Purpose. It’s the thing I most want in life. More than happiness, more than financial stability, or a skinny figure. Which is saying something because I want those things quite a bit. But meaning? Nothing holds a candle to that. I’ve spent years trying to figure out how to have meaning, how to make my days meaningful, how to find meaning in the things that happen to me. It is often my harsh taskmaster, enslaving my every move to the god of purpose.

Never has this been more clear to me than in the midst of suffering. Finding purpose in my pain was the only thing that kept me going on some days. If my pain could just grow some legs, go out into the world and do something worthwhile, maybe then I could breathe again. If it isn’t all pointless and I’m not just a victim of random molecules colliding, then maybe I could be okay.

I think the natural question to ask when searching for meaning is why. Why is this happening to me? Why did God allow this? Why is there no justice for the person who annihilated my heart? But there are many problems with the Why question. It gives rise to more questions and various speculations, with very little meaning. I don’t want vapors of ideas, I want firm footing for my rapidly sinking heart. I need a thoroughly tested anchor, a life-saving peace to protect me from the storm.

So if I can’t find that in Why, I’m left with For What? I may never know why things happened to me. Why I had to marry Brian and why he had to suddenly depart after ten years of marriage. But I might one day be able to figure out what good has come from it. For what am I to endure this? For the glory of God? For the love and support I could provide the church? For the faith it will grow in me? Possibly all these things.

These questions and answers bounce around in my head on nights where I’m haunted by my ghosts. They circle my mind like buzzards, trying to signal the death of my anxiety. But they often fail. Because although answers and purpose are gods that I serve willingly, they cannot comfort me the way I long for. They are no better than carved images, too dumb to listen and to inept to help.

At last my mind finds rest in Christ alone. In the wealth of peace that he pours out. No questions, no speculations, just himself. I don’t know Why and I can barely offer a satisfactory For What – but Jesus is. The only purpose, the only reason, the only peace in a chaotic world. The I AM ever over me.


The Mark of a Mother

“Please get your feet off the wall, they leave a mark.”

“Don’t lean back in your chair, you could get hurt.”

“Please push in the piano bench when you are done.”

I hear echoes of my mother’s voice every time I say these things. It’s a strange thing, motherhood. To be raised by a woman, to become one yourself, and then to train up others. It can still surprise me that I’m a mom, even seven and a half years into this whole gig. Sometimes I’m still taken aback when I see my reflection on the way into the grocery store followed by my three, small people. How did I become a mother? I feel like I want my own mommy most of the time.

I have had the privilege of learning how to be a mom alongside an armful of mommy friends. I don’t know a single one of them who thinks they’re doing a great job at mothering, and yet I’m constantly amazed at how all of us are finding our own way as mothers. Perhaps the biggest marker of motherhood is selflessness. This week when I walked my kids’ home from school, I passed my friend carrying a child-sized umbrella while her daughter sauntered behind her, hoisting an adult-sized one. I laughed at the sight and she just sighed, smiled, and explained, “She said she was getting wet.” It struck me what a powerful thing that small selfless moment was, and how many of them occur on a daily basis for moms.

I’m reminded how often my own mother saved the last cookie for me or let me chew the last stick of gum. When I was still a relatively new mom I was visiting back home and we all had to pile into a car for a long drive. There was an incredibly uncomfortable, hard seat in the middle that had a belt buckle digging into my fleshy post-pregnancy side. I remember complaining about how uncomfortable it was and my mom offered to take my place without hesitation. Moms never stop mothering. And they never stop wanting the best for their children.

Mom’s don’t stop wanting good things for themselves. They don’t all of sudden stop minding uncomfortable seats, stop wanting to stay dry in a rainstorm, or stop desiring the last serving at dinner. But they love their children. And love often means going without so the person you love can go with. But we aren’t perfect in our selflessness, obviously. We see the thousands of times a day where we put ourselves first and most of us feel guilty every single time. Even if we die to self and put our kids first 9 times out 10, that one time is enough to derail our confidence and make us feel like failures. That’s why we can all tend to feel like we fall short as moms.

Thankfully, we aren’t supposed to be perfect. And the measure of our success as mothers isn’t in the quantity of our selflessness. It’s in the little moments that we offer up ourselves, press on through our weaknesses and keep choosing to give of ourselves for our children. I’m pretty sure the mark of a good mother is one who thinks she isn’t that great at it. Because she’s still sensitive to the areas she needs to grow and wants to keep doing better, being better for the people entrusted to her care.

I’ve tried all week to finish this piece. For some reason, it just doesn’t feel like it’s coming together like I want it to. I think it’s because I feel too close to it. I’m very much in the thick of mothering and in the midst of feeling like a failure at the end of most days. And yet I want to say something about it. To let my friends know I think they are doing a fantastic job. To tell my mom I’m astounded by how she mothered me when she was my age. To let moms everywhere know they are not alone and we are all trying to figure this out together. And to maybe in those moments of my own failure to take a deep breath, offer myself some grace, and trust that my love for my kids will outweigh my weaknesses and moments of selfishness.


Glass Beads

I used to be better at being a perfectionist. Somehow over the years I’ve started taking shortcuts here and there. Shhh. Don’t tell my mom. It’s funny how sometimes in an effort to save yourself a step you end up adding way more. Like today. Me and the jar of decorative glass. 

The lilac trees blossomed early this year. And oh, how I love lilacs. It’s become part of my spring ritual to clip the light purple bunches and to arrange them on my table for as long as they last. But they don’t last long. Three days usually. Then they start to shrivel and wilt, so I replace them with the next bunch. I’ve created a bi-weekly habit of washing out the vase, which is really a small hurricane for candles. Then comes the clipping, arranging, filling with water, and admiring my creation. But lilacs are floppy and need support to look their best. Enter the glass beads. 

I fill up my jar, past the halfway point, with these clear beads that I’ve had since I was first married. Most likely something I picked up at Michaels, trying to spruce up our first one bedroom apartment. Being a first-time homemaker filled me with such glee in those day. At times the beads have been covered in candle wax, after a candle or two has been left burning for too long. They’ve even been used at the bottom of a fish bowl to our ill-fated Beta fish. But mostly they’ve served as a base to countless bouquets of flowers. Flowers for birthdays. For anniversaries. For no reason at all. 

When you go through a divorce, after sharing a life with someone for ten years you have to make decisions about every little thing. You can’t scrap everything you own and start over, atleast I couldn’t, not on my budget. So you prioritize. You get rid of the jewelry and the photo albums and the framed vows. Then you slowly replace the gifts of wallets and watches. You rotate out clothes that you wore to special occasions as new clothes fill your closet. But things like these glass beads? They are the sort of thing that are too meaningless to throw away, even though they’ve been present for thousands of meaningful days. 

Today my lilacs were wilted, time to start the cycle of replacing them with new ones. The vase water had taken on a strong slimy odor, so I knew it needed a good scrubbing. The smart thing would’ve been to get a sieve and pour out the beads. But no, I wanted a short cut. Just fill the base with water and a squirt of my favorite dish soap. Swirl the beads around in my hands and then slightly spread my fingers, holding it against the top of the vase, allowing the water to drain. But the rim is wider than my hands and I spread my fingers too far, the beads slipping through and pinging against the stainless steel sink. 

A smarter gal than I would stop. But not me. Determined to skip that step, I persist in my endeavor. The soap bubbles continue to rise to the surface with more water added. I pour out the water again and again, more beads sneaking through my fingers each time. The dishwasher had been full of clean dishes, so this morning’s milky breakfast bowls are now sharing the sink with an ever growing pile of glass beads. 

I don’t know why life has to be so hard. I don’t know why we deliberately make decisions that make it harder. I don’t know why we persist in those decisions, why we refuse to change course for our own good. I don’t know why cutting corners and cleaning those glass beads nearly brought me to tears today. Or why it felt healing to watch them slide through my hands. Years of memories being scrubbed clean, and falling away. 

I’m not as good at being a perfectionist as I used to be. Life is messier than I ever imagined. But sometimes on the round about route, the one that is complicated and filled with missteps, you find yourself.


The Mystery of Contentment

Contentment has always been somewhat of a mystery to me. Since I was in high school, all I wanted was to be happy. For years that meant living for the next thing. The next boyfriend. The next dance. The next academic achievement. The next holiday. The next concert. Eventually those things weren’t enough. I needed the next stage of life – college, a good job, marriage, health, kids, a house, financial stability, etc. The list goes on and on. Because nothing ever manages to fulfill the way you think it will.

I’ve rarely met a situation that didn’t leave me disappointed. Every event I’ve looked forward to had an ounce of hollowness to it. A feeling of is that all?

It’s strange that it took losing almost everything I ever wanted to find contentment. I lost my marriage. Something I put my identity into, my heart and my soul were invested into loving that man. I nearly lost myself in the process of loving and losing him. For a while I thought I might lose being a stay at home mom, and even though I’m privileged to work from home, my life is still a far cry from my days as a carefree homemaker. I lost my house, my neighborhood, and my standard of living. I lost my ministry and my ability to be a hostess, no longer able to create safe places in my home for others. I lost my mind for a while. Grief really does drive you mad. And yet in those days and months that I found myself losing everything, I was content.

It’s easy to cling to Jesus as your one and only when he is the only thing that isn’t failing you.

But life has a way of righting itself after a disaster. I have a new home, a new way of life and pattern of living. I’ve grown accustomed to being alone in the evenings and to parenting on my own. I’ve fallen in love again and am starting a new life with a godly man who makes me incredibly happy. I have a modest income and God has provided beyond my imagination in my times of need. I’ve found strength and grown in who I am. I have deeper friendships than I ever imagined. In short, I’m happy.

And yet I find that old familiar companion slowly creeping back into the corners of my life. Discontentment. I know that “blah” feeling well. That feeling of, what’s next?

Turns out, it’s harder to cling to Jesus when life is pretty great.

But it’s so incredibly necessary. Putting my hope for happiness in my future marriage will doom it to failure. It will place an incredible burden on my fiancée to be my everything. Relying on finding fulfillment in my career will only leave me feeling empty and cause me to strive ever more for the next achievement. Resting in creating a comfortable home with happy children will cause me to resent every aspect of my day that conflicts with those ideals.

Clearly this world is not my home and it will never be able to give me meaning and purpose the way I want it to. It cannot. Only Jesus. Ever and only Jesus.

I learned how to immerse myself in Jesus when my life was hard, so how do I enjoy Jesus when my life is good? How do I enjoy the good gifts of the Creator without expecting them to actually make me happy? How do I get off the endless cycle of looking to the next big thing? I honestly don’t know. But I have an inkling it has a lot to do with gratitude. Because the heart of discontentment is saying, “this isn’t enough, I want more.” That sounds a lot like ingratitude to me.

When I work five jobs to make ends meet for my children and decide to splurge on a gift for them, it hurts my heart immensely when they ask for more. Don’t they know? Can’t they see how much I’m sacrificing for them and how hard I’ve worked for this one little thing? More than just lacking thankfulness, it makes me feel like they don’t understand my love. Could it be the same with Jesus? When we focus on the gift and all the ways it seems to be lacking, does it say something about how we view God? Instead of focusing on the gift and trying to muster up a list of “ten things I like about this thing”, what if I spent my time reflecting on how this gift is a symbol of God’s love for me?

Every gift from God says something about my relationship with him. The gift of suffering shows his desire to be close to me, to help me rely on him only and worship no other gods before him. The gift of children shows his desire to teach me about the way he loves his children. The gift of hunger or lack shows me how he provides eternally satisfying water and food. The gift of marriage shows me a picture of how Christ loves the church. Each gift says something about Jesus.

There are so many names for God in the Old Testament, each with a slight nuance: God of peace, God who provides, God who heals, etc. Instead of getting stuck in a cycle of “never enough”, what if each gift pointed me back to the God who is always enough? Always loving, always teaching, always patient, always kind. May my lack of fulfillment in the things of this world constantly move me towards the one person who always satisfies.

Every moment of discontentment is an opportunity for praise. Every time a gift doesn’t satisfy or circumstances don’t bring complete and utter joy, it’s a chance to worship. I’m thankful for the unsettled feeling that accompanies my happiest moments because they offer me Jesus. Ever and only Jesus.



::PREFACE:: I’ve wanted to post this but was concerned it’d be misunderstood. I’m not currently in a dark or even painful place with everything that has happened, but I felt like this post was important to give voice to what I endured and what so many others feel. One of the worst parts about going through something catastrophic is the feeling that other people don’t really understand you anymore. Hopefully, this will give words to those in crisis and help others understand what their loved ones are enduring.   

I can’t believe I survived this.

Like a victim of a natural disaster, I felt the storm coming. It turned dark; the wind battered the landscape around me. I could feel it swelling and growing. Then it was too late to evacuate or make storm preparations, it descended upon me.

There’s a reason they name storms after people.

I survived a Hurricane.

Storms often hit in two parts, with an illusion of calm in between. The eye of my storm lasted five years. But the storm was not over, it was merely gathering strength and preparing to thrust its force over my life.

Victims of natural disasters, of truly horrific ones, they’ve seen things that cannot be unseen. They’ve seen completely innocuous objects turned into weapons of mass destruction. They’ve seen every semblance of normal twisted and disfigured. They know blood, bruises, and brokenness.

Some things can never be fully restored.

Once you’ve known loss, you cannot go back. Picket fences will no longer mean prosperity, you will only see a thousand ways it could impale you. Windows will no longer provide security, you will only see the malicious shards that shredded your old life. Storms reveal that you had built your life upon an illusion of safety. An illusion that can never be regained.

The world no longer seems safe after a natural disaster. It’s unsettling for the bystanders, but it’s catastrophic to those who have endured it.

I cannot believe that I endured it.

If you’ve never known the freight train wail of a tornado or the gale force winds that bring impossible swells, then you don’t know that fear. That fear that this thing will actually kill you. The emotions that accompanied my Hurricane were no less deadly. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. All that existed was fear and pain. You don’t have time to revel in disbelief, the storm is upon you and you have to survive.

And I did.

So why does this survival make me feel weak? Because it doesn’t feel like it’s over. There will always be more storms. Even a gentle breeze can put me into panic mode. Weather is unpredictable and I don’t think I have the strength to survive another storm.


Not Frightened by Fear

I had the privilege of sharing a bit of my story this morning at Women’s Bible Study. It’s a bit different format since I was speaking, not blogging, but here’s what I spoke on:

I wanted to share a testimony of how 1 Peter 3:5-6 really encouraged me during the months leading up to my divorce. I really like how the ESV translates this passage: “For this is how the holy women who hoped in God used to adorn themselves, by submitting to their own husbands, as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord. And you are her children, if you do good and do not fear anything that is frightening.”

Submission is never an easy thing but it’s particularly challenging when married to an unbeliever or a husband making ungodly choices. No one knew that better than Sarah. If you’ve never read the story in Genesis 12, let me summarize it. Abraham was traveling in the foreign land of Egypt. His wife Sarah was very beautiful and he was scared that the Pharoah would want to take Sarah for himself, and would kill him to do so. He didn’t trust that God would protect him, so he made the foolish decision to lie about who Sarah was. He told the Pharoah that she was his sister, so Pharaoh let him live and took Sarah to be his wife. Was her situation frightening? Absolutely. And yet this passage says she “didn’t fear what was frightening.” She trusted that God would be her Ever-Faithful and Perfect Husband. She trusted in God rather than Abraham — and God protected her.

Over a year ago my husband began to walk away from the Lord. As you can imagine it was a terrifying time. My decade old marriage began to crumble without having our faith in common. I’d look at my 3 small kids and feel paralyzed with fear. Many of you ladies walked through that season with me and know how hopeless I was at times. How could I follow a husband who wasn’t following God? How could I trust him to lead our family? And what if he decided to leave me?

I read through this passage during that time. I was reminded that I was supposed to follow Sarah’s example and not “fear what is frightening.” Regardless of how terrifying my circumstances became, I knew that Jesus would be my husband and that He would ultimately protect my family. My prayers shifted from “Lord, please change my husband” to “Lord, help me trust in you no matter what.” I decided to obey God and to trust Him, even when my husband was making bad choices. I continued to submit myself to his leadership and pray that God would protect me and my children.

And God answered my prayers with hope. He gave me a confident and sure hope that I had a future and that I could trust His plan. Even when my circumstances got worse and my husband decided to leave, I experienced a confidence in who Jesus is and that allowed me not to live in fear. He has been my Faithful and Perfect Husband, never leaving my side. I can look back and see how He was with me every step of the way and has never left me on my own.

We’ve all heard the phrase “everything happens for a reason.” It can be used in insensitive ways to justify terrible things that happen. But from God’s perspective, it really is true. Nothing happens without His care and involvement. That includes choices that the people in our lives make. He has promised to watch over us and be with us, even as people we trust fail us. We can be free to trust in Him and not be shaken by the insecurity of our circumstances. That’s how we can follow Sarah’s example and not “fear what is frightening.” Because we know who ultimately plans our days and He is GOOD.



I haven’t given much thought to reputation since my high school years. Of course, during early adolescence it was everything. I took great pride in being known as a good girl. I liked that people looked to me for advice. That they knew I was the one to ask for a Bible verse or prayer on hard days. I didn’t want to be popular, those girls were trouble. But I did want to be liked and to have a place– and in its own weird way being a good girl gave me that identity.

I transferred my identity to marriage and motherhood over the years. Having a reputation as a natural mama, a homemaker, an ally on all things faith/sexuality, a safe place, a great cook, a loving wife –this has all been core to who I am. Some of those identities were scarier than others. Some invited criticism from strangers and it was scary to know that my reputation was at stake. To know that people I had never met had the power to interpret things I’d written or said (or even just the existence of my marriage) and had things to say about me was terrifying.

But all of that still felt purposeful. If I was being maligned, it felt to me that it was for the cause of Christ. That I was being slandered because I was saying things about God and faith that needed to be said, but some people just didn’t want to hear. That I was helping push the Church in ways that it needed to pushed. And that I was doing it alongside my teammate, my leader, and my best friend. At least we were in the mess together and anyone who really knew us believed in what we had to say.

Then my most recent identity came to include the title of divorcee. Now just walking into Home Depot with my three kids invites comments from complete strangers. A thousand assumptions are made about me every day and there is very little I can do about. Nor does it feel very purposeful. It often feels like it invalidates my ability to minister or serve more than it enables me. Being a single mom comes with all kinds of looks and completely uninvited comments. I remember as I walked through the last months of my marriage, feeling it’s inevitable demise, that I often found myself praying: “God — your glory is at stake here! What happens to me says something about you!”

It was during that time that I found myself drawn to a particular phrase in Scripture. One that I came across again and again, “Those who trust in him will never be put to shame.” I struggled with this phrase immensely. I mean, we all know believers who are falsely maligned or who have lost their reputation through no fault of their own. So what is this promise? It doesn’t mean we won’t experience the shame of having a bad reputation, so what does it mean?

This past week I’ve been studying 1 Peter in my Women’s Bible study. 1 Peter 2:6 landed in my lap and reminded me of all those churning thoughts from a year ago: “See, I lay a stone in Zion, a chosen and precious cornerstone, and the one who trusts in him will never be put to shame.” My dear friend Nikki shared some facts about cornerstones in our study on Tuesday. How they set the tone and structure for the rest of the building. A good solid cornerstone creates straight and strong walls that will create a safe and reliable building. The walls won’t crumble and they won’t be “put to shame.” 

This idea of the cornerstone being responsible for our lack of shame was an a-ha moment for me. It’s so easy to think that our reputation matters because of what it says about us to others. But what I believe God is promising us is that the building he’s creating (us!) will never crumble or fall. That when people look at us they will see Christ, the chosen and precious cornerstone bearing all our pain and weight and creating a gorgeous and strong building. It’s not about people thinking the world of me, it’s that they will see me and see Jesus. And you know what? Seeing Jesus causes a lot of people to stumble and reject truth (1 Pet. 2:7-8). So their response to us might look like being put to shame in the world’s eyes.

And yet, the promises of 1 Pet. 2:9-10 wrap us in Jesus’ comforting arms. If we are rejected and our reputation is damaged in the world’s eyes, we are still God’s holy and chosen people. Though we have no home and people on this earth revile us, we are God’s special possession. Once not a people, now the people of God. Now that’s a reputation and an identity I can rely on. Never failing, never vacillating, not dependent on what’s in vogue at any given moment: forever chosen and adored by God. Hallelujah.


Of Crooked Smiles and Happiness

I was born with a very smushed face. Part cross bite, part “wombs are tight places”,  I carried a crooked smile all the way into adolescence. Orthodontia helped a great deal; so did perfecting the ideal smile. I remember after I got my braces off, I’d flash a smile at myself every time I walked by a mirror. It was very Dorian Grey and vain, but I learned quickly how to look perfect. I was always told that I had a great smile and knew how to light up a room. I would sometimes model for my photographer friends and that perfect smile would always be on display.

I’ve struggled with happiness most my life. I was a depressed and angsty teenager and carried a lot of that discontentment into marriage and early adulthood. I eventually learned how to fight for joy, but in the later years of our marriage also lived in quite a bit of pain. All the while the perfect family pictures and model-like portraits were displayed for all the world to see. I’ve often been told that we were the most photogenic family. It was so hard for people to believe the pain we were in when we all looked so darn perfect.

A funny thing has happened in this year of endings followed by new beginnings. My crooked smile has returned. I first noticed it in the Fall. Since then it keeps cropping up in selfies and pictures where I least expect it. It is not planned or posed — and it certainly is not perfect. And yet, the way my right lower lips droops to one side is evidence of a happiness I haven’t known in decades.

 Movie day with my sister with a full droopy-lip smile on display!

My life isn’t perfect, but of course, it never was. Now the imperfection in my photos merely reflects that perfectly imperfect life I’m living. There is still residual hurt which I’m sure will take years to heal, but predominantly God has replaced my Eeyore attitude and replaced it with something more resembling Tigger. I have even found that my personality on Myers-Brigg changed. Going through a catastrophic life event has shaken me to my core. But more than that, it revealed to me that a lot of my exterior was not meant for me. It was a facade that I had created to look perfect, but it was not fundamentally “me”.

So now I’m finding out who “me” is. It seems so cliche and very chick-flicky, but divorce has stripped me of everything I thought I was and shown me a stronger, happier, and (hopefully) kinder version of myself. A self that has a crooked and undeniably happy smile and a more robust laugh; a self that isn’t ashamed of crying easily and being hopelessly sentimental; a self that desperately loves Jesus and tries to love others well; and a self that has learned how to stand on her own while trusting God on her knees. 


Love Letters

There are few things I like more than receiving hand-written letters. And love letters? Oh, those have had my heart since I received my first one at 14. I’ll never forget the way I felt as my tall, dark, and handsome crush slipped a note to me in my Biology class. Reading those words that he adored me. That I was beautiful. That he couldn’t wait to spend time with me again. I was smitten. Not much has changed in the last 18 years. I’m still a sucker for romance. Of course that’s a little more complicated when you find yourself divorced on Valentine’s Day.

In God’s providence, I became a Christian on February 13th. Not long after that first love, and subsequent heartbreak, I committed my life to Christ at my church’s winter camp. I always try to take time and reflect on that life-changing decision when the anniversary approaches. And this year I’ve found myself particularly thankful for the timing of this reminder of God’s intervention in my life.

For the past month I’ve been trying to plunge myself into the depths of Jesus’ love for me. It’s made me realize how much of the Bible is just one gorgeous love letter from the Creator of the Universe to me. I read a devotional lately that summed up His love in this way: “God in giving Christ to die for us, declared that our salvation was more dear to him than the life of his only Son.” I know that God loves his Son, an extension of Himself, perfectly and completely. And yet he sacrificed that life so he could be with me. John 3:16 — God loved Monica in this way, by giving the life of his only Son. That’s just staggering.

Last Valentine’s Day I was barely existing and was in immense pain. I spent most of it bawling with my sister and losing all hope that my marriage would ever thrive again. It was during that time that a phrase kept coming to the forefront of my Bible reading. Unfailing Love. Then I started hearing it in sermons. Unfailing Love. Finding it in song lyrics. Unfailing Love. Coming across it in books and devotionals that I was reading. Unfailing Love. Again and again the phrase “God’s unfailing love” washed over me. It came into my hurting world– the one in which the one love that was supposed to last failed. But not God’s love. His is unfailing.

This Valentine’s Day feels different. I have amazing friends who’ve checked in with me and made sure I was going to be okay. There is even a spark of a new love that brings a lot of hope and excitement. There are my kids who get so excited to give me their heart-shaped Valentines. But more than that? More than any human love? There is Jesus’ love. Just as unfailing today as it was in my pain. Just as faithful as it was 18 years ago on the day he saved me. Ever and only Jesus, writing me love letters and making me whole.


A Few of My Favorite Things

Y’all. Things have been pretty darn serious on this here old blog. I love writing and processing my pain, and this has been such a safe and wonderful place to do that. But there is so much to be grateful for. So many things to rejoice over. And so many little blessing on any given day. Thus, I’m going to spend today rejoicing and celebrating some of my favorite things that are bringing joy to my heart these days.

:: Two Door Cinema Club :: I just discovered this band and it’s on stun most days when I’m at home. It’s perfect when I’m cleaning, editing, or having a dance party with my little ones. Sun is my favorite at the moment. That bass line though!

:: Blessings for the Morning :: My mom gave this to me (I think!) last summer and it’s sat on my shelf beneath a pile of books on grief and divorce. A week or so ago I cracked it open and I have a hard time putting it down. It’s not Scripture, but it is heavily based on the promises of Scripture. And it just helps focus my day on Jesus’ immense love for me and reminds me that my day is organized by his command.

:: Asian Cashew Chopped Salad :: Yes. This salad. It is from Costco and it is so perfect. Add a little grilled chicken and it fills me up for a healthy and easy lunch. Bonus? My kids beg me to have some, so they are getting a handful of veggies in too!

:: Karate :: Well, this one isn’t for me, but it’s still on my favorite list. My boys started karate this past month and it has been uh-mazing! They are learning all about discipline, focus, and respect. Plus I turn in an at-home-behavior report card to the sensei each week. It’s been a really helpful to have some back-up in the parenting department!

:: Energy Chews :: I mean, you all know that I love all the Shaklee products. Seriously, there’s only one that I’m not completely obsessed with and I’ve tried a ton of them. But these chews, holy smokes! They are a game changer. I don’t always get the best sleep and I’ve been trying to workout three days a week. Adding this to my pre-workout routine has made a REALLY significant difference. Plus it makes mama less cranky and just a happier person to be around. Win!

:: Canon Eos Elan II :: I’ve been kicking it old school and busted out my film camera from highschool. It was extremely high-tech at the time, top of the line. I’ve been keeping it in my car and stashing it in my purse, looking for the perfect opportunities. I love film shooting. It forces you to think through your shots instead of just snapping a picture of literally everything in your life.

:: Lularoe leggings :: I realize I’m pretty much every single lady my age on this one, but seriously, I CANNOT GET ENOUGH. I live in them all day and they make me so happy. They are cute. They are soft. They are comfortable. They are flattering. All the smiley faces for Lularoe!