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. 

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.

I’m sitting on the sofa in the living room listening to my boys upstairs. They are master players.

Jumping in mud puddles, a bubble bath during the day, popsicles on the porch, a trip to the local library

I may not be hitting post as frequently, but I am writing more than I ever have. The truth is, for the last three years I have been working on a personal project.

What I’m finding about motherhood in this season is that it is a delicate balancing act of loving my boys well and pursuing my calling.

Sometimes discouragement lingers heavily on a regular Tuesday morning.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

We are about to finish our first year of homeschooling and I wanted to share an honest assessment for anyone who may be considering this path for their child.

Homeschooling was not the path we always planned to take for our kids. I remember having conversations with Matt early on in our marriage.

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.”

Years ago, before kids, when Matt and I had all the time in the world, we began a weekly rhythm of celebrating Shabbat.

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.

It’s Friday morning and I am running through my mental checklist for the weekend ahead.

It’s been a season of waiting in so many ways. Waiting for direction in life decisions, waiting for breakthrough in a hard situation, waiting for a dear friend’s loved one to awaken from a coma after a bike accident.

You don’t need an hour long nightly ritual to ascribe meaning to the madness. Sometimes, the best thing you can do is determine going into the season what you have the bandwidth for.

There are two worlds. There’s this tangible one with sounds and shapes and tastes. It’s the ground we walk on and the air we breathe, the meals we share around the table, the conversations we have.

Sometimes, when my toddler is fully in a moment, he’ll close his eyes and squint up his face. I always wonder what he’s thinking in that moment, and it almost always makes me laugh to myself.

The moments I’ve been collecting lately lack all the luster and idyllic qualities I used to think were needed for holding onto something.

Lately I’m realizing that it does little good to try to separate the light from the heavy. They often take turns swooshing through our home like a Texas wind storm, keeping me on my toes. Just when I think I can settle into that warm spot beneath the sun, those looming clouds roll in fierce and without warning.

For the last year, I have been praying and dreaming up what it might look like to combine my love for photography and my heart for empowering women.

Speak truth…even if nobody else listens.

I hit a wall this past summer. We were nearing the end of our 7-week stay at our tiny house in the mountains of North Carolina, which although lovely, had been a jam-packed schedule of manual labor projects we desperately wanted to finish before returning to Texas.

I am going to share something with you that is giving me a lot of freedom these days.

I can still smell the wet buttery popcorn as we usher ourselves down dim lit aisles and settle into a nook of four empty seats.

"When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping. '" - Mr. Rogers

I was told once that we should speak to ourselves like our own best friend.

Heated debates, political turmoil, another wave—It’s been a week. Heck, it’s been a year. I don’t think anyone would refute that claim. Thankfully this blog is not about any of those things. Which is how we found ourselves, two days before a presidential election, clinking glasses to Ella Fitzgerald at an intimate Jazz Age Murder Mystery in my parents’ cozy home.