What to say. Oh, what to say. More often than not, my words fail me (hence the need to type them out once my brain has had a chance to connect with my tongue). A few months back, my husband took the pulpit to preach to our small, faithful congregation that meets each Sunday morning
You’ve heard it. I’ve heard it. But at this moment, I’m hell bent on keeping it the reality: Keeping it simple. Culture is already swimming with holiday ideas and trinkets to fill up our time and empty our wallets. This is the time of year when I try and make a point to tuck away into my
This. Every morning, this. I could wake up seventy thousand more times, roll out of bed, scramble to find a mismatched pair of socks, and throw on an oversized, overworn sweatshirt before hobbling out to the thrift store couch (where no less than four little ones will soon find me) and never tire of it.
I wasn’t always this person. But don’t remind me of that. A decade ago – I was much, much different. Those of you who have read my testimony (part two here) can… well… attest to that. I’m not going to tell you who I was because I don’t want you to know her. But this past
My husband delivered a few meditations at our Good Friday service yesterday, and as I sat there with my three fussing children, crayon wrappers littering the aisle, the smell of a poopy diaper wafting through the air, I listened passionately to the words he shared with the congregation. And then, tears began to stream down my
Man. Man, oh man, oh maaaan. Do I love my husband’s beard. I know. Not everyone out there is a beard-lovin’ woman, I just happen to be one of them. I think my love for beards first came from my love of Ray LaMontagne, a singer who continues to pull at my heart strings with
I was running the vacuum through our bedroom for the umpteenth time last week when I accidentally sucked up the tail of one of Stuart’s ties. Don’t tell him that. And don’t tell my Mom that I was using her vacuum that I borrowed, oh, I don’t know… eight months ago. (Neither of those is
For those who are new, this ‘Why We Homestead’ series is being written by my delicious husband Stuart. To catch part one of the series, read Why We Homestead, Part One. Why We Homestead, Part Two: Scratching An Itch On a Spring morning, the light from the sun’s rays separate as they crest Jump-off Ridge.
A quick note: Most of you know about my insanely handsome and wonderful husband, Stuart. He may not make an appearance on the blog as often as beard-loving-women would hope, but know he’s always behind the scenes encouraging, advising, and working on the homestead. I’ve asked him to do a short series of posts with me
When Daddy’s away, Mama takes a 20 minutes car ride into town for overpriced lattes all too often. And when Daddy’s away, the eggs don’t get collected for days on end because it’s never the most pressing task at hand. When Daddy’s away, Mama texts him “S.O.S.” too many times in a 24 hour span.