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.  


It was Tuesday afternoon. And I was chopping onions and chives for potato salad. And I wondered where I would store such things in my new house. And it seemed petty. (Though I can’t just leave them on the dining room table all the time.  All chives matter after all.) It was Tueday afternoon. And I was yelling. Everyone was grumpy.  It was wet outside, spirits were damp, noses were runny. I had streaks on my shirt shoulder from the baby. It was a Tuesday afternoon. And Jesus went to Lazarus’s house. But he wasn’t there.  Well, his body was, but it was just a shell.  Empty.  Buried.  Lifeless. And Jesus wept. (Actually, I don’t know if that happened on a Tuesday.  But it wasn’t long before Pas

Vanilla House

We found a house. We made an offer. They said no. We haggled, they haggled back. We agreed. Now we wait on the bank and all the paperwork. It is twice the size of our old house, almost exactly.  And half as old.  The walls are straight.  The basement is dry.  There is already a wheelchair ramp, and an accessible shower, and no rugs to slow down the child with wheels.  A stream full of frogs to be caught borders one side; big grassy fields invite soccer and breathless games of tag on the others. We are hopeful; even a little bit excited now. Soon. Funny, it wasn’t my first choice.  In fact, when we looked at it with the realtor, I dismissed it quickly.  It was missing vital points of my “must


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