A different kind of letterbox, maybe. This one was handmade by my 5-year old one day during school. We are in the middle of our first year of homeschooling here at Smarty Pants Academy, which means we’re all learning as we go. I think I’m learning the most, to be honest.

Throughout the school day we take “Brain Breaks”, which is when the kids can choose a fun activity from a  list. Each activity is 5 minutes long. One day Ella decided to make something, so she spent her Brain Break creating a letterbox for our school. Each day we write secret notes to each other—either a note of encouragement or praise, or just a fun picture we’ve drawn—and then we tuck it into the Secret Smarty Pants letterbox to be read aloud on Friday. This was all Ella’s idea. She is the sweet-spirited encourager of the family. 

I love this little letterbox. It’s a wonderful vehicle for telling my kids that I notice their hard work. Even if we’ve had a long day of butting heads and battling strong wills, this forces me to take a moment and find at least one thing to praise them for. And usually once I’ve recognized one thing, I start to see many things. Funny how praise begets praise, which births thankfulness. Snow ball effect. 

Join us and be a Secret Smarty Pants encourager to someone today.

And PS: Anonymous handwritten notes are the best! 

My Family Tree

I love how perfectly this picture captures our family. Total chaos. Everyone on top of each other. In each other’s faces. No personal space. Kids everywhere, or so it seems sometimes.

And there’s Nate. He is the core, the heart, the trunk of our family tree. Our three children the off-shoots, our branches, who daily grow stronger, bigger, and stretch farther. Still connected to the Trunk, who is planted firm and who’s roots go deep, they reach and search for more of the sun—The Son—to nourish and feed them. And the more our three little branches stretch for The Son, the deeper the roots of the Trunk must go.

Blessed is the man
whose delight is in the Lord
He is like a tree
planted by streams of water
that yields its fruit in season.
Its leaf does not wither.
In all that he does, he prospers.
—Psalm 1

Feeling prosperous today, my friends. Hope you do too.

Hungry, I come to You
For I know You satisfy
I am empty but I know
Your love does not run dry.
—Kathryn Scott 

Challenge accepted.

(Gotta play catch up.)

I’ve had the hardest time coming back to my blog. Not that I haven’t been writing. I’ve pretty much written a novel, actually. But I can’t seem to make it all fit together in one coherent thought. Too much has happened in the last six months. I’m still in shock over it all. For those of you who don’t know, I’m sitting in a new town in a new state with a new career, driving a new car and living in a new house (actually it’s 100-years old, so we’ll just say “different”)…everything about our life has drastically changed this past year.

All that to say that I’m accepting the January Photo a Day Challenge in an effort to process and document all of the ongoing change in our lives, and hopefully it will help me reflect on all the precious gifts the Lord has given me as I walk through a season of pruning that sometimes feels like things are only being taken away.

Day 1 of the Challenge: A photo of you.

So here I am. A reformed priss pot. A Farmer’s wife. A homeschooling Mom of 3 kids. A girl who loves to cook and bake and wear an apron and pearls. A girl who loves fashion and who finds putting pieces of clothing together is like working a rubick’s cube. It’s an intersection of strategy and feng shui, I tell ya. I’m a girl who adores thrifting even more than I ever enjoyed shopping at the big name stores because I love the thrill of the find. Anyone can look good if they shop at the right stores, but a true fashionista finds and creates her own styles. (Ok, off the soap box.)

I love my husband fiercely and am committed to supporting him in his new-found passion of farming, even though it goes against every natural and learned inclination I have. I love my children and feel the weight of the responsibility of raising and educating them to be a very heavy mantle, but one that I know I don’t carry alone. Thankful they are His children and I have His wisdom. I love to write, to paint, to photograph everything in an effort to preserve the moment, to create something from nothing, to rearrange furniture and paint rooms (this drives my husband nuts…especially when he comes home from work and the living room is completely different, paint and all). I’m learning to love this tiny fishing village we live in with it’s ancient oak trees and historic houses. And even though I miss the busyness of the suburbs and the constant community, I’m learning to find peace in the quietness of life that permeates this sweet southern town. I love to celebrate all of the funny nuances of daily life—all of those bizarre, out-of-the-ordinary comments, looks, or happenings that differentiate one day from the next. I battle daily the longing to live an extra-ordinary life and the overwhelming feeling that it’s too hard, so why not just go the easy route and settle for ordinary? My favorite thing to do is sit in a quiet spot, sun shining bright, and read. I love studying the Word of God. I don’t just read it. I chew on it. Digest it. Feel nourished and changed by it.

That in a nutshell is me.

I made this in college more than 10 years ago. The assignment: To put your life in a box. As one who had just made a fresh commitment to Christ, I decided to make a box that represented my new-found faith.

My Faithbox has survived more than a decade, more than a dozen moves, life with 3 kids, etc. Over time it’s gotten bumped, battered and bruised, and has been moved from a special place in my home to a dusty old space in the garage. Sadly, my own personal faith has lived a parallel life. Both have slowly moved from being a center piece in my life to merely taking up space in the corner of the garage in my heart.

In 2010 while cleaning out the garage I made the choice to throw away my Faithbox. It was a conscience choice. I stood in front of the trash can, Faithbox in hand, weighed the pros and cons of keeping it, and ultimately lifted the lid and tossed it in.

And then I walked away and didn’t look back.

It wasn’t a sad moment. There was no real emotion at all. After I moved the Faithbox to the corner of the garage in my heart, a detached numbness took it’s place. Where my Faithbox had proudly sat for all to see and celebrate, emptiness filled the space. Dust collected.

How easy it was to discard my Faithbox as a piece of old sentimentality from my college days. It was hard to move it from the house to the garage. But that initial move made it easy to send it from the garage to the garbage.

The trash can sat swallowing my Faithbox like the giant fish that swallowed Jonah. I gave it no more thought. That is, until the next day when I discovered it sitting beside the trash can. Not in it, as I’d left it. Beside it. Like the giant fish “vomited Jonah onto dry land”, my Faithbox sat beside the belly of the beast. (Jonah 2:10)

Stubborn little Faithbox.

I could hear a tender voice in my heart whisper,

“Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you.”

My husband was the one who had pulled my Faithbox from the trash can. The man appointed to lead me and point me toward Jesus Christ all of our living days, was the one who salvaged my Faithbox. He would not let me throw it away so easily.

He knew that at one time it had been precious to me. And even though he knew that I was tired of it being in the way and taking up space in my life, he had hopes that it might one day be valuable to me again. Maybe even bless our children.

All of that happened a year ago. This June finds us cleaning out the garage for a different reason. In 2 weeks we’ll be moving to a new life in a new state. In true moving fashion, I’ve had to make hard decisions about what to keep, what to sell, what to donate, and what to trash. Once again I stood in front of the trash can, my Faithbox in hand. And once again, I chose to lift the lid and throw it away. Sealed it in the dank, dark, dirty black abyss for someone else to whisk away. And then I turned my back and walked away.

Once again.

I left my Faithbox on the side of the road as forgotten memorabelia for some big smelly truck to take to the place of things discarded.

Just like the Jews stuffed the lifeless body of Jesus Christ in the dark, dank tomb, hopeful that he too would finally go away.

On trash pickup day I happened to be sitting on the front porch with my three children. I barely even paid attention as the the garbage truck pulled up to our curb, but something caught my attention. I turned around just in time to watch as one of the garbage men pulled my dirty dusty dilapidated excuse of a Faithbox out of the trash can.

No trash can could contain this battered little Faithbox.

But the garbage man didn’t just put it on the ground next to the trash can, as I had found my Faithbox a year ago. Instead, he opened the lid to the recycling can, which was sitting next to the trash can, and put it in. Then he nodded at me and was on his way.

From trashed to recycled.

You make all things new.

I’ve tried to shed this little brown box that came into my life so many years ago. But it will not be discarded.

Jesus is not so easily discarded.

No trash can

or tomb

can contain him.

 My flesh may fail. My God, you never will. 

Overwhelmed.

It’s my new word.

I am overwhelmed by change. By the speed at which life is moving. By decisions that need to be made, and quickly. By a full-range of emotions as we move from one phase to the next. By a desire to do what is right. By a passion to make a change. By a longing to inspire people and equip them to take a stand and fight for their basic human rights. Overwhelmed by a fierce determination to be a voice of HOPE during a time in our country’s history where it seems that we are David challenging Goliath.

Overwhelmed by the love, support, and encouragement of our community as we do this.

Overwhelmed with gratitude.
With possibility.
With the gravity and sheer colossal size of the calling we are shouldering.
With the privilege of being apart of such an amazing movement that is changing lives and bringing healing.

Each of these hit me like a tidal wave, knocking me to my hands and knees in humility and awe. They take my breath away.

I am simply…

Overwhelmed.

Time and water. Both fluid. Both ebbing and flowing. Both rushing by.

Lately I feel like Time is slipping through my fingers, like water. And just like water, I can’t hold onto it.

Unless I freeze it.

Oh, how my heart aches to do just that. To freeze Time and stop it dead in it’s tracks. Then I would run around and collect all the frozen memories, stash them in a jar, and put them on my shelf, like a snow globe. In the weeks / months / years to come I could pick up that snow globe from 2011 and shake it.  I could come back to these very moments and revisit. I could laugh as I watched myself flit around the house, wildly trying to tidy while three little ones come silently behind me and undo everything I’ve just done. I could hold Caleb while he is a baby again, smell his sweet baby scent, hear his baby laugh, feel the weight of him in my arms and feel his little chubby hands on my face. I could see how small and precious and innocent Nathaniel and Ella are as children, hear their child-like voices and listen to their silly anecdotes. I could wait excitedly for Nate to come home from work, hear about his day as I walk beside him on the farm and see the joy he has to be home, to be with us, to be the head of our house. I could enjoy this season of life again and again and not worry about the tick-tock of the clock as Time harshly marches by.

But Time is elusive. It cannot be stopped, caught, or frozen. It flows like a stream and never stands still. Not for anyone.

Each night I go to bed and one more day has ebbed away. And before I know it, one more week is suddenly behind me. Those weeks turn to months, which evolve into years. Seasons change. My children grow. Chapters are written in the Book of Life.

Every day this special season of my life moves toward another season. After all, it can’t be Spring forever. Summer, Fall, and Winter inevitably come.

The changing of life’s seasons is very hard for me. I always put up a valiant fight, but I know that the essence of change is good. Without it I wouldn’t be where I am today. I wouldn’t be as happy as I am right now. I would never have gotten married. Or had Nathaniel. Or Ella. Or Caleb. I appreciate where I am in life right now and I know that it is because of change.

But change is hard. And lately I am reminded that every day is a gift. This time will not last. The concluding sentences of this particular chapter of my life are being written at this very moment and the final exclamation point is at hand.

Even though I am moving toward Summer, toward a season sure to be filled with joy and love and newness and excitement, I leave a piece of my heart here in Spring. It has been such an amazing season. A time of watching seeds that were planted last year come to life and bloom. Literally and figuratively. A time of such unbelievable joy and fulfillment. A time of sitting back and marveling as life around me unfolds and things grow and come to fruition.

So here’s to freezing Time. Here’s to soaking in this very moment. I will seize the day and make the most of it. Tonight I will go to bed with a sense of sadness that one more day has finished…but wake with excitement and joy for what is to come.

Here’s to tomorrow.

“Sorrow may last for the night, but joy comes in the morning.” Psalm 30:5

We asked and re-asked ourselves this question a hundred times after Ella was born. Each time we came up short. We just didn’t know. Should we base it on our age? Our financial circumstances? The amount of living space we had? Our future dreams and plans? We had a boy and a girl, so should we be content with what we had? Another quintessential all-American family: Done. Done? Hmmm…we just didn’t know.

Life seemed easy with two. Why complicate things with a baby? We moved to Charlotte. Got busy with life and building a home and raising our two. But we still didn’t have an answer to the resounding question in our hearts.

Was our family complete?

Then one day at church I walked around the corner and saw Nate holding a friend’s baby. My heart stopped. Seeing him holding a baby again brought a rush of feelings. I remembered how wonderful it was to watch him tend to our children when they were so small. How loving and protective he was.

I have to stop here and say that some people think the stork brings babies. Sex gets a lot of the credit in the baby-making process, too. But the truth is that you have babies when you hold babies. Because holding babies is how you get Baby Fever, which is what REALLY makes babies. (Sex helps.)

When someone sneezes and then shakes your hand—Boom, you’ve just gotten their cold. Have someone hand you a baby to hold? Boom, you’ve just gotten The Fever. It’s highly contagious and somewhat incurable. Usually the only remedy for Baby Fever is…well, a baby.

We went back and forth about having another baby for almost a year. In the meantime we decided to get a puppy…just until we could determine for sure about the baby.

The moment I held that puppy for the first time I KNEW.

I knew that my arms needed a baby to hold. It was like some vacuum seal was opened up inside of me and sucked my breath away. I knew that no puppy was ever going to satisfy these arms. Only a baby would do.

Fast forward to the day Caleb was born. The first time I saw him my very first thought was, “THAT is MY baby.” He was mine. My eyes were glued to him. I couldn’t look away. I felt this unexplainable surge of emotion swell inside me as I looked at him and knew with great love and pride that he was my son. Not someone else’s baby that they’d just brought into the room. Mine. And I was his. It was literally love at first sight.

Having Caleb has been so healthy for our family. He brings a new facet of joy to the mix that we didn’t know we were missing until we had it in our lives. He has brought forth a new level of maternal instinct in me. It gives me such satisfaction to see how much his brother and sister love him, how excited they are to see him when he wakes up from his nap or when they come home from school. Watching how he grins from ear to ear and does his full-bodied wiggle when he sees Nate or the kids just makes my heart boom with joy. Even at 3 a.m. when I have to strip his bed and change the sheets and clothes because of a leaky diaper, I can’t help but be smitten with him.

I heard about a study where a group of elderly people were asked to name their biggest regret in life. The most common response? That they didn’t have more children.

So is our family complete? We said we’d wait until Caleb’s first birthday to start asking ourselves that familiar question. For now, I’m at peace with where I am in life, which says a lot considering how hard I resisted becoming a Mom and especially a SAHM. But something in my heart tells me no. Not finished yet. There is more to come.

For now, our family is complete….Completely and utterly in love with this little man.

I am an expert in moving.

I move dirty dishes to the dishwasher. Clothes from the washer to the dryer. Crumbs from the floor to the dustpan.

Whether it’s dishes, toys, kids, or dirt I’m moving something from one place to another from sunrise to sunset. I go to bed knowing that everything is in it’s proper place. Then morning comes and I begin all over again.

Since all things in the universe obey the Laws of Thermodynamics, I’m fighting a losing battle. I can’t defy the rules of nature. Everything is constantly moving toward a state of disorder. It’s physics, plain and simple. So why am I fighting a force greater than myself? Frankly, I’m tired of losing.

Maintaining order in my home means going toe-to-toe with Mother Nature, who enforces the Laws of Physics like it’s her job. She is too strong and too stubborn for me to defeat. I may win an occasional battle but She’s going to win the war.

HOWEVER…I’ve made a discovery. I have a new weapon to add to my arsenal. It may be impossible to out-muscle Mother Nature,  but I can outwit her with this one word:

SIMPLIFY.

The less stuff my family owns the less mess there is to clean. The Mt. Everest pile of laundry is reduced to a moderate Pikes Peak. Less owned means less to move.

If my physical world is full of clutter then I am stressed, overwhelmed, and busy with the needless maintenance of all my stuff. This means less time with my family. Less time being creative. More things needing my attention.

There will always be dirt to move. There will always be clothes to transfer from the washer to the dryer. There will always be Mother Nature and physics and the Laws of Thermodynamics. I accept that.

What I do not accept is a life ruled by clutter, stress, and running in circles as I move this pile from here to there and that item from upstairs to downstairs.

So rather than declaring war on Mother Nature, I will outwit her and declare war on STUFF.

Today I simplify.

Tomorrow I will enjoy the fruits of simplicity, which are peace and rest.

“The ability to simplify means to eliminate the unnecessary so that the necessary may speak.” —Hans Hofmann