Say It Enough, You'll Start to Believe It
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I pray this weekend brings you joy, laughter and some much needed rest.
Get outside and enjoy the beautiful fall weather.
Eat, drink and be merry.
And if you haven’t yet seen The Dolphin Tale, I highly recommend you go.
We’ve been coming to visit Winter for years and she is truly a delight. She’s adorable, sweet and loaded with personality.
If, for some reason, you are unable to feel happiness, just take a look at this face and try not to smile.
Blessings.
– This week I refinished Tia’s furniture with the help of my St. Louis neighbor turned Florida bestie, Carol. It was brown, now it’s white. I’ll share pictures once I have her room all put together. All I can say is I had tons of fun decorating a little girl’s room for the very first time.
– This week I began a strict eating regiment in an effort to finally kick those last ten baby pounds to the curb.
– This week I drank lots of green tea. Lots and lots of green tea.
– This week I spent less time on the computer and more time just being still.
– This week I prayed some very specific prayers and love the expectation as I await the outcome.
– This week I missed my friends in St. Louis. A lot.
– This week I had dinner with new friends here in Tampa.
– This week I wrote a new post for 5 Minutes for Mom on parenting.
– This week I’ve fallen into more than one of the traps I wrote about in the aforementioned 5 Minutes for Mom post. *sigh*
– This week I got really, really lost.
– This week I was grateful for the GPS on my fancy pants phone.
– This week I was glad I got lost because I passed some really lovely areas that I’d like to go back and visit…if I can find them.
– This week I got my 4 frillion pictures and frame semi-organized. They’re not on the walls, yet, but at least they’re not in the middle of the floor, right?
– This week I realized just how much I love my CoffeeMate Peppermint Mocha creamer when I couldn’t use it in my coffee.
– This week I did not paint Landon’s room like I said I would. It’s still just primed. Poor kid. Has a Mama who’s a craptastic painter.
– This week I cried once.
– This week I laughed a lot.
– This week I took pictures of the moon.
– This week I wished I was a better photographer so I could capture just how awesome the moon was as it rose over the trees.
– This week I also got a quick shot of a half moon.
– This week I wrote more on my novel.
– This week I asked for humility. Less of me, more of Him.
– This week I have been really tired.
– This week I say good-bye to my parents as they fly off to London for another month. Methinks they enjoy being empty-nesters.
– This week has been a good week.
And how is your week going?
Today is my Dad’s birthday and while I’d like to write up a lovely tribute in his honor, I’m not sure I can top what I wrote last year. So I am going to repost it with a great big, HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD attached to it.
Many of you already read this, so don’t feel like you need to read it again. But, if you’d like to leave my Dad a Happy Birthday comment, I’m sure it would make his day…and maybe embarrass him just a little bit. Which given the fact that he thrived on embarrassing me in high school, I’d say that would be a fitting gift.
I love you, Dad.
Originally posted October 10, 2010
I am two or three years old*. I’m on stage at our church singing my first solo – Away in a Manger. My hair is curled and I have on a lacy dress. Is it blue? I can’t remember. I am standing in front of the mic singing and he is below, at the bottom of the steps, with a camera in his hand. He is skinny and has thick brown hair that sits atop his head like a football helmet. He has a mustache that looks like it needs to be combed every day.
He is Daddy.
I am six year old. I am wobbling down our Wisconsin driveway on two wheels. He is running along beside me. “Pedal faster!” “You’re doing great!” “Keep your head up!” “You can do it!” He lets go and I take off, thrilled at my accomplishment.
He is encourager.
I am seven years old. We are driving in the car and the tape deck is blaring Paul Simon. He is singing loudly, drumming the steering wheel. “I can call you Betty and Betty when you call me, you can caaaallll meee Al. Call me Al.” He laughs and I laugh too. And together we sing.
He is fun.
I am nine years old. It’s Christmas morning and my brother and I are sitting at the top of the steps waiting for our parents to let us come down to open presents. It’s 4:00 am. I hear mom stumbling through the kitchen making coffee. She comments about the ungodly hour of our awaking and I hear him laugh. The he comes around the corner singing “We wish you a Merry Christmas” and we know it’s safe to come down. We tear into the living room to see the tree lit and him dancing around it.
He loves Christmas morning.
I am ten years old and we are at Busch Gardens water park in Tampa. I want to go down the big, plunging water slide but I’m nervous. He tells me that if I do it he will do it. Never one to back down from a challenge, I go down the water slide and he follows suit, shaking his head the whole time. “I didn’t think you’d do it,” he admits sheepishly as he climbs the stairs.
He keeps his promises.
I am eleven. He brings us into the living room and sits us down. He tells us that he got a new job and we’re going to move to a place I’ve never heard of – St. Louis. I cry and react with prepubescent flair. “I don’t care if it’s a neat city. I don’t know anyone there. I don’t waaannnna go.” He is probably hurt by my reaction, but he doesn’t let on.
He is understanding.
I am twelve years old. The neighbor boy is taunting and pushing me so I take a swing at him. He swings back and a full blown fight breaks loose. I land a punch and he takes off running. Later that night his mom calls to inform us that I gave her son a black eye. After I get the obligatory “you can’t get into fist fights” lecture he looks at me and grins, winks and says, “Way to go, slugger.”
He is awesome.
I am twelve years old. My mom received a call in the middle of the night that her sister was in a coma after having a severe reaction to a surgery. I get home from school and he is there, standing in the kitchen – waiting. “Where’s mom?” I ask. “She left on a flight to South Carolina,” he answered softly. “How’s Aunt Joy?” I ask, dread settling in. He pulls me close. “She passed away,” he whispered. This is my first encounter with death. And he holds me.
He is comforting.
I’m in eighth grade. My parents have temporary custody of my three cousins. The house is filled with emotionally confused children. We fight incessantly. He is in the middle of Washington University’s MBA program. Life is hard. I walk into his room one night to see him sitting at the desk staring blankly at the wall. I give him a hug.
He is stressed.
I’m a high school sophomore and I play saxophone for my high school Jazz Band. We are in Columbia for the All State competition. We are playing a difficult piece that I struggled to learn. We win first place. As a former Jazz Bander I know he is excited. I see him clapping his hands raw.
He is proud.
I am sixteen and I’ve had my driver’s license for all of 48 hours when I go to a school football game. While pulling into a parking space I hit another car, denting my car all the way down the side. Let me say that again for effect…I hit a parked car! I call him from a post-game party at a friend’s house after deciding that I shouldn’t let my guy friends try to bang out the dents with a hammer.
He is angry.
I’m a high school junior and I’m sitting on the floor of my room trying for the life of me to figure out the sum of x divided by y multiplied by 4,899. Algebra…the bane of my existence. He comes in and sits beside me. He takes a halting breath and tells me he lost his job. Then he cries and apologizes. He is out of work for several months before getting a pretty interesting and lucrative offer in Seattle. It would be a great career move. But he ultimately declines and accepts a job here in St. Louis that is a 25% pay decrease so he doesn’t have to uproot us.
He is self sacrificing.
It’s the summer before my senior year and he takes me on a trip to Colorado for a week. We challenge each other to climb mountains, we white water raft and we spend a week exploring. He lets me vent and complain about all my teenagery problems. I am angsty and hormonal and not always pleasant, but he pushes forward and we make memories – just the two of us.
He is involved.
I’m a senior in high school and preparing to graduate. Our church has a Sunday morning dedication to graduating seniors and he blubbers in the microphone about how I “better not bring home some snot nosed little Texas boy asking to marry me.”
He is a softie.
I am a sophomore in college performing in my first dinner theater. He stands in the back and video tapes the whole thing. I can hear him whistling and shouting on the tape.
He is supportive.
It’s 1998 and I’m studying in Ukraine for a semester. He calls and says he’ll be in London over Thanksgiving and asks if I’d like to meet him there. He picks me up from the airport on Thanksgiving night and we go to a Pizza Hut in London for dinner.
He is a great date.
I’m a junior in college and the family comes for a long weekend. I introduce them to a “friend” named Lee who spends an odd amount of time talking with them. Later when they drive home he tells mom that “that boy was awfully interested for someone who is just a friend.”
He is discerning.
I am twenty two and we are preparing to walk down the aisle. I have tears in my eyes as I look at him. He looks back with tear filled eyes. I am grateful for him and I know our relationship is going to change….I didn’t know it would change for the better. In that moment I was so flooded with love for him that I turned into a weepy, blubbery mess.
He is Father of the Bride.
I’m twenty five, lying in a hospital bed, and I hand him a squirming little bundle. He picks up his first grandchild and smiles gently. Even though I know that hospitals make him uncomfortable and he’s worried about how I’m doing, I see his face light up.
He is Grandpa Boss.
I am thirty *ahem* and I need business advice. I call him and he spends time he doesn’t have talking with me, giving me guidance, editing contracts and developing my professionalism. I call, email, text him multiple times and despite the fact that he is wicked busy, he takes the time to help me out.
He is advisor.
He is wise, discerning, strong, tender-hearted and giving. He loses his temper easily but is even quicker to ask for forgiveness. He is humble and I can almost guarantee he’ll tell me I’m giving him much more credit than he deserves. He is gracious and funny and has a wicked sense of humor. He works hard (too hard) but also knows how to relax.
He is Dad.
And who am I? I am that proud and grateful daughter who kind of adores him.
Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you!
*There is a great likelihood that I did not get all of the details of the early memories exactly right. They often appear to me as small snippets, like a technicolor film (never black and white…I’m not that old). I did the best I could to list accurate details. 🙂
We sat outside, the twinkle of the white lights giving the night sky a blissful glow. There were five of us, four young ones…and me.
They call me their favorite mom-friend and I take it as a great compliment. Each one of those girls holds a unique and special place in my heart. Each one has impacted me in ways they will never fully understand. Each one has challenged me and given me both a hope and a dream for what my daughter could someday look like.
In a world that tells you teenagers are selfish and obnoxious, these girls are proving that the world is wrong. They are smart and funny and sensitive and sweet. They are aware of the world around them and possess maturity beyond their years. Come to think of it, most of the teenagers at our old church possess these qualities. It is why we had such an amazing body of believers. Because where there are amazing teenagers, there are more often than not amazing parents standing behind them.
This was a parting dessert. I wanted to gather the four of them together at one time, and in one place, to tell them just how much they meant to me and just how proud I was of them. I fumbled with my words. I’m better with a keyboard than I am in person. I’m all awkward and Gen X that way…
You don’t find young people like these four girls often. They are kind, considerate, thoughtful, sweet, witty, smart and they are all drop dead gorgeous on the inside and the out. One of the four asked if she could go to China for her sixteenth birthday so that she could serve little ones in an orphanage. And she did it. The others have served in Haiti, in Mexico and in downtown St. Louis. Not because they had to, but because they wanted to.
These girls have impacted my life by giving me the encouragement I needed on the hard days of parenting. Because I know their parents. I know that the Cheesecake Factory girls are merely a product of God’s grace and firm, loving parenting. And the three couples who parented these four girls are some of the people we most dearly miss. They are the three couples who were at the top of the list of reasons we should not move away.
It’s not that these are abnormal teenagers by any stretch of the imagination. We spent a portion of our evening at the Cheesecake Factory looking for the hunky Australian waiter who worked there. We never found him, unfortunately. But in the looking, I fell in love with the Cheesecake Factory girls even more.
They are regular teenage girls who exhibit grace in extraordinary ways. The Cheesecake Factory girls are a picture of true beauty.
When the world says that teenagers are out of control, I always remember the Cheesecake Factory girls and I take heart. There is hope for me and there is hope for those of you who are currently in the trenches of raising young children.
Why do people say these elementary years are the easy part of parenting? Because they’re not! They are fun years and I am going to miss the young years desperately, but they are not easy. These are the years when all the battles must be won. These years of childhood are the years when it’s the hardest.
But…
If we win the battles now, what delight awaits us! We will raise our own Cheesecake Factory girls…and boys. Teenagers that are fun and delightful and a joy to spend time with. The fun years await us if we’re willing to fight the fight right now. Join with me as we battle for the deepest parts of the souls of our children, won’t you?
This weekend I am thankful for grace, for godly examples and for the Cheesecake Factory girls.
“Don’t let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers in speech, in life, in love, in faith and in purity.” 1 Timothy 4:12
When I made this decision, I knew it wouldn’t be easy. Staying at home with your children full time is hard. It’s a different kind of hard when you choose to not only be their mother, but also their full time educator. I knew it would be hard going into this.
And I was right.
Evenings are my refuge and my respite. They are the brief moments when all the world stills and my tea cup sings (or…you know…sometimes it’s a wine glass singin’). Evenings are for the dishwasher humming and the stars twinkling and the melodic breathing of settled youth. I only wish the evening lasted a little longer.
I’ve tried to make evening last too long, lately. I’ve tried stretching it past the point of grace and peace and into fatigue. When the tea cup cools and the dishwasher quiets and my brain forgets how to weave words into paragraphs, the evening has long since passed.
This is not wise.
Because, you see, mornings come all too quickly. They are loud and bright and full of boisterous energy. There once was a time when I was a morning person. I adored the quiet sounds of the day breaking – the applause of heaven as sunlight streaked the darkened sky – the grass that stood tall beneath the drops of dew delicately placed on her blades – the birds that chirped good morning as the heat pushed the cool night air away with the moon.
I loved this time of day.
I still do. I just can’t seem to get up early enough to meet it. This is because I’m too busy flirting with night. And because I spawned three who love the morning more than I and who make it their life’s mission to get up before the sun each. and every. day.
So I continue to befriend the night sky – my tea and I snuggled up inside the quiet. And it’s here that I am trying to find the time to do…everything.
Everything, unfortunately, except the most important thing. The thing that really does need to have its place in the morning, when my mind is most fresh and most willing to hear. There are pictures to hang and walls to paint, books to write and boxes to move, clothes to fold and floors to mop, and all the while three little voices yelling, “Mom!”
There’s a story that my mom tells about my grandmother when she was a young mother living on the mission field with four little ones to care for and more work to do than could possibly be done. When the moment came that she had finally reached her breaking point, she would turn to her demanding little brood and wag her finger. “My name isn’t ‘Mom’ anymore,” she’d say. “My name is ‘Horse’s Butt’ and you’re not aloud to say that so you can’t call me.” And off she’d go, her silenced bunch contemplating the weight of her words.
That is the best. line. ever. Am I right?
I totally get it now. And don’t think I haven’t been tempted to bust that gem out a time or two these last few weeks.
Sometimes all the work needs to wait.
I have a friend who knows me well. She’s one of the Ribbons. And she was knit with me in a special way long ago when we were both newly married and full of love and wonder at God and life. Her mind, like mine, teams with creative energy. Her heart overflows with endless desires. Her children need her fully and her husband craves her attention, as do mine. She knows the pull and the strain of wanting, wishing, trying…to do it all.
And failing.
We are on opposite coasts and yet she still manages to speak Truth and encouragement to me on a regular basis. Through texts, emails and phone calls she reminds me that there is One who craves me above all others. And that One deserves my attention first.
Her text to me today spoke grace completely:
“Take courage today and do the work God has laid before you…What does God desire from you in your heart and in your actions today? Just a thought.”
Swirling hot tea steams before me and my Bible lays open, the magic of the Word waiting for me to dive in. Tonight, I will. Tomorrow, I will try again. I’m thankful for friends from coast to coast who love me enough to keep pushing me forward to better things.
I’m thankful for the Ribbons and for the Ribbon Maker who keeps weaving my life into something grand. I’m thankful for tea and the stillness in which to savor it.
Grant me the ears to hear.
When we began our house search in sunny Florida, we initially told our Realtor we did NOT want a pool. Neither one of us grew up with a pool, therefore the idea of keeping and maintaining one was desperately daunting.
Then we started looking at houses and we realized two things: 1.) Finding a house without a pool in Florida is almost as difficult as finding a house without a basement in St. Louis. They’re almost standard. And 2.) Of the few houses we saw without pools, none were desirable enough for us to get excited.
So we ended up in a house with a pool. And we were nervous. But no need to fear! The owner of our local pool store came out free of charge and gave us a “Pool School,” telling us anything and everything we need to know about pool maintenance. In exchange we plan to give him our business. And that’s the way you run a successful business, folks!
For our part, we are officially glad we got a house with a pool. We have used it every single day and will continue to do so until it gets too cold (we don’t have a heater). The pool has been enjoyable both day and night.
Warning to Grandparents! The following photos contain images of your grandchildren being flung to precarious heights. View at your own discretion…
This child of mine is insane. She is going to send me to an early grave.
He's crazy too. But he had sense enough to know his limits. "Dat's too high, Daddy."
She, on the other hand, came out of the water screeching, "Higher next time, Dad! HIGHER!"
This one has, unfortunately, gotten a little too big for maximum flinging...much to his chagrin.
This week has been full of unexpected blessings. Walking the dog last night, I looked up and the sky took my breath away. Our neighborhood is far enough outside of the city that we get an unpolluted view of the night sky.
Spectacular.
Our neighbors are fun, friendly and have boys who love to play football.
Our house, minor quirks aside, is really coming together and feeling like home.
Home Schooling is going really, really well.
Today were the Powerboat races at Clearwater Beach. With temps in the upper ’70’s it made for the perfect ending to a lovely weekend.
So many blessings.
Front row seats to the race. It's kind of difficult to get a photo of Landon in the water because he's always upside down. I'm pretty sure the kid's got gills...
I pray you all have a blessed October week!
Is anyone else totally freaked out by the fact that it’s October?! The holiday season is upon us, folks. How did it get here so fast?!
It is quiet and I am alone. Three children sleep in their beds, the first time all three have slept in their beds since we moved in.
A new house is scary. There are sounds to fear. And other things…
“Mom, I can’t sleep,” he said, coming out for the four-frillionth time. “I’m too scared!”
“What are you scared of?” I ask…also for the four-frillionth time.
“I was just starting to close my eyes and I imagined I was a Roman soldier being killed…”
That is scary.
After assuring him that he would, indeed, not die the violent death of a Roman solider, and also reiterating once again the fact that Big Foot does not indeed exist, we headed back to his room.
“Big Foot is real!” he protested. “I saw it on TV.”
Yet another reason we did not hook up cable.
“Honey, even if Big Foot were real, he wouldn’t live in Florida. It’s too hot here. And there are no mountains or tall trees for him to hide in. Big Foot lives in Oregon…if he exists…which I don’t think he does.”
Silence.
“But you said bears live in Oregon.” God help the poor child if he ever has to live in Oregon. Don’t worry Oregonians (right?), I didn’t pin monsters on you. I told the kids monsters live in Canada.
S’all good.
“Lay down, babe,” I said, brushing my hand across his silky smooth cheek. Would that I could bottle his skin up…
“Let’s find something you can hold on to while you go to sleep so you don’t have to be scared,” I said, looking around his room.
“I can hold on to you,” he replied grabbing hold of my hand and looking up with ocean blue eyes. And I melted…fast. Knees buckled, a mass of goo, I slid under the covers and held his hand. Five minutes later, he slept. All the lights are still on in his room. Because Big Foot doesn’t like light. If he did, we’d have caught him and there would be no need for a TV show.
And now I sit in an empty, quiet, semi-organized room. I believe I have found my writing zone in this new house. I love this front room. It’s peaceful and happy and I feel inspired here. Last night I stayed up, much too late, writing, for the first time focused on my book. The voices of my characters are swirling and moving again.
I’m going to finish it, friends. It may mean I have to spend a little less time with you and a little more time with the people I want to introduce you to. Bear with me as I find my stride. And in the meantime, if you could all be on the lookout for Big Foot and let me know when and if you find him.
I, on the other hand, will continue to keep the air bed inflated on the floor next to my bed.
Something tells me we’re going to need it for awhile.
"There's another new social networking site that I'm supposed to join?!"
So here it is, friends. I am struggling with the rat race that has become social media and there is one reason for it:
I don’t flipping have time.
I love blogging. This here little space of mine is where I often times work out what’s swirling around inside my head and heart. I don’t organize and plan my posts ahead of time. Maybe I should, but that’s not really how my brain operates. I process my emotions through the melodic clicking of the keyboard. It’s where my heart flows. And you want to know what?
Sometimes I don’t share everything I write.
Sometimes the emotions are too raw…too personal. But many times I can’t voice my heart unless I’m writing it out. So blogging? I totally get it.
Everything else? Exhausts me.
Amber from Crappy Pictures wrote about why being a mom makes her suck at Twitter. Through my tears of laughter I’m pretty sure I uttered a hearty “Amen” or two as I read her post. I can’t get into Twitter. My posts usually go like this: “I’m baaaaaack. How’s everyone doing to tonight? #finallybackontwitter”
No one will respond to this tweet, of course, because no one knows me on Twitter. And because, unless I’m writing an article that needs to be promoted for someone else, I usually only tweet about once everyone two weeks.
Because that’s all I have time for.
I mean, I guess I could check my twitter stream a little more every day and try to converse, but I never really know how to converse with Twitter followers without feeling like a creepy cyber-stalker.
I like Facebook…because I get it. I know most of the people on Facebook and they know me. I can post something on Facebook and come back hours later and respond to any comments, whereas with Twitter it seems you need to respond right away or else you’re like the rude neighbor who walks away mid-conversation and never returns.
The frustrating part in all of this is that marketers and others who may want to hire your services in social networking or online writing often look at how wide your impact is, and part of that is your activity on Twitter. They also look at how many Facebook friends you have, how many people are reading your blog, how many comments you get and what kind of toilet paper you use.
Hmph.
It starts to feel like a nasty competition and in the midst of all the running, I can easily lose focus on why I’m doing what I’m doing. I’m writing because I love it. I’m writing because I’m good at it. I’m writing because I believe it is a form of praise, an offering back of that which I have been given.
I’m writing because it’s fun. Trying to keep up with the pack detracts from that and every once in awhile I have to tighten the reigns and remember what life is all about. And with so much to keep up with, it helps to simply unplug every once in awhile.
Part of the online madness stems from the fact that there is just so dang much to keep up with anymore. Now there’s Instagram, which sounds totally fun…if you have an iphone, which I don’t so I’m off the hook with that one. No temptation! Guh-lory!
There’s also StreamZoo and Google Plus and LinkedIn (yes, I know I have several invitations to Link up on LinkedIn, but I can’t remember my password so there’s a good chance I’m never going to accept those invitations for which I hereby sincerely apologize), and a whole host of other networking sites that are cropping up and my head just exploded.
I just want to make my kids a sandwich.
And write.
And maybe, just maybe, keep up with the constant flow of online craziness so that in a few years when my son comes prancing in the door and announces he wants to open up a ShowMyLifeToTheWorld account, I’ll know what it is and whether or not I want him partaking.
I’m trying to stay cool, folks! I mean, aside from my rockin’ minivan, I’ve got very little left with which to garner cool points.
So here it is, social media overwhelms me. Sometimes it’s just too much.
What are your thoughts?
I’m writing this from beneath a mountain of boxes. I managed to carve a path from the kids’ rooms to my own where I have prepared a bed on the floor for the first to wake up scared and hightail it this way.
I thought packing boxes was overwhelming, but unpacking them raising the bar of crazy to a whole new level. I think I made a dent today. I can see the kitchen counter and I found the table top later this afternoon. It was a glorious sight.
In lieu of the fact that I have nothing remotely interesting or witty to say, I’m going to send you over to my friend Wendy. You might remember her as the woman who gave me the greatest writer’s getaway ever earlier this year. Now it’s time I gave you all a proper introduction.
Wendy is a mother of three rough and tumble boys and she just may have the best Mom of Boys blog on the world wide web. Wendy is always an inspiration to me not only because she’s talented and filled with a depth of wisdom and grace that constantly challenges me to dig deeper. Wendy is also an inspiration because she’s real. She doesn’t pretend to have it all together. She’s just…authentic. And I love that about her.
This blog post on Family Values inspired me to think about our own core values as a family and how we instill those in our kids. Part two challenged me to make the establishment of our Family Values as something special and fun for the kids.
After reading those posts, I guarantee you’ll want to add Wendy to your blog roll.
So while you head off to be encouraged and blessed, I’m going to start digging out from under a few more boxes. It appears that our possessions multiplied inside the PODS.
Good times…
“Love begins at home, and it is not how much we do…but how much love we put in that action.” Mother Teresa
“The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.” Maya Angelou
This laundry room kind of makes doing laundry sound exciting!
“Nothing can bring a real sense of security into the home except true love.” Billy Graham
Yes that's all our yard. Yes it's that big. Yes Lee is frantically saving money for a riding lawn mower. Yes he has to use the push mower for awhile.
“There’s no place like home.” Dorothy
“Like Dorothy, we all long for home. I think God places this longing in our hearts to remind us of the glory that awaits.” A wise friend
“Home interprets heaven. Home is heaven for beginners.” Charles H. Parkhurst
“One may make their house a palace of sham, or they can make it a home, a refuge.” Mark Twain
The hedges kind of make me feel like I have a secret garden. This makes me happy.
“Where thou art, that is home.” Emily Dickinson
“We’re Home.” Some Mom with a minivan and keys in her hand.
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