I Would Have Been a Pharisee – Musings on Good Friday

When I imagine the picture of Jesus dying, I can’t help but believe I would have been a pharisee. I see him wounded and in pain, making effort after effort to breathe – literally suffocating – on the cross. And then I see myself to the side, mocking him and believing he got what he deserved. I see myself denying his identity, convinced in my heart he wasn’t the messiah. This may be a dismal portrait, but it definitely displays the human condition without Christ. If not for his grace, I would be a pharisee today. Reflecting on Passover and
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It’s Not Enough to Just Be Thankful

The last year of our family’s life has been hectic. We endured seasons of late nights, little sleep, over-commitment, too much work, and little rejuvenation. It wasn’t all bad. We have a beautiful baby boy, Tyler and I have put more money in savings than ever before, and we enjoy the community and friendships we’ve built over the last few years. I’ve maneuvered homeschooling E, though it’s rarely easy but amazing anyways, and Tyler has built a pretty decent portfolio in design and photography. I discovered a new-found love for hot yoga and re-entered the running world with some sluggishness.
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Patience and Temper Tantrums

Patience is like a bad visit to the dentist. Just hearing the word makes people cringe or roll their eyes. Here we go again, the same spiel about patience…we watch the minute hand on the clock move slowly, hoping it’s over quickly. Honestly, I’m even dreading typing this post. The problem with patience is it’s a heart issue. Or rather impatience stems from a heart of expectation, pride, and obsession. It’s easiest to see impatience in a toddler – A favorite toy disappears into a drawer or the bowl of oatmeal is empty more quickly than he’d like. This moment
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Compare to Despair

Have you ever given a friend advice or responded to complaints with words much later you wish you hadn’t used? While it’s certainly not the only time this has happened, one particular instance is stuck in my head. Even today, weeks later, I found myself sitting on the floor in the den, playing with Martin, still thinking of what I should have said and what I would go back and say if we shared the same conversation again. It wasn’t even a really important or life-changing moment, but my faulty advice has stayed with me and plagued me. My friend
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2015 – The List

Since I posted my “Hopes for 2015” post, I’ve had at least three people ask me if I would be willing to post the whole list. Initially, I refused. It’s too personal. While I do put myself out there a lot on my blog, posting a list like this names things I hope will happen. What if they don’t, what happens? Will people think I’m a failure if I don’t succeed in all of my aspirations? Will I feel like naming them aloud, making them public, will change them from hopes to resolutions? These are the types of questions I
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Fear Builds Walls

I’ll be honest, sometimes I avoid the computer. I won’t sit down in front of it for days because I know if I do, I’ll write. I pretend I don’t want to write, that I have nothing to write. I’m quite good at convincing myself there are other things that must be done, other good things I might add. But when I sit down in front of the keys, they type for themselves. One or two ideas become a paragraph or two. Before I know it, I’ve written more than I should post. Every good writer must edit. It’s easy
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Confessions from a Recovering Pack Rat

My grandparents were pack rats. I blame it on them. It’s possible my mother could have been a pack rat except that my father is neat as a pin (where did this saying come from?), so she has not been allowed to collect things except in her sewing room. Maybe the vice skipped a generation. Either way, I’ve got it, and Tyler doesn’t force me to get rid of things as he struggles with the same issue, so we’re a hopeless case of clutter and fuss.   Not only am I physically cluttered, but I also internally hold on to
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Not Girly, but Feminine

I’m not a girly girl. I never have been, but for years I wanted to be one. I envied all things girly girl, but not anymore. Don’t think I hate girly girls. I don’t. Actually, if anything, I respect them. I don’t know how they do it with matching accessories, jewelry, and lipstick for every outfit. Their manicured hands and pedicured feet are lovely, and a sweet smell always encircles them. So many are incredibly sweet, and I’ve felt loved so many times because of their kindness and etiquette. I am absolutely serious when I say I can’t even imagine
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Governed by the Memoir

I love a good memoir. They’re raw, funny, sad, and real-ish. I say real-ish because memoirs are given more creative liberty than autobiographies. No one actually remembers all of those conversations, and sometimes what we remember isn’t exactly what happened. However, memoirs are based on truth, or at least the truth according to the individual writing it or according to how the individual perceived it as truth. Sounds vague, right? But the thing I love about a memoir, not only me but we as Americans love, is that the memoir is the embodiment of experience. Here in America, we worship
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The Revolving Door

Being in-transit gives everyone the grumpy face. That’s all there is to it. When I lived in Florence, SC, my hometown and a small town of about 45,000 people, we Florentinians used to talk about how Florence was a revolving door type of town, especially for people aged 18-30. People came, stayed a season, and then left again. As a long-time member of the Florence community, the revolving door made things difficult. I always took forever to get to know someone, as I am often tongue-tied and awkward with new people. By the time I would start to really love
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