I feel like a blog bum. Part of me wants to just put up an audio of crickets chirping. Lately, though, my days are filled with bleary eyed-dinner making and box unpacking and way too many decisions about whether or not to keep the sculpture I made in my college ceramics class of an egg sitting in a tree that actually looks more like a certain part of the male anatomy than the surrealist art is was supposed to be. (It's in a trash box right now.) On top of this, I still have no Internet at home, so my typical wee hours of the morning posting time is mute (or is it blind?). There's a lot in my head right now, but not enough time to process it. Last night, I took the puppy out for a hike. In my front yard. We walked across the road frontage and I stared at the stars. The night sky is one of the best features of my new neighborhood. We're surrounded by a giant farm and wildlife preserves, so the sky is incredible! When I was a kid, I used to drag a blanket outside and lay down

My dear husband gave me the sweetest gift this weekend. He unloaded a trailer full of furniture and appliances and stuff and then drove to Pittsburg to pick up a car part for someone. That left me with an entire weekend BY MYSELF to start getting our home in order. I started Saturday morning by moving the bigger pieces of furniture into their proper rooms. Bed frames were snapped together, televisions were connected, and cupboards filled. It didn't take long before I noticed the dogs were hiking up and down the mountain of assorted dirty laundry. I pushed the washing machine into place and connected all the hoses. I scooted the dryer into it's place and attempted to plug it in. An hour later, I was back from Home Depot with a new cord. An hour after that, I had replaced the cord and had a fully functional laundry room. I'm proud of myself for that one. I don't think I've ever enjoyed doing laundry as much as I did this weekend. I did my own laundry. In my own home.

My sweetie and I have a rule about books. I am only allowed to buy books that I will read more than once. (I read very fast and have been known to finish even very large books in less than a day.) Amy Grant’s Mosaic now has a place on my shelf. I’ve read the book twice now. I’ve read some pieces more times than I care to count. In the meantime, I’ve written…and rewritten…this review just as many times. It’s not that the words didn’t take their rightful place. No, I knew what I wanted to say. I didn’t know how to marry my honest ideas with what I thought the publisher wanted me to say. I even considered using the description they provided for me. Then I read this: “Don’t worry about the consequences of having integrity.” I think Amy herself would agree with this statement. Mosaic certainly lives up to its title. Amy has woven together a collection of essays, journal entries, songs, poems, and photographs that present us a glimpse of her life. For the avid Amy Grant fan, some of the sto

Last night I had a beautiful reminder of why I chose this job. We had our first family literacy night, and I had some much fun manning the bookmark station. I love talking to the younger siblings of my students and watching my students roll their eyes as I talk to their parents. I felt like I was part of life again because at it's core life is messy and beautiful and chaotic all at once. That pretty much sums up the evening. While driving home, I was in tears. Praying. These students I have this year are frustrating me. Although a lot of my frustration stems from my dislocation at home, these kids do have some very real struggles. Many of their struggles are similar to my own when I was their age. I find myself at a loss for words or ideas several times each day. (I'll share some stories at some point.) All I could say last night was, "How am I supposed to do this?" The words echoed back, "You have to love them." Right now I really identify with Jesus' c

My sister and I had a conversation last weekend that has haunted me all week. For one thing, just that fact that we had a conversation was a shocker. We haven't talked like this since February. Our interactions have been strained "how's the weather" discussions at two family weddings and a bridal shower. I suppose that's a story for another day, but suffice it to say that I've missed talking to her because as much as I hate to admit it sometimes, she knows pieces of me that no one else will ever understand. It must have something to do with our shared DNA. She said something about how much it bothers her that people cannot be happy for another person's good fortune. I listened to her for a while, and we eventually hung up, but I haven't been able to shake her words since then. All week, I've thought about times when I sat back and sulked when everyone around me seemed to be riding along on the great train of life. Yeah, it's hard to jump up and

I was standing outside in the rain the other day thinking about why I keep a journal. Since I was thirteen, I’ve written rather irregularly in spiral notebooks, hardcover books, the inside of envelopes, and on various scraps of paper. My journals range from essays to poetry, and even some one liners. I thought it might be convenient to scan them all and store them on a USB drive. Well, this isn’t entirely true. I actually was thinking of how much more I would write if I could do so without the fear of someone reading my innermost thoughts and using it as evidence to have me committed to a “facility” for the rest of my life. All this led me to some of the more interesting moments in my life. In my 30 years, I’ve managed to collect a wealth of stories that range from the absurd to the tragic and the brilliant to the insane. I’ve shared several stories with dear friends and a few strangers., but many of these stories are doomed to collect dust in my head. Unless, of course, I go ah