Marian Vischer

Bloggiversary: Celebrating Four Years of Talking ‘Bout My Crazy


Today I visited a web-site that turns your blog into a printed book. I feel like I need a hard copy of all these posts and photos just in case the internet blows up. As I perused the last four years of posts, I realized that my bloggiversary came and went without so much as a celebratory balloon or slice of cake.

When I began “writing” in this space, it wasn’t to write; it was simply to share. Simple, un-important sharing. Recipes, photos, funny stories, hack-job crafting and decorating. I was in the throes of homeschooling when I began the blog and I think a la mode was my escape hatch, a space where I could find a bit of creativity and community amid days of phonics and diapers.

Gradually the recipes disappeared and I realized that what I really loved was the writing. 

That’s still what I really love. 

I’m blessed to have such lovely and kind readers. Thank you for reading and commenting on everything from laundry to lament, mini-vans to marriage, school at home to school at {actual} school. You’re a blessing to me and you help me feel a little less crazy…or at the very least, a little less alone in my crazy. 

Sometimes I think I should change the title of my blog from a la mode to Talking ‘Bout My Crazy. We all know that’s totally what I do here.

So in the spirit of reflection, here are four of my favorite posts from the past year, crazy and all. Apparently these were some of your favorite too.


Hold My Hand?




Last night I had a mini-breakdown as I stirred spaghetti noodles. The day had been crazy with a capital K and by 8:00 I had sworn off Wednesdays for the rest of my life. 

We have tweaked and re-tweaked our fall schedule and it looks like we’re going to overhaul it yet again. Sometimes you just don’t know how it’s all going to work or not work until you make like Nike and just do it. Some things are working. Some things have been a train-wreck. I remind myself that it’s not failure or even crazy, it’s simply trial and error. 

It’s also change.

I’ve always been just fine with change. Change invites opportunities to reinvent and makeover, to embrace new and exciting and fun. At pivotal moments in my life, I’ve moved across the country, made new friends at schools where I knew no one, tackled topics and endeavors about which I knew nothing, and traveled to countries where I didn’t speak the language. I currently have three different colors of paint on my living room walls. For 39 years, my motto has been Bring It. 

But when it comes to my kids and change? Well, I become a ball of fear and sadness and nostalgia run amuck. My motto goes from Bring It to Stop It. My bossy mantra refers to the clock, not my kids. {Though I do tell them to Stop It quite a lot.} 

I watch my younger sister and sisters-in-law mother their younger ones and I want to switch places. I want to take the knowledge and priorities I have now and get a big fat do-over. I want my days to be filled with nothing but read-alouds and playing outside, legos and PB & J’s. And also nap-time.  

As they get older, they get busier and that means I do too. As more is required of them, more is required of me. Older moms reading this are probably thinking, Just wait ’til they’re in high school! Younger moms are thinking, I never get a moment’s rest! And you’re both right.

Maybe I’m simply approaching the realization every mom faces sooner or later. The days that used to feel so hard were actually much simpler. And right now, I equate simple with sweet. Sure, they were hard in different ways–temper tantrums in the middle of Target and calcified baby oatmeal stuck to the walls, sleepless nights and diaper blow-outs in the car-seat. Every stage is hard in its own way and I’m sure we look at certain seasons through rose-colored glasses.

But last night I watched my younger two play with neighbor friends in the driveway while I fixed a late dinner and counted down the minutes until I had to retrieve our oldest from youth group. Not so long ago she would have been out there with them, writing with sidewalk chalk and playing “spies.” 

And this is why I wept in the spaghetti. I’m sure that the day’s relentless schedule and various mishaps contributed to the tears, but mostly I was just rebelling against the hands of time that will not stop ticking. 

I’m no good at acceptance and I do know that clinging too tightly to anything has a strangulating effect. Maybe that’s why it feels hard to breathe, why I choke up a little when I watch the “baby” of the family scale the flimsy limbs of the Crepe Myrtle in his Spiderman costume and I want four to last forever.

And this is why we will revise and revise again until we’ve squeezed out the most possible time for family and the least possible time doing the run-around. The days are precious and they pass so quickly. 

Driveway tennis and tiny super-heroes remind me to savor the simplicity {mess and tantrums notwithstanding} of the younger years. Commutes to school, just her and me, remind me to drink down these days when she’s in the passenger seat. I’ll blink and she’ll be driving herself to school. 

So if you think I’m a mess now, I will really need some hand-holding then. 

And maybe that’s what we moms need most from each other. I’ll listen to your advice, I’ll find comfort in your stories, I’ll try not to compare or judge or envy. But what I really need, what we all need, is just a bit of understanding and consolation. Motherhood is hard and change makes me cry. So give me your hand. And also a box of Kleenex. 

When You’d Rather Find the Jar of Nutella Than Clean Your House


Ever have a day where things are such a mess, you’re not sure where to start? I’ve fed kids, tended to the dog, and packed up lunches. I’ve carried kids to school, wrapped up my worries, and handed them over to One who carries me. 

But instead of walking into a home of tranquility, I stumbled through the door, surveyed the mess, and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So I did what any woman skilled in the ways of avoidance would do…

I snapped photos, made a collage of the mess, and decided to share it on my blog. My coping mechanisms confound even me. 

Housework is not fun or creative or thoughtful in any way. It is dutiful drudgery and it requires physical exertion and in 24 hours it will all be undone again. Because seriously, at some point over the weekend things looked straight-ish. I’m not how it goes downhill so quickly, but I think it has something to do with five people and one four-legged friend all living large in a small space.

In many ways, my home mirrors my life. {Ugh. I promised myself I would not get philosophical in this post.} In one day it can go from feeling somewhat orderly to looking downright messy. When I think of the soul-work and heart excavation required to clean up the mess, well, I’d rather just have a seat on my dilapidated sofa, grab a jar of Nutella, watch Kelly and Michael, and have another cup of coffee.

Precious friends reminded me last night that there’s only one way to take a journey {or clean up a mess}: baby steps. 

I’m more of a magic wand kind of gal, wishing I could summon Mary Poppins to wiggle her nose and snap a finger while I watch the chaos swirl into place. I’m tired. And I’d rather take a walk in the park and stumble upon an enchanted carousel than get down to business.  

But since Mary Poppins isn’t real and my dirty dishes are, I’ll start in the kitchen, move to the laundry, reclaim the living room that my kids fashioned into 12 different forts, and maybe get to the bathrooms. Maybe. And while I labor, I’ll dream of a housekeeper, a finished bonus room, a blog makeover, my very own office, and an every-blooming money tree in the backyard.

Taking one step is better than standing still. And let’s face it, we’re never really standing still; we always drift toward something. So today I celebrate, yes celebrate, all the baby steps in my life. Celebration can’t coexist with discouragement. 

Let’s laud the small victories and look for gifts of grace. You can always find them, though you may have to sort through a basketful of unmatched socks first.

What remains unfinished today will spill into tomorrow. We’re only promised today anyway, so I’ve resolved to baby-step my way through it, dream a few dreams, set realistic goals, and let grace cover the rest. 

Living Somewhere Between Plagues and the Promised Land




The kids are all in school and I sit through my second morning of solitude. It is the best part of the day, a time of peace and communion. 

It is also unpredictable. I’m reading a chapter a day of a book that’s come at just the right time; I echo so many of the author’s thoughts about the sacred place of stillness. She speaks of her first experience with extended solitude and how tears, unannounced, began to stream down her face during lunch: 

Because I had space to feel what I was feeling, I could begin acknowledging truth that I had not known how to name before. {Ruth Haley Barton}


And so it is with me. 

Space brings truth and truth allows us to name the things down deep. And this fluid process brings unexpected emotion, sort of like an old pump that’s being primed and churning up gushing, subterranean waters. 

Truth has also come in the fresh light of the Word and in the space that allows for quiet meditation, sometimes on old familiar stories.

This book I’m reading referenced Exodus 14:13-14 and I felt compelled to read through the backstory of the Israelites’ long-awaited freedom from the Egyptians, only to be faced with the drama of the Red Sea before them. 

I’ve heard the story many times since childhood but it’s funny how experience allows you to see and feel old Bible stories with new empathy. We can be awfully hard on the Israelites, condemning their faithlessness and ingratitude. But when you look at what they’d endured prior to the Exodus, well, I marvel that they were still standing. 

The Israelites, God’s chosen and beloved people, had endured centuries of slavery and oppression, only to be buoyed by false hope as one plague after another fell upon their undeterred oppressors. They fled a land of death and destruction and were led along an extended desert route {weapons in hand lest opposing armies attack} only to be faced with the Red Sea in front of them and the relentless Egyptians behind them. 

Lord, how I feel like them. 

I don’t type those words flippantly and it may seem indulgent to compare my comfortable, middle-class, American life with the plight of newly-freed slaves. The analogy is figurative but the emotions, the weariness, they are surely connected. That is part of beauty of Scripture; the stories of God’s people—His very human and very loved people—they bear witness to our own experiences.

Right now I feel a bit like I’m on the shore on the Red Sea; it’s a shore I’ve visited many times. The unbelievable travails of the past are anything but ancient history; the frightfulness and overwhelming realities of the future seem like an vast ocean. I’d prefer to dig a trench in the sand and bury myself in it. 

But God spoke through Moses with this message for His bewildered people:


The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.


Every time I read those words, I want to weep. If this isn’t good news, nothing is. God keeps showing me that stillness, not productivity, brings salvation. Our hope is found in quiet trust, no matter how afraid and bedraggled we feel. Those are comforting words for the weary. After all, weary folks can’t do a whole lot besides wait; they’ve no fight left in them.

Perhaps you stand on the sandy shores alongside me. The past reads like one crazy plague after another and you feel as though you may drown in the swirling, unknown waters of the future. The Promised Land feels a world away but His presence? It has never been nearer.

Let’s be still and trust against all reason…

God is for us. He fights for us. We need only to be still.



Twas the Night Before School Started and All Through the House, Was a Whole Lot of Crazy…and a Chewed-up Gym Bag.




The last day of summer arrived and so did my nerves. I went for an early run, downed my coffee, and made my list.

  • Clean up the kitchen.
  • Finish the laundry.
  • Wash Blondie’s linens.
  • Run to Rack Room so she can decide on those new sneakers.
  • Pick up scrapbook paper and stickers so she can make her binders.
  • Ready the bags and lunch boxes and {said} binders.
  • Bake a pan of granola bars.
  • Grab a few groceries. 

You get the picture–normal day-before-school mom stuff. As long as I stayed on task, we’d all be fine. But The Man had to teach that night so it was imperative that things proceed in an orderly fashion for meal-time, showers, and bed-time to go as planned.

By 6:30 pm, I was beyond bewildered at the crazy turn my day had taken. There I stood on a crowded downtown avenue in a sea of giddy college students as my own three kids ate snow cones. Three kids who had not yet been showered, properly fed, or readied for bed. Oh, and the youngest of these three? Was dressed as Spiderman, the fake-muscle-suit Spiderman. 

But before we get to that, a bit of backstory. My 11-year-old daughter struggles with an inherited disorder called “decision-making anxiety.” I don’t know who she gets it from. Ahem.  

Picking out school supplies and choosing new clothes requires an inordinate amount of time and patience. She is not a diva. She does not like to stand out. But she’s as particular as the day is long, fretting over minutiae like the color of stitching on shoes or the perfect shade of aqua or the texture of just about anything.

And this is why we ended up in a sweaty, jam-packed, downtown college street fair when we should have been at home, eating a leisurely dinner. 

You see, the dog had chewed up her gym bag. Her plain ol’ green and black cinch sack that she’s had for a couple of years and had planned to use for P.E. 

We don’t live in a retail metropolis so I called every store from the downtown Hallmark shop to a sporting goods place to see if they had reasonably priced cinch sacks. Apparently a lot of kids needed new bags for gym. Or a lot of dogs wanted to torture frazzled mothers who didn’t already have enough on their plates. 

I finally found a shop that carried cinch sacks for the right price: $9.95. They closed at 6:00 pm. So with granola bars unmade, laundry unfinished, and pizza dough rising on the counter, I loaded two big kids and one tiny superhero in the van and high-tailed it to the boutique. 

The traffic was ridiculous. Fake-muscled-Spidey fell asleep {at 5:45…awesome}. And a carnival-like atmosphere greeted us as we turned onto the main street of downtown. A Welcome-Back Festival was in full swing; what a perfect time to venture downtown! With one’s kids. 

Okay, I said to myself, we’ll just grab the bag and get home. We’ll still have time for homemade pizza and proper bedtimes. 

The boutique bag was adorable, zebra print with purple backing. But it was a bit too small for a gym bag. She looked up at me with apologetic eyes and put the bag back on its hanger. 

We left. 

With no gym bag. 

The sweet girl in the shop said that the boutique was giving away some larger free bags {with the shop’s logo} at the festival about 30 yards away. 

So I abandoned all reason right there in the parking lot, grabbed my son and muscled Spidey and bought $5 worth of tickets for who knows what. We moved like a small convoy of bumper cars through a sea of crazy co-ed’s.

For a gym bag.

Because it was after 6:00, the kids were hungry and dinner was still just a ball of flour and yeast on my kitchen counter, 15 minutes away. 

But I had five dollars worth of tickets! So, three slices of pizza, several rainbow snow cones, one frisbee, and a “free” gym bag later, we made it back to the van, mostly unharmed. 

But my daughter, she was troubled over this bag; it was not what she’d planned on. And when it’s the eve of the first day of 6th grade, one is not rational about one’s true identity or the futility of a gym bag search. One finds security in cute school gear and smooth hair. How well I remember.

Remembering gives life to understanding and understanding sometimes kicks common sense to the curb in order to secure a cinch sack the night before school.

So we stopped by the sporting goods store on the way home and spied a trendy, though flimsy, Nike cinch sack. For $20. And though my love knows no limits, my wallet does. 

I told her I’d cover ten dollars of it but the rest would have to come out of her money. So she decided to wait and use the freebie cinch sack. We finally headed home. 

The boys played with their new frisbee while I readied the dough. But when Spidey took a hit to the nose, the fun was over and the Mama was weary. I felt as if my day had taken a hit as well. 

The boys helped spread the sauce and sprinkle the cheese. And when it was time for everyone to eat, they swallowed maybe two bites and asked if they could be done. Probably because the appetizer of pizza before the entree of pizza had filled them up. And because the whole wheat crust was extra-whole-wheaty and barely edible. And because they were still high on artificially-colored high fructose corn syrup from the snow cones. 

As the events of the day unfolded, so did the lesson: Nothing has gone as planned. The pizza and the snow cones and the foiled gym bag all reflect the unplanned-ness of the bigger picture.


I hadn’t planned on the larger complications and personal travails that necessitated putting my kids in school in the first place.

I hadn’t planned on anything looking the way it does right now.

You can probably fill in your own blank(s). I hadn’t planned on ________________.  

But if I believe what I profess to believe, I know that this is not punishment or failure or Plan B or happenstance. 

This is Grace.

All’s Grace. It’s the way Ann signs her posts and it’s the title of Brennan Manning’s final book. It’s the way I’m only now beginning to {barely, sometimes} see my days, my circumstances, my kids, my story.

I dropped her off at the middle school this morning and she told me only moments before that she was so nervous, she could barely feel her legs. I was so nervous, I could barely feel anything except my pounding heart and desperate love for her. She hopped out and I drove away; it all happened so fast.

I fought every urge to whip that minivan into a parking space and race inside the building to help her. 

What if she can’t find her first class? What if she has a breakdown? What if she can’t find a place to sit in the cafeteria?  

And all of that could happen. She may have her own difficult day of dashed expectations and botched plans. 

I cried the whole. way. home. I’m still crying.

But even though I’m emotional and even though I can’t believe she’s there, it doesn’t feel wrong. It just feels hard. 

God uses a day gone awry and a life run amuck to show me that plans, the little ones and the big ones, are to be held loosely. Control is an illusion. Middle School brings anxiety. Life defies expectation. Beauty blooms out of brokenness. 

And All is Grace. I’ll breathe this Truth in and out for the next 4 hours. Pick up’s at 3:00. 


On Summer and Re-entry, Worry and Grace

I’ve been off the grid this summer in the best and worst ways. It’s been a summer of not much, of rest and lazy and neighborhood play. And all of this has been more by default than by design. 

We didn’t join a pool or sign up for craft camps or go here there and everywhere. Yesterday I realized that we embarked on exactly three play dates all summer with kids and moms, zero of which I initiated. I didn’t meet up with a single friend for coffee, dinner, or chit-chat. The Man and I went on two dates, one of them for our anniversary. 

For several reasons, I just didn’t have it in me to do a whole lot of anything. And because my kids have plenty of neighborhood play and a wheelbarrow of imagination, they fared just fine. 

If I measured these summer days with the yardstick of productivity, plans fulfilled, and a sunny disposition, I’d deem it a failed three months. Because the yardstick is my default, it’s easy to scan the June through August blur and shake my head in disappointment, wishing I’d had more to give and more to show. 

But I didn’t. And I’m pretty sure that the only one who scans and measures and judges in this house is me. As I type this post, the boys have built a fort for the dog out of sofa pillows and old blankets. The girl has just staggered out of bed and stares sleepily out the window. 

This vignette has characterized our summer and now we only have a few days left.

As failed and lazy and lackluster as it sometimes seems {especially when the fort building degenerates into a screaming match and a tug-of-war ensues over the dog and they all whine and beg because they want more time on Club Penguin}, we have lived these days with a lot of togetherness. That thought wraps me in a blanket of consolation. 

And it’s the reason I’ve cried every day this week. 

This week we’ve done middle school registration, band orientation, and elementary school meet-the-teacher. Soon they’ll have their own teachers, classrooms, pursuits, and friends. And this will all be good and okay. {I hope.} I know this because we’ve done it before and I watched them flourish within walls beyond those of home. I know this because they are excited and ready. I know this because it’s what we feel called to do for now.

In the moments of crazy and rivalry and Mama-needs-a-break, I am ready for them to be productive citizens elsewhere. But on a morning like this, when regret and nostalgia and family togetherness mingle and swirl and taste so very bittersweet…well, the tears begin to flow. Again.

I struggle against the desire to push it down and get it together. But this is where I am so I’ve just decided to accept my emotional state and know that I’ll be a mess for a bit longer.  

The summer we’ve traversed, the done and the undone staring me in the face, the joy and pain as a new school year looms, the fear and fret that only a mother knows…it’s time to hand it all over.

Only He holds the future and heals the past. Why do I try to wrangle it away?

Only He has a plan that uses the good, bad, and ugly for our good and for his glory. Why do I waste time with regret and micro-managing and saving face?

Only He loves my babies with more love than I can ever muster. Why do I refuse to trust Him with their days?

If you’re right here with me, carrying the weight of the world, worrying over your kids, and laboring under the illusion of control, how ’bout we make a pact to let go and live in today? 

Regret is a bully. Worry is a leech. But Grace is a life-saver, a life-giver, a wound-healer, and a day-maker. Grace holds out freedom, hope, and provision for all of us. God gives us all the grace we need but only one day at a time. 

So unfold your clenched fingers. Unfurrow that brow. Lift your face to the Father and receive Grace for today.  

And when tomorrow comes? He’s got more. 



An Uncommon Solution to Fixing Your Life


I see my reflection in the computer and pity the woman staring back at me with her unwashed hair and dirty t-shirt. 

I roll my eyes at the wadded-up antique quilt in the corner, the one that the dog peed on and that the dog’s owner is not sure how to launder and I wonder how many more days it may sit there and what sort of long-term damage dog pee does to a quilt. 

I hear my 4-year-old asking why the chair is broken and that the busted piece hurts his tush and when are we going to get new chairs because ours are old and don’t work very good. 

Beads are strewn across the bar.

The carpet is in desperate need of deep cleaning.

The walls are anointed with Sharpie ink.

The ridiculous stains on the furniture mock me every single day and the sofa cushions are losing their stuffing, poof by poof. Literally.

The boys’ room is crammed with {broken} kitchen chairs and elaborately tented with the once-folded contents of my linen closet.

Laundry piled high.

Countertops that smell weird.

Ants coming in through the back door and eating the dog food.

The bathroom floor is sunken in beside the tub, a not-uncommon calamity when a family has weathered the years-long season of splashy kids and nightly baths. That’s what the independent contractor told us anyway. 

And this is just the stuff on the surface, the see-and-touch mayhem and unraveling that accompanies real life.

What lies beneath is even messier, more elusive. Kids struggle. Marriage takes work. Bodies need doctors. Hearts need counseling. The whole world needs healing and my tiny world needs help too.

I call it the unfixable life. 

Sometimes {and by “sometimes” I mean this morning} I stumble upon a blog or some other home-and-life vignette that’s just bursting with beauty and then I blame the internet for taunting my discontent. 

The laundry, the mess, the squishy bathroom floor, the personal struggles–I suddenly see them under a magnifying glass and then compare all of my ick to Susie-So-And-So’s life of charm and perfection.

Like a toddler, I pound my fists and say to no one, Why is their life so beautiful and abundant? Why don’t their countertops smell weird?

And while I rail I’m reminded that someone probably looks at my life from the outside and says the same thing. Our lives will always seem beautiful and abundant to someone else, even if it feels messy, lacking, and unfixable to us. It’s all relative, isn’t it?

This morning I journaled. I half-heartedly prayed. I read through the passages of my One Year Bible. I know these are life-giving disciplines but instead of feeling full I felt empty, disconnected from the Source that gives the life. 

I almost slammed the pages shut but decided to keep going, to read the next day’s passage, buoyed by the thinnest shred of hope that perhaps a wee bit of light would illuminate the dim and dreary condition of my soul. Or that an Angel of Mercy would show up and clean my house. And hand me $5,000.

Instead of cash and cleanliness, I found a passage in Lamentations and promptly scrawled it on an index card in bright blue ink. 

It was not a call to get busy and start in on that soiled quilt or find some extra money in order to clean the carpets or dig deep with an extra measure of resolve and tackle the necessary soul work. 

It was not a command to pick up those library books in order to find the right diet for a certain child’s learning disability or concrete answers to adrenal fatigue.

It was not a suggestion to get over my weak self and just do the right thing with a smile on my face and a “servant’s heart,” nor was it a condescending reminder to return my friends’ phone calls and deal with my inbox. 

It was simply an invitation, a “dare to hope.” Affirmation to wait. A call to dependence on a faithful Lord whose mercies are new every morning and whose inheritance is richer than $5,000 and a clean house with lemon-fresh countertops.

Lamentations 3:21-26 {NLT}

Yet I still dare to hope
    when I remember this:
The faithful love of the Lord never ends!
    His mercies never cease.
Great is his faithfulness;
    his mercies begin afresh each morning.
I say to myself, “The Lord is my inheritance;
    therefore, I will hope in him!”
The Lord is good to those who depend on him,
    to those who search for him.
So it is good to wait quietly
    for salvation from the Lord. {emphasis mine}

I cannot fix my life. I cannot heal my hurts or eradicate my exhaustion or makeover my personality. I do not have the answers to the needs of my family or the sewing skills to slipcover my dirty furniture. 

Instead, I quietly wait for the One who has all the answers and knows all my needs {not to be confused with my wants}, the One who shows up every morning with a fresh batch of mercies and a promise to save both my everyday and my eternity.

If your life feels a bit like mine, if you’re tired and uninspired and white-knuckled from gripping it all too tightly…

Maybe it’s time to let go, receive grace, and join me in the waiting room. 

Ease

Hi! My name’s Scooper and I’m starting a blog. Oh, I already have a blog? I used to write here on a regular basis? I thought this screen looked vaguely familiar. 

Summer has smoked the lazy right out of me. 

Well, that’s not entirely true. I’ve been not writing here on purpose. I’ve taken the bare bones mentality seriously and it’s been just what the doctor ordered during these lazy, hazy days of summer. My journal is exhausted because I’ve been scrawling there instead of here. I’ve made a big dent in my book pile. And my bed and sofa have a forever imprint of my back side. 

Besides resting and reading and writing with a pen, I took a silent retreat for a few days {which technically included all of the aforementioned activities. More on that later.} 

And in stark contrast to a silent retreat, my sister and her three kids came to visit this week. It was loud and wonderful. We spent the week not showering, reading magazines, loosely supervising our children, and watching an endless stream of “Say Yes to the Dress” episodes. I just realized that I took not a single photo. See above comment about summer and lazy. 

Actually, I did take one photo on my phone. That photo at the top of the post is my precious niece “swimming” in a rubbermaid container on my driveway. Staying classy is clearly a top priority around here. We have a larger kiddie pool for the bigger kids {they took turns swimming in 10-minute shifts} but sweet Tabitha needed a way to keep cool that was more to scale with her tiny, 11-month-old self. 

Besides heat survival, swimming in storage containers, and not taking photos, there’s not much to report. I have some topics I look forward to writing about when the time is right but for now, the thoughts are more in the percolation stage. Sometimes it takes time for them to settle. And summer seems to be the perfect time for that to happen. 

So for now, I’m embracing a slower pace and a season of less. I look forward to writing more once my kids start school but I am so not rushing that. 

I plan to ease back into the blogosphere between now and then, ease being the operative word. 

So from one lazy girl to another, may you enjoy the last weeks of summer, take the time to sip fruity drinks, revel in the spirit of the Olympics, stay cool in the pool {even if it’s tiny, plastic, and sitting on your driveway}, and find some ease of your own. 

Showers are optional. 

Watching



Watching my flower girl walk down the aisle as a grown-up bride.




Watching my children splash their toes in the same lake where my husband splashed as a little boy. 




Watching the family fireworks show.




Watching my niece, Bree, now a big one-year-old, clap her hands and smile a thousand smiles. She’s a miracle.




Watching my newest nephew wrinkle up his precious newborn face, curl into that precious newborn bundle, and not give his parents enough precious shut-eye.




Watching my feverish youngest child throw up mid-way through our long trip home as I frantically searched for a plastic bag. Which I never found. 

{Photos unavailable. You’re welcome.}

Watching with disbelief and suppressed laughter {because what else can you do} as we hosed down a car seat, seat belt, blanket, and youngest child in a dilapidated manual car wash while my oldest child cried hysterically at the horrible-ness of it all and my middle child sympathetically comforted the sick one with encouragement and words of affirmation. It was classic. 

Life is beautiful, emotional, nostalgic, and sometimes disgusting. 

Happy July. : )


How the Bare Bones Can Set You Free


I am highly distractible. Call it ADD, daydreaming, spontaneity, or impulsiveness…it is both the death and life of me. 

Distractibility allows me to create and make art but often keeps me from getting the laundry done. It enables me to express myself but sometimes keeps me from being present with those who need me. 

Way back in January, I declared 2012 the “Year of Simplicity.” It would be a year of rest, healing, prioritizing the bare bones, and did I mention rest? It’s why we sent our kids to school and why we plan to send them back in the fall. 

Simplicity snaked its way into all of our goals for the year. My husband took me out for a breakfast date during the first week of the new year and we discussed what he thought our spiritual focus for 2012 should be: God’s Love. That may sound overly simplistic to you but I’m learning that it’s actually foundational. 

So one might think that all of this focus on simplicity would magically line up my priorities in soldier-like precision and that I would never again depart from the bare bones. 

But there’s that distractibility bit. Dang it. 

Thankfully I have a husband who protects me from myself. I’d love to tell you that I always see this as a virtue. For someone as ridiculously self-aware as me, I’m still prone to blind spots. Putting simplicity into practice is one of them.

The two of us never really sat down and made a list of what, exactly, I would prioritize. It was just a general understanding. And sometimes general understandings are generally understood by one person in ways that are different from how the other one generally understands them. Generally speaking of course. {Can I get a witness?}

So last week we had a wee bit of conflict because I was excited about this new content writing site I’d been referred to and it really wouldn’t take much time at all except that it did because I had a technical glitch that should have been easily resolved except that it wasn’t and next thing you know I’ve wasted 3 hours on the technical part of a project that really wasn’t part of anyone’s plan and certainly didn’t fall under the umbrella of simplicity and was just something I found out about that very day and decided to jump head-first into in grand hopes that I could easily develop a writing portfolio and make a little extra money on the side. 

That night my husband came home and I told him what I’d been up to that day and he asked me how, exactly, that was simplifying my life and I may or may not have taken great offense and melted into a hot, teary mess, accusing someone of not loving me for who I am and how that someone should have married a 1950s housewife instead. 

{This, my friends, is what my counselor refers to as a flawed “interpretive grid.” Hormones may or may not further askew one’s interpretive grid.}

You’ll be happy to know that the conflict is now resolved and we’ve both learned even more about communication as a result. You see, that wasn’t the first time-sucking distraction I’d chased down in the midst of a busy couple of weeks. My husband was right: I was blind to the ways in which this tiny detour {and all of the others} had derailed me from what I needed to focus on, thereby draining me of the precious little emotional and physical energy I have these days. 

It was the necessary wake-up call. My priorities now flash in my mind with bold, giant, all-caps blinking letters: MARRIAGE, CHILDREN, HOME, REST {spiritual quiet and physical rest}, and a LITTLE BIT OF WRITING. 

Though I love my friends, I cannot prioritize them right now. Though I love my blog, I cannot obsess over and try to figure out how to redesign or rework it. And even though writing technically counts as one of my priorities, “extra” writing things {like Jeff Goins’ 15-day writing challenge or Zujava content writing site} all get the ax right now. 

It’s summer. My kids are home. There are cookies to bake, crafts to make, trips to take, and swimsuits to launder. These sweet, steamy days are a flash in the pan. Other stuff can wait, regular blog posts and a redesign included. Come fall, the bare bones will likely shift a bit. We’ll rethink priorities at that point and try to live the everyday accordingly.

It’s so freeing. Instead of feeling frustrated that I can’t do some things I’d love to do, I feel empowered to zero in on the bare bones. I accept this season of my life. I know that there is a time for everything but that there will never be one time when we can do everything. Some women just naturally live this more easily than others; it’s frustrating to acknowledge that I’m not one of them.  

Clinging to the bare bones makes saying “no” to good things so much easier. Even though I’ve written about the concept of opportunity cost a lot, I’m slow to learn. Repeat after me {or have someone else remind you}: Every “yes” is also a “no.” 

So here’s to a summer of priorities and freedom. Say “yes” to the bare bones and lay aside the guilt for saying “no” to the distractions and opportunities that may give you good and momentary indulgence but leave you a bit emptier for the things that matter most. 

While this is the “Year of Simplicity,” it also feels like the “Year of Being Refined, Pruned, and Humbled.” Or “The Year of Being Really Slow to Learn.”

The bare bones aren’t the same for all of us. But it may be worth it to jot down your own “bones” and eschew the distractions that lead you in other directions. It’s not restrictive, it’s life-giving–not only for you but for those around you. I promise.

Live simply. Be free. Embrace the season. And drink grace {because occasionally that detour will be impossible to resist and sometimes that’s as it should be. I blame Pinterest.}

Oh and one more thing. Don’t take offense from the one who has the guts {and love} to speak the hard truth and urges you to revisit the bare bones from time to time. He loves you. And you just may need to hear what he has to say. Also? He doesn’t wish he was married a 1950s housewife.