The timelessness of cast iron and linen.

Cast iron, linen, and baked bread. These are a few of my favorite things.

Our family has been under the weather this week, passing around flu symptoms like Baptists pass the offering plate. (No, it’s not COVID, thankfully.) I refuse to believe our sickness has anything to do with our sweaty romp in the snow last weekend. (Don’t even think of proving me wrong.) But it has everything to do with bare-bones lesson plans, the persistence of pajamas and movies, and the comfort of piping hot homemade chicken and rice soup with a side of fresh-out-of-the-oven bread.

My thoughts in quiet moments this week have wandered heavenward, where one day every tear will be wiped away, the old made new, every pain soothed, and we’ll finally see Jesus, the One our souls were created for. Clinging to the hope of Heaven does not make the pain of Earth any less jarring, less wearisome, less real. It only makes it more temporary.

Clinging to the hope of Heaven today.

Snowshoeing on the Mirror Lake Trail

Tucked away neatly off Mount Hood Highway 26 between Welches and Government Camp lies the unassuming entrance to the beautiful Mirror Lake Trail. It’s the good-natured wingman to Mt. Hood Adventure Park—the quiet but cute counterpart to the boisterous, showy life-of-the-party originator of cosmic tubing and night skiing. But that’s the thing about wingmen—they are most often the ones actually worth getting to know. (I should know; I married one.)

While Mt. Hood Adventure Park may be full of obvious fun, the trail that shares its entrance doesn’t need all the bells and whistles. Instead, it relies on its understated but breathtaking natural landscape to lure in visitors—teasing views of neighboring mountainsides, sounds of water bubbling over rocks, glimmers of sunlight dancing on top of gleaming, crisp white billows of snow. It’s absolutely magical, awe-inspiring and drool-worthy for this Southern-born brood.

Our family spent the better part of New Year’s Eve breaking in our newly unwrapped snowshoes, sweating off our abundantly consumed holiday treats in a 22-degree winter wonderland on a two-mile stretch of the trail. While other families sipped champagne to bid sayonara to 2021, we sipped piping hot soup in Stanley canisters in our heated Subaru after trekking two-and-a-half hours almost four miles round-trip on a two-foot-wide path through a maze of powdery alpine snowdrifts.

The kids enjoyed the Yukon Charlie Snowsquall kids’ snowshoe kit from REI.

Our snowshoeing day trip sparked the beginning of a whirlwind romance; it was love at first try. Though our family of five initially looked more like newborn foals finding their legs, clonking and clapping through the icy parking lot, leaning a little too heavily on our poles for support, we quickly got the hang of it and slid single-file into a leisurely rhythm through the woods. With snowdrifts up to our shoulders in places, picturesque powder-piled bridges laid across bubbly brooks in others, we had left Portland in the rearview mirror and once again traversed the wardrobe into Narnia. All that was missing was a lamppost and friendly fawn.

The trail was so well packed that snowshoes probably weren’t necessary, but they added to the rigor and increased our trail-cred among the other outdoor enthusiasts we encountered. And there were plenty; it seemed we weren’t the only ones who unconventionally venture outdoors on holidays. We bid a Happy New Year about every five minutes to other snowshoers and cross-country skiers on the trail. One couple even brought along a bottle of wine for their hike and toasted to an exquisite mountaintop view through the treetops. The thing about outdoorsy people is they are almost always happy.

Breaking in the MSR Revo Explore women’s 22-in. snowshoes from REI.com. They wrap around my old hunting boots just fine. (You can take a girl out of the South but can never take the South out of the girl.)

The Mirror Lake Trail is wide enough for one person, but you’ll be hard pressed to find hikers who aren’t more than willing to cheerfully step aside for passersby. Everyone we encountered was high on holiday spirit and endorphins.

The question I get most often from friends is, “Don’t you get cold out there?!” Honestly, we don’t. The good thing about snowshoeing in a forest is that the trees block the wind, so it doesn’t feel as cold as the thermometer registers. (I personally haven’t been cold since I birthed my third child.) If anything, we overdress for the activity and need to shed layers. The kids started out with full head-to-toe coverage and eventually shed their balaclavas (bonus points if you can tell me how to pronounce that word), toboggans (or beanies, for you PNWers) and gloves and unzipped their 3-in-1 jackets. With winter outdoor activities, the trick to staying comfortable is to keep snow from touching your skin; waterproof (not water-resistant) gear is essential for enjoying long days out in the PNW alpine winter.

The only drawback was that we failed to realize the trail wound up a mountain. (I naively thought the lake would be at a lower elevation. I blame my near-sea-level Alabama upbringing.) Even though the temp was in the 20s, we huffed and puffed and shed layers along the trail. I personally cursed those extra helpings of Christmas cookies and creamy dips that made every step a painful reminder that I had foolishly foregone exercise over the holidays. Even after a snack break, we didn’t quite make it to the lake; we stopped about a half-mile short when the trail narrowed and the slope of the mountain steepened. Our 6-year-old had tired out and was beginning to lose good walking form, and I started having visions of violent avalanches and kids tumbling down the mountain like boulders. But the outing was magical nonetheless and earned its place on our list of Oregon destinations to revisit regularly.

First snow of the season + how to prepare for a family snow day

The most anticipated day of the year in our household finally came this past weekend.

No, it wasn’t anyone’s birthday. Nor was it a special holiday. But you’re getting warmer (or perhaps I say colder?)…

Saturday was our first day trip to Mount Hood to go sledding, hiking, and basically just rolling and stomping around in the first big snow of the season.

We are fortunate enough to live in an eastern suburb of Portland that is about an hour-long drive to the notorious snow-covered peak, and we’ve been keeping an eye on the weather for more than a month anxiously awaiting the day that we could dig out our snow gear from the back of our closets and plan a day trip to the mountain. It’s one of our favorite outdoor activities.

There are plenty of sno parks and ski lodges to choose from in Oregon, but our favorite spot on Mount Hood is White River West off Highway 35. It’s a massive (normally rocky) area where a rushing creek slices through the middle of a wide-open space between two treelines, and it has the perfect hills for sledding and trails for hiking or snow-shoeing or cross-country skiing—basically any activity you’d love to do in the snow. And it’s rarely overly crowded.

And this past weekend, it got dumped on.

We grew up in the South, so for us, cruising down the 26 until we enter what feels like the portal to Narnia is magical every time we do it. I mean, this ain’t no Alabama dusting or sporadic ice storm. Back home, if we’re lucky enough to see even a few snowflakes, we can head outside in jeans and a T-shirt and not shiver once. But in Oregon, we’re talking waist-deep snowdrifts. Initially, we felt way out of our depths when it came to preparing for snow sports here. And we’ve learned the hard way that the secret to actually enjoying a day in the snow, rather than shivering your buns off, is all in the preparation. So I’ve put together a few tips that will ensure your day in the snow doesn’t turn into the Great Meltdown (figuratively and literally).

Invest in the right clothing. While this is true of most outdoor activities, it’s especially important in extreme weather. Having snow creep up your pants leg or your own sweat freeze against your skin would mean game over. So, we layer this way:

1. A base layer that wicks moisture away from the skin (don’t even think about cotton; think wool or poly blend, or even activewear with wicking technology). You can make economical choices here; I wear my Calia running tights with a thermal base layer top that I bought at Target. The Mr. and the kids wear basic All in Motion brand thermal sets, also from Target.

2. Wool winter socks. Technically, this is still a base layer, so again, think moisture-wicking to prevent clammy, cold feet.

3. Waterproof bibs. These really are the secret sauce. We invested in good-quality snow bibs, and they haven’t failed us yet. The Mr. and I have these and these Burton bibs from REI.com, and the kids each have this one from Columbia (in black, so we can pass them down to the next kid when the older sibling outgrows theirs). The benefit of buying bibs is that, unlike pants, you don’t have to worry about snow creeping down into your waistband. Our kids literally roll around and crawl in the snow and stay completely warm and dry for hours.

   The kids’ bibs are insulated; the grown-ups’ are not. I’m pretty hot-natured, so this combination works for me. But waterproof technology (rather than water resistant) is the key. Bibs are specifically designed to have an additional inner layer that cinches at the bottom of the leg (called a cuff guard) to prevent snow from creeping in. I love that the kid’s bibs were also designed with Outgrown technology, meaning we can let the seams out and extend them to get another year or more of wear out of them. Bibs can be expensive, so we raided our local Columbia outlet and found these at a fraction of the cost.

4. Insulated, waterproof outer layer. We prefer the 3-in-1 interchange coats from Columbia. Like the kids’ bibs, their coats also have the Outgrown expandable/extendable technology to extend their wearability. We also like that the inner shell is insulated, and could be taken out depending on the outside temp, but the outer layer is completely waterproof. We also like Columbia’s insulated and waterproof gloves, which have clasps to fasten them to each other and cinch around the wrists. Another outlet find for the family bought with a BOGO deal. (Columbia is basically our favorite go-to for most outdoor activities. Not an affiliate; just a true fan.)

5. Insulated, waterproof boots. We bought these for the kids, and the Mr. and I use our hunting boots, which keep our feet toasty warm and completely dry.

6. Hats, gaiters, headbands…This is all personal. Our daughter and I like fleece headbands or wool toboggans (or beanies, as they call them in the PNW); the guys all wear beanies. Sometimes, if it’s snowing or the wind is blowing, we’ll add gaiters, but usually we don’t need them. (Our jackets also have built-in face guards.)

Take the right supplies. Depending on the actual snow sport you enjoy, the list of necessary supplies will look different. But for a typical day out in the snow that includes sledding, hiking, building a snowman, etc., these are the things we take with us:

1. A backpack. They make backpacks especially for snow sports, but we found our hiking backpacks are the best option for us. (They’re from Osprey; I have the Mira and Kelley has the Manta.) They are water resistant and include a rain cover if it's pretty wet out; they include all the best pockets and storage and even a water reservoir, and they are ergonomically designed to be worn comfortably for extended periods of time.

2. Trekking poles. You can spend a small fortune on trekking poles, but we found these on Amazon that work perfectly. They include mud and snow baskets, tips for concrete or rocky surfaces, end caps and a bag for storage, and the ability to adjust the length to accommodate both my 5’2” self and my 6’ husband. And since they’re made from carbon fiber, they are lightweight, and the ergonomical cork handles are also a plus. They make all the difference when hiking through thigh-deep snow and are a knee-saver when traversing hills.

3. First aid kit. We’ve had our share of minor injuries while out in the snow and learned our lesson the hard way how important it is to be prepared. (I’ll never forget having to wipe my daughter’s bloodied nose with her COVID mask.) We have this one and this one.

4. Water. Even though it can be a pain to haul around filled stainless steel water bottles for a family of five, it’s definitely a necessary thing to have when you’re huffing and puffing out in the middle of the forest. It can get really chilly trying to quench your thirst by eating snow. (And there is always the less heavy water bladder option.)

5. Snacks. Packs of trail mix or granola bars can extend the amount of time we can spend with the kids out in the snow before we need to grab a decent meal. Playing in the snow is excellent exercise, and they can work up quite an appetite, even if they don’t break a sweat.

6. Hand and toe warmers. These pocket-sized instant warmers are nice to have on hand.

7. Chapstick or petroleum jelly. Spreading a thin layer of Vaseline on our faces before heading out in the snow helps prevent wind-chapped faces, and keeping Chapstick handy is also beneficial for the same reason.

8. Odds and ends. We always take a flashlight, a pocket knife, hand sanitizer, a compass, an emergency whistle, travel microfiber towels, and sunscreen in our backpacks as well. In fact, these never leave our bag, so they’re always on hand if we were to need them when we venture outdoors.

9. Snow toys/tools. Our family shares three sleds, and we take a shovel with us to help shovel out a sled path and “steps” to help the kids climb back up to the top of the hill.

Set appropriate expectations. With any outing we enjoy as a family, we prepare our kids beforehand by reminding them of the possibility that plans may fall through, and that flexibility is essential. We also give details of our plan for the day so that our kids know what’s coming next, and the rules for how we expect them to behave. This kind of priming helps prevent bad attitudes before they start. Also, as parents we aim to have realistic expectations of what our kids can handle. (They probably won’t enjoy a two-hour hike as much as I do, and they probably won’t be able to walk in the snow as fast as Dad can.) We try to move at their pace as much as possible while also encouraging them to try things out of their comfort zones. But respecting their capacities makes adventuring as a family more fun for everyone.

What is your favorite snow activity? Are there any essentials you would add to this list?

Of flapjacks and target practice.

Thursday is our family’s newly adopted pancakes and archery night. We lay out all of the baking ingredients, the griddle, and the baking sheet we will later lay strips of bacon on to pop in the oven before we load up in the car and head to the archery range after Kelley gets home from work. Everything is ready for us to whip up a quick dinner of pancakes and bacon once we get home later in the evening.

This fall, we signed the children up for archery lessons so they could learn one of their dad’s favorite hobbies and have something indoors that we could do as a family during Portland’s rainy season. We gave the boys their very own bows and sets of arrows as their early Christmas presents, and Eva received Liam’s old one as her own, which she proudly carries into the range, along with her quiver, after Kelley spray painted the forest green bow a pretty, bright white. Wrapped around the bow string is a hot pink finger rest, and her quiver is full of arrows with purple-and-white fletching. 

After a bit of coaxing from the others, I also find myself in the archery store, trying out different draw weights of recurve bows and selecting custom black-and-white-fletched arrows as the heads of antlered beasts stare down at me from their perches on the walls. (The neons make my eyes cross.) My ambidextrous self deliberates over a left- or right-handed riser as the salesman tallies up our total. “I guess this is my Christmas present?” I say as I wink playfully at my husband, whose smile couldn’t possibly stretch any wider as he outfits his entire family to join him at archery. 

(Just between you and me, I’d rather have unwrapped a spa certificate. But his newfound joy is gift enough for me.)

We’ve learned a lot in the past couple of weeks—how to shoot with the maximum amount of force by the smallest movement, how to keep everyone in the range safe by hanging up our bows when our turn is over, how to group arrows and adjust our aim and hold the bow gingerly in one hand while grazing our cheekbones with the other before releasing an arrow toward the target.

It’s a game of consistency, and the kids first work on grouping their arrows rather than on simply trying to smack the bullseye. This ensures they have developed their own technique and have learned how to aim; then they can adjust to group those arrows in the middle of the target once they’ve proven their technique by shooting their arrows all in roughly the same spot down range.

Archery is a highly technical skill, and there is a lot of detail that goes into every shot, so much so that it can make your head spin. (Or maybe that’s just the faint smell of weed coming from somewhere near the indoor range. Ah, Portland.) Moving three fingers down the string just one millimeter, or tilting the bow just slightly, or angling your stance a few measly degrees, will have a significant impact on where the arrow actually pierces the target. Opening your hips just a smidge to the right can mean your arrow hits your neighbor’s target instead of your own.

And it’s in that principle that an intentional life is demonstrated. 

Life change rarely happens overnight. Most often, we are the sum total of little choices that we make day after day—seemingly insignificant twitches that can move the needle great distances over time. No, life change builds gradually, slowly, almost indistinguishably with those little steps we take over and over.

I have made greater strides toward increased overall health, attaining bigger goals I’ve set, deepening relationships—not by one-time grand, generous gestures or major dietary overhauls or an extreme workout program, but just by simply choosing to take baby steps consistently over a period of time. The smaller the choice seems to be, the easier it is to stick with it, and the greater results I yield in the end.

I didn’t transform my home into a minimalist abode by one haul to Goodwill. It was accomplished as the result of more than six years of small choices one at a time—first cleaning out by category, then eliminating piece by piece, room by room; then cutting down on unnecessary purchases, and so on. 

The same is true in character building and personal disciplines. My friends tease me frequently on how healthy we eat or simply we live, resigning that they could never be that disciplined. (I think they’re exaggerating our lifestyle a bit.) But we didn’t make the progress we have by developing personal disciplines overnight. My habits were built with intention, brick by humble brick, year over year.

Adjusting just one thing consistently will lead to some major gains over time. I built muscle by adding small amounts of weights, a couple of additional reps, over months at a time. It barely felt like extra work; the additions were minuscule, but six months down the road I now notice that I can carry heavy loads with ease.

In an effort to live more sustainably, our family just focused on making small changes one at a time. First, we switched to cloth napkins at mealtimes instead of using paper towels. 

Next, we switched to wool dryer balls instead of reaching for disposable dryer sheets the next time we made a Target run. 

We started using more natural light during the day instead of turning all the overhead lights on. Then we switched to reusable stainless water bottles instead of buying the plastic counterparts. 

One item at a time, we cut out plastics, replaced disposable items with more sustainable, reusable ones. We minimized our weekly meat consumption one meal at a time. 

We may look like a completely different family than we did five years ago, but because we made changes incrementally, they were hardly discernable. In the end, those small adjustments, over time, significantly changed the course of our lives.

Conversely, bad habits work the same way. If you want to start a new hobby or business or learn a new skill, all those nights of Netflix and chill will eventually add up to work against you. Just two hours of binge-watching your favorite show every night will add up to 30 days—an entire month—of your year that you’ll never get back. 

If you are aiming to spend more time with the family but continue to duck down to check your smartphone—well, all of those 30-second Instagram scrolls can add up to hours of your week gone forever down the social media rabbit hole, never to be recovered. 

That afternoon grande Frappuccino you treat yourself to on the way to pick up the kids from school? Just switching to regular coffee could save you from eating 36 pounds of sugar in a year.* (Based on a regular Starbucks grande Frappuccino.)

We can console ourselves and say these minor daily habits don’t matter, but they are in fact the very bricks we are building our lives with. Ultimately, it’s not the major life events or grandiose one-time gestures that change us, but it’s the daily choices to do the next right (or wrong) thing that determine what kind of a life we construct. 

It’s the minor adjustments we make consistently that determine where we will land.

Make time to play.

This afternoon, my husband gave in to the kids’ persistent pleading and drove them in the rain to the archery range. They had attended their first official lesson on Thursday, then received their new bows as an early Christmas present yesterday at the archery store, where they stayed for an hour and half practicing their shots, and today, they were itching to get back at it. So off to the range they went.

I stayed home.

Normally, I would have felt so guilty for staying behind rather than going along on what has become a family activity, or I would have let those three sweet little faces with the impossibly big blue eyes convince me to tag along, but I haven’t slept well this week and just didn’t feel like it. So I smiled back at their disappointment and said I wasn’t going this time but couldn’t wait to hear all about it when they returned.

And then I had 90 minutes in a whisper-quiet apartment all by myself as the rain softly drummed against the windows outside. 

I finished a book I’d been trying to read for weeks with hot coffee that had not been warmed repeatedly in the microwave. 

I wrote a blog post sans repetitive requests to watch a movie or eat a snack.

I ate a granola bar, without having to share with three sets of tiny hands.

And I painted. 

I’d had this idea to paint a nativity set out of wooden peg dolls and neutral shades of acrylic paint—something the kids could play with but would blend into our decor and not take up much space—but it’s hard to finish a craft of my own when the kids are around because it always turns into the need for me to facilitate three additional painting projects. And, who am I kidding? Being a perfectionist, crafts aren’t exactly my thing when the kids aren’t around. I usually get so frustrated by my lack of artistic ability that I end up throwing the whole thing out. 

But I had an opportunity here, so while the house was quiet, I sat at our table with my pots of cream, greige, and gold shimmer paints and started swiping the dreamy shades onto the little wooden dolls. 

As those were drying, I found a little box nearby and decided to paint the top to use as a shadow box background for the little wooden people. 

It was therapeutic, relaxing, and completely frivolous. 

It was just what I needed.

I think too often, as an adult and a 1w9 on the Enneagram, I focus relentlessly on productivity and improvement. How can I cross every item off my to-do list in my spiral-bound planner and still have dinner on the table at a reasonable time? Very rarely do I make time to do something frivolous just for the heck of it.

And even more rarely do I bow out of family time to carve out a little for myself.

But, man, how restorative is it to have some alone time now and then? And instead of stressing about how I can absolutely make the most out of the rarity, to choose instead to do something that’s not on the to-do list? 

According to a writer for The New York Times, play offers a number of benefits for adults. In this article written last year, smack dab in the middle of the pandemic, positive play coach Jeff Harry, who works with organizations to incorporate positive psychology into daily routines, says, “One way to think about play is an action you do that brings you a significant amount of joy without offering a specific result.” It’s enjoying an activity simply because it’s enjoyable, not because you expect to accomplish some bigger purpose.

In a world that demands so much from grown-ups, a world that expects us to grow up and act our ages, to get serious and stop fooling around, for cryin’ out loud…sometimes fooling around is just the thing we need. 

And so I wrote a post about a table and painted dolls made from wood, not to get more readers or to start a side hustle or achieve some other, more productive goal, but just because I could. 

Play accesses a softer, lighter, younger side of ourselves that cares less about what other’s think or expect and more about letting our imaginations come to the surface. It’s less about finding a new hobby to spend more money on and find time for and more about tapping into the things we used to enjoy when we were younger. 

I loved to be creative as a kid. I’ve loved writing ever since I learned how to, and art was one of my favorite subjects in school. Sitting down and creating something just for play’s sake is incredibly satisfying (if I throw any expectation for perfection out the window). So why don’t I do it more often? 

If you were given an afternoon to yourself, how would you spend it? What is something you loved to do as a kid? What is one way you could revisit those memories by choosing to engage in play now? 

The tale of the untouchable table.

When we moved across the country from my in-laws’ house in Mississippi to Portland, Oregon, we shed most of our belongings, so when we bought our home the summer after our move, we had to furnish it from the ground up.

This was actually pretty exciting for us. Our home had once been a blended concoction of hand-me-down furniture, which we were grateful for since we had always lived on such a small budget. But this time we could actually pick out items that suited our taste and only purchase pieces that we actually needed instead of items we’d accepted because we didn’t know how to say no.

One of our favorite new pieces of furniture was a Restoration Hardware reclaimed wood and forged iron dining table that the Mr. found on Craigslist. Originally retailing at $1,600, we bought it gently used for $400 and patted ourselves on the back for weeks after. It was massive and beautiful and seated 10, a dream of mine to have our table filled with people dining and laughing together coming true. I marveled at the worn-in character, the deep crevices of the wood grain and the natural knotting of the wood. Sure, it took up more than its fair share of our 1,000-square-foot home, but I knew this wasn’t our forever home. It was, in my mind, our forever dining table. So we made room and bent around it. 

However, we also had small children who spilled, and we were constantly on edge about the reclaimed barn wood splintering in tiny pieces. I would get snags in the fabric of my shirt any time I rubbed against the rough, raw, worn-in wood and anxiety when crumbs found their way deep into the grain or a child tipped over their water glass. They couldn’t color a picture on the table without putting something underneath because of the rough texture (and my disdain for crayon markings), and I found myself avoiding craft projects altogether for fear of damaging the table and losing my sanity. 

Still, I loved that table. It didn’t matter to me that only one end of it fit under our dining room light fixture, and we would need to rewire the dining room to light the entire table or let half of our guests sit in the shadows. I loved the elegant centerpiece displays I could make at holidays and how many friends we could fit around it. How we could dress up and enjoy a fancy Valentine’s Day dinner with floral arrangements and candles, or spread out taco fixin’s down the middle for Taco Tuesday while munching on chips and homemade salsa and guac, with our friends and their kids. It wore fancy and casual both so well, and I loved how the beautiful wood texture made the perfect backdrop for Instagram photos. (It’s all about the ‘gram, right?) 

But I was really never at rest, crying over spilt milk and crayon smears. More times than I could remember, I’d yell, “This is why we can’t have nice things!” whenever I’d find food remnants or a stray marker streak. Our kids were nervous wrecks when I’d bravely fix them smoothies in real glasses because they knew they’d meet Mama’s dark side if that glass overturned. I found that I looked forward to the day when the kids would be grown up and past the messy phase, wishing away a precious season of life in exchange for our table to look pristine. It was more than a beautiful table—it was untouchable. And despite the incredible deal we found and the expensive quality, it was becoming more of a burden than a blessing.

So when we were getting ready to put our house on the market this past spring, I exhaled a bittersweet sigh of relief when our realtor told us that, for staging purposes, we needed to replace the table with something smaller. The enormous length of that table would trick buyers into thinking the house was too small. I mean, it already was small; no need to make it appear smaller. We listed it for sale online and actually made money on it, selling it for $900 to a couple of empty nesters across the river in Vancouver. 

We bought another, smaller, painted black oval table with a narrow leaf and wobbly legs on OfferUp for a mere $40. It fit four chairs comfortably, so we crammed two chairs together on one side at mealtimes to fit our family of five. But it had a smooth top and a lot of life left, and I felt I could breathe better knowing I didn’t really care whether it got messed up. 

We transported the new-old table to our apartment, and it fit comfortably in the space, leaving plenty of breathing room. But more importantly, it also fits our family life so much better than the old one ever did. Mealtimes are peaceful now; spills and crumbs wipe up with no drama or speeches about being more careful. We have the room we need for homeschool, and we have enjoyed many craft times at that table. 

Sure it has a few paint platters here and there that add to the character and displays the fun we have now as a family around the table. 

Sure, it’s smaller, but we discovered that our friends don’t actually care if we pull out an additional folding table and lawn chairs to make room for everyone. It’s not the table that makes the gathering, but the people. I’d rather have a room that’s filled with love than with an oversized piece of furniture, anyways. 

I feel like it’s a universal struggle of moms to find the balance between savoring the season with little ones and building a beautiful home. We either give in completely to the inevitable reality that our home will be messy, toys and crumbs will perpetually litter our floors, and our cheap self-assembled furniture will have nicks and cracks and stains—or we’ll spend all our finite energy scolding and tidying and establishing strict rules and resign ourselves to being indefinitely stressed until the nest is empty.

The book of Proverbs states over and over that’s it’s better to have just a little along with peace than to have a house full of treasures with the strife to accompany them. I have found this to be true for our family. There is no amount of money or high-end heirloom pieces that can replace the sense of peace in our home. 

And there’s no amount of memories of the kids putting their heart and soul on a canvas with messy brush strokes, of mealtimes spent laughing instead of scolding, of crumbs from homemade cookies baked together on a rainy afternoon, that would ever be enough.

Joy and peace and skillet cookie.

It’s Friday, and I’ve spent the last 20 minutes chopping, sautéing, and seasoning ingredients for beef stew to toss in the crockpot for tonight’s dinner. Before that, I caught up with a dear friend several states away over an hour-and-a-half FaceTime coffee date, where we discussed a major life transition they may be having in the near future. I offer words of truth and encouragement in between sips of steaming pour-over, and she shares hopes about the future as she runs the faucet in her kitchen for the plumber working in her bathroom, who showed up at her door during our conversation to clear out an underground pipe that had been assaulted by a pervasive tree root.  

The kids are bouncing in between the living room and their bedroom, lost in some made up game involving a LEGO Star Wars ship and two stuffed orcas. They hum their own theme song and make noises I can’t identify.

We’ve been tackling chores, the kids dusting their room and cleaning their bathroom while I throw sheets into the wash by the armful, all to get our work out of the way so we can enjoy our Sabbath that starts this evening. 

After lunch, we’ll make dough for our weekly Friday night skillet cookie, the grand kickoff of our restful time as a family. It’s a spectacular tradition, one that I kick myself for not incorporating into our lives sooner. We drizzle caramel and hot fudge sauce over peaks of vanilla frozen yogurt that are melting into a sizzling, gooey masterpiece symphony of butter, egg, almond flour, sugar, vanilla, and some combination of baking chips that we decide to tumble into the mix. 

“Remember, there’s enough to go around,” we parents say. “Stay on your side,” the kids respond with a warning, as five spoons pierce the crusty exterior, scoop down to the bottom of the skillet, and resurface with a perfect blend of all the delicious flavors.

In this season, there is a lot we cannot control. The ever-changing rules of the pandemic are giving us whiplash, the future seems up for grabs, conversations seem to have taken a pins-and-needles vibe, and Portland is keeping it very weird. It’s all so intense. So I’m leaning in steeply to the things I can control, choosing to steward well the things placed in my care—my self, my family, my home.

There is something so therapeutic about anchoring ourselves in the present moment and remaining there a while. Embracing the sensory experience of smashing and peeling garlic cloves, tuning in to the satisfying sound of a santoku blade slicing through root vegetables as knife tip hits butcher block, the whisper of sprinkling pink salt and chopped sage over a bowl of organic, grass-fed beef tips. 

Not thinking about the to-do list in my planner when my daughter approaches with two toy horses and offers me one, but instead looking deep into her sparkling cerulean eyes that match mine, memorizing the curves of her face and streaks of coveted natural blonde highlights, and getting lost in the sound of her giggles and imaginary storyline, knowing deep in my soul that I made the better choice.

I may not have the next year mapped out, but I do have tonight’s dinner to make, so I immerse myself in it—light candles and set the table and mix heart and soul into the recipe and sip local wine and look my family in their eyes and linger over conversations about Star Wars and unicorns and release a sigh of gratefulness for the present moment we have together.

This is what living a simple and sound life is about—daily choices to do what’s best, what’s needed most, what brings the most peace, and what counts as the next right thing when we can only see inches in front of our faces rather than miles down the road ahead.

“My people will go out in joy and be led forth in peace.” Isaiah 55:12

Joy and peace. The magnetic forces that steer the needle to true north. This verse has been my mantra over the past few years. When I’m faced with a multiple-choice answer, I choose the one that leads to peace and joy—not instant gratification, not temporary pacification, not superficial self-indulgence or self-promotion, but that which settles the spirit deep down with a peace that surpasses all of my brain’s understanding and a light-filled and life-giving joy that cannot be shaken. It’s how we were built to live.

This is the way, and it’s unhurried. There’s no reward in rushing, so we linger when we can. No honor in overworking, so we rest when we need to. There’s nothing more important than our loved ones, so we arrange our lives in such a way that we can offer them our full selves. 

There is no one right way to do things, except the way that leads to joy and peace. And the occasional skillet cookie.

We do it together.

Saturday morning came bright and early, as our spunky 6-year-old bounced into our room in her floral nightgown around 6:30 and announced it was time to get up and get going. Through blurry eyes and sleepy yawns, we agreed that it was okay to get up early, and she immediately ran back to her room to issue marching orders to her brothers. “They said we can get up! Let’s get dressed!”

This past weekend, our family participated in the Portland Bubble Run, a three-and-a-half-mile fun run that has bubble stations located at checkpoints along the course, where runners pass through drifts of colorful cotton candy bubbles as tall as their heads. One could lose a small child in the sea of brightly colored foam, so parents are encouraged to hold onto their kids as they run through it. It sounded fun, so we signed our family up and ran it together, weaving through other participants and wiping bubbles out of each other’s hair along the way.

We receive quite a bit of questioning looks from others when we tell them we’re running a race as a family, and I get it. We aren’t the typical American family whose weekends are filled with soccer tournaments and ballet recitals and darting from here to there in the family minivan. In our particular circles, we are the exception, and most of the time we stick out like a sore thumb. And we’re okay with it.

Early on in our marriage, Kelley and I agreed that togetherness as a family was something we valued and would make a priority. We didn’t want to be like ships passing in the night, frantically running from one activity to the next while eating our meals wrapped in paper from behind a seatbelt. And when kid number three came along, we were outnumbered without extra adults around to help out, so everyone in the family pursuing separate interests became a logistical nightmare.

Sure, we may not be exposing our children to every single activity that our community has to offer, but we intentionally offer them something that we believe will serve them better in the long run—quality time with their parents. And if there is an activity that interests them, we look for ways to enjoy it together.

Even if that thing is running.

Kelley and I were both athletes growing up, and our sports involved a lot of running. (As a cross-country teamer, my sport was running.) Kelley and I ran a half marathon and multiple smaller races pre-kids, so running as a family activity is not exactly unconventional for us. Liam has always been a high-energy kid, so much so that as a toddler I would run him on the treadmill to burn through some of that energy (he loved it!). He ran his first 5K at age 6 alongside his dad in 27:00 flat. Our middle and youngest kids have run mile-long fun runs before, but this past weekend was their first 5K.

The race had staggered start times, and as my old cross country instincts kicked in, I strategized how we could start in front of the pack. I set the pace, with three sets of tiny footsteps pounding the pavement behind me, Kelley trying not to run me over with his 6-foot-frame and long stride. 

Our boys would shout, “Sneak through the window!” to each other as they wound around groups of women speed-walking in purple tutus and moms pushing double strollers. They quickened their pace when they noticed another child approaching them from behind, not to be outrun. “Watch that patch of gravel!” “Runner on your right!” “Slow your pace around this curve!” We ran as a team, instructing, strategizing, and encouraging each other along the trail. We took turns pointing out the most outlandish costumes we found (running in crazy outfits is a whole culture, apparently—we saw a couple of brides and a gang in animal pajamas). And when I had to stop at the portapotties midway through (thank you, three childbirths), my teammates waited for me without complaining.

Even when Eva tripped on the gravel path and bloodied her knees and hands, I reminded her that bandaids would only be found at the finish line; we couldn’t stop in the middle of the course. So, she stood up, brushed the dust off her floral leggings, wiped her tears, and blocked out the sting to finish the race, chanting, “I can do this. I'm strong and brave and smart,” over and over under her breath as she leaned into the hills and pushed away the fatigue. I held her hand and ran beside her, reminding her that she was strong and would finish what she started.

After she and I were greeted by our men as we crossed the finish line, we proudly accepted our participation medals and celebrated our victory with mountains of frozen yogurt spilling over with yummy toppings. (Eva’s been wearing her medal every day since the race.)

We like to purposefully tackle challenges as a family, and our kids learn from their parents how to overcome obstacles and develop grit and mental toughness. And even though they aren’t playing team sports, they still learn what it means to be a part of a team, one comprised of a varied age range, with those who love them the most. We work together, whether it’s helping each other along the running trail or packing up camp in the forest or climbing a steep natural staircase to a waterfall.

And we celebrate the wins over frozen yogurt.

The day I finally saw in color. (Baker Lake, Washington)

I disabled the last of my social media accounts this week. It might be the most freeing thing I’ve ever done.

I don’t know exactly what’s gotten into me lately, to be honest. Gumption? Sensory overload? Pandemic fatigue? Whatever it is, I’m just a completely different person than I was pre-pandemic, and there’s no going back to life as I once knew it; that includes my social media habits.

I think I noticed that something was different while we were on our recent trip in September. After our day in Port Townsend (see previous post here), we traveled by ferry to Burlington. We spent the next day driving through Mt. Baker-Snoqualmie National Forest until we reached Baker Lake to go paddleboarding. (When we Thompsons discover a new hobby, we really commit to it.)

I thought it couldn’t get any better than Lake Crescent, but I was wrong.

Baker Lake is utterly otherworldly. It was like I had been seeing in black and white my entire life and was suddenly seeing color for the first time. The lake was a translucent, bright, almost blinding turquoise under a cerulean sky, surrounded by fuzzy green forest and snowcapped mountains. It was too perfect to seem real. As the influencers say, no filter needed.

And I didn’t really feel the impulse to post it online.

In the moment, all I wanted to do was just be. Be present. Be still. Be in the moment and soak it all in through my eyeballs and not a smartphone screen. I realized that, up until that day, I had always felt so much pressure to document our experiences that I forgot to actually experience them. But Baker Lake was different. I still took some pictures and video, but I no longer felt the pull of social media calling me out of the moment and into a lesser virtual reality. It had lost all of its appeal.

There’s just something about marveling at something marvelous in real time, in real life, that will free you of any inclination to settle for a two-dimensional replica in a tiny Instagram square, hashtag blessed. It makes anything else seem dull. Sitting in the middle of the lake with no one but my family around me, with nothing but the sound of rippling waves and the occasional trout jumping out of the water, I just knew I couldn’t go back to all the societal noise when our vacation was over. All the soundbites and opinions and influencing and ambition and flaunting and bullying and trolling and clickbait and doomsday reporting and bickering over all the current things no longer seemed entertaining or relevant or even desirable.

We had an enjoyable simple picnic by the lake after more than two hours of paddling, and I decided then that my smartphone and social media habits had to change. This was the kind of high-definition I needed. I needed to be more connected to nature than the Internet. I needed more unplugged, adventurous moments like this. I needed to make a regular habit of marveling at the marvelous.

I’m not the only one in our family who felt like a new person after that trip. The best highlight of the day? Our middle son asked if he could be baptized in the lake. He had been considering it for a while, and we’d had many conversations about what it meant, but his anxiety would creep in and he’d back out. But he decided that was the perfect time and place, so Kelley baptized him beside the boat dock with a handful of strangers looking on.

I did unashamedly video that moment, and you can watch it here:

Exploring the Olympic peninsula

“To walk in nature is always good medicine.” Sam Gribley, On the Far Side of the Mountain

During our family read-aloud time last night, this quote jumped off the page at me and perfectly sums up our recent trip to northwest Washington state. 

This month was the first time ever that the Mr. and I chose to take a full, two-week vacation time. We’re late to the party I know, but better late than never; I highly recommend it if you can pull it off. In almost 18 years of marriage, we’ve only ever afforded ourselves a long weekend here and there, or once, a full week. But that has always left us feeling as if we needed a vacation to recover from our vacation. And there’s just something about the pandemic that has had us reprioritizing rest and play and quality family time. A full two weeks was just right, especially since we spent most of that time outdoors.

We had initially planned a camping trip to Bend, Oregon, but with fire season leaving central Oregon too smoky for our comfort level, we decided to err on the side of caution and explore the Olympic Peninsula instead. I’ve wanted to visit the area for more than a decade, ever since my best friend coerced me to watch the newly premiered Twilight movie. (While everyone was falling in love with Edward and Jacob, I fell in love with the Olympic National Forest). I’m so glad we changed our plans; Washington is even more beautiful in person!

These duffel bags from Walker Family Goods made packing for our trip so simple and easy.

From paddleboarding on Lake Crescent to hiking up the trail to Marymere Falls to watching orcas breaching the waves of the Puget Sound, we packed as much as we could into our week of exploring Washington. (After the peninsula, we spent a couple of days visiting Baker National Forest and Anacortes, but I’ll save that for another post.)

We started the trip with a drive up Highway 101 to Port Angeles, where we camped at an outlying KOA campground. While I was anxious that our tent site might be invaded by a bear or cougar, I didn’t think to beware the stray Highland calf that broke free from its nearby pasture and ran through the campground. Fortunately, that was the only wildlife that visited our site, but unpredictable rain patterns once again threw off our plans, delaying our trip a day (if you weren’t here for the last rainy camping experience, read about it here), and then causing us to transfer our things to a small onsite cabin for the last night so we wouldn’t be packing up camp the next day in a rain shower.

Check out the view of Olympic National Forest from our campsite outside Port Angeles. Also, typical sun-in-the-eyes photo taken by yours truly.

The day after we arrived at Port Angeles, we took a scenic drive along the coastal 101 that runs along the northern border of the peninsula, parallel to Vancouver Island, B.C. (We got so close to the border that we received text messages welcoming us to Canada.) We had to turn around at the Makah reservation, which was closed to the public due to COVID, so we drove through the Olympic National Forest to Forks, where I took pictures of all the Twilight memorabilia I could for my best friend back in Alabama.

After our second night of camping/glamping, we transferred our things to a nearby harbor-side hotel in Port Angeles so we could get some real sleep before moving on from the area, and so we would have hot showers after a day on Lake Crescent. The only local gem we found in Port Angeles was the Blackbird Café, where we had lunch after we said goodbye to the campground Wednesday and drove down the foggy, tree-lined Highway 101 until Lake Crescent greeted us out our window. (If you’re ever in Port Angeles, stop by the Blackbird and grab a gluten-free lemon vanilla cupcake and a latte. You’re welcome.)

Lake Crescent Lodge is a great place to spend the day. There is an upscale restaurant and lodging, but it’s also open for day use and provides multiple hiking trails and plenty of open shoreline for wading, swimming, lounging, or even putting in paddleboards or a kayak. We chose the almost 2-mile trail loop to Marymere Falls and back, traipsing through the forest and over handmade bridges and stairs up to the waterfall. This was such a beautiful hike with plenty of wide, flat trails to make it doable for kids. After the hike, we woofed down granola bars and then shimmied into swimsuits in our darkly tented SUV and headed to the lake to paddleboard. Lake Crescent is a glacier lake, and the water is so clear and blue. There are plenty of areas around the 11-or-so-mile perimeter to explore by water, and we took our time taking it all in.

The next day, we left the hotel early to head to Port Townsend and board a whale watching boat. We purchased tickets for the Puget Sound Express, and since the kids have been learning about all about wildlife and indigenous tribes of the Olympic peninsula, our charter school (which serves as a cover for homeschoolers) reimbursed us for them as a field trip. Our tour was four hours of boating in the Puget Sound, and we passed by several harbor seals and observed two different pods of orcas. Seeing the giant dorsal fins emerge from the water and draw a crescent in the air before descending again in a buttery smooth, synchronized motion was surreal!

The crew aboard the Puget Sound Express was phenomenal. They were incredibly friendly and knowledgable, and the kids loved hearing about the different orca families the crew identified and how they recognize the orcas by specific markings. They also bake a mean blueberry buckle aboard the ship, which makes the entire cabin smell delicious—not at all what you’d expect on a whaling boat.

After our tour, we lingered in Port Townsend for lunch at the Silverwater Café (gluten-free shrimp scampi for me, Pacific cod fish and chips for the Mr., and burgers for the kids; everything was delicious!) and hand-dipped ice cream at Elevated Ice Cream Co. along the waterfront. Port Townsend is just adorable—historic buildings line the street and offer eclectic, unique shops that are perfect for hours of aimless browsing.

Perhaps my favorite part of Port Townsend, however, was the one place photography wasn’t allowed: Forest Gems Gallery on Washington Street. Before and during our trip, we had been reading as a family Written in Stone by Rosanne Parry, a book about a Native American girl named Pearl, part of the Quinault tribe, who longed to be a whaler like her father. We read in detail about the abalone shell button she kept from her mother’s blanket, her father’s raven regalia, and all about the areas her tribe traveled on the peninsula and the nearby tribes they visited. We read about potlatches and ceremonial elements, and Forest Gems Gallery curates a collection of many of the indigenous tribal pieces we’d read about. You can feel the somber atmosphere where the actual hand-carved, sacred ceremonial masks that the book describes are on display. I pointed out the abalone shell embellishments on the artwork just like we’d read about. We browsed the collection of carved wooden animals and identified ravens and eagles and bears. It brought not only the book but also First Nations tribal culture to life for our family and was a learning experience we won’t forget.

Fall manifesto.

I commit this season to nurturing my whole self and those around me by making healthy choices for myself and those in my care.

I commit to savoring the precious limited daylight of the season by spending time outdoors in nature each day.

I commit to slow dinners together as a family, embracing seasonal flavors and produce, choosing nourishing, quality local ingredients over fast, convenience processed foods.

I commit to the natural rhythms of autumn by rising earlier and going to bed earlier, following a relaxing bedtime routine.

I commit to moving my body every day to build strength, durability, and physical and emotional stability.

I honor the slower rhythms of autumn by unhurrying my family. We will say yes to less activities to avoid hustle and burnout and instead enjoy cozy game nights and read-alouds, lingering on hikes in the forest to appreciate the details of our surroundings, and relaxed get-togethers filled with laughter with good friends.

I will turn my eyes to the smiling faces of my children instead of the hollow glow of my smartphone screen. 

I commit to all things cozy at home: flickering candles, weighty blankets, low lamplight, herbal tea, soft sweaters, warm socks, and good books.

I commit to making autumn a total sensory experience—the crunching of leaves, the smack of crisp air, the crunch of tart apples, the smell of cinnamon and fragrant spices, the warm tones of fall, the weight of extra bed blankets at night. 

Call me on the line. Call me any, anytime.

My relationship with Instagram, and social media in general, is complicated. As in, love/hate. Tumultuous. Dysfunctional. Conflicted. Unstable.

I didn’t grow up as a millennial. Screen time wasn’t a thing back then (unless you had the 64 available cable television channels and no one to have to share them with on the family TV). Neither was texting. I didn’t obtain my blue Nokia phone with the short, stubby antenna until I moved out-of-state to college and was too poor for a landline. My family of four shared a very limited number of texts per month (and incoming texts counted toward that quota, if you could imagine). Back in my day, we had to ration our texts to only the most important communication.

Social media? I was a broke, married college woman with no Internet at home when I discovered Facebook, and I would scan my printed photos onto the computer in my boss’s office in the communication building on campus to create a Facebook album and check my Facebook feed in between classes in the library. (Remember when you had to have a school email address to log on to Facebook? Those were the golden days.) 

Smartphone? Kelley and I got our first iPhones (iPhone 4) the year before Liam was born, when Kelley was working out-of-state and living with family. They were a Christmas present from my parents, and they allowed us to FaceTime and text freely during our six grueling months of long-distance relationshipping.

Back in my day (cue the grandma voice and bifocals), friendships were active. We expected them to require effort. Growing up, if I wanted to talk to my friend, I had to call them on the phone—the landline at my house that I shared with my parents and brother. (If someone wasn’t using the dial-up Internet on the computer, which operated using the landline and would tie up the only means of communication we had with the outside world.) We would go over to each other’s houses and just…hang out. Bum around. You know, spend quality time just being together. We didn’t need an activity or a plan. We just needed snacks and a good story.

I really miss those days. 

It’s hard being an adult who’s smack dab in between GenX and the millennials. Having an older brother and being raised in a home like the 1950s leaves me more in tune with my GenX husband rather than a lot of my peers who were raised as the first millennials. As an adult, it makes it difficult to connect with people who were raised with the technology that took away the need to put effort into maintaining a relationship. Now the idea of calling someone gives us anxiety, and why would we call anyways when we can just see what they’re up to in their Instagram stories? No extra work needed. Relationships can be messy, but Instagram profiles come in neat little curated boxes.

Simply put, social media has wrecked the ability to have deep connections with people. To get all up in someone’s business and wade through the muck of life together. Now we can curate what people see of our lives in pretty filtered squares. They say that technology has given us the ability to connect more with more people, but I guess it depends on how we define “connection.” Connected through wires or bluetooth? Maybe. Connected through relational intimacy? Not at all.

I once was told I’m too long-winded, that I talk a lot, and people would respond better to me if I kept it short and sweet. (This was told to me by a pastor, ironically.) I happen to think that’s not the case (shocking, I know). People are now just so accustomed to bite-size pieces of information, 140 characters or less; anything longer, and we start getting antsy. Because we have an entire society whose brains have been rewired according to social media practices, we hardly have the capability to carry on a real conversation with others, which means I have to compete with Instagram, Twitter, and now dancing animals on TikTok to keep someone engaged in conversation. 

The pandemic made it so much worse. For months on end, everything was virtual: work, school, church, entertainment, and even grocery shopping were all happening online. And so were relationships. After a couple of months, it started to affect me in a very disorienting way. It felt like we were all just stuck in an unending game of The Sims, like we were our avatar and life was only online. (Though I’m so much cooler online—Brad Paisley, anyone?) Strange, I know, but it messed with me in a big way, and I started having major anxiety. I just couldn’t manage to strike a healthy balance, and I realized social media wasn’t environment in which I could thrive or be at peace.

So around early summer of 2020, I set some boundaries for my own mental health. I decided that the Internet needed to return to being strictly informational, and relationships needed to be, er, relational. 

While I was following hundreds of people, I didn’t really know all of them, and there were only a handful of individuals I was actually close to in real life, so I unfollowed most accounts except theirs, only leaving a few professional and travel accounts. I stopped scrolling, for the most part, and decided that I would make more of an effort to keep up with friends via FaceTime, Marco Polo, Zoom hangouts, socially distanced in-person visits—in whatever pandemic-approved way that I could see their face and/or hear their voices. 

Once the finger-twitching stopped and I had detoxed from my social media obsession, I felt so much lighter. Like the corners of my mind had been cleared out and swept clean. I had more time to write. I became more present with my kids. I had more focus and energy to put into the actual real-life relationships I treasured. I still post occasionally, as Instagram has served as our kids’ baby books for 10 years now, and I’m still not sure what to do with that. And this blog is just getting started. But taking relationships offline has been necessary and just so unbelievably healthy.

It was an interesting experiment, honestly. While the boundaries I set weren’t about anyone else but about my own limitations (I honestly didn’t think anyone would really notice), some people noticed and got offended. Others noticed my decreased activity and unfollowed out of boredom. Which I think just demonstrates how enmeshed our relationship with social media has become. 

But the relationships in my life that are genuine have only gotten stronger, as I had more energy to invest in them instead of spreading myself thin trying to keep up with everyone I’ve ever known in my almost four decades of life. It’s not that I don’t care about people; I care very deeply, but I am just realizing my limits in how much time I can spend online. I’d rather care while looking them in the eyes.

Humans simply aren’t built with the capacity to maintain hundreds of meaningful relationships, but social media creates the illusion that, because we have access to an unlimited amount of people’s personal lives, we have so many friends. But what we actually have is information, not intimacy. We have content, not connection.

A colleague of mine was constantly sharing information about other people in our social circle, about gatherings they’d attended, significant events in their lives. She was always in the know, always up-to-date with the latest in everyone’s personal lives. When I’d ask, “Oh, where did you hear that?” Or, “Have you talked to them recently?” Her answer was always, “No, I saw them post it on Instagram.” Ah. 

I just can’t keep up anymore. It’s exhausting. It’s stressful. Quite frankly, it’s lonely as hell. And it’s mostly a mirage. Social media gives us a false sense of understanding what’s going on in the lives of those around us, so when we actually do see them in person, we believe we’re all caught up. Since I’ve stopped scrolling through social media content, when I run into people I know, I genuinely seek to find out how they’re doing, what they’ve been up to—because I have no idea. I get to hear about their lives from their own mouths, in real time, to see in their eyes how they’re really doing…and there’s just no substitute for that. 

As I’ve been pursuing more simplicity for years now, I’ve come to a point where social media just doesn’t seem to fit into my life anymore. At least not as a regular part of it. I am so hungry for authentic human connection, for tactile, slow-burn relationships with people who love me enough to see I’m worth the effort. People who are willing to get to know and accept the real me, rather than being satisfied with the highlights they see on my Instafeed. I feel myself being pulled to the simplicity of authentic life-on-life connection, where a conversation over a home-brewed cup of coffee while the kids run wild around us is…enough.

If you want that, too, give me a call. Like, on the actual phone. Let’s get together, in person, without filters and feeds and 15-second reels. Tell me the whole story, however long-winded it may be, and let me live in it with you. And I’ll do the same for you. 

Embracing less to experience more.

We don’t always make life changes, but when we do, it’s “go big or go home.”

Which is exactly what we did. In July, we moved from our already cozy 1,000-square-foot ranch home with the big fenced backyard to a 972-square-foot apartment flat with a balcony. We’ve had some interesting reactions to this, so I thought I’d take a moment to explain our decision.

I started feeling the urge to get our home ready to sell when COVID-19 sent everyone into quarantine. We were some of the newer employees at our organization, so I wanted to be prepared in the event we were laid off and needed to sell our home. But the more we worked on our home, I kept having the thought, Well, what if we sold our home anyway?

The market was the best it had been or probably would be, so we felt confident we would receive the most for our home that we’d probably be able to get without putting a lot of serious work into it. Built in 1960, our home had some major impending repairs, if we stayed for much longer: the electrical, plumbing, original hardwood floors, and roof would all need replacing, and we didn’t have, nor would we want to spend, that kind of money on this particular house. Financially, it was a smart decision to sell, and with that sell, we were able to pay off credit card debt, auto loans, my student loan and medical bills, and create a generous emergency fund. The breathing room and peace of mind this has given us is simply priceless.

I also learned during quarantine that we lived two doors down from a drug house. During the day, we had a steady stream of “customers” parking stolen cars in front of our home and walking down to that house, and it was unsettling being home by myself with three kids. While we lived in a generally safe and quiet neighborhood, it really only takes one bad apple to spoil the bunch. We were constantly on high alert, and the residents of that home were becoming increasingly volatile. So we felt it was time to move on.

One of our family values is spending time adventuring together, but we spent so much of our time and money maintaining a home that it cut into our quality time as a family. Days off were filled with yard work and chores. Extra money that could be saved for travel was often spent on repairs or upgrades to the house. Downsizing to an apartment has afforded us the extra budget and time for the things we really enjoy. Evenings and weekends can be spent outdoors or exploring our beautiful state rather than on home maintenance.

For years, the house was the goal, as it is for many Americans. We’ve always heard that renting is just throwing away money, and that we should invest in real estate at the first opportunity. But renting offers a chance to invest in a life based on our values—debt-free, family-focused, people-serving, adventure-seeking—that owning a home just couldn’t offer (at least not with home prices in Portland). Besides, there’s a pool here.

The day we moved into our new space, I watched our daughter pirouette across the empty living room floor of our home as we said goodbye, and I thought about how much I would miss the house. The midcentury modern ranch layout with craftsman touches sprinkled in. Sitting under the twinkle lights on the back porch with my handsome man and a glass of wine after putting the kids to bed. Laying on a blanket in the backyard with my girl watching the planes fly overhead (oh yeah, we lived in a flight path). Fire pits with s’mores and backyard campouts. Sitting outside after schoolwork was over, racing to finish our popsicles before they dripped down our palms. Observing the baby bunny that lived under our shed lose its downy fluff and grow into its long legs through spring and summer. Playing volleyball and running through the sprinkler and chatting over the fence with our elderly neighbor—the one with the green thumb and the 8-foot corn stalks in his backyard. Processing deep theological truths over coffee in the living room with ladies in my small groups.

It was a place of refuge for our family over the past two years, and we made it our own. It was a place of exponential personal growth for each of us. But even with the emotions that inevitably bubble up after moving on, there is peace in taking a huge step to live more simply and attain financial freedom.

It’s odd that, now that we’ve been in the apartment for a month, we don’t really even think about our old house. Even without our big backyard, extra fridge in the garage, and home gym, we are enjoying our new space. Even with one less bedroom, we gained one more bathroom, some great amenities, and no maintenance. (Did I mention the pool?)

Less yard work, more weekend adventures. Less stuff, more creativity. Less chores, more hikes. Less repairs, more long-term savings. Less space, more togetherness.

Always and forever embracing less in order to experience so much more.

It's okay to change your mind.

It was just last year when I came to realize it was permissible, and perhaps even unavoidable, to change my mind about what I believe. As a classic Enneagram 1, I’m relentlessly consistent; I will review all sides of an issue, but when I decide what I believe, I pretty much dig my heels in the sand with my decision and make my home there. “This is what I decree and believe from henceforth until forevermore.” Consistent, and stubborn. That’s me.

But like a lot of people, the past 18 months of being at home, having more space and time alone with my thoughts (and being in Portland where the ish has really hit the fan), I’ve begun to re-evaluate my beliefs and ideologies about a lot of things. Well, really, all the things. To be honest, I am right smack dab in the middle of undoubtedly the most massive transformation of my life, and I have no idea where it will end or what will be left of me on the other end. Consistent, stubborn, and maybe a tad dramatic.

In case you need to hear this, too: it’s okay to change your mind. It’s perfectly okay to outgrow ideologies, mindsets, beliefs, and habits that no longer fit you. It’s okay, and even necessary, to gain understanding and knowledge and perspective that you didn’t previously have, and with that, to shift your mindset. I’m not talking about abandoning truth for whatever we feel is right or whatever “truth” gels with us, but instead, realizing that maybe what we previously knew was only a part of the truth, and therefore it’s possible to grow in a deeper level of truth and understanding that expands our convictions.

It’s okay to change your mind. It’s healthy to shed layers of skin that have grown calloused and weak, to reveal facets of truth underneath that were once unclear. As seen with many species in nature, this kind of renewal is an important part of the life cycle. In the Christian life, just as our physical bodies regenerate regularly, so should our minds. In this way, as Paul talks about in Ephesians, we “put off our old self, which is being corrupted by deceitful desires, to be made new in the attitude of our minds, and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness.”

I grew up in a white, conservative Evangelical Southern family, and as a result, was indoctrinated from a young age to hold certain ideologies about different groups of people. And because 99% of the people I was surrounded by looked and believed just like me, though I recognized the unhealth to a small degree, I never seriously questioned a lot of these beliefs until the past couple of years. But now, as a result of reflection and repentance, I no longer reflexively lock my car doors when I see a Black man walking down the street; instead, I look him in the face and see him in the eyes—as a person and not a threat. When I see a woman wearing a hijab, I no longer automatically see an ideology that threatens my safety. I see a woman who experiences many of the same challenges that I do on a daily basis. When I watch footage of Afghans clinging to a U.S. military plane, instead of seeing terrorists trying to invade our land or searching for a leader on which to place blame, I see moms and dads desperate to keep their children safe from harm. Instead of warriors wielding weapons and white flags, I see souls in desperate need of a Savior. Empathy has paved the way for me to step outside my current level of understanding, and love has led me to view others, not as a general stereotype, but as fellow beings made in the image of God, to see and accept their humanity. It’s allowed me to shed false beliefs and clothe myself with truth.

It’s okay to change our minds; it’s both a sign of humility and of maturity to recognize that we haven’t had all the answers, and still don’t. It’s even okay to be wrong (even when my Enneagram 1 cringes at the thought). It’s more than okay to step outside our own mindsets, to listen to the experiences and pain of others, to realize that we didn’t have the whole story, and to adjust accordingly. In Romans 12, Paul tells us it’s imperative that we not conform to the patterns of thinking of this world—traditions and ideologies passed down through the bloodline or culture—and instead be transformed by the renewing of our minds, our thoughts, our beliefs—because it is through this process of renewal that we can then uncover what the true will of God is.

In that same passage, I find it interesting that Paul links this exhortation with our responsibility to community; he encourages us not to think too highly of ourselves—we shouldn’t pridefully presume that we alone have all fragments of life figured out. We shouldn’t dare to believe we know all the things but instead recognize that we are a part of a larger body, and though we are all different, we BELONG to each other. We are called to be DEVOTED to one another and honor one another above ourselves. We cannot be more devoted to our ideologies and beliefs of our origin than we are to one another.

So it’s okay to change our minds. To realize the eyebrow has a perspective the pinky toe doesn’t, and it’s important to listen lest we trip over something ahead that we couldn’t see from our vantage point. It’s the system God created us to live within, and it’s how we keep the whole body healthy.

This transformation has left no realm of ideology untouched. It’s reached past my teeter-tottering on the fence of political partisanism or tightening my grip on Christian nationalism and revealed my belonging and allegiance to a different Kingdom altogether. Instead of dying on a hill piled high with cloth masks and vaccine syringes, I’ve recognized that loving my neighbor means deferring to the comfort and safety of others and honoring them above myself. Instead of standing tight-fisted for my own personal rights, I’ve been challenged to lay down my rights when it leads to peace with my neighbor. It has meant less time scrolling through different social media agendas and searching out sources of real truth. Less idolizing spiritual leaders and more acknowledging their own humanity and imperfections and instead clinging to the person of Christ to transform me from the inside out.

What’s something you’ve changed your mind about in the past year? Let me know in the comments!

When the student becomes the teacher.

In March, our middle son, Riley, was diagnosed with autism spectrum, sensory processing, and anxiety disorders. If ever there was a silver lining to this persistent pandemic, it’s that we were forced into a controlled environment at home with our kids that revealed some challenges we faced in giving our son the best care possible. We didn’t just need different parenting tools; we needed a completely new toolbox.

Over the last six months, I have had a front-row seat watching our eight-year-old experience tremendous growth with the help of various therapies. He has released unhealthy thought patterns and embraced positive thinking that sustains him in a place of peace instead of pain. He tunes in to his body’s signals and recognizes when he needs to use hand fidgets, headphones, deep breathing, or quiet solitude to combat sensory overload. He has built a more extensive vocabulary to vocalize his feelings instead of allowing them to catapult him into a come-apart.

On his eighth birthday this past summer, our family took turns around the dinner table sharing what we each loved most about Riley. When we finished, Riley said, “Now, I’d like to share what I love about myself. First, I am eager to always do what’s right. I am kind and fair and generous. And I’m really smart. And I love that I love dinosaurs.” I think we could all learn from his beautifully innocent example of self-love.

Our Riley has demonstrated the courage to adapt and grow, to change his mind when his thoughts don’t serve him and others well, to regulate his emotions to a higher magnitude than many adults, to choose kindness in moments of stress instead of hurling insults at a high volume. He’s faced his fears and pushed himself beyond his comfort zone to enjoy new experiences with our family. I’ve learned so much from his lead, and while I thought our new parenting toolbox would allow us to train him, I’m discovering, to my pleasant surprise, that he’s actually changing us.

For when you are misunderstood...

Recently, I’ve had two family members, on two separate occasions, reach out and verbally attack me without provocation. The first time, it was after I shared a tribute on social media to my grandmother who had passed away. The second time, it was after I shared a snippet of my story for the first time about my tumultuous relationship with my dad. Both times, the family member felt it necessary to put me in my place. The hard thing is, both times, the claims they made about me in their rants were completely false, based on misinformation they’d received from someone else; I reeled that they had come to believe things about me that couldn’t be farther from the truth. When I shared their words with a few of my closest friends, each one of them were baffled and said that didn’t even sound like me. These family members had taken things they had heard and based their entire view of me on those falsehoods.

Maybe you’ve been there, too. Have you ever felt completely misunderstood? Have you experienced that gut wrenching pain of rejection from someone that was based on an imagined view of you, when it in no way reflected your true self? Have you ever lost relationship with someone because of a senseless misunderstanding?

If so, it turns out you and I are actually in very good company. The more I study the person and the way of Jesus, I read about the many times he was misunderstood by others, his actions set in the incorrect frame. How did he respond? Did he, like I all too often have, try to reason with the person to see his side? Did he beg and plead and state his case, going to great lengths to preserve that relationship? Did he bite back, hit ‘em where it hurt because of the pain they’d caused him?

It’s surprising, but he did none of the above. Most often, he said nothing. He felt no pressure to defend himself, no guilt in his restraint—even when the misunderstanding cost him his life. In fact, when he sent the twelve disciples out on mission, he said these words: “If anyone will not welcome you or listen to your words, leave that home or town and shake the dust off your feet.”

That’s it. No rebuttal. He didn’t say, “Hey guys, if someone doesn't accept your words, then you need to try harder to make them see. It’s your responsibility to build that relationship and endure the strain and hardship to do whatever it takes to convince them. Welcome to ministry.” Sure, he was referring specifically to the spread of the Gospel here, but the principle applies. He said if someone doesn’t accept what you have to say, then just move on.

I have a hard time with that, to be honest. It’s one of the greatest pains to be rejected by someone you love because they chose to believe a lie about you. Because they refuse to see you for who you truly are. It’s grievous to lose a relationship over misunderstanding, when the other person misread your heart. And until recently, I always felt a burden to try and make them see the truth, for truth’s sake if not just for the sake of relationship.

But Jesus shows us a different way. In fact, in the New Testament, Paul writes, “If it’s possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” (Romans 12:18) Meaning, there will be times when people simply do not accept your efforts. And when they don’t, it isn’t your responsibility to try to fix them. Simply be free to move on.

Easier said than done, but such an important practice in our pursuit of mental and emotional health. I’ll leave you with this little piece of encouragement: One of the most relaxing, healthy things you can do for yourself is to let people be wrong about you. Yep, when people are wrong about you—let them be.

Lessons from my therapist.

One of the best things about 2020 was that my insurance company waived the co-pay for therapy visits that occurred virtually, so I received free weekly sessions for a year. Ironically, therapy in sweatpants and a top-knot still isn’t comfortable, but if I’ve learned anything during my 30-something trips around the sun, it’s that the things worth doing in life rarely are.

After having grown up in a family that didn’t really talk about feelings a lot and believed that we keep our skeletons in our closets right where they belong, I’d love it if we could all just normalize attending regular therapy check-ins. They should rank right up there with oil changes and eye exams. Every now and then, it’s good to give our brains a little tune-up (or a complete overhaul, depending on how long you let it go before your next appointment). I’ve been seeing a therapist off and on for years (regularly since about six months after our move to the Pacific Northwest), and it’s been absolutely exhausting…and transformative.

My therapist is less like a stern college professor with an office couch and more like a college bandmate; he’s close to my age and understands the satisfaction of a bass riff in the pocket and the ridiculous pressure of people pleasing. A gallery of instruments hang on the home office wall behind him, and we talk about music almost as much as we process my prickly past.

So every week during the pandemic, I’d sit at my dining table in my sweats behind a Zoom filter to hide the deepening creases around my eyes, because apparently the only flaws I’m willing to reveal are the ones the camera can’t capture. (I may be transparent, but I’m also a little vain.) I’d prop my laptop on a stack of thick books and stare it in the face, confronting the contenders of mental health while my kids are distracted by Disney Plus in the back bedroom.

During these visits, we talk a lot about living in truth, and how healthy boundaries allow us to show up as our whole selves to love others well. Though “boundaries” was a four-letter word in my childhood home, they have been a lifesaver throughout adulthood. Here are some of the most significant lessons I’ve learned from the face on the laptop screen:

1. Boundaries are healthy. The only people who will rage against you setting boundaries are those who benefitted from you not having boundaries. When I started setting limits on what I would and could allow into my life and still be healthy and at peace, it was easier to see which relationships in my life were healthy, and which ones were toxic and enmeshed. I had a lot of friends cheering me on and supporting my efforts to achieve emotional health and live from a place of freedom and peace; the ones who didn’t were angry because they no longer had the control they wanted over me, and they would attempt to guilt and shame me out of keeping healthy boundaries (sometimes even using Scripture as a form of manipulation). The truth is, boundaries aren’t selfish; they allow us to honor our limited capacity as humans and prioritize overall health so that we can love others better and more authentically. We can’t love out of an empty well. Boundaries keep us from being imprisoned by people-pleasing and protect our hearts from acting out of obligation and harboring resentment. In fact, the Bible says that it is for freedom we’ve been set free, that we shouldn’t allow ourselves to be put in bondage again, and that as freed people, we can serve one another in love. Being bound to another person’s demands actually prevents us from serving them in love.

2. What others feel and believe about me and expect from me IS NOT my responsibility. I’ve found that no matter what I do, there will always be others who have decided to believe the narrative about me that makes them feel better, and I am not responsible for changing their minds. When a person decides to believe the worst about you, oftentimes the healthiest thing you can do is let them.

3. I am neither required nor even able to be all things to all people. I am finally learning at 38 what my limits are; for so long, I didn’t realize I was even allowed to have limits. Now, I do what I can where I’m at with what I have and accept my humanity. In doing so, I encourage others to look to God as their source and not to me, and I free up an opportunity for someone else to step in and meet a need they wouldn’t have otherwise been able to. Simply put, I’m learning how to give my best yes, and that doing so is enough.

4. My Creator has spoken what’s true of me, and it’s truth no matter who does or doesn’t believe it. I am worthy of love and acceptance and respect, I am enough, I deserve to take up space and have my needs validated...even if no one validates them. My value is in who I am as an image bearer of my Creator, not in what others can get out of me or what others believe about me. I know who I am and what’s true about me, and being rooted in that truth leads to true peace.

5. A balanced relationship is a healthy relationship. I used to have this mentality that I should give 110% to all of my relationships; and more often than not, the other person let me. I would eventually become exhausted because I took on more of the responsibility than I should have, and it allowed the other person permission not to give much effort. I was basically carrying a lot of my relationships, which wasn’t sustainable. Once I started backing off a little and matching the effort of the other person, I found one of two things would happen: either the other person felt the distance and made efforts to remain close, or the relationship faded. But either way, I felt lighter and freer (and even physically had more energy) because I was no longer carrying the full weight of each relationship on my shoulders. As I’ve gotten older, I have fewer relationships, but the ones I have are deeper and stronger as both of us carry the weight of it together.

Have you ever visited a counselor or therapist? What has been the most beneficial thing you’ve learned from your experience? I’d love to hear in the comments below!

Just a drop.

Even if I inhabited as much space

as my ambition drives me to,

I would still just be

a single drop of morning dew

on the tip of a lacy jadeite fern frond,

reaching its delicate fingertips from the root

of a towering evergreen, stretching heavenward

in the middle of an ancient rainforest

near the expansive Pacific coastline

on a single,

foggy,

dripping day.

Father's Day

The last time my dad and I spoke was four years ago, for reasons too complex and extensive to explain here. He smelled of Stetson cologne and Old Spice and wore a charcoal suit beside my mom in the receiving line at my grandfather’s funeral, trying as hard as an introverted engineer can to make repetitive small talk with doting strangers. I wasn’t exactly invited to stand with the family before the funeral, so I arrived 30 minutes before the service in an attempt to put differences aside and grieve with my family. By my calculations, any sooner would have been unbearably awkward; any later would have seemed callous. I went in for an embrace; his body tensed, and he grimaced in response. His eyes never met mine.  

A father wound is one that runs deep, creating decay in unseen spaces and spreading into a systemic disease; it can cripple and permanently disfigure a person. My story is no different. I’ve wrestled with my worth for a long time—whether I really was loved or even deserved to be— and it’s taken years of excruciating therapy to excavate deep into the source of the pain and scrape away the scar tissue. Still, Father’s Day is complicated. I celebrate the dad my husband is to my children while I simultaneously and silently grieve my biological father, who wasn’t there even when he was.

For a couple of years after we disconnected, I sent a text that went unanswered until I eventually fell silent. To make any effort at all was to make myself vulnerable to the pangs of rejection when it was inevitably unreciprocated, so each Father’s Day, there is a new grief that is resurrected, the death of the healthy father-daughter relationship I longed for but couldn’t achieve with any amount of striving. And no matter how old you get, you’re still an orphan without a father.

This year was different, though. This year was marked by a distinct sense of release and acceptance. This past Sunday, I experienced something that mildly resembled inner peace. Deeper breaths, wider smiles, the ability to rest without guilt. Because throughout this year, the Lord has shown Himself more to me as a Father than ever before.  

“Tell me how You feel about me,” I inquire curiously as I sit quietly with him in the dark stillness of the early morning and listen for His voice. He is nurturing and gentle and speaks the language of love and affirmation. He tells me affectionately that I’m the apple of His eye, a chip off the infinite Block. He redirects and restores when I veer off track–not with the abrasiveness and shame I’ve assumed I deserve, but with an otherworldly compassion and unconditional acceptance. He loves me despite my mistakes and assures me I’m His delight. I finally am beginning to understand my worth through His eyes. I was no accident, a scarlet letter I wore previously and for many years. He gave me His Name as He formed me in my mother’s womb, smiling to Himself as He envisioned my unruly, wild hair and generously freckled skin.

It’s uncomfortable and foreign, but it rubs the faded scars like a therapeutic salve. To be re-fathered by the Holy One is a beautiful mystery. My brain hardly can conceive of it; my flesh wants to reject it. But deep down, my spirit recognizes the voice of my true Father, the one who calls me His own. I’ve resisted before, not actually believing He wouldn’t forsake me or withdraw His affection the moment I step out of His will—all-too familiar gestures that have dug neural pathways beneath thick ginger curls. But He is perfect—faithful and persistent, never pushy or controlling. And it’s brought a healing I denied that I needed and didn’t know was possible. Over and over, He demonstrates that I’m worth the effort.

I’d love to think I’m His favorite, but I have a hunch that He feels this way about all His children. So if you found yourself in a dark fog on Father’s Day—as I know a lot of us do—or if your view of a Heavenly Father is obstructed by experiences with your biological one, maybe it will bring you some comfort, to know that He is as present and nurturing and gracious and loving as He says. Just ask Him to show you.

Some things that shatter just cannot be fixed. This earthly relationship with the man from whom I got my jawline and blue eyes may be one of them. But I have a peace that surpasses all understanding, knowing I’m no longer defined simply as an estranged daughter; I can rest in my identity as His beloved. 

To the trees.

This was my first time seeing the California redwoods. We only decided last-minute to drive down the coast over the state line because it was pouring rain, and we were back to the drawing board, scribbling frantically to write up a new vacation after our camping trip literally drowned. “Why not?” I asked. “We’re only an hour or so from the state line.” It was just over an hour to Jedidah Smith Redwood State Park, two hours to Redwood National and State Park, so we ventured to both.

First off, the drive down Pacific Coast Scenic Highway 101 is simply one of the best road trips. The views are of such magnitude that I felt we should have to pay money for them. The coast is visible through sporadic stretches of rainforest, and each view offers something unique to the previous one. It was the perfect drizzly day for a leisurely drive sipping a latte from Port Orford’s Battle Rock Coffee and listening to the sounds of Johnny Swim.

We’ve only ever seen the parts of California that are visible through the windows of LAX, and Northern California is really more like an extension of southern Oregon than Los Angeles. It’s BEAUTIFUL, and when you start seeing the redwoods above your dashboard, it just keeps getting better and better.

We drove through Jedidiah Smith State Park, which is a beautiful stretch of road and then got back on the 101 past Crescent City to make it to Redwood National Park. Around Klamath, we found the Trees of Mystery attraction, where you can enjoy a treetop skyrail tour of a redwood forest; we opted instead for a picture with the true-to-legend-scale monuments of Paul Bunyan and his trusty ox, Babe, and a round through the gift shop, where we decided commemorative lapel pins made sufficient and inexpensive souvenirs for the kids. (I paid, and the kids paid me back with their money when we got to the car; at this point, Eva learned a hard lesson in commerce and expressed she didn’t like that I took all her money (a dollar and some change) and tried to give me back the lapel pin. Poor girl. As it turns out, she likes how her shiny Babe ox pin adorns her pink sparkly backpack after all.)

Klamath, California, is also home to the tourist trap, The Tour-thru Tree, through which we paid five bucks to discover our massive Ford Expedition would not in fact fit. We snapped a picture anyway and decided a $5 bill was a small price to pay for the laughs and the memory. (That’s what you get when you trust an attraction that can’t spell.)

Then came the elk. And I mean, a LOT of elk. We pulled over to watch them until so many other cars did the same that the elk began to spook. I never get tired of seeing deer and elk, and it was a nice surprise for Kelley’s birthday, considering every other plan I’d made got rained out.

The kind of velvet I love to see.

While our GPS Maps app led us to a key-card-access-only gated road several miles into the Redwood National Park, and we didn’t venture any further south to find another route, we did pull over at the Lady Bird Johnson grove area, which featured a beautiful mile and a half or so walk through the forest. It was raining, we were wearing the wrong kind of shoes, and I discovered my apparent fear of bears and cougars, but once we got over the irritation of being unprepared and resigned ourselves to getting drenched and muddy, we soaked up not only the rain but every inch of the trail we traversed; the kids made forts out of the massive trunks of the redwood clusters and hid in hollowed out trees.

Like snowflakes and fingerprints, each redwood has a completely unique bark pattern, and when I imagine how many redwoods there are in the United States, the thought alone leaves me breathless and full of wonder and gratitude. And my life has been like the bark on those trees—knotted in places, rough and broken in others, aimlessly winding and curving occasionally, but still always coming back to the path upward.

After we got cleaned up from our hike, we ate a picnic lunch beachside just south of Orick, California, before heading back up the coast to our hotel in Gold Beach. (We snagged a beachfront balcony view room last-minute at the Pacific Reef Hotel and Light Show. Though the light show was slightly anti-climatic, the place didn’t disappoint.)

My one regret is that we never did find a place to drive through a redwood, which I feel like is a quintessential thing to do when one visits a park like this. But maybe I’m thinking of the sequoias? Next time we’ll find the bigger trees and perhaps drive a smaller vehicle. Nonetheless, I consider this one item checked off our bucket list!