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.  


Sometimes I wish I were illiterate.  Honest.  I realize the irony as I write the words across the page on my blog.  But, sometimes, just for a moment, I wish that the burden of responsibility did not lie on my shoulders. I know too much. I’m knee-deep in curriculum for the coming homeschool year.  Bright sticky notes hang garishly all over the desk – to-do lists, grocery lists, books that have been purchased, books still to buy, blog ideas, Bible verses, funny quotes from my kids, chore lists, schedules, fall clothing needs, birthday lists, meal plans… Don’t tell me I need a planner.  (They are too compartmentalized, never handy when I need them, and can’t seem to last me more than a week.  

Rage against the washing machine

It was late.  The house was quiet.  But I was on a role.  Half the laundry sat in obedient piles forming a semicircle around my sofa throne.  I sat, queenlike (sort of), bare feet balanced indelicately on either side of the laundry basket below me on the floor.  The linoleum in the kitchen had just been mopped; the hardwood in the other rooms had been vacuumed before that.  A mountain of clean dishes was drying; the dishwasher hummed submissively.  The week’s menu plan was mostly assembled on the dining room table; a grocery list lay freshly scribbled next to it on a sticky note.  My humble kingdom was submitting to my sweaty will. I was tired, covered in dried sweet potatoes and whatever el

Love and roast chicken

Grandma came last week.  She picked up my oldest son, my eight year old, for a date in her backyard.  It was a momentous occasion. It was chicken killing day at Grandma’s. They gathered the two month old birds that had grown so fat they could barely walk.  They flipped them upside down and quickly, with a sharp knife, ended the deep chickeny thoughts of every one. My son watched the blood drain out.  And he helped Grandma and Grandpa and their friends move the fluffy bodies through the process, assembly line style, until they had been converted into neat little packages of thighs, breasts, and wings.  White, bloodless, and unrecognizable from their original state. We ate fresh baked chicken


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