to my non-mom friends

Dear single ladies and friends without physical offspring,

I see you.

I see you living your best life in the season you’re in. I also see some of you heading to another wedding, throwing another baby shower, faithfully celebrating your friends’ milestones and sometimes shoving aside your own grief—perhaps your story doesn’t look quite how you imagined.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for the way I’ve idolized marriage and family and marginalized you.

I’m sorry for the years where I asked single acquaintances if they were seeing anyone, dating friends if things were “serious,” married friends when kids were coming. I thought I was making conversation, but I was adding to a problem.

It was none of my business. And those are all great things, but I treated them as ultimate. The Best Thing.

I grew up around a subculture of purity rallies and courtship as an ideal. True Love Waits! I understand the idea and I don’t disagree—I’m reaping the benefits in a marriage where we both “waited”—but there’s the implication that if you’re not married, you’re just waiting. Like marriage is when actual life and adulthood starts. And it was really real when you started having kids.

This is absurd.

Marriage is an excellent gift. Kids are amazing.

But they’re not the only gifts. My circles talk a lot about how marriage and parenthood are sanctifying, and they certainly are. But I can’t say they’re somehow more sanctifying than singleness or marriage pre-kid or infertility. I’m pretty sure the Lord uses whatever season we’re in to make us more like Christ.

YES, the enemy assaults the image of Christ and the Church that’s found in marriage, and it’s worth putting energy into strengthening my own marriage and those around me. But he’s also pretty intent on defacing the image of God in individuals, and I haven’t always done especially well standing for you.

You are valuable. Not for your potential to be married or become a mother, but for who you are right now, in this season. We need you. You have gifts to offer that I can’t give. It’s on us as the Church and individual families to bring you in and welcome you in ways we haven’t always.

I’m sorry for the ways I haven’t seen you.

I’m trying now.

field notes from a brave new world

Hey, friends! So in this weird season of minimal structure besides “stay in your house whenever possible,” my lifeline has been chats with friends about all the things—how we’re feeling, what we’re doing, how we’re staying sane (I mean IF)… Good times. Anyway, I figured maybe I wasn’t the only one surviving more on stories of friends than on the deluge of information (Fun fact! So far our state has been increasing in cases in a way that’s almost a fibonacci sequence!) so maybe I’ll share. Plus my brain is everywhere but I really, really need the structure of a Thursday post.

So… here’s an incomplete (and somewhat self-indulgent) list of things I’m thinking:

Major side effects of a global pandemic (and not the virus itself) are a permanent low- to mid-grade headache, fatigue, and also a really itchy face.

Currently, I’m kind of scattered and even more absent-minded than usual. I feel extra anxiety in my body, though, as usual, there aren’t anxious thoughts to go with it, just sensation.

I sent some of my kids to the playground today. I went to get them later and found out the parents of about two dozen other children had the same idea and they were all playing together on a very tall snow hill. There were no 6-foot gaps. Social distancing fail.

On the day everything caught fire here (last Thursday at about 5:30 when Alaska had their first confirmed case and our school district “extended spring break” at roughly the same time) Katherine had Tae Kwon Do and in the hour between when the news broke and the end of her class, the couple who runs the place decided to open their space for full-day childcare (at an absurdly low weekly cost) for parents who have to work because that’s not available hardly anywhere here, and yes, that’s gatherings of people, but to offer a place that is safe and welcoming to families without options (at a fair bit of personal cost and some personal risk, as well) made me tear up just a little.

My life hasn’t changed a whole lot. I have three of my four kids home always anyway, so I have one extra child for six extra hours a day and it shouldn’t be such a huge deal. But the activities that differentiate one day from another have vanished and it all feels a little sideways and the constant uncertainty wears on my brain, so I’m even more of a hot mess than usual. All of you who have real changes? Prayers for you. That’s all I got.

I’m not sure how girl scout cookie sales fit in with social distancing (probably they don’t) but there were girl scouts when I made a quick trip to Fred’s for milk (during which I touched NOTHING except a sanitizer wipe) and dipping frozen thin mints in coffee is still my favorite thing.

Coronavirus memes are an important tool in my “survive quarantine” kit.

Disney+ releasing Frozen II early was so, so kind. (Any guesses how I’m writing right now?)

Another important sanity-saving tool: Pantsuit Politics podcast/Instastories daily news brief/Patreon feed. I appreciate a single place to gather information (with links to sources) rather than trying to piecemeal it.

We need onions and potatoes. Toilet paper is a nonissue (subscribe and save) but I haven’t seen any memes made about onions and potatoes, but those are gone. I can do without the potatoes, but I’m not sure how to live my life without onions. What do I even cook? I have no idea.

Lots of writer-types I’ve talked to have mentioned how this has eaten their ability to write words. And I get that. There’s brain science behind it, even. But I’ve found a few areas where I’ve made more progress on projects.

I didn’t think about this, but birth photography has taken a hit for a minute as extra people in hospitals are not super welcome in general. (Related: local friends who are due soon, want birth photography, and plan to deliver somewhere other than a hospital, talk to me. I realize there may be zero people in that group, but just in case. Crazy discounts available.)

I shared this hack with a friend today, but haven’t used it in a while (we are getting there, though): When you cannot hear your name one. more. time… inform the children you no longer respond to “mama” or “mom” and if they want your attention, they may address you as “Your Royal Highness.” It usually buys at least 30 to 60 seconds of confused silence, anyway.

Why again are you reading this? These ramblings are incoherent and helpful only for solidarity. I guess that’s not entirely unusual for this space. If you want words that might be legitimately helpful, here’s a liturgy I shared on Instagram last week. (This week? I have no idea, it all blends together.)

life/life balance

“So what’s new in your world?”

I was in my doctor’s office because the prescription for one of my antidepressants was up. I needed a med check to get another year’s prescription. I’d done the standard depression and anxiety screenings with the nurse and the numbers seemed to show the meds were doing their thing.

“Well, I started a birth photography business and just got back from a retreat with the staff of the collaborative blog I’m with, so I have writing projects coming out my ears…”

“I LOVE IT.” She went on to tell me this is the part of motherhood where she tends to see a lot of improvement in mental health—when Mom gets enough margin to start doing other things.

“There was one lady I saw when I worked in Montana who started running triathlons and it became her THING.”

“Oh. Yep. Forgot to mention that—registered for one of those, too.”

My creative world is expanding, my mental health is improving, and there seems to be a correlation. Though, as I say it, I’m not sure I can tell you one causes the other—I imagine it’s kind of an upward spiral.

We talked. My twice-daily med got switched to a once-daily version with a different release mechanism because twice a day is hard. My prescriptions are set for a year. I left feeling buoyed: maybe the worst is over and I can start getting actually better.

Later that day:

“So I need to talk to you about Brian. He needs more constant supervision… he basically gives no craps about anything, does what he wants, and your attention is pretty well consumed by whatever you’re doing.”

The prior day, I was recovering from a stomach thing and dying of a dehydration headache. Brian had apparently been climbing the bookshelves and I didn’t even notice. Andrew granted I wasn’t at my best, but we both wondered how much his shenanigans were due to my diminished abilities and how much is just the way my attention works—when I’m focused on creative pursuits, I actually don’t have a lot of awareness of the rest of life. Is this just… normal?

“I think your days would probably be a lot more successful if you were less distracted.”

He wasn’t being mean, just honest, and I agree.

But what happens when the thing that takes my attention from my children and makes me less effective as a parent is also making me more able to be a person?

The next day, I did a little experiment. It was a thing I’d tried years ago, when “present” was my word of the year, and I abandoned before the end because being one hundred percent present with my children is actually really hard on my brain. But I tried it again: no distractions, just full attention on the little people.

It worked. Parenting went much smoother. I won’t say Brian gave any more craps than he had earlier in the week, but I consistently caught him before he did anything dangerous. It was pleasant.

And I fell asleep at about 11:30 in the morning. Apparently using my brain this way is a lot of work, and the things I usually do that make me feel alive and awake were explicitly off-limits. While I slept, shenanigans resumed as usual.

It’s like leaving a car’s headlights on without the engine going. If you call the running engine a distraction and disallow it, the headlights will dim and the whole thing will die.

The same thing has happened every time I’ve tried, including today—I keep trying because I promised I would.

I don’t have a pretty bow to put on this, only just recently words to describe the struggle. The solution seems obvious enough: put structure in place to give them productive things to do so the chaos subsides and I have some space to do things as well.

But… I’ve tried. Lots of things, lots of ways, lots of times. I haven’t managed. Either I’m dumber than I look or this is harder than it looks. From this place, it’s hard to muster the creativity to make a solid routine, harder to find motivation to implement it, and, once I’ve put in the effort to accomplish those, nearly impossible to get back on track once things inevitably go off the rails.

Why am I telling you this? Partly because it’s Wednesday and I’m supposed to publish tomorrow, and this is all I’m thinking about. And also because maybe I’m not the only one. If this sounds painfully familiar…

Hey! I see you. It’s hard. I don’t have answers. There is also grace here, and I can’t wait to tell you how I find it. Just because I haven’t yet doesn’t mean I won’t—we’re going to be okay.

thoughts on community

“So tell me about your friends at church.”

We were talking about community and what I wanted to study at L’Abri and this question should be pretty straightforward, but instead, I burst into tears. I couldn’t answer the question, not because my church isn’t full of hundreds of amazing people, but I realized I had really great community… like ten years ago. And then we started having babies and Sunday is not my best look and a huge percentage of the people I was doing life with moved away in the time since and I didn’t notice because I still talk to them all the time, they’re just not physically at church with me. Then a little bit after Lilly was born, we were in a place as a family where we could probably manage a small group again, and we found a really great one. Love them. But… that one disappeared, too, sort of suddenly, traumatically. I still love them, but the people we did tons of stuff with day in and day out are gone.

So I look around myself and realize I’ve basically spent a decade distracted from pursuing community, so I relied on the one I had which is no longer local. And I didn’t put it together until she asked the question.

Now I have community, even locally. There are people I call (text) when I’m in a pickle or just want to share something goofy my kids just did or need to vent. But that circle doesn’t intersect much with the church I attend.

I left for L’Abri fully intending to wrestle the ideas of community within the church to. the. ground. Instead, I read some poetry and some Flannery O’Conner and generally worked my way through a stack of books I’d been meaning to read and they happened to have on hand (thousands and thousands of books in that gorgeous library, so it’s not such a huge coincidence) and eventually found some applicable books, but nothing got wrestled to the ground. What I did learn from the experience was from the actual L’Abri community (a dozenish people with whom I worked, ate, and conversed for a week): I crave this. I’ve been missing it.

I flew last weekend to California and met most of the Kindred Mom team. We brainstormed and planned and worshiped and prayed. More than that, we laughed until our abs were sore. We shared stories of our actual lives and we shared actual life. There were two ladies there I’d met once or twice, three I’d never met before. One of those I’d only interacted with briefly on Voxer (voice messaging app) earlier in the month. But the community was real. The love was legit. Unified by a common Lord, shared purpose, and overlapping passions kickstarted our kinship in a way I don’t remember experiencing before.

So back in Fairbanks Sunday morning, I look around and see the people I do life with. I made most of them from scratch in my belly. This is not how community should be done, and the fault is largely mine.

I clearly can do community, I’m just not great at doing it Sunday morning. My homework, then, is twofold:

I need to press in. It’s on me to reach out, regardless of my state on Sundays. It’s time to be intentional about it. I’m not sure what this is going to look like, actually, but I’m about to find out.

I need to lower the bar. I’m an introvert, so I would rather go soul-deep than surface-level. Actually, I’d rather do a lot of things than go surface-level. Waterboarding comes to mind. But that’s not how everyone else functions (though some do!) and it’s definitely what’s expected culturally. Apparently if you dive too deep too fast sometimes you scare people. Who knew? Anyway. I need to suck it up and up my small-talk game rather than hoping to magically bump into others who really want to talk about deep stuff.

Mostly, there’s a lot of grace. I’ve been doing my level best here, and I need help from Jesus to press in and make connections when I’m with my church family, and I trust Him to do that.

thursday post

Well, my hope had been to write early every week and post every Thursday, but… here it is midmorning on Thursday at the end of the second month and I don’t have any words to say.

That’s a lie.

I have all the words to say, but nothing coherent. Here’s what I’ve been doing the last week and a half:

I went on a trip with a friend to celebrate freedom and safety at the end of a relationship characterized by neither. We had great food and great fun and generally enjoyed ourselves.

I went down to join five of the other six Kindred Mom teammates in California. We laughed and cried and laughed until we cried. Three of them I had never met face-to-face, but the kinship was deep and immediate. I love them and I’m excited to share purpose and passion and projects with them.

In between the two, I published last week’s piece, and worked on graciously handling the heat I knew was coming. (Sharing was a matter of obedience rather than desire—political conversations make me tired, but they’re important.) That has continued through now.

I came home to my family Monday night, spent Tuesday doing previously planned activities, then getting a rather violent stomach bug. (Likely food I ate Tuesday morning.) Yesterday was spent nervously trying to consume liquids, and today I’m home with the gnarly dehydration headache I expected yesterday.

I have words to say about community and politics and church and marriage and kinship and illness. But the aforementioned headache coupled with the variety of things swirling in my aching head means today’s post is… this. Will try again next week.

BUT THE BABIES! …why this pro-life mama plans to vote democrat in 2020

Every time I see an objection to the President’s behavior or policies, if conversation carries long enough (and sometimes that’s not very long at all) someone mentions abortion. “Do you know of another viable pro-life candidate?” or “well, at least he doesn’t believe in killing unborn babies” or whatever.

Setting him aside for a minute (which isn’t easy, since he’s been sucking up all the air in all the rooms since 2016), let’s talk about this for a minute. Do I really plan to vote for someone who isn’t pro-life? Yes. Yes I do. And I think you might be free to do the same.

I have known the excitement and terror of positive pregnancy tests. I’ve felt babies grow to displace most of the vital organs in my body. I’ve known the visceral emptiness of even the earliest miscarriage. Yes, those fetuses are human. They’re definitely alive, with all the possibility and potential pain life entails. I’m aunty to a baby born just past viability grow and thrive (she’s two and looks a lot like my baby brother) and I’ve held a baby (this one a nephew) born still and far too cold at a similar gestational age and identical weight.

I am decidedly for these babies.

The reasons I don’t want this year’s incumbent to win a second presidential term are too numerous and layered to explore here today, and others do it better anyway. I’ve talked to many people who’d like a different candidate, but plan to vote for him again because he’s the only one in the field who will “defend life.”

I understand it, but here’s why I don’t plan to join them:

Abortion has been declining (relative to population) at a steady rate for about four decades. It doesn’t seem to matter at all who the President is; it keeps dropping. Reasons for the decline aren’t completely clear: it’s obvious that state policy has more impact on abortion availability, but since the rate drops in states both with and without new abortion restrictions, that clearly is not the only factor.

This math alone frees me to consider other candidates, but there’s more:

75% of recipients of abortion are poor, compared to 12% of the general population.

Abortion is a symptom of poverty.

People yell, “YES BUT THE ECONOMY” as a defense for Trump’s behavior and I will grant the poverty rate is down a bit over the course of Trump’s presidency which has doubtless spared some babies, but the poverty rate hasn’t changed in a statistically meaningful way since the 70s. While I’d love for someone to come up with a way to actually address this so we don’t have generations of people who can’t get and stay above the poverty line, what if we made abortion feel less necessary for women who are poor? What if we did better at pregnancy prevention for those who feel they aren’t in a place to raise a child and childcare for those who might be?

And, in all honesty, I think the democrats are more likely to pull that off than the incumbent. So, yes. Every one of the candidates in the running for the democratic nomination identifies as pro-choice. Even so, I suspect the number of dead babies will go down if we can address some of the underlying factors.

a footnote on socialism

“BUT SOCIALISM” is the other cry of the Right when defending the President. The argument goes like this: “Well, it’s better than having a socialist in office.”

Uh… okay. I’m not going to argue in favor of socialism now (or maybe ever). I’m too white, privileged, and middle class for that—I have money to lose with every step toward socialism. But what I don’t see is why the visible Evangelical church defends this as a moral issue. I have yet to see any biblical basis for pure capitalism as the right way. If anything, the systemic and moral obligation to care for the widow, orphan, poor, and foreigner seems to argue against it. The closest I’ve heard when I’ve asked for a biblical reason to vote against socialism went something like this: “Well, do you want ‘death boards’ deciding who does and who doesn’t get life-saving medical treatment?” No, not particularly, but I’m not sure it would be worse than insurance companies doing the same, or just giving the life-saving treatment to those who have means to pay for it. I’m not sure a “death board” would be more arbitrary.

So no. I’m not going to use my one 2020 presidential vote to vote against socialism, either.


I’m not here to convince people who are firmly pro-Trump that they should suddenly vote pro-choice. Go ahead and vote for whomever your conscience dictates. (I plan to.) I’m actually not here to argue at all. I’m just here to lay out my own research and conclusions in hopes that the handful of single-issue pro-life voters who can’t bring themselves to vote for a second term for this present based on behavior, policies, or tweets might consider other (possibly more effective) ways to protect the unborn.

I can survive voting for someone who stands for policies I don’t believe are best, who believes differently than I do about the role of federal government or guns or anything else. (In fact, I assume I’ll disagree with any candidate on something.) I cannot bring myself to cast a vote (or withhold one) to elect someone who stands against everything I am.

photo credit: Sarah Lewis Photography

going public (guest post for Kindred Mom)

Hey, everyone! It’s that time again—my post is up at Kindred Mom. Feel free to click here for the whole thing or read on for a teaser…

“What do we do with Jenna?” I asked my husband on a spontaneous evening walk.

I’ve been homeschooling the oldest since 2016 when she entered kindergarten and her sister was in pre-k. That year went poorly (I started it with a 6-week-old, a 1-year-old, and some Very Intense Curriculum), but we’ve found our rhythm in the years since. 

Lately, she and I are butting heads. While she’s definitely an introvert, she’s the most extroverted of the introverts in our house: she has social needs that I’m simply not cut out to meet. Also, there’s conflict with her 17-months-younger sister Katherine, who has long been my big, physical reactor. At small provocations, she yells, hits, kicks, and throws things. When she gets wound up, I often hold her to protect her, me, and her siblings for half an hour or more. (I refer to this as “disciplinary cuddle time.” She is not amused.) Jenna doesn’t only want my attention; she wants her siblings’ as well, and she frequently gets it by needling Katherine, resulting in a full disruption of everybody’s day. 

We’ve been kicking around the idea of sending her to public school for a little while—we have to change something, and this may help. We live two blocks from the elementary school she would attend, but I hesitate—quitting homeschool feels like defeat. Maybe I’m not good at this and should just give up? Maybe I should stay the course and keep trying? I know this is a privileged choice—keep my kid home or send her to the great public school down the road. These are two decent options. So why does this all feel so heavy?

“I can’t make this decision,” I tell Andrew as we mosey toward home. “It’s too personal and too fraught for me to have any objectivity. I need you to just decide.”

“Okay,” he responds, having listened to me obsess for months, thus being well aware of the pros and cons of each option. “Let’s try public school.”

We start the school year in August with much fear and trepidation. I worry she won’t be ready for the sheer amount of stimulation a classroom entails. I worry her teacher won’t approve of my choice to homeschool her until now and will judge her behavior as she adjusts to a new environment. I worry kids will be mean, or she’ll fall into some soul-deadening pursuit of “cool.” I worry her relationships with me and her siblings will drift apart as she spends hours away from us each day. I worry that I am worrying too much and she’ll pick it up and worry more than she already does.

It works. My worry effectively prevents each of those things from happening. Her teacher is kind and encouraging and very chill. Jenna regularly jabbers on when she gets home about all her friends (an improbable number of whom are named Noah) and the fun she’s had. 

Actually, the biggest struggle comes after the second day. Mrs. Friedrich pulls me aside at pick-up: “Jenna’s having a hard time being quiet when she needs to be listening. I keep reminding her, but she’s still a chatterbox.” She is making friends too enthusiastically. We address the whole “no, really, you have to listen to the teacher and talk to your classmates at appropriate times and volume” and now she’s thriving, both personally and academically.

The biggest wins haven’t been solely Jenna’s, though

Click here to read the rest.

why birth photography?

In the hours and days that followed the first birth I shot, I *tried* not to tell everyone I came across, but with only moderate success. I got a lot of responses that mirrored my excitement and a few hesitant “Uh… Oh? How did that go for you?” replies.

And then I remembered that birth photography is relatively new as a profession and not something that makes sense to everyone. So I thought I’d take today to tell you why this is something I’m fired up about.

my birth

When I was not quite 10, my mom had my baby brother in her bedroom and birth became just a normal thing women did. I knew there were medical conditions that would warrant a hospital, but birth didn’t seem like an emergency on its own.

When I was expecting miss Lilly, I was pretty sure she’d be my last. I wanted to normalize birth for my older girls, but they were 4 and 5 at the time. Given that I can barely handle having my husband around through, I did not see having a couple preschoolers touching me and calling for my attention throughout labor and birth as a viable option. So I called Sarah Lewis, whose work I’d admired for years, to document it, in hopes that having images of me giving birth would demystify it for my kids a little. Additionally, my births are basically the most badass moments of my life, and I wanted to have a way to remember that, since I’m hardly present enough to take mental notes.

but then…

I didn’t know how that decision would impact me. Looking through the images, I saw parts of the process I straight up didn’t know about, despite having done it four times. I was able to see the way Andrew looked at me throughout the labor. Somehow Sarah captured me as lovely throughout the whole messy, excruciating process.

The last several years, I’ve pondered over why I’m so drawn to birth photography as an art form. I’ve been following several accounts for years, and when I finally got a camera that could manage it late this summer, Sarah was one of the first people I told. I knew she was getting out of birth photography for practical reasons, and I mentioned how bummed I was that I wouldn’t be able to learn it from her. “There’s still time!” she texted back.

some theology

As I’ve considered the appeal of this niche of photography, I realized that my reasons for loving it and wanting to do it have a lot more to do with theology than expected.

There’s been a war on women since the garden. Then when God put a curse on the serpent and promised his demise through Eve, I imagine it further pissed him off. There she was, an image bearer of his Enemy, and through woman he was going to be crushed? Oh, HELL no. Actual Hell no.

So I look through history and see the battle. There’s objectification, either through pornography (in the broadest sense) or insane modesty demanded by men who hold us responsible for their lust and sin.  There’s the devaluing of women in many cultures through millennia—we’ve been treated as chattel, our bodies valued only for the production of heirs or a workforce, our voices unrecognized in courts. Currently where I live, there’s a pervasive culture of assault and consumption that spurred the #metoo movement. There’s the patriarchy and pay inequity and both the denigration and idolization of motherhood and marriage, both inside and outside the Church.

This is war.

And one of the ways it shows up is birth.

I have heard several women say “I’m not one of those pretty birthers.” Or “I wish I were cute when I was giving birth like the women in those birth photos.”

Here’s this moment when a woman is at her most stunningly amazing. She’s mirroring her Creator in a way that’s unique and especially God-like—she is bearing life for heaven’s sake. (Actual Heaven’s sake.) And we’ve been conditioned to see it as generally terrifying and ugly and messy, even shameful, and “all that matters is a healthy baby.” NO. The baby does matter, obviously. But, whatever level of health the baby has, YOU ALSO MATTER. The very act of giving birth has value all by itself. It’s not the only thing, or even the best thing, but it is decidedly a valuable thing.

So, birth photography.

If I can show a few women how incredible they are during this time they feel less-than-lovely, like their bodies have become something they don’t recognize, it feels like reclaimed ground. It feels like beating back the darkness.

And that’s why I do this. I’m not into photography for the guaranteed bill-paying clients— seniors, weddings, families, classic newborn photography—not that they don’t matter, but there are plenty of photographers to do them. Birth photography isn’t always an easy sell and the hours suck. But I love it the most because it matters. It matters to mamas like me, who desperately want to know that their messy, vulnerable, terrifying offerings can somehow reflect Glory. In this one small geographical area, for a small number of women, maybe I can show them how they already do.

the shape of a soul

“Am I even cut out for this?” 

My bestie Alycia was nearing her licensure test. She graduated with a Masters in Social Work a while ago, but in order to practice clinically, she needed to be licensed in her state. I thought of everything I know about this woman, how she’s been doing this work informally since I’ve known her, how good she is at it, how it lights her up.

“Yes, you’re cut out for it.” All I can picture is my mom’s bedroom floor with a green cutting mat and rotary cutter and do-not-use-on-paper-or-you-will-die scissors and pieces of tan tissue-paper pattern attached to fabric with straight pins of various colors. “This is exactly the shape of your soul. It’s what you were made for.”

It’s been a few months since we had this conversation. She took the test and passed it without breaking a sweat. She’s been up here for part of that time, and is now walking toward this part of her calling.

And I’m still thinking about the conversation.

How, exactly, does one figure out the shape of her soul? I’m by no means a seamstress, but my mom certainly is (she made my wedding dress from a picture of me in a David’s Bridal gown and it was amazing), so I at least have an image of the process. Right now, I’m looking at a bunch of random pieces, wondering how they’re supposed to fit together and what they’ll make when they’re done. I have no doubt the Designer has something in mind, but I’m not sure what. I’m not even certain they are all for the same thing. Maybe it’s a collection of various pieces. I have no idea. This metaphor breaks down here—I don’t think God is giving me a puzzle to solve: if He wants me to do something, it’ll unfold as it should and I just need to live my life as it does. But I do wonder what it’s becoming. Not with anxiety, usually, but with curiosity and amazement. I’m finding pieces of me I didn’t know were there, or maybe even are contrary to what I thought was there.

So I’m paying attention.

My interests and passions are different than I expected at 20. I suppose I could have seen writing coming, but I never would have pegged me for a photographer—certainly not of birth—but I’m 100% fired up about showing women their beauty as they bear humans into the world. More on that some other week. I expected to be fully fulfilled by marriage and motherhood, which was a particular type of idolatry I’ll need to explore later. I didn’t care at all about politics except for policies surrounding unborn babies and now I definitely do—particularly about the intersections of politics, the church, and Jesus—but my pro-life bent is taking me some places I would not have guessed, places at odds with who I thought I was then. (Another post for another day.) I expected to homeschool my hypothetical children and love it and be good at it. I am homeschooling some of them, and I love and am good at parts of it, but it’s different than I expected—20 was just a little before I realized how truly terrible I am at teaching. My passion for marriage in general (and in particular, now) remains, but again, real life has added some nuance to my clear-eyed idealism. I stopped exercising and eating carefully because I hate my body and started exercising and eating carefully because I like it, which doesn’t sound like a huge shift, and behaviorally it isn’t, but you’re smart, and if you’ve been reading for any length of time, you know how hard-won this non-change is.

I could go on, but that paragraph is a beast already and I have about a month’s worth of blog posts embedded in it and that’s plenty. Basically, things have grown and morphed and nuance has been added in the last couple decades and I no longer have the very concrete, specific idea of who I’m going to be at 35, and 35 came and went a couple years ago.

So there are my interests and passions, which surprise me, and then there are the pieces of my actual life which are bigger and, in many ways, more significant.

There’s my marriage, which is entirely predictable in some ways and highly unusual in others.

There are my children, which, surprise! I actually don’t have as much control over as I thought I would, and that’s both delightful and terrifying.

There’s my home, which takes a lot more effort to keep than I ever thought about, and also I really love the liturgy of keeping it, except for the constant interruptions from aforementioned kids.

I’m an HSP, which presents some challenges, but is its own sort of superpower, too.

After a lot of years of neglecting sleep as a habit led to adrenal fatigue a couple years ago and now I have to be really careful about physical limitations.

So where does this leave me?

And why am I telling you?

It leaves me paying attention to my life, trying to discern my next right thing at any given moment, and encouraging you to do the same.

And the posture of paying attention and next-right-thing discernment is important, too. Many points would find me stressed out, fearful of missing something important. But now there’s quiet anticipation, trust, curiosity. I don’t actually need to know all the things now. I didn’t know all the things at 20—I thought I did in some cases but I didn’t, and the areas where I did know about the information gaps freaked me out significantly—and I don’t know why I’d expect to know them all now. To be honest, I’m glad I keep being surprised. A single straight line toward maturity without any detours or points of interests would be lame.

jet lag, rest, and being human

Last week was spent off-grid in a town outside Boston. I have thoughts about the time spent at L’Abri, but they haven’t coalesced into anything that makes sense yet. (I think last year’s visit took multiple months, and this year’s study was much less focused than last, so we’ll see.) For now, all I have is this:

Sleep is important.

Feel free to go back to Facebook or Instagram or email or whatever you were doing… this feels like a dumb post to share, but I decided I’d post every Thursday and this is all I have. It’s mostly notes to myself: L’Abri trips need to be slightly longer to account for travel recovery time.

I flew about 20 hours there Sunday before last, arrived Monday morning, had a full day to stay awake. It took until about Friday or Saturday to recover from what ended up a 36-hour day punctuated with three 1-hour naps, then Saturday night, I went to bed with a 2:30 am alarm, woke and traveled for 25 hours. As I write, it’s Wednesday and I’m nothing like functional.

I learned almost exactly two years ago that my body doesn’t take kindly to being ignored. If I choose to push past her demands for sleep, eventually she’ll just refuse to cooperate. I never want to be in the adrenal fatigue place again. I don’t have time for that crap.

So I sleep. Instead of my morning routine of gym or pool followed by quiet work time, I have been starting the day way behind, stumbling out of bed when my children require me, fumbling for coffee, muttering incoherently at my people while my brain struggles to come online. Usually I’m pretty functional about 10 minutes into a workout, which is nearly three hours before my children need me to have words and thoughts and directions for them. Not so much this week. I’m kinda dying to get back to my regular life, but for now, I’ll honor my own humanity and rest.

Resting when I would rather not is an exercise in finiteness. God doesn’t sleep, but I’m not Him. I may be made in His image, but I’m also made with some distinct limitations. When I choose to skip the gym out of a genuine need to recuperate, when I nap when I “should” be doing laundry, it’s a declaration to myself and my family that I have the same limits we all do. Where I would once would have berated myself for laziness, there’s a quiet agreement that His design is good regardless of my to-do list.