Garden Lullaby

Life Is in the Forecast

Garden Lullaby, January 9, 2020

The beauty of January is how it surprises us with stunning corners of hope.

And these lonesome blooms are a banner for all the MORE that is to come. What a powerful job to be a beacon of hope.

Abundant life is in the forecast.

Garden Lullaby, January 15, 2020

Many of you already know and have been celebrating with us! My husband and I will welcome our firstborn come July. 

It’s been a wild ride since the holiday season and I’m still stunned even now. If you’ve read my Monday emails over the last couple years you know the ins and outs of this. What kindness + healing God continues to bestow!

How fitting to take this photo next to our January flower that’s marvelously beginning to bloom through the cold & drab dreariness.

Nothing is impossible for God.

Here we see more living proof.

How grateful I am that God remains with me through every burst of life, every moment of healing, every second of grief, every new adventure I know next to nothing about. I have been overwhelmed but I am learning to rest and to receive and to rejoice.

I am safe with God.


this pregnancy announcement was made in January 2020 and we are now awaiting our second child due in a few weeks. I wrote a collection of poetry, Girl with Good Bones (FREE for you to download!) about the process of learning to live again after so much grief, how joy feels dangerous, but ultimately, God is with us and we can let the flowers grow without fear of them choking us. It’s been and is a long lesson I’m learning, road I’m on.

get your free download of Girl with Good BonesDownload Girl with Good Bones!

Garden Lullaby

24 Was a Quiet Year

Garden Lullaby, January 6, 2020

24 was a year for tending and settling. I loved it.

I tended the responsibilities already around me, learned how to nurture my life, and celebrated my quiet, hidden season. I settled into my new hobbies and pastimes. I became a gardener like never before. I spent hours with our baby goats. I weeded my rose bed to clear my head and enjoy the beauty of life. I breathed in stunning scents from the outdoors, stayed up late writing a novelette that mirrored my own life, picked the biggest bunch of summer wildflowers, and savored every burst of life or breeze that made it move.

What a quiet year for tending, settling, and celebrating. And in the quiet, small & big miracles were laid at my feet. I was invited to see them, be a part of them, thank God for them.

I’ve loved 24.

It’s been a birthday gift like no other. And I know God has stored 25 with life I can’t even believe. Here comes another birthday gift of a year.


about this series

most recent birthday reflections

I’ll Remember You For, poem about 2021

Short Stories

Please Don’t Scratch the Paint Off My Door

This is my first short story in several years. I’m excited to walk back into the short story world and share this with you. (And more to come!) I hope this piece drives the point home in a light-hearted but profound way. We can change the narrative.


I knock on her door. Freshly painted, freshly scraped and peeled. Made to look worn and old. The door promptly falls off the hinges at my gentle knock. She says hello. Looks down at the door and smiles as if to say, “Job well done!” She welcomes me inside. I step over the threshold to a lived-in house. Homey, soft, vibrant.

She offers me a cup of coffee. I say yes and glance at her cupboard of beautiful teacups and mugs. They are printed with wildflowers, colorful patterns, holidays, hope, happiness. How lovely. I smile to myself. I’m so glad to meet her and finally spend some time together.

She pads to the kitchen with heavy feet. Gorgeous hardwood floors. Or maybe linoleum. Either way, they are so pretty! Just as I think she will reach for a mug from the cupboard, she turns to the sink full of dirty dishes. Not an unruly mess in the least. Looks like a well-used sink, like fresh morning starts and mid-day ordinary moments. Mine looks much the same. She reaches her hand in rummaging through the dishes and finds a mug. Pulling her hand from the sink, I see scrambled egg bits and grease caked on the side of the mug. She pours cold coffee into the dirty (yet otherwise beautiful) mug and hands it to me.

Not sure how to respond, I take the smeared mug of cold coffee and manage a thank you. Her shoulders slump forward. She mumbles, “Just want to be real” and she leads me to the couch. Before I can sit down or make sense of her comment, she dumps a basket of undone laundry on the cushion and is visibly relieved to have done so. “Now you can sit.” She smiles as though she’s made everything more cozy and comfortable for me.

I struggle to balance myself on her pile of laundry with my cold coffee sloshing in its dirty mug. When I work myself into a sitting position of some kind, I notice her children laughing with each other over a tea party. Their playful chatter and imaginative accents distract me from my precarious perch on the couch. I am momentarily transfixed by the magic they create with with their conversation and grand flourishing hand gestures. How spectacular.

Just as I begin to ask my new friend a question, I hear her shrill voice shriek and insist her children STOP IT RIGHT NOW. I startle, coffee sloshing everywhere (admittedly much to my relief), and stare dumbfounded at the scene. I hadn’t even noticed her children had been arguing over the pink, wooden tea kettle. “That’s real life for ya. Kids what can I say?! Relatable, huh!” She laughs, a very kind and unassuming laugh, and briefly excuses herself for a moment.

Probably to poison her garden.

Her children are laughing again and absorbed in their play once more. I take the brief moment of reprieve to heave myself off her pile of laundry. I gingerly walk to her cupboard full of beautiful things. I’m curious. Upon opening the cabinet, I quietly poke every clean, sparkling, charming mug and teacup.

Real.

Real.

Real.

Real.

Real.

Yes. I’m not imagining things! These beautiful things are real. I look to my right and smell the aromatic coffee grounds wafting from the newly opened bag. I tap the buttons and hear the coffee maker effortlessly roar to life.

Also real.

I turn it off, feeling sheepish for exploring her kitchen. Speaking of her kitchen, it’s lovely too! Lived in, bright, small by celebrity standards, but perfectly wonderful in every way!

I tiptoe back to the couch, children still laughing, and push aside the mountain of clothes (a normal size mountain for a family). I sink into the most comfortable couch I’ve ever sat on and wonder why in the world she added lumpy clothes to a perfect cushion.

Once I settle in, I see her trudge back into the living room. She drags herself past priceless family memories spread out on walls and falls into her chair once more. Exhausted. Depleted. But confusingly there is still a bit of cheer beneath her expression, although she stamps it down with resolve. I’m not sure why.

She asks me questions and we have a personable chat, but I soon find out much like her dirty coffee mugs and piles of laundry and exasperation for her children, she is only willing to recount the worst, hardest, most frustrating experiences and stories.

Maybe she makes the poison for her garden too!

I stop myself short of laughing, but remain confounded as to why we are sitting here pretending the beautiful things aren’t here and real too.

Must I drink out of a dirty coffee mug to be your friend?

Must I see your piles of laundry to relate to your life?

Must I hear only about your hard days as a mother to know you are a living, breathing woman?

Can’t we have two feet in the mess and the magic?

Can’t both be real?

I’d rather not call a war on beautiful things because hard things exist. I’d like to live my whole life. Thank you very much. And please don’t scratch the paint off my door in your heroic efforts to pull me into your version of authenticity. I shake myself from these runaway thoughts and hope one day she knows I can be trusted with her beautiful life too.

Our visit ends, and I feel sad for what could have been. I never minded the mess. Not once. I knew it existed long before I had to sit on her laundry. (I’ve got a house and a life too, you know.) But I hated that every lovely thing around us was ignored. And ignore something long enough, and you’ll forget it exists. Even if it’s real.

I say goodbye.

Walk past roses and daisies.

Not poisoned yet, anyway.

Garden Lullaby

Anticipation & Preparation

Garden Lullaby, May 22, 2018

I walked outside to my porch garden this morning to see a geranium beginning to bloom.I love it! LOOK how pretty it is as the gentle life is daring to see the light of day!

There is a snapdragon in the same flower pot as the geranium, but the snapdragon is (still) waiting to bloom. But you know something? In my eyes, the geranium has never taken beauty away from the snapdragon. The waiting and preparation wrapped in green buds has been its own kind of beauty, and I admire it!

I treasure the geranium as it blooms, and I anticipate the snapdragon for what it will be and I value the snapdragon as it undergoes the preparation process. AND I DON’T CARE HOW LONG IT TAKES! I’m still enjoying and anticipating each flower. . .blooming or not. They all get water. They all get smiled at (a lot because I love my little garden!). they all have to dodge the paparazzi (me!). They all get admired and cared for. There’s not one I leave behind.

Guess what? You’re not left behind either! God is preparing you, anticipating you, delighting in you, loving you. That woman in the flower pot next to you? Not your competition, not some battle to conquer. Love her! Encourage her as she prepares. Rejoice with as she blooms. And know that God has a heart FULL of love toward all our growing, preparing, blooming hearts. God will not leave you undone and God will never leave you behind!


about this Garden Lullaby series

Hope Gives a Eulogy SALE!

Lest I Forget, poem