Some days.

dandelionSome days just cannot be put into words. Some days the headlines are too wrenching, too blatant, too hard. I sip my coffee in my sweet little corner of the world and wonder…

how. can. this. be?

For while I continue my sipping on an unusually cool July evening, bathed in the glow of a dim porch light, with a loyal dog at my feet and fireflies entertaining in the yard, somewhere else, albeit far, far away, life is coming apart at the seams.

I study the tiger-lily filled mason jar on my patio table and the small blueish sidewalk-chalk footprints carelessly left by young, carefree spirits just hours prior and ponder whether such garish tales could possibly be true? It would be much easier to close my eyes, to forget, to pretend, but…

it. is. not. so.

I pray. And I sip. And I pray some more. I pray for peace. I pray for love. I pray for mercy.

And I hold my babies oh-so-close. Some days are just like this. (And some days, quite thankfully, are not.)

And tomorrow will come. And I will pray some more. And we will laugh and we will dance and make merry under the mulberry trees. And thank God that his mercies are new every morning.

Love & Coffee.

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Spring Love.

,The end of a tired, worn-out school year is utterly exhausting. No one wants to sit at a desk (or the kitchen table) and do anything related to education. The horrendous, years-long winter has finally given way to a beautifully welcome spring. (I thought it would never come.)

We would all rather be outside.

Springtime chores on the homestead are plentiful, yet mostly enjoyable. After a crippling winter (good-bye “polar vortex!”), there is much pleasure to be found in simply being outside, smack dab in the middle of God’s creation, no matter what the task may be.

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Growing things!

The garden is partially in and we all hope, pray, and cross our fingers that something will survive the summer. My back is sore and my knees are screaming, but even the hole I wore into the thumb of my gardening glove makes me smile. I have come to crave the earthy smell of freshly turned Iowa soil. Rich. Black. Dirt. (Please, something grow. Please, please, please.)

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Lovey’s treasure.

The chickens are hearty and well. All thirteen of them. I have come to be very good at counting them quickly. (They are so fast.) The Man must finish the chicken run soon, but they are utter entertainment running amok around the yard. Peanut and Ladybug (and sometimes even Lovey) are a great help with chicken work. Cupcake is newly walking. And chasing down the chickens to give them loads of slobber kisses.

Dozer continues to steal our hearts, love on my girlies, and chew my couch pillows. But he is great with the chickens. And great for evening snuggles. And I am pretty sure he is a keeper.

After another week of illness, and another week of travel, I am settling in to Monday, somewhat wary to take on the tasks this week will require.

Yet as I sip another lovely Caramel Truffle coffee, bathed in the light of a blazing country sunrise, I am reminded that this week is full of promise, hope, and goodness.

After all, it is “the week.”

Peanut’s birthday.

My birthday.

Mother’s Day.

And graduation parties galore.

This annual deluge of celebration leaves us tired, broke, and full of cake.

But it is so much fun.

Thank. God. For. Coffee.

Love & Coffee!

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The lilacs promise to impress this year.

 

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Run, Run as Fast as You Can

Close-up of gingerbread man pastry cutter “Run!” they said.  “Don’t. Walk.  Run as fast as you can!” they told me.  Common sense (and the event rules) said otherwise, but I did it.  I listened to those teenagers and I ran as fast as I could towards the homemade slip and slide on the giant hill.  It was terrific for about half a second.  Before my feet shot upwards to the moon and the back of my head smacked the hard ground.  Very.  Hard.

I do not remember much about the rest of that long, awkward slide to the bottom of the hill.  When it was all said and done, I had a throbbing headache, a knot on my head roughly the size of Asia, and not a shred of dignity left.  I think it was what many Broken gingerbread man.would call a humbling experience.  And also an excellent reminder that I am not anywhere close to thirteen anymore.  This little shenanigan also earned me the distinction of having my very first (and hopefully last) concussion diagnosis.  From a homemade slip and slide.  At the urging of teenagers.  You might think this all happened when I was young and stupid, but unfortunately this was only last summer.  *sigh*

Sometimes you just have to throw caution to the wind and try something new.  And sometimes that is a very, very bad idea.  And sometimes it is very difficult to discern between the two.  As much as I like to paint myself conservative, I crave the thrill of doing something totally different.

Yesterday, Lovey was telling me her Bible story from her Sunday class.  It was Jonah and the Whale.  She recounted every minute detail, even commenting that Jonah should have paid more attention to his mother when he was growing up.  (Yes!)  Lovey is a fantastic storyteller and as she speaks, we banter.  I intermittently comment and she shoots back and it is always time well-spent.  At one point, I said, “Well, I sure hope a whale doesn’t come and swallow me!”  She was quick to respond with that sassy 4-year-old eye-roll, complete with hand gesture, “Mom.  We live in Iowa.  There is no ocean here.  Not even any water.  Besides you never even leave the house.  You will not get swallowed by a whale… ever!”

First things first.  I am pretty sure I leave the house a lot more than she realizes.   In fact, I feel like I am not here nearly enough.  (Seriously, the proof is in the size of my laundry pile.)  But she definitely got me thinking about the thrill of new adventures, accompanied by a little risk.  Perhaps it is time to try something newish…

Love & Coffee.

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