Artist in Residence

I began this new year with a lot of fear. Fear that the everyday would trample me like wild horses as long as my kids still live here. Each day started under the rubble of laundry, dishes, meals, and lesson plans and I was defeated before I could even get out of bed.

Inspiring, isn't it?

Many of us probably have a tendency to condense a week, a month, years(?) into a single day of worry and tasking and then wonder why we stumble through life with anxiety, simply surviving, instead of really living.

Well, I was tired of simply surviving and I was tired of hauling around the mother lode of fear, discouragement and confusion.

So I brought it to the Lord and told Him how miserable I was and how I didn't feel up to any of the tasks set before me. I told Him I wanted more time to be creative and contemplative instead of walking around spinning plates and sweeping up shards of mess all day. I told Him that my heart wanted to keep homeschooling but that my body and spirit were at war with the ideals of my heart.

I quit looking for solutions and remedies and perfect and I just dumped it at all at the feet of Jesus...and waited.

And do you know what He did?

He took my junk and replaced it with joy.

And yes, I do realize that the previous statement may be met with eye-rolling and skepticism. You may think I'm one of those who looks at the rain and just knows that a rainbow is right around the bend. Actually, I am the opposite of that person...which is why the joy is all the more miraculous.

He is teaching me to live in this day and not in the next, opening my eyes wide to the beauty and possibility of moments lived with wild enthusiasm and fresh perspective.

And all of this started to unfold about the same time that Emily began writing about art. {Here and here and here are some of my favorite posts.} And God also started showing me, through real-life situations and brave people who wear joy like a sparkly cloak, that art is just waiting to be lived out. Every single day.

And so the divine invitation came. And with real and true inspiration I said, Yes. I'll do it.

It's all in how I see the day. Is it a list of tasks and to-do's or is it a tableau of grace and beauty? I hold the brush and the Spirit guides it. What will we create together? And while the same stuff has to get done each and every day, it's no longer driven so much by controlling measures to subdue the chaos. Opportunities unfold now that I'd never see otherwise. And as I've said before, the kids teach me a lot if I'll let them.

Without realizing it, I'd seen myself as an "Artist in Waiting" instead of an "Artist in Residence." And frustrated waiting becomes a breeding ground for resentment. No wonder I felt cranky and overwhelmed and trampled.

If beauty comes out of mess, then surely I'll have an endless well from which to create. Life is messy, kids are messy, and I as type this, my kitchen is terribly messy.

It's not easy. I'm still neurotic when it comes to noise and my strong-willed 3-year-old is a full-time job who drives us all to the brink of crazy. On this cold and rainy day, I've already battled bad attitudes and broken up fights. Every moment is not a party.

But last night as I mopped up Blondie's tears and held her tight, as we talked and prayed about the hard stuff and her very real 9-year-old girl pain, her broken heart split my own to pieces and I sensed Him saying, Know that this is one of those moments. She needs you like never before and this is the pain and the beauty of being her mom.

In the last three days I have built trains, said yes to a living room dance party, delivered an impromptu lecture / Q & A session about the Industrial Revolution {while driving the kids around in the van,} scraped dried peanut butter and neon stickers off the kitchen table, read to the older ones while the little one has watched entirely too much Dora, and of course, wiped away plenty of tears. Theirs and mine.

And I'm seeing, sometimes through the tears, that it is all beautiful...if I choose to see it that way.

And how I see it makes all the difference in how I live it.

Puppies, Play and Perspective

Their names are Cinnamon and Milky Way and they are the cutest pups you've ever seen. They have been scampering about my house for a while now and I can't believe they're not tired of being dogs yet. You know, because they're humans and all.
She leads them by ribbon leashes knotted around elastic headbands {so as to avoid strangulation by grosgrain.} And the boy pups let the bossy girl owner take them on walks and find them when they've hidden under the furniture and feed them mac n' cheese for lunch.

It's January but the pups don't know it. Not like I do. For me, this month and the next tend to be a time of both renewal and regression. My high hopes for the future are often tempered by nagging thoughts that I'm not getting it right and that maybe I've misinterpreted my calling and that I'm failing them as a mother {and as a teacher.} And I do. Daily. We all do.

But the magic and the truth is in the "daily" part. Daily, His mercies are new. Daily, we thank Him for provision. Daily, I find fresh hope and strength. In my fretting over the future and wondering how I'll both survive and enjoy the gift of motherhood, I forget to simply take it one day a time, to just live in today and to entrust the Father with the string of tomorrows that will write the story of my life.

The puppies show me how to do that.

God gives me moments that breathe life and perspective back into my bedraggled and bewildered and worrying mama-self and I feel like I can stand up straight again and face this day with confidence and calm and maybe even some creativity.

This week has swelled with moments of make-believe and games, love and laughter.

The gifts of the everyday have been wonderfully obvious, opening themselves right before my eyes. I'd have to be blind not to seem them and a fool not to appreciate them. I allow these teacher-kid-heroes of mine to inspire instead of aggravate...even though we all know it can sometimes be a little of both. {After all, puppies can be loud and terribly messy and prone to lots of tumbling and aggression. But oh, they sure are fun.}

I've been inspired a lot recently by creative and confident people who have a knack for seeing beauty and a boldness to be who they are. I love to be around those people, to learn from them. Probably because it's always been this great and scary desire of mine to live with wild enthusiasm and unabashed authenticity. I often wonder to myself, What if that crazy, imaginative girl stuck on the inside felt brave enough to come out and play more often? What might I actually do?

But these puppies don't think about it. They never consider why they are innately creative and bold in being who they are...which today just so happens to be puppies and dog-walkers.

It's simply their nature, as it is with every child, to be full of wonder and play and to see a ribbon and imagine it as a leash...to seize the inspiration of the moment and to make something wonderful out of it.

They are "those people" I admire and observe and think about and they happen to live right here in my own house. How convenient.

And I've decided...

I want to be just like them when I grow up.

Click

I never really know what I'm capturing as I click and adjust settings and bend in crazy positions that are too much for my old-lady knees. But I think the aperture fairy has smiled on me in the last month because I've taken some of my favorite pictures ever. Not because the lighting was great or I got the settings right but because I captured some priceless expressions of my favorite people.

{And because I am having writer's block and have written but not published four posts in the last month, I give you photos.}

A dusting of snow for Southerners is akin to the Apocalypse only happier and with less fire. Everything shuts down and we dust off our roasting pans because all of the stores have sold out of their 3 sleds. We had day after day of snowy, slushy fun around here.

I love this picture of The Man and Blondie with scared-half-to-death Cupcake sandwiched in between. I love it because Blondie looks so incredibly happy and I've never captured that kind of giddyness of hers on camera.

And I love it because my man is quirky and funny without ever trying to be. He is wearing running socks and golf shoes and khakis. In the snow. And he doesn't think there is anything unusual about this. I love him for many reasons but this quality of his is near the top.

Is DSS going to arrest me for loving this picture so much?

I don't usually photograph my loved ones when they're in the throes of despair but I couldn't help myself. Cupcake is having a big ol' fit because he wants somebody's sled. I see this face many times every day but never thought to get the camera. I'm so glad I did. He is the third child and I suppose that is why we laugh. There is not much we can take too seriously anymore.

And I felt like I was leaving Brownie out so I scrolled through and found this picture. I love it because he's in his jammies doing school and eating pineapple {his favorite fruit} and painting a picture of Marco Polo. I don't even remember taking this photo but it makes me cry happy tears.

I'm sure this looks and sounds as if our homeschool is idyllic and artsy, but I can assure you that Cupcake was probably in time-out for the fourth time and the rest of my house was certainly in disarray. I needed to see this photo because I've had the January homeschool blues and I tend to forget that we have actually enjoyed some really sweet moments of living and learning together, chaos and all.

Photos are such dear friends. They always provide perspective and help me to remember. And to laugh. And to cry.

But always, they help me find gratitude.

Noise

Apparently I went from 35-85 over the last couple of years and skipped about 50 years of gradual. The world seems excruciatingly loud. 

A few ventures into stores to do holiday shopping convinced me that I was losing my mind or had stumbled into a rock concert disguised as Old Navy. 

I craved quiet and still like a pregnant woman craves gas station hot dogs. {Tell me I wasn't the only one.}

This is odd to me because I could have spent every moment of every day at the mall when I was a teenager. And during my college years, the loudness of dorm life and student center hubbub was absolutely delightful.

My most frequent utterances these days are:

Be quiet!

Turn it down!

Where is all of this noise coming from?

I can't even hear myself think.

One person talking at a time, please.

I am in serious need of a noise sabbatical. A noiseattical?

Becoming a nun sounds positively dreamy. I wear a lot of black anyway so it could work.

I'm not sure how I got to 85 so quickly and without warning but I'd like to know why and more importantly, what can I do? Perhaps it's the constant commotion and chatter and frequent bickering of young children in the house. There is indeed a lot of sound that comes along with little ones. For someone who has become more introvert-ish over the years, I suppose the constancy of it all has worn my nerves down to nothing.

There is no point to this post, except to ask if any of you feel like an 80-year-old trapped in a much younger body.

Please tell me I'm not alone in my crazy. And for those of you who homeschool, where do you go for quiet? And wherever it is, can I come with you? I only have unfinished attic space and it is cold up there.

{If you're wondering why someone with an aversion to noise would buy a guitar with an electric "whammy bar" for a 3-year-old's birthday, rest assured that I did not. That's a gift only grandparents would give.}

Full

When I think about this holiday season, the break from the normal crazy and the experience of short-lived, extended-family crazy, I feel full.

It's a word I borrowed from my mom. After yet another delicious meal and too-good-to-be-true dessert and more than a few of us talking about how stuffed we were, she said that "full" was the best word to describe how she felt in every sense of the word.
I couldn't agree more.
My tummy is full, my heart is full, my people quotient is full, and my camera's SD card is maxed out.
Our break from the normal isn't quite over as we cram in another day or two of feasting and family and fun and staying up much too late. And it would be easy to look at all of the travel and packing and unpacking and bed-switching and extended-pajama-wearing and wish we could have just spent time in our own home resting and getting affairs in order and such.
But I'm glad we didn't.
My tree is still up, the wrapping and unwrapping clutter is piled high, and I don't think I could look at any area of my life and find an ounce of orderliness. I'm choosing to be okay with that.
There may or may not be time to reclaim organization and orderliness and yes, those things do make me feel better. But this year's memories with cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents and brothers and sisters and in-laws can't be cashed in further down the road.
I have a feeling that years from now I won't look back and remember how January 2011 began with a bit of chaos and disarray but I will certainly reflect upon the fun and the food and the amazing family {both mine and The Man's} that I belong to.
So here's {more than} a few photos of our very full holiday and the obligatory commentary of course.

::

Christmas morning. 

This year was our turn to spend most of the holiday with my side of the family. We spent about 6 days with my parents, my brothers and their families, and my sister and her family. My grandparents and some other extended family members came up for a bit as well. It was loud and crazy and festive in every way.
There are now 20 stockings to fill and they are hung on a 2 x 4 since a mantle can't hold them all. I love this picture.

Poppy and some of the grandkids on the Gator.

Okay, I have to preface the ridiculous number of food photos. In my next life, I am going to travel the world as a writer and photographer for Food and Wine or Saveur or some other posh foodie publication, but until then my own family provides more than a few delicious subjects to capture {and eat.}

My youngest brother spends his free time baking gourmet confections and he baked 10 desserts for us in 6 days. Seriously. {And they were seriously amazing.}

My mom's traditional sweet roll ring.

Cowboy cookies

We don't mess around. Look at the size of that whisk!

Peanut butter crispy bars {with a ganache topping}

Chocolate mint thumbprint cookies

Christmas Day "Whiteout Cake"

A few of the little princesses I got to hang out with...

As if Christmas isn't special enough, God decide to blanket our southern 'scape with a white Christmas.

My mom and dad

The boy cousins on the toboggan

The Man and our 3 young 'uns

My mom and Brownie. If you look closely you'll see that he lost a top front tooth and on Christmas Eve no less. He delivered one of the best quotes ever: "This is very rare. Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy might finally get to meet each other."

Yep, that's me in the middle. This is such a special picture of my dad and Blondie and me sledding. I have so many fun memories of sledding with my dad when I was her age.

Blondie and a couple of her younger girl cousins

Cupcake took about 2 minutes to figure out to immerse himself into the snowball fun.

And if all of that time with my side of the family wasn't enough fun, we then spent time with The Man's family for more feasting and cousin craziness and a whole lot of Just Dance and Sing Star. I am sore...which is pathetic.

My sister-in-law made super fun frosting for the kids to make "New Year's cookies."

Clearly, they are not shy about the frosting.

Some impromptu twister on the rug...

And one of the best Christmas presents I've ever received...getting to see my reserved, economics-loving, conservative, never-ever-dancing husband break it down. He's going to die if he reads this post so enjoy the photos now. They may soon be censored.

Happy New Year to all of you!

Love, Scooper

On Leading

I've been thinking a lot lately about the finding and the leading that's part of the Christmas story. How instead of lifting high this new king baby for the whole world to see, the Father hid Him away in near obscurity and called an unlikely yet perfect audience to witness and proclaim His arrival: shepherds. He called shepherds to find the One who would be the Shepherd to His people.
And how those who tried to find Him for all the wrong reasons couldn't, and those who were just minding their own business were blindsided by angels and a colossal star so that the finding was unmistakable.
I am growing to love God's upside-down and inside-out ways more and more because He orchestrates with such tender mystery and with such an unlikely cast of characters. More than ever before, the Christmas story has gripped my anxious heart and I feel a connectedness to everyone from Mary to the shepherds, probably because I've felt a little upside-down and inside-out myself.
In need of some divine leading and overwhelmed by decisions and anxiety, I simply sputtered through the tears last week, God help me. Show me the way. To be honest, I would love some heavenly hosts and that big ol' star to make things more clear.
And while He may not lead me through the same means, He always leads me to the same One...to the One who saves me both in the cosmic sense and in the everyday sense.
I don't know about you but I have needed a lot of everyday saving lately...mostly from myself. The condemnation that starts out as a whisper can steadily grow until it is so all-consuming, even the inability to keep up with laundry or not yell at my kids turns into some existential crisis and I wonder what purpose I'm serving on this planet.
I'm so thankful that God doesn't leave me in my condemned and shameful state, thankful that He faithfully leads me to the Savior with tender mercy and warm mystery. Thankful that He leads me to the One who imparts wisdom and reassures me that He's in control. Thankful that He speaks truth through His word and through His Spirit: I came to give you freedom. There is no more accusation, no more condemnation. Don't re-enslave yourself to that which I came to to save you from.
He leads me once again to Truth incarnate who came as a baby to set me free.
May Grace and Truth and Glorious Freedom be yours this Christmas.

Words of freedom to ponder during this fourth week of Advent:

{Isaiah 9:2}

The people walking in darkness

have seen a great light;

on those living in the land of deep darkness

a light has dawned.

{Romans 8:1}

Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus...

{Colossians 1:19-22}

For God was pleased to have all his fullness dwell in him, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether things on earth or things in heaven, by making peace through his blood, shed on the cross. Once you were alienated from God and were enemies in your minds because of[a] your evil behavior. But now he has reconciled you by Christ’s physical body through death to present you holy in his sight, without blemish and free from accusation—

Good Company

I don't know why we know so little about Mary. She is, after all, the one who birthed the Savior of the world. Last night I was at a Christmas gathering and we were all asked this question: "If you could have coffee with any person in history, who would it be?" For me it was a tie between Bono, C.S. Lewis and Francis Schaeffer. But after I thought more about it this morning, I decided on Mary.

How long was she in labor and how badly did it hurt? Did Jesus cry that robust, red-faced cry when He was born? Who tended to her after the labor and delivery? There was no mention of a mid-wife and I'm guessing that Joseph didn't have a clue. Did she doubt whether she'd really seen and heard that angel of the Lord? Did she maybe wonder if she was crazy, wonder that it had all been a dream? What were all of those thoughts that she "treasured up" and "pondered in her heart?"

This side of Heaven, I won't know. But today with new eyes and a needy heart, I gazed upon the few words we do have in Luke 1. Commentators call it "Mary's Song."

My soul glorifies the Lord

and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,

for he has been mindful

of the humble state of his servant.

From now on all generations will call me blessed,

for the Mighty One has done great things for me—

holy is his name.

His mercy extends to those who fear him,

from generation to generation.

He has performed mighty deeds with his arm;

he has scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts.

He has brought down rulers from their thrones

but has lifted up the humble.

He has filled the hungry with good things

but has sent the rich away empty.

He has helped his servant Israel,

remembering to be merciful

to Abraham and his descendants forever,

just as he promised our ancestors.

{emphasis mine}

That Mary's words find resonance with a 21st-century mama just struggling through the everyday with her own baggage...well, God's word is so faithful. Today I have been especially mindful of my own humble, servant-like state. I cried when my husband left for work this morning, overwhelmed by the mess and the children but mostly overwhelmed by my own inadequate self.

The inadequacy. It waxes and wanes depending on the day but oh, there are times when I am simply swallowed up by it and it seems there's no way out, no glimpse of grace. The tears have flowed freely and the frustration has shot my nerves to pieces and it is in my swallowed-up state that I long to be rescued.

Still in pajamas, still recovering from tantrum-throwing toddler, still staring at heaped-up clothes in every room of the house, the older two and I, we finally sit at the oak table to gather ourselves in so many ways. And we sit 'round our first-ever Jesse Tree, our very own family's "shoot" pointing to the Savior, despite days of feeling stunted and broken and stump-like.

More than a few days behind, I read and I read, story after story, as tears burned and heart ached and children stared at me...crazy, crying mama. We read of destitute Naomi and desperate Ruth and Rahab the prostitute {my favorite,} all broken-down women who only God could make great and who humbly took their places in the line that would eventually bring Jesus into the world.

Is it any wonder that He felt so at home among the lowly and the beaten-down? He came out of them and He also came unto them. Only God would do such a crazy, wonderful, upside-down and inside-out thing!

Sometimes I simply need to know that I am in good company and maybe you need to know it too. I need to know that the Savior of the world is also the Savior of this girl and the Redeemer of rotten days. I need to know, like Mary and her inadequate sisters, that He is mindful of my humble state, that his mercy extends to me and that the only greatness that matters is that which the Lord raises up out of nothing.

Mary's song is for all of us.

I pray that grace and strength and fresh hope will be yours and mine during this third week of Advent.

On Belief

I believed in Santa until an embarrassingly old age because Lee Kinard, the Channel 2 weatherman, said he was real. With each passing year, my shaky belief swinging like a pendulum between the magical and the rational, I'd watch Mr. Kinard show a radar picture of Santa's sleigh and tell all of us children to hurry off to bed. And every Christmas Eve until I was 10 years old, I'd fall fast asleep knowing that Santa was real and tangible even though none of it made sense and all of the other kids said Santa was actually your parents.

I've often wondered why my belief in Santa persisted beyond that of all my peers while I questioned the existence of God at such an early age.

I went to church twice on Sundays. I memorized Bible verses on Wednesday nights and got award pins. My mom directed the church children's choir and my dad delivered sermons week in and week out. There was persuasion aplenty swirling about during those impressionable childhood days and I tried hard to believe....most of the time.

But as I got older, belief became more difficult. And while I was able to keep the serious and scary doubt at bay for years at a time, by mid-20's I was a mess. None of it made sense and I demanded proof. Church-going and sermons and choir didn't cut it anymore.

Stories of God and the motions of religious rituals, much like the myth of Santa Claus and the practice of Christmas traditions, seemed contrived and meaningless. I wanted someone to point out God and Truth on a radar screen so that I could fall asleep with the assurance that He was real.

My own story would probably be a more powerful one if I could tell you that Belief showed up in some magical, supernatural way with glitter and snow-dust and angels or in the midst of drugs and jail-time and a biker gang.

But the story unfolded without much fanfare or drama at all...

An over-thinking girl with a still-seeking heart buried beneath all of that cynicism, just me and the book of Romans on a winter's day, stumbling into a church that taught Truth with equal parts Word and conviction and grace, the gentle, powerful persuasion of the Spirit that whispered to my searching self, This is true and real and no amount of evidence can make you believe.

There wasn't some convincing apologetics book or a 12-steps-to-belief program. After years of struggling to understand, the nonsensical slowly began to make sense and with each shaky step toward belief, my feet found surer ground.

I know now that all the evidence in the world is no match for a heart that is simply not ready to receive faith. It's a gift. Faith, that is. And for natural-born skeptics like me, it's one we have to keep receiving daily.

Christmas becomes increasingly special to me each year because for the Believer, it's so much about the receiving. The rituals and practices and songs force me to reckon with my daily state of faith...or lack thereof. The motions are no longer empty or superficial. They point, like a radar, to the One who is real and who came and still comes, every day, with fresh faith to be opened as a gift for skeptical strugglers like me.

And maybe like you too.

May hope and faith be your gifts to receive during this second week of Advent.

.......................................................

Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.

{Hebrews 11:1)

........................................................

{Linking up with Ann once again on this crazy and messy Monday to count the gifts}

44. Our Jesse Tree, a helpful "pointer" to Truth

45. A full pantry

46. Three {still pajama-clad children} playing robber-catching-police on the sofa

47. Books

48. Coffee {I know, it's on every list...but it's such a worthy gift}

49. The loveliest event, A Charles Dickens Christmas, that Blondie and Brownie and I attended over the weekend {complete with feasting and crafts and Ebeneezer Scrooge}

50. Cupcake's first Christmas craft {made at church}, a manger scene with Baby Jesus on top of the stable

51. My own healing head...after a mishap involving a wayward board propped up in the garage, followed by a trip to the E.R., and a couple of staples to keep it all together. {Also thankful for anesthetic.}

52. My mom, who happened to be here when the board fell and who tenderly took care of me just like she used to {Thanks Mom!}

52. Wooden train and a toy guitar, delightful presents for Cupcake in honor of his 3rd birthday

Coming Into the Mess

We started our Jesse Tree today, generous gift to all from the beautiful Ann Voskamp at Holy Experience. I invite you to spend some time there. She writes of the holy, messy everyday and Jesus drips from her every word. With each post, she has a way of reorienting my gaze back to Him and every day, I need that.

This year she has written a Jesse Tree advent devotional e-book and it's free. Go here if you'd like to download.

For months I've longed for this Christmas season to be one of intentional anticipation, one in which we slow down and incorporate gentle practices of expectancy. I've envisioned serene mornings of hot chocolate and Bible readings and Jesse Tree ornament hanging. How we'll awake Christmas morning and celebrate His coming more than we celebrate with consumerism.

And today, on this first "serene" morning of expectancy, hot chocolate spilled across my tableau of perfection as children bickered and littlest one got sent to time-out. We finished our first devotional to find that he had destroyed the Lego creation his older brother had painstakingly assembled and by 9:45, I felt undone. I fussed and fretted and reprimanded and said to myself, This is not at all what I envisioned. Why do even the most sacred and well-intentioned practices crumble before my very eyes?

And just as quickly, I sensed a Spirit-tug and I knew this:

He came into the mess and He comes into the mess.

Born in a stable amid the stench and groan of animals, out of the womb of some non-descript girl who moaned and cried just like I did, born to a people who would rather worship the things of this world than worship the One who came to save them from it.

There was nothing serene about any of it...except Him.

Daily, we will continue our Jesse Tree journey until Christmas Day and the setting will likely be messy...as life is every. single. day. As I type this, there are crumbs scattered across the table, dirty dishes littering the counter, and nary a Christmas decoration in sight, save for the paper advent chains my children made in church last night. And maybe this is just the perfectly imperfect way to begin this day and this season. Life stripped of glittery, lit-up, and bedazzled perfection and replaced with life undone and messed up, cluttered and loud and torn apart just like the Legos.

He came to piece it all back together and to bring peace to all of us who feel just a bit undone. Besides, glittery perfection isn't as obviously needy of a Savior.

During this first week of advent, if you're feeling just a bit unraveled and overwhelmed, I invite you to segue from Thanksgiving to Christmas by being thankful for the mess that points us to Christ.

Emmanuel, God with us...

With us in the mess...

With us in the celebration...

With us in the fear and anxiety...

With us in the giving and in the receiving...

With us every moment of every day, no matter what the day holds...

To bring us peace.

Grace and peace to you all, dear ones.

.......................................................


Today, I continue to count {albeit inconsistently} the gifts with Ann and the other folks that are part of the Gratitude Community at Holy Experience. I have learned from her that the counting makes all the difference.

27. Ann's Jesse Tree devotional

28. Hot chocolate, spilled or unspilled

29. Paper chains, reminiscent of my own childhood

30. The very loud, clamoring, imaginative children playing make-believe as I type. {Did I mention they are loud?}

31. Seasonally-appropriate cold for our southern climate after a looooooong summer

32. The reorienting and encouraging words of bloggy girls and friends-in-real-life girls who love Jesus

33. The Word, opened on the table and surrounded by crumbs and empty mugs...and gentle inspiration from this scene that it needs to be opened more {all the time?} in this messy place

34. Cupcake. He will be three tomorrow and he is joy incarnate for all of us. His name means mercy and He represents that, child conceived out of patched-up love.

35. A new-to-us dryer that will hopefully not eat our clothes

36. Fire in the fireplace each morning

37. Thanksgiving and feasting with family

38. A break from the routine

39. Coffee

40. My husband, who lovingly and graciously comes to my rescue, time and again, when the stress has me undone and incapacitated

41. My Sunday Inklings friends

42. Christmas lights and candles

43. All of you who read this and come here...I'm thankful for you