Why can't you add "good" to a hello?

Why do departures receive the honor of being presented as good?
Greetings are far more welcoming—at least I would like to think so.

Because when we say hello in Spanish, it is often proclaimed and shortened to just “good.” Not just any good either—many of them.

But no—hello gets the short end of the stick. Sometimes it’s just abbreviated to “hi” or “hey.” I often hear the latter from my middle schooler, whose days are often a mystery to me now.

And so—I ask the question, “Where is the ‘good’ in the hello?”

Maybe it’s scared. Or it’s a little shy. So we squeak out a greeting that is more timid and hides. The greeting probably props its hood above its head, puts its hands in the front pocket of its jacket, and looks down at the floor. I understand that. My greetings mute themselves when I feel unsteady on where I am.

But doesn’t that seem contradictory? A “hello” ought to be loquacious and endearing—bringing a full basket of hostess gifts. HELLO!

Instead, it’s alone. It sits by itself—even though a hello by nature ought to mean there’s someone on the receiving end.

So instead, for this year, I won’t murmur my hello. I’ll loudly say, “¡Buenas!” I anticipate all the good of the year to come—more conversations with three younger humans I like, a meal shared with a friend, more “good morning” meetings with my husband after an overnight shift, new creative promptings, new chances, and new opportunities to simply say—

hello.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Hello."

One Word Irony in 365

Sweetly gifted from my friend Bethany—she knew I needed that word so much.

The irony is that I picked the word “confidence.”

It’s the word I fight with the most—from the beginning of January all the way through the end-of-year emails I find myself writing. Because to have confidence would mean I would have to believe in something far more anchored than my doubts, questions, and queries. And I know myself all too well—I find my theories far more fascinating than confidence.

But I chose it anyway.

And yet, “shaky” is a far better descriptor while I reflect on my tenuous Yeses and uncertain Nos. “Shaky” makes more sense—there’s a consistency to it. “Shaky” is what I know best.

Oh, but confidence—like the confidence I used to buy a shimmering blazer to dance and sing the night away with women I hardly knew in person, but I knew in soul. I guess that’s what they mean by soul sister.

And to use that same audacity to say yes—to moving to another state. That confidence to place a sign in my yard to build another community—oh, yes. I used that word “confidence” as often as I could. 

I watched it shake after I spent days watching the sign in my yard acquire dust until it vanished. And it challenged my theory that it didn’t acquire dust—perhaps it turned into it right in front of me.

Oh, the confidence! To say yes to a retreat in the middle of selling a home so we could move. It felt like running towards the decision, staring it down, and boldly proclaiming it will not move me. I used that confidence then. Could I actually hold onto it now?

And they saw me. By “they” I mean the children who watched my every move in the middle of absolute madness of my own making.

It’s THAT confidence they held onto when we shifted into a new season. Albeit one set of eyes now looks down at me because those eyes decided to be on a head whose body kept growing and growing.

I’m holding onto that confidence. Without it, I wouldn’t have had the most catastrophically marvelous year.

I’m glad I had the audacity to live it. I hope I never forget it.

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An aside: HELLO AGAIN FRIENDS.

It’s been longer than a wild minute so I decided to recap my year with you—between selling a home, saying wild yeses to commitments that stretched me, a job change in the middle of the year, and moving to my husband’s home state of Nebraska, my poor blog took a backseat.

So enjoy my ironic musings. I should have also titled this, “Tales from a 3,” but I made sure I hit 365 words even :)

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "365 Words".

Where all Great Stories Begin

Great stories begin in the setting. Poignant, right? Or maybe a little facetious? I think we all want to know the answer to this question—where do they come from? And exactly how do I begin to answer it?

Recently, my husband and I went on a trip to see one of my close friends from high school get married. I’m the old maid in this tale—the mother with children attending a million and one school-is-ending events. I still worried about lunches needing to get packed and last-minute homework to be accomplished amid boarding a plane to the artistic and cultural haven that is New Orleans. Nonetheless, the thrill didn’t begin to describe my excitement for staying in the city. Elated. Perhaps, bubbling over. I was around adults who weren’t a part of my child’s soccer team or in the same cello studio (by the way, those parents are gems).

They were people interested in what I was interested in—namely, what I do for a living or my hobbies. Our conversations focused on this specific topic. 

I met an archeologist. I discussed attending an event when you’re an event planner. I even talked to a man who worked on telephone systems. I said out loud what I did—but did I dare broach the subject of what I do while trying to explain away the overwhelming need to create something? Somewhat. Truthfully, the stories involving my children were all I could spew. 

This is where I found out where all great stories began—or at least, where mine began. But I couldn’t stop the inevitable creep of imposter syndrome.

You see, I was surrounded by literary landmarks. Our hotel WAS a literal literary landmark. You couldn’t walk around the lobby without a little plaque reminding you that Tennesee Williams frequented the lobby or that Ernest Hemmingway met up for drinks with other writers at the Carousel Bar.

For a moment, I was crushed by the knowledge that these writers once roamed the halls I stepped in to escape motherhood's mundane moments. Could I even compare? What if my own milieu of my ordinary life doesn’t measure up to the artistry of these incredibly gifted writers? Are my stories worth telling?

A friend, new to us but old to the friend getting married, leaned in. His eyes sparkled as I talked about my mundanities. The little moments I took for granted were only glimpses of hope he saw for his wife and himself in the near future.

I started where all my great stories begin. They begin at a place I call home. Sure, they don’t have crown molding or crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, but I like where my stories begin. My stories are found in school pick-up lines, between bath time, during the giggles at dinner, the stillness after an argument when a room hasn’t been picked up, or even in my living room. While, to me, these stories seem rehearsed and old—my listener leaned in. 

Great stories incline the ears of our listeners when we see the magic from where our stories began. The stories that started at home. Because if I don’t take on the mantle of telling my own narrative, no one else will see the magic in between my words, pauses, and phrases. All great stories begin with us valuing them.

Because when we do value them—they accrue interest. And not that all stories will be interesting to every audience. It’s up to us to create despite outside markers of success. The truth is that once you find value in your story, you become your audience. How delightful is it to find the magic in your own stories? It’s just the right thing I needed to remind me—

To just create anyway.

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 This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Create Anyway".

All My Thanks

And the award goes to…

Friends and esteemed guests, and of course, my children—I can’t begin to muster up all the words I have for this prestigious award. I can barely squeak out a whole thank you.

While it sounds trite and completely cliched, I am blessed to be here, in front of you, accepting this award. Counting my blessings takes on a whole new meaning as I’m trying to think of all who to thank. It seems funny to say, but I truly have a community that offers everything, including the kitchen sink, to me. So, thank you.

First, I want to lay this out in front of you before the music cues on my exit. Success doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It cannot exist without the fresh air of an involved community. Without your participation, this work wouldn’t have been possible.

There were certainly days I was ready to throw in the towel, but I didn’t hold back. I knew I had to press forward, roll up my sleeves, and get my hands dirty.

I would like to thank my husband for setting the table for success. Without his endeavors and prodding encouragement, I would have given up my chance for a clean sweep. He, above all else, made me get off the couch and try.

Second, I would like to thank my children. All three of you pushed me to be a better version, and you handed it all to me on a plate. I would be nothing without your love and patience. I love you all so much and…

***

Ring. Ring. Ring.

“Oh, hi, honey!”

“Hey Neidy, when will you be done loading the dishwasher?”

“Soon! I’m just about done!”

***

And that’s my cue! Thank you again for the prestigious award of “Best Dishwasher-Loader.” I do not take this honor lightly, and I hope next year, I’ll be back! 

***

Sometimes we all need to celebrate the tiny moments of mundane life.

Because if we don’t choose to award ourselves for the small moments, who will?

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Acceptance Speech".

¡Salud! To Good Health

On New Year’s Eve in 2014, my little girl and I found ourselves waiting in the emergency room. I watched her crawl back and forth on the crinkly paper she tore and then wanted to tear it more. We repeated this dance over and over again while I sighed each time as I picked her up and then put her wiggly little body back down. Even as she strained to breathe, she wouldn’t stop moving. But alas, we started a new tradition.

It was the first time I understood that Christmas time at the doctor meant flu, cold, RSV, and you-name-it-disease visits. Her pediatrician’s office is exactly where my daughter caught her first bout of RSV—and, well, we found ourselves at 7 PM New Year’s Eve, just a little past her bedtime, at the emergency room for some breathing treatments. 

After a few sleepless nights, we greeted 2015 with a new zeal for life and gratitude despite our only hiccup in health. This is why I’m spending time, early this year in 2023, welcoming the new year with covid. Seems appropriate, right?

Last year we had the flu, and in welcoming 2021, we had nothing. Why? We didn’t see anyone. This cycle of receiving the new year with a new communicable disease is an established tradition that we await with open arms, kleenex, and cough drops. Well, maybe not open arms, but with some hand sanitizer and optimism. Sickness, however,  reminds me of what I’m genuinely thankful for and how good we’ve it.

Here’s to the friends who message “are you okays” and “how are you feelings.”

Here’s to Disney plus, board games, books, and a lot of jokes.

Here’s to, yet again, Kleenex, honey cough drops, chamomile tea, and every Mexican mom’s trusted Vaporub container.

Here’s to warm blankets, my favorite water bottle, and chicken noodle soup with oregano and fideo noodles.

Here’s to the community that steps in when they know you’re not feeling the best.

Because even though “Cheers!” in Spanish is “¡Salud!” which translated again means “To good health!”, what I’ve come to find out is we’ll do our best when illnesses strike.

Good health has so many different meanings—good community, friends, an unyielding support system, and access to the little things that keep us living and thriving.

Here’s to the new year—that you and I may find the meaning to good health means simply being thankful for what we’ve got.

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 This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Cheers!".

Clean Mangers and Board Game Nights

Where there are no oxen, the manger is clean,
but abundant crops come by the strength of the ox.

—Proverbs 14:4

There’s a certain chaos that goes along with playing board games.

For starters, we all come to board games with our specific perceptions about how to start the game. For example, my oldest dumps the game pieces out on whatever surface—there’s always a possibility we don’t start with all of the pieces if he’s at the helm. My youngest subscribes to this methodology as well. Then there’s my precise game surgeon. She could spend 20 minutes on her own arranging each individual piece in its exact, specific, ordained spot on the game board. And then doesn’t want us to touch it.

Of course, there’s everything else in between. Or maybe another extreme.

As a confession, I’m the one who pulls out the instructions.
As the beholder of the instructions, I set up the game as it is meant.

Is it a flaw? Probably. But as the keeper of calendars and schedules in my home, it only makes sense.

But keeping our game neat and tidy is a quick way to have my family turn from me.

***

I desperately want a kitschy Bible verse sign that prominently shows Proverbs 14:4. Seeing the word “oxen” in script would make me giggle every time.

And yet, I’ve accepted the hard truth that I won’t pick it up at Hobby Lobby—because who wants to admit that fruit comes from smelly, hard work? I mean, I know what the verse is insinuating. Mangers with no oxen mean no poop. No poop means no smell. No smell means clean. Cleanliness is close to godliness! Or is it?

Or is it?

For so long, I’ve coopted the truth that cleanliness, in all its forms, meant delight. But that’s not wisdom.

Wisdom comes from seeing what happens when the ox does, in fact, live in the manger. It eats and probably leaves stray hay from its breakfast cereal. Or dirty hoof prints all over the floor.

Or worse—it never potty trains.

The ox also dumps all of the board game pieces out. The ox never reads the instructions.

But the fruit grows in abundance.

***

Board game nights take effort on my behalf. The truth is that game night is refining and messy work for me. My confession reveals an ugly part of my character where I covet an ideal fantasy that bears no fruit.

And it only feels right for that moment.

That is, until I taste the fruit.

Fruit in the form of giggles, jokes, and sweet-tear-filled memories. The fruit’s abundance inscribes those words on my heart—I couldn’t have done it without the dirty manger. I guess I don’t need the kitschy sign from Hobby Lobby after all.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Words to Carry.”

When I Claimed Mom Tax

If there’s a 100 Grand candy bar, I claim mom tax. I get the 100 Grand.

I proclaimed it. I wanted to sign my declaration with my best John Hancock. I expected you to look puzzled, disappointed, or even a little miffed. Instead, you all perked up. Winsome little smiles escaped from your countenances.

You peppered me with questions like miniature news reporters wanting to get a tasty scoop.

“What’s that?”
“What do they taste like?”
“When did it become your favorite?”

For a moment, I reminisced about the time I chased down candy trails with an empty pillowcase. The same squeals I’ve heard them bellow like siren calls while they beckoned candy, were echoes from me.

For a second, you saw me. The distant past whispered the rustling of polyester and the dings from old doorbells. You heard the crunching leaves beneath my feet and the sound of candy hitting the bottom of my old McDonald’s bucket.

“Okay, sure!”

My eyes widened, and I let out a small gasp. No fight? Just a simple yes?

For the next few days, you walked past me, eager to pay mom tax. You placed the fun-sized delight you received from various trick-or-treat events in my hand—all without a word.

One most recent time, you came home and placed the treat in my lap. But I didn’t know where you found such a delicacy—we hadn’t gone anywhere new. I learned you received a treat from your cello teacher, but noticed she had a separate bag behind her—a bag brimming with fun-sized 100 Grand bars. It wouldn’t hurt to ask, you reasoned.

You told her my story—and she granted your wish on the spot. My heart burst.

Who knew love was measured by fun-sized 100 Grand candy bars?

Why I Paid $45 for a Bag of Apples

Because I was handed the bag when I was told I had to pay admission just to pick apples—but they weren’t included. Because despite the price, the orchard is a short distance from our house, and we haven’t gone yet. Because I also thought they had a pumpkin patch in the back, so I thought I could kill two birds with one stone. Because we had been arguing all weekend about how we only spend time at home. Because I reasoned away the price due to “family fun.”

Because I was willing to pay anything to make the bickering stop. Because I remembered how it felt when I argued with my mom. Because to me, the gift of an idyllic childhood in the fall included picking your apples, climbing trees, carving pumpkins, and smiles.

Because I was desperate to sacrifice to the idol of picturesque family time. 

Because the electronics were beginning to drive me crazy at home. Because I didn’t realize how often I spent time on my phone. Because instead of having self-control, I kept crossing the boundary of my own phone usage. Because it’s easy to forget that all they desire is a chance with me. Because guilt is a powerful motivator.

Because love pushes me towards motivating grace.

Because I wanted to count the years left of watching them frolic through fields. Because, yes was so easy at that moment. Because my kids perked up when the thought of apple cider donuts was on the horizon.

Because those apples are still as crisp as when we bought them a week ago.

Because I get to share the apples with you—but maybe we’ll buy them at the grocery store next time.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "A Question.

Meet Me in the Parking Lot

We look over after rushed Bible study devotions with our children and hurried I love yous to our elementary schoolers—but our vans lingered next to each soon after the bus took off. You reach over and passed the crinkling plastic grocery bag covertly through my minivan window. We giggle. 

You asked me earlier about this specific bra and how it fits you like a gaping canyon. But you knew your friend was built differently—at least 8 inches shorter than you and 8 inches wider. Only friends can give each other bras that they’ve tried on. 

Does this make you my sister?

I smiled because I couldn’t remember the last time I went bra shopping for myself. Thoughts flooded my mind between my husband’s chaotic schedule, keeping up housework, work emails, and all the forms I had to sign for the new school we started attending.

But you met me in the parking lot.

We talked just long enough for you to know that a new bra would be so great.

***

You roll down your window and force a smile. I say hi, but I know you’re wrestling with a thought as you look down on the parking lot blacktop.

I hear you sigh. You see your daughter struggling with school. You’re fighting the choice between bringing her home for the rest of the year or keeping her where she is.

I stay silent. I let your emotions and words wash over me because I know it’s hard. So you ask me questions—what curriculums I used, timing and scheduling of schoolwork, or even motivations styles.

My ideas fumble out, but I know they won’t score any points. The problem is bigger than what we can handle. 

But I listen.

I try to honor your grief with reminders of your child’s brilliant, creative spirit. How she beams when she holds up a picture of a dragon she drew in her notebook while she listened to music.

You drove away not with any more answers but with a confidant ready to help you fight the battle.

***

The bus arrives at exactly 3:55 PM today. I’m parked in the shady spot by a tree that’s struggling to get its leaves to grow. 

Our conversations were brief, but we joked about how you saw my husband more than I did since you worked at the hospital. I’m always thrilled to hear the stories of my husband outside of our home, and you entertained my curiosity.

One by one, the kids trickled out of the school bus, but I noticed your son standing by my tree, looking around. 

He didn’t see you—and neither did I. My phone buzzed.

“I’m late!! I’ll meet you in the parking lot!! Can you grab him for me?”

I quickly text back and yell your son’s name. He perks up and jumps into my van.

My kids were thrilled to see a friend inside our van. My daughter, especially, prodded him. Apparently, today was the day she learned that British accents were particularly hilarious. Your son blushed—but for whatever reason, he told a joke in a British accent, and we all laughed.

10 minutes passed like 10 seconds as I saw your gray sedan peel around to my passenger side while you were still in your scrubs. You apologized profusely. I jokingly say you owe me a bottle of wine, but only if we open it together right in the parking lot after school. Your tense shoulders relax, and you laugh. 

You promised. And I knew you would make good on it. After all, your son shared his British accent with my daughter—I figured you’d be just as good at sharing as he was.

*** 

Dear God,

Thank you for the parking lot.
Thank you for the provision of kind friends.
Thank you for the shared communion.

I’ve learned so much there—thank you for meeting me in the parking lot.

Amen.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "With a Little Help".

On School Choice—A Revival of Optimistic Intentions

When I say I’m enthralled with all things school related, it borders between obsession and pure delight. I love opening a new package of pencils and books simply to take a deep breath—a giant whiff of opportunity.

You could say I’m infatuated with new beginnings in learning. 

While the idea of learning something new sounds marvelous, my challenge lies in the active learning process. I’m much like a car that starts but is left running in the garage. I’m perfectly okay sitting in the garage for a few extra moments, and the trouble is that I don’t know when to leave.

Decision-making is usually excruciating because I never know when I can move on. I’ll open a fresh pack of pencils and call it a day—a revival of optimistic intentions.

When I started thinking about my kids’ schooling options, I immediately got excited about all the possibilities. Private school? There’s someone who could customize my child’s education and be experimental! Public school? What an amazing way to get connected with your community! Homeschooling? Wait, you’re saying I get to call all the shots?

I get to call all the shots. 

For someone who is especially driven and loves all the options, I like to place myself in the driver’s seat. But, just like I mentioned before, I get a little too complacent. 

I’m perfectly okay with my version of complacency. Let me ignore the problem by tiding it over with a bandaid of new ideas instead of throwing it out! My email inbox is an archetype of this. I recently found a receipt for something I bought two years ago. I never know when I might need it next. 

So I married my complacency with the ultimate choice in school choices—homeschooling.

At first, it was perfect. I customized our days to any schedule, our timeline, any and all education, and every opportunity. Plans or curricula followed my high standards. But it was too much. So I pivoted, and I found another issue—the same cycle started again.

Here’s where it ends: we’re no longer homeschooling. Just admitting this fact gives me hives. I hate that I gave up on something that, on the outside, looked like it worked. My children soaked up information like sponges. Our days presented so many opportunities. Our discussions on educational information and how it intertwined with our beliefs were plentiful—pure magic.

But my obsession became a black hole. 

Here’s a fun fact about black holes—no one knows what’s inside, but it has its gravitational pull. The pull is so strong that it sucks light in, but nothing comes out. The outside of a black hole makes it looks like it glows when it’s apparent light is absent on the inside.

For us, homeschooling looked glowing on the outside, and I got sucked in the middle. While that sounds awful, let me explain a little more. 

I lost my identity in homeschooling. I poured over lessons, schedules, and more, but I lost joy in every other aspect of my life. I devoted too much, too often, to make homeschooling glow. I knew better, but didn’t know where to stop. Or rather, I didn’t know where to begin and go. My pivots were simple tiny fixes that could not fix how lost I got in my children’s education. 

The truth is, my kids needed a mom more than they needed a homeschooling teacher. 

They required me to be more intentional about my relationships with people, God, and everything else around me. I decided to put the car in drive and just go—and leave homeschooling behind.

So here’s to the revival of optimistic intentions no matter the appearance of your school year. May it be that public, private, or homeschooling may provide you with just the right tools to get your educational pursuits in proper focus.

***

Oh, and want to know how I came to my conclusion? You need good friends to push the car along behind you to get you started. So thank you, sweet friends. (And a special shout out to my friend Adrienne who simply said, “Hey. You made a big change. Maybe you should write this one down.”)

Bow Holds and Tight Grips

“Make sure you gently cup his hand like this—“

I took note and nodded. I asked permission to take a photo. My son’s teacher enthusiastically granted it.

Later that evening, right after dinner meal negotiations and before our pajama races, my youngest son and I sat across from each other. He sat on his lime green foldable stool, knobby knees squarely over his ankles, his back straight, and eager eyes ready to take hold of a miniature version of a centuries-old instrument.

But his smile fell, his shoulders soon drooped, and his bottom lip quivered.

“I can’t do it,” he tearfully yelped.

I wrapped my fingers under his palm and gently tickled the top of his hand with my thumb.

“Yes, you can. Yes, because you have. You can do hard things.”

I felt a squeeze in my hand as a returned gesture. Carefully, I slowly let go while he held on.

His still posture and intense focus pricked my heart—is this even worth it? I grabbed a pencil case filled with various colored pencils. They jumbled around like someone playing a scale on a xylophone. I drop a violet pencil in the bow hold that he’s putting so much thought into practicing.

One.

His nose wrinkled. His eyebrows went to the ceiling. He was in awe of himself.

Two.

He lets a gleeful yelp.

Three.

Giggles.

Four.

He echoes, “Four!”

Ten.

His smile matches mine.

Fifteen.

We beat our record from our lesson.

Twenty.

The last of our musical colored pencils dropped out of his perfect bow hold.

“This isn’t hard! I CAN do it!”

I sat back astounded—because the most natural thing for a person his age is to hold on with a tight fist. I should expect no less of his excitement while he’s learning something new. After all, how do you teach a person who has seen the world for only 5 years an art that’s existed for centuries? Why wouldn’t be amazed by his thrill?

When he was first born, and I fed him for the first time, I held his little body against mine. He searched for me. I placed my finger in his coiled, tiny hands. He held on and began to cry—he needed my guidance and care. It was my privilege to help him grow.

I’m here. I’m here to guide. I’m here to gently direct. And he’s going to hold onto me with a tight grip because that’s what he knows how to do—it’s his natural posture. He doesn’t know that he’s learning “executive functions”. He just wants to know if I’ll hold his hand along the way.

I sure will, little guy. I sure will.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Ordinary Inspiration".

On Belonging + Freedom

July reminds me of bug spray, loud pops, sticky ice-cream-covered hands, and the old Sesame Street song “One of These Things is Not Like the Others.” I especially hum this song in environments where I feel pretty uncomfortable. For example, when I know my name is up after a long Starbucks line.

“Sarah! Tom! Nicole! Nee…Nigh…Tall hazelnut latte with almond milk!”

I begin humming. I awkwardly smile. My hand grasps the warm cup, and I walk out—at least my order tastes the same even if my name is mispronounced again. It comes with the territory. 

But in July, the feeling is amplified. Bruce Springsteen’s “Born in the USA” reminds me of this. 

The other night, I gathered with my text thread friends. This type of text thread where we discuss our kids, politics, movie reviews, awkward things that happen to us, and even our last-minute plans. The thought of belonging never occurs to me since it readily happens in that context. That night, we decided at the last minute to meet at a local fairgrounds so we could see the fireworks for the Fourth of July. Our cars parked in the gravel parking lot, our 3-4 children, followed us, and we covered each other in bug spray.

The youngest of our kiddos held hands and frolicked through the grass while the older kids guffawed at whispered jokes and meandered around. My friends and I divided our attention between our conversations and our children’s inquiries while we arranged our lawn chairs facing each other. Towards the end of the night, when fireworks sparked and lit up the fields, we discussed the music choice of the festival organizers. Most of the songs were the overused, hackneyed songs you hear on the Fourth of July, while the others were songs we couldn’t help but sing along to.

One friend leaned over and whispered, “Oh finally—a song I can sing to!” Bruce let out his signature growl over the speakers, and I laughed.

“I don’t relate to this song at all!” My friend’s eyes widened, and we both chuckled—she knew my story. I wasn’t entirely born in the USA…like at all. The irony humored us.

At that moment, I could have sung that old Sesame Street tune. I looked out of place in the crowd and even among my friends, who are Iowa natives. The lack of belonging is profoundly discomforting and jarring. And yet, I laughed.

I think belonging and freedom are closely related. I’d like to think Paul thought so, too. His letter to the Galatians was, um, not so gentle with what he thought. But I think we can get discouraged if we focus on what NOT to do. 

Belonging to God means so much more than belonging to the culture here in the US. Feeling left out is easy for those who don’t have the same American cultural understanding as natives. Even if you did grow up in this cultural context, there might be something that may make you feel a little out of place—it may tempt you to sing the old Sesame Street song.

Here’s the wonderful truth—there’s freedom because we belong to God. May that free you from self-pity and anguish and release you to joy. And maybe, you’ll get to laugh with a friend who knows your story. Belonging can look like that, too.

Little, Middle, and Big

The little leaves tiny, scattered messes.

The middle likes to leave out her vibrancy.

And my big? His orderliness astounds me.

I’m taken aback by its magic in my stillness amid mothering.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Still Motherhood".

Local Mother’s Pleas for Chores Leads to Children’s Unexplained Disappearances

COUNCIL BLUFFS, Iowa—Local mother began her weekend as she typically does; she started by wiping down counters.

Neidy Hess, 31, said she started the day hoping that she would accomplish completely cleaning the main floor of her house. “Everyone appeared to be in a great mood so I decided to break out the cleaning supplies. I didn’t expect what would happen next.”

She went on to describe a harrowing scene where she called out her children’s names and was met with deafening silence.

“I thought they were in the same room, so I asked if they would join me. But when I called out again and there was no answer, I knew something was wrong.” Sources say she then proceeded to call out a few more times while walking in circles but was met with silence each time.

A crime scene specialist arrived at the scene to look around. He reported hearing “muffled giggles” and “yelps” whenever he approached furniture or blankets that appeared to be moving, but not a child in sight. However, suspicious photographic evidence was found on the scene by a bystander. It showed the missing victims gifting a card that stated “Happy Father’s Day” to the specialist. The specialist has now been held back for further questioning and investigation.

Even though distraught, the mother of the children remained optimistic. “Well, I guess I’ll get as much as I can cleaned up, but it probably won’t be much,” Hess stated. “Our dust bunnies will have to remain for one more day.”

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Breaking News".

school pick-up, standing out, & small hands

There’s a sense of uniformity in the car pick-up line.

Minivans and SUVs line the sides and front of the school parking lot. Even in their various shades and ages, it appears to be laid out in a pattern. Black SUV, silver minivan, silver SUV, black minivan.

Today, on the day I wore a jumpsuit that I liked most, in a color that resembles terracotta clay pots. And I didn’t want to get out of the car. I wanted to blend into the pattern.

Clearly, this outfit was a mistake. I should have worn my typical black leggings and t-shirt to blend in a little more. However, the same thing happens every time—I’m stopped, I’m asked if I look like a specific Disney character—TA DA! I stand out again.

The thing is I like this terracotta color. I also love the way terracotta reminds me of the word “tierra“ meaning dirt, ground, and land in Spanish. I like the double letters and especially how the Rs roll together like a trill down a musical scale. But terracotta doesn’t seem to fit in fields of corn among tractors.

So, I watch the clock tick down a second closer to when my little guy pops out of the preschool doors. Not that Bible characters have our same stories, but I wonder how Ruth, the Moabite, would feel picking up little Obed in the school line. Would that fact follow her around? Ethnically different, but culturally, they’re her people, too.

I constantly have to remind myself that while different, the Imago Dei applies to me as well. Differences matter in ways that they should be celebrated. I’m reminded of that fact as soon as my preschooler runs out with arms wide open as soon as the doors open. His hugs cling for a second longer.

“Mom, I missed you.“ I missed you too, buddy.

He holds my face with his little hands. And that’s when I’m reminded of the small gift that God gives when he set up mothers and children. I’m sure that’s the way God sees us, too.

I think we’ll all float on okay

I got stuck in the car wash the other day. 

And by stuck, I mean I waited for 15 minutes before reaching the bay, my stomach audibly reminded me it was past lunchtime, my podcast was only a few minutes in, and those sprayers barely spritzed my undercarriage. Yes—I get the double meaning. But I live in the Midwest and there was enough dried salt on my black minivan to make it look like an ashy sort of white. Writing “wash me” wasn’t enough for this poor vehicle—“Help me, I’m about to rust” was more like it.

You can imagine my shock when the sprayers stopped mid-soak. I stopped and restarted my podcast as if that would restart the car wash. “Hey Siri, can you turn on the car wash?”

“Sorry, I didn’t find “car wash” in your contacts.”

Incredibly helpful, Siri. I waited a minute, or more likely the longest 30 seconds of my life, to climb out of my seat. At this point, it’s now 12:45 PM and I need to go eat lunch before preschool pick-up. I tip-toe out of the car wash bay, sticking close to the car. I didn’t want to end up like the ugly stepsisters from A Cinderella Story where Hillary Duff played Cinderella. If only my godmother would show up and make my pumpkin into a carriage again.

Fun fact: customer service and I don’t get along. I’m not fussy at all, but if I have to be, I feel like I run my mouth off a bit much. “You see sir, I have to get lunch because I’m starving and then I have to go get my son at preschool…just… how long…willthistake?”

The older gentleman, who, ironically, wore a bright orange shirt with the words “ASK ME HOW YOU CAN GET UNLIMITED CAR WASHES”, sighed. He didn’t know how to answer this starving mom who simply wanted to check off an item on her to-do list Apparently, the power to the whole block shut off on a perfectly sunny day with no rhyme, reason, or any news going which way.

He wrote my name and license plate number in a wrinkled spiral-bound notebook. And that was the end. I was expected to float on by as if nothing happened. 

Now my ashy car had new black racing stripes from the undercarriage sprayers. The to-do list box for “get a car wash” remained open on my planner. Alright, I’ll float on okay…after spending $13 for wasted time on my podcast, a rushed schedule, a growling stomach, and a partially washed undercarriage. Cool.

I raced home, ate some semblance of lunch, and sighed at my list. I’m as stalled as the sprayers from the car wash bay. Instead, I let it go, grabbed my keys, and proceeded to pick up my preschooler. From there, the day floated on in its typical manner between nap time, elementary school pick-up, snacks, and chatting. Once I had all three of my kids at home and they placed their backpacks and school notes away, I thought it’d be a great time to ask the question.

“Hey—I know you just got home and it’s almost dinner time, but can we go finish this car wash business?”

They gave me a collective shrug. I mouthed a thank you.

I didn’t completely understand why I attempted this again. Couldn’t it just wait until tomorrow? But, ever the completionist, I wanted to check this off. Clearly, the car wasn’t the only thing that needed help.

Ultimately, I didn’t end up with unlimited car washes—just a “free” code for my next go-around. I also had to wait another 20 minutes! But I looked over my shoulder. I saw three faces that were sitting in the middle of the most mundane chore—fully present. Modest Mouse played through the speakers.

“Alright already, and we’ll all float on okay.”

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Lyrical".

Love at 11:11 PM

Photo by team voyas on Unsplash

At 19, 11:11 PM brought about hushed whispers over the phone. Newly hatched butterflies filled my stomach while he spoke of a promised future. My grin made my face ache out of pure delight. I continued to hold onto the fleeting moment and anxiously waited for the same time tomorrow night.

At 20, 11:11 PM shone brightly on our brand new alarm clock’s face—perfectly placed on our newly built nightstand from IKEA. Our belongings sparkled as we settled into a new apartment—as we settled into marriage. Love was young and burned passionately. Every morning popped up quickly and the evenings flew by. It was the date night that never ended.

At 21, 11:11 PM was a wish said to the moon and a pleading prayer that the phone would ring. Just ring once, please. The night had just begun. I cradled a newly born baby whose face reminded me of his. The baby stirred. He cried. He needed nursing and comforting. My longing returned each night at the same time and rested on the minute hand. Love was shipped far away in a desert, but I knew the moon shined brighter there.

At 23, 11:11 PM became an alarm that echoed. Its sound? The clamorings from a resistant toddler. It was the second time he got up from bed, and now the new baby begged for nourishment. My husband and I called it the tango of the two siblings, but really, it was more of a tussle. Those little ones won almost every night. The dark circles under my husband’s eyes and mine met. They embraced.

At 26, 11:11 PM meant a lot of prayers. Prayer for morning sickness medication to work, new jobs, and figuring out how we wanted to parent. We didn’t always agree and the late-night hour made connection with each other more tenuous. Yet, he held my hand and changed the bag in the wastebasket every evening. Love grew.

At 29, 11:11 PM meant the latest we would stay up. Our bodies and minds were worn out from day-to-day chores, work, and caring for little ones. We watched the opening of the Office to remind ourselves of the early years when things appeared simpler. We felt more like children trying on adult clothing and playing house, but we were grateful. I had him and he had me. We’ll figure out what refinancing means, the best tax deductions, and making sure we’re putting enough away in our kids’ college funds and retirement. Or we’ll Google it before we watch the next episode on Netflix.

At 32, 11:11 PM indicates that it’s the middle of the night. Tonight, we both have insomnia. “Do you need a glass of water?” He whispers no. Is it possible we need a new mattress? Possibly. It hit me at that moment—we hadn’t gone through our schedule for the next day. We verbalize who will be where at what time and with whom. My eyes droop as we finish discussing it all. All I needed was the reassurance he’d be there for it all.

And he was. Because at 11:11 PM, no matter what it looked like, he was always present in prayer, wastebaskets, and to-do lists. Here’s to many more years of love at 11:11 PM.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Love Looks Like".

I Learned to Name my Kids in 6th Grade Pre-Algebra

The second the word “pregnant” turned up on my Clearblue digital pregnancy test for my first baby, pink lines for my latter babies, my first thought was always, “I need to know their names!” And every time, I panic. My anxiety is all thanks to Peter from 6th grade.

Or, as I call him, Peter…grr. 

I’m sure I perfected my scowl in 6th grade because of Peter…grr. In fact, I’m sure of it. Middle school was already rough and I didn’t need Peter to make it worse. He did anyway. On the first day of my pre-algebra class, I sat right up front. For all my teacher knew, my name was Eager. 

If you were to meet my pre-algebra teacher, you’d immediately sigh and say, “oh, bless your heart.” The permanent slump that she developed while helping a student at his or her desk displayed her many years of teaching. Her short, white hair wisped and her dulcet Southern accent reminded me of sweet tea and sugar cookies on a porch surrounded by gardenias. So, I couldn’t blame her and her dulled hearing for not understanding how to pronounce my name.

Peter didn’t have to take advantage of it. 

But he did. 

I heard the mispronunciation of my name roll off his tongue followed by raucous laughter. For the rest of the year, the sweet tea and cookies accent that once mispronounced my name was echoed by the peanut gallery who sat catty-corner to my desk.

Peter…grr. That’s one name I’ll never use for my babies.

But I couldn’t ignore the worry. What if Peter from the 6th grade turns up in my kids’ lives anyway? Would they begin to feel resentment to attending pre-algebra, and it’s not just because it’s math? What if they were meant to be engineers, but Peter destroyed their love of math like he destroyed their names? What other consequences could there be? Would they make bad life choices simply because their names were used against them?

I carried these thoughts throughout my 3 pregnancies. They fueled my research. Most people googled the best car seats, cribs, baby safety items, and sleep training tricks—my rabbit holes were filled with endless searches about the most popular name, weird spellings of names, name meanings, and actors and actresses with the same name. Don’t get started about the time I found out that one particular spelling of my daughter’s name was the name of a prolific adult film star. I think I stayed up all night imagining the worst.

In the end, I gave all my kids a chance to shorten their unique names to popular nicknames. What’s funny to me is that even though I gave them this option, they still opt to write their full names. They also introduce themselves by their full name, at least most of the time.

So there, Peter. Neidy, not Needy, Maidy, Nee-igh-tee, or Nadine, named her children unique names despite your howlings. Oh, and I still loved pre-algebra. I bet my kids will, too.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "A Name".

Whispers from the Comforter

The past week or so, I let life happen around me.

I took myself out of the equation and let everyday moments pass me by while I existed in some sort of haze. I reminded myself of the following truths:

• My children are joyful.

• My husband is wonderful and kind.

• I have lovely friends.

• I’m in a safe and stable home.

• I have enough.
  

And yet, there was some part of me that felt not wholly there. This void stirred from deep inside me that I mused as if Dies Irae played in the background and I tried to listen to its call like Elsa in Frozen. 

What did it want? What was the ringing that beckoned me?

No amount of Disney movies, cheery Christmas songs, or even my kids’ jokes lifted my burdened spirit. I wasn’t letting something rest—that is until I could identify my inner conflict.

So often, we don’t talk about triggers. We expect them to look like marching bands in the middle of a Macy’s Day Parade, announcing itself with larger-than-life colorful balloons and floats. But triggers don’t work like that. It presents itself more like a dashboard light—“hey, I’m not running correctly.”

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Reading through Stephen’s murder in Acts 7, all I could think about was how deeply traumatic this event was to the believers witnessing this event. This incredible bastion of faith was murdered in front of their eyes. Their reaction? They scattered—they ran away from persecution that threatened their lives. 

Scripture mentions the believers’ great lamentation. I can’t begin to fathom their sorrows or waves of grief. And while I read those verses, I couldn’t help but be overcome by emotion. “Lord, I know this isn’t the end of the story, but why did they have to go through this?”

Throughout Acts, we see the works of the Holy Spirit, the one we are so privileged to call Comforter.

And in that story of the early Church, in the midst of trial, tribulation, and trauma, we see the Comforter’s works. We see His beauty. We see His close communion with those who have endured so much. 

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My counselor gave me one thing to work on this week—to simply ask someone else if they, too, struggled this week before Thanksgiving. I squirmed. How could I ask someone this deeply inquiring and almost-prodding question?

But I waited.

An opportunity presented itself. In the middle of catching up with my friend at church, I asked. “Are the holidays a little triggering for you?” She confirmed, without hesitation—a resounding yes. I felt a little less alone—a little more comfort. 

We promised to text each other just to check-in throughout this week. In that promise, I noticed the fog lift and could see that Holy Spirit doesn’t work out loud. He works in the middle of community. He works in the quiet inquiries in the middle of hazes. 

God sometimes whispers. And His whispers? They can be a perfect comfort. How astoundingly beautiful it is to see the Lord work in the quiet amid whispers. For those trapped in hazes today or for the next season, may His whispers comfort and His call give you resounding joy.

Finding New Morning Mercies

Jumping back into normal social rhythms reminded me of how truly awful I am at small talk. Once I get past the “hi” and “hello” of a conversation, my next question leads to “what’s new?” When I ask that question, I often refer to what someone is doing instead of how they are. What are you accomplishing? What’s the latest and great project that you are working on?

What new thing are you doing?

And I think it’s super important to bring up to who I’m often directing this question to. I’m in the stage of my life where most of my interactions are with other parents. Moms in various stages of parenting from new moms, moms with tiny toddlers, moms with preschoolers, moms of school-age kids, and etc., and so on. Yet despite the diversity in age, occupation, and even kids’ ages, you know what answer I receive most?

Nothing much.

I’m also guilty of answering like this. It’s such an easy way to answer this particular question because I even feel like no one wants to hear it. Let me hide all of the chaos under a proverbial rug and make it look like nothing is there. A more honest answer sounds like I barely kept my head above water juggling school pick-up schedules with early out, making lunches, grocery shopping, and an ever-changing firefighter schedule. You don’t even want to get me started on my chore list or the things I have going on in my work life. 

Every day, truthfully, is a new challenge. 

Just when I think I have it figured out as science, there’s another variable I hadn’t considered. I’m doing the same old thing, and yet, the days are completely different from one another. One day I’m able to get dishes cleaned, laundry folded, work emails answered, and texts returned, while on a different day with the same schedule, I can barely roll out of bed to get dressed.

In trying to fix this conundrum, I figured that I would try different systems in place. I would make a checklist that would stick on my refrigerator—that’s surely going to work! Later that week, the same checklist stands without any of the boxes checked. Well, maybe I can get timers set up throughout the house to encourage ownership of their schedules! By this time next week, they’ll just turn off the timer by sweetly asking Siri to cancel it. Sticker charts, reward systems, visual routines lists, and more have all been tried and forgotten systems that end up making me feel like, well, I don’t have any of it figured out.

So the answer still is nothing new.

But that just isn’t true. I can lament all I want about my wanderings in parenthood, my affliction in, simply, trying to figure it out, but I’m met with brand new grace beyond comprehension every morning. I still have hope—a novel hope.

His mercies are new every morning (Lam. 3:23).

I don’t have to accomplish or do anything to receive God’s steadfast love.
I receive that by simply existing. 

So what’s new? 

His mercy is new every morning when I get through my schedule. It’s new every time I can check off everything on my checklist. But it’s also new when I’m bleary-eyed and I struggle for 5 minutes trying to put on a pair of leggings. I just hope that I continually see the beauty in finding His new morning mercies—may they always be novel to me.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Novel".