for when you feel like the fish stick version of yourself

On Tuesday evening, Garrett came into the kitchen as I was cooking dinner (assembling would probably be a better word- not much cooking to fish sticks, tater tots and mac'n'cheese). He saw the meal and made a comment, a harmless, true and poignant comment, and I proceeded to completely fall apart. 

It was Tuesday, which is a long day around here as we leave the house before 8:00 in the morning. Something about one day of teaching, something about the absence of a nap and the presence of a need to be on all day, something about that completely drains me these days. And I find myself in a raw place on Tuesday nights. This night was no exception. 

Garrett apologized for the comment, thought he hadn't said anything out of line, and went on to hear me stumble my way through an explanation. 

"It's not just that tonight's dinner is this. It's that my life is this," I tried to explain through tears. "It's like everything I'm doing is fish sticks. Like no matter how hard I work at anything, in the end it's...fish sticks."

He disagreed and tried to talk me off that emotional ledge and we went on to eat it thankfully and watch The Voice and get the kids to bed. But I've thought about that statement this week, thought a lot about these last few months of my existence. 

I find myself saying now and then, "I don't quite feel like myself." This rings true somehow, rings out in a way I can't quite articulate. My mind is slightly fuzzy, my ideas feel just beyond my reach, my words resist me when I sit to write. I'm not quite me, I say, attributing it to loss and fatigue and the everydayness of every day. But this week I began to wonder, At what point do I acknowledge that this is me, that this is me right now, that the tired and foggy me is just as much me as the clear-minded, productive me?

That thought scared me a little.  I would rather think that the Real Me is temporarily broken, that my Old Self is wandering out there without me but should be back any minute and I'll simply put it back on and everything will come into focus. I resist the idea that this is the Real Me, and that my brokenness isn't going anywhere, and that there's no Old Self that will knock on the door. 

This whole line of thinking has forced me to admit how uncomfortable I am with my own brokenness, and how I find accepting the help of others to be beyond humbling- almost humiliating. 

In my life right now, my husband takes up so much slack with the kids. My mom comes one afternoon every week so I can run errands alone. My friend makes dinner for me on some Tuesdays because she knows that day wears me out. Another friend has stopped by to clean for an afternoon, three Fridays in a row. I'm thankful for this outpouring of support,  thankful that it has kept our home functioning in the midst of this fall. But there's part of me that feels embarrassed; it would be one thing if everyone was pitching in because I was  (fill in the blank: publishing a book, working part-time, being a rock star, etc.), but to think that all these people come and help and at the end of the day, there's no clean socks and I can't seem to meal plan and I'm still barely getting fish sticks on the table? Meaning: if I need a little extra help to be awesome- that's OK. But to need extra help simply because I need it, that's hard for me to face. 

But this is me. This is Real Me, living in November of 2014, grappling with the reality that this fall isn't what I thought it would be, and I'm not what I thought I would be in the midst of it. And life keeps going. And there's not much to do but wake up and shower and pour cereal and load the dishwasher and sing the timeline song and read Hippospotamus for the three hundredth time and cut PBJ's and declare Nap Time For All. And I can do that in panic, comparing myself to some strange idea I'm clutching about What I Am Capable Of, or I can do it with peace, not chanting "This too shall pass" but resting in the truth that Jesus is Enough. He's OK with all this. And, in really brave moments, I embrace the truth that if this fog never passes, I am no less loved. I am no less me. I am simply me, right here and now, moving in grace to meet the day that is ahead. 

It's ugly, those moments when you realize, as an adult, that your understanding of grace and love and works and perfectionism is still so rudimentary. Those moments when you see you have so far to go to see yourself in truth. Those moments when you need Jesus so much that it scares you a little. Or maybe a lot. 

I'm living in those moments, learning to make peace with the here and now, learning to be truly grateful and honest with my limits, learning to chill out and shut up and just take a nap already. 

So that's that, folks. Maybe your life is soaring along, and the very least of your efforts is changing the world.  Maybe you're feeling in a good groove or in the midst of some healthy rhythms or loving the dailiness that is your every day. 

Or maybe you don't know where you're at or how to articulate that you feel a bit banged up, or how to explain to people how you got to this place when you don't quite know where it is. Maybe you're winded or reeling from loss or confused about your purpose or feeling alone. Please take heart. This will probably, most likely pass. But even if it doesn't, you're no less you. You're no less loved. The broken you is no less beautiful, and Jesus is no less present. 

Have a great weekend, friends. Catch you later. 


what we're up to

I've written so little about our homeschool year. Let's face it, I've written practically nothing in months so the absence of homeschool happenings is on par with the rest of the blog.  But that's neither here nor there (well, technically, I guess it is here but whatever). 

So here's a brief update on our fall:

We started school. 

Drew's fourth grade workload is feeling heavy (for both of us). It's such a challenge to find that line of pushing your child but not breaking them; asking hard things but not impossible things. We're dancing on that line... (tripping on that line? hanging ourselves on that line???)

Ella is rocking kindergarten.  A couple bumps along the way, but mostly she is a very enthusiastic student. She prefers to determine her own workload- which is working out OK since she actually does a lot more than I would ask of her. So she's way ahead on her school year (a first for us!)

 I-man is in second grade, just on the brink of really being a reader.  He has a love/hate relationship with school, so we have our days, oh yes we do. But he's growing so much and brings an energy to everything he does. 

Tessa is a preschooler, currently mastering skills of puzzles, identifying letters, cutting, coloring in her siblings' workbooks, and needing a snack every twenty minutes.  Oh, and potty training? Check!

So that's school for us. 

Homeschooling is a tricky dance between striving for your ideals and making peace with your reality. The reality has been harder for me this fall, but I'm finding some peace along the way and thanking the Lord for the sweet nature of my kiddos. They have been so patient and gracious in the midst of the craziness. 

What craziness?

Well, we've experienced a lot of personal loss, so there have been several funerals, road trips, and a lot of talking about eternity. Not a bad thing to talk about with kids, but a heavy thing to have as a theme for your fall. 

Other events include house guests, tutoring in our homeschool community, flag football Saturdays, and the every day hustle and bustle of life with four...soon to be five. 

Yep, that minor detail has been quite the detour to our fall, with me battling morning sickness (which strangely is the worst in the evening and through the night...?), decreased energy level, and that feeling like everything in your life stinks. Literally stinks. The bathroom, the fridge, the car, the closet- every smell is overpowering and prone to cause the gag reflex.  But through it all, the kids have been troopers, Garrett has been a rockstar, and we're at week 14 in the pregnancy. Here's to hoping the nausea is on its way out soon. 

In other news...

We no longer have cats. Long story.

One chicken (out of fifteen) has begun to lay eggs. Should that be cause for celebration or butchering?

Knock-knock jokes are all the rage at our place. 

Our kids love fish sticks. Who knew. 

The tomatoes never turned out, but the walnut harvest was strong as usual.

It's cold, the air is crisp, and yet my children still cannot understand why I insist they wear pants and shoes to play in the yard. SO unfair. 

Thanksgiving is a few weeks away. Christmas hiding around the corner. And 2015 right on its heels. Where did the year go?

Hope you and yours are enjoying fall, savoring the season and cherishing the people that make is worth savoring. Thanks for stopping by and I'll catch you later. 


on long days and dry wells and making sense of both

"How's the writing going?" a kind friend asks, and I wonder what to say. Should I say I can't make myself get up or should I say that the rejection letters have taken the wind out of my sails or should I say that the well is dry and thanks for reminding me? It's all true, in varying degrees. 

"It's not." I reply in regards to the writing.

"Not what?" 

"Not going. Not coming. Not happening. Just not."


This conversation happens. A lot. And I'm not always sure what to make of it. 

On one hand, I love that there are people in my life who are on this writing journey with me, people who have read rough rough drafts and met the people in my head and heard me drone on and on about query letters and celebrated when agents take a little nibble. Those people have shared my disappointment and frustration, have loved me well in the middle of it all. And they ask because they know it matters to me and I matter to them. 

On the other hand, there's a part of me that feels like, "Can we all just pretend I didn't try to write a novel? Can we act like that didn't happen and we're not here and there's no one out there sending me 'thanks but no thanks' letters? OK? Can we do that?"

Oh, sheesh. A few paragraphs in and this melodramatic already. Sorry about that. 

Anyways, all that to say, I have all these mixed feeling about my novel and about writing and art and creating in general. It thrills me, this writing thing. It feeds me and helps me make sense of my life and there's a part of me that is so very me when I write. 

But it also drains me. It judges me. It asks things of me that I fear I don't have to give- time and determination and heart and courage to step in when all I really want is to hide under the covers and eat M&M's. Writing forces me to step up to the plate, to face my own fear in a way that is exhilarating and terrifying. 

Come to think of it, writing is a lot like parenting in that way. I love being a mom. In many ways I feel like I was made to mom, I feel so at home in the role, like there's a deep place in my soul that is doing what it was created to do. Raising kids is worthy and weighty and costly and good, and I love to give my life to that each day.  

But mothering also drains me. It judges me. And some days I fear that it asks things of me that I don't have to give- time and determination and heart and courage to step in when all I really want is to hide under the covers and eat M&M's. (Notice the common themes of my life: fear, courage, craving chocolate...)

And so here I am. A mom longing to write. A writer grasping for words. A creative heart trying to find joy in the rhythms of the day (I call it rhythms because the word "routines" leaves a bad taste in my mouth....thus needing an M&M). 

And each day comes and goes and sometimes I worry that today wasn't enough, that I wasn't enough in the middle of it. We missed our Bible story again. We're stuck on the same verse in our scripture memory.  Meltdowns far exceeded teachable moments.  Our homeschooling reality is a far cry from my homeschool vision. My kitchen floor looks like a hamster cage despite the fact that I sweep constantly. The laundry piles up and the dust settles on top of itself and how can kids not find socks when all I do is mate socks. I think back on the day and see that I was lacking in joy or lacking in patience or just...lacking.

Lately, I've been thinking of the Proverbs 31 woman. I have a lot of thoughts on that, thoughts that rock the boat a bit on traditional interpretation of that passage, which we can save for another day. But in particular, I've been thinking of how she "can laugh at the days to come." Traditionally, I've been taught that this ability to laugh is due to her uber-preparedness, her super planning and hyper-on-top-of-it-all state. Tomorrow? Next week? Ten years? Ha! Bring it on!

But lately I've been thinking that maybe she doesn't laugh because she has it all together and the days can do nothing to defy her. 

Perhaps she laughs because she doesn't take herself too seriously. 

Perhaps she laughs in wonder at how God will bring calm out of this chaos He's given her.  

Maybe she laughs at the thought of all she has to do, all that rests on her, and she meets that challenge with a light heart.  

Maybe her husband is just really funny.  OK, probably not that one. 

Still- there's a light heart there that I want to not just imitate but truly embody. I want to see my future, my tomorrow and my next week and my ten years, through hope-tinted glasses. 

I want to laugh at the days to come. 

So where does that leave me? I guess I feel the urge to merge those two loves, to mother and write with hope and courage. To reject the idea of being my best self and lay hold of the call to follow Jesus with all He's made me to be. 

To let go of performance and find peace in the enoughness of Jesus, that's where I want to be. I think that's a place of laughter, of joy unexplained, of life found even in the longest of days.

So that being said, we're still here. Taking the days one at a time. Thinking about this great challenge to love our Savior and our children well. The days are long but fleeting somehow, and the paradox of time crawling while it races never ceases to amaze me. 

But we're here. Together. And there's a goodness in that that grounds me and gives me hope. 

Hope to you, friend. May you find it in you to face today with courage and meet tomorrow with laughter. 


so much and so little to say

Been quiet around these parts, not this house in particular but this blog for sure. Sometimes it gets to be so long between posts that I get kind of rusty, the writing muscles cramping up a bit and everything settling into a non-writing state of being. But then I think, "Sheesh, I miss writing" and I start to make a list of things I could write about except that list doesn't seem to gain much momentum. I think writing, like a lot of disciplines and rhythms of life, is just something you have to do to get back into it. 

So here we are, Thursday night crowd, firing up the 'ol blog and trying to think of something to say. 

I could say that we're back in school and that it is an exhausting reality. But you probably know that. 

I could say that we're painting a room, the smell of drying paint is settling through the house as I type, and that once again the name of a paint color wooed me. Sail Cloth. What's not to love about Sail Cloth? It's looking good so far. 

I could say that we finished the Mistborn trilogy (finally!) and we started the Mazerunner series. 

I could say we've had visitors over the last month. We heart visitors. 

Harper and Tessa

And here's some pictures that can talk for themselves. 

Hubby's birthday = Maple Bacon Cupcake
Once again, our kindergartner lost the first tooth. And once again, the tooth fairy forgot. Sheesh.
Movie theater remodel: RECLINERS!!!!

In other news, the fourth born potty trained herself (yes, that's pretty much how it happened) and there was great rejoicing. 

And in the thick of all that, our friend moved out and a new person is moving in and Isaac is getting a pet and a chicken is missing and summer slipped away and the first walnut fell and the tomatoes didn't take this year and we discovered Thai coconut curry and two agents requested my manuscript and I have six rejection letters from agents who apparently felt differently and my husband is still making me laugh and the kids are still crazy sweet and crazy crazy in the blink of an eye and I have a serious crush on Dunkin Donuts iced coffee and football season is upon us and Tess is starting ballet and I'm tired of being tired and the sun comes up again and again and again. 

So here we are. Still here. Still we. It feels like there should be more things to say, the kind of deep and moving things to say. But tonight there's just the smell of paint and an attempt to catch you up and a hope that these writing muscles will warm up a little and the words may come a bit more often, a bit less forced. 

Thanks for reading, for hanging around in the silence. I hope your story is making sense, or at least making laughter or making joy or making the Father's heart happy. 

Catch ya later. 


when time slips through your fingers

Butterfly party

In July of 2011, Tessa Jo was born and our band became a permanent Party of 4. And now suddenly it all makes sense why people call their sixteen-old the "baby of the family" or say their "baby got married" or next year their "baby leaves for college."

My baby just turned three. If you talk to her for five minutes, she'll tell you all about where she travelled this summer and where her cousins live and how her nay-vors have chickens and the sad tale of our cats and why the tomatoes aren't growing this year.

She needs budspray and sunscream before she goes outside. 

She's been so excited to turn fwee so she can go to ballet class. 

She belts out Let It Go as she rides in the van.

She hates it when people call her little because, gosh darn it, she is BIG with a BIG girl bed and a froggy potty seat (that is more of an ideal than a reality) and little girls do not do BIG things like her. 

And all I can do is shake my head as I watch her troop out the back door with her siblings. 

All I can do is smile as I look out my small kitchen window and watch her carrying a chicken across the yard. 

All I can do is wonder where the days are going, worry that I might be missing them, and then tell myself that all I can really do is smile at these littles as the moments pass by. 

There is no way to freeze time, no way to have days back. And would I really want those days back? I don't know. But I can't help feel like something is lost, gone, slipped away, and if I could enjoy it one more time, I would. 

But here we are, heading into a school year with kids in 4th grade, second grade, kindergarten, and preschool. The baby items are disappearing but the days are ever busy. They need me less- they can put on their shoes (though not on the right feet, ahem, my daughters!) and spoon their own cereal and brush their teeth. They can function a whole morning, lost in the delight of the back yard. 

But in some ways they need me more. They ask, "Why should I obey?" and "Where is heaven?" and "What is inside electricity?" and "Why don't you get a job?" and "Why can't the sky just stay sunset forever?" And they ask about kindness and their own design and the shape of their fears comes trickling out. They sense that we're walking to our own drum, that they aren't getting on a school bus or going to a church building or living a life that matches what they see on bits of TV. 

And they wonder and I wonder and I try not to worry or chase time or hoard moments. 

I try to be. Here. With them. Be here in the moments that truly are our good 'ol days. 

It's been a bumpy summer for me, friends. I've drifted, not in some sort of profound drifting away from ideals, but more of life on a raft instead of life on a motor boat. I like to think I generally have direction, a little bit of power, an ability to steer my life against the waves. But this summer has left me feeling I got nothing. 

"I think I'm broken," I told my husband this morning. 

"Good," he said, smiling sleepy at me, "that's a good place to start."

This time slipping by, it reminds me afresh of my smallness, of my inability to hold on and hold in and hold out. Moments are passing, and I don't need to control them or cement them or even do anything crazy to make them better. I can only cherish them, watch them slip by, smile sleepy from my own brokenness, choose to be present in it all. 

So here we are. The baby who's not a baby. The summer that isn't much of a summer left. The school year upon us and the fall approaching and a long list of "Things I'll Get to This Summer" that I can just reuse for next year.  Time is both my friend and my enemy, my ally and my nemesis. 

But we're still here, and it's still barely summer, and we'll try to watch these last summer evenings linger. 

Happy Birthday, Tessa Jo.