Welcome to Dose of Hope! This is a series about looking for the light, stewarding our stories, and foraging God’s goodness when it’d be easier not to. It’s a collaborative Protest, really, against letting darkness settle into our bones and instead choosing to uncover the grace that’s already waiting for us. I believe these bite-sized Q&As will inspire you to lean into the promises, the beauty, and the little joys right in front of you. Check out Notes of Hope, too, for the glimpses of hope that keep me going.

When I first heard about Tanner, I was like, “Wow, that feels familiar.” Tanner has written books packed with hope and poetry! (I am writing a book packed with hope and poetry.) Tanner is very funny! (I crack myself up.) Tanner and his wife endured infertility, adopted their cutie pie, and are obsessed with their doodle. (This last part is actually all true for us, too.) Initially, Tanner was relatable. Turns out, he’s also quite inspirational.

Here’s Tanner Olson with a Dose of Hope (you’ll see what I mean)…

How has God surprised you lately?

The other morning, I woke up well before my alarm was set to go off. I crawled out of bed and dragged myself to the kitchen table. I was tempted to open my computer and get a jump on work, something I would normally do.

But something in me said otherwise.

I made coffee, read some Scripture, and kept my phone face down across the room. I caught the light peeking through the blinds and moved to the window, watching the sun rise. Did you know the sunrise is free? All you have to do is wake up before it arrives, and you get to watch God take His pointer finger and swirl the colors across the sky. It’s free entertainment. Awe and wonder have a way of surprising us as they gently remind us of grace and mercy. Orange, pink, yellow. It was like God was smashing Starbursts across His canvas.

Lamentations 3 played over and over in my head as the sky continued to change and come alive.

“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.”

The consistent kindness of a compassionate Creator continues to surprise me.
And like His steadfast love—I pray the surprises never cease.

Then, once the sky was beaming bright, I sat down to write and here is what came out:

And in the morning, before the sun has found the sky, get out of bed and go sit with God. Do your best not to look at your phone for as long as you can. The emails will still be there. Instagram can wait. The quiet cannot. Give your morning to stillness and silence. Sit with God. Remember, He is sitting with you. Let your conversation be slow, but honest. Ask for strength. Ask for patience. Ask for a miracle, and remember you’re living one. Tell Him about what is bothering you. Tell Him about the people you love and even the ones you struggle with. Tell Him about the dreams that feel distant in your heart and the fears that seem to grow. Tell Him about the beautiful things you cannot imagine living without. Tell Him what you think, what you know, what you need, what you have done, and what you hope to do. Be still and listen. Do you hear Him? Speaking mercy. Speaking grace. Speaking love. Before you move on, hold fast to the wonder. Ask Him to lead you away from noise and distraction, to open your eyes so you can see clearly and live fully, so you do not miss the beauty and awe of another new day.

How do you impress hope on your heart when your circumstances scream otherwise?

I look back and see the faithfulness of God.
I scroll through photos on my phone and remember the beauty that has been with me all along.
I spend $5 on a cake pop from Starbucks and taste a small reminder that goodness still exists.
I seek the silence and remember that the Lord is my shepherd, and somehow, even here, I still have all I need.
I read Scripture and see how God is in the business of love and redemption.
I pray through the noise and trust that my words are not dissolving into thin air.
I hold my son’s hand as we walk through the store and remember that ordinary moments are miracles.
I chase wonder and find inspiration.
I eat the bread and drink the wine and remember that I am not forgotten, not abandoned, not alone—but forgiven and free.

And slowly, quietly, hope begins to press itself back into my heart.

I remember that hope is not something I have to manufacture or hustle toward. I do not have to chase or choose hope. Hope is something I am invited to notice. Because it has been here the whole time. Right here. Beneath the grief. Beneath the distractions. Beneath the fear.

I open my eyes and see that God is not distant.
He is here.
Still here.
Working all things toward good as He quietly reminds me everything is going to be okay one day.

What are you feeling hopeful about right now?

Over the last few years, my wife and I have led a college community group in our tiny living room. Every Thursday, fifteen-or-so college students drive 20 minutes to our house to talk about Jesus. They teach us so much about what it means to be here and human. They see the world differently. They navigate the world differently. They are bold and vulnerable. They are loving and inviting. They are quick to care and slow to judge. They are who I want to be when I am older.

As a writer, I spend too much time on the internet—and the internet is not a friendly place. Daily, I find myself wondering if the world is falling apart. It is almost impossible to spend time on social media and come away feeling more hopeful about your life or the world. Sometimes the headlines make hope feel endangered.

But then these students walk through our front door, slip off their shoes, plop themselves down on our couches, and talk about the love and kindness of a God I know, but am often quick to forget. We eat. We tell stories. We pray. And through it all, I remember that goodness is still alive and well.

We are going to be alright.

What’s next?

In February, I released a book of poems and essays titled Getting Through What You’re Going Through. With its release, I did about 25 tour dates around the country, sharing poems and stories from the book with live audiences. It was a true dream, but one that left me wonderfully exhausted.

With the arrival of summer, I’ll take some time to get my head around my next book of poems and essays before hitting the road again this fall.

I’ve also got another children’s book coming in 2027, but you’re going to have to wait to find out what it’s about.

And I think I’ll be watching more sunrises. Who knows—maybe I might get a little wild and watch a few sunsets too.

Tanner's latest book

Tanner's children's book

Tanner on Instagram

Tanner Olson is an author, poet, & speaker. He travels the country telling stories, reading poetry, and delivering messages of hope. Out Now: Getting Through What You're Going Through: Notes and Poems (Zondervan)

Hold up a magnifying glass
to the grace
etched into
your days

Do you see it?

Scan
Skim
Squint—if you have to
Study
every trace

It’s there!

It may seem small
(maybe that’s the point:
we have to find it)

A seed
that’s sprouting
the tail end
of a rainbow
a glimpse
of golden light

“It’s the little things!”
we say
with our faces buried
in phones
politics
problems

If it’s true
(and we know it is)
why are we
chasing the insatiable?
Craving the limelight?
Engaging in internet antics?
When the fading pinks at dusk
are what truly satisfy
our souls

In this world
we will have trouble
Jesus warned—
darkness
defeat
despair

If we buy into
the lies
we’ll cave
we’ll crumble
we’ll shrivel up
we’ll die.

But what if?!

Instead of succumbing
to the scum
of the one who roams
and prowls the earth

What if?!

We deliberately
sought out
the good gifts
we’ve already been given

What if?!

We polished our swords
of the spirit
and sliced
the devil’s schemes
in two
pitiful, pathetic
pieces

And accepted
the invitation
the front row throne
to the love
hope
and light
blazing through
that crack
we were brave enough
obedient
to create?

This is my plan
my protest
(yours, too?)

Hope can fill
the holes
of grief
of heartache
of unknowns

It’s already there!

We simply need
to notice it
name it
steward it

Hold up a magnifying glass
to the grace
etched into
your days

Scribble down
all that delights
surprises
and sustains you

Choose
to discover beauty
rather than
being blindsided
and bullied
by a slithering snake
who doesn’t even have
a soul

A collaborative take on this protest is coming soon. Stay tuned!

To the woman who feels
left out
overlooked
uninvited
unimportant

This is for you!

To the woman who fears
what others think of her
chaotic
too big
too small
special needs
_______ family

This is for you!

To the woman who fell
off the face of the earth
after giving birth, or
bringing her babes home
and is unsure
of reentry

This is for you!

To the woman who forgot
what it’s like to
sip tea and chat
to spill her heart
while the kids dump LEGOs
on the floor

This is for you!

To the woman who left
her twenties
and thirties
maybe forties
behind
without close friendships

This is for you!

To the woman who thinks she
can’t cook
doesn’t have time
has nothing to offer

This is for you!

To the woman who is afraid
to send the text
open the front door
reveal her messy home
bare her messy heart

This is for you!

To the woman who
knows there’s more
craves connection
wants to change the trajectory
of her loneliness

This is for you!

To the woman who is tired of hiding
past hurts
future hopes
behind screens
inside her four walls

This is for you!

To the woman who wants to
belly laugh
hike mountains
drink cappuccinos
watch soccer
share fears
bring soup
make sourdough
eat pizza
send memes
play in waves
meet at the park
walk dogs
fold laundry
pick flowers
offer hope

with and for her friends…

You’re in Good Company.
We want—and are doing—those same things, too.

To the women who…
I wrote this book alongside at :
Thank you—from now until forever.

All the beautiful photography by .

You’re In Good Company is available here, or anywhere books are sold. Like said: Read it, live it, share it (and if you really want to support us, go write a 5-star review!)

A plump green caterpillar
sticks her prickly feet
to the top of the terrarium

We feed her leaves and lavish her
with watchful eyes
while we wait

She stretches and bends
writhing her body
in anticipation

And then

it begins

The caterpillar spins her silk
snuggly around herself
tucking her figure
into a fort of fibers
a temporary disguise

A physical boundary
with a blatant command:
Do not enter.

No distractions!
No demands!

Time and space
to deconstruct her old self

Breaking her body
into new cells

A retreat
her own tiny world
with room to become

exactly who she’s been dying to be

🐛 ➡️ 🦋

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The Internet, the media, and our very own brains taunt us with unlimited ways we can be faster and better and smaller and smoother and happier. As a woman in my forties, I don’t have a chance at half of those things. It’s exhausting trying to keep up. I’m tired of trying to keep up.

So, I’m protesting. I’ve been practicing a new posture the last few years, one that values rest, and solitude, and Sabbath, and leaning into the littlest delights that shine the brightest. I feel so rebellious turning my alarm clock off and opening my Bible. What a bad a*#, I know.

I’m doing something different—and simple—these days. Something so basic you’re going to say, “Becky, this is so basic!” It’s true.

I’m not here because I think I’m brilliant. I’m here because I feel convicted to steward what God has given me, rather than entertain the lies the world and the devil are force-feeding me.

Convicted to get off my phone, to lay down my desires, to forage every ounce of goodness I can without clicking on another serum, without craving a life that isn’t meant to be mine. Sometimes, I want so badly for God to talk to me, to answer prayers. I’m like, “Hello? Are you there?” And he’s like, “Duh. Just waiting for a little room around here to get a word in.”

We’re over-committed, way too accessible, and absurdly distracted. We’re drowning out Jesus for the sake of checking comments on Substack. (The writer awkwardly looks around.) But that’s why I’m practicing these things. That’s why I wrote them down and hope, hope, hope(!) that you’ll practice them alongside me. Let’s give ourselves a chance to become who He’s created us to be rather than succumbing to whatever social media and social commentary is shoving in our faces.

We have a choice.

Let’s trade in the false promises of faster, better, smaller, smoother, and happier for the everlasting promises of delight, joy, peace, and contentment.

You in? Let me know!

Maybe even print this list and put it on your fridge? That way you don’t have to stare at it on a screen and your family can choose a few fun ideas together?!


44 Simple Ways to Discover Delight, Peace, and Contentment in Your Home

1. Read Psalm 46:10, Psalm 37:7, and Exodus 14:14.

2. Get up before your kid(s). Light a candle, meditate, do something for yourself before they wake up. Yoga. Reading. Writing. Drinking coffee in the quiet. These are a few of my favorite things.

3. Keep a notebook on your nightstand and one in the kitchen. Rather than reaching for your phone, reach for a pen the next time you have an idea or something you want to get out of your head.

4. Get a milk frother so you can have coffeeshop caliber lattes (for less!) at home. Froth your kid’s milk, too, so they feel grown-up and fancy.

5. Play “High, Low, Buffalo” at dinner, for intentional conversation. High of your day, low of your day, something silly that happened. (Got this from my friends at Coffee + Crumbs.)

6. Apologize to your kid(s). Let them know you make mistakes, too. Show them how to move on from an incident without it hindering your entire day.

7. Jump on the trampoline. No kids required.

8. Sketch together. Choose an object: plant, hippo, jungle. Everyone draws their own version and then you show what you made.

9. Learn something new. We’re loving Simply Piano.

10. Take a walk by yourself. Breathe in fresh air. No phone. No airpods. No responsibilities.

11. Take a family walk. Chat through your day. Work on spelling words. Search for snails. Drag beautiful dead branches home. See No. 12.

12. Forage on walks, at parks, or in the woods for free house decor. We love fallen branches, dried flowers (sometimes weeds!), pinecones, and acorns.

13. Create something beautiful for a neighbor with all that nature. Grab a straight stick, some greenery, and twine. Have at it.

14. Plant seeds in your garden or a small container or pot. Keep a log of when you see sprouts, leaves, and blooms.

15. Make a scavenger hunt for your home or yard. Take it up a notch and draw a treasure map. Invite friends.

16. Hand your kids an empty egg carton. Ask them to fill it up with materials for building a fairy garden.

17. Read The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry by John Mark Comer. Start driving the speed limit; stop bringing your phone into the grocery store.

18. Tell your kid(s) you’re starting a new thing called Afternoon Reading Time. Invite them to fill up a basket of books they want to read while you read yours. Quietly. Without demands. Thanks for this idea, Sally.

19. Buy a disposable camera. Take turns taking pics. Pile on the couch to look at the prints together. Choose a few to frame.

20. Listen to this podcast as a family.

21. Dress your pet in clothes. It’s hilarious.

22. Let your kid(s) paint your toenails. Even if you don’t want a blue, green, or messy pedicure. Say yes. See No. 23.

23. Say “Yes!” whenever you can, especially when they’re asking to explore, build, create, play, share, dance, or laugh. It’s worth the mess and inconvenience.

24. Go through kids clothes that don’t fit and let them choose who they want to give the hand-me-downs to.

25. Grab binoculars at dusk and marvel at the rising moon.

26. Gather scrap wood, nails, and a hammer. Create something together.

27. Teach your kid(s) how to set up a tent. Go camping in the back yard.

28. Declare Mondays as baking days. Banana bread is our favorite.

29. Make soup every Saturday for easy meal planning and yummy leftovers.

30. Gather your kids’ tiny drawings and tape them to pages of a special sketchbook, so you have them forever. Bonus: you get your kitchen counter back.

31. Get the watercolor paints out of the craft closet. Check out Brighter Day Press for resources and courses. Good for long, winter evenings.

32. Check local thrift shops or Facebook Marketplace for clothes, home decor, kitchenware, etc. before filling up your Target cart. Invite your kids to join you on the hunt.

33. Save empty creamer containers or Martinelli’s apple juice jars for the mud kitchen and outside creations. If you haven’t yet, make a mud kitchen!

34. Get my friend Kim’s book of poems, Small Steps, to acknowledge and bless the life you already have.

35. Encourage household values like obedience, flexibility, taking initiative, and kindness with a “gem jar.” Let your kids move a gem, marble, or pretty stone when they demonstrate your family’s values. When the jar is full, they get to pick something fun to do together.

36. Take your kid(s) to a cute coffee shop to play cards or board games, or just to chat.

37. Turn chores into family events like, “Laundry Party!” and “Singing and Dishes!” and “Let’s Race to Clean This Place!” where everyone helps. Bonus: Crank Forrest Frank and Josiah Queen while you clean.

38. Cut the grass, pull weeds, shovel snow. Use physical energy to steward your space.

39. Save paper milk cartons to make bird feeders. Cut a rectangle out the front. Leave a lip to hold bird seed in. Tape a popsicle stick to the bottom so the birds have a ledge. Decorate and hang from a tree.

40. Try Laura Rennie’s No-Spend Challenge.

41. Practice a Sabbath that works for your family. Try tucking your phone away or (even!) turning it off. Worship comes in all forms: singing, playing, creating, delighting in nature, etc.

42. Get a Tin Can so your kid(s) can call friends without being sucked in by a screen. It’s cute to see them twirl the phone cord the same way we did in the ‘90s.

43. Invite your kid(s) to set the table for a special dinner. Let them choose between drinking glasses or little jars and fill them with ice cubes and bubbly water. Sit together. Talk. Listen. Let everyone rinse and load their own dishes.

44. Wash your face before you fall into bed. Close your eyes. Remind yourself there’s no stage you need to accept an award from, only people you get to love.

How are you discovering delight? Instilling peace? Practicing contentment? Tell me in the comments!

Can I borrow your daughter?
To make mine smile.
To fill our home with a double dose of giggles we didn’t get.
To show my girl that sometimes we get to choose our sisters.

Can I borrow your daughter?
To feed her chocolate chip cookies and kindness.
To have disco light dance parties and teach her “Sugar, Sugar.”
To show my girl that life is more vibrant with besties by your side.

Can I borrow your daughter?
To offer her dirt and sky to discover with mine.
To make her feel cozy when she’s away from home.
To show my girl that she doesn’t have to face this big world on her own.

Can I borrow your daughter?
To help build forts and a sense of safety.
To rewrite our story from lonely to loved.
To show my girl that it’s okay to go first.

Can I borrow your daughter?
To hear her laughter bounce off the mountainside.
To plant seeds and grow an everlasting friendship.
To show my girl that the sweetest bonds can be sown.

Can I borrow your daughter?
To give you the slightest bit of extra space.
To give us another reason to see each other.
To give my girl confidence that she’ll be okay
(To give me confidence that she’ll be okay)

because she’s not alone.

To Chels and Kayla: Thank you for letting me borrow your daughters 💛

They say January is for
slimming down
drinking green smoothies
making bite-sized goals
that barely fill you up

Clean your closets!
Ease into the new year!
Downsize!
Minimize!

Moderation, yes—
that’s the ticket

But I’m over here HOARDING

Gobbling up ideas
indulging in words
stuffing another dream
in my heart

My hopes don’t fit
in my jeans
I can barely zip my jacket
above my overstuffed soul

I keep adding
to my plate
carbo-loading
my craft

So much for savoring

the words are
s c r e a m i n g
for dear life

Piling up
spilling over
like garlic butter sauce
dripping down the side of
my mind

Wipe the edges clean?
HA!
I keep coming back
for more

What a gluttonous, glorious mess

Spontaneous poems (like this!)
Half-written essays
Underused adjectives
Books (there, I said it!)

Bubbling up
in my brain and gut
the bloating is reluctant
the pressure almost too much
stretching my skin
my skull

Syllables and sentences—
where can they all go?

I cram them in my pockets
of time

More!
More!
More!

Until I’m a waddling marshmallow man
ready to explode.

I wonder what will happen
if I do.

Call it a practice in contentment or healing, a lifestyle or posture, or simply seeking the face of Jesus, call it what you will. I’m calling it Notes of Hope. In a world marked by pain and darkness, in a culture aching for acknowledgement, in homes desperate for connection, there are beauty and hope spliced and sprinkled within it all. I find it in nature. I find it in grace. I find it in literal light—and figurative light, as well. There’s so much I don’t have answers to, but what I know to be true is that when I take note of the goodness around me, it somehow soothes my nervous system, my fears, my soul.

—

“Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.” - Hebrews 13:2

***

I thought maybe it was just the heat. The natural suffocation that seems to accompany each July as it swelters and settles in. But this last summer wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t the heat.

I thought maybe it was my nervous system. A dysregulated cog desperately trying to churn and course-correct itself after years of mistreatment. But I was feeling a little lighter, breathing a little easier. It wasn’t my nervous system.

I thought maybe it was my hormones. Perimenopause and all that jazz that goes with it. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. Will we ever really know if it’s perimenopause?!

But my brain fog—thicker than the August humidity—was debilitating.

What do I need?
What can I do?
How can I feel like myself again?

I looked at my calendar.
I looked at my responsibilities.
I looked at my weary face in the mirror.
I looked at my alarm clock on my phone.

I daringly turned it off.
And let myself sleep.

***

Last fall, in protest to grief, I started making soup. Thai soup. Potato, sausage, and kale soup. Chicken noodle soup. Really, any soup would do. But this one and this one were our favorites.

Each time I lifted the lid to the giant pot on the stove and steam and satisfaction rose, I’d ladle a small container for my friend Jamie. She once told me that she loves soup but her family isn’t as interested. Jamie shouldn’t suffer for her family’s poor taste, should she?

I’d meet Jamie in the school parking lot after pick-up or drop the soup by her house, since she lives a mere four minutes away. Jamie started returning my containers filled with homemade granola, and eventually, soups of her own. We laughed at and delighted in our homegrown Soup Club.

Weeks went on. I didn’t see my friend as often as I used to. Just a walk every few months. A quick text. A smile and short wave across the school parking lot. Sometimes, friends aren’t everyday friends, but that doesn’t mean we love them any less.

At the first smidge of cool weather this fall, I made soup and immediately texted Jamie: “It’s Soup Season, baby! Can I drop some off?” She responded immediately: “Yay! I’ll trade you. I made some today, too.”

***

“Dada held Scout last night!” the words practically burst from my daughter’s body. “Remember when he wouldn’t even come out of the box?”

I do remember. The fluffiest gray kitten with bright green eyes and all of us dying to hold him. He sat at the entrance of his decorated cardboard house and would retreat inside anytime someone came closer than three feet.

Now, a year later, I’m telling my daughter—and reminding myself:

“Sometimes, we all need a little extra time and space to feel safe.”

***

The church service had ended but the pastor said there’d be a baptism happening at the front. A teenage girl submerged her body into the tub as her fellow youth group paraded into the sanctuary, an army of support. With a shaky voice, the girl gave her testimony. She shared about her lowest lows: Feeling unseen and wondering if God was even there. Feeling lonely. Feeling unknown. As she poured out her story, I couldn’t help but think of mine. God, you were there all along. You have been here all along. I sobbed and smiled when she plunged back into the water. Because she is free. And because she told her story, I felt a little freer to live mine.

***

“He also wondered whether I could try something else: Could I view the land in the same way I so deeply wished others would view me? ‘What if you just tried to see this place for what it is, not what it could do for you?’” - Jeff Chu, Good Soil

***

One of our closest neighbors is football fields away, across a ravine, hidden by a dense wall of green. I’ve never met this particular neighbor. I hear him or her—again, I couldn’t tell you—working on projects quite often: weed-whacking, blowing leaves, construction of some sort. That’s the extent of it.

One morning, I was out in the garden, seemingly alone. Pulling weeds, cutting the remains from zinnias, hands deep in the rich soil. When suddenly, I had a sneeze attack. The kind that explodes from your body and echoes throughout the valley.

“Aaaachooooooo!”

“Saluuuute!” a man shouted through the tops of the toyon trees. Stretching across the unknown of who’s who.

I stood up from my flowers and smiled.

“Thank you!” I called back across the boulders.

And we both went back to our work.

***

We stood outside the fence and scanned our property. I rattled off a list of things I am itching to work on: the fire pit light posts, the branches that need to be wood chipped, the Secret Garden stream. Tears and overwhelm took over. Sometimes, my visions and dreams don’t line up with our day-to-day demands. I can see something bigger, something full of purpose and redemption. I sense something coming. Rebirth. Renewal. And I so badly want to step into that, like it’s a wide, glorious archway with an unmistakable future welcoming me—us—into whatever is waiting.

How do I get there?

We spent the day chainsawing the junipers that were crowding out the oak. We raked and filled green bins with thousands of dried leaves. We left our phones on the kitchen counter as we used our hands and lungs and creativity to care for the land and life we’ve been given. We played Taco, Cat, Goat, Cheese, Pizza and I made a new creamy vegetable soup we all gave a 9.5 out of 10.

I don’t know what dream will unfold first. I don’t know if I’ll have to scrap my ideas of foraging in the wild, hosting workshops, and writing books and—start again. In the meantime, I’m leaning into extended sabbaths. I’m waking up to books, and bird song, and doing my best to let the hallelujahs pour from my chest before the complaints. We’re picking up shovels, sweeping the front porch, opening our Bibles at the kitchen table.

Jesus is coming back—yes!

But before he does, I believe he’s making a stop in our little life. And yours. I want to be prepared. I want to have logs already burning in the fire. And the kettle on. An alabaster jar filled to the brim with my hopes and dreams, ready and willing to spill out every last drop.

“What did you do with this one wild and precious life I gave you?” Mary Oliver and Jesus both ask it.

I want to be able to say I invited him in to weave my story together how he saw fit. I want to tell him I scoured the land of the dead for glimmers of holy, triumphant light. I want him to hear the trumpets blasting with my praise and adoration. I want to tell him that I clung to his commands—love God, love others—and that they changed me.

For now, I’ll work the land, steward my story with my words, make foraged bouquets for neighbors who live football fields away, and bask in the warm light that kisses my skin each morning. And that will be enough.

Other Notes of Hope:

Vol. 1
Vol. 2
Vol. 3
Vol. 4

I am more than what I did or didn’t make for dinner
it was easy spaghetti in case you’re curious

I am more than rejections and “need to grow your platform”s
have you seen how much my daughter has bloomed in that time?

I am more than the 5am Beep! Beep! Beep! interrupting my cell renewal
sleep is the new productivity

I am more than a girl aching to create
there’s purpose and glory wrapped in that story

I am more than my failures and someone else’s disappointments in me
I am good because He says so

I am more than a ghost robot clicking and clacking behind a screen
a heart that beats wildly is attached to those words

I am more than

a homeschool mom
an adoptive mom
a PKU mom
a decently fun mom
a _______ mom
a mom

What you might not know is that

yesterday, I hiked to the top of a mountain, babbling the entire way about the foliage and the golden light and the way the cool air reached the bottom of my lungs

the day before that, I picked up a pole saw and maneuvered it high into the branches just for fun. Cutting and carrying to the pile. Cutting and carrying to the pile

and at the top of tomorrow’s to-dos: More piano, more Warrior 2, more fading pinks at dusk while we call for her favorite black kitty to make his way home

Yes, I am

a gardener
a yogi
a writer
a forager
always looking for the light

I am

slowing down
stewarding my story
making soup just because there’s celery in the veggie drawer

But, I am also more than all of these things

I am
still becoming

and so are you.

With your second-hand rain boots slapping mud as you race up the hill. With the silhouette of your untamed hair soaring against an orange ombre sky. With six fluffy kittens begging for dinner at your feet, while you shush the meows screeching from their tiny lungs. With your growing limbs stretched toward the clouds, swinging from the rope dangling from the oaks. With earth and dreams—yet to be dreamed—caked into the cracks of your palms. With jagged granite lily pads beneath your black rubber soles, hopping from one to the next. With your quick wit. With your sly sideways smile. With your bright coffee eyes. Smiling at me from across the expanse of dirt and hope and delight. I want to remember you this way.

—

Inspired by Alyssa Poblete, who was inspired by Michelle Windsor and Ashlee Gadd.

All of my heart poured out on paper
Because I don’t know any other way
Creative non-fiction
Drenched in imagery, often pain
Everything in ink seems vital
For the reader to know, to
Grasp the tiniest bit of my
Hard and hallelujah life.
I open my email
Jittery hands, surging pulse
Keep breathing, it’s just constructive criticism.
Lies explode in
My mind. “You are
Not what you think you are.
Other writers don’t need
Praise to keep their fingers clicking away.
Quit.
Run. Hide. Never write again!”
Shame and embarrassment eventually
Turn into perspective. But how can anyone
Understand my words, my
Voice, my stories
While I attempt to guard the scarlet
X marked on my heart?
You tell me. Can
Zealous writers pour out their souls without it ripping them apart?

Jesse bolts out the front door—a blur of panic—scrambling to get his boots on before running.

“WHAT IS IT?!!?!” I yell after him.

In broad daylight, a coyote has slyly snuck up on our kitties, taken one in its mouth, shaken it around, and victoriously retreated up the mountain. Jesse sees it all from the office window.

I hurry out the door after him, trying to find our other cats. Luckily, I am able to get them safely in the shed. Jesse, grasping a large stick and vengeance, searches the brush up and down the mountainside. Over and over. Shouting for Mango. Hoping that somehow our little orange fluffball—the one kitten from the litter Vera just had to have—is still alive.

Nature takes its course. I get it.

But when your amygdala is firing and a predator is lurking and your daughter doesn’t know what’s been taken from her yet, you stand in the unseasonable, scorching heat of the September sun and sob.

It’s hard not to make the parallel. There’s a very real presence of a wild beast doing all he can to sneak into our homes, hijack our hearts, and threaten our lives.

After school, we tell Vera an abbreviated version of the truth: a coyote took Mango today. He’s gone. I’m so sorry. We’re so sad. It’s okay to be sad.

She cried and cried. We all cried.

***

I see my good friend’s sympathetic smile and she hugs me longer than usual. I texted her earlier in the day. She knows about the events that unfolded on the other side of the window.

We sit inches apart in camping chairs on the edge of the field where the kids gather to hear about Jesus before starting soccer practice. We almost didn’t come—this feels like a theme—but I exhale deep relief, sitting in the open air next to my friend.

The pastor of the church we’ve been visiting leads the devotion. After the horror of the last weeks and the current state of divisiveness strangling our country, our hope, I sense the parents are listening more intently than the kids tonight.

The pastor passes out half-sheets of paper with lyrics we are all desperate to mark on our hearts. A little huddle of the next generation—surrounded by an expanse of fresh cut grass and ample space to test the truth of the Gospel until it pushes past this small, yet mighty, circle toward the edges of the field, this city.

Tiny, tender voices start proclaiming the goodness of God.

A hush blankets the chatter on the sidelines. Conversations stop and singing begins. What’s meant for our children is meant for us, too. We’re drawn into the moment. Spontaneously worshipping together. Wanting more of this unity. More of this Jesus, these days we’re living in, stained with hate. Moths to a lamp, circling the light.

As we raise our voices and bask in the cool of the night and the warmth of the Spirit, our faces collectively tilt toward the sky. Hundreds of birds fly above us. Flocks and flocks, a harmonized wave tumbling across the heavens. They just keep coming. So do our voices. So does our worship.

I wonder if and how this moment can be multiplied. I wonder if we can have days where coyotes kill kittens and our family mourns and sobs but still stands at the foot of the altar, under the deepening indigo sky, praising the name of Jesus.

I wonder.

How do we hold it all at once?

I almost didn’t come to church. There was a battle of wardrobe and wills in our home, but maybe—after listening to a sermon on Revelation—it was a war with higher stakes. One where the devil insisted I give in to defiance and defeat and lock our family inside our fuming four walls rather than air it all out in the sanctuary.

I almost didn’t come to church. That word has been hard lately. Ill-fitting. Lonely. It feels like a box I’m checking instead of a life I’m living. I. AM. A. ROBOT. I. GO. TO. CHURCH. But when the mom stood upfront of this new-to-me holy place and spoke of her son’s persistent faith, the power of Jesus—a sword cutting through this dark night of an earthly life—my heart softened to what he might have for me, too, in this space.

I almost didn’t come to church. Raw skin and heart exposed to people who don’t know me, yet. Deep-rooted anxiety for a child whose first years stole her God-given right to trust those who love her, dropping her off somewhere new. But then, we walked into the fourth-grade room and were greeted by a smiling face I haven’t seen in years and had long forgotten. She didn’t forget me though and was hell-bent on her assignment to fill the classroom with warmth and light.

I almost didn’t come to church. After the weight of the week we’ve all experienced, I could have justified it. But then I would have missed the public proclamation of the evil we’ve all been witnessing, of the evil that’s circling around us, of the evil that’s prowling the same places we go on the internet to see photos of our friends’ squishy babies. I would have missed the affirmation that the devil may disguise himself as light, but he drags nothing but filth and hatred behind him.

I almost didn’t come to church. We play worship songs at home. We listen to Bible podcasts for kids. But I would have missed the outpouring of voices, practically shouting, “Death could not hold you. The veil tore before you.” I would have missed the confidence that’s been building deep in my bones that finally felt safe to break free: “You have no rival. You have no equal…Yours is the kingdom. Yours is the glory.”

I almost didn’t come to church. It would have saved my makeup and tears. But I would have missed the collective release of aches and confusion. I would have missed the reclamation of hope. I would have missed a moment in my marriage where the Holy Spirit stood near, drawing us closer to the life, “the church,” and the way he’s always wanted us to go.

I almost didn’t come to church. I was angry and sad and irritated. I threw the toothpaste in the bathroom drawer and silently huffed past my daughter. I closed the car door a little too hard. But while we were driving, we talked about peace and forgiveness and why we go on Sundays, no matter where we go. I would have missed her apology. I would have missed the chance to repair my wrongdoings so quickly.

I almost didn’t come to church. I wanted to wallow. I wanted to prove a point. But if I would have stayed home, Satan would have proved his.

A mother stands on a sidewalk
one palm pressed to her chest
the other, a shade over her brow
blocking the late summer sun

She scrunches her face
to see that her daughter arrives safely
wherever she’s running to
pony tail and independence flapping in the wind

The little girl must be nine
with a stick in one hand, like when she was three
her feet are wings, stretching the space
between city blocks—her childhood

The mother lowers her shade
warm light fills her eyes, steeped in nostalgia
with a quick wave and a short smile
she turns away from her daughter

and lets her fly

Baby, you’re a firework. A shimmering, shining piece of art. That boisterous laugh from down below; it seriously just makes you glow.

You are my sunshine. A golden ticket and bright delight. Passersby grab their shades to block the luminescence of your rays.

Brown eyed girl, you’re a babe. Green, blue, and hazel, too. Your skin may wrinkle and shrivel some day, but the windows to your soul are here to stay.

Girl, you just wanna have fun. A hair and windows down kind of night. Slip into that sequin crop top; one quick glance and the world will stop.

Oh, pretty woman, it’s the inside that counts. (We know, we know.) But let’s not forget those gorgeous graying locks; remember, it’s the oldies that really rock.

Hey, soul sister. Deep grief has a ruthless rhythm. Look for the tiniest cracks of light, and let them into your darkest nights.

Who’s that lady? How is your tone laced with such grace? Your day was a mess, but when it’s done, hallelujahs still beat in your chest.

She’s a brick house. But is unbreakable really the way to go? Maybe it’s better to be made of glass, risking pain for love by letting it all show.

Mama said there'll be days like this. When your guts and glam go unseen. Keep those gold bangles clanking, anyway, with your zeal and art; never stop making that music in your heart.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Glow."

Call it a practice in contentment or healing, a lifestyle or posture, or simply seeking the face of Jesus, call it what you will. I’m calling it Notes of Hope. In a world marked by pain and darkness, in a culture aching for acknowledgement, in homes desperate for connection, there are beauty and hope spliced and sprinkled within it all. I find it in nature. I find it in grace. I find it in literal light—and figurative light, as well. There’s so much I don’t have answers to, but what I know to be true is that when I take note of the goodness around me, it somehow soothes my nervous system, my fears, my soul.

—

“If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.” - 1 Corinthians 12:26

***

It was two days until my birthday, and I arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes before my friends. I ordered my usual decaf cappuccino, tapped my debit card, and took my order number from the twenty-something standing on the other side of the counter.

It was chillier than I thought it’d be. But it always is, at the coast. I should know by now; I keep coming back to the water. I sat alone, sipping my coffee, waiting for the arrival of each of the women who’ve held me up in the valley, in different ways, this last year.

It took a few minutes for me to realize it, but I laughed out loud when I did: the wooden order number sitting in front of me was painted with a white forty-three.

***

A month or two ago, a friend and I were talking about tattoos. I said if I ever got another one, it’d likely be a bird or the word “hallelujah” in pretty handwriting. The bird to symbolize freedom; the hallelujah because it's a beautiful word with a beautiful reminder. I can praise God no matter my circumstances.

These last few years have dealt me devastation. I’ve had good reason, in the world’s eyes, to let the crushing dissolve my hope and faith. It has, at times.

But not permanently. Not long enough where I couldn’t notice a stream of light pouring through the trees. Not long enough where I didn’t get a text from a knowing friend. Not long enough for me to stomp all my hallelujahs into the dust of the ground beneath my feet.

After the plates were cleared and our coffees had only a slurp left in the bottoms of our cups, my friends slid their offerings of love across the table. As I unwrapped the crinkly white tissue from one of the gift bags, a frame with seafoam green edges appeared.

In bold, bright orange letters, I read the word “HALLELUJAH” and burst into tears. She remembered what I said. She remembered me.

Hallelujah: God be praised.

***

The night of my birthday brunch, Jesse hands me an envelope from the stack of that day’s mail. I see the hand-written name of the friend who sent it and clutch it to my chest.

Inside are the most thoughtful, encouraging words I have read in a long time. Reminders of who I am and who she sees me to be. I sat in the corner chair in the quiet of our room and cherished every syllable.

***

I was looking for a wetsuit, a springsuit to be exact. I want to spend more time in the ocean; it seems to be shushing my amygdala. But I can’t seem to stay in the cool, churning waters longer than ten minutes.

Jesse, Vera, and Archie waited in the car in the lot of one of my favorite places on earth, Valley Thrift, while I hunted for some neoprene. They did have one wetsuit but not the right size. I figured my family wouldn’t mind waiting a minute or two more.

The process is simple for me: scan for the right colors, check the size, check the brand, move on. That’s how I found her in merely seconds. That’s how it happened so fast.

I held the red Madewell romper up to my body and I smiled in satisfaction at my reflection in the mirror. Double-checked the price. Not bad. The green tag would give me a few bucks off at the register.

I thought I was stretching the birthday budget just a bit. I thought I was giving myself one last treat. But when I got in the car, I opened my phone to a message from a friend who, as I stood in line, had simultaneously sent me the exact amount of birthday money that the romper cost. A friend who loves thrifting as much as I do. A friend whose generosity is a well.

I texted her immediately to let her know she’d already bought me something even though she’d literally just sent the cash.

She wrote back, “THIS DELIGHTS ME TO NO END.”

It seems that seeing and celebrating others is a full-circle gift.

***

I bought Vera some lavender knock-off Crocs a few months ago from, you guessed it, Valley Thrift. She wears them proudly in the garden, swaying in the hammock swing, at Costco. I keep telling her I need some. That I wish we had matching shoes as we galavant around our country home and town. Is that what you do in your forties, pine for Crocs? I am in the garden a lot. I do like to slip something on quickly when we feed the kitties. I may possibly even wear them to Costco.

We scour the racks every time we thrift; I’m not buying paying full price, that’s one step too far. To no avail.

The day before my birthday, Jesse, Vera and I were at a sporting goods store and happened to walk by a whole rack of Crocs.

“Forty dollars?! No way,” I put my Croc-less foot down.

The morning of my birthday, I woke up to flowers, multiple handmade cards, an explanation that we have a staycation next week at, you guessed it, the beach. My little family also said I had a present arriving in the mail later that day.

When we got home from trying on wetsuits at the surf shop, lunch at our favorite coastal cafe, and running our pup in and out of the waves, a package was waiting in the mailbox.

I opened the gray plastic bag and to my surprise—but not yours—lavender Crocs were inside. I’m told it was all Vera’s idea. I’m told that my daughter remembered my comments and desires. I’m told my almost nine-year-old wanted to match her mama. I’m told relief washed over the two of them as I scoffed at the price at the sporting goods store instead of bringing a pair up to the register.

I’m told, by way of my new purple Crocs, that I am seen and loved.

***

Along with Crocs, there’s something else in our mailbox. Jesse hands me another envelope. This one has the name of a friend I recently saw, who already gave me a birthday card.

I carefully tear the sand-colored envelope and read more life-giving words. They seem to have a similar theme to the card I read from Jesse that morning and the card I received from a different friend earlier in the week. A list of all the things she loves and admires about me. A lengthy list of all the things he loves and admires about me.

A lot has changed since my last birthday. For better and for worse. But I can say that I didn’t receive a card with as much intention and vulnerability from my husband on my forty-second birthday. Or, the fourteen birthdays before that. Those past years, he didn’t sit at our kitchen table with our daughter and make a list of all the women who love me. He didn’t buy a pack of blank cards with wildflowers on the front, and send each one with a stamp, asking these women to fill the white space with love, lick the envelope, and mail them back addressed to me. But this year, he did.

Days after my birthday, sand-colored envelopes keep showing up in the mailbox. And each and every time, I clutch the words to my chest, as if they’ll permeate my wounds. I am covered in love, as if I’m diving under the white crashing waves of the salty sea. These words—his idea to orchestrate them—wash over with me like fresh hallelujahs.

Other Notes of Hope:

Vol. 1
Vol. 2
Vol. 3

Have you ever done one of those cleanses?
All those leafy green drinks and hours on the toilet
It’s good for your health, they say
Purging toxins
Replenishing cells
Boosting your immunity
Watch your waistline whittle away
But wait, there’s more!
In just 10 days
your skin will glow like that 20-year-old model’s you saw in an ad
You might even grow wings
so you can escape your God-given body
and fly far, far away
from troubles
in your life

Have you ever stood at the edge of the sea?
All that vitamin D and hours gulping down ocean air
It’s good for your soul, I say
Purging comparison
Replenishing hope
Boosting your sense of wonder
Watch your worries whittle away
But wait, there’s more!
In just 10 minutes
your sun-kissed skin will glow like the girl you’ve always been
You might even come back soon
so you can wake up your God-given body
and delight in the endless ocean
of goodness
in your life

She’s on her way!

Panic!
Manic
cleaning!

S T O P!

Serve the toilet an extra strong drink of electric blue bleach
and let the rest be.

I know.
I know.
You have unfinished projects.
There are dust balls peeking out from underneath the couch.

Let.

It.

Be.

Open the front door
to your half (or, barely)-cleaned home.
Let her in, unashamedly
without warnings or disclaimers.

Offer your truest self
(and maybe some tea?)
Psst! Hint!
That’s who she’s come to see!

Not sparkling tile floors.
Who even knows
what those look like
anymore?

You are not
your piles of papers
or toothpaste smudged sink
or your cluttered kitchen

She knows the truth
(do you?!)

You are a work of art
in progress
stretching and growing
not dust-less baseboards

She sees your soul.
She embodies the same hopes.
She has to lay down the same haunting fears.

We might as well
do it together
in our untidy homes
with our untidy hearts

Let’s power-wash expectations
of ourselves, and
fling our front doors
w i d e o p e n

She’s not ringing the bell
in hopes of noticing greatness.
She’s come to see
what’s inside

your heart.

(And I’m pretty sure perfectly placed house plants have nothing to do with it.)

Call it a practice in contentment or healing, a lifestyle or posture, or simply seeking the face of Jesus, call it what you will. I’m calling it Notes of Hope. In a world marked by pain and darkness, in a culture aching for acknowledgement, in homes desperate for connection, there are beauty and hope spliced and sprinkled within it all. I find it in nature. I find it in grace. I find it in literal light—and figurative light, as well. There’s so much I don’t have answers to, but what I know to be true is that when I take note of the goodness around me, it somehow soothes my nervous system, my fears, my soul.

—

“The LORD will fulfill his purpose for me; your steadfast love, O LORD, endures forever. Do not forsake the work of your hands.” - Psalm 138:8

***

Last year, we tried to grow strawberries in our garden. We ended up with a lot of leaves but not much fruit. This year, I sprinkled zinnia, marigold, and sunflower seeds in the dirt. I dug holes for the winding roots of yarrow and statice, giving them a corner all their own. We added an arch for the vining snap peas, green beans, and morning glory. But we skipped the strawberries.

The other day, I was tending to my babies in the cedar boxes when I almost stepped on…

a strawberry plant.

A persistent little love from last year’s no-good crop is currently working her way out of the scorched earth between two wooden planters. Boasting not only her deep, lush greens, but also her radiant ruby red.

***

I’ve been living and working through what feels like perpetual grief these last few years. I’ve questioned God about the different circumstances and long-suffering.

I can’t say it’s a direct answer to my crying out, but somehow through it all, He’s sending sparks of creativity to keep me going. He’s flashing visions in front of my eyes. He’s dumping buckets and buckets of words into my mind.

Even though my chest still sometimes heaves with grief, I’m finding a place for the ache.

And so, I keep writing.

In the process, I’m slowly chipping away at dreams born from heartache. Each word and idea I bring to life seems to somehow belong to a grand picture, like a piece of a gigantic jigsaw puzzle I never imagined I’d be living. What will it be? How does it all fit together?

What do I do with the pain, God?

You create.

***

For two and a half years, every Wednesday of the school year, Vera and I went to co-op. She packed up her science or history and courage and I slung my purse over my shoulder and made sure to zip patience inside before heading out the door.

This group of friends, although so lovely and warm, is quite large. And when we’d show up, my sweet girl would instinctively retreat, as she typically does around a lot of people. Her sense of safety is inherently different from other kids, but over and over again, this flew out of my mind while frustration forced its way in. As all the other children ran free, mine leached to my side. She tensed. I tensed. And the next week, we did it again because that’s what we did on Wednesdays.

A few months ago, I sent the group text I’d been putting off. We’d no longer be part of the co-op. I’d no longer be part of the holy huddle of mothers I adore. We’d no longer be part of the science experiments. But also, my daughter’s nervous system would no longer have to work overtime. And, I suppose, my expectations of what “kids should be like” would no longer exist, on Wednesdays.

When I asked Vera about what she wanted to do instead of co-op, we considered a photo club with friends, or inviting classmates over for homeschool days. We landed on a book club for the third grade girls—there are only five of them.

Once a month, each girl picks a book and they meet to discuss it, eat cupcakes, and feel a little fancy with a tablecloth beneath their plates and bright bunches of flowers before them. The girls take turns answering questions and without fail end up lacing shrieks and giggles into their sentences.

Sometimes, on Wednesdays, Vera has a friend over and after we homeschool, they jump on the trampoline, scale boulders, and play cafe. Other times, we meet friends at the pickleball court and run down dirt paths that lead to blooming poppies. Sometimes, we hike in the rain. And other times still, we pick up a different classmate and her sister and I transform into a lava monster at the park.

I was so hesitant to walk away from the co-op. To send the regretful text. But last Tuesday night—knowing she’d see two friends the next morning—my sweet girl told me she couldn’t wait for Wednesday.

***

The winter rain came so late this year. Pelting down in March, instead of months earlier. Last year at this time, the hillsides near our home were covered in California lilacs. I gasped every time I drove up the mountain.

March came and went without a purple bush in sight. Had I somehow missed them?

I knew the answer. I knew the rain was late.

But part of me still doubted.

Weeks overdue (according to me), the flowers finally came. When they were ready.

***

It’s Friday afternoon and Vera and I are itching to get out of the house.

Ten minutes later, on the drive to the library, an idea sprouts in my mind and clanks and jostles itself around, loudly.

“Ver, do you have a notebook back there?” I ask. (She always has a notebook.)

At the library, we both look for children’s books. She chooses ones with chapters. I choose ones we used to borrow when she was four, five, and six years old. We spread soft and hard covers across an empty table, as if they’re a map and we’re trying to find the way.

My daughter hands me her tiny notebook.

“You can use one page, both sides,” she instructs me.

As she reads, I fill up five, six, seven pages, front and back. The words pour out of me like a reviving spring rain.

***

“Beach Day with the Burts!” It had been on our calendar for weeks.

I looked out the living room window and a heavy blanket of gray stratus clouds seemed to snicker back at me; I think I even saw one wink, sarcastically. But we’re not fair-weather Californians. Vera added cozy clothes to our beach bag, and I tossed it in the trunk with a stack of towels.

We quickly found a parking spot thanks to the chilly temps. And just as we unloaded the car, our friends walked toward us on the sidewalk. Serendipitous timing.

Our California kids did what they do, submerging their warm bodies in the icy ocean, plunging their bellies and cares into the wild sea, digging and burying themselves into the sticking sand. Until about an hour in, when they realized what the moms already knew: it was really cold.

We wrapped our chattering children in sweats and hoods, gathered our sandy stuff, and the six of us headed to a nearby coffee shop.

The day became something unexpected.

It turned into piping tea and hot apple cider in to-go cups. It turned into bundled up cuties with sandy sweatshirts and smiling mamas, happy to be out in the ocean air, mothering and adventuring together. It turned into an impromptu art lesson from two gray-haired ladies creating gigantic murals, scenes of the sea, on the walls of the beach town. It turned into meandering through a gallery, where we exercised the art of appreciating beauty.

I felt so refreshed and alive afterward. So full of spontaneity. So full of hope that opportunity is waiting on the other side of a cold and miserable day.

***

Our female cat, Dottie, is undoubtedly pregnant. She’s practically waddling. We watch and wait. Every day, we examine her sagging belly, anticipating the wiggles inside.

The last time someone was pregnant around here, it was me. But I never made it to the waddling. I never felt a baby kick.

Here I am, on the brink of expanding our (animal) kingdom.

New life comes how it may. Maybe not how I expected. In kittens. In second chances. In fresh ideas. In art. In words. In the Overflowing Well.

***

“I’ve got it, Mama,” my eight year old assures me.

She takes the Cara Cara oranges out of the top drawer in the fridge.
She places them neatly on the counter.
She gets her favorite knife and cautiously slices the fruit in half.
She smashes each half circle on the point of the yellow juicer, twisting and twisting.
She fills three tiny jars with the tastiest orange juice in town.

Cheers!

She’s got this.

***

Our sweet friends came over the day before Easter. Jesse weed-whacked the backyard in preparation, and I spread out the yellow-striped tablecloth with fresh-cut fuchsia bougainvilleas in the center.

Callie and I hid pastel plastic eggs filled with stickers and sugar, and then we let the girls loose. As they searched and collected, I felt my heart relax, even smile.

After relishing in carnitas tacos with pickled red onions and cotija cheese, we zipped up jackets and headed outside the gate by the oaks. The girls ran off again, this time, explorers searching for different treasures.

When they were fully satisfied with their discoveries, Vera and her friend flew like bats in the hammock swing, high against the darkening sky. And when they couldn’t work out whose turn was next, they scrunched in, side by side, smooshing their limbs and laughter.

My heart smiled even wider, watching my daughter fling her shoes and hesitations out into the night.

He is risen, and she is rising.

***

I wrote a western bluebird into my children’s book. I saw one about a year and a half ago when I was walking Archie, our Goldendoodle. I gasped at its beauty and have been on the lookout for another one ever since, to no avail.

The week I finished my children’s book, I spotted two western bluebirds, on separate days.

I don’t know where the birds suddenly came from or where my book is eventually going, but I feel it deep in my bones that it all has something to do with me becoming who I was created to be.

Other Notes of Hope:

Vol. 1
Vol. 2

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Become."

Sometimes when she yawns, I imagine her squishy newborn face. All those sweet sleepy smiles I never got to see. Her soft cheeks. Her curious coffee-colored eyes soaking up the outside world for the first time.

Sometimes when she screams and cries—those hyperventilating cries—so full of fear that she won’t get what she needs, I imagine her desperately searching a room full of babies for safety, warmth, and love.

Sometimes when she’s climbing, splashing, and running toward my arms, I think of how far we’ve come. Two heavy ships carrying massive pasts and hurts, once colliding, now bobbing in rhythm with the waves.

Sometimes when she’s singing, chatting, and squealing with delight, I imagine her first mama sitting in grief and darkness, missing her beautiful baby girl.

Sometimes when the warm morning rays bounce off our framed faces on my bedroom wall, the golden light overwhelms my very being and I can’t fathom the motherhood He’s entrusted to me.