Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

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Sometimes I forget

Sometimes I forget to remember that running outside in your jammies to catch fireflies as the sun streaks shades of red, pink and orange across the sky is the path to life. 

Two children wearing pajamas stand in a grassy yard near a white fence catching fireflies in their hands
Jammies and fireflies and sunsets … it must be summer.

In the time it took both of my kids to catch 10 each with five transfers and a wing repair, I scrubbed the dishes that had been taunting me all day. We will dirty more tomorrow, so the work will never be finished, but for tonight, I can put it to rest. It was while standing at the sink looking out the window that I noticed the fireflies glowing in the yard. Tonight was the first night I noticed them so far this summer. Maybe they’ve been there before, or maybe I just needed to notice them tonight.

“Can we catch fireflies at the cabin?” my son asked as he burrowed under the sheet in his bed, mind already full to overflowing with excitement for our upcoming vacation.

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

“Yes!” he exclaimed. Settling down to sleep might be difficult.

—

“You are enough,” my husband said to me as I held my head in my hands and fought tears. It was the end to the kind of day that exhausts and discourages me. He continued to say things about how he valued me beyond my efforts to ensure we were all ready for vacation, and when I confessed that I was to the point of wanting them to all go on vacation and just leave me behind (I don’t really mean it) he didn’t get angry, only empathized with my feelings.

Sometimes I forget that what makes a memory isn’t how perfect it all was and when everything went according to plan. It’s the being together and experiencing new things and the stories we make along the way.

We will almost certainly forget to bring something along. Some part of our trip will not go as we planned. And we will still have a good time.

—

A week ago, I wanted to cancel the whole trip. Our car was going in to the body shop for repairs after a tree fell on it and all the details that had at one time felt solid were now more like ice cream on a summer day. I wanted to do what my gut reaction always wants me to do in crisis: shut it down, circle the wagons and take shelter. I wanted to lock myself in my house and not come out until everything was fixed and right. Even if it meant missing vacation.

There is enough steadiness inside of me to know that this is not what I really want. But pressing on, going about life as usual in the midst of crisis is hard. it takes the kind of gumption I don’t always have. It seems like a monumental effort, but really it’s just one step at a time, doing the next thing that comes up.

Sometimes I forget that the tasks that loom large are just made up of little chunks of tasks and chipping away at them makes them manageable.

—

View through a window screen of a pink, orange and yellow sunset in a suburban neighborhood
Sometimes a sunset stops me in my tracks

Sometimes I forget that I’m not in control.

Last Sunday we were at a picnic in a park when the sky showed signs of an approaching storm. We had just finished a quick game of adults-vs-kids kickball (I can’t remember the last time I played kickball) and were packing up our things when the first drops began to fall. The four of us jogged to the car and got in, hoping to make it home before the worst of the storm hit.

Instead, we got caught in a downpour that produced hail, and in my mind I was transported to the night a few days earlier when the rain fell sideways from the sky and a tree fell on our car. Just when I thought I was working through the trauma of that crisis, it was all front and center again. One way I try to deal with this is to become ultra-controlling. My husband was driving the car but I was giving him “advice” about how to drive and where. All the while holding my breath and praying we would get home without incident.

The panic stayed minimal until we drove down a road where a tree had fallen across, blocking the way. Suddenly everything looked dangerous. All the trees were going to fall on us and we needed to be somewhere, anywhere else. My husband kept calm–at least that’s how he seemed to me–and steered us toward the highway. Yes, there was a greater volume of cars but there were fewer trees and it was literally the quickest way to our house.

We made it home without incident. The worst thing that happened was we got soaked running from the car to the house because I won’t let anyone park underneath the tree that dropped a large piece of itself on our car. The storm passed quickly and we still made it to our second stop of the night–music in the park.

I could have easily said that we’d had enough for one night and stayed in. Instead, we sat outside under a post-storm blue sky and listen to Americana/bluegress/country from a band composed of members of The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. People-watching and music-listening and a kick-off to summer.

I’m glad I didn’t miss it.

—

An orange-yellow lily in bloom
It’s my favorite day when this flower blooms.

Sometimes I forget that life is full of tragedy and loss and crisis mixed with beauty and fullness and celebration. Sometimes I forget that these things ebb and flow like the tides on the beach and sometimes they occur simultaneously.

Sometimes I forget that it’s not my job to handle everything that comes my way or that I don’t have to be the one who holds it all together. Sometimes I forget that it’s okay to fall apart and not be the strong one. 

And sometimes I forget the words that I shared with my students at the end of the school year:

“Promise me you’ll always remember: you’re braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think.”

That quote is attributed to A.A. Milne but there’s some discussion about that online. One of my students read the card out loud and said, “A.A. Milne? Is that you?” I almost spit out my lunch but managed to say, “No, that’s the creator of Winnie the Pooh. If I was the creator of Winnie the Pooh, 1. I’d be dead and 2. I wouldn’t be working here.”

Sometimes I forget that sentiment isn’t always taken seriously but that doesn’t stop me from trying.

What do you need to remember today?

Is it worth it?

Every year

I ask, “Is it worth it?”

as my husband

toils with the tiller

to turn up the dirt

that has grown hard and weedy

during the winter.

The time it takes

to prepare the ground

is more than we can spare,

I think. Maybe our efforts

would be better spent elsewhere.

But then I remember:

the way the dirt feels in my hands

as I dig a hole and nestle 

a small plant into its new home

in the dirt of our backyard.

How this placing is a promise

to do what it takes to make it grow.

The truth is: I can only do so much.

I can water when the dirt is dry, and

pull weeds that sneak in. But I can’t

make the sun shine or the rain stop.

I can wait. And I can hope.

Is it worth it?

When the first cucumber blossoms,

the answer is yes.

And when the tomato plants show

yellow flowers, then green fruit,

then ripe reds I can almost taste before

they’re picked, the answer is YES!

When I can pluck herbs 

from the pots on the porch

to toss into the dinner pan,

the answer is yes.

Even when we have

more than we need,

when I grow weary

at the end of summer

of tending these plants,

the answer is still yes.

Is it worth it?

When the tiller sputters and stops working,

I want to give up, too. And then

a neighbor asks if he can put a

couple of tomato plants in our garden.

I’ll pay, he says, and we shake our heads.

This garden, it’s never been only ours.

It belongs to anyone who asks

and some who don’t.

So, we press on and

do what it takes

to prepare the ground to receive.

Is it worth it?

Is beauty worth it?

Is hope worth it?

I ask myself this, too,

when the world around me

is hard and full of weeds.

Do I dare plant a garden

of love and kindness?

Is it worth it?

Most difficult things are

in the end.

What welcome looks like

“Good job, Isabelle! You’ve got this!”

We were on the track, running the last stretch of our 5K for Girls on the Run. I looked at the face of the woman cheering my daughter on. I didn’t recognize her.

“Do you know her?” I asked. Isabelle shook her head “no.”

“Then, how does she know your name?”

As soon as I asked the question, I had the answer. This year, the girls’ race bibs had their names on them, and strangers were cheering them on by name.

That’s the face I make when I’m trying to smile while running. My daughter, on the other hand, smiles perfectly.

We made our final push to cross the finish line and joined the crush of people waiting for water, bananas, chocolate milk and cupcakes. Humidity was at 100 percent, and our bodies were feeling the effects. My daughter’s face was splotchy red, and I was starting to feel a little lightheaded. Neither of us was puking, which could not be said for other finishers of this race.

After we grabbed our post-race treats, we made our way back to the spot where everyone from our team met up, reconnecting with my son and our friend Carol who has cheerfully been our support team for three years. We stood at the edge of the track cheering on other runners as they finished. I only called two names specifically, and they were both people I knew, but every time a name was shouted, you could see the runner perk up a little, as if it was just the boost she needed to finish strong.

One thing that leaves an impression on me from Girls on the Run is how inclusive and welcoming it is. Maybe it’s the T-shirts that identify everyone as belonging to this massive event or the commitment of showing up at 8 a.m. on a Saturday, but I always feel like I’m part of something bigger when I’m there. And I’m inspired by the people who come to the event, seemingly just to encourage others. I mean, why else would someone wear a full body Iron Man costume with a tutu and run through the crowd slapping high-fives? (I aspire to be that cool someday.)

Cheering on strangers, even calling them by name, it’s the kind of world I want to be part of.

—

Later that same day, we drove toward Washington, D.C. to see a baseball game. Our beloved Cubs were in town, and we were going to try again to cross Nationals Stadium off our list of baseball parks we’d visited. The four of us were decked out in Cubs T-shirts and hats. We boarded the train in Maryland and made an instant friend who was also wearing a Cubs shirt.

“Go Cubs!” he said. My husband responded with the same words. The man was sitting next to a guy in a Nationals jersey. He told us we needed to get on the train going the other way. (Spoiler alert, this train was the end of the line and only went toward the city.)

As we neared D.C., the train continued to pick up passengers who were wearing Cubs clothing. At one point, when personal space was limited, my son made a friend. A woman who could have been his grandmother started asking him questions about his favorite player and what he thought about tonight’s game. There were so many Cubs’ fans on the train, I almost forgot for a moment that we weren’t in Chicago. The experience reminded my husband and me of the time we took the train to see the Cubs in Chicago and the cars were packed from side to side with Cubs’ fans the closer we got to Wrigley Field.

Two of us ran a 5K a few hours earlier and hadn’t yet recovered, one of us had been up for work since 3 a.m. I think our son is superhuman.

We made our way to the ballpark and to our seats, where our visiting team clothing sparked conversation. A family behind us was from Kansas City, or they were Royals’ fans at least. They wanted to know if we were from Chicago. After the first inning, a family of Cubs’ fans sat next to us and the dad was super talkative. He wanted to know where we were from and told us all about the travel itinerary that had gotten them to the game that day. 

I don’t always like talking to strangers, but there’s a camaraderie among Cubs fans, especially when we’re in a city other than Chicago. It had been a long day, and my allergies were bothering me, and it was going to be late before we got back to our house, but I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

It might sound silly, but wherever the Cubs are feels like home to me. They’re a link to where we grew up. It’s a part of our childhood that we can share with our kids. And the players are familiar to us because we listen to games throughout the week and watch highlights the day after games when we can. Even when we’re visiting a ballpark other than Wrigley, I feel like I belong there. (And it’s been a long time since I’ve been to Wrigley, but it will feel like coming home the next time I’m able to go. My kids get to go this summer. Yep, I’m a little jealous.)

Maybe it’s the T-shirts, or the history that offer that same sense of connection. If I know you’re a Cubs fan, I know you’ve probably faced disappointment. Maybe decades of it. Even if you’re a new fan because of the World Series win, I know that you’ve chosen to cheer on a team I love, maybe regardless of location.

As transplants from Illinois to Pennsylvania, we sometimes feel like oddities. Not too long ago, someone who didn’t know our background asked us why we were Cubs fans and not Phillies fans. We walk through our daily lives wearing our team’s apparel, which gets an occasional second look, but the closer we get to a baseball stadium, the more of “our people” we find. Those of us who have been cheering on our team in our own homes or as the lone fan in the bar join a welcoming crowd. Suddenly, we feel less alone.

—

A couple of weeks earlier, I attended a community breakfast before work. An author friend was the guest speaker and the organization is one that is near to my heart. For years I volunteered with Church World Service helping with refugee resettlement, and then 18 months ago I got a part-time job that consumed my weekdays and my opportunities to volunteer dwindled. I still care deeply about refugees and immigrants, and I’ve done other things to support the organization.

But the truth is I miss the people. All of them. The newly arriving refugees walking through the city to learn about their new home, the ladies gathering every other week in a stuffy second-floor gym in a church, the paid employees who work tirelessly (and beyond their meager pay) on behalf of people who need assistance and advocacy.

I was a little nervous to be rejoining the group for a free breakfast. I didn’t feel like I had earned the right to be there. But I learned another lesson in welcome that morning. It’s not something that’s earned. Welcome is given freely and generously, and I left the breakfast full in spirit, having shed some tears.

Photo by Katie Moum on Unsplash

Two of the CWS employees, women I worked closely with, greeted me enthusiastically with smiles and hugs, wanting to know all about how my family was doing and what I’d been up to. One of them extended an invitation to rejoin the women’s group I’d been part of, anytime I had free time. Others waved “hello” and my author friend chatted with me for a bit.

I was particularly moved by the words of one of the CWS staff, who said she has learned from refugees and immigrants that “Hospitality is so much broader than I thought. It’s being willing to be welcomed into someone else’s home as much as it is welcoming someone into your home.”

I always think I have this huge responsibility to provide welcome through my home. Sometimes, it’s the opposite. It’s being willing to be received into someone else’s home–or life–even if you don’t think you’ve earned the right or deserve it.

—

Reconnecting with Church World Service reminded me of the opportunities I still have to welcome people into the community. Refugee arrivals have dwindled but not stopped completely. Cross-cultural friendship is different from the kinds of friendship I usually seek, but if I’m learning anything about this practice–call it welcome or hospitality or something else–it’s that we have to start somewhere, and it’s not as complicated as I make it out to be.

It’s easier to seek out those with whom we have some obvious things in common, like the schools where our kids attend or the sports they play or the neighborhood we live in, but we can still provide welcome even if we have to look a little harder. I often remind myself to start with our shared humanity if that’s all I can come up with. (Spoiler alert: that’s more than enough as a place to begin). 

I don’t always like to admit it that I have a circle drawn around the people with whom I’m most comfortable, and I’m not always willing to widen that circle and let someone in who I’m less comfortable with. But that’s our challenge if we want be people of welcome: We find ways to open the circle a little wider.

Photo by Mikael Seegen on Unsplash

I love this sentiment from Glennon Doyle:

Sarah Quezada in her book “Love Undocumented” reminds me that how I do this isn’t as important as the actual doing it.

“The point of bighearted hospitality is not the act itself,” she writes. “No, the point of bighearted hospitality is to demonstrate our love for God by showing love to strangers. The specific action stems from the needs at our doorstep and a willingness to open our hands and offer everything to the version of God right in front of us. The stranger in our midst.”

—

I have been shown welcome in so many ways. How will I pass on the welcome? How will you?

I’d love to hear about a time when you felt welcome or like you belonged. Feel free to share in the comments.

For the ones who try

It was 80 degrees on a Thursday afternoon when the adults began to gather outside the school. We walked and stretched and chatted as we waited for the girls to emerge. Star-shaped balloons danced in the wind, and when the girls walked out of the school, we cheered and clapped like they were red-carpet royalty.

Each one found her running buddy. I slapped a high-five with my daughter and when we lined up, we put ourselves in the middle of the pack–the “walk some, run most” section. We are realistic about our efforts these days.

This was the practice 5k. In two weeks, we would run the real race.

Weeks of laps around the field led up to this moment. Three miles is intimidating, and I could sense the anxiety from some of the girls early on.

But before we could let our doubts and fears take over, it was time to run.

—

We learn our deficiencies early. 

We are not enough this or too much that, and those thoughts burrow deep until we don’t remember ever feeling anything different.

It’s gradual, at least it was for me. Like an erosion. Slow. Steady. Almost unnoticeable, at least in the day-to-day. 

When I am in the company of elementary-aged or middle-school girls, I can’t help but think of myself at that age. About all the ways I didn’t think I measured up to whatever the perceived standard was. How I didn’t attempt difficult things because I was sure I would fail. I played my life safe for a very long time.

I wondered about these young girls, if they had any of these thoughts as they set out on the neighborhood course. Did any of them wonder if they weren’t cut out for this? Were they comparing themselves to the other girls on the course?

Because I still do–wonder if I’m cut out for this, compare myself to others.

—

Sometimes we catch a glimpse of who we can be.

While the heat is bearing down as we struggle to catch our breath, to take one more step. When we’re not sure we’re going to make it. We begin to believe other people have it better or different, and we doubt ourselves. Our efforts. Should we have even bothered trying?

But just when we thought we might give up, something happens.

Someone in the crowd calls our name. A sign encourages us to “tap here for an energy boost” and we do it, just for fun. We hear words that sound like “You got this!” and “Keep going!” And as we near the end of the race the cheering intensifies. Something clicks and we remember something true about ourselves.

I don’t quite know what to call it, but I know it when I see it.

My daughter sprints to the finish line with a smile on her face that grabs the attention of those around her. (I’m not bragging here. More than one person made mention of her smile as she finished.)

She wasn’t the only one, though. As we watched her teammates finish, it was the same every time. A girl and her buddy crossed the street to the school and when they hit the sidewalk that was the final stretch, we all started cheering and calling her name.

And the girl’s face would shine like she’s alive for the first time, a smile taking up her whole countenance. It was almost tangible, the belief that she could do the impossible.

It is my favorite part of this particular race. The confidence I see practically dripping off the girls when they finish. Because so many people believed in them. And maybe they believe in themselves just a little bit more.

Photo by Lance Grandahl on Unsplash

—

I know it doesn’t always last, this confidence. At least, not in the same measure as after a race. But it also doesn’t disappear. A hint of it remains for the next time, and each time, it grows.

—

Here’s what I’m learning about what it means to be strong: it’s not always about how fast or how much or how hard. Sometimes to be strong is to not give up, to do it in spite of how you’re feeling, to keep going.

When it comes to running some days, it’s easier to stay at my house, to take a breather between work and when the kids get home from school, to enjoy the weather without sweating.

Some days, time is not on my side and the window I have to get my run in for the day is squeezed almost shut. On those days, instead of giving up, I switch it up. Instead of throwing in the towel because I can’t run two miles or more, I see how fast I can run one mile. Sometimes I fall short of my goal. One time, though, I surprised myself and clocked the fastest one-mile time I’ve ever run.

When I think I can’t, I try to remember what I’ve already done and what I know I can do.

—

This isn’t just about running. Not in the least.

Some of us are giving all the effort we have to something or someone and coming up short. At least that’s how it seems. We’re trying and trying and trying, and we don’t feel like we’re getting anywhere. Other people are fast on our heels or blowing right past us. We’re panting, with heads throbbing and faces tomato red from the exertion. We don’t know if we can take one.more.step.

If I could wish anything for all of us it would be to have a cheering squad on the course and at the finish line, calling our name. A crowd cheering us on, reminding us, “You can do it!”

We can.

You can.

Photo by Kyle Glenn on Unsplash

It’s this small boost of belief that spurs us toward the finish line with an inexplicable energy, like we haven’t been running for the better part of an hour.

We need to cheer each other on because we’re all in this together.

That sounds vague and idealistic, I know, but I’m convinced more and more that I will cheer you on whether you’ve just started running or you finished a marathon. Whether you’re taking the first steps toward something you’re not sure you can do or you’re out there living your life fully with passion.

I want you to cross your finish line looking like you’re alive for the first time.

—

We finished our practice 5k in 41:25. I timed us, just for my own knowledge, and maybe to give us something to compare to. Our last 5K a month ago was 42:00 even, with quite a bit of walking, and while I’m personally hoping to log a better 5K time on my own, this particular run isn’t about winning. We’re all winning, just by being there.

We were as hot and sweaty as we look after the race.

I want to say that again: Winning is equal to showing up.

I know this isn’t a popular concept, and I’ll admit it doesn’t apply to every situation, but for so many things, if you’re on the field or the course, if you’re showing up, doing your best, and trying, then you’ve already won. (So many of my students want to know what the prize is when they’re playing a review game and I’ve turned into that teacher who is always like “knowledge is the prize.” That’s a story for another day, perhaps.)

My daughter didn’t seem upset with our time or performance. She has such a positive attitude most of the time, and she pushes herself pretty hard when she wants to. Even though we walked a lot of the course, we ran our first half-mile faster than I usually run it, and every time we ran for a stretch, she outpaced me. When I mentioned she might want to pace herself, she said, “My legs just fly under me.” Who can argue with that?

At the end, I reminded her (and myself and anyone who could hear) that there are people who are not even thinking about walking three miles much less trying to run any portion of them. Every girl on the course, even the one who is the last to cross, has already won because she decided to show up. Bonus points for finishing the course.

Showing up and doing it anyway and not giving up. If there’s one thing I hear the girls praise each other for, week after week, it’s that they didn’t give up.

These amazing girls recognize the try in each other.

We would be wise to follow their lead.

A list and a loss: one year of my life

Between April 4, 2018 and April 4, 2019, I lost almost 33 pounds.

I’m not supposed to tell you this. At least, that’s the vibe I get when I start talking about it in person. When people start to notice that I’ve lost weight, they all want to know the same thing:

How?

I get the sense that people are trying to figure out why it worked for me or why it hasn’t worked for them, whatever the “it” is they’ve tried. Maybe they are just curious and interested. Maybe I’m overthinking it.

The truth is I wish the changes to my body were more magical and easy than they were. In the last year, I made some hard decisions about my exercise routine and my diet, and when I look back on the journey, it was all of it worth it. But none of it was easy. Not the way I want it to be.

—

I turned 40 last year.

And I was tired of what was happening to my mind, my body and my soul. I was making choices, yes, but I also felt like I was letting circumstances and other people determine how my life was going to be. Mostly, it was just a matter of me needing to take action in my own life.

Photo by Glenn Carstens-Peters on Unsplash

That’s when I made a list of what I wanted my life to be about for the years 40 and beyond. It’s not a bucket list, because I don’t want the pressure of feeling like I have to accomplish this stuff before some undetermined end date of my life. It’s simply an after-40 list and on it are the things I don’t want to keep putting off for someday.

It’s been a year since I made the list. It’s a computer file that sits on my desktop, and I see it every time I open my computer. On the one hand, when I open it and look at all the checkmarks, I think maybe I could have accomplished more. But then I remind myself that the point is not to rush through everything on the list. It’s an in-progress document. I add things to it as I think of them. And I don’t delete the things that I’ve accomplished. I keep them there with a big checkmark next to them as a record of the positive changes and experiences I’ve had.

This last year has been mostly about my own health and wellness. For me, that is the foundation of all the other things.

My list is divided into categories: physical health; personal growth; travel; experiences; writing; and identity/heritage/family.

Physical health was a priority in the last year because I (like a lot of women I know) have spent years (maybe even an entire decade) taking care of other people and neglecting myself.  Years of therapy helped me to realize that I was worth taking care of, and that’s part of the reason I started the list. I need to see things in writing or in print to remember them. My brain is filled with too many words and ideas and thoughts to automatically remember what it is I want to do.

So, last year, around February, I started running again. My daughter has been participating in Girls on the Run and because I am her running buddy, I usually start training in the late winter/early spring so that I can complete the 5K with her. I committed to running a couple of times a week.

In years past, I tapered off after the 5K and didn’t keep running through the summer because a) it was hard to find time while the kids were home from school and b) heat and humidity is not my friend. But last year, I kept doing it. I think I took three weeks off in July because of schedules and heat but I stuck with it through the bulk of summer. I ran the 5K with my daughter, and then my husband and I ran one on Thanksgiving morning. A month ago, our family of four ran another 5K. And this year’s Girls on the Run 5K is coming up soon. 

Four 5Ks in the span of a year? I would have never thought it possible for me.

But running was just part of the story.

I was having issues with food and I suspected some problem areas but I wasn’t sure. After reading and planning, I decided to do a Whole30 in October. I won’t get into all the details here. You can read up on it yourself if you want, but I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that it was the single most transformative experience of the last year. It is a month-long food experiment that eliminates temporarily some common food groups that cause things like bloating or intestinal problems. It’s mostly meat, veggies, fruit and good fats.

Yes, it was difficult. But it was so beneficial I’m thinking about doing another one this summer. I learned about what foods my body can’t handle without negative consequences. I ate good food. I felt amazing. Like I had unlimited energy.

And I lost weight.

—

This is where it gets hard to talk about. I’m hyperaware of the body positivity (and negativity) messages out there, and I am working hard to change my way of thinking. I don’t believe my body (or yours) has to look a certain way for me (or you) to feel good or be a worthwhile person.

Photo by Taylor Smith on Unsplash

And I love my body more now than I ever have. I feel more like myself, and I’m amazed at what my body can do. These aren’t bad things, but I have to keep in mind that this is what’s true for me. It is not necessarily a prescription for everyone.

There are dresses in my closet I haven’t worn in years and when I put them on now I feel confident and sexy. I recently wore shorts for the first time in a year and when I held the pair that last year was tight I had a moment of dread. But when I put them on, there was room to spare in the waistline.

So I still have to wonder: do my clothes have too much power over my mood and self-worth?

I like what my body can do. I am consistently running 1-2 miles two or three times a week, and I’m getting faster. I’m not winded when I walk up and down stairs. And when I have a week that is more inactive than others, my body lets me know that’s not okay. (Hence the lower back pain I’ve been battling for a few days. Too much sitting recently.)

All of these are positives in my life, and sometimes I feel bad talking about them. It’s not my job to manage other people’s feelings. I want to be proud of the work I’ve done to get myself in a position to feel good about how I look. And I know there are dangerous lines that I could cross and that others do cross.

There must be a balance.

—

My health wasn’t all about losing weight, though.

I got my eyes checked and ordered new glasses for the first time in six years. And early in my 40th year, I made an appointment for a mammogram so I wouldn’t keep putting it off. I’m scheduling massages for myself on a regular basis. These are the kinds of self-care that I typically neglect.

And what about the other categories on my list? Here’s some of what I spent the last year doing:

In the personal growth category, I started playing guitar again last fall and have played half a dozen times or more in church on Sunday mornings. Our worship leader has helped me stretch my knowledge of music and how to play guitar with a band. (There have been tears, mine not hers, but I’m enjoying myself more now because of my new skills.)

In writing, I’ve given my own projects priority and entered contests to get feedback on my progress. I’m attending a writing retreat this summer. More things that could easily slip through the cracks if I don’t view them intentionally.

In family/identity/heritage, we got professional family photos taken in the fall, something we hadn’t done in almost 10 years. It was long overdue.

Photo by Rachel Lynn Photography

Travel and experiences are the two categories that don’t get as much immediate attention, mostly because they require larger amounts of money and effort and time. But even listing them where I can see them and refer back to them is helpful. It reminds me to make actual plans, not putting things off for someday. It gives me something to hope for.

—

I could easily be discouraged that I didn’t make more progress on my list this year, and I am disappointed by some things. Like I need a better method and plan for learning sign language so I can communicate with our niece. And Phil and I have the desire and plan to get ring tattoos so we can do something different with our wedding rings, but that hasn’t come to fruition yet. (I have another idea for a tattoo but mostly I’m a little bit scared.)

I could easily be discouraged that I didn’t make more progress on my list this year, and I am disappointed by some things. There was the race I didn’t run, for example. And I need a better method and plan for learning sign language so I can communicate with our niece. Phil and I also have the desire and plan to get ring tattoos so we can do something different with our wedding rings, but that hasn’t come to fruition yet. (I have another idea for a tattoo but mostly I’m a little bit scared.)

Overall, though, I lean toward satisfied and encouraged. 

The list items I accomplished this year were not grand in magnitude but they made a difference in my life and how I live it. Forward progress.

If there’s anything I want my after-40 life to be about it’s that it’s not too late. To change. To grow. To try something new. To pursue a dream.

I’m excited to see what the next year brings and what I can accomplish between now and then.

I hope you’ll stick around for the journey as well.

Of trees and flowers and beauty on purpose: Review of Placemaker by Christie Purifoy

I don’t know much about trees and flowers. Not in the technical sense. I know what I like–colorful blooms and bright spring buds and branches that loom large providing shade–but I struggle with remembering the names of specific kinds of trees and flowers. I have to train myself with words like forsythia and hyacinth. It has taken years for me to notice these specific types of plant life (although at this exact moment, forsythia is all I see when I drive, walk or run.)

Trust me: the words inside the book are as beautiful as the cover.

New ways of noticing and paying attention are my personal challenges right now and Christie Purifoy’s new book Placemaker: Cultivating Places of Comfort, Beauty, and Peace contributes to that in ways I never expected.

Purifoy wrote another book, Roots & Sky, about her family’s first year at Maplehurst, the Pennsylvania farmhouse they bought and moved into. I was intrigued by that book because its setting is just a short drive from where I live and I have a thing for old farmhouses. What I loved about that book cannot even compare to what I loved about her new book, though. If Roots & Sky gave me a romantic notion that buying and restoring an old farmhouse was my dream, then Placemakerreminded me that any place where I dwell can be where dreams come to life.

 I can’t say enough about the words in this book. But I’ll try.

This quote hits the mark on why I loved this book so much.

Each chapter begins with a tree or a plant-based theme, often accompanied by the author’s recollections of that tree in places where she’s lived along with some facts and history of that tree. I hope that doesn’t sound dull because it’s far from it. My favorite chapter of the book was the one about Penn’s Woods, again because my current dwelling place is Pennsylvania and I live in an old farm house that captures my imagination sometimes.

When our mudroom is clean enough to have the back door open, I become obsessed with this view for some reason. I’m a doors and windows fanatic, apparently.

What also appeals to me about Purifoy’s stories are that she and her family have moved several times, and some of the homes they’ve lived in have been temporary or rentals. She shows how that doesn’t have to be a barrier to making a place of beauty or comfort or peace.

“Many of us long to put down roots in some particular place, but we guard ourselves against heartbreak by waiting for a perfect place.” (p. 37)

This is me, 100 percent.

Another aspect of this book I loved is the honesty of it. Purifoy writes candidly about the challenges of owning an old farmhouse, the expenses of caring for it, even the doubts of whether it was a mistake to buy it. She also writes about the loneliness her family experienced in their various dwellings, something I can relate to in our own family’s history of moving from a familiar place to an unfamiliar one.

And she makes hospitality accessible, something I’m still learning.

“Simple food and drink may be the only absolutely necessary components of hospitality. I can welcome others even when there is a hole in the front porch where rain has rotted the boards. I can welcome others while scaffolding climbs the brick walls … I can even welcome others without air conditioning, trusting heaven for a breeze.” (p. 176)

—

That’s where I’m going to end the review portion of this post. The rest of what I have to say is about how I’m applying what I read to the place where I live.

—

It was Sunday, and we’d already had a full day, but April was right around the corner and the flowers in the ground were starting to show their colors. I wanted them to last longer, so I started clearing away the weeds and the dead leaves from fall that had collected at the base of the porch. I dumped black mulch that had collected water over the winter in between the flowers that were planted before our move to this property. They have yet to fail to bloom in spring.

This picture does not do justice to the work. If I had taken a “before” you would have seen dead leaves piled across the entire beds and purple weeds in between.

The result was an improvement I could not hardly believe. It looked like we cared about the flowers. About how our property looked.

I used to think that was a bad thing, too. Like it was somehow sinful to take care of land and a home that eventually would not last. I have also believed the lie that I have to own property or land in order to invest in it. Or even to care about it.

But why not make the most of something while it is yours?

These are the lessons of placemaking.

—

The farmhouse we live in was built in 1880. That’s all I know. I can’t figure out how to find older records beyond the current owner, our landlord, and the previous one. That only takes me back to the 1990s. I don’t know why it matters so much (or why it doesn’t quite matter enough for me to spend more time on searching) but I like to imagine how things were.

And the house itself is divided in two–a first floor apartment where we live and a second floor apartment–which makes me wonder what it all looked like when it was one whole house. (The boarded up stairs in our pantry give me the smallest of clues.)

When we moved into the farmhouse, we had ideas how to make it home. I remember how we doubted whether we should plant a garden. What if we leave? That was years, and several garden plantings, ago. We did not plant the flowers that border the porch or the hydrangeas that flower by the back door. We have planted our own flowers sometimes and pruned the trees and the rose bush. We had to uproot one of the roses this year because it didn’t bloom last year. We are amateur gardeners at best and we love this place that is both country and suburban.

We can’t paint the walls. Or figure out how to add another bedroom or bathroom. We are limited by someone else’s modifications to this beautiful farmhouse that now sits across the street from a shopping center and has a small-business in its backyard next to subdivided land. We have heard whispers of the orchard that used to dot the landscape between our yard and the river. Now there are apartments next door and a country club across the river.

Does any of this mean we give up trying?

—

What have I contributed to the places I’ve lived? Another aspect of the book I enjoyed was how Purifoy weaved stories of her homes with different kinds of trees. I have lived at half a dozen addresses since I moved out of my parents’ house after college, and I’ve always thought of my homes as temporary, as if we are in a constant phase of waiting. 

Here, in the farmhouse, it’s as close to a home as we’ve ever had. Our kids have grown here. It is the house they will remember.

Still, we dream of a place that is “ours.”

—

Placemaker reminded me that making a place is a community effort. And it’s okay to ask for help. And accept it.

My parents’ most recent visit illustrated this as we raked leaves and cleared flower beds and dumped bags of mulch into the flower beds. Our yard work uncovered a bird skull, which my son was fascinated by. When we were finished, I didn’t feel like we had accomplished much, but the look of our yard changed. It looked cared for. Like someone had tended it. This is what I hope for. This is what I’m still learning about keeping a house. It might not ever be spotless but it can look like someone cares. Like there is a tending taking place.

After reading this book, I’m more motivated to add personal touches to the house. To increase our hospitality not in proportion to our plenty but in proportion to our desire for community. I have dreams of bringing people together in our place, even if it means fading into the background of whatever gathering that might be. I want to be the place where people gather. Where good food is served. And conversation is as plentiful as the food.

—

I’ll end with this powerful connection between peace and place from the book:

“Placemaking is a kind of peacemaking. It is a way of making peace within families, for instances when we rearrange the bedroom furniture to better suit siblings who share a room … it is a way of making peace within communities, when we share our places through hospitality, or when communities of very different people care for a shared space such as a park or garden.” (p. 112)

#winning and the measure of success

Sometimes life is so ridiculous I can’t help but laugh. And shake my head in wonder.

I’m focusing on “intention” as a word for the year, and this weekend I learned that sometimes intention can be a negative thing.

A few weeks ago, we signed up as a family to run a 5K at a state park that has some significance in our family. Last year, my husband and our daughter ran it on a Sunday afternoon that felt more like February than April.

The race last year.

This year, we wanted to run it all together because more of us are fit and able. We took a practice run as a family a few Sundays ago, attempting 2 miles and that went well enough that we made the commitment to run the race. Our plan was to start together and let our kids tell us when they needed to walk and when they wanted to run.

About 15 minutes before the race this year

Race day was a perfectly beautiful spring day with temperatures close to the 70s. We were there to enjoy nature and each other’s company and to run/walk through the woods. 

We had said we would try to run the first mile all together and then branch off if needed, but the heat and humidity got the best of our daughter and she needed to walk after about 3/4 of a mile. My husband and our son kept going while I stayed with my daughter. We walked. And walked. And walked some more. And with every step, I was becoming a horribly selfish person in my head.

I hadn’t come to walk the race. I had come to run it, and I was frustrated that I couldn’t give it my best effort, even though I knew going in that I wasn’t going to come close to a personal best time or anything like that. I was also annoyed because my son seems to be a natural athlete. He hadn’t even trained for a 5K and he was talking about how he might win a medal for his age group. The male half of our party disappeared quickly ahead of us while I tried to strike a balance between compassion for my daughter’s aches and pains and encouragement to keep going. (She is 11 and I’m not always sure which complaints are genuine and which ones are overdramatized because of hormones and other changes.)

I can be a competitive person, and when older people walking dogs passed us, I had trouble keeping my frustration to myself. I did not want to wound my daughter emotionally by saying something I didn’t mean because I was wounded inside. The urge is hard to resist but I think I managed to keep my tone as neutral as possible.

We walked a good portion of the mile between 1 and 2, jogging a bit before we got to the water stop just before mile 2. I had my phone with me and was casually tracking the time. It was more than 25 minutes when we got to mile 2 and the battle in my head began again. Part of the reason I run is to challenge myself and to stretch what I think my limits are. I wasn’t feeling terribly stretched, and the more we walked the more I realized that my real reason for wanting to run this race was to prove that the last year of training and running had been worth something. Something tangible. With numbers.

At the very least, I wanted to come close to or beat my time from the Thanksgiving 5K. Especially since as far as running races goes, 2019 has been a disappointment.

It wasn’t looking good, and my daughter wouldn’t stop talking. I wanted to run, and I was “stuck” walking.

—

Less than a week earlier, our family was huddled together, a gusty wind at our back, sitting in lawn chairs in a field in the rural middle of our country watching lacrosse. Our son started playing this spring, and it is our first experience as parents with youth sports. (It is also our introduction to lacrosse. I still have a lot to learn.)

With youth sports, I have heard horror stories of demanding coaches and overbearing parents (not from this team or sport, but in general), and I have, in some ways, been dreading the competitive nature of youth sports. As I mentioned before, I am competitive and sometimes it presents as fierce loyalty. Think mama bear. (Or mama llama as I saw depicted in a meme recently: Typically chill but if you try to mess with my kids, I might spit or kick.)

That night, our son scored his first ever goal in a game. I have enjoyed watching him learn this sport and practice drills and try new things (like being goalie!) and make new friends. It is the kind of stretching activity I recommend for everyone and don’t do enough of myself. When he carried the lacrosse ball near the goal and shot and missed the first time, my disappointment was loud. I was not disappointed inhim but for him because he likes to do well at the things he does.

So when he got the ball right back and took a shot that WENT IN THE GOAL, Phil and I were ecstatic and tears pricked my eyes. I did not love my son more because he scored a goal and it is not my sole measure of his success, but I know what that meant to him. I was happy for him.

They lost the game, and I told him that you could play a great game and still lose. And that scoring a goal was not the only measure of whether he’d had a good game.

—

This is part of what I was thinking about as I ran through the woods. That, and I was looking for the cabin where my husband and I had stayed for a weekend to celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary. That was seven years ago now, but at the time, celebrating five years of marriage was a huge milestone. At the time, I wasn’t sure if we’d still be celebrating our tenth anniversary or beyond. This year, it will be 12 years, and I am still in awe of the journey.

The lane leading to the cabin looked familiar. I took a picture as my daughter and I walked, remembering that weekend and its importance to our marriage and our family. That weekend all those years ago was the reason we were running the 5K this year, in a long and winding road kind of way.

I was still feeling grumpy and frustrated by the way the race was turning out for us, and I kept trying to turn my thoughts in a different direction. Between miles and 2 and 3 we finally went back to running a little bit, and we could start to hear the cheering from the other side of the lake for those who had finished. I wondered if our guys had finished and what their time had been.

We walked over a bridge that had open slats. It freaked my daughter out to run across it. But we did run across the dam of the lake, then walked a bit more and started running again when the end was in sight. Our guys were there waiting for us to finish, yelling our names. We pushed to finish hard and fast as the clock ticked toward 42 minutes.

Forty. Two. Minutes. A full four minutes slower than my last 5K and my slowest 5K time in the history of my 5K running. (Okay, who’s being dramatic now?) I gave my husband a look that caused him concern but when I assured him I felt fine physically, he gave me a bit of space. We got water and a cookie and a banana and walked around. Our son reported their time to us: it was in the 35 minutes range. I tried to cool off, both my body and my thoughts. I needed to get out what I was feeling, but I didn’t want to say anything that would hurt my daughter’s feelings. 

Because how I was feeling wasn’t her fault.

I managed to tell him a few snippets of what I was feeling. I released some of the big feelings by focusing on the other runners. On nature. We watched a bald eagle soar over the treeline across the lake. I reminded myself that finishing a 5K is a major accomplishment no matter the time.

We had decided to stick around for the awards in a show of solidarity. Last year when the temperatures were too close to freezing to be comfortable, we stayed but were mostly miserable. This year, it was just an excuse to spend more time outside in the park. Our daughter’s age group came up first and when she realized she only missed the third place time by a couple of minutes, she smiled this huge smile: “I was so close!” Not for the first time, I wished I had her attitude.

The top times for some of the other female age groups disheartened me. I’ve seen the top times in several races and I don’t think I’ll ever get to that point. I’m just not a fast runner, and I certainly wasn’t for this race.

So when they called my age group, 40-44, and the first place finisher’s time was 40 minutes and some change, I’m sure the shock on my face was evident. And when the announcer called second place and I heard my first name followed by a jumbling of my last name (it’s not his fault), I received my medal with continued shock.

“Phil, how did that happen?” I said as I walked back toward our family.

“Good job, Mom!” the kids said.

Maybe I should have felt excited but mostly I felt terrible. Because I had spent the entire race whining internally about how I couldn’t give my best effort because my daughter needed me to stick with her, and in the end, I got a medal anyway. (My husband also placed second in his age group and his time was not nearly his best time, either. Why is the world so weird?)

#winning

—

“God has a sense of humor.”

I said this out loud as I looked at the medal, still shaking my head in disbelief. I don’t know always know what I believe about God’s involvement in our personal and daily activities but I had to wonder if He was watching me that whole time I was running with the kind of a grin that knows a secret but can’t tell yet.

Say what?

I got a medal just for showing up to the race. I could have walked the whole thing and still gotten a medal for my age group because there were only two awards given to females between the ages of 40 and 44 and I was the second of the two. For all the fun we as a society make of participation trophies and everyone winning, I have to admit that I felt special even knowing that it wasn’t my best effort that got me the award.

This, I think, is the lesson God is trying to get through to me right now.

I am an achiever. A high achiever. I want results, especially ones I can measure. I say I’m not a numbers person but I totally am when it comes to how successful I feel. I track my word counts daily and monthly so I can feel accomplished as a writer. (This is not a bad thing, per se, but quantity and quality are rarely the same thing.) I think that the more people who participate in something I’m leading means it’s more successful as a venture. Less people=less popular=less successful.

And I still believe that my best efforts will be rewarded. In school that meant if I studied enough and did all my homework, I would get As and that would mean I was successful. (I graduated second in my high school class. Ask me how that has helped me get further in life.) I have measured success by income and square footage. I still do sometimes.

It is a horrible way to live life.

Numbers don’t always tell the whole story, and they certainly aren’t the only markers for success.

Nor are they the only criteria for reward.

Can you imagine receiving an award just for showing up? It’s almost mind-boggling in our western work-hard culture. We don’t like it when people get rewarded for minimal effort. (People who heard Jesus speak didn’t like it much either. See the parable of the workers in the vineyard.)

—

What does it mean to be successful?

I don’t have a clue anymore. Sometimes it means showing up. Sometimes it means giving your best effort. Sometimes it means winning. Sometimes it makes no sense at all.

I’m still shaking my head, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all while also feeling a small amount of pride that I can say I won a medal for a second place finish in a 5K.

Maybe success is whatever you want it to be, despite what others say.

Finding the tune

It had been two months since I played my guitar. (You might remember that it had once been YEARS since I picked it up. That was in the fall and I started playing in public--on Sunday mornings in church, no less. It still feels weird to write that and say it.)

Photo by Ian Tormo on Unsplash

It’s a truth about me that if I don’t have a deadline or a scheduled reason, then some things just don’t happen. So with Christmas and our worship leader on break and then some health concerns in our family, there was no scheduled time for me to play and in my mind, no urgent need to practice. It wasn’t until earlier this month when I found myself back on the worship team schedule that I made myself start practicing again.

As I started practicing again, my fingers told me I should change my thinking. Typing hurt because any callouses I had built up in the fall from playing guitar were gone and my tender fingertips pressed the guitar strings two nights in a row. I was frantically practicing the songs I was scheduled to play the following weekend.

I am no gifted musician, just someone who learned how to play but can’t read music and can’t play bar chords because of my short fingers. I’m constantly googling how to play certain chords “easy” or what I can substitute. I know nothing about music theory so I use a chart I also found online to help me cheat my way to the right key.

I suspect that this is sort of normal for those who play guitar. I don’t think it’s a secret and even though these things sometimes make me feel like an imposter, I don’t think anyone who is singing along on Sundays would notice my methods. (One of my fears is that I sound screechingly horrible when I play. I think I would notice if that was the case, but honestly, when I’m playing, I can’t really hear how my instrument sounds. Maybe that’s a good thing?)

I was struggling with two songs that are songs I love and wanted to play but were proving a bit of a challenge for me. The first night I dragged my guitar to the living room to practice, I cringed the whole time, wondering why I had ever thought it was a good idea to play guitar for people (and okay, yes, for God). I pulled up music videos for the songs in question and tried to play along, but it wasn’t syncing like I would have hoped. I play be ear, which sounds impressive but really just means that I know how things are supposed to sound by listening not by looking at the chords or the notes and when it doesn’t sound “right” I get frustrated because I’m not sure what to do.

The second night of practice I was beating myself up again for being inadequate and lacking talent. I mean when you’re listening to Chris Tomlin and Matt Redman play and sing the songs you’re struggling with, that’s an easy thing to do. I’m not either of those guys nor is that my aim. I spent most of one day humming the tune of one of the songs in my head (and sometimes out loud) just to get familiar with it.

And then something clicked. I could hear it and I could play it. This synchronizing was a magical moment because then I began to believe that I could actually play the songs the way they were meant to be sung.

—

I’ve already established that I’m not a musician, per se, but I do love music and I think there are some important metaphors related to music that those of us who are not musicians can apply to our lives.

For example, I think there’s a soundtrack that accompanies us throughout our days. It might be a laugh track like from the “old days” of comedy shows. Maybe it’s more like a record scratching or skipping. Maybe there’s one note you can pick out and it reminds you of something familiar. Maybe it’ s a lullaby and it soothes you. Maybe it’s the kind of song that makes you dance.

I’m not talking about a literal song, although there are plenty of those. I’m still trying to grasp this idea myself. It’s one of those things I know when I see it or experience it. So, let me see if I can explain.

Some tasks are drudgery. I do not thrill at the prospect of laundry (I folded five loads one night recently. Ew.) or dishes or cleaning the bathroom. I do these things, not always as often as I should, because they need to be done. Like paying bills. They are part of the price of living. But I have to sometimes pump myself up to do them. Sometimes I play music to motivate my work. The peppier the better.

But there are other things I do that I could do even if I had little to no energy. Reading, for example. Almost always if I pick up a book, I can become more energized for the other parts of my life. Writing is another one of these things, once I actually convince myself to start.

These things are so ingrained in who I am that I don’t feel like I need to “listen” for the tune. They are soul songs I know so well that I can play them by heart.

But sometimes I have to listen more carefully for the tune that makes my heart sing. Lately, I’ve been finding it more often in connection. 

I have always felt a little bit like a bridge that brings people together. I think this is part of my personality makeup (Enneagram 9 stuff, if you’re into that), but I haven’t always known this about myself. But it’s become more apparent.

Let me tell you about a recent experience. Some of our students are learning about careers for a project, and one of our students had an interest in an area that one of my family members worked in. We were able to arrange a phone call, and I was so thrilled to see the student’s face almost literally light up when a connection was made between things they like to do and things my family member likes to do. It was confirmation that the student’s interest in this field was not only valid but quite possibly the THING they were meant to do with their life.

Photo by bruce mars on Unsplash

I don’t always leave work feeling like I could dance or skip but that day I did. I had found the tune of my heart, part of the song I was meant to sing with my life, and it was almost intoxicating.

I feel this, too, when I’m helping people tell their stories because I’m connecting them with readers. Sometimes when I end a client phone call, I have to get up and walk around or do something physical like folding laundry or washing dishes because I have so much adrenaline. (I’m not a thrill seeker at all. Not in the traditional sense. I get my thrills from meaningful work and authentic interaction. I don’t know if that makes me weird or just me.)

Maybe that’s what thrills me about writing and reading, too. A connection with a character or a reader or with my thoughts to the rest of life. 

—

Sometimes it’s hard to hear the song you were meant to sing because of static or noise or being too far from the source to get a good signal.

I know this all too well. The noise of daily life–the drudgery of the things we don’t like to do–can drown out the soul song. Distance from the Source of life can cause me to tune in to other songs that are not mine to sing. This is when I start to criticize my abilities or efforts or when I look at what others can do and wish that I could do that, too.

Photo by Mohammad Metri on Unsplash

Static, though. Interference. This is a big one. Stress. Trauma. Painful experiences. A history of talking badly about yourself or believing lies told you by someone you trusted. These can make the soul song almost impossible to hear.

I don’t know the path for you, but counseling was the path for me. After a long and sometimes painful process, I was able to tune down the static and begin to hear the tune of something lighter and freer. Even then, in those first days of hearing it, my steps were tentative and my “dancing” was mostly internal. But the more I heard the song, the harder it was to resist.

Do you know those songs that make you tap your foot almost without thinking? The ones that make you want to shake your booty even if you’re pushing a shopping cart through the grocery store? That’s what this soul song is like for me. I can’t help myself when I hear it. I talk faster and my eyes widen and sometimes I’m practically shouting my enthusiasm. Occasionally I will forget that I’m even talking to anyone else about this, and sometimes my husband will tell me how attractive I am in these moments. I assume it’s because I am so fully alive and free. Maybe I should ask him.

That’s the power of the soul song.

But only you can hear it. Only you know what the tune sounds like for you. If I could wish anything for anyone it would be to have the chance to clear the distractions and the static and the noise, to do the hard work to listen for the soul song and then dance.

To be fully alive is my goal these days, and I don’t always meet that goal, but I know now that it’s the only thing I really want. Does that mean my life is free of drudgery? No. But it does make the ordinary days more than bearable.

One day, I am practically flying when I leave work and the next I am grumbling at having to shovel snow from my driveway at 7 in the morning. But I will keep listening for the song and go where it leads me.

—

Would it surprise anyone to learn that it’s easier to hear the tune in a group? I had almost no problems following along when it came time to practice with the worship team.

It can be that way with our soul songs, too. I have been most in tune with the song of my heart when I have found others who are living their soul songs out loud. I have found it with the caseworkers tirelessly advocating for refugees. With the teachers who give middle school students everything they have every day. With friends who are passionately pursuing their purpose, even when it costs them (money, time, family).

I should mention that sometimes I didn’t know what I was passionate about until I saw other people living their passions. If you’re reading this and thinking you have no idea what your soul song even sounds like, maybe you just need to hang out or observe people who do. Soul songs recognize each other, I think, and stir when they hear each other.

Listen for the tune. Remove the noise. Dance to your song.

Eleven years a parent

This night always makes me a little bit nostalgic, more than even tomorrow, the day our ginger girl arrived in the world. I never get tired of telling the story. How I went to work that Monday as usual and when I left for the day, a co-worker asked me if I was going to work right up till the baby came.

“That’s the plan,” I said with a laugh. We still had five weeks till my due date.

The next morning my water broke and I woke my husband and we called the doctor and we drove to the hospital and I was admitted and IN LABOR even though I wasn’t having contractions yet. Today, eleven years ago, I was biding my time in a hospital bed, waiting for something to happen.

Meanwhile, the maintenance man for our apartment was finishing up a job at our place that had taken longer than expected and my mom and grandma left our hometown for a three-hour drive south with a stop at Target on the way because bless our hearts, we didn’t even have a crib yet for this bundle who was about to make the world a better place.

I’ll spare you all the labor and delivery details but our baby girl arrived in the wee hours of the morning, a redhead, five weeks early. Unexpected and surprising in all the best ways.

—

I can’t say I was born to be a parent. I have had to grow into the role, and when they let us leave the hospital with a newborn just a few days later, I panicked, thinking for sure they had made a mistake letting us go home. I was certain of it when two days later we were back in the hospital because our baby’s skin was yellow, a sign of the jaundice they told us to watch for. I spent that night barely sleeping while my baby slept under a lamp that would bring her bilirubin numbers down. (I still think bilirubin sounds like someone’s name. Maybe a jazz singer.) It was the most frightening night of my young life and even though the nurses assured me all would be well, I wouldn’t believe it until we had been released for a second time.

—

But let’s be honest. I’m still terrified at times. Parenting has been the most surprising, humbling, unexpected, panic-inducing ride. Most days I think I’m just okay at it. And I’m constantly wondering how I’m messing this whole thing up.

I’ve heard that parenting doesn’t get easier as your kids grow up; it just gets different. With an 11-year-old, I feel like “different” is the word to describe it, but I won’t tell those stories here. The closer my daughter gets to someday having her own social media account, the more aware I am of what is hers to tell and what is mine.

With an 11-year-old, there is a shift that is happening in my parenting style. I am letting go a little more while also trying to cherish what I’m not sure will last.

“Will you still hug me when you’re a middle schooler?” I sometimes ask her just before the bus comes to pick up the kids. She is our affectionate one, free with hugs and kisses, but I know the days of fledgling independence are coming. I tuck every “I love you, Mom” into a pocket in my soul because we have already seen glimpses of the “I hate you” dragon that seems intent on driving every family bonkers for a season.

I will not wish for time to stop or for the years to reverse. I have loved and loathed the years past in a fluctuating rhythm. Time does not stop. Nor does it reverse. I want only to remember yesterday and celebrate today and plan for tomorrow but I don’t want to rush any faster than it already goes.

How can she already be 11?

And how do I still feel like I have so much to learn?

Everything I know about living a beautiful life

It was Monday, and the world had been painted white with snow. It clung to the trees like ornaments on a Christmas tree. Few surfaces were left uncovered.

Our family had spent the previous day watching the snow fall, wondering when it would stop, guessing how many inches would accumulate. While it was coming down on Sunday, we observed one accident happen on our road (no injuries but it was a hit-and-run), two fire trucks respond to a call at the nearby apartment building, a utility truck parked near where the hit-and-run accident occurred, and a couple of Amish buggies pass by like it was just another day.

When we went to sleep, it was still snowing, and we already new our start to the week would be delayed.

A two-hour delay for work and school meant extra time for shoveling the driveway and clearing the car along with all the other getting-ready-for-school-and-work tasks. There was also extra time for social media and viewing what felt like a zillion posts about the snow.

“A winter wonderland!” the pictures were captioned with one man even suggesting everyone go outside and take a walk WHILE IT WAS STILL SNOWING. I have no doubt that it would have been magical, but not even the promise of wonder could entice me from my cozy jammies and warm house.

It certainly looked pretty from inside my house, but the beauty of it was lost as I grumbled about the work yet to do. After my husband had been out to clear the driveway for half an hour, I went out to clear the car. Not much about my attitude had changed as I pushed and brushed and swept snow off the roof and the trunk and the windows. I stopped for a moment and looked at the tree in front of our house, the one that marks the seasons, whose beauty first welcomed us when we moved in.

When the car was clear, I went back inside to get my phone to take a picture. Documenting beauty is an occasional practice and I was out of practice.

Everything I know about living a beautiful life is found in these photos.

If you look close enough, just past the tree displaying its winter splendor, you’ll see the trash can and recycling bin. Mondays are garbage days and before I took this photo, while my husband was shoveling the driveway, I dragged the can and the bin to the street. Usually I cut through the yard but I didn’t feel like traipsing through snow up to my calves, so I walked the short distance from the driveway to the road sign where we place the bins for pickup. Only once did I have to dodge traffic.

While I was taking these pictures, one of our neighbor dogs was barking at me. It is the loud and annoying yipping that accompanies any outdoor activity and prompts the neighbors to then yell at the dogs to “shut up.” And inside, my husband was negotiating with the kids about who was going to take the first shower like it was a hostage situation. Anxiety was building inside of me because this was only Monday and it was going to be a long week.

I took these pictures to capture the beauty. Maybe I was even feeling a little bit left out of the perceived serenity of the winter wonderland pictures.

I did not feel serene as the dog barked and the children fought and the snow slowed my routine. But that didn’t make the scene in my yard any less beautiful. The truth is the beauty of life is smack dab in the middle of the ordinary. Sometimes it’s even in the middle of a mess.

I used to think living a beautiful life meant having a perfect life. That an Instagram-worthy life was evidence of a beautiful life. That poetic words and portraits of a well-kept home were the proof that life was beautiful. I used to think a beautiful life was beyond my reach. Or that I’d have to wait for “someday,” when everything fell into place.

But I’ve changed my mind. I think that a beautiful life happens when we choose to see the beauty right now. When we stop to take the picture of the tree while the dog is barking and the kids are fighting and the garbage can sits at the curb. Beauty is in the ordinary. Beauty is in the mess. And I’m not saying that you have to see garbage day as a gift or adopt a thankful attitude for the tenth load of laundry, but I think we can find a way to notice how the sun streams in through the mud room window while we’re doing laundry or take an extra second to remember how the snow-covered tree looks in spring. To see the white clouds and the blue sky and the snowy limbs stretching up and out and ask yourself if what you’re seeing is even real. (I could have sworn we were living in a painting.)

Sometimes a beautiful life is seeing what’s right in front of you and sometimes it’s hoping for what you can’t see. (Like spring when it’s snowing in March.)

A beautiful life is not a perfect life, it is a life being lived. Even when that living includes a sink full of dishes, an overflowing mound of laundry or a garbage can being hauled to the street.

This is the stuff of life. The wonder and the work. The ordinary and the extraordinary. The perfect and the not-so-perfect. The tidy and the messy.

All I really know now is that I can’t wait to have a beautiful life because I already have one. A beautiful life isn’t beyond my reach; it’s right in front of me.