Posts in Homemade
Come On In

The most important thing in our house is a little post-it note stuck to the inside of our front door. When people are coming over, that little post-it note is placed on the outside of the door so that anyone who approaches our home has no need to knock, but simply follow the directions handwritten there to “Come on in!” It is an open welcome, hopefully making all our guests feel like part of the family when they walk through the door.

This is a reminder I need right now; that this house my husband and I have built is not ours alone – it is a home that God has created through us – with the purpose of welcoming others. It is not our house; it is God’s home.

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This is a Yes Moment

I am more than what I do. I struggle with this thought here at 2:35 in the morning. I hold Come Matter Here in my hands, my cup of maple ginger tea beside me. I try to concentrate and let Hannah Brencher’s words sink in; 

“At some point, you decide to get over your fear. You say it’s time to not be afraid of whatever decisions you have to make or direction you need to take. 

I look around the room as I work on managing the fear that has me awake at this ungodly hour.

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Seven Months and Crawling

This is the way we grow, I think, as I watch his sturdy little calves push him across the blanket and propel him around the room. It is the room where I watched my son take his first steps, delighting his dad and me, that evening after day-care and work.

Now my grandson explores the peach quilt with bunnies in a basket and three white kittens in a teacup that was his mother’s.

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Radiant Diamonds Bursting Inside Us

“My parents lived a charmed life,” she says as we dismantle it. We sit in her childhood bedroom, drawers open revealing stacks of unsent Christmas cards, paper-clipped newspaper articles with hand-written notes in the margin, photo albums of last century college days. Her twenty-year-old father looks up at us in black and white with a lazy smile - stopped in the middle of work at a drawing board.

“You should keep this one,” I say as I pull that photograph away from its place with the others. It is raining outside.

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Sour Milk and Baby Breath

I have baby spit-up on my black Ralph Lauren pajamas. The smell of freshly soured breast milk floats up to greet me. The baby rustles in the pee-damp sheets of the pack and play. He won’t be slipping back to sleep for just one more hour as we had planned.

My daughter rushes out the door, almost late for work, berating herself for making ‘the worst decisions’ in the middle of the night when the baby awoke, and she decided his impromptu 4 AM feeding could substitute for the 6.

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