has an author who pores over words and an illustrator who spends months perfecting characters, keeping them consistent across every page, painting, and revision.

When stocking your child’s basket—and their shelves—give them real words, real pages, and real messages to aid your discipleship journey with them at every age.

Welcome to what I consider a not-so-glamerous but incredibly awesome life.

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Reading

Help! I’m Ruining My Kids by Abbey Wedgeworth is the book I want every mom to read this year. I appreciate a title that gets at my innermost fear, and goodness, this one does that. In this book, Abbey recognizes that we all want to be good mothers who raise good children. Still, despite our best efforts, we still feel like we are messing something up. There is good news! Christ is my righteousness, and Abbey reminds me of this in every section.

Abbey is a friend I have had the pleasure of working with. Since we are both working, homeschooling moms, we have gotten to see into one another’s motherhood during work calls, and friends, she practices what she preaches. I want her voice in my ear and her writing in front of my eyeballs when I am trying to strongarm my own “good” motherhood.

Everything Is Tuberculosis by John Green explores how tuberculosis—often thought of as a disease of the past—continues to shape lives around the world today. Green blends history, science, and storytelling, examining how this curable illness remains deadly in many communities due to poverty, inequity, and global health disparities.

This one began as a slow burn. I have been deep in fiction land throughout this postpartum season, needing easy stories to sink into while my brain has lacked sleep. But when I got about halfway through, I couldn’t stop — I ran out of Spotify hours with only 45 minutes left and had to wait five days to finish. The worst. This is probably one that works better as a slow listen or read, because throughout the book you’ll be invited to see tuberculosis not just as a medical issue, but a human one.

4.75 ⭐️, friends!

The Correspondent by Virginia Evans is going to be in my top books of 2026. This epistolary novel follows the writings back and forth of a woman in her late 70s, grappling with past and present hardship, and the friends she has made along the way. This character is flawed. And I love her.

I would like to press this book into the hands (or ears) of everyone I know.

5 ⭐️ book.

Eating

Since bringing a third child into the world, my capacity to make and serve real food to my kids and myself—while also working full time and homeschooling—is almost nonexistent. So I’ve taken out some of the decision-making, like a real lazy genius, and decided to decide once instead of trying to figure out what I’ll feed myself day in and day out.

I’ll share more in a different post about what I’m feeding my kids, but here’s what I’m feeding myself.

Breakfast: The Laziest Oats You’ve Ever Made

I mix water and pea protein powder (which sounds quite disgusting, I know), dump in a scoop of oats, and chop up an entire apple. While far from gourmet, the protein and fiber of this meal get the job done and fill me up for my morning routine. Sprinkling a little bit of salt and cinnamon over the top makes it pretty yummy.

Lunch: Tuna Bowls

I’m eating almost primarily tuna bowls for lunch. I prepare quinoa and a kale salad on Sundays, then put those + tuna in a bowl, mix it up, and top it with Kinder’s barbecue sauce. It’s a weird combo, but it’s delicious — it hits all the nutrient groups I’m going for and keeps me full through an afternoon of focused work time.

Snack: Energy Balls

The last thing I eat nearly every day are energy balls—a conglomeration of oats, flax seeds, protein powder, peanut butter, honey, and chia seeds. I love to pop two of these before I go to the gym in the afternoon.

Don’t come to me for advice when it comes to five-star meals (go back to You’re in Good Company for actual recipes). But by keeping these meals simple and pre-deciding, I get to pour more of my creative cooking energy—which I do love—into dinners for my family. One day, I’ll be in a life season where I can be more creative about each meal.

This is not that season, and that’s okay.

Praying

Oh, what to say about my prayer life lately?

After walking through a two-year season of waiting for the Lord to give us a child, and grappling with the grief of miscarriage, my prayer life has changed a lot. Walking through that kind of grief taught me in so many ways that my prayer life does not have to look structured. It does not have to be detailed. It can be as simple as “help,” and it can be as intensive as notebooks filled with written-out prayers.

Prayer often happens as I sit with my daughter, frustrated with a math concept she’s worked on over and over but still can’t quite get into her mind. Prayer piles up in my mind as I sing worship songs in church—praying the words over myself and the people around me as I sing to the Lord. It takes place in the car as my kids and I drive the ten minutes to and from the gym in the afternoon. It happens as I complete work throughout the day. And yes, as I read my Bible.

My prayer life these days is both structured and found in the slivers of time between breakfast and dinner. Paul says to “pray continually.” I never knew what that meant until now. Motherhood is a training ground for continuous prayer.

Obsessing

You guys, I turned 31 last month, and something shifted. Thirty felt like a milestone I could wave at from a distance, but 31 feels . . . different. Time to actually take care of myself as if my body will age one day.

On a quick trip to Kansas City to visit my best friend, I asked her what she was doing as we walked into our 30s. I’ve started using Prequel skincare, and so far I’m loving it. Check back with me in two weeks to see if I’ve actually stuck to this routine.

Austin and I also went on a date to a Michelin-star restaurant. Almost ten years in, and this was probably the nicest meal we have enjoyed together. We are obsessing over Audrey. My childhood-in-Kentucky self loved this take on Appalachian-inspired cuisine. If you are in Nashville and want a GREAT meal, make a reservation at Audrey!

Recommending

Last year was baby year, and Austin and I did not watch as much TV as we had in the past. However, we did binge the first season of Paradise on Hulu. The show was written by Dan Fogelman and created with Sterling K. Brown as the main character. If you spend much time with Austin or me, you know that our favorite show together is This Is Us.

Paradise is an apocalyptic thriller—a totally different flavor from This Is Us. But Dan brings the same intricate writing, detailed storytelling, and beautiful character work. The second season is coming out on Mondays, and we can’t get to it fast enough.

The other thing I’m recommending is my Toddler Theology series. The two newest books — and the final books of the series — came out last month, and I have a baby who is already obsessed with the illustrations. Alice Samuel did an amazing job, and her style draws little children in and opens the door for parents to begin reading the questions and answers. If you have a baby or toddler, I would love for you to pick up one or all of them.

Grab all six for $36 before through Easter!

Check them out on Amazon

Treating

The baby is beginning to crawl, there are crumbs everywhere, and a few weeks ago, Austin and I faced the egregious truth that our home is not clean. We purchased a RoboRock vacuum and mop combo.

Last week, I was sharing with Austin that the thing that feels most overwhelming to me about this season—my kids and I being home all day working and schooling—is the continual messiness of our house. We’re doing life here all day long, creating, cooking, writing, living inside a not-so-big space. We need a serious system in order to feel like our house isn’t a disaster, and I just don’t have time to vacuum and mop every day of my life. Honestly, I don’t have time to mop every week of my life.

Roborock: Your Favorite 2026 Purchase

So as we were toying with the idea of getting a house cleaner, we thought — maybe the answer is actually to automate one of the pain points of cleaning instead. My house has felt cleaner in the last two weeks, and I’ve been more motivated to pick things up because of it.

(I understand that this is perhaps the most boring adult version of “treat yourself,” and I am unashamed.)

Thank you for reading this little post—this “report” on what’s going on in my life lately.

I love the season of life that I’m in: my motherhood, my marriage, my kids, and ministry at church. It’s full, and it’s busy, and little things matter. I’m resting in the midst of one of the busiest seasons of my life, and that feels good. I’m eating food that fuels me through long days without a crash. I’m obsessing over a new skincare routine and taking care of the cells God gave me. I’m recommending the things that bring us joy. And yes, I’m treating myself—even though treating myself in this season looks like paying dollars for household chores to be done for me.

Not every season will look like this. But I love the one we’re in, and I’m praising God for it every day.

The Photodiary:

Blessed are the empty,

For their wombs do not define their worth—

No matter how often they compare their bellies with those who swell with life.

Blessed are those whose due dates come and go,

For theirs was life, known only by one—

A child whose world was warm with a mother’s embrace.

Blessed are the angry,

For they know it should not be this way.

Wanted life should bloom from within—

Not wither away like chaff in the wind.

Blessed are the helpless,

For they know that within the deepest despair of their desire,

Lies hope that only One can fulfill.

Blessed are the silent grievers,

For they are seen and known by the One who matters most—

The One well acquainted with suffering.

Blessed are the wailers,

Who cry for the world to hear,

For they will grieve in community

Alongside mothers familiar with their pain.

Blessed are the waiting,

For their longing is like glass shimmering in the sunlight—

Beautiful,

Fragile.

Blessed are those whose loss is recurrent,

For they know the bitter cup of hope,

shattered again

And the treacherous work of trying to put it together.

Blessed are the lonely,

For one day, they will squeeze the hand of another

Who is empty

And angry

And lonely

And whisper

“I know.”

Thank you for reading these words shaped by the cadence of Jesus’s beatitudes.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on my miscarriages with a friend walking through the same thing, asking myself alongside her, “Can any good come from this?” This poem is my answer to that question.

Blessed are those who mourn,

For they will be comforted.

When I had my first miscarriage, I didn’t want to feel better.

The corner of my couch was comforting and painful. It was comforting because it was a cheap, worn-in couch—one of the first adult purchases I’d made.

Painful because everything was painful.

Breathing hurt.
Texting updates to my friends hurt.
Numbing my brain with Netflix hurt.
My womb hurt.

It ached with the loss of who should have been cocooned in its embrace. Pain radiated from the deepest part of my belly throughout my body.

And pain gave way to anger.

My mind, mad at my womb because it couldn’t hold onto a baby for more than a few weeks; my womb, angry with my mind for all the blame. (There was also lots of cramping. Apparently, that’s to be expected with a miscarriage, no matter how early.)

As my belly and brain fought, I ignored an urge in my chest, staring down the collection of sixty-six coffee-stained books in front of me.

Though my soul ached to open the familiar pages—to drink in God’s Word again—something else in me didn’t want to.

I wanted to cry.
Grieve.
Feel the full force of my loss.

I wanted to rage against everything.
My body.
My husband, who didn’t hurt as I did.
The One who allowed it.

I bore my soul to a friend one afternoon in late summer over a cup of tea. She was one of the first people I told about my miscarriage in person. As she asked me how I really was, I was confident she saw right through me. She asked me something about where I was finding comfort, if I was. I danced around the question because I knew that the right answer wasn’t true. There was no question about what (or Whom) I had been avoiding.

Of course, I felt the Holy Spirit nudging me to open God’s Word. I knew He wanted to comfort me, but I didn’t want that. I didn’t want my grief to be fixed.

Behind me trailed a lifetime of treating God’s Word like a remedy—a way to feel better about my current situation or myself. As a young girl, I spent years treating Scripture like medicine—opening it when I felt lonely, confused, or small, expecting it to fix me.

The joy of the Lord was my strength, right?

When I grew older and began to actually study the Bible, I’d open it to feel smart, making connections where I hadn’t drawn them before. I’d open God’s Word to know what to say to a friend who was hurting. Or correct someone if they spouted off a weird theology.

But this wasn’t that. I had no desire to modify my current state or change the way I viewed myself. How could I possibly want to change anything when such a big piece of me was gone? The child who was supposed to grow safely in my womb was dead, and the only proof that he or she existed was the knot in my gut. How could I allow God to make me feel better and just let my child blow away in the wind of fickle sadness? The war inside me insisted that there was an injustice. Grief was my advocate. My sidekick. And I was not interested in snuffing her out with a Bible verse.

My friend’s eyes held me as she waited for me to say something—anything. The tea bag bobbed up and down in my cup. “I’m angry, and I am glad I feel that way.”

A pair of ruffled white socks wiggled in front of me as a baby stirred from her nap in her mother’s arms.

Did those feet know how lucky they were? Did they know how precious life past six weeks really is?

“Open your Bibles,” my pastor said from the pulpit, shaking me out of my stare.

Church was the one place I couldn’t quite avoid reading Scripture. I tuned out whatever was being said while enjoying the comfort of the people around me. It wasn’t quite a crisis of faith. I believed all the same things I’d always believed. I knew that death was evidence of a fallen world and that the gospel makes way for us to live in a reality where death—miscarriage included—will no longer be our reality. To know is one thing. To feel is another.

So, week after week, I sat in church, eyes fixed on baby feet instead of a Bible. Heart trained on anger.

The sound of shuffling pages reverberated around me. I didn’t even bring mine. Oops. So that no one would suspect my heart posture, I looked over at my husband’s Bible, which he held in his hand with no problem at all. He even smiled a little.

Had he forgotten what the Writer of these words took from us?

That’s when my soft-spoken pastor read the words I would hear in my head over the next half-decade: “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding.”

In the bathroom, I prayed that no one would hear my sobs as tears spilled. During the post-Scripture prayer, I raced out of the room, locked myself in a bathroom stall, and felt everything I’d pushed down over the past month.

For chapters, the words my pastor had just read had captured Job lamenting the loss of so many good things—and God let him. He grieved his health, his friends, his possessions, his children.

When God replied, He didn’t shame Job for his questions. He didn’t even offer the comfort that I would have thought He might. Instead, God replied, “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?”

God didn’t tell Job to slap some joy on that pain and it would all be okay. He didn’t offer any kind of platitude. He let Job express his grief. He didn’t turn away from Job’s pain.

Then He reminded Job who He is.

With my back pressed against the wall and shoulders shaking in agony, I confessed all my fears. I told the Lord that I was terrified this was my only shot at motherhood and that, if my grief subsided at all, I would be forever defined as a heartless mother. I admitted that I was angry with Him for taking this baby away. I questioned His goodness. I wondered, aloud in the empty bathroom, what all this meant about my faith.

Then, silence. Well—not silence, exactly. Those words—Where were you?—resounded in my mind.

God was there when the world came into existence—He was the One who spoke it into being. I was still angry. I still felt the full force of my loss. God’s persistent nudging wasn’t an attempt to silence my grief, but to anchor my trust in Him.

I walked back into my house after church and plopped into the corner of my couch. My Bible sat in the middle of my coffee table, where it always was. I thumbed through it until I arrived at the book of Lamentations. It was the only thing that felt appropriate. My body still ached with grief.

Over the coming days and weeks, I read the book of Lamentations and David’s lament psalms almost exclusively. Eventually, there would be another miscarriage. Then another. Each time, I would crawl back to these passages that reminded me that God wasn’t urging me to Him because He wanted to take away my grief. He, too, laments untimely death. He beckoned me to open His Word not to make me feel better, but to know Him more.

It’s only in knowing Him that true comfort arrives. To trust that the God who formed heaven and earth and knit together my heart and the children inside my womb was with me in the depths of my sorrow—and can handle my lament.

My tears.
My grief.
My rage.

To run to Him because I needed the God who laid the foundations of the earth. And to inch closer to trusting that even in my most gut-wrenching loss, He has a plan.

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Friends, if you come to this post in light of a recent, or not-so-recent, miscarriage, I am so sorry. I would love to pray for you as you walk through the “full force” of emotions surrounding your loss. Please feel free to leave a comment sharing how I can pray for you or reach out personally.

All my love,

Lauren

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5:45 AM – My husband whispers, “Coffee’s ready.” I snoozed my alarm at 5:00. Then 5:30. It was a particularly rough night with the 8-month-old. I head downstairs, where hot coffee does its work of prying my eyes open enough to read a few chapters of some easy fiction. My brain wakes up for the day.

6:00 AM – I open my laptop to begin the work of responding to emails that trickled into my inbox overnight. I would have usually begun this task at 5:30 (and I would have usually woken up at 5:00), but again, I had an angry baby at 3 AM. Little voices prick my ears from upstairs while I type away and my husband puts breakfast and lunches together. I think my four-year-old is singing “The Room Where It Happened” from Hamilton, and I smile to myself, proud to be raising what I deem cultured kids.

6:30 AM – The cultured four-year-old, Ezra, comes down the stairs, tiptoes to me, snuggles under my covers, and lets out a toot and a giggle. Ahh, humility. We share a laugh before I head upstairs to finish my hour of work. Once all the emails have been answered, I throw on a sweater and make my way back downstairs. The rays of sun make the dust look like it’s dancing magically through the air. The six-year-old, Eden, joins that dust in its dance; Ezra tinkers with his LEGOs, and I take them both in.

7:00 AM – Our homeschool day begins. We work at the kitchen table where laundry is folded (win) next to us, but has yet to be put away (oops). I’ll do it after we finish, right?

The next two-hour block will be telling time and reading stories, adding and subtracting, recognizing letters and practicing phonics. Here’s the breakdown:

• 7:00–7:30 – 1st-grade math

• 7:30–7:45 – 1st-grade math independent practice + kindergarten prep

• 7:45 – I hear the baby babbling, so we all take a quick break to go tell her good morning. As soon as they see her, the big siblings dance and sing and do whatever they can to pull a smile out of her. She obliges.

• 7:45–8:00 – nursing the baby + handwriting

• 8:00–8:20 – reading + phonics practice

• 8:20–8:40 – language arts

• 8:40–9:00 – American history (we are reading the Kaya American Girl books and learning about Indigenous people in America)

  

During this time, I sip coffee, munch on breakfast, and try to treat this time as an intentional connection point with my kids. Of course, Eden and I (aka, two eldest daughters) sometimes struggle not to butt heads. But I wouldn’t trade this time with them for the world. It feels appropriate that, before I spend the day strategizing about and creating books for kids for my job, I would spend my uninterrupted time reading and working through books with kids. I am wholly convinced that this time as a mother enhances my ability as an editor.

9:00 AM – Still, no one is capable of doing it all, so friends, I have the most glorious help. My mom walks through the door, and baby Ivy grins as if pure sunshine itself has just made its way into our home. I finish reading the last few words of our book, then begin gathering my things, kissing each baby on the head, and leaving them to the wonderful world of “Gwennie School” (AKA the fun subjects and free play where their learning soaks into their sweet, sweet minds).

9:30 AM – I finish working through email and look over a contract one more time before sending it back to the very smart contract people. (This part of the children’s book publishing world is not my favorite, but the next part is.) I open the first sketch of a book I am very excited about. Woodland animals dressed in children’s clothing light up my screen. I suggest only a few tweaks because, goodness, this sketch is adorable and doesn’t need much. A fussy baby being put down for her nap echoes in the background, and a wave of gratitude passes over me. It’s not for everyone, but this working-from-home-with-kids-in-the-next-room thing is for me. I love it.

11:00 AM – The kids finish their nature study with my mom and begin working on an accompanying craft. I know this because I come downstairs to grab my new favorite cup and make myself a little electrolyte mocktail before heading back upstairs to jump on my first and only meeting for the day. Approximately seven minutes before said meeting, the baby wakes from her nap. I zip to her room, nurse her real quick (God bless 8-month-olds for being fast), and then head back just in time to join this week’s touchpoint.

12:00 PM – The meeting is over, and it’s time for some manuscript work. The book I start working on is approximately 400 words, so you might assume it will be a quick edit. But with board books, every. word. matters. So, I pore over four hundred words over the next hour. I read them aloud; I hear how they feel in my mouth, how they might sound to a child; I imagine the images on the page. I write down several ideas for the title and subtitle, and after what feels like five minutes of deep editing, an hour has passed.

1:00 PM – Little feet bound up the stairs, and siblings separate into own rooms for nap and quiet time. The older one brings a stack of books, and the younger ensures he has every piece of his LEGO airplane to put together. Quiet time has been a staple in our household since our kids came out of the womb. Even when my daughter went to kindergarten last year, she practiced a midday sleep every Saturday and Sunday afternoon.

I squeeze shoulders and plant kisses atop curly heads before Mom helps the kids tuck themselves into beds with their activities and hope of naps after an early and active morning. It’s not quite time for the baby’s nap yet, so I put her in her high chair to have a little lunch while I heat up a leftover lunch. Of course, the minute my lunch is hot, she decides she is not interested in anything other than being held. We battle over my fork for a while (it’s almost like she desperately wants to poke herself in the eye) until it’s clear that she, too, is ready for her afternoon nap.

1:30 PM – The baby is down, my lunch is lukewarm, and the computer is open again. I add a few more thoughts to the board book manuscript, reply to an email or two, and listen to an audiobook about writing craft, jotting down notes along the way.

2:00 PM – Five-minute break to make a coffee. My husband got me a Breville for Christmas, and this salted honey latte has been the perfect afternoon pick-me-up. Afterward, I write back cover copy for an almost-done picture book, send it to the author, and then hear some stirring upstairs.

2:30 PM – Eden is walking around after she wakes up (she still naps like a champ—sometimes better than the baby), so I walk her Sophie Mouse book up to her room so she can have a few minutes of quiet reading time. When I get back downstairs, I sink into another manuscript, losing myself in it until . . .

3:30 PM – Quiet time is over. Everyone is awake and ready for a snack. Baby girl took one of the longest naps of her life today (praise), so I nurse her while the bigs prepare their own snack and listen to the Yoto box. I answer the remaining few emails of my day, make a to-do list for tomorrow, and then play peekaboo for ten minutes.

4:15 PM – Austin walks in the door and gives everyone a little squeeze. Our family is together again, and it’s go-time. I scarf a snack and then throw on some workout clothes while Eden puts on her swimsuit and packs a bag. Austin responds to a voice text, and Ezra attempts a tackle, which my husband pretends to buckle under. They let their testosterone take over for a few minutes. It’s good for everyone.

4:45 PM – We head out the door to our gym for our swim practice/workout hour. Life hack: join a gym where there are extracurricular activities available for kids!!! We work out, Eden swims with her swim team, the littles have childcare—it’s ideal (shout-out to our local YMCA). On the car ride, the kids get their choice of backseat music while Austin and I catch up on our days. At the gym, we go our separate ways, each decompressing from the day with our own versions of movement.

6:10 PM – We are back home, and the dinner/bedtime rush has begun. I do a huge prep of our food on the Sunday before a week begins, so making a weeknight dinner is pretty much just heating things up. When we walk in, Austin immediately starts the evening tidy with Ezra, Eden goes upstairs to rinse the chlorine off, and I feed the baby before heating dinner up.

6:40 PM – We eat dinner together. Tonight, the kids sit at the counter while Austin and I stand in the kitchen. Dinner at the table doesn’t always happen. Especially when there is folded laundry sitting that somehow hasn’t made its way to the drawers. (Send help.) Ezra prays with all the spiritual words he has heard this past week. Eden asks a question about God that manages to baffle Austin and me. Ivy does her baby dinosaur screech and bangs her high chair for more avocado.

7:00 PM – Austin takes the big kids up for pajamas and teeth brushing. I carry the baby to her room for pajamas and snuggles. Though we are in a dark room with the sound machine, belly laughs overtake the white noise. Austin is wringing out the last bit of energy from the big kids, and Ivy’s head whips to the side to see what she is missing. She is not yet a year old, and she desperately wants to be a part of every moment of joy the older two experience. At this rate, we will never finish nursing before bed. “Can you close the door?” I whisper-yell to the hallway, and mercifully, someone hears me. The door creaks shut, and I enjoy a few moments of blessed silence and darkness.

After a day full of stimulation, this is exactly what I need.

7:30 PM – Austin and I chat as I enjoy the evening ritual of making myself a decaf Americano (I am really getting our money’s worth from this Breville), and he cleans the kitchen. Our goal is to be on the couch by 7:45 or 8 every night to chit-chat or enjoy an hour of a show. Would you believe that we are just now watching The Office for the first time? I know. We are approximately two decades behind, and you’ve all been telling us to watch it for years. I can now say with confidence: you were right.

9:15 PM – The TV has been sufficiently watched, and my brain is nice and decompressed. I throw away a popsicle wrapper and kiss Austin goodnight before making my way upstairs for the evening. My phone is now bricked, and the only glowing entertainment available to me is found on my Kindle’s screen. Tonight, I read a mix between historical fiction and a thriller, which is possibly my favorite genre to read when it is done well. (This book is called The Mad Wife, and all moms—maybe all women?—should read it.) I sneak into the nursery to do one last nursing session, praying tonight is less rough than the last.

10:00 PM – Austin has made his way upstairs and is asleep within 30 seconds of his head hitting the pillow (something I have yet to figure out how to do, even though I just spent the last 45 minutes winding down). In the dark, I struggle to not think about all the things that didn’t happen today. The laundry hasn’t moved. We forgot to memorize Bible verses in our homeschool time. I didn’t write what we did in our homeschool in the planner. I didn’t finish one round of manuscript edits I hoped to get done.

But, you know what? I connected with my people. I did my work. I didn’t scroll a lot. I read four chapters today.

I decide to stop myself mid spin session, pull up the Currently Reading podcast, set a sleep timer, and relax into my pillow, dreaming already of the “Coffee’s ready” of the next day.

Tomorrow, mercies will be new. And we will do it all over again.

If you’ve made it to the end, I would love to know—What does an ordinary weekday look like in your house right now?

Last thing. Next week, my board book series, Toddler Theology, is complete when the final two books are published! It would mean so much to me if you would consider preordering these books for your kiddos, a friend’s kids, or just to stash away for your next baby shower. Here are the best links:

Where Is Church?

When Is Eternity?

And here’s a link to all the books in the series!

It’s my hobby and my job, what I do to connect with my kids and what I do in my alone time. It’s why I love writing and editing. So many parts of me have been shaped by the books I have read and the act of reading them.

I also have three kids.

One cannot just casually read when one has three kids.

(At least, I haven’t figured it out.)

When I had my first baby, I didn’t finish a book for almost two solid years. I couldn’t figure out how to reroute my mind to the kind of reading necessary in my new season of life. I had all these big ideas about what reading should look like: how many pages I should get through in one sitting, the kind of books I should read, and on and on. You get the picture. But following the pre-kid reading rules didn’t work anymore.

To get back to books, I had to let go of my shoulds and create new rules for myself. Here are my top three.

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Audiobooks are my friend.

I used to think that reading with your ears was some kind of cheat code. That it wasn’t real reading. So instead of trying it, I spent the first several years of motherhood gulping books a page or two at a time, rarely able to sink into a good story and never actually finishing. Then, in 2022, a friend told me that there are actually strikingly similar benefits of reading via audio as there is reading on a page. So, I got over myself.

That year, I consumed 85 books, drinking them up like a child parched after a long day of play. I listened in the car, on walks, while getting ready, doing laundry, meal prepping, and pretty much any time I could slip away and put in an earbud. I have leveled off since then, but audiobooks are my go-to in this season of life. I love them.

I read easy.

For a long time, I read to impress the people around me. I wanted people to think, “Wow. She must be really smart and interesting.” Well, let me be the first to tell you: that is ridiculous. Again, once I got over myself, reading got more fun.

I read in the genre that I am interested in at the time. Sometimes, that’s books that my friends will all want to discuss. Sometimes, I keep my reading to myself or listen to a podcast about people geeking out about a book that I loved. But with three little kids, I need my book to go down about as easy as a warm bowl of soup. And that’s okay. I will read the classics later.

When I scroll less, I read more.

After I had Ivy last spring, I found myself in a huge reading slump. Again. Though I had the best of postpartum reading intentions, the scroll took its hold on my life. One day, a friend asked me what I had been doing during my nursing time (fully expecting me to say “Reading, millions of books!” I assume), and I had to tell her I had gotten myself a TikTok addiction. I went home, deleted all my apps, and downloaded Kindle Unlimited. It never fails that when I stop scrolling so much, I find all of this magical reading time. My slump ended, and I read 24 books over the next three months.

**This year, I hope to have my best reading year yet. To do so, my family grabbed the Brick (a phone-locking device). It has been amazing so far.

The List

Without further ado, here is my list of last year’s books! While this is in no particular order, and not every book is a recommendation, my very favorites are bolded. Please read those.

What were your favorite books of 2025? Let me know in the comments so I can add them to my TBR.

• The Favorites — Layne Fargo

• The Wedding People — Alison Espach

• Foster — Claire Keegan

• The House on Mango Street — Sandra Cisneros

• Broken Country — Clare Leslie Hall

• The Bright Years — Sarah Damoff

• Say You’ll Remember Me — Abby Jimenez

• Wild Dark Shore — Charlotte McConaghy

• Twice — Mitch Albom

• Maybe Next Time — Cesca Major

• Beneath a Scarlet Sky — Mark T. Sullivan

• The House of My Mother: A Daughter’s Quest for Freedom — Shari Franke

• All Adults Here — Emma Straub

• The Women of Arlington Hall — Jane Healey

• Evvie Drake Starts Over — Linda Holmes

• Nothing to See Here — Kevin Wilson

• The House in the Cerulean Sea — T.J. Klune

• Praying Like Monks, Living Like Fools — Tyler Staton

• The Housemaid’s Secret — Freida McFadden

• The Housemaid — Freida McFadden

• The Idaho Four: An American Tragedy — James Patterson & Vicky Ward

• When the Night Comes Falling — Howard Blum

• Homeschooling: You’re Doing It Right Just by Doing It — Ginny Yurich

• Listen for the Lie — Amy Tintera

• Becoming Homeschoolers — Monica Swanson

• The Testaments — Margaret Atwood

• The Handmaid’s Tale — Margaret Atwood

• I Was Anastasia — Ariel Lawhon

• Sunrise on the Reaping — Suzanne Collins

• The Frozen River — Ariel Lawhon

• Raising Emotionally Strong Boys — David Thomas

• Bible Translations for Everyone — Tim Wildsmith

• The Glass Hotel — Emily St. John Mandel

• The Third Gilmore Girl: A Memoir — Kelly Bishop

• Have I Told You This Already? — Lauren Graham

• Talking as Fast as I Can — Lauren Graham

• Get Out of Your Head — Jennie Allen

• When the Stars Go Dark — Paula McLain

2025 was not my favorite year of reads, but some were really good. In 2026, my goal is to read more books that I love. Wanna follow along? Let’s be friends on Goodreads!

Last thing! To close out this bookish post, I am excited to share that the last two books of my Toddler Theology series are coming out next month. This series has been the sweetest to bring to life and the perfect project for the little years with my littles. Check out this precious video of my kiddos sharing all about them. <3

It would mean the world if you would consider preordering Where Is Church? and When Is Eternity? for your kids, your church nursery, or a baby shower coming up. Grateful to you all.

There’s such wonder in you.
Who will you be?
What are your dreams?
I gaze into your eyes; you drift to sleep
tinkering with your paci,
popping it out,
laboring to place it back in.
Are you playing tricks?
A little clumsy?
Perfecting a skill?
I lay you down, and you cry.
Out of the crib, I pull you.
Are you afraid of the dark?
A little homesick
For my arms?
Perfecting the chokehold you have on my heart?
I pick you up, and you settle.
Down you go again.
You stir.
You stop.
You sleep.
I sink
back into wonder.
What are your dreams?
Who will you be?

Three months after giving birth to my first child, I sat down and wrote her birth story. And I am so glad I did.

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It’s not because I think my birth stories are the best pieces of writing I’ve ever produced (they’re not). I love them because they hold tight to memories that might otherwise be lost.

In the years since my first daughter’s birth, the edges of that day have grown blurrier. I remember the big, important things—the length of my labor, where I was when I felt my first contraction, how long I pushed. But if I hadn’t written down the small, meaningful moments, they may have slipped away completely.

Ever since, I’ve been thinking about how to help others write their birth stories, either as a keepsake or as something to share with the world.

Birth stories aren’t only personal memories; they can be threads that weave together the experiences of women across time and space. For most of human history, birth was communal. Women had babies in their homes. Siblings grew up knowing how a child was born into their families, what labor looked like, and the beauty of welcoming new life.

For many of us, that’s no longer a reality. Now that birth has become more private, often happening behind the door of a hospital room, it can be easy to treat it as something to keep quiet.

But from the beginning of time, God has shown us that birth is never merely a biological event. It is a sacred part of His story of redemption. (After all, God promised Eve that from her line—from the birth of child after child—someone would come to crush the serpent’s head.)

Each story, whether smooth or complicated, draws our hearts back to God’s plan to bring both physical and spiritual life to His people.

So whether your story is one you want to share or a gentle reminder for yourself, writing it down opens the opportunity to lift your eyes to a redeeming God who knits life together in the womb.

Your story bears witness to God’s goodness.

If you want to write it down, but don’t know how to begin, I’ve harnessed my love for writing and editorial knowledge to create a birth-story writing guide. And if you want a written birth story but would rather not actually write it, scroll down to the bottom of this post. Maybe you and I can write it together.

1. Gather Your Moments

First, create a basic timeline of events. When did your water break? What time was the first contraction? When did you and your doctor decide that the safest route was a Cesarean? At which point did you go to the hospital?

Then begin memory dumping. In a separate space, write down the little moments you can remember.

• The sound of the fetal monitor beeping

• Your husband stroking your cheek in the quiet moment before your last push.

• The nurse humming softly as she adjusted the lights

• The pounding of your heart while you waited for surgery to begin

• The first sound of your baby’s cry

Don’t worry about order or grammar. Think of this as emptying a box of puzzle pieces onto a table.

2. Put the Pieces in Order

Once you have your list and basic timeline, arrange the moments chronologically. This isn’t about getting every medical step perfect—it’s about creating a basic timeline from early labor to those first newborn cries.

3. Find Your Theme

Read through your list and notice patterns. Maybe your story is about trusting your body, unexpected humor, or the quiet strength of your partner. Maybe there was a lyric from a song you heard that encapsulates the atmosphere of that day.

Write that theme down. Plan for it to appear at the beginning, middle, and end—like a thread weaving the whole narrative together.

4. Identify the Climax

Every birth story has a turning point: the final push, the moment you chose an epidural, the instant the midwife said, “It’s time.” Mark that spot—it’s your emotional high point.

5. List Your Cast of Characters

List everyone present and jot a few bullet points for each:

• Partner: wearing a faded college T-shirt, clearly nervous but locked into everything happening.

• Doula: calm eyes, peppermint gum, a steady presence, rubbing my back with her magical hands.

• Midwife/Doctor: baby-blue scrubs, calm as can be, quietly explaining where we are to my partner.

• Nurse: quick-witted, checking vitals while cheering you on.

Go beyond the basic description. Note each person’s role, perhaps what they looked like, and their motivation.

6. Build Your Story Arc

Use your timeline to create an outline and shape your draft:

1. Hook/opening image – Drop us into a moment: the scent of lavender essential oil wafting through the room, the glow of the moon through your window.

2. Inciting incident – The contraction that made you realize “this is it.”

3. First attempt (fails) – Early efforts to manage pain or stay calm.

4. Escalation/midpoint twist – Labor stalls, water breaks, or emotions surge.

5. Crisis/lowest point – Exhaustion, fear, or a tough decision.

6. Climax – The push, the cry, the first glimpse.

7. Resolution/new normal – Skin-to-skin, the first feeding, the new rhythm of life.

7. Draft Without Fear

Now, write! Don’t stop for grammatical correctness. Let messy sentences and half-thoughts spill out. Your only goal is to get the story on the page. You can edit later.

8. Shape a Beginning and Ending

After the draft is done, go back to your theme and use it to create compelling opening and closing sections. Consider what you want to remember most about your birth? What do you want to communicate to your child about the experience? How did the Lord use your birth story to change you?

9. Revise for Flow

Read the draft in one sitting. Ask:

• Does each scene move the story forward or reveal character?

• Where do I need better transitions to lead the reader from one point to another?

• Where does my attention drift?

Then, read it again. But this time, read it aloud. Cut, reorder, or tighten as needed. Aim for 1,000–3,500 words—long enough to immerse, short enough to hold attention.

10. Polish the Language

• Replace filler words like just or there is.

• Swap weak verbs for stronger ones.

• Vary sentence length for rhythm.

• Read aloud to catch clunky phrasing.

• Find and change passive language to active language.

• Do a grammar read where you specifically look for errors.

11. Final Proof & Feedback

Before finalizing, share it with a trusted person, and ask these questions:

1. Where did you lose interest?

2. Is there a place where transitions could be smoother?

3. Did it feel realistic?

4. What do you think the theme is?

You don’t have to take every piece of feedback, but often, new eyes catch things we miss.

Once you feel good about your story, finalize it. Maybe you make it into a book on Shutterfly (we did this with our first and treasure it dearly). Maybe it goes on a hard drive. Maybe you publish it on Substack.

Whatever it is, just make sure it’s something a little more special than just leaving it in a document on your computer. :) You worked hard on this piece, and more importantly, you worked hard to bring your baby into the world.

Want a Birth Story but Don’t Want to Write? I’d Love to Help.

Do you want a beautifully crafted birth story but don’t have the time or energy?

Fill out this Google form, and I’ll send details on how I can help you write or edit your personal birth narrative. I love hearing stories of how women became mothers, and I would love to hear your story.

Why Your Birth Story Matters

Writing your own birth story isn’t just for seasoned writers. It’s for any parent who wants to honor the day life changed forever. It’s for people who want the testimonies of their births made a little more permanent.

Your story can become a keepsake for your child, a healing tool for yourself, or an inspiration for other moms who want to find solace in story.

Maybe it will just be your own private way to remember how God reveals Himself as a Redeemer through the birth of every person throughout time and space.

Because every story bears witness to His goodness.

This morning, I am pregnant again.

Today is my first ultrasound.

For two pregnancies in a row, that first ultrasound was world-shattering. It has now been nearly four years since I’ve seen a heartbeat pulsate across a screen, but only a few months since the words “I’m sorry” reverberated around a dark ultrasound room.

Hope feels like a distant memory.

I’d spent one hour this morning talking through my worries. Preparing myself to, once again, walk through a door that always seems to slam me in the face.

I turn on my Spotify playlist, and “Yet Not I, But Through Christ in Me” plays softly as I replay the conversation with my therapist. I tune out most of the song as I pray. That’s when the following words cut through my thoughts:

To this I hold, my hope is only Jesus

All the glory evermore to Him

When the race is complete, still my lips shall repeat

“Yet not I, but through Christ in me”

I scribble the words on my wrist.

On this day, this fragile, uncertain day, would I hold to the truth that my hope is only Jesus? That even a good thing, like a little life thriving inside of me, is not where I place my assurance? Will I trust that God is good, not because of my circumstances, but because of who He is?

Getting myself off the couch to go to my desk is like lifting a weighted blanket.

But inside my belly, a little life wiggles. The ultrasound showed a heartbeat, and it feels like this pregnancy can finally begin. And that it does - with an extra dose of nausea and fatigue.

The thing that exacerbates it most? Screens. Specifically, reading on screens.

Bad news for me, because I edit from my computer for a living.

Day in and day out, the Lord gives me the grace to do my work and get through each day. Between managing my family, my editing, and my nausea, there is little time to sit in anxiety about the pregnancy. Still, worries creep in like the draft through a window’s crack, sending a chill down my spine each time it catches me off guard.

On this particular day, my most pressing project is a devotional for young women about God’s character called God Is by Alena Franklin. I open my computer and prepare to spend a morning taking deep breaths and regular breaks.

As I read over the author’s words, truths about God’s character wash over me.

To this I hold, my hope is only Jesus.

I print out the manuscript, close my computer, and begin scouring commentaries, concordances, and systematic theology books, acquainting myself further with the God who sent His Son––who is the same yesterday, today, and tomorrow, even when I feel terrified of what’s coming.

I have a clear focus in that season of sickness and worry: God’s character.

Alena and I work back and forth through every major stage of my pregnancy.

We work through 20 weeks of nausea.

I edit her book on the day of our anatomy scan.

We prepare it for the printer during a scare after a follow-up ultrasound.

We meet to talk marketing when I am so pregnant I have to waddle through the coffee shop.

I send emails about PR the day I go into labor.

And so it was that, during what felt like my most fragile, uncertain pregnancy, the Lord used a devotional to keep my eyes - my hope - glued to him.

It’s one of the last warm afternoons of the year when I hop out of my car to pull a chunky three-month-old from the back seat. We walk into Alena’s book-launch party.

In one arm, I hold God Is - that little devotional full of truths about God’s character. Truths I’d appealed to as I asked him over and over to bring another child into our home, to quell my worries, and to help me keep my eyes on His Son.

In the other, I hold the answer to that prayer, more aware every day that, yes. My hope is only Jesus.

This post is part of my ongoing series highlighting the books I edit and the unexpected ways they shape my own life as a mom.

If this story encouraged you:
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➡️ Check out God Is to grab it for you and/or a young woman in your life.

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Thank you for reading, supporting these authors, and walking with me as I share the books—and the truths—shaping my family.

Each morning, as she inhales breakfast, I stand behind her to wet, condition, and comb out tangles. Throughout her lifetime, Eden’s hair has transformed from wispy straight threads to tight-to-her-head ringlets to long brown curls that, if straightened, would stretch down the whole of her back.

I love my daughter’s hair.

I have always envied people with curls. My high school best friend had amazing curls I obsessed over. So much so that when I was a sophomore in college, I permed my hair—chemically destroying it—to achieve the head-full-of-curls look I dreamed of.

“Mom, I want your hair.”

Her words jolted me out of my flow one morning as I picked away at her curls. She was only four years old.

I’d known this day was coming since pink smoke billowed off a stick in my hands, telling me I would have a daughter. There is little escape from comparison when you’re a young girl—especially a young girl of color.

I had long considered how I would respond the first time my daughter questioned her worth or compared herself to others. I’m sure I had a script somewhere in the back of my mind. Something like:

You are beautiful, Eden. God is a creative God. He made your hair curly, my hair wavy, and your dad’s hair coarse. Then He put us in the same family to show us how many different, amazing designs He could think up.

Beautiful response, right?

Instead, I reverted to my own comparison, word-vomiting about how I wanted curls like hers.

Instead of speaking directly to the comparison, I affirmed that to be a girl is to wish something were different about your body.

Eden gave a quick, satisfied nod and hopped down from her stool, curls bouncing behind her.

Why would I say that? I thought as she skipped to the playroom. My first opportunity to speak into her tendency to compare, and I told her about something I don’t like about myself.

We’ll put that in the I-thought-I-would-do-that-better category of motherhood.

God’s timing is a funny thing. Not long after this conversation with Eden, an email landed in my inbox.

Subject: Picture Book Proposal – To Be a Girl

I clicked it before I could finish reading the subject line.

One of my favorite authors and voices on motherhood, Laura Wifler, had written the very words I failed to speak to my child while combing her hair. But she said them in poetry.

I need to be part of this, I thought.

Eden is not alone in how early her comparisons began. Research shows that attitudes about body image and self-esteem start forming in children—especially girls—between the ages of three and five and only grow more entrenched as they age.

Eden was four.

Many people answer this problem by saying, look within, trust your heart, or try harder to muster up your own value and worth.

Or, my own mom-fail version: Don’t worry! We all do it. Here’s a quick example of how I compare myself to you.

But who among us knows how to enter this conversation with our daughters perfectly? How do we avoid flubbing our answers when we, too, are caught in the trap of soiled self-worth and comparison?

By God’s grace, I did get the chance to work on Laura’s book, which eventually came to be known as Your Worth Never Wavers, thanks to these lines:

You’re made in His image; He knit you together.
Your worth never wavers—not now, and not ever.

If our worth begins in the One who created galaxies and taught sparrows to fly, no hair texture or skin tone can add to it—or take from it. True worth and beauty are found by gaining a higher view not of ourselves but of God, the Creator of everything.

The same God who made both the otter and pearl,
Is the God who made you—yes you, my sweet girl.

Eden remembers what I said to her that morning. She regularly tells people, “I wish I had Mom’s hair, and Mom wishes she had my hair!” (Isn’t it wild how the things we want them to forget, they often remember?)

But she also remembers the refrain of the book proposal turned picture book that now sits front and center on our shelf.

She is made in God’s image, knit together with intention, and everything about her points to His creativity: her brown skin, her sense of humor, her obsession with glitter and rainbows.

Her curls.

Every time we say the refrain together, God reminds me that He fills the gaps my fumbling words create—often with scripture, sometimes through a message on Sunday morning or a quiet whisper in my heart, and sometimes through a book proposal in my inbox.

And when I hear these words from her over breakfast,

“Mom, I wish I had your hair.”

I can say to her,

“I know, baby. But your hair is the hair God gave you, and mine is the hair God gave me, and they’re both beautiful. Remember . . .”

And together we will repeat,

We’re made in His image; He knit us together.
Our worth never wavers—not now, and not ever.

Purchase Your Worth Never Wavers

Thanks for reading this essay, friend. I’ve been wanting to try something new here—a little series of essays about the children’s books I help bring to life as a kids’ book editor, and how they’re quietly shaping my own heart and home.

Working on these stories isn’t just my job; it’s a front-row seat to messages that really matter. I believe with all my heart that the books we read to our kids do more than entertain. They open doors to big conversations, plant gospel truths, and leave a mark on the atmosphere of a family. This space will be my way of sharing the ones that are making a difference for us, in hopes they’ll encourage you too.

<3

This is the question almost everyone asks when I tell that we are homeschooling this year while I continue working full-time job as a children’s book editor.

And it’s a good question.

Since taking this job, I’ve dreamed about finding a way I to keep my kids home while striving for excellence in this work I love. This year, we are making it happen, and though we are only a few weeks in, I already love our newfound rhythm.

So here are some photos (with just a little explanation) of our first weeks of what I’m referring to as the Groves Family School and Editorial House. It has been a sweet place to begin this new season.

<3

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These weeks have been full and sweet, rich with seeing my kids’ childhood unfold before my eyes. This season, though demanding, is fleeting.

I can’t wait to see what the rest of it holds.

“One of the luckiest things that can happen to you in life is, I think, to have a happy childhood.” — Agatha Christie

The beginning of August was a thing of dreams.

My husband, on his teacher’s summer break. Me, finishing my maternity leave. Our kids, all ours to soak in during this particular moment of their childhood. A squishy baby to stare at all day long.

The mornings began slowly—sunlight drenching our floors, the coffee pot’s ping greeting us in the quiet moments before feet pitter-pattered down the stairs. The afternoons melted into naps and coloring pages. We spent evenings under the shade of an oak tree by the neighborhood pool, chit-chatting with neighbors about the weather and family rhythms.

Unhurried days. Slow nights.

A thing of dreams.

By the middle of summer, Austin was back to work, and I was still home with the kids. I thought that after three years of working full-time and having lots of childcare, I would feel overwhelmed to be home by myself with three kids.

But it too was a thing of dreams.

The days were full, but in a way that fostered contentment. We woke early—Dad doing morning Bible reading at breakfast, the baby perched on my lap while the older two asked questions about the Old Testament story they heard. Then we started homeschool lessons as I helped my six-year-old unlock new worlds of reading.

Some mornings we packed snacks and walked to the park. Other mornings we stayed in, sprawled in the playroom with blocks and watercolors.

What surprised me most was the joy in the unremarkable: the rhythm of snack time, the way the baby’s coos blended with the sound of markers scratching paper, the shrieks of laughter when the kids ran through the green space past our front door.

These days weren’t glamorous, but they felt stitched together with a kind of quiet holiness. I thought I might feel lonely or restless. Instead, I felt like I was right where I belonged.

As I write this, it is the end of August, and I am back to work, my attention now split once again between motherhood and work. These days, I find myself answering emails while the kids chatter in the background.

The rhythms of August—long walks, unhurried meals, no one rushing to and fro—feel like another life. I now dream of a moment not all that long ago when my whole family only had one another to worry about.

To be clear, I have what I consider my dream job. I also have an amazing setup: working from home while someone I love comes into my house and spends time with my kids. But still, I feel a tinge of homesickness for the beginning of August.

Am I longing to be a stay-at-home mom? I don’t think so.

To have hours on end to soak up the first year of my daughter’s life? Probably. But even now, I still get to enjoy her more than most working moms.

To return to the slowest, most unhurried version of my life? Maybe.

I believe there is a reason this summer felt so right. In some way I don’t yet understand, it made my heart long for a time that’s coming when our attention will be on worship and the relationships in front of us. There will be a day when rest is the heartbeat of our lives and work is born out of that rest—when rushing ceases and slow worship colors our days.

I miss not just a season, but a rest that points me toward eternity.

Hebrews 4 says there remains a Sabbath rest for the people of God. Those early August days gave a small taste of that promise. They made me long for a time when my attention will not be fractured, when there will be no balancing act between callings, when worship and presence with one another will be the whole of life—when God ushers in a new heaven and a new earth, and all the old things pass away.

Until then, I cling to both: the foretaste from this summer and the secured rest of the future.

August slipped away, but heaven lies ahead.

Thousands of pictures and hundreds of thousands of words stretch across eight Ikea picture ledges. Rhymes are plentiful. Ripped pages in picture books remind me of little hands struggling to turn pages. Bite marks on board-book covers take me back to baby smiles.

When I was pregnant with Eden, there was a baby shower trend where people brought books instead of cards. Here’s the thing: Eden was not only the first grandchild on both sides, she was also one of the first grandbabies of all my parents’ friends.

We received about 150 kids’ books the spring she was born.

As we put the shelves on the walls this summer, I got to take inventory of all the well-loved books in our house. When you spend as much time as I do with picture books—both as a mom and as a children’s book editor—you start to notice patterns. Some books beg to be read again and again, while others gather dust. In our house, the ones that last—the books my kids request most often and the ones I put front and center on the shelves—share a handful of qualities.

If you’re a parent, grandparent, teacher, or just someone who loves giving books as gifts, here are the six things I always look for in a good children’s book.

1. A Hidden Lesson

Some of the best picture books teach something without preaching directly. For example, in The Rabbit Listened by Cori Doerrfeld, the lesson isn’t shouted from the page. It’s simply lived through the story: quiet empathy matters. Maybe it’s about friendship, kindness, perseverance, or wonder. I want my kids to finish a story and carry away something meaningful—even if they don’t realize it in the moment. Hidden lessons secretly stick.

Books that have the best hidden lessons:

• The Rabbit Listened by Cori Doerrfeld

• The Little Engine That Could by Watty Piper

• The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein

• The Very Best Baseball Game by Katie Blackburn

• When God Makes Scribbles Beautiful by Kate Rietema

2. An Obvious Lesson

On the flip side, some lessons are best when they’re clear. This is mostly true of board books, or books directed toward smaller kids. Think of books that help toddlers name their feelings, learn how to share, or develop empathy. I don’t mind when a story says outright: “It’s important to be kind.” Sometimes young kids need that kind of clarity. The key is balance—an obvious lesson that’s still wrapped in a good story.

Books that have the best obvious lessons:

• Oh, The Places You’ll Go by Dr. Seuss

• On the Night You Were Born by Nancy Tillman

• The Garden, the Curtain, and the Cross by Carl Laferton

• Left Out by Jill Atogwe

• You Count! by Champ Thornton

3. Something Fun to Read Aloud

As a parent, I’m the one doing most of the reading. So a children’s book has to be fun for me, too! I love stories with rhythm, rhyme, and repetition. BUT (and this is a big BUT) not all picture books should rhyme! Writing with rhyme and rhythm is a skill, and it is always tough when a picture book is harder to read because of the rhyme. Read-aloud picture books like Bear Snores On by Karma Wilson or Room on the Broom by Julia Donaldson are delightful for both child and parent. If it feels like a chore to read, it probably won’t be the one either of us reaches for.

Some of the most fun books to read aloud:

• The Gruffalo by Julia Donaldson

• Chicka Chicka Boom Boom by Bill Martin Jr.

• Who Sang the First Song? by Ellie Holcomb

• Every Dr. Seuss book ever written

• Goodnight Moon by Margaret Wise

4. Intentional Illustrations

A good picture book isn’t just about the words—it’s about the marriage of words and art. The illustrations should expand the story, not just decorate it. One of my favorite parts about my job is helping authors find an illustrator who will do just that for their story. The illustrations in a book should be intentional: colors that set a mood, characters with emotion, and details that make kids linger. A strong illustrator invites a child to “read” the pictures even if they can’t yet read the words.

Kids books with my favorite illustrations:

• The Lion and the Mouse by Jerry Pinkney

• Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak

• What Do You Do with an Idea? by Kobi Yamada

• Your Worth Never Wavers by Laura Wifler (this one is coming soon, but you can preorder now!)

• The Story of God series by Kenneth Padgett and Shay Gregorie

5. Little Treasures to Uncover

The best books reward repeat readings. Maybe it’s a character hiding in the background, a tiny detail that changes on each page, or a visual joke tucked in the corner. These little Easter eggs keep kids engaged and make the fifteenth read-through almost as fun as the first.

Kids books with little treasures:

• What Will You Teach Me? by Adam Griffin

• The Adventures of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter

• We’re Going on a Bear Hunt by Michael Wayne Rosen

• The Complete Brambly Hedge by Jill Barklem

• Penelope Judd by Shai Linne

6. Appropriate Length

Toddlers and preschoolers have short attention spans. A 40-page picture book might be too much, while a 200-word board book may not feel satisfying for an older preschooler. The best children’s books are paced well—they hold attention without overstaying their welcome.

Picture books that are the perfect length:

• Corduroy by Don Freeman

• Curious George by H.A. Rey

• Maple and Rosemary by Alison James

Board books that are the perfect length:

• Brown Bear, Brown Bear by Bill Martin Jr. and Eric Carl

• The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carl

• Does God Know His ABCs? by Amy Gannett

7. A Spark of Wonder (bonus thing I love)

If I could add one more thing, it’s this: a sense of wonder. The books that last in our family are the ones that make my kids wide-eyed. Sometimes that’s a silly story, sometimes it’s lyrical writing, sometimes it’s breathtaking illustrations. But it always leaves us with a “wow.”

Wonder-striking books:

• Love You Forever by Robert Munsch

• The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams Bianco

• Harold and the Purple Crayon by Crockett Johnson

• The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats

• The Maker of the Mountain by Sandra McCracken

Children’s books transform the way our kids see the world.

They shape a child’s language and imagination, sparking curiosity along the way. They’re not just stories for bedtime; they’re tools for building character, nurturing wonder, and unearthing a lifelong love of reading. As both a mom and an editor, I want to put rich words and images in front of kids—the kind that make them want to sneak books under the covers with a flashlight after bedtime.

The kind that lingers long after the last page is turned.

Below is a list of my favorite kids’ books ever written—the ones that, if I had to build a family library from scratch, I would start with. Most are older, beloved classics that have stood the test of time (though our shelves are also full of incredible new releases).

Check out the list and then let me know what books you would add!

One quick note: I left off the children’s books I’ve worked on so I wouldn’t play favorites (though a few would absolutely make this list!). I’ll share more about those in a future post.

The List

I’ll Love You Forever by Robert Munsch
This story is emotional for both parent and child. So much so, that it has gotten a bad rep. I loved it as a child, but the older I get, the more I love it.

Blueberries for Sal by Robert McCloskey
Quaint, simple, and charming. I love the rhythm of this book (though it doesn’t rhyme), the illustrations, and the way it captures the innocence of childhood curiosity. It’s a near-perfect, timeless picture book.

The Rabbit Listens by Cori Doerrfeld
A newer addition to the children’s book world, but one that feels like an instant classic. It gently shows children the importance of empathy and simply being present for others—a message I need as much as my kids do.

The Gruffalo by Julia Donaldson
The rhyme, the rhythm, the clever storyline—everything about this book begs to be read aloud. Kids love the suspense, and I never tire of it, even after dozens of readings. Oh, and did I mention the rhyme??

The Lion and the Mouse by Jerry Pinkney
This nearly wordless picture book based on the classic fable is proof that stories don’t need many words to be powerful. I love watching my kids discover the message each time we open the book. The illustrations are breathtaking, and the timeless tale of kindness is unforgettable.

Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak
A classic children’s book for good reason. The way Sendak captures the wildness of childhood dreams while still anchoring the story in homey belonging is unmatched.

Chicka Chicka Boom Boom by Bill Martin Jr. and John Archambault
Bright, rhythmic, and fun—it’s an alphabet party in a book. My kids can chant it with me. It’s one of the best early literacy reads and a lesson in rhythm.

Guess How Much I Love You by Sam McBratney
This book is gentle and tender and one that I most associate with bedtime. It’s a soft landing at the end of the day, a reminder that love stretches farther than little arms can reach.

Maple and Rosemary by Alison James
A tender story of friendship between a girl and a tree, full of wonder, beauty, and the rhythms of nature. It reminds me of a tree that I loved at my grandmother’s house. It feels like a deep breath—reminding kids (and parents) of the joy of slowing down, paying attention, and connecting with nature.

The Complete Brambly Hedge by Jill Barklem
This book is new to our home library, and I wish we’d had it longer! These little woodland tales are so detailed and comforting. The illustrations invite you to linger, and the stories are perfect for slow, cozy mornings.

Corduroy by Don Freeman
A reminder that everyone longs to belong. Corduroy’s little quest for a button always draws my kids in—simple, sweet, and so very relatable.

The Complete Tales of Winnie-the-Pooh by A.A. Milne
Gentle humor, friendship, and timeless wisdom tucked inside a whimsical world. These are stories I never tire of, with lines that land differently in every season of life.

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis
This book is the one I always come back to as my favorite of all time. It’s full of adventure, imagination, and gospel truths that linger long after the story ends.

Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White
This is one of the most moving stories of friendship ever written. It teaches kids about loyalty, sacrifice, and the bittersweet beauty of life, all wrapped in gentle humor and unforgettable characters. It’s a book that grows with your children—the meaning deepens every time you return to it.

What books would you add to the list?

Reading with my kids is my favorite thing to do. It’s the one activity where we connect most deeply—when they’ll drop everything else to sit close. As much as I wish maternity leave could last forever, I’m grateful to spend my days helping get more books into little (and big) hands everywhere.

So here’s your sign: grab a picture book and a blanket, curl up on the couch with a little one, and sink into the world of few words, magical illustrations, and lasting messages.

“If the book will be too difficult for grownups, then you write it for children.”
– Madeleine L’Engle

My Only Work

For thirteen weeks,
time bends in strange directions—
days stretch long,
nights even longer.
Weeks slip by
like water between fingers.

A new baby’s ear print is pressed into my arm
while big kids circle nearby.
Our family—this new version of us—is wider,
makes room for one more.
The older ones, suddenly taller,
more independent,
still needful.

The smallest moments
seem sacred:
a sleepy smile,
a head heavy as a feather on my chest,
fingers curled around mine.
Every good and perfect gift
is from above.

Help arrives like manna—
meals at the door,
grandparents reading books,
a husband’s help in the half-lit hours.
Bear one another’s burdens,
and so fulfill the law of Christ.

Schedules fall apart,
while rhythms carry us—
morning snuggles,
afternoon quiet,
evening walks.
His mercies are new every morning;
great is His faithfulness.

Joy and weakness intertwine:
new life,
lost sleep,
time divided,
patience thin.
To everything there is a season,
and a time for every matter under heaven.

And in all of it,
God draws near.
Not in loud pronouncements,
but hidden places—
the rocking chair,
a midnight cry,
our noisy dinner table.
Surely the Lord is in this place.

Now, as the weeks fold behind me
and old routines begin anew—
early morning emails,
Zoom conversations,
strategy meetings—
I know I won’t remember everything from these weeks.
But I will carry this forward:
my weakness invites His strength—
My grace is sufficient for you,
for My power is made perfect in weakness.

Because for thirteen weeks,
while time slipped by
like water between fingers,

Love was my only work.

P.S. Better maternity leave for women in this country, please <3

Our third baby is our worst sleeper.

When I was pregnant, it seemed like everyone said their third child was the most chill. For some reason, I equated that with the third child being the best at sleeping.

While yes, my two-month-old angel will sleep in a car seat for hours or out in public during a swim lesson or trip to Chick-fil-A, we still have nights that remind us of that first week.

Being sleepy with a baby is one thing. Being sleepy with a baby and two other kids who need my love and attention is another.

So this morning, when I pulled out our homeschool lesson with a cup of much-needed caffeine in hand, I wasn’t terribly surprised when my own overtiredness bubbled out onto my six-year-old.

She was stuck on a math concept I’ve seen her master over and over again, and before I knew it, her frustration and my exhaustion collided.

For the rest of the day, I replayed the moment in my head, asking myself a thousand questions:

Am I really cut out to be her mom and teacher? Surely other moms would have been able to help her from a place of comfort instead of frustration. Will this be the moment she remembers? How am I failing already?

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is perfected in weakness.”
Therefore, I will most gladly boast all the more about my weaknesses,
so that Christ’s power may reside in me.”
— 2 Corinthians 12:9

When Motherhood Shows Our Limits

Motherhood has a way of showing us the edges of our strength.

We can have the best intentions—the color-coded chore charts, the organic snacks—and still end the day wonder if we’ve ruined our children for life.

Of course, you could tell me all day long that I’m not a failure as a mom:

It was just one bad morning.
You’ll sleep again, and patience will be easier to come by.

While those things are true and I know I’m not a failure as a mother, the truth is this: I did fail my daughter this morning.

And I’m going to do it again.

Failure Isn’t a Glitch — It’s Proof We Need Grace

Here’s the thing: failure isn’t a glitch in motherhood. It’s evidence of the human condition.

That’s why the gospel is good news.

Jesus didn’t come for me only on the days when my mornings are perfectly quiet and I’m oozing Proverbs 31.

He came for the mornings when I lose my temper before breakfast.
For the times I forget to apologize to my child.
For the days I can’t stop replaying my mistakes.

“But God shows His love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” — Romans 5:8

His grace doesn’t only extend to the mom I want to be; it was given to me as the mom I already am.

While I was still in the mess—impatient, inconsistent, and in desperate need of grace—Christ came running toward me.

Grace Changes Tomorrow

The gospel doesn’t just cover our past mistakes.
It transforms how we show up tomorrow.

Because I’m not defined by any particular failure, I have the freedom to parent from grace instead of guilt.

Remembering His grace toward me changes my tone, even when I’m exhausted. Dwelling on His patience with me tends to stretch my patience when permanent marker finds its way onto a wall or milk gets spilled in the car.

When I stop striving to earn approval through perfect parenting, I can start resting in the approval I already have in Jesus.

Grace doesn’t make us lazier moms—it makes us freer ones.

We can apologize without shame.
We can try again without fear.
We can delight in our kids without the pressure to be flawless.

Psalm 103 says:

“As a father shows compassion to his children,
so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him.
For he knows our frame;
He remembers that we are dust.”

God wasn’t surprised by my weakness this morning, and He isn’t surprised by yours.

He knew our weakness before we were even born, as He carried His cross toward Calvary.

And He still went.

When my heart whispers, You’ve failed again, I can whisper back:

Yes, I have—and Jesus still died for me.

When God looks at me, He does not see the sum of my mom-mistakes.
He doesn’t hold my most sleep-deprived days against me.
Rather, He sees the sum of Jesus’s perfectly lived life.

That’s good news for me.
Good news for my kids.
And good news for you.

We get to parent from the freedom already purchased for us.

If the fridge is empty, the laundry baskets are overflowing, and every flat surface in our house is covered, Monday feels like an uphill battle. And for several years after I started working full time, it did.

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A little context on our family:

• My husband, Austin, is a teacher, leaving around 6:45 every morning and returning around 4:15.

• I work full-time (mostly) from home.

• We have a 6-year-old first grader, a 4-year-old, and a 2-month-old.

• This year, our family is starting a new rhythm where the kids are staying home with me every day, homeschooling, and my mom is helping during the day while I work.

• Last year, we did the everyone-goes-somewhere-every-day thing, juggling car line and drop off every day, and this was our reset routine then too.

Over the years, our family has learned that a little intentional effort on the weekend saves a lot of stress in the week ahead. We rarely reset perfectly, but when we do, the difference is palpable. So we have a short Sunday reset routine—a set of weekly habits that, no matter how crazy life feels, we try to make happen before Monday. This simple weekend routine helps us prepare for the week ahead as a family.

Here’s what that list looks like for us:

1. Meal Planning

This typically includes both dinners as well as breakfasts, lunches, and snacks for me and the kids. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t plan gourmet dinners or Pinterest-worthy lunch boxes for seven days straight. I just decide what’s realistic for the week ahead. When it comes to dinner, I only plan about four meals to make each week and plan to do leftovers on the other nights.

For the kids’ lunches, breakfasts, and snacks, we choose two options per meal and then switch back and forth each day. Here’s what it might look like:

• M/W/F breakfast: Baked oats, eggs, and blueberries

• T/Th breakfast: Frozen waffles, sausage, and apples

• M/W/F lunch: Peanut butter sandwich, carrots, and cheese sticks

• T/Th lunch: Quesadillas, black beans, and tomatoes

• Morning snack: pretzels and cuties

• Afternoon snack: peanut-butter-oat energy bites and apple sauce

This system helps us keep everything simple, avoid making up meals on the fly, and helps kids not get tired of eating the same things over and over again.

I meal plan either Friday night or Saturday morning.

2. Grocery Shopping

Once the plan is made, we shop! Instacart has been my life-saver during pregnancy and postpartum, and now that we are doing the three-kids thing, it will likely stay in the rotation. The bulk of our food comes from Aldi (huge money saver), but we also shop at Sprouts and Costco for more specialty stuff. This step always comes after the plan is made. We’ve learned that trying to “wing it” with groceries always ends up costing us more—both in money and decision fatigue.

I tend to place my grocery order either Saturday morning or evening to be picked up or delivered Sunday, right after church.

3. Meal Prepping

The goal is that kids breakfasts, lunches, and snacks would all be mostly grab and go when we are doing lunch boxes the night before. I will make sandwiches ahead or grill quesadillas. We wash berries and prep veggies. I roll up energy bites or bake a dish of baked oatmeal. I’ll also often make a big batch of rice or quinoa and some kind of long-lasting salad or slaw for quick dinners throughout the week. Bonus: it keeps us from defaulting to takeout on busy nights.

Meal prep always takes place on Sunday afternoons.

4. Laundry Catch Up

This is one we are still working on, but it might be the most necessary. Starting Monday with empty laundry baskets (or at least clean clothes ready to put away) means we aren’t digging for socks at 6:45 a.m. while trying to get our day started. We tend to keep our clothing supply pretty minimal. Five people with kids changing sizes every six months makes for enough clothes as it is.

Since adding baby Ivy to our crew, we have moved to a load of laundry each morning, and that’s working well. Weekends are now for catching anything we haven’t washed or doing blankets/sheets.

Because I take care of all meal planning, shopping, and prep, laundry is Austin’s job. Divide and conquer, people!

Laundry also takes place on Sunday afternoons.

5. Full House Tidy

While we do a reset/tidy of our downstairs area every day, on the weekends, we try to reset in every room—bedrooms and bathrooms included. This means putting things back where they belong, wiping surfaces, and reorganizing anything that has gotten out of order throughout the week. It’s not a deep clean, but it’s enough that the house feels ready for a fresh week.

This happens on Sunday, and it makes for a great opportunity to get the kids involved!

6. Going to Church

Being with our church family isn’t a reset for the house—it’s a reset for our hearts. Gathering with our people, singing, praying, and sitting under the Word reorients our hearts, reminding us that we can have all the best plans in place, but if we aren’t submitted to Jesus, our plans mean nothing. We don’t do this because our week must run smoothly. About a thousand reasons make weekly worship a priority. But I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that this is a huge part of our weekend reset. My heart is always better prepared for Monday’s challenges after Sunday’s worship.

We worship at King’s Cross Church every Sunday at 9 a.m. Join us if you’re in Nashville!

7. Resting as a Family

You’ll notice that almost nothing happens on Saturdays during the day. That’s because this is our typical family Sabbath. I could write a whole post about what Sabbath changes for our family (I probably will). We aren’t perfect about doing it every week, but it has changed our family immensely. Having one day where we aren’t running all around town, where we make family time a priority, and where we choose not to cook or do typical housework gives us space to spend time together and to enjoy the good gift of rest

Why it Matters

Our weekly reset isn’t about perfection. Some weeks it’s messy. Some weeks we only get to half the list. But having these non-negotiables gives us a framework—a rhythm that helps our home feel more peaceful and our family feel more connected.

Monday will still bring its surprises. But when we’ve prepared our space, stocked our fridge, and filled our hearts, we can meet those surprises from a place of rest instead of stress.

A Final Note

We are always thinking about how we can improve our reset, but these things are working well for us this season. Keeping it short. Keeping it realistic. But most importantly? Keeping our plans in check.

The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.

Proverbs 16:9

When the plans don’t work out or don’t yield the results I’d like them to, it doesn’t have to throw our whole week off. The Lord is still establishing every step, and my hope doesn’t lie in a perfectly laid-out plan. (It’s easier for me to believe this in my head than in my heart).

As we jump into another school year, and as I get ready to go back to work after maternity leave, we hope that these little bits of weekend intention can give way to a smoother week.

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What about you? Do you have a Sunday reset routine or weekly family reset? I’d love to hear the habits that make the biggest difference for your week.

Forty weeks and six days pregnant, with two children who had each made me wait fourteen days past their due dates, I knew the odds. Still, on that hot spring day—my dad’s birthday—I found myself wondering if this might be it. I had meetings to wrap up and a birthday party at my daughter’s school. There was no drama, no rush, no Hollywood moment—just the quiet ticking of an ordinary day. But by midnight, the ordinary would give way to the unforgettable.

The last two weeks of pregnancy were terrifying. My two previous pregnancies had ended in miscarriage. It felt as though I had been holding my breath for months, awaiting another loss. It was the most anxiety I had ever had to fight during pregnancy. It felt like I was inches away from holding this third child. She had a name. Her room was set. The siblings were getting more excited by the day. But still, fear felt constant. I couldn’t seem to exhale.

May 21st came and went with no signs of imminent labor. I met with my colleagues via Zoom and planned for the next week, when I would officially stop working, whether our baby girl was here or not. We celebrated my six-year-old’s birthday at her school. We spent some time at my dad’s office. Kind people from the school brought us dinner. We put our oldest two to bed, sat down on the couch, and turned on a comedy.

Because of the anxiety, we had a new TV rule: comedy only! I needed some endorphins that might help my body relax and go into labor.

It worked.

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8:30 p.m.

Twenty minutes into The Four Seasons, my water broke. And it broke like in the movies.

“Austin, my water! Oh gosh, my pajamas!” I laughed as I looked down at the new PJs I’d just bought, now soaking wet. There was no question anymore—this baby was on her way.

8:45 p.m.

“If you’re not having any contractions yet, go to bed and try to relax.”

Though I was full of adrenaline, both my midwife and doula urged me to get into bed and rest. They knew the work my body would soon be doing to bring my baby to me. Having had two babies before, I should have known too. But again, the adrenaline was doing its thing.

My mom came over so that Austin and I could head to the hospital at any point and leave the kids with her. We made phone calls, sent texts, and packed the car.

10:00 p.m.

I relaxed into bed, analyzing everything my body did. Was that a contraction? Will I sleep at all tonight? When will this child actually be born? What will happen tomorrow? when . . .

11:30 p.m.

Big contraction.

My eyes popped open. I had apparently fallen asleep at some point. My husband was breathing deeply next to me. That contraction was no joke, but it was just the first one. Now came the arduous job of sleeping between each of these waves.

Another one. Okay, I think I can breathe through this. Then another. Oof—that was tough. And another. I’m going to get up and see if it helps to stand.

I walked the fifteen feet from my bed to the bathroom, where a fifth contraction nearly knocked me off my feet. Also, now that I was standing, the pressure was . . . intense. It almost felt like my body wanted to push.

“Austin,” I said from the end of the bed after that contraction ended, “I think we need to go to the hospital. I think this may be a quick labor. I’m calling Vicki.”

Between each contraction was barely enough time to get from one room to the next. It took me two just to get downstairs, where I called my doula. I was a little confused—my body felt like it was in transition, but I wasn’t vocalizing through contractions like I had during transition with my last two kids. Also, contractions had started all of fifteen minutes ago. Surely I wasn’t that close.

Hearing the commotion, my mom tiptoed down the stairs just as my doula said, “I think it’s probably time for you to head in. I’m getting in my car right now.”

We hugged my mom, and I had four more contractions on the walk from our living room to the patio and into the car.

“These things aren’t giving me a break.” How in the world am I going to do this for hours? I wondered.

Everyone around me knew what I was denying: I wouldn’t have to.

12:20 a.m.

It was a gift that the car ride to the hospital happened in the middle of the night and mostly on the highway. Car contractions are no joke. This was when I started vocalizing through every contraction and listening to the labor playlist I’d been building for months. Lyrics like this played around me:

Don't you know that your father in heaven
Knows just what you're needing?
Seek Him first and everything else
That you need will be given.

(“Lillies & Sparrows”, Jess Ray)

And

High King of Heaven, my victory won,
May I reach Heaven's joys, O bright Heav'ns Sun!
Heart of my heart, whatever befall,
Still be my vision, O Ruler of all.

(“Be Thou My Vision”)

It was also when I accidentally left a contraction-filled voicemail for a friend I’d called to update (oops).

Austin later told me he let out a big sigh of relief when we pulled into the hospital. My midwife, doula, and sister were all on their way to meet us.

12:30 a.m.

I think I overwhelmed the two night-shift security guys when I had three contractions in the lobby and refused a wheelchair. Have you ever tried to sit during a contraction? Absolutely not.

12:35 a.m.

Everyone in the hospital moved us through as quickly as they could. By the time I arrived in triage, all I could think about was getting to the place where I would have the baby.

“Do you guys have a tub room available?” Austin asked.

At this particular hospital, you can’t give birth in the tub, but you can labor in it. When I was in labor with my oldest, it was my saving grace during an exceptionally long process. With my son, I couldn’t get in the tub because I was continuously monitored. This time, I was determined that the tub would be my refuge.

The midwife on call told us they had been holding the room for us just before she checked me. I was five centimeters dilated, which made me feel like I had plenty of time to get into that tub—but the midwife looked at me, winked, and said, “I’m going to keep my gloves on, though. Just in case.”

No way, I thought. I’m getting into that tub before this baby comes.

12:40 a.m.

When I opened my eyes, my little sister was standing there, and I relaxed a little more.

“Can we go to the room now? I’d really like to get in the tub.”

“They’re just waiting on your nurse to arrive. We’ll go soon!”

Over the next few minutes, my husband and sister bantered while I contracted, fading slowly into labor land. After each contraction, I muttered that I felt like I needed to throw up. This seemed to get the attention of the nurses and midwife.

12:50 a.m.

“Okay, we’re just going to go,” the midwife remarked as they hoisted me up onto the stretcher. I sat on my knees and leaned over the top—again, I was absolutely not planning to sit anywhere.

When I tell you they rushed me down the hallway, I am not kidding. I was in the middle of a big contraction, definitely moaning through it. I remember thinking, Good thing there aren’t any hospital tours going on at midnight. I’d freak those people out.

12:51 a.m.

“Can I get in the tub?”

“Let’s just check you and see where you are,” the midwife said as I got up from that bed like it was on fire.

“Hey, guys!” My doula flew into the room a little out of breath while I found a small table to stand by and had another contraction.

What’s that sound? I thought. Then I realized it was me—pushing.

I’m not getting that tub.

The baby was coming now-ish.

Everything gets a little fuzzy here, but here’s what I know:

• No one was trying to check me—we all knew what was coming next.

• I was standing beside the hospital bed.

• My doula did this magical thing to my back that she had done when I gave birth to Eden.

• The contractions were almost fully in my hips.

• It felt like I was screaming. (There are videos, and it turns out, I wasn’t.)

• My knees started to give out.

• Austin was in front of me, holding my hands and being the incredible birth partner and encourager that he is.

• I still had my shoes on.

1:04 a.m.

Around the time it felt like I couldn’t stand up anymore, the most intense contraction ripped through me. Her head.

“How about we move you to hands and knees?” the midwife encouraged when she saw my legs shaking.

Over the past few minutes, people had been preparing for this child to be born right where I was—beside the bed. There were white drop pads all over the floor just under me. With my daughter’s head already born, Austin and my doula, Vicki, helped me to my knees.

For a moment, the room quieted and the intensity of my labor waned. I waited for the next contraction to come while the song “Ancient of Days” danced through the room:

Though the dread of night
Overwhelms my soul
He is here with me
I am not alone
O His love is sure and He knows my name
For my God is the Ancient of Days

Another contraction started creeping its way through my body before taking over full force. The moment seemed to slow. This was what I’d been waiting for—the moment I’d prayed for throughout the two-year season of miscarriages. This was the last wave of pain that the Lord would use to bring me my daughter.

1:05 a.m.

There was one last, almost involuntary push. Voices around the room were calling, “You can do it!” and “She’s almost here!” My precious midwife Amanda came striding into the room just in time, and I felt the relief of the end of labor. In the most poetic of moments, when this new life entered the room, these lyrics rang out:

None above Him, none before Him
All of time in His hands
For His throne it shall remain and ever stand
All the power, all the glory
I will trust in His name
For my God is the Ancient of Days

1:06 a.m.

In the quiet that followed, as the room bustled and celebrated with soft voices and gentle hands, I held Ivy LeighAnna Groves close, repeating the truth I’d ached to believe for months: she is here; she is safe. All the weeks of fear, all the years of loss, had culminated in this moment of holy relief.

Her tiny lungs filled with air for the first time while mine, at last, exhaled.

I’d love to extend a “thank you” to two ladies in the top picture: My midwife, Amanda, and my doula, Vicki.

Vicki (first photo and beside me on the left) has been my doula for all three babies and was with me at both Eden and Ivy’s births. Vicki has been a friend and major help throughout each pregnancy. I tell anyone who will give me the time of day that doulas are well worth the investment, no matter what kind of birth you are planning. This page on the Nashville Doula Services website explains the benefits of a birth doula.

Amanda (first photo and beside me on your right) has been my midwife through each of my babies, and she walked with me, week-by-week, through this pregnancy. She knew how worried I was, and she cared for me with grace and unwarranted kindness. One of my friends who met her recently called her “pure honey”. What a gift it was to feel so loved and safe with someone throughout this whole pregnancy. That’s not everyone’s experience with care providers, but it has been for me, and there aren’t enough words to describe how grateful I am.

Both of these women have become dear friends. The Lord is so good to have brought them into my life.

So much has changed in five years. But so much is the same.

It’s a little vulnerable to put my five-year-old writing back on the internet (some of these sentences aren’t my favorite, friends), but here it is anyway.

I still can’t answer all the “whys” rolling around in my mind. I still don’t love that tornados even exist. Or why we weren’t there that night. Or a lot of things about this anniversary.

And

I am still in awe of God’s faithfulness, presence, and protection on March 3, 2020, and every other day of my life.

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One year ago today, we woke up to the reality that would rock the next season of our lives: Our home had been destroyed by a tornado.

We had a 9-month-old little girl, and the walls of our bedrooms had been ripped off.

But we weren’t there.

We weren’t there.

When our friend called to give us the news, I couldn’t stop crying. I was sitting on a cold, tile floor while my baby slept in the next room. The tears weren’t tears of grief (though those would come). I was more thankful than I had ever known.

I knew we had a long road to walk ahead (and it has indeed been long). I knew we would be saying goodbye to many of our possessions. I knew that walking into the place we had brought our daughter home from the hospital to would never be the same. But I couldn’t quite feel the heaviness of any of that because I was so blinded by God’s faithfulness.

That morning, He gave me a glimpse into His orchestration - how He works all things together.

You see, the reason we weren’t there that night isn’t simple. We lived on a street that sometimes got scary. And one day, it got really scary. Someone died. I saw. I was home alone with my daughter. We left home that day and put our house on the market while friends allowed us to live with them for a season.

I ask regularly why He might allow us to go through something like that. Why it ever had to happen? He showed us that morning—He showed us very clearly—and it changed the way I think of His plans.

He saw the tornado long before I did. He was with us in the aftermath while He was with us in the build-up. I saw with my eyes and with my heart that God can bend even sin to fit His will.

He showed us that day, but He doesn’t always.

So here’s the question I posed to myself last March 3 and the question I want to ask every day from here on out: Is His faithfulness the same when He shows us the outcomes of His will as it is when we never get to see it?

Is He still as good when the story doesn’t have a miraculous ending?

What about when I wonder why the tornado ever had to happen in the first place? Why did we even have to be saved from anything?

Is He still good? Is He still faithful? Is He still worthy of my worship?

One year later, we are not done wading through the aftermath of last March 3rd.

Ten days after that tornado ripped into our lives, the world shut down. We became isolated from our family and friends in one of the hardest seasons we’ve faced. The process of repairing our very broken home has been long, arduous, and inconveniently timed. I’ve spent lots more days on the floor in tears, not from thankfulness, but from frustration at the mountain that is insurance.

One year later—one heavy, hard year later—He is the same God. His goodness is the same. His faithfulness is the same.

Though my heart has wavered and my faith has been stretched, He hasn’t changed at all. He hasn’t moved even an inch. He is still holding all things together.

One year later, I am waking up to this unchanging reality that remains in every season of my life: My life is being held by the Almighty.

He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through him and for him. And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together. (Colossians 1:15–17 ESV)