Gosh, I am such a traditionalist.  I just can’t help myself.  It’s my roots.  It’s what I feel.

But it wasn’t always this way.  I grew up staunchly conservative in every sense of the word.  And I fought back.  Hard.  I escaped to a much bigger city, trying to shed my Iowa roots and the stigma that came along with it, the best I could.  At times it was difficult to explain to people that even though I was from Iowa, I didn’t own a pig and I’d never driven a tractor.  (Newsflash:  Iowa is not one big, happy farm.)

But I love Iowa.  And I love cornfields.  And as most of you know, I am now happily planted (and beginning to thrive!) in the country.

I am home.  And it feels good.

I used to think I was pretty cutting edge.  In college, I had a Palm Pilot.  (Ha.  Remember those?)  It was basically a prehistoric smartphone minus the internet.  And the phone.  And the color.  And pretty much anything remotely cool.  Over the years, I incessantly upgraded and upgraded until last April.  I am now the proud owner of a “dumb” phone which does exactly what it’s supposed to do.  Make and receive calls.  (Along with the occasional text message.)

Honestly, most days I prefer hiding from the ridiculous thing.  While the world is longing to check in, link up, and socially network with me, I find myself longing for a disconnect.  In exchange for a reconnect with the people I love most.  I guess I don’t always like being so… accessible.

I like faces.  There is so much to love about a genuine exchange with another specimen of God’s fine creation.  Expression.  Eye Contact.  I am disheartened that most of the young people I know can’t look me in the eye because they don’t know how to talk to my face.  I used to think I had something perpetually stuck in my teeth, but I truly think many just don’t know how to engage in this way.

As a homemaker, I am often regarded as extraordinarily available.  My work at home, however, is noteworthy, intentional, and fiercely un-interruptable.  (I think I invented a word there.)  I am raising three little ladies to know they are worth my time, my attention, and my love.

Perhaps I am deliriously old-fashioned, but I am recapturing a love for the quiet.  Not necessarily the absence of noise, but the kind of quiet that bestills my soul and refreshes my heart all at the same time.

It’s in the moment when I and my girlies are laboring in the kitchen over a fresh batch of sugar cookies, carefully crafting each one, with nary a sprinkle out of place.

It’s in the moment I am hanging the laundry on the clothesline, watching those same sweet girls running in and out of the billowing sheets, catching every sunbeam.

It’s in the moment when I read the same beloved story to my princesses for the 13th time and we all fall into a heap of giggles at the same part, even though we know exactly what’s going to happen next.

It’s in the moment when I revel in the adventures of a warm, summer day over a hearty dinner with my ruggedly handsome husband and three gorgeous girls.

It’s in the moment where the five of us circle the evening campfire, sipping coffee, chugging root beer, and watching the fireflies dance.