May the words I share be a nourishment and inspiration to your heart. Thank you!
Dear friend,
My day began at 3:18 a.m. Lest you think I’m a grand overachiever who fills her early morning hours with meditations or cold plunges, I should confess that I only rolled out of my very comfortable, very inviting bed to let out the white, shaggy, old farm dog we affectionately call him Rex. He had somehow found his way inside during the course of the evening. He rarely comes indoors, opting for the task of barking off birds and skunks, and as such isn’t quite accustomed to the ways of life indoors. He was pacing and panting around our bedroom as if an accident was imminent. The dog breath in my face roused me from a dream in which I was charged with taking care of a fairy no bigger than the palm of my hand — I had her wrapped in the softest leaves I could find and was carrying her around in a little satchel. She kept giving me the thumbs up to let me know she approved of my efforts. I would’ve liked to see what adventures we were to undertake. Alas.
Thankfully, after letting the dog(s) outside (now plural because the Aussie follows suit when any activity is stirred), I was able to slip back into a peaceful (though fairy-less) slumber for a few more hours. My morning began officially at 5:21. The slight bang of my coffee cup being set on the bedside table lets me know it’s time — in our many years of marriage, I’ve yet to rise earlier than Stuart. He uses the few, quiet moments before anyone else in the house stirs to reads through dense and thoughtful books like “The Rise and Triumph of the Modern Self” or Lord of the Rings, again. He likes beginning the day with contemplation and quiet. I enjoy beginning the day with coffee.
Bless him, he obliges me.
Coffee now in hand, gently roused from sleep, I sat for a few moments in silence. I closed my eyes and braided my fingers around the mug in my hands. I could sense Stuart eyeing me from his side of the bed and I gently stated “Don’t worry, I’m not going to spill my coffee. I’m not sleeping, I’m praying.” These first few moments of my day with the Lord are precious, although always a bit scattered and sleepy. I’ve been known to doze back off to sleep somewhere between adoration and confession. Inevitably, the smallest hint of caffeine now in my veins, I’ll wake back up (hopefully without spilling any coffee in bed) and resume my efforts once again. I feel grateful if I’m able to hold thirty minutes in this posture — sipping my coffee, communing with my God, connecting with Stuart in a meaningful way. Even during these summer days which are filled with far more fun than our normal routine, the pace of tending to the home and my work-efforts still holds… even more so in the summer when all of us are here to dirty the home and much of our audience steps away to enjoy their own summer season. It’s a season of labor for us, no doubt. And so I must begin in such a way: reminding myself that I must plant and weed and sow, and the Lord will bring whatever harvest he will. I remind myself, before the onslaught of tasks and efforts, that to keep a home is a grand privilege. I give thanks for food on our table, for dishes to wash, for laundry to account for, for sheets to change, for family photos to dust, for books to read, for trips to plan for, for checkbooks to balance, for meals to prepare. I name these gifts, one by one. I write them down. I begin my day by reminding myself that work is not bad and that I was build for effort.
Coffee now gone, I wash my face and gently drag a gua sha stone over the cheekbones and chin that insist on softening as the years roll on. I moisturize and inspect: perhaps there’s a hair or two that I need to take note of in the exposing light and magnification of my private bathroom. Such is life at 40, but I don’t pay too much mind to it. “Hello, beautiful! You look lovely today.” I say to myself as I finish moisturizing. And I mean it. I think there is nothing quite as beautiful in this world as a woman who is loved well — and I am loved very, very well. I hope my appearance does justice to the goodness and kindness of my husband, my kids, my friends, and my family to me. They shower me with affection and I wish it to radiate from my very core. Happiness is a far better treatment than Botox for true beauty anyway. My makeup routine is simple and takes less than five minutes, but even still, I start with my mascara because it is, in fact, my least favorite part of the whole ordeal. Once again taking my pastor’s advice, I do the thing I want to do least first. After that first coat of mascara is smeared from root to tip, the day feels immediately possible. Such matters are trivial, no doubt, but I’ve come to see the value of such teeny victories and gifts to oneself: I have a postcard of Italy as my bookmark, so that each time I open it up to read, I get happy butterflies in my stomach anticipating our upcoming trip in September, I spritz my pajamas with a delicious perfume so that when I change into them at night, I’m rewarded with a lovely sense of peace, I even put my feminine care products in a pretty lidded, wicker box so that when the way of women is upon me, I have a teeny-bit more delight in tending to such matters well. Small indeed. But they add up in a life that is comprised by a million of these small moments, and that ultimately, is written by an author far greater (and more creative) than I.
After getting ready for the day (today’s outfit was a white button up linen blouse over denim shorts, a top-knot hairdo, and gold hoops, obv and always), I made our bed and tidied the room. Pajamas were folded and put away, a load of laundry was shifted through, and I took a few extra moments to water the potted lemon, bay, and olive trees that sit just steps away from my room on the back patio. Pastel nasturtiums are planted at the base of the citrus trees and I make a mental note to harvest a few for a summer salad later. Eating flowers should be on everyone’s summer bucket list.
In reality, what I was actually doing by watering the plants was putting off the inevitable. I needed to send a text message to a friend and I didn’t know what to say…
After watering the dozen or so potted trees, I still didn’t know what to say, so I forced myself to sit and focus on my words instead of avoidance (a favorite hobby of mine.) Twelve hours before, her husband had died. I spoke with her just yesterday — so to not text her immediately would be unthinkable. I learned years ago that everyone holds and walks through grief differently; inevitably, we want to offer a ray of hope to them. Some sort of advice that will lighten their load, a book recommendation that will alleviate even some of the hurt and discomfort. We want to help. But there is no relief from such grief. It is raw, it is barbaric, and it is sharp. It stings like acid in a wound and even those who hold to their faith in such moments feel it. It is not without hope, but it still hurts beyond words. The best I’ve come up with over the years is to try and sit with them the best I can in their distress — it is far too soon for advice or encouragement. I managed to string together a text and hit send, following it up with a few photographs of a card that my daughter, Juliette, had written to their daughter. As well as ten-year-olds can understand such a monumental loss, Juliette let her know that if she needed “prayers, a snack, or even just a pat on the back”, she would be available for such. We all do the best we can in such moments.
But the grief colored our day, as grief always does. Through the morning tasks of toasting a few slices of bread and opening up the kitchen for the day, it lingered. I put together a bouquet of sunflowers for the kitchen counter, hoping it would help to lift our spirits a bit — their bright and sunny faces are always a welcomed sign of summer. Oh how I love their presence! But even they couldn’t stop the shaky voice that accompanied my morning Italian lesson as I fumbled through tenses and subjects to communicate to my ever-patient tutor why I was randomly weeping during our normally light-hearted lesson.
I’d say this wasn’t part of my normal daily routine, but in a way, isn’t life always just slightly off the center line? How often do we find ourselves gently reminding one another “After we get through this season, life will settle down.”, “once this project is finished, things will feel more normal.”, or “we just need to get through this and then it will be good again.” In our home, these sentences are muttered perhaps a bit more often than they should be. Yesterday is gone already. Tomorrow, as this week aptly put on full display, is uncertain. So what of today?
Already we’ve seen spring fade kindly into summer, which will all too quickly fade into the next. The normal, ordinary days pass us by. In that time, God willing, our marriage will continue to ripen, our children will continue to grow, our home will continue to serve and bear up under such a weight, and our bodies, souls and hearts will continue to feed on what we know to be true, good, and beautiful. Our daily routines, however tiny and inconsequential they seem to us now, will amount to our entire existence.
And as such…
Today, I chose to sit in my swimsuit by the pool — my July skin darkened by the rays I joyfully invite in. I stopped in the middle of my workday to enjoy a World Cup game with the family, I wore my nice perfume to supper with some girlfriends, and kissed my husband extra long and held him extra close.
My friend said it best in a text exchange as we discussed the type of women we hope to become through the course of our daily lives:
“Happy but sturdy, wise but silly, peaceful yet ready for an adventure!”
Love,
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