Welcome to the place of overflowing grace in the midst of messy motherhood.
There are a lot of kids up in here, a lot of noise, and a lot of life. It's raw and real, and often sticky.
But I wouldn't trade it. (Except maybe the sticky part.)
Join me for the journey.  

Touched by a Toilet Seat

The delivery truck parked in front of our house this morning.  Predictably, every little set of bare male feet pattered toward the porch.  The two year old, sitting on the sofa next to me, hauled himself up the couch cushions to wave graciously through the window at the delivery man.  He graciously waved back. I wasn’t expecting any packages.  The guessing began as we ripped through the tape. “Probably books.”  My four year old said, preparing to be disappointed. “Is it mine?”  The two year old crawled over to the mysterious box hopefully. “I want to open it with Daddy’s knife!”  The six year old was climbing the bookshelf to find the forbidden box cutters above his head. The brown packaging

The Gift of Madge and Guy

She never bought jewelry for herself.  Oh, it was nice to be able to wear it sometimes.  Every piece that she owned had value because it had been given to her.  That included, of course, her engagement ring. He’d handed her a flower that day, joy forever etched in memory.  In the flower was the ring.  She’d been expecting it, but it was still a surprise to see the glint within the petals.  And there he was on one knee grinning at her, the young blonde musician, full of hope.  She said yes. Years passed.  He wrote songs for her on his guitar.  They grew.  The ring went on all their travels together, through love and arguments, through mud and soap, scraping against the keys to their first hou

A Little Bit of Leaven

Once upon a time, a Jewish momma baked some bread. She ground the barley.  She added some leavening starter, a little salt, a handful of lentils, and some water in the evening.  Early the next morning, it had risen in the bowl.  She took out the dough, shaped it into a handful of loaves, and asked her daughter to set them near the hot coals to bake.  An hour later, her husband and oldest son came in with their haul from an overnight fishing trip.  Most of their modest catch would go to market, but a few of the smaller ones were gutted, salted, and hung to dry for the family’s own use later.  The men wiped their fishy hands and tore hungrily into a hunk of fresh bread.  “A bit dry this time,”


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