“When Dormant Daffodils Bloom”

Have you heard that I’m writing another book? If not, let this serve as your official notification!

It’s odd, though this book writing stuff. Odd because it’s the most private and solitary endeavor until suddenly it isn’t. I’ve been working on this story for the last year and a half but have only recently actually talked about it with anyone other than my husband. Mostly because I wasn’t quite sure what it would become or what I would do with it. For the longest time, this story and these characters and the time I spent with them at my dining table were just for myself. It was fulfilling and relaxing and I relished the habit.

Slowly though, I realized that this was becoming more than that. This story and these characters grew. They fleshed themselves out into something cohesive and interesting and beautiful and then I knew that I wanted to share it. With you!

Would that be alright? Would you like to hear a little about it? If you’re interested in When Dormant Daffodils Bloom then keep on reading!

From the back cover:

“There was a point in Nora’s life when she wouldn’t have dreamt of ever living a day without her brother Michael and best-friend-turned-love, Finn. The three had been inseparable since childhood. That is until one fateful college party sent them careening away from each other leaving them all to deal with regret and heartache for years. Now, a decade later, the events of life have conspired to bring them back together. Reunited in the midst of fear and uncertainty, they are forced to confront the issues that separated them and the love that once tied them together.

Told from the points of view of Finn and Nora in both the past and the present day, When Dormant Daffodils Bloom is a story about deep friendship, enduring love, and the forgiveness that demands to dwell in the hearts of both.”

Over the next few weeks, I’ll be releasing preorder information, a cover reveal, and more so stay tuned!


Musings On Mornings


I’ve not been out of the shower for more than ten minutes when my youngest son Oliver wakes up. “Can someone get me up?” he yells from his crib.

I walk into his room, hair still wet, and pull him up and into my arms. “Hi buddy,” I tell him through kisses. “Is your pull up dry?” I ask the question with absolutely no hope that the answer will be yes.

We’ve been potty training for a week and a half now and the results have been inconsistent at best.

“I don’t know,” he answers with that smirk of his that would make me move mountains if he asked.

I take him to the potty, an affair that has become far more of a process than I would like. Before I pull down his pants, I line the seat with toilet paper otherwise it’s “too cold” for him to stay on there. I feel like I’ve wasted a forest full of trees in my attempt to gain a diaper-less existence for my husband and me.

I help him slide his pajama pants down around his ankles and laugh a little at how his belly still pokes out like Winnie The Pooh’s, full of everything honey-like and soft and sweet. It’s still rounded and full of baby fat even while he tries to do something so grown up. I tickle his tummy and am rewarded with a giggle that bounces off of the porcelain in the bathroom, grateful that we won’t be leaving every part of babyhood behind all at once.

I sit him on the potty and keep him distracted so that he’ll relax enough to go. We play with the action figures that are still on the bathroom floor from the same ritual before bed the night before. We sing, we giggle. He finally goes. I cheer for him and give him a sticker from the half-used sheet lying at the ready next to the sink and tell him to go tell his Dad.

We go into my bedroom and I look at the clock with a sigh. We have to leave for school in just over an hour. My hair is still wet.


The morning chaos has long since swept me up.

I’ve spent the last twenty minutes preparing meals for my kids. Breakfast lays half eaten in front of their sleep-lined faces. Lunches lay half packed inside their insulated lunch boxes. Both meals are peppered with my best intentions. Intentions that include multiple food groups and hopes that the healthy items won’t remain untouched like the day before.

I sigh as I throw out a bag of uneaten apple slices left inside my son Judah’s lunch box from yesterday. He insists that he can’t find the time to eat them because his friends make him laugh too much during lunch.

“I can’t take bites while I’m laughing, Mama. I might choke,” he offers in his own defense.

“You had no problem eating the girl scout cookies, though, huh?” I reply with a smirk.

He smiles back at me and takes a bite of his banana.

“Mama! My tooth fell out!” Judah exclaims.

“Finally!” I say with a smile and a little clap. The thing has been blowing in the wind for weeks now. He turns to me and smiles. It’s a landscape that’s unknown to me now, that toothless grin of his. He hands me his tooth and I cradle it in my palm, unable to stop my mind from remembering how I cradled him there in that same palm while he cut that very tooth. I remember feeling proud of myself for a witty comment I posted on my Facebook page that week so many years ago. “Orajel, take me away!” I had written under a picture of him and I cuddling.

Those days of teething had been tiring and now here we were, saying goodbye to that very same tooth on a regular Tuesday morning.

He looks old and proud and somehow, seeing him sans one tooth makes the thought of him laughing through lunch with a bunch of other toothless, first grade boys makes me glad that he ate his girl scout cookies. Glad that he’s growing and laughing and doing all the things that little boys do.

The morning marches on.


            “Not pig-tails,” Annabelle says with a groan. She feels the comb slide down the center of her head, dividing her dark hair into two equal parts that swirl and curl back towards each other at the ends.

I love how her hair curls in pigtails. It forms itself into two gentle ringlets that dance towards her chin.

I tell her so in less poetic language but she pushes back like I knew she would.

“I want my favorite thing, Mama,” she tells me. She means half of her hair pulled back into a ponytail. It’s simple but she loves it so I comply.

What I don’t tell her while I comb through the part I just made is that I wish I could put her hair in pigtails all of the time. That when I do, it makes my heart squeeze and comforts me in a way that is almost silly. What I don’t tell her is that when her hair is pulled into two even sections framing her breathtaking face that has grown and matured I can see her at two again. See her with the same two strands of hair while she clutches her blankie up under her nose and dances in the dress that she refused to take off for days on end.

I finish her hair and she runs off laughing. Movement and giggles are her native tongue and I smile and shake my head. She’s left her blankie next to me. Left it lying alone as she races off towards the next minute.


            Somehow, I’ve managed to arrive at the breakfast table. My bagel and yogurt sit before me and I look at the clock. We need to leave in ten minutes or we’ll be stuck in the very back of the drop off line at Judah’s school.

I take large, hasty bites, knowing that Annabelle will walk up to me at any second asking for a bite of my bagel. The day before she asked in song form and I gave her two because it made me feel giggly and joyful in a way that only she can.

She doesn’t come, though. She’s too distracted with the game that the three of them have begun playing. I can’t make out what it is, just that it makes them giggle. It makes them huddle together on the stairs. It makes them build a memory of each other that will carry them through their day.

I smile and bite back the reminder on the tip of my tongue that it’s almost time to go. Instead, I pick up my coffee with both hands. The porcelain is warm beneath my skin and it invades every last nerve ending. It startles and comforts me, that warmth.

Usually, I hold my mug by the handle, hold it with one hand and gulp down the coffee while I’m doing something else. Signing a piece of homework or rinsing off a dish or pointing someone in the direction of their toothbrush.

Now, though, by some sacred fluke, I’ve grabbed it up with both hands, grabbed it up and slowly sipped.

The kids laugh in the background and I take a drink of coffee. I close my eyes at the potent, poignant combination. It’s all there in that split second, the pay-off of the morning.

The bolstering presence of home and childhood and family and laughter. The work and the hope and the memories and promise. What has been and what’s coming. The warmth that comes from holding life and love in both hands.

It’s all there in the chaos of the morning.

Sunshine In Winter


Oliver is sitting in the dead grass under a shower of sunshine. Short sleeves and cowboy boots bathing in the rays, exposing baby soft skin that still dimples at the elbows. The weather today showed up like flowers on a doorstep; a gift full of love and beauty and surprise and even at fourteen months old, my boy isn’t immune to its charms.  We’re on the front lawn of the elementary school, biding our time in the afternoon sun while we wait for Judah. Annabelle is gathering rocks and Oliver sits beside me. His smile is wide and his movement is rhythmic as he picks up handfuls of the dry, flaky grass. It flutters and falls on the soundwaves of his laughter, landing on the cowboy hat of his toy.

Let me tell you about that toy.

It was his brothers before him. It still is really, but they share it now. All three of them share it. It’s a Woody doll from Toy Story. Judah spent his Christmas money on it when he was two and it was his favorite thing in the world for a time. He slept with it every night and it came with us everywhere. It saw him through scrapes on his knees during summer walks, sleepless nights marked by sheets filled with all the things that his stomach couldn’t hold. It saw him through sunny afternoons in spring and movie nights on the couch. That toy…

Now, that same boy who lovingly bought it is on his way back from a field trip. A field trip that put him on a school bus to the National Western Stock Show with his backpack, lunch, and exactly two snacks per the teacher’s instructions.

There was a time that he would have been elated by all things cowboy there. He would have begged to bring Woody along while he wore his cowboy boots. But now, he’s getting off of the bus, hands on his backpack straps clinging to growing up and independence while his baby brother is ensconced in who he once was.

My boy, my older boy, walks around the corner with the rest of the Kindergartners from his school. I hear another mom behind me say, “There’s my baby! Look at that, he just walked right past me. After the first field trip, he couldn’t get to me fast enough…”

It’s true. They walk past us all, waiting for their teacher to dismiss them. The sight of their moms isn’t enough to make them break ranks. Not anymore.

Eventually, Judah walks over to us. He’s full of new experiences and stories to tell and he smells faintly of livestock and hay. He smells like the cowboy he used to pretend to be.

His brother and sister see him and crowd around, happy to be reunited again. After the long days of togetherness that Christmas Break provided, hours spent apart at school have been long. Annabelle shows her big brother the handful of rocks she collected while she waited for him, quick to point out which were shiny and which weren’t. Oliver ambles his way to them, arms stretched out, stance wide, as he masters the grassy terrain on his newly found gate.

Oliver. He’s wearing Judah’s old clothes and holding his old toy but his smile is all his own. His joy is fresh and new found and he’s as promising, as surprising, as beautiful as this sunny day in January.

“I found your note in my lunch box, Mama,” Judah tells me.

“Oh good, babe! Did you read it?” I ask.

“Yep!” he replies. I knew he would be able to. His mind is growing and he’s becoming, learning and discovering. He’s limitless and hopeful, bounding into his identity.

I scoop up Oliver and Woody and head to the car, Judah and Annabelle walking beside me. Oliver pulls Woody’s string and I hear Tom Hank’s say, “Howdy, Partner! Whatya wanna do today?” for the millionth time. That voice is almost a soundtrack to my motherhood, replaying for a second round with this second boy of mine.

Oliver clings to Woody and Annabelle snuggles her blankie up under her nose. She does it unconsciously at this point, by muscle memory that’s developed over the last three years. It’s her comfort and her joy, the bearer of her tears and love and snuggles. She clings to it and chatters on about her rocks and how a boy in her class told her he liked her dress today. Her blankie personifies the little girl she is. Her story foretells the older one she’s becoming.

I listen and tuck it all away inside my heart trying to remember every second. I try to walk the balance beam of mothers everywhere, the one where you cling to and cherish their littleness but appreciate and marvel at their growth. It’s all there in front of me, in this one ordinary picture.

They are like a sunny day in January. The promise of the season to come glowing down upon us as we sit in the soft, dry grass of today. It’s not really today’s though, is it? That grass… It’s the fruit of days gone by, lying dormant for now. It’s the green days of yesterday, the wind-swept confetti of today, and the hope of tomorrow.

These children of mine are that. A moment of bliss that’s the culmination of what has been and the promise of what’s to come.

They are sunshine in winter and grass in every season and I will bask in it all.



A Sweater In The Cold

The world is unraveling like a spool of yarn. Like yarn that’s soft and full of promise. The makings of something good, of something warm and comforting and soft and full and beautiful, are all there like God gave us this gift and intended that the outcome would be a sweater. A sweater that was warm and large and could stretch big enough to hold everyone in its embrace.

But the world is unraveling like a spool of yarn. It seems that the gift that we were given has been hijacked. Like it’s being woven tight and stiff into something itchy and oppressive and suffocating. People, the very fabric of this world connected like a long thread- that was what was intended to bring warmth and comfort, to be the carriers of it, anyway. But, during weeks like these, it seems that something else altogether is being created.

Is being destroyed.

We watch, dumbfounded and cold as death tolls rise and shocked faces dripping with tears and devastation tell stories of joy turned to utter sorrow. We watch in confusion and anger as the world spins faster than we ever wanted, throwing safety and comfort and any sense out of its orbit like bullets out of a revolver. Things are coming apart. Lives are wrecked. What we thought was safe is shaken and crumbling once again.

We watch and wonder what recourse we have in times like these? What answers can we offer, what words can we say, what hope can we provide when a husband is shot down while holding his wife’s hand and friends watch as medics drape a white sheet over the girl that stood beside them dancing only moments ago? It feels as if we have been left out in the cold with nothing. It feels as if answers are only mirages and hope is eons away.

But feelings can be deceiving, can’t they? You only need to look at the power that hate can have over someone to know that this is the truth.

We can feel things that aren’t true. Our hearts can be wayward souls at times, wayward friends that need leading.

And leaders must arise, especially in times of crisis.

Leaders must arise and remind hearts and heads and the confused and downcast and hopeless that this does not have to be so. This is not our reality. Our hope is not lost.

We know that nothing can change the events of this weekend, that nothing we do can reverse this awful trajectory but we know something else, too. We know the one that can carry us through it. We know the power that his comfort can provide.

Lives are lost and devastation rages just like winter comes every year. We can’t change what happened any more than we can change a blizzard but we can offer comfort in the midst of it. Comfort like a sweater in the cold.


The Father of compassion, the God of all comfort. We know Him and He knows us. He is near. He is accessible. His heart is broken and His arms are open and, despite how we feel, we have to know that there is hope in Him.

What’s more, we have to offer it to others. You see, because He is who He says he is and because we are His ambassadors, we are not without hope, we are not without recourse. The world has not been left out in the cold without anything to keep us warm. His plans have not been hijacked, his people have not been overcome.

The God of all comfort, he is within us. Therefore, all comfort is before us ready to take up and bring to those who need it. Ready to be wrapped around them and to tend to their broken and cold lives.

This is no small thing, this comfort in the midst of tragedy. It is our marching orders, our mandate in times like these. We were created and equipped for such a time as this. To lead hearts away from despair and to turn them towards truth. The truth that lies in the promise of better things. The truth that can be found in his compassion and comfort.

So, while the world is unraveling, here is our mission; to take up the shredded threads and to redeem them. To hold them out to the Father of compassion with confidence. He has turned sorrow into joy before and He will do it again. And He will do it with the help of His people. So where do we start? We take those broken pieces and we hold them tight. We speak with empathy and gentleness and selflessness. We hug hard and pray harder. We tap into wisdom instead of empty words in the coming days and we watch for opportunities to be present in people’s sorrow. We press in and hold those unraveled threads out to the comforter of our souls.

And then we watch as He weaves a sweater of warmth and hope and comfort and peace, and, yes, someday, joy around His world once again. The Father of compassion. The God of all comfort. There is hope, yet.

I’m Over At Coffee + Crumbs!

I have been obsessed with coffeeandcrumbs.net for a few years now. I found this collaborative blog for moms a few months after my daughter was born and it was almost as if my Mama’s soul exhaled. This blog is full of words that will resonate, inspire, and encourage you! What’s more, they have a wonderful podcast, a new book, a monthly newsletter and so much more! With my adoration for this blog in mind, imagine my excitement when I found out that they wanted some of my words on their page!

Today, I get to share a little piece of my heart for other mom’s in a little corner of the internet that feels a bit like home to me. I hope that it encourages you to remember those dreams that once lived in your heart and are begging for some time in the sun! Here’s a little preview!

“It’s the same realization that mothers have all of the time. The realization that, like a tutu whose circumference looks wide and full, all of those ambitions and dreams that we had for ourselves are fragile and delicate.

We spend our childhoods twirling and dreaming of what we might become, basking in the glow of our own future and the bright promise of hope. In those days, our minds couldn’t comprehend anything but becoming exactly what we wanted to be.

Life can drop big, dark stains on those dreams, leaving them soiled and soggy. When reality challenges their fullness and beauty, we’re left to tend to them, to wash them clean and restore what once was.

The problem is, there’s no ‘handle with care’ tag on that tutu in our mind’s eye, the one that we wore when we were dreamers. The one that fit us when we were confident and young.”

Click here for more!

Back To School

Photo by Kelli Tungay on Unsplash


We need to leave the house for Kindergarten Orientation in an hour. That moment that everyone talks about when they come to visit you in the hospital after giving birth has arrived. People peek into your hospital room and look at you, soft and cracked open, eyes red and scratchy from the marathon of carrying and delivering life. They see your heart in your eyes and on your sleeve and laying swaddled in the basinet and they say, “Before you know it, he’ll be going off to Kindergarten.”

I remember those words, I remember nodding and saying, “I know,” like I actually knew and then smiling and snuggling him close. I remember so many days where those words came to mind like the promise of rain on a hot day and others when they came to mind like thorns trailing beneath the bloom of bright childhood.

They were true, though.

Before I knew it…

The school supplies are ready and waiting by the door. Pencils and folders and something called Velcro dots that were harder to find than gold at the end of the rainbow but all I can think about are the footy pajamas he used to wear.

They were blue with bugs all over them and were made from fleece as soft as baby skin. I loved them because of the bugs. Bugs for my Judah Bug. He wore them when he was six months old and I loved how his sleepy, dead weight felt in them. Every part of him was soft and squishy.

I spent hours looking at those jammies wrapped on his baby fat, hours holding him in them while I nursed.

There were so many nights when the feel of them comforted my tired hands as I carried us through another midnight feeding…

Now he’s going to Kindergarten.

I made it through a year of not sleeping so I can certainly do this.

Well, maybe I could if it wasn’t for the fact that his sister is starting preschool in a few days too.

When I look at her, with her backpack on, preparing for her first day, I can’t help but fight the urge to run upstairs and stare at the onesie I have stashed in the back of her top dresser drawer.

It’s the first thing she ever wore and it didn’t come from me.

The hospital found it for her in the NICU because we didn’t have any clothes with us that would fit our 4-pound baby, the perfect one with rose-bud lips that came a month early.

An angel-nurse brought it to us and it looked like doll clothes. She slipped it on our tiny girl’s body and fit her better than her own skin, that skin that hung on her wrinkly and empty where it should have been rolling with fat.

I remember being so touched by the kindness of the nurse. She had brought it to us, saying she had dug through the drawers of the NICU so we could have something pretty to put on Annabelle. My heart was tender and raw from the fear that had gripped it during my delivery, when we had almost lost our little one and kindness has a way of stroking those exposed places like balm.

I have left that onesie in her drawer since then, always nearby, ready for me to pull out and hold in the palm of my hand, ready to remind me of how far our girl has come.

Far enough to go to school…

I made it through life with a preemie, with its oxygen and triple feedings and colic and fear so I can certainly do this.

I can do this.

I can send them off and let go of a little more. I can let them grow and learn and create a little more space for themselves away from me.

I can trust them with the lessons I’ve taught and the love I’ve buried in their hearts. I can be confident in who they are.

I can be brave.

I can hold these pieces of my heart loosely.

I can do it because they’re ready. This is how it’s supposed to go. This is the point, after all, to raise them so we can send them out little by little.

These are the moments that everyone talks about, the milestones that you look towards and prepare for and, with a sigh, I can say we’re ready. I’ll send them off with their school supplies and back packs that look larger than life on their little bodies. They’ll take their lunch boxes and folders and wave good bye and I’ll come home. I’ll probably cry and then pull out those pajamas and onesie and remember how far we’ve come.

I’ll hold those pieces of their past, and I’ll hold them good and tight but their future… that I’ll hold loosely. I’ll let it grow and breathe and spill over and out of my hands and trust that it will be blessed by my touch.

Feed Their Belly Feed Their Heart

daria-nepriakhina-69841            I’ve been a mom for almost six years now. Six years and three kids. I don’t think there’s a conversion chart for “number of years mothering to lunches prepared” but it seems to me like there should be. It would be nice to quantify those years somehow without having to actually apply my math learnin’ from way back when. Aint nobody got time for that! I have lunches to make.

All that being said, I have only just now actually arrived at “mom level” for lunch packing because, I recently made a very significant purchase on Amazon. Bento boxes. My pinterest failing self bought some bento boxes for my children and I basically feel like I have now arrived at professional mom status.

I mean, things were ok before. We would get invited to the park or the pool for playdates and I would bring along lunch plus snacks plus the trillion and one other things that you have to bring when you go places with kids. My little loves would be happily fed but embarrassment would begin to creep over me when it was time to pull it all out of the lunch bag. All the other kids would sit there in the grass with their organic, nut free lunches perched on their little laps contained in neat, shiny, compartmentalized, BPA free bento boxes.

My kids? Well, they’re digging their little fingers into sandwich baggies like a bunch of chumps. Baggies were fine when I was growing up but now they seem to result in crumbs coating kid’s hands as they reach in, squished sandwiches because the baggies certainly cannot protect mere bread and turkey from the crushing weight of a banana or thermos, and terrible environmental faux pas like extra plastic use. Not to mention the game of “chasing the empty sandwich baggie as it blows away.”

Mid way through this summer, I finally got the message. If I was gonna be a mom who had my stuff together, I needed bento boxes. Stat!

Now that I’ve finally elevated myself and my children to this accomplished state of existence, things are…relatively the same as they were before.

I still have to pack a lunch and they still eat it. Different packaging, same result.

In all actuality, it really doesn’t matter what the lunch looks like, just that I feed my kids.

In all actuality, our job as mothers isn’t always about making things look pretty and nice but about providing our kids with what they need to grow and thrive and impact their people.

This hit me hard when I was reading about when Jesus fed the 5,000.

“When Jesus looked up and saw a great crowd coming toward him, he said to Philip, ‘Where shall we buy bread for these people to eat?’  He asked this only to test him, for he already had in mind what he was going to do.

 Philip answered him, ‘It would take more than half a year’s wages to buy enough bread for each one to have a bite!’

Another of his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, spoke up, Here is a boy with five small barley loaves and two small fish, but how far will they go among so many?’” John 6: 5-8

Here we have throngs of people hanging on every word of Jesus’, to the point that they don’t even want to leave to go grab some food. Now, I’ve often wondered why more of them didn’t think to pack a lunch, some crackers, an apple maybe, but, alas, only one little boy did.

Scratch that. I’m almost positive that his mom did. I would bet my bento boxes that there was a woman with a heart full of love that sent her boy there prepared.

She was probably a mother of strategy. The kind that plans ahead for her sons needs both physically and spiritually. She probably sent him there that day, hoping, praying that he would fill his mind and heart on the words of this man that walked on water, confounded the Pharisees and raised the dead. She probably longed for his life to be changed and his heart to be turned so she did what any mom does. She planned ahead. She probably knew that kids learn best on a full stomach and she didn’t want him to have any reason to want to leave so she packed him a lunch.

She packed him a lunch and miracles happened.

“Jesus said, ‘Have the people sit down.’ There was plenty of grass in that place, and they sat down (about five thousand men were there).  Jesus then took the loaves, gave thanks, and distributed to those who were seated as much as they wanted. He did the same with the fish.” John 6: 10-11

It was a simple act. One that every mother does time and time again but in the ordinary service of motherhood, she provided the makings for a miracle.

It wasn’t just the food that she sent, though. It was the boy. The boy with the heart to give and share and speak up when needs arose. The one that had empathy enough to sense the wanting of those around him and who had kindness enough to offer what little he had.

She probably packed all those goodies deep inside of him too, fed him those lessons like they were food.

In her mothering, a miracle was teed up.

School will be starting soon. Lunches will need to be packed, back packs loaded up, and hearts prepared. You, Mama, will do it all. It might seem ordinary, you might feel like at times you fall short or go unseen but never forget that the things you give your kids, both the tangible and intangible could be setting the stage for a miracle to happen.

Every hug you give plants a seed in their hearts that will grow large and full like a tree, bringing comfort and shade to others around them. Every lesson in sharing will result in bridges built and love given. Every moment of instruction will produce righteous action and yes, every lunch could provide food for the hungry, an invitation for the lonely, or simply a moment of food filled friendship.

It doesn’t matter what you pack it in, just that you pack it. Bento boxes are nice but it’s what inside them that nourishes and fulfills. Sure, the frills look good but it’s what we place in their hearts that invites the divine.

Feed their bellies, feed their hearts and watch eternity show off with the results.





His cry woke me. It was ten minutes before my alarm was scheduled to sound but there it was, my son’s voice, crying to be heard. I gathered him up out of his bed and gave him what he wanted, food and comfort all at once. I blinked the sleep from my eyes and they adjusted to the pink-tinged darkness in the room. Actually, that’s how a pessimist would put it. Pink tinged darkness.

Really, it was pink-tinged light.


If light could be a scent, this would strawberry-soft and juicy and full of brightness and promise.

If light could be a feeling it would be settled calm and buzzing excitement all at once.


Sunrise and a baby.

Newness upon newness. Promise upon promise. Fresh. Pure. Begging to be indulged and held close.

I breathed it all in, gazing at the watercolor sky and then the roundness of my son’s cheeks. Only a moment before, I had lingered in sleep, wishing the blankets could stay tucked around me a few minutes longer. I had slogged myself out of bed resigned to my day being ten minutes longer than I wanted it to be but then, then this.

This beauty.

If not for the discomfort of waking early, I would have missed it. If not for the demands placed on me because of motherhood, I would have slept right through it. But God knew that glory demanded my attention.

We scoff at discomfort. We avoid it and spit at it and bemoan it at every possible opportunity. We hate it don’t we? We rearrange and plan and sidestep to miss it but what else are we avoiding?

If not for the discomfort, I would have missed the beauty.

If I hadn’t been woken from my sleep and roused from my place of comfort, I would not have seen the majesty of a grand sky the whole earth wide painted for me and the tiniest little hands that fit inside mine reaching out for me.

Photo Credit: Melissa Yocum Photography

The discomfort is unavoidable but so is the beauty of it all.

This is our God.

This is how He works. He stretches us so we can find out how good it feels once it’s over. So we can appreciate how much faster we can run when it’s done. He rouses us from the things we think we want so that we can gaze at something far more beautiful.

So, this is the refrain of my heart. “The Lord does all things well! I will delight in Him and whatever he brings because he paints the sky for my pleasure and draws me out to see it. In Him is fullness of joy. In Him, lies the hope of a newness. I can trust His ways for they are good.”

My God does all things well.

This Week, I’m over at “Hello, Dearest”

This last week, an article I wrote was featured on MOPS International’s blog, hellodearest.com. This was originally published in their quarterly magazine and has been in the hands of the amazing MOPS Mama’s for a few weeks now, but here it is for your screen viewing pleasure!

Head on over to hellodearest.com and have a read. Here’s a sneak peak for you and just an FYI, this idea gets my blood flowing faster and makes me super excited to be a mom! What a gift it is to mold the hearts of little people! What a difference we can make! What a world we can shape!

“Moms have the power of empathy. It’s a power because we have the opportunity to do something with it. We can teach our kids to look at others like the treasure they are to someone else…We can turn that soft spot deep within our hearts into a place of strength because we are the people-makers, the heart-molders, the generation-shapers.”

Hope you enjoy!