Twenty seven years ago, I trudged up a snowy mountain wearing his mother’s coat and snow boots.

I said “Yes” at the top of Prospect Hill, the highest point in southern Michigan. I cried and laughed, as young love swallowed us whole, insulating me from the snow and wind of a Michigan winter.

Faded Polaroids show us with fake champagne and my tear-streaked face. After hugs with his family, we walked across the street to celebrate with his grandparents, old love joyfully welcoming new love like parents ushering a baby into the world.

I wonder if their thoughts echoed the words of Frederick Buechner, “Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.”

We only had visions of beautiful.

I remember last year at this time, how my husband and daughter had an early Valentine’s lunch. Instead of talking about her life, which they normally do, they focused on his. He confessed that his husbanding had come up short lately, and he shared our well-worn dynamics of mutual retreat and withdrawal. It stunned her. “You guys still do stuff like that?”

Yes, we do.

“Will you have this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? This woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

Yes, we do.

Again and again, we do. We fail. We retreat. We repent. We have and we hold all over again.

“Why don’t you just talk to her about it?”

And so he did, weeks of tension dissolving in a matter of moments. “I’m sorry. Will you forgive me? I’m sorry too. Will you forgive me? Here’s what I need from you. Ok. Here’s what I need from you too. Ok.”

That evening, we sat on the sofa, my arm wrapped through his, the dog vying for a spot between us. Last night we did the same, another year of hard-won love that points us to a divine faithfulness and grace much greater than our own.

Enduring love sees you at your worst and loves you there. It hopes for the best but loves you even if you never get there. It helps. It forgives. It does not enable. But it does understand.

If you’re lucky, on a cold February night, young love might swallow you whole again, as pride gives way to grace and vulnerability gives way to repair. Again.

May your hard-won love endure.

Within the last year alone, I’ve stumbled upon a $4,000 piece of art at the Goodwill for $50.

A Givency necklace at the Salvation Army for $3.

A vintage Tod’s bag in mint condition for $1 at a yard sale.

A brand new Capri volcano candle for 50 cents (which my daughter promptly took to college.)

Anthropologie blouses, a gold sequin dress, a new faux cowhide rug, a pair of lamps, and a menagerie of other junk shop goodies I won’t bore you with, have all found their way to my wardrobe, my home, and my treasure-loving heart.

Finding beauty and finery and usefulness in unlikely places is pure joy for me. From the bags of clothes people handed the pastor’s kids after church, to the yard sales I combed in fancy neighborhoods, I’ve been a treasure-hunter since childhood.

People often tell me things like:

“I just don’t have your luck.”

“There’s never anything good when I go.”

“I get overwhelmed. It all looks like junk.”

I get it. A lot of it IS actual junk and I don’t always find anything worthwhile. But I usually find something.

Is there an element of serendipity? Standing at the right place at the right time? Of course.

But it’s more than that. I simply know what to look for. A fabric or print or finish often jumps out at me. I’ve learned to see past the dusty porcelain dolls and old sorority tees, to block out the clutter and behold loveliness.

I “have an eye,” as they say.

But having an eye for beauty and meaning and possibility doesn’t just apply to the local Goodwill. It’s a skill we can all cultivate. If the treasure we seek is a life of love and meaning, how do we block out the junk and sharpen our vision?

Detaching from my phone this week has given me eyes to see the beauty that’s already here, helped me access time and headspace I didn’t know I had, dusted off ideas and hopes that are still alive and well.

When we clear away the clutter in our digital lives, we might just uncover the hidden treasure in our real lives.

……….

Day 4 of a writing challenge with @hopewriters. Today’s prompt is SERENDIPITY. ✨

“Do more things that make you forget to check your phone.” It’s a quote I hear from time to time and while I get the sentiment, it implies that there must be a certain grandiosity to daily life. Adventure! Dreaming big! Bucket lists!

Like, if you’re not living from one rapturous moment to the next, what are you even doing with your life?

My simple experiment during this week of detaching from my phone has reminded me that the constant hum of digital life can actually numb us to the wonder of real life. In our passive state of scrolling and shopping, clicking and connecting, are we unknowingly disconnecting from what is real and beautiful and true and lasting?

The gurgling creek as I walked the dog.

The bouquet of September wildflowers I plucked from the pathway in front of my house.

Prayer.

The headspace to explore my own thoughts and ideas, instead of constantly reacting (if only in my own head) to others’ thoughts and ideas.

The freedom to not have an opinion.

The life-giving realization that I’m not actually missing out on anything at all.

Turns out you don’t need a bucket list day to forget to check your phone. Wonder isn’t just “out there.” It’s right here. But we have to look up from our screens to see it.

…………

Day 3 of a writing challenge with @hopewriters. Today’s prompt is EXPLORE.

“A goal without a plan is just a wish.” —Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

I know I’m on my phone too much. When we use the same device as a map, a camera, a business tool, grocery shopping, entertainment, communication, news—the lines get blurry. It’s hard to know when the essential drifts into the unnecessary.

All I know is that I often feel gross at the end of the day, the soulful equivalent of eating nothing but chips and candy.

I’m tired—

Of low-grade envy and anxiety that seeps from someone’s curated life through a screen and into my spirit.

Of nibbling on snippets and sound bytes instead of feasting on long-form, thoughtful prose.

Of feeling the need to have a well-formed opinion on the news of the day.

Of knowing everyone and their brother’s opinion on All The Things and then making value judgements about them as human beings.

Of wanting to buy things I don’t need.

Of not “having time” or energy for life-giving endeavors: writing, making things pretty, reading books, baking.

If I intend to maximize the fruitfulness of my real, right-now life, I need to minimize my digital life.

This week, I’m conducting an experiment:

I leave my phone behind when I take the dog for walks.

I don’t pick it up unless it’s for something specific: sending a text, making a call, ordering groceries, opening the GPS, listening to my audiobook, a necessary work task, a very limited scroll on social media (like 3 minutes.)

I’m only a few days in and here are the results so far: I’ve slept more each night, written two posts, read half a book, and listened to two-thirds of a book. Dinner prep has felt more leisurely. I even tried a new muffin recipe and organized a drawer. Nothing changed about the rest of my life. I’ve had all the same responsibilities, but somehow more time and headspace.

I’ve had the intention of spending less time on my phone for months, but until I crafted a simple action step, it was just a wish. It never got traction.

What’s an intention you have? What’s one baby step you could take today toward turning a wish into a plan?

……….

Day 2 of a writing challenge with @hopewriters. The Day 2 prompt is: INTENTION.

This morning after everyone left and a holy hush fell over the house, I considered the word “quiet.” How it’s ironic that I need quiet in my outer world, yet struggle to pursue and receive quiet in my inner world.

I paused my own thoughts as I read a devotional. Today’s passage was one in which Jesus encounters a man outside the synagogue possessed with an evil spirit. He doesn’t wrestle the man to the ground or speak an incantation or even quote scripture. Jesus simply opens his mouth and says to the loud spirit, “Be quiet.” (Mark 1:25)

Naturally, I paid attention, zeroing in on the word “quiet” that had already been rolling around in my mind. I opened a lexicon and saw that this word here literally means “to muzzle, to put to silence.”

It felt like a timely word for me. Perhaps for you too? We need “quiet” as a verb as much as we need it as a noun.

What voices of authority does Jesus want to quiet in my own life? What voices are smothering his authority? What voices undermine the life-giving authority he’s entrusted me with as a child of God?

More than ever, our world clamors with voices and viewpoints. With loud and angry opinions. With subtle and seductive influencers. With pride and self-righteousness cloaked in causes.

As someone who’s allowed far too much input in the name of being informed and educated, or perhaps just to numb and escape, my mind is anything but quiet. Rather, it’s a cacophony of voices that haven’t earned an ounce of authority to speak into my life.

No wonder I have a headache.

No wonder I’ve struggled to find my own words even though I have a million thoughts a minute.

At the start of a new week and a new season:

Let’s invite Jesus to muzzle the many voices that distract, confuse, paralyze, and unduly influence.

Let’s pursue a necessary pruning, taking steps to ruthlessly reset our input boundaries.

Let’s pray for a sacred quieting so that we can hear His voice above all others.

And out of this quiet, may we humbly yet boldly use our own God-given voices for others’ good and for his glory.

……….

I’m joining a 5-day writing challenge on Instagram with @hopewriters. Today’s prompt is QUIET.

🌞 “What is August like in South Carolina?” you may ask. Imagine, Dear Reader, that you’re standing in the thick of a rain forest. It catches fire. The end.

“What words best describe you in August?” you may ask. Words that immediately come to mind are: languishing, faint, quiet rage, apathy. The moral of the story: August isn’t my favorite.

✏️ This August will forever be an “extra special” one in our hearts. We started school weeks earlier than normal, on August 3rd. Neither our heads nor our hearts were ready to begin that early, but start we did. Then, just yesterday, we unstarted. In just 9 days, our Covid numbers were too high to safely continue. My boys will resume senior year and 8th grade virtually on Monday. (Please see the aforementioned words in the second paragraph.)

💐 In other news, my husband and I celebrated 26 years of marriage. We do not feel old enough but lo, we are! I wrote a post about it earlier this week. We sat down for a lovely and leisurely meal someone else prepared, and talked about things we’d like to do together once our children have graduated. We then laughed when our number 1s were the exact same thing. Hopefully that’s a good sign.

🏠 In the last couple of weeks, in between golf tournaments and work and surviving the August heat, I moved our girl out of one college apartment and into another. She’ll be a junior and not a single year of her college experience thus far has been untouched by the limitations and losses of Covid. I don’t have anything profound to say, only that it breaks my heart.

🌍 If you’re feeling a bit like me right now—weary, overwhelmed, triggered, sad, fearful—I encourage you to let go of what you can’t control, to ruthlessly choose rest, to name the scary or sad things and bring them into the presence of Christ, a “man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.” He is our safe and sure place.

P.S. Thanks for bearing with me through this post alternately titled: “Tell me you’re an enneagram 4 without telling me you’re an enneagram 4.”😂

And thanks to @kimberlyacoyle for this #windowontheweek invitation (via Instagram.)

Twenty six years. We’re celebrating by getting a new alternator in his car and sitting with our youngest as he gets his last 3 baby teeth extracted. Because you have not truly celebrated your love until you’ve spent an anniversary in the waiting rooms of your local mechanic and family dentist. Why spend over a thousand dollars on a weekend away when you can pay for car parts and laughing gas?

But seriously, if a day can serve as a metaphor for lasting devotion through the messy, mundane, ridiculousness that comprises much of real life, it’s today. And there’s no one I’d rather have by my side than this guy who steadies us all with strength, grace, and good humor.

Years ago I wrote “Love bears all things” (1 Corinthians 13:7) on a chalkboard just inside our door. Our love has borne everything from crises and hopelessness, to parenting woes and the chronic inability to put away one’s clothes (him) or remember where they’ve put anything (me.)

A love that bears all things is not a natural love; it’s a supernatural love. And it can only come from above, from the living God who chooses to make his home in our hearts so that we can make a home that welcomes and binds up one another’s hearts.

Today, as we squeeze our child’s hand and pick up each other’s slack and keep cars running and hopefully sit down for a meal that someone else prepares, we’ll give thanks for the supernatural love that keeps seeing us through.

Summer of 2021 has already folded itself inside the invisible treasure chest that a mother stores within her.

It was a summer of risk-taking & inside jokes, of mothering & connection. I am exhausted and I wouldn’t trade a second of it.

My oldest son is 17. He’s the middle child, sandwiched between a big sister who’s no shrinking violet, & a charming little brother who’s 4 years younger. Most things have come easily for this middle one—school, friends, navigating life. If “the squeaky wheel gets the grease,” he’s the one without smudges. Which also means he’s probably gotten the least attention over the years.

But this summer the two of us burned up the interstate, woke to early alarms, scavenged for decent breakfasts, rinsed the sweat from our faces in golf course clubhouses, & treated ourselves to a few steak dinners, suitable for both celebration & for consolation.

This summer I had the privilege of walking alongside him, 18 holes at time, with a cooler strapped to my back & a sweat-stained scorecard in my pocket. We don’t know whether the time, energy, & resources will bear fruit in the way he hopes. He played some of the best golf of his life, including his lowest score ever. He also played rounds we’d all like to forget, & a qualifier 4 hours away where he pulled a shoulder muscle during warmup & had to withdraw after 9 holes.

This is golf. Equal parts exhilarating & soul-crushing. Sounds a lot like parenthood, doesn’t it?

At the beginning of summer, my sister & I were running on the beach & she asked what our summer looked like. “A lot of golf,” I said. “And it feels like such a risk.” She told me that regardless of outcomes, it would still be a gift because of the time I’d get with my son. It has been exactly that.

I’m so proud of him—his perseverance & resilience. His ability to self-reflect & know what needs work. His acceptance that there are no short-cuts; it’s a long game if ever there was one. Kids will teach you a thing or two if you’ll let them.

This summer showed me that sometimes the dream you think you’re chasing might also be the gateway God uses to bestow better & lasting gifts.