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On Finding and Being Found . . . I’m guest posting at (in)courage today

This is our story. How sometimes the finding happens in the ordinary, everyday places. This is our story of grace dispensed in the mundane of our lives. And there, in our weaknesses, our frailties—our daily work of stuffing the laundry into the dryer and searching for a parking space, pushing our kids in the grimy, ...

Stories Make Us Brave (my piece at The High Calling today)

  It’s the first day of first grade and August wakes in tears. My son says he’s too afraid to get out of bed. I assure him that he doesn’t have to get out yet. “Why don’t you just get dressed in your bed, buddy?” I lift the clothes we picked out last night to the top bunk. I long to make this ...

FOUND outtakes, vol. 2

A few weeks ago, I shared a chapter from Found that was cut in the final editing process. Here's another chance to read some of my outtakes. I was sad to slice out this section because it talks about Michael Casey's idea of the "relentness sameness" of everyday life. I love that phrase and I'm still asking myself these ...

The Finding and the Being Found: Introducing my book

You stare at your baby in your arms, rocking back and forth in the room you’d imagined would be a place of solace. You'd envisioned breastfeeding as beautiful and quiet, gentle and spiritual. But the feeding feels like work, physical work. You’re sore. You made rookie mistakes those first few days and your body has paid ...

On the goodness of words (Or, how I became a writer)

Today I'm guest posting over at my friend (and vlogging partner) Cara's blog for her new series "The Little Things," on small moments that change everything. Here's a little peak into my post. I'm hoping you'll read a bit and join me over there... [caption id="attachment_6920" align="aligncenter" width="584"] Photo credit: ...

For Brooksie, on his 2nd birthday (A Thankful Tuesday post, of sorts)

  Brooksie, when I got you out of bed on your second birthday, I whispered. It was 6:30 and your brother was asleep next door; the neighbors were asleep downstairs. I hate worrying about noise. I wanted to bust in with a guitar and serenade you. (If only I could play.) I wanted to shout to the world that once you weren’t ...

For Carey. And for her friend, Melynn.

When I get the text from Melynn, it’s 8:30 on Saturday morning and we’ve just finished our cinnamon buns and read the story of St. Nicholas. We’re in the middle of a new family tradition, gathering the toys we’ll be giving away that day. The boys are on the carpet in the hallway vrooming cars: Chris and August and ...