Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

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A cold winter’s night

The wind blew fiercely, stinging our faces as we raced into the van, slamming the doors shut to the elements outside. We couldn’t keep out the chill as our hands shook with shivers and our teeth chattered. A turn of the key and the car engine croaked to life, resisting the weather as much as our bodies.

These are the shortest days, the ones just before the winter solstice, when the sun doesn’t rise soon enough and sets too early, when only the sunniest of days offer warmth.

Confession: I do not pine for summer days when the weather turns cold.

I love being outside, but I will whine like it’s my job when the thermometer creeps into the 90s with high humidity. I find little relief in the summer unless I cocoon myself in an air-conditioned room and refuse to leave.

But the winter days, well, as much as I don’t want to go outside when the temperatures are in the teens and the “real feel” is single digits or below zero, I find myself almost looking forward to them. Sometimes.

Corina Ardeleanu via Unsplash

Winter is often labeled as a bleak season, but I see some of the most beautiful scenes when snow covers the ground or the sun sets over a barren land. The contrast of brown tree branches against a blue sky stops me where I walk sometimes. Sometimes winter offers less distractions. Maybe there is less beauty than other seasons, but maybe that’s why it stands out more. No competition. (I’m watching Bob Ross on Netflix as I write. He’s painting winter scenes and they are anything but bleak or boring.)

Winter slows me down. I go less places. I take more care. I plan ahead to start the car before we leave. We add a few minutes to our departure time to bundle up. My body seems to move more slowly, as if it is preparing for hibernation. I won’t complain.

And winter pushes me toward people, toward shelter, toward home. When it’s cold and there’s a crowd, I tend to stand a little closer or pull my kids in close for snuggles or a huddle of semi-warmth while we wait for the bus. When I’m out in the freezing temperatures, I want nothing more than to be in. A longing for a warm and cozy place overwhelms me, almost to the point of tears.

I just want to be home, I lament, sometimes out loud.

And I can’t help but want everyone to be warm and home when it’s winter.

The frigid weather thaws my heart.

And leads me home.

This is what I need to remember not only when the weather outside turns but when life takes a figurative cold turn. It’s not all warm fuzzies these days as far as life goes, and I have to remember that the stinging winds and biting cold of circumstances can push me toward people, toward shelter, toward home. I read a passage today in an Advent book about God being my dwelling place, and He is. Except when I think I can survive on my own. But when I’m chilled by the world around me, I want nothing more than the security of home. I want the comfort of people, the togetherness of humanity.

Winter.

It’s here and I can’t change that and while I want the freedom to be outside and active and not have to bundle up, this season, it’s necessary in so many ways.

(This post contains an affiliate link.)

The tree tells a story

Every year it’s the same.

We cut down a tree, place it in the stand, position it in the living room, string the lights and add the ornaments.

Every year it’s different.

The tree changes shape and size depending on that year’s selection at the farm, and the ornaments have no specific place on the tree. We also add an ornament, new since the previous year, one that commemorates some event or season of life.

Our tree, it tells a story.

On it hangs a record of our lives, a timeline of a family.

Read the rest of this post at Putting on the New, where I write on the 12th of every month.

 

 

A captivating historical: Review of Child of the River by Irma Joubert

Author Irma Joubert got my attention with her debut English-translated novel The Girl From the Train. (Not to be confused with that more famous book/movie Girl ON the Train.) Joubert’s books spotlight South Africa’s role in world events, like World War II.

child-of-the-riverThis book, Child of the River, encompasses some World War II history but focuses more on events leading up to apartheid. It is the story of one girl, Persomi, who grows up poor and white on a wealthy farm where her family are sharecroppers. Her brother fights in World War II and her friendship with the neighbor boy, Boelie, is tested when he joins an underground nationalist movement.

When Persomi is given opportunities to further her education, her world expands and she becomes a vocal proponent of justice among her friends and neighbors. She is on a lifelong search for her real father, and she is tragically in love with someone close to her.

Joubert’s writing and storytelling are beautiful and captivating. I knew little about the beginnings of apartheid and felt like I learned a little bit about that era of South African history through the eyes of Persomi. Joubert says her stories are based on true situations, which I love even more.

My only complaint is that the ending felt abrupt after so much buildup. And I won’t spoil that here. It’s a lovely piece of fiction, and an important work that reminds us of how devastating segregation laws are to communities.

While I did receive a free copy of the book from BookLook Bloggers, my review reflects my honest opinion.

Also, stay tuned. I have an extra copy of this book to give away after the holidays.

Telling myself a better story

More than a month ago, I trapped a mouse that had been running through our house for nearly a month and avoiding capture. It was a short-lived victory because I heard scratching sounds in the kitchen the same day I disposed of said mouse. I was on alert for a few days, but the more days that passed, the more relaxed I became, thinking maybe, just maybe, the message had been sent and received: No mice welcome here!

Then this week, I walked into our bedroom, flipped the light on and I was sure I saw something scurry for hiding. My husband couldn’t find any evidence of such, so I thought maybe I was seeing things. Then last night, my father-in-law sat in the kitchen while my mother-in-law washed dishes and saw a mouse cross the kitchen floor and climb into the warm hiding place under the counter where the kitchen heater is located. (My daughter later told me that she thought she saw something similar in their room one day when she flipped the light switch. Please, dear God, let it be one mouse and not three.)

Perfect. I thought. I’ll catch this one the same way I caught the other one. Except 18 hours passed with no sign of the mouse, even with a baited trap. I decided I had to get on with my day regardless of the mouse, so I did.

Now it’s noon and I just saw a little critter scurry along our bedroom wall and under the chair in our room. I do not know if this is the same mouse or not, and I do not know if it is still there or not.

Here is what I do know: I have almost zero control over these things. I have baited snap traps that they have licked clean, and stolen food from. The only method that has worked so far has seemed to be luck: placement of trap plus the kind of bait used and a whole lot of anxiety on my part.

Control, or lack thereof, I’m learning, is just one of the reasons this whole mouse-in-the-house issue bothers me.

The other is that I somehow think it’s my fault.

We are not a tidy family. We have too much stuff; we know this. We do not clean often or well. We do what is necessary but not much more. So, in my mind, if our house was cleaner, there would be no mice. Never mind that we live on the first floor of an old farmhouse with more holes in the foundation than I can count. Never mind that it’s winter and there’s a field behind our house and THESE THINGS JUST HAPPEN.

I write about these mousecapades so I don’t go completely insane all alone in my house, and also to remind myself that I am not the only person to ever deal with mice in their house. My parents, who live on a piece of property surrounded by farm fields, also have mice. And my mother keeps a clean house.

This is what I need to tell myself when I feel like it’s my fault we have mice in the house: Mice happen to people with clean houses AND messy houses.

This one little piece of truth keeps me from spiraling into a funky mood where I feel like life is all terrible and horrible and I can’t do anything right.

Because that is where I can easily go: from mouse in the house to FML (excuse the implied language).

I forget in times like these, whether minor inconvenience or major crisis, that what happens, for good or for bad, is not necessarily my fault or a direct result of my action or inaction. In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus says that God “causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.” In context, he is talking about loving your enemies, which is something I want to ponder more, but we all know instances where “good” things happen to “bad” people and “bad” things happen to “good” people. (I put “good” and “bad” in quotation marks because most of the time it’s relative, what is good and bad, or it’s at least not as simple as one or the other.)

I could have the cleanest house on the block and still have a mouse problem.

This is just one example of a larger issue in my life: the idea of control and that good behavior leads to a good life. It’s something I’ve been battling for at least 10 years.

Kristina M M via Unsplash

Kristina M M via Unsplash

I used to think that if I did all the “right” things and said all the “right” words that I would somehow be guaranteed a “good” life free of the kinds of crises that others face. I don’t know what gave me the idea that this is how life worked but I quickly learned that it doesn’t work that way at all. That you can spend your life trying to be good and still be blindsided by the bad. That hard work or an expensive education does not automatically lead to success. That kids get sick because their world is full of germs (and they wipe their noses on their sleeves! Ew!) It is not a reflection on me as a parent if my kid has a cold or pneumonia or gets a scraped up knee from playing outside.

Still, as I write these things, I think, “But maybe if I …” No. I have to stop telling myself this story that I am the god of my life and those around me. I worship control, even if it makes its appearance subtly. This is the worst kind, anyway, I think. While I cannot live my life all “c’est la vie” and “what can you do?” I also cannot spend my energy keeping everything in perfect order and everyone on track. My kids and my husband have their own minds. They make their own choices. I can speak into those choices, but I cannot choose for them.

Maybe I can’t keep the mice out of our house completely. It’s a rental, after all, and nature is nature. But I don’t have to let the circumstance convince me that I’m failing at life in some way.

That’s not the whole story.

It’s Advent now, and if we don’t ponder the significance of the season, we might convince ourselves of an untrue, partial story. That what we see is what we get. End of story. That life is nothing but chaos and it’s our fault and it’s always going to be that way.

I read these words in an Advent book today and they reminded me that there’s a better story to be told:

Things now are not as they will be.”

– Come, Lord Jesus: The Weight of Waiting by Kris Camealy, page 24

I am not overly optimistic about life and its circumstances, but I find hope in words like these because they acknowledge that things aren’t the way they should be while at the same time offering hope that someday, those circumstances will change.

Maybe it’s ridiculous, though. Maybe I should beat myself up about the mice in the house or my inability to keep the house spotless or prevent my kids from getting sick.

But I can’t live like that. I will own my part and do what I can, but I will not hold myself for responsible for things I cannot control.

Call it a pre-New Year’s revelation or something like that.

What about you? Do you feel pressure to get everything right all the time or maintain control over things you really can’t? I’d love to hear from you and encourage you.

*This post contains an affiliate link, which means if you click on it and make a purchase, I get a small portion in return.

First Friday Five {December}

It’s that time again. On the first Friday of each month, I share with you five things I’m loving or obsessing about. Here’s the December edition!

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  1. Local coffee shops. I spent a lot of time writing in November and on a few Wednesdays, a friend and I tried a couple of new-to-us coffee shops. Here’s something fun about the area in which I live: We are not overrun with Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts. Yes, we have some of those, but there’s a greater number of local coffee shops, and I have yet to find one I don’t like at all. This one to the right is a new favorite with a mint mocha to die for. wp-1480611504952.jpg
  2. The Duolingo app. As I continue working with refugees, I’ve wanted to improve my language skills but right now, I speak fluent English and that’s it. My husband told me about this app, and now we’re dueling on Duolingo, him with Spanish and me with French. I love the refresher and the chance to learn a new language at my fingertips.
  3. Not having Facebook on my phone. After Election Day, I couldn’t handle social media, or not well. So, I took the Facebook app off of my phone and seriously, I’m a different person. It’s not that I want to avoid news or totally check out from other people’s lives, but now I have to sit down with my computer and open Facebook, and I’m less likely to use it as a distraction because it’s not so accessible. Sure, I’m missing things that people post, but I’m also forced to connect with people more intentionally and *gasp* face-to-face.
  4. Cupcake Wars. The kids and I are working our way through a Cupcake Wars collection on Netflix, and even though I don’t bake much anymore, I still love to see the creativity that goes in to these cupcakes and the themes. Downside, my son drew me a picture of what he wants his birthday cake to look like, and he wants to help!
  5. The Moth Radio Hour. While I waited in the parking lot for my husband to get off work one night, I turned on NPR and discovered this gem of a show that also is a podcast. Real people tell true stories in front of a live audience, and it does not seem to matter what they are talking about, but I am interested. It’s a good tool for learning storytelling, too. I’m noticing the details people include in their stories and how that enriches the whole thing. Can’t stop listening. Warning: Many of the stories are gritty and have content that isn’t suitable for children.

What are you raving about these days?

What I did at the grocery store the day before Thanksgiving

“What are you making with all the cream cheese?”

It was the day before Thanksgiving, and the grocery store was packed with harried, frazzled shoppers. Or maybe that was just me. I had family driving in from Illinois, two kids home from school on the first of five days, and a bunch of errands and cleaning and cooking to do. I am not a chatty person at the grocery store. Or ever, really. I like lists and tasks and crossing things off when they’re done.

Normally, a question like this would be a nuisance, but the older gentleman who asked had a smile on his face and a genuine look of curiosity.

So, I answered. I told him about the pumpkin cheesecake bars and the pepper jam spread we were making for the next day. His eyes lit up as he told me about his plans for the cream cheese he’d just put in his cart.

“I make a blue cheese, cheese ball,” he said. Then he listed the ingredients to his recipe and how to make it, and I said with a smile, “I’m coming to your house.” The kids told him their grandparents were coming, and I noticed his Red Sox jacket. We talked baseball for a while.

“Kids, close your ears,” he said. “I grew up in Massachusetts and I was 14 before I knew that ‘damn Yankees’ was two words.” I revealed our love for the Cubs and our hopes to make it to Boston for a baseball game next year. He asked where we were from in the Midwest, and he knew of Dixon.

“I’m 84, I still work, and I’m having fun,” he said.

I believed him.

I don’t know how long we talked or how many people rushed past us. Time seemed to stop for a moment. I asked his name before he went on his way.

“Norman,” he said. And then he was gone.

Clark Young via Unsplash

Clark Young via Unsplash

I’d come into the grocery store grouchy and impatient because shopping with kids takes SO long. I left with a feeling of fullness. Talking with strangers in the store when I’m crunched for time is not what I do.

Later I wondered if my willingness to stop and talk to Norman was because my grandfather is no longer with us, and I have a weakness for old men with interesting stories.

We left the store and planned to grab all our bags to leave the cart at the front of the store. A woman approached with a quarter and she waited for our cart, even though in the time it took us to unload she could have had one from the line of carts nearby.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” my son called out. He’d said it just moments earlier to the cashier, too. I think holidays must be his favorite time of year because he opens up even more to strangers, spreading a little cheer with his enthusiastic greetings.

Before our next stop the kids were back to annoying each other. We dropped off the groceries at home then headed to the next store, even busier than the first. We only needed a few things, but we were pushing toward lunchtime and the limits of my children’s public behavior.

We bumped into some friends we hadn’t seen in a while and caught up with them. It further delayed our progress through our errands, but there’s no good reason not to stop to talk to a friend.

Our final errand was to the library to pick up a museum pass for a possible outing with our family this weekend. Our librarian friend Mary Kathryn was working, and after I handed her the wrong key card for the library, I chuckled.

“Too many errands today.”

She commented about the biggest travel day of the year and asked if we were traveling. The kids told yet another person that their grandparents were coming, and we talked about the travel time between Illinois and Pennsylvania.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” my not-so-little turkey called out as we left.

It was more than two hours start-to-finish for errands I could have done in half that time alone.

But this I know: Had I been by myself, I probably wouldn’t have stopped and talked with so many people, and certainly not for as long.

Everything got done and the human element made it all better.

I forget that. A lot. That life is not just a series of tasks to accomplish but people to connect with.

Happy Thanksgiving!

When the light shines brightest {or We’ve got work to do}

I told you some of how I’ve been feeling since Election Day and those things are still true. I’m sad and confused and hurt and taking on the pain of others so much so that I’ve had to limit my social media use so I can function for my family.

But there’s something else stirring and while it’s not as noticeable yet, it gives me hope that what I’m feeling now is not all there is to feel.

—

It was a Monday of all days, and I had walked the kids to the bus stop. Fall mornings around here offer a chill, foreshadowing the season to come when we’ll be bundled up like snow adventurers just to walk a few feet to the bus. But the sun rises and warms the day and by afternoon, we’re outside again, with or without jackets to play and soak up as much time on the porch and in the yard as the season allows.

Fall has been fickle this year, giving us summer-like days and winter-like chills, all the while the leaves have taken their sweet time in changing colors, but change they have.

And when I walked back to the house that morning, this is what I saw at the end of our driveway.

The leaves on the tree next door turn sunshine yellow and fall onto our driveway like a carpet. It is my favorite part of autumn, I remember, and the sun glinting through the branches on its way to its peak stopped me where I stood. I felt like I had stumbled into something holy.

—

I’m not in the van as much these days, but when I do have the chance to put a CD on repeat, it’s Andrew Peterson’s The Burning Edge of Dawn, mostly because of the first song, The Dark Before the Dawn.

Take a listen or look up the lyrics. It helps me identify what I’m feeling and have felt. That dark days will come but dawn will follow. That we will have pain but there will be a balm.

I’m not just speaking of politics here because my life has seen plenty of dark days before last Tuesday, but it all reminds me that light shines brightest in the darkness. The sun almost blinds me first thing in the morning because my eyes have adjusted to the dark of night. It is the same reason the first colors of spring seem so bright after a winter full of brown and white.

I am in no way hoping for dark days ahead. I will not celebrate anything like that. But I know that no matter what the days ahead bring, I have a job to do and that is to bring Light into the world. In our church tradition, we culminate Advent with a candlelight service to symbolize the birth of the Light into a dark world.

We are constantly bearing this Light today and birthing it into the world.

When I watch the news, I am not thrilled by it but I see the potential for the bearers of Light to get to work and continue to work. As bleak as the future might seem, I am hopeful that the Church will do its best work in the days ahead. That we will stand against injustice with a loud voice instead of a whisper. That artists will create their greatest pieces. That beauty and love will be the hallmarks of a people who sometimes appear the opposite.

I do not hope these things as some sort of naive Pollyanna. It is not my nature to be optimistic. But I know that to Be Light in the midst of darkness is to be noticed and that millennia ago we, the Church, were invited to Be Light because the Light had come. In those days the world loved darkness more than Light, and it may be true in our day, too. But Light will always overcome.

Our work has always been the same, but sometimes we forget. At least I do. Or I cast off my responsibility because maybe there’s already enough Light in the world. But our world needs the Light more than ever.

And there are all kinds of light. Some of us will be a blazing fire. Others of us will be like a single candle. But it’s all Light and all bearing Light and it doesn’t matter if you’re a bonfire on a hill or a flashlight in the basement.

It is past time to Be Light in the world, and I say this to myself knowing that it might get darker before it gets lighter, that the light might be dim or faint, but to look for the Light is to make a declaration that all hope is not lost.

How have you seen Light in the darkness? How will you Be Light in this world?

The Climb {or What Doesn’t Happen in a Day}

climb-vertical

Amanda Perez via Unsplash

In early August I agreed to take part in a team challenge to raise money and awareness for a local refugee resettlement organization. The goal: Each team member would walk or run 100 miles in eight weeks. I opted to walk, and I knew it would be tough, but I wanted to give it a try.

When the eight weeks were up, I had fallen short of the goal, but I had still logged 80 miles of walking. Even now, a month after the challenge ended, I’m still not quite to the 100-mile mark, but I’m getting closer with every step.

At the beginning of the challenge, 100 miles seemed like an impossible dream. How could a few days of one- and two-mile walks ever amount to anything? But they did. Those seemingly small numbers added up, and together, they made something significant.

I’m beginning to think this is the way of all things.

Read the rest of this post at Putting on the New, where I write on the 12th of each month.

Election Day {and the days that follow}

I’ll always remember where I was on Election Day 2016 because 2016 was the year I spent most of my Tuesdays with refugees.

Election Day was no different. Before I’d even had a chance to cast my vote, I was sitting in a Catholic church in a room full of Cuban and Haitian people, in a class that was conducted entirely in Spanish for their benefit. I was the only one who spoke only English, and for an hour I understood the confusion of trying to learn about your new community when the person speaking does not use your language. At one point, the teacher turned to me and asked me a question in Spanish. I knew what topic she had just covered, but I didn’t understand what she said. I stared at her without answering until she spoke the question in English.

But I don’t want you to use this as evidence that we have lost something in America. We have always been a melting pot; sometimes we just forget. And the immigrants who often came to this country in decades and centuries past were probably less outwardly identifiable. (I’m thinking of Irish immigrants as one example.)

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We took a short walk to market, then I took a short walk through the city to the ATM and back to market while I waited for my husband to finish with a dental appointment and come pick me up. I bought a roasted veggie pie from the Middle Eastern stand from the man who always smiles when he hands me back my change. I don’t know his name. I need to correct that. Then I bought a salad at the stand that sells African food and uses some of its proceeds to help children in Kenya. It was still a bit cool but nice enough to sit outside, so I took up a bench and watched the world pass by as I ate.

A young-looking girl approached two well-dressed men standing nearby. They were talking to each other and one of them held a bouquet of flowers. She asked for a dollar and the man holding the flowers told her he didn’t have any. The other man decided he could spare a dollar and made a big show of handing it over while the man with the flowers quizzed her about what she needed a dollar for. I didn’t hear her reply, but they watched her as she walked away, first rounding the corner of the building and disappearing for a moment, then changing directions and crossing the square.

For the next five minutes, the two men talked about her. I couldn’t hear everything they said but when I did pick up pieces of their conversation it was evident they didn’t trust her and were concerned about where that money had gone. I wanted to run after the girl and tell her some truths about her life and worth and beauty. I would have given her a dollar without question, and it wouldn’t have been the first time.

I do not love my dollars so much that I will withhold them from people who ask. (And I do not have that many dollars to begin with.)

—

I came home from the city to find that my neighbor had turned her yard into a Donald Trump shrine overnight. Large signs hung from her fence, a handmade sign declaring that Trump was the “only right choice for all Americans.” A life-size mannequin of Trump stood next to a tree where another sign hung. At night, the whole display is lit, and when it rained the day after the election, she gave him a patriotic umbrella.

She is my literal neighbor. She buys our kids Christmas presents and is disappointed when they don’t show up at her house for Halloween. She is friendly and waves enthusiastically and engages the children in conversation whenever we are all outside at the same time.

I will not stop loving her. Even if I have to tell myself the same thing I told my children: “She is our friend. We don’t agree with her politics, but she is still our friend and we don’t have to say anything about her yard.”

Although if she had asked to put a sign in my yard, I would have had to politely decline

—

“Which bus goes to downtown?”

The Haitian man had called me over to ask the question before we left for market. I attempted to clarify where he wanted to go because bus schedules are something I’m not familiar with yet. I live in the ‘burbs and have a mini-van. But riding the bus is on my list of skills to acquire. Along with learning some conversational Arabic. Or Spanish. Or Swahili. Or all three.city-election-day

“To Philadelphia,” he replied.

I told him I didn’t think a bus went to Philadelphia but I knew the train did.

“What is in Philadelphia? Family? Or friends?”

He shook his head “no.”

“I just want to see all of this new country,” he said. “So when people ask me questions, I can tell them what it is like.”

I told him that Philadelphia is full of American history, places like the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. It felt right, and also weird, to be talking about the place where our nation was born on Election Day with a man who was not born here.

Later that night I would think of him as the kids and I sorted through puzzle pieces. The puzzle depicts the signing of the Declaration of Independence. The faces in the puzzle are all white men, and they declared all men equal. But they would not have been thinking about my Haitian friend and his right to equality.

—

The country we live in has changed, for sure, but I don’t think we have lost anything. I think we have gained a great deal.

And this is where I have trouble processing Election Day and the days after.

I don’t understand how a white man, a rural farmer from the Midwest, can say that he voted for Trump because people like him “lost their voices over the last eight years.” Not to be flippant, but I think the previous 200 years were pretty good for white males, in particular.

Giving others a voice they never had does not mean you have lost yours. In fact those of us with a voice have a responsibility to lend our voices to the voiceless. We can debate all day about who the voiceless are. I don’t want to do that. I just want to ask you if there’s someone in your life who needs your voice because they don’t have one.

Exit polls show that 80 percent of white evangelicals voted for Trump and this, too, I have trouble with because some of these same people are the ones I see posting on Facebook, “God is on the throne!” and “Jesus is still King!” I believe that is true, but I’m concerned because I don’t see the marginalized or oppressed posting those words.

I can honestly say that a Donald Trump presidency concerns me, but I don’t fear for my life. I am a white woman with a husband and two kids. I live in the suburbs in a good school district. I shop at Costco. (I do not enjoy pumpkin spice anything, though.) I’m woefully out of touch with culture. When my kids come home and show me some new dance move they learned, I have to google “dab” to find out what it is.

But I also attend an evangelical church and I did not vote for Trump. And that has me wondering if it’s time to part ways with the only branch of Christianity I’ve known for almost 20 years.

I have walked around in a bit of daze since Tuesday. I cried on Wednesday and spent most of the day working on the novel I’m writing just so I could escape from reality. On Wednesday night, we watched a Jim Gaffigan special on Netflix because we needed to laugh.

Today, I had errands to run and when I saw a man with a “Make America Great Again” hat at my first stop, I had to take a deep breath and keep walking.

I don’t want to fight. I want to love. And I don’t want my heart to become hard. I want it to be tender, and this tenderness is what I will have to work towards, today and in the days to come.

—

I was reading my book on the bench outside the market when a woman sat down next to me. I’m an introvert, as you probably know, and I do not often make small talk with strangers. But I did that day.

“Hi, how are you today?” I said, looking up from my book and seeing her.

We talked briefly about the book I was reading and what a beautiful day it was. We didn’t say a word about politics. And when she left I felt a little less alone in the world.

Here is how I will fight for a tender heart: I will talk to people. Real-life, walking, talking, breathing human beings. All of them:

The girl begging for money.

The homeless man on the bench.

The refugee from Haiti.

The businessman who couldn’t be bothered for a dollar.

The guy with the Trump hat.

My neighbor with her shrine.

My husband.

My kids.

Humanity is our common denominator.

I don’t want to forget.

What you can learn from chickens: Review of Chicken Scratch by Kelly Chripczuk

Sometimes I have myself convinced I could take care of goats or chickens, especially when the price of eggs spikes or I’m enjoying some delicious goat cheese.

14725505_1313635401989049_6036972711710161119_nBut the reality of taking care of such animals doesn’t factor into these daydreams. Which is one of the reasons I absolutely loved reading this short book by Kelly Chripczuk, Chicken Scratch: Stories of Love, Risk and Poultry. The book follows Kelly and her family for their first few weeks of proud ownership of a flock of 10 laying hens. It’s funny and inspiring and challenging, even to those of us who might never keep a chicken anywhere except in the freezer.

Life with chickens, it turns out, is messy, and Chripczuk realizes that the mess–chicken poop and all–is proof of life.

If we spend all of our time and energy trying to avoid a mess, we may well end up avoiding life as well. (40)

Though the book is short (only 76 pages), it is full of these nuggets of wisdom. Here’s another one:

Graphic by Kelly Chripczuk

Graphic by Kelly Chripczuk

Pick up a copy of the book here for the chicken lover in your life or for yourself as a quick, light read that also challenges with spiritual truth without being preachy.

Chicken Scratch made me want to head over to the author’s farm and watch these birds in action.

(Disclaimer: I received a free digital copy of the book from the author. Review reflects my honest opinion. This post also contains an affiliate link, which means I receive a portion of any purchase made through that link.)