Just take the picture.

About five years ago, my husband gave me a swanky camera for Christmas. 

Upon opening my gift, I was speechless.

My mind immediately jumped to worrying over the cost of such a gift – a gift with all of the bells and whistles. I knew that he had spent more on me than he would ever expect anyone to spend on him, or that he would spend on himself. I can’t even tell you the last time he bought a new pair of shoes.

This is his generous heart.

My new camera opened up the world of photography to me.  And he, being the supportive and wonderful husband he is, made it a point to encourage my newfound pursuit. For him, it was as much an investment as it was a gift. He was investing in a happy wife who could pursue creative outlets and build her confidence, while hopefully helping to preserve my sanity in the meantime.

It was a pivotal moment for me. 

(He gave me a way.)

This past Christmas, I gave him an album full of photos from the year gone by. It was wonderful to give him something tangible that was produced by my hobby five years after he gave me a leg up on a new journey in my life. He had encouraged an outlet that wasn’t directly related to chasing small children, even though it at times has been almost exclusively used to record those child-related happenings.

I can look back between when I unwrapped that wildly unexpected present and now, and see a pronounced change in my abilities from that first Christmas to this last one. I have much to learn, but I’m further than I would have been without his generosity.

(I found a will.)

Recently, our computer decided that its memory was too full. So lately, I have spent time tediously deleting unnecessary photos and files from it in order to create more available storage. Try not to be jealous of my totally fast paced life.

Just this morning, I found dozens of videos, and hundreds of photos from a seemingly bygone era in our home.

A time when we just had one child. When the kitchen was still painted yellow, and we didn’t have the white shoe cabinet in the corner of the dining room that smells like cedar. Our son was a chubby-cheeked, floppy-haired chipmunk who kept two fledgling parents on their toes. 

As I thumbed through these photos and videos, some slightly blurry and a bit fuzzy, I realized that I had no immediate recollection of having even taken them.

The video of my son and me in the cozy green chair in the living room, nestled up with a pile of books stacked high. Him sitting on the back steps in the kitchen, covered head to toe in Crayola markers – I’m still to this day praising Jesus that they were washable markers.

Videos of my son, turning on the shower head, and drenching himself while naked in the tub, and the look of amused shock on his face. 

Then there were the photos. Pictures upon pictures of yellow haired and tiny. Ice cream mouthed children asleep in their car seats after a day at the beach. Afternoons spent at the park or out in the backyard. Afternoons that now seem like a short lifetime ago. 

I looked at that tired mother in some of the photos. I studied a version of myself with less gray in my hair, and a lot more brightness to her face. It’s a face I don’t see anymore. I was transported back to feeling every ounce of anxiety I felt in those moments. That gnawing fear and wondering if I was doing a good enough job. I still don’t know the answer to that, quite honestly.

Those days at home with two small children that seemed endless and tedious are now just one small footnote in the pages of our family’s story. 

The mother in those photos was so tired, so unsure of herself. Today, I wish I could have given her a hug to say thank you

Thank you for taking those photos.

Thank you for not giving up and putting the camera down even when the kids weren’t being cooperative.

Thank you for not closing the camera on your phone just because someone at the park might have been giving you side-eye.

Thank you for not worrying over whether or not your house looked clean enough, if your kids looked like they fell off the pages of a Baby Gap magazine or if your hair was even brushed that day, because you knew an Instagram filter really can help mask those piles of laundry on the dining room table, and the deepest of dark circles under someone’s eyes.

Thank you for ignoring the thousand and one articles on the internet say that you can’t ever fully experience a moment if you have a lens out. 

Thank you for having enough presence of mind, even though your eyes were so heavy with exhaustion that you thought they might fall out, to think to snap a photo of the things I truly want to remember.

Thank you for clicking away even when everyone in the photo had a bad attitude, because you knew you’d get at least one shot where everyone was looking at the camera. 

Photos tell our stories. Photos let us relive our story. Again and again. 

No, not every photo is of a pivotal, life changing moment. 

But a photo in the hands of the heart that’s looking to remember is like eyes that set themselves on a hidden jewel.

The things we take photos of are assuredly the things we love. The things we seek. The things we want to think about one day, when we’re old and we have forgotten. When we are gray, and crows feet branch out around our eyes, and time creeps in through every crevice like a thief in the night.

Our photos will only ever be precious to us, like some distinct, bespoke treasure.

This is why I click. 

So listen, all of you non-photography inclined people, I get it. 

It’s the holiday season.

And if she hasn’t already, your mom or wife or grandmother or girlfriend will soon want you to put on an odd sweater that you realize at the Thanksgiving table matches everyone else’s odd sweater. She might make you stand in front of a wooden barn or out in some Christmas tree field or in front of some odd background that looks like it came from a school yearbook. You might feel like a JC Penny catalog model.

It’s going to be uncomfortable.

She’s going to want you to shave, and wear that tie you never wear. She’ll want you to dress like you just emerged off the pages of an L.L. Bean catalog. She’ll insist you all wear matching denim tops and Santa hats.

She’s going to want you to help her dress the kids in stockings and button down shirts that will get messy if the kids even breathe. She is going to want you to load the kids into the car, and drive to the park or to some photographer’s studio.

Or maybe she’ll just drag you out to the backyard where she has a tripod set up, and she’ll be hurrying everyone up and yelling something about the lighting being perfect right.now.

She’s going to want you to spend half an hour smiling so hard that your cheeks hurt, while you have to pretend like you’re having the greatest time of your life. She might cry. She might even threaten you a tiny bit. She will turn into Gestapo, and you’ll see a side of her that you have never seen before. At least one of the kids might cry. She might tell you where she’ll hide someone’s body if you all don’t smile, and you’ll wonder how long she’s been planning for this day. 

She’ll tell you that she spent nineteen hours in labor with you, and then six months after that dealing with your crying because you had colic. She’ll remind you of the time you let her leave the house with spinach stuck between her teeth as she was heading to the PTA meeting.

She will call in every favor you could ever possibly owe her (even though you’d never be able to repay her for, like that time that your threw up in her hair while she was laying down or when you taped the superbowl over your wedding video.)

She will turn into some unrecognizable, scary Kanye-West type person in the pursuit of one Christmas card worthy shot.

You must actively fight off the instinct to resist her every step of the way. In fact, you should cooperate so willfully that it will encourage others to do the same.

I say this, with an urgency and sincerity: the memories of you, on this day, mean more to your mom/wife/grandmother/girlfriend than literally almost anything. 

These photos will warm the nooks and crevices of their coffee stained hearts for years and years to come.

Whether they end up in an album or stuck to the fridge with a magnet, on someone’s desk at work or on the side of a mug. Or maybe, they will end up in a pair of hands weathered by time belonging to someone who loves seeing the people the love. These photos now are the stored treasures for when these moments are long gone. For people who will one day be long gone. And for those of us who are left.

These photos show that we were here, even if we might have been pissed off at the time because we didn’t want to wear a bow tie.

And one day, when times have changed, and you’ve gone the way that we all eventually do, when you’re old and gray, and you’re holding in your hands the faces that smiled long ago, no matter what’s happened in between now and that day to come – you’ll remember that you were there. They were there.

And that you all lived. 

And it will be your hidden treasure. 














THIS is Halloween

Want to hear a scary story?

We were carving pumpkins the other night. We were all having a great time. But then we had a mess and hyper children with sticky fingers crawling underneath of the dining room table. The scary part?

They were up past 10. 

Fear takes on a new meaning when you’re a parent. As does relaxation. As does fun. As does what it means to feel old. And believe me, it doesn’t take much.

My sis in law were just talking about this last night. How holidays like this aren’t always fun because they only serve to make us feel…old. Who wants to be reminded that you’re old and have, like, lots of responsibilities even more than you already are because you spend your Friday nights paying bills and giving the cat medicine.

But I reminded her of something. 

We AREN’T old. It’s just that fun holidays like Halloween, and New Years Eve or that neighborhood Fourth of July BBQ look different when you have children. 

Everything is all fun and games.

But then you have to be home to put the kids in bed, but that’s kind of okay because you’re also super exhausted from hauling the children around with you everywhere, or from even thinking about the fact that you’re going to have to be up with them tomorrow morning. Plus you really want to just sit down and eat some graham crackers while not wearing any pants with Netflix on in the background, and you shutter at what your life has come to. You finally get your children in bed and they take, like, three glow sticks with them because you just don’t care, you just hope they don’t break them open and try to eat them.

But here is the worst part:

You inevitably get a second wind.

Your body wakes you back up because, HEY, THE KIDS ARE IN BED!!!! Look alive!!! Then you start remembering that hey, wait a second, Halloween is a fun holiday and it’s past 9…so you know there is fun stuff going on right.now. Like parties or bobbing for apples and candy corn and face painting.

Only now, it doesn’t matter because oh snap, you can’t leave your property because sleeping children, and you can’t call any of your adulting friends who are parents because they have the exact same issue. And the ones that don’t have children have absolutely no desire to come over and watch you drink some Mike’s Hard while you watch Hocus Pocus and eat your children’s Halloween candy.

They want to be out amongst other fun having adults at the local bar or pub.

And if you do decide to stay up late to watch a movie, (only not that scary one because you and your other half cannot bring yourselves to order The Conjuring on Amazon because that movie looks like no joke) you count the cost of staying up until after 12.

So you stay up late anyway watching What Lies Beneath, eating the pasta salad you made for the party you were at earlier and fighting off sleep on the couch. Only, just kidding, you send up a prayer that tomorrow isn’t too painful with the end of Daylight Savings Time.

This is what adulting looks like on a fun holiday, people. YOU turn into the pumpkin and land right smack in the middle of reality.  And you are more acutely aware of Daylight Savings Time and the affects of swallowing glow stick goo than any person alive.

But at least you have some really good candy. 

November is National Blog Post Month, meaning that I’m supposed to share a post every day of the new month. I’m not sure how often that is going to actually happen, but just the same, if you like a post please share it, and if you want more, click the follow button for my blog’s Facebook page so that you can see stuff. Thanks!

Christ Enters In

It’s officially Christmas time.

How do I know this? Because I bought a box of Christmas Crunch by Cap’n Crunch. You know, with those little Christmas tree shaped crunch-berries in it? And let me tell you, it was gone within 48 hours. And I am not ashamed of it.

I never appreciated the story of Mary and Martha until recently…

Luke 10:38-42

Now as they went on their way, Jesus entered a village.

And a woman named Martha welcomed him into her house. 

39 And she had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to his teaching. 

40 But Martha was distracted with much serving.

And she went up to him and said,

“Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Tell her then to help me.”

 41 But the Lord answered her,“Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things,

42 but one thing is necessary. 

Mary has chosen the good portion, which will not be taken away from her.”

In my own pride I always thought that I had deciphered all that that text of the Bible had to offer. Jesus is the most important thing. Right, got it. Let’s move on.

It wasn’t until recently, at the start of Advent, that this story began to take on a whole new life for me, as only the Bible can do, even when you have read a passage dozens of times.

I’ve been struggling lately. I’m in the trenches of having three babies now. It sort of feels like that grace period that moms seem to get when they first bring a new baby home is over. And while I am actually enjoying very much that I have a newborn, I have been hating something else.

The current situation of my house. It looks like a bomb went off. All. The. Time.

Let me be honest in saying that it isn’t like my house has it all together the rest of the year. Even when there wasn’t a pregnant belly to lug around or a newborn to tend to, my house could still look like war torn streets of the apocalypse by the end of the day.

I am all about being real. I am all about welcoming anyone into my home, perhaps with the qualifying statement of, “you’re welcome to come in, buuut just so you know my house is messy,” at first but I ultimately have no shame. Because it is what it is.

Lately though I have crossed over from being confident in my home to being ashamed of it. I feel like no matter what I do, no matter how much time during my day gets committed to doing SOME sort of cleaning, it simply doesn’t matter. It will still look roughly the same tomorrow.

If I get the bathrooms get scrubbed, I can only see that the wood floors in the living room need desperately to be mopped because there are dried splatters of juice everywhere. If I get three loads of laundry washed, dried and folded, I can only see that the dishes in my kitchen sink are piled like a mountain.

It’s taken over my life. Which is especially sad considering that something I worry and fret over so much never seems to get any better no matter what I do. It’s a perpetual cycle.

Nothing feels good enough. 

Does it ever, really?

And it always seems to ramp up around Christmas, right? When you have the most stuff to do, when you have things you want to sit back and enjoy, that’s when ish hits the proverbial fan. Or maybe we just don’t notice it as often until the calendar page flips to December. Maybe the pressure doesn’t get to us any other time like it does during the holiday season.

That’s when our eyes pop out of our heads over the angst of believing nothing is the way that it should be. This is supposed to be a special time of year. Somehow we think that means that our kids are going to magically remember to always put their shoes away and not make a mess of the dining room table by littering it with strips of cut paper and macaroni noodles from lunch.

Christmas is supposed to be different. It’s supposed to be “just so.”

Enter Christ. 

Does Christ really care about our messy homes? Does Christ really care that the calendar says that it’s December?

We bought our Christmas tree last weekend. It was a great time for all of us. Although I would have chosen a tree about a foot taller and three feet wider, we ultimately made a more sensible choice. Having a Christmas tree that looks like it ate other Christmas trees sounds fun and even seems that way at first. Until about December 26th.

After a month of having a giant Christmas tree occupying a vast space in my living room, about when the needles start turning brown, that’s when I start losing my mind. Normally I crack first and start taking the tree down because I just can’t take it anymore.

We brought our tree home. Our beautiful tree. Such a picturesque scene, a family in their mini van driving down the road with the perfect tree strapped to the roof. Kids piling out of the car and into the house where we could enjoy hot chocolate together.

All of those lovely images marred by how we promptly had to spend about 30 minutes cleaning up/rearranging everything to even get the tree into our living room.

Because our house is simply that chaotic right now. The tree isn’t decorated yet because we have had holiday activities and obligations pretty much every evening since then. So it sits (stands?) naked in my living room.

It’ll get decorated when we find the urge to ruffle through the attic to find the decorations. How is that the box with Christmas decorations always seems to be in the furthest corner of the attic and buried under the most stuff? Even though it was only put away in, like, July?

It didn’t seem like a page for the memory books. Beleaguered parents who are tired. Who are tired of feeling like they are at the bottom of the heap with day to day life. Just trying to keep it together. Our beautiful tree, surrounded by a sea of clutter.

Isn’t this our Christ?

Who comes to shine the light in our cluttered hearts and declare that it matters not? That those who would receive Him still are all that He desires.

This is advent, people. 


The beautiful tree, shining in a house cluttered with a sea of funk. This is where the tree belongs. A savior, born to a world full of broken, helpless people.  This is where the savior belongs. Born to humble parents, in a small, unassuming town in a shabby barn. From tiny, unlikely niches, He would light the way.

I cannot stress the following statement enough: Christ did not come for the people who “have it all together.”

If you told me right now that Christ would be standing at my door in 30 minutes, I would guffaw and then promptly melt down because I’m not showered, the kids aren’t dressed, the house is filthy and I would be wondering why He would want to even come to a place like this anyway?

My old farm house with a rusty tin roof and worn siding? I would be a Martha, I would be worried that my home wasn’t ready. And I would be wondering what, if anything, He would want with me? I would fret, I’m sad to say. Even though I know I shouldn’t, I would.

Christ came for me. For all people. For the people who were willing to fling open their doors and the door to their heart and receive Him. And especially for those who make precursory statements such as, “welcome. It’s very messy in here, but you’re welcome to all that I have.” 

He delights when you admit that it’s messy, and still yield to Him so that He can show you a better way. To show us that His promises will long outlast the clutter in our home, the pain in our hearts. He delights when instead of busying ourselves with things that don’t matter, we find time to sit at His feet.

This is why, even though this is a special time of year from a celebratory standpoint, we should not be caught up in making everything just so. Put that Advent Wreath in your messy home. Hang those lights on the front of your old, rickety house. Put that tree in the one corner of your living room that isn’t cluttered. Turn off all of the lights and stare at it. Don’t look around, look only at it.

In much the same way, welcome Christ into your messy heart. Every. Day. Fling open its doors and announce that its messy in here, and acknowledge that it’s not much but that He is most welcome here. Receive Him.

Turn off all of the lights to everything else, and sit at the feet at the one who lights the way.