Can we just talk about that word for a minute? I’m sure it’s been talked about ad nauseam in some places, but I actually haven’t seen a real, honest conversation about it.
Home maker is a words that’s been extremely overused and also, completely undersold. Overused in the sense that it’s become a bit of a diss, or a dishonor to a certain segment of the population. While some wear it as a badge of pride as an honor, some others consider it a downgrade from their biggest hopes and dreams.
While truthfully, it’s fundamental to society. It’s a non negotiable. But maybe not like you think?
I mean, we’re all homemakers aren’t we? Homemakers or home-wreckers really. We all build our homes, a little at a time.
Home making much less to do with keeping house, in my mind, than it does with making a house a home- and someplace worth coming home to.
I consider myself a homemaker. I did before I had kids, when I worked full time, when I had kids and continued to work and even now as I work part time from home and full time managing those wonderful kids and many household tasks.
I also can look at other women around me and see that, even if they do it very differently than me, they are too. Full time working moms are homemakers. Part time working moms. Non moms. People, we are making a home where we are. Or are we?
(I’m considering as I write this whether to look up the definition of homemaker. But I fear it may be outdated or incorrect anyway. So I’m going to look around me first and see what being a homemaker looks like.)
My mom was a homemaker, even though she found herself a single mom and had to go work outside of the home. My mother-in-law was too, as she raised five boys, made the finest pies and kept the cleanest house. None of the details and tasks take away from the real truth of what each of them did. They both created a home out of love and time and the resources they had. They both made a home. (My mom also is an excellent pie baker, might I add. Even if I found out as an adult, making my first pie crust, that she didn’t make hers homemade like I thought. She does now though. Still, we all love.)
While I’m a pretty good pie maker myself, I’m definitely not perfect, and I don’t keep things quite as spit spot as someone else maybe can. Maybe I’m better at certain things, or a bit cleaner than another, but that none of that defines me as a home maker of not. It doesn’t really define any of us or our home making powers as much as we think it does.
The aptitude with which we approach some the finer details or tangibles of our home making don’t take away from the over- arching ones we do, and their deep importance. We are all making a house a home, and a family out of the people who live there. Chances are we are doing the very best we can manage today. Even on the less stellar days, we’re making a house a home. We’re building a life.
While it may include many menial and more laborious tasks, those aren’t the whole of it. What we do as humans living together and parents in a home goes beyond the housework, and it extends to heart of the work. To the people we “manage”, to the life skills we help build, to being the counselors, and pastors and true care takes. Perhaps one of the most important parts of our job as home makers is being a tone-setter. By deciding what’s most important, what’s worth arguing about or not, what we talk about, focus on and work for or towards together. We don’t always chose the direction especially as people get older and kids have things to decide for themselves, but we always do set the tone, choose what’s most important. Homemakers build a life based off our core values- realized or unrealized.
While I don’t want to make it a genderless word, or take it from any mother who loves to use it, I do want us to reconsider what it is, what it means, and what each of our parts is.
We all build things. Or wreck them, as noted already.
We are building a home with every thought, action, inaction, interaction and exchange. Every task, from taking out the garbage to scrubbing stains out of clothes has a purpose behind it. This happens in the middle of the day, or late at night. You build up your home, you make it one. Whether you work in the home, outside the home, or you don’t work for a money anywhere. It’s what you are as a person, adding to the places where you exist. Let alone as parent in your home, as a mom with your husband and kids, or a husband with his family.
Together we make it a home. We build. Brick by brick, day by day, thought by thought, act upon act.
Every interaction we have brings meaning with it. So we do. Every conversation, every day at work. Every buttered piece of bread, every towel that’s folded, every school drop off, every prayer and every hug.
It’s also in the neglected baseboards because you were too busy doing other things (usually with or for your people.) It’s in the hiring of help to clean those baseboards because of the same reasons. It’s in the stickers on your back seat window (that you swore you’d never allow.) It’s in the cracker crumbs at the bottom of your purse or on the seats or in your bed. It’s in the flowers picked, just for you, that you display so proudly. It’s in the practices and the games and the late night snacks and soccer uniforms and the plays on stage. The claps, the tears, the cries.
It’s in everything. We are home makers when we build a life with the people we love. When we make something that can’t always been seen, but can so very much be felt.
Mothers, fathers, parents. We make a house a home, together.
We work. We build. We care.
It might as well be with love.
For if we don’t, we unravel the work of others, on different days, little by little, day by day, piece by piece. We don’t want to, but we’ll have to do that work a bit or all over again. But don’t worry, you just keep going, you keep building with love. Love alway makes things work, even if you don’t see the results right away. It always makes it work- that is, if you do the work, too.
So just keep right on doing that.
Yes, we build, we care. We make it a home, with Love.
If we go through seasons where keeping up like we think or we need to is hard, don’t worry too much. The messes wait- seen or unseen. We’ll get to them when we’re able.
But those people don’t always wait, so neither should you. They’re what makes a house a home anyway. “Those people”, that includes you. So make sure you treat them each with care. For making a house a home takes an awful lot of that.
We’re built for it. So build it, make it, all with Love.
We sat at a big farmhouse style table, each of us taking up exactly the space that we needed- no more, no less. We had picked out treats that we each would want (mine was a power bowl from my rarely missed, but missed today lunch, a chocolatey cake of some kind for my son, and a duo of macarons for my daughter.) There were no papers on the table, no homework pulled out to do. All that we had the one new chapter book we’re reading together, just in case we felt like reading it. There were no dishes just an arm’s length away that vied for my attention or a dog that paced back and forth to go out the door. The only “distraction” was a call from Daddy -also known as my husband – who called just to check in. Though truthfully, was no distraction in any way.
This was his idea after all, as we were planning out our day. We weren’t exactly sure what to do in that awkward time between school being out and afternoon activities commencing. Sometimes we go to the library, or home, or the playground. This day was too cool and didn’t seem any of the above mentions. He said, “why don’t you go get a treat and sit down together at a coffee shop?” This was something we had done recently, to celebrate my birthday and I had thoroughly enjoyed it. But I also tend to be more practical these days with our time and our resources, so I usually opt not for that extra expense of either.
However, hearing the suggestion come from him, my husband and the breadwinner in the family right now, it hit different, but in a good way. I aim to be careful and thoughtful with how I choose to run my end of the business of family things. So his suggestion was a warm welcome from my relative frugality. It didn’t seem frivolous anymore, it seemed right and good. There’s a whole lot to that series of statements, I know, but for now, we’ll just stick to the main of the story I’m telling you here. Bottom line, we decided to go out to a coffee shop and spend that time together, and he called to see how it was going.
“Well, really,” I sighed, “it’s great! I’m not running around and doing any work. I’m just sitting here with our kids and we’re talking.” It was a really, really good sigh! Lighter, brighter than the usual way of things. “And you know what? It feels wonderful.”
Good!” he cheered from across town. “You should do that more often!”
He’s right, and now, I know it. (See honey, now you have it in print!) Maybe not necessarily going to get a treat at the coffeeshop, but going somewhere just to “BE” together.
See, the thing is, sometimes I don’t do things like that. Go out to get a “treat” “just because”. I spend a great deal of my time “at home”, or working from home, or returning home. Juggling the house, the kids, my coaching, volunteering at school and helping with faith classes, doing all the normal things of my life, and often running back and forth from home multiple times a day. I love it, but sometimes, being home (one of my favorite places to be!) can feel like work. Which, truthfully, mostly I love, but not always. I don’t really mind the hard work, I’m good for that.
It’s just that “the work” of it all, the work of “home” never seems to clearly end. There’s always more, or something else, “to do”.
Then what I really don’t love about being home sometimes is that while I’m home, I can know, see, or sense the projects that I “should’ be doing, need to be doing, or maybe want to do.
That makes it hard, because it’s really hard to turn those things off sometimes when they’re staring you in the face, screaming from the next room, or just an arm’s length -and a big tug of guilt- away. (Like that missing sink and dishes from the scene above!) There’s always more work to be do, and being at home reminds me of that. Not to mention, it also creates more sometimes! Not that any of its a bad thing. It’s just the stuff of life.
So that can mean that sometimes I have trouble settling down while those things persist. Though I’m not a perfectionist of any kinds, I can just as easily be pulled into the trap of more work as the next one. That can take me away from doing the one thing I find most valuable and important in life. Spending time with my kids.
Do you ever feel that way too? Well friend, you’re not alone. I think we all should remember, just like I did that day in the cafe, that the distractions will always be here. Those things that are the stuff and the tasks of life. But our kids won’t always be there, not in the same way. One day we might look back on our life and wonder. Wonder why we didn’t go and sit down with our kids more often. Not just sit but sit and talk. Listen. Look them in the eyes, hear their stories without them having to shout it over our shoulders while we did something else, kind of a thing. I’m just as guilt as the next guy.
I’ll tell you right now why it happens. Because we forgot. It’s human nature, to forget, sometimes, the things that mean the most or that will make the biggest difference in this world. That’s just the way things go. There are more distractions than we can shake a stick at, and many of them want to keep us from the very most important stuff. Like the times when we just sit and listen and talk with and connect to other people. That’s all-to-easily pushed aside and bullied away by “more important things” (see how I put that in quotes there?) – like laundry and dishes and to do lists. Listen I know that we all need those things too. We need them to work well and effectively and together.
But we don’t need them at the expense of other people.
We all forget sometimes. Sadly, at the expense of other people. We’re all in this thing together. This human, stumbling, tripping way of running our race.
Remember, forget, remember, forget. And as many times as I need to remind myself and remember and be reminded, I will try. Because yesterday’s, and last week’s and last year’s time being together, it was great, but it only got us so far. We’re here now, and we want it to go further. So we’re going to have to do more of that connecting. We’re going to have to do it again, on repeat. Making the most of our time, for the days are like fleeting specks of gold.
Maybe I’ll take them out for a coffee or tea or hot chocolate again today. Or maybe I’ll just pretend we are out and ignore all the other “pressing” things for a while. Because these people right here are what’s most important. Someday I might be begging them to come back. If I play my cards right now, and invest the love and the time that I have right here with them, maybe we both will, or maybe we’ll just keep right on doing it. For it will only grow, if we let it, and we’ll both want to make more use of its goodness. Of our time and our resources, for isn’t it, and especially our time, the most precious thing?
Yes, it is. Using it wisely, that’s courting extraordinary. I want to do lots more of that…
“I’m not ready yet,” he said, looking at me with tears in his eyes still, a sad expression on his face. The tears had subsided and his eyes were getting less sad with each passing hour. I knew he was still sad and unsure, but he was getting there. Unsure at the thought of it all. That I was leaving. That he’d have to stay.
Earlier when the tears were hot and the pleading was high, I encouraged him. “You can do this, love!”
He was much less sure.
I wavered, but I didn’t want him to believe it was something he couldn’t do. I wanted him to know, yes indeed he totally could.
I ruffled his hair, kissed the top of his head, cupped his wet cheeks. “It’s just a muscle you haven’t used in a while! But you can do this,” I said.
“What do you mean, ‘muscle’?” he questioned. I could see the wheels turning in his brain. Muscles, and mommy leaving. What did they have to do with each other?
“You’re just not used to it,” I said. “You used to do it when you were little. You went with nana most afternoons while I went to work for a bit. You loved it, and nana loved it. You are so special to her! Now you’re just not used to it. You haven’t used that muscle in a while. But you can do it darling!”
He thought about it. Still unsure.
“It’s going to be alright, I promise. You are safe and you have everything you need. I’ll just be gone for a little while and then I’ll be home! You’ll see. You’ll even have a nice time.”
Later as we got closer to the time for me to go, his smile had a bit easier, but he was still hesitant. He was still unsure. I mentioned out loud how I had to go to the class and help teach, and had to act something out something in front of the class. I was a bit nervous. “I don’t know if I’m ready,” I said to him.
“Oh you’re ready mama.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
“Well good,” I said with a slow smile and deliberate wink, “because you’re ready too!!”
🙌🏻🫶🏻
He couldn’t help but smile back at me. I had used his same tender excuse right back at him. Flipping the script, back to truth. Urging him, gently nudging him from discomfort to ability. Even if it felt uncomfortable at first.
When I got home later and he happily greeted me at the door, relaying some lovely “old wives tale” his nana had taught him while I was gone, just as a nana should, I could see that all was well. Better than well.
I asked how his muscles were and he flashed his big, dimpled smile. He had exercised his muscles. They were bigger now, and so was his smile. Mine too.
We all were made to be uncomfortable. Else we would have stayed little tiny babies, needing only warm milk and soft snuggles. Parenthood is hard. Growing up is hard. Entrepreneurship is hard. Life is hard. But we were built to grow in the hard, because of it, right alongside it, and through it.
And now here we both were, together, like nothing had changed, and yet. It always is. Changing, and for the better, as much as we’ll allow. Always, for the better.
Some say, “Go out for adventure, come home for love.” Poppycock, I say. I think it’s Home for adventure AND for love. Then, out into the world for both. 🫶🏻✨
So, if you, like my son or like myself, wonder if you’re ready yet, you can remember this. Trust and know, that if you’re given the chance to try, chances are, you probably are ready. Even if it’s uncomfortable. Take a leap and let yourself fly.
We were planting daffodils this afternoon, my kids and I were.
A mere fifteen years after I first intended.
We also found out while we were out that the little girl that lived across the street has now given birth to her first baby. Life is wild and Mr. Time sure flies like that.
But here I was, finally implementing and planting some not so big dreams that were also too big, apparently, to accomplish. It seems to be the theme of my life sometimes.
I may be quick to notice a need, a willing volunteer, wanting to be a conduit for goodness. But sometimes I can be very very slow on the implementation.
I could blame it on many many things.
My personality, my faults, but maybe not my laziness. Perhaps the way that my willingness to say yes also sometimes means that I say yes to too many things.
Though the kids have curbed that propensity, demonstrating and showing me both new limits and new heights, they have also joined the wrestling match for my time and attention. They prove formidable foes, and much stronger than their tiny size would bely. I joke, mostly, for it is my extreme pleasure, even if not every aspect of it is a delight. Most of it is.
Certainly, all of the things that I dream and commit to, must wrestle it out. I guess that when they do, the stronger ones usually win.
Which doesn’t always mean the flowers.
Dreams are persistent though, and keep showing up whether we like it or not.
When I realized how much I loved those flowers, I was walking our new dog around the block and couldn’t help but smile every time that I saw them in a neighbor’s yard. I’d pass by and say to myself “come October, I’ll be planting those bulbs.” I too wanted to be greeted by such sunshine in my own front yard.
Well, years passed. Many years. October was apparently a busy month for me, long before those kids even came, and I never once got around to planting them.
Just a few years ago, a neighbor gifted some mini daffodils to me- carrying them right to my door- and I couldn’t have been happier. I felt seen and valued in my tiny daffodil dreams. When they sprung up beautifully the next year, they were a reminder of what waited for me. I was capable of growing something so beautiful. I must do this again, and more. I must dream, and plant more, and even bigger.
Now, something was different this year.
I’ve had this great new helper. He’s not “new”, he’s been around for six and half glorious years. He just happens to be in a different place, as we all are, and he was with me at the grocery store when I saw the daffodils. I casually mentioned that I “always want to plant those.” As I said it I was completely ready to almost immediately dismiss the thought, again.
My little helper was on it though. “Let’s get them!” he said enthusiastically. In a moment of doubt and hesitation, I paused. Then I quickly realized that waiting was certainly NOT in my favor. I remembered his tiny but mighty presence and how that changed everything. He’s my “doer’, my engineer, my fix it, built it, up for the task and finish the job kinda guy.
When I remembered that, the bulbs practically jumped into my cart. Now, I miraculously remembered them today, while we were outside with no plans, and all afternoon.
When I mentioned it to him, he was on it, again. He’s strong and willing, my little six year old helper Pretty capable too. Definitely capable of helping me show up.
Man, my kids teach me a lot. Like having the courage to start, even when I haven’t quite done it yet. Even if at times it felt like they tried to do the opposite of helping, just by being regular kids with regular unending needs.
But when it’s time, it’s time, and God has a way of bringing just the right coaches that you need, just when you need them. Even if it is the same ones who might have appeared to hold you back before. (Spoiler, it never was them.)
This time was different. With him by my side, we could do it. Once begun can be half done, and there was not much we had to do to (finally) get started. He brought all the momentum, grabbed the bag of bulbs, and I procured the shovel. Before we knew it, we really had the bulbs rolling. (Ha ha!)
The thing that struck me the most was how deep we had to plant them. As we started to dig, I knew that it was as good as done. With the first push of the shovel into the hard cold dirt meant that we had a chance. Starting would mean they might grow.
But digging is hard work. My son said as much. He was shocked at how difficult that part was, and how long that it took. Would we be able to plant them deep enough or well enough?
A quick check of the directions had confirmed that the depth must be enough for its eventual height. These guys should be given some space and not be too overcrowded.
But the depth mattered most. Too shallow, and they wouldn’t survive.
As I explained this out loud, I thought that it feels a lot like these last fifteen years or more, too. For years things have been dug and planted deep into my heart. The ground has been cultivated and made soft and dug deeper. It must be this way, it must take time.
Because when it’s time to bloom, you need that equal foundation. Blossoming is never day one. It’s more like year, fifteen, twenty, thirty.
Like I said. It only took me fifteen years to get these daffodils going. Such it is, with so many dreams that I’ve carried and still carry in my heart.
The delays never seem to squash the hope of possibility. It’s only when I start to count the years that I begin to really doubt and worry. When I think about myself, and my failures, instead of the possibility of the dreams, is when they start to loose a little glimmer in my heart.
It can’t be too late for me.
It can’t be too late for you, either.
I am, I think, a late bloomer.
I am, because I want to be. A bloomer, eventually. A bloomer after all.
I have to be, because I am, now.
Because I refuse to think that my best days are behind me.
How can they be, when I still see so much good.
Not ever, if I care to notice the possibility.
I’ll check in with you later.
Next Spring, maybe, or whenever it happens to be time for blooms. I’ll make sure to remind you of what else is possible, now that you see the next, possible, beauty, growing.
“If hope is real, then I want to see it. If hope is thing, then I want to deal it. If hope is a seed, then I want to plant it. If hope is a way, I want to walk it. If Hope is person, I want to embrace him.
Then I pause to think. Perhaps because I think about it, maybe I already have? Maybe I can, even, more.
Always. Always, more, Hope. Because that’s where He always leads.”
Always, Hope.
I wanted to become a journalist since I was young. (That and a teacher previously, as many young girls start to dream after watching the kind souls that teach them. ) But writing, “breaking news”, and sharing stories worth noting was my greatest ‘desire’, apart part from loving (and therefore, serving) God.
That desire was laid upon the altar- unexpectedly, voluntarily, as a byproduct of surrendered prayers- and it went up in flames.
Or did it?
After a memorable visit to a friend’s Wednesday night (super cool and real, by the way) youth group the next city over, I found myself suddenly knowing that I needed to go to Bible college. This was about five weeks before upcoming high school graduation, and a well after my decisions to college, a scholarship and awaiting opportunity and connection.
All I could attribute it to was the time we all spent on the floor of the chapel, praying. I was face down, in my hand made bell bottoms, a hippie redux of sorts, only the 90’s version. I was trying to put out if my mind the young man I was interested in, a fellow “hippie” I had met on a missions trip a few of years prior. I prayed with all of my might, as much as I could at the time, laying both myself and my dreams on the altar.
Well God in His wisdom, took me up on the offer. I wanted to go to Bible college, almost completely out of the blue, and all I could blame it on was that surrendered prayer.
It’s interesting looking back , because I knew that I could serve God in journalism. It did t have to be either or. But I didn’t know then what or how it would need to look. I didn’t know that what I would need to do would look the exact opposite, yet somehow still hit the mark. The heart of what I dreamed, the heart of what I wanted, without all of the extra stuff.
I skipped out on my communications degree and joined the ranks of servanthood at a college full of training ministers and hopeful pastors and oversea missionaries and loving children’s workers.
I fit not one mold in particular, but looking back, have perhaps dabbled in a bit of all of them.
Yes, the “dream” of becoming a journalist smoldered on the altar for a year as I took time to so end “a year in the Son”, as they called it.
At a chapel where the speaker spoke on the life of Mary and her willingness to do and be what God said, I stayed behind and prayed. I remember exact row of chairs that I sat in almost if not practically. End of the aisle, more towards the back, but not completely. On the left side. I sat, staring down at my long- skirted lap, my open hands, a pile of books and Bible probably on my lap. I remember being overcome, and with upturned hands echoing Mary’s prayer.
“Be it unto me according to Your Word.”
I didn’t even know what His Word was, exactly, at the time. I probably still don’t in so many ways. But I said it, and I meant it as best that I could.
A few weeks later, I unsurprisingly had a long, slow and yet sudden change of heart. I wouldn’t return to the scholarship that waited for me. I wouldn’t pursue a degree in journalism. My friends cheered. I had no idea what I might become, but I was going to follow Him. I would stay, here at Bible college, and become whatever God wanted.
What, I still don’t know exactly. But, hopefully mostly His.
Yes, I’m a wife, a mom, a writer. A friend, daughter, sister, neighbor. I’m a bit of a coach and a volunteer, and can be found teaching in short bursts, too. I am a pray-er. A singer, though slight off key. An encourager. A child of God.
Yes, I hope, I’m most of all, His. Broken, chipped, blessedly, meandering even at times, but still His. I’m a runner, though not always in the right direction. I’m a rester, a lover, occasionally a fighter, and sometimes a wrestler.
But the consistent thing is, yes, His.
I decided a long long time ago that I would follow Jesus. Even when I got a little lost or mixed up, He never forgot it, my broken promise. He never gave up. Even when I didn’t know that to do or how to get where He was going, He never gave up on me. And He never will.
You, too.
He doesn’t care where you’ve been or what you’ve done. “What, now?” is as Jesus His question. What next, He asks.
“Together?” He questions, arm outstretched to grab yours.
What did you always want to be? It’s not too late, not really. Not if you’re following the heart that was behind it. It might look different but it probably is still waiting for you to walk in it. It might fit now, “just right.”
I recently saw a post where a friend quoted me. “As long as there is breath, there is hope.” I couldn’t remember saying it exactly, and I don’t know if I copied it or said it exactly like that.
But I thought, “that’s it.”
As long as there’s breath, there is hope. And instead of telling terrible, breaking news stories, I have wanted my whole life to tell good ones. Good ones, true ones, filled with Hope. That are right and beautiful, even if they’re hard. Collected on hard wooden floors, or in soft, unsure chairs of waiting. All gathered together in places of surrender.
Those are the ones are worth telling. Worth listening to, even if it messes up your plans. And I want to be here to help tell them. Yours, mine, all of ours, common threads, with uncommon Hope.
A journalist in the trenches, with one ear to heaven and one ear to the earth. Bringing breaking news of encouragement, not ones t riddled with fear or discouragement.
Thank God I’m not a journalist. Not “theirs” anyway. Because Hope doesn’t sell big or catch a flashy headline as much as fear might appear to. But it’s ironic because isn’t Hope what we really crave? Isn’t good news what every soul needs. It is. So it’s what I want to lead with.
The truth is, if we’re really following Christ- either in the marketplace or out of it- that’s what we’ll lead with too.
If hope is real, then I want to see it.
If hope is thing, then I want to deal it
If hope is a seed, I want to plant it
If hope is a way, I want to walk it
If Hope is person, I want to embrace him.
Then I pause to think.
Perhaps because I think about it, maybe I already have?
And maybe I can, even more, too.
Always.
Because that’s where He always leads.
Hope, always.
Sure, I’ll be a Hope dealer. A journalist of sort. Different, but necessary. Because He is, our Hope in glory, of all that is good. He lives, forever in, and invites us on a journey of eternal hope, forever with Him.
That’s “breaking news.” The sort that’ll make you whole.
I said it out loud this morning as I carried my son in my arms and down the stairs. He’s getting bigger, but he still fits, and for now I can still carry him
So I noted the privilege that it is. To carry him
And the next words came out of my mind and spirit faster than I could reckon to know or understand They’re from an old hymn.
What a privilege to carry ..EVERYTHING TO GOD IN PRAYER.
Friends, I know that it’s heavy. So heavy sometimes. Being a parent, caring for your home, your finances, your family, all of it.
It is heavy. But you don’t have to carry it alone.
The one place we can carry it? Even when we barely feel we can hang on and the loads and lives have gotten bigger and heavier.
The one place we can carry it that is both the shortest distance and to the greatest affect?
It’s to heaven. It’s at the feet of Jesus.
It’s before OUR Father who sees, who knows and who loves so fiercely. For the Holy Spirit who is present, and who longs just to help.
So don’t forget. You are not alone. You are not alone.
You are HIS kid. And your kids? They are His, too.
All that concerns you, and all that concerns them, He cares about too.
Bring them one more carry than you think you possibly can. But not on your own shoulders. Carry them to His loving, gentle hands.
He’s willing to carry us all. We just have to remember, and to ask. 🫶🏻❤️
Hey, I'm Courtney, a pretty ordinary girl who thinks we've all been called to an extraordinary life and love story with God. I'm passionate about family, faith, motherhood, and the adventure of every day. I write lots of words, mostly because I can’t help it- and I think it's one of the things I was born to do. I hope that something I write encourages you, to walk in your own unique purpose and calling, set free to love and give it away, starting wherever you are today. That's what Courting the Extraordinary is all about. Finding the good all around you, and giving it away. Finding, too, the God of all goodness who wants to walk with you.
I love quiet mornings, coffee, prayer and “work” before sunrise. Quality time with my family is my jam. I can be found grinning ear to ear when we're out on an adventure. Whether that's in our own backyard or exploring someplace new all-together, I’ll for sure note something beautiful about nature aloud-and maybe repeatedly, ha!. Life is a beautiful, precious gift, and an adventurous path to travel! We might as well learn how to love.
Hey, I'm Courtney, a pretty ordinary girl who thinks we've all been called to an extraordinary life and love story with God. I'm passionate about family, faith, motherhood, and the adventure of every day. I write lots of words, mostly because I can’t help it- and I think it's one of the things I was born to do. I hope that something I write encourages you, to walk in your own unique purpose and calling, set free to love and give it away, starting wherever you are today. That's what Courting the Extraordinary is all about. Finding the good all around you, and giving it away. Finding, too, the God of all goodness who wants to walk with you.
I love quiet mornings, coffee, prayer and “work” before sunrise. Quality time with my family is my jam. I can be found grinning ear to ear when we're out on an adventure. Whether that's in our own backyard or exploring someplace new all-together, I’ll for sure note something beautiful about nature aloud-and maybe repeatedly, ha!. Life is a beautiful, precious gift, and an adventurous path to travel! We might as well learn how to love. 