I’m sitting here staring at a thick layer of dust that covers the hard drive on my desk. I carved out this time to write because it has been nearly two months since my last post.
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I have this image of a hot air balloon in my mind. In this picture, the balloon is upright and lit, and my three kids and husband fill the giant wicker basket ready to take flight, but I am standing outside the balloon holding tightly to the rope.
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When I reminiscence on my childhood, I remember holidays with my grandparents. My grandma sitting at the table, chopping vegetables and my mom baking fresh, heaping loaves of zucchini bread.
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The theology of a child is often much less about the words in a book and more about the lives we are building for them.
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The other day he was building one of his new sets at my parents’ house next door when I told him it was time to come home. But at some point along the route, he lost a piece.
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It was a bit of an experiment, but I created simple recipe cards with pictures that my 4-year-old could decipher. And it’s now something my boys and I do together every Friday afternoon.
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I’m sitting on the sofa in the living room listening to my boys upstairs. They are master players.
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We enter in, clinging to the fringes of summer with gripped hands,
Nostalgic for the days we are still living in.
We are about to enter our third year of homeschooling, and while we have landed on some wonderful rhythms, we are still finding our footing with curriculum we love.
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Sometimes I wonder if I am not fully walking out in the freedom Christ gifted me. A freedom that says, “You see this world I created? I made it for you to enjoy.”
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Like most birth stories, ours included a cast of characters, props, and twists and turns that kept us on our toes.
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Because I have gone about organizing our yearbook differently the past couple of years, I am going to share potential spread ideas so you can build your own outline.
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The year had been feeling like a bit of a miss in terms of hitting goals and making memories with my boys. I spent the majority of the fall curled up on the corner of the sofa, nauseous and oppressively tired.
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Jumping in mud puddles, a bubble bath during the day, popsicles on the porch, a trip to the local library
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Last fall and throughout most of the winter, I felt incredibly off-kilter. I had lost a lot of the rhythms that make life not only tolerable but enjoyable. And this Spring, I am slowly bringing them back.
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Years ago, before kids, when Matt and I had all the time in the world, we began a weekly rhythm of celebrating Shabbat.
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With our words we bear our souls, say I’m sorry, tell our kids we love them; we fill books and write songs and give speeches and make campaigns.
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When you find yourself in seasons that make this journey a little extra hard. When it’s clunky and imperfect and not at all like the beautifully curated photos filling your Pinterest feed.
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