On motherhood and military dreams.

Mother’s Day quietly came and went last month, with our family venturing out to the coast in search of wild horses. After five hours in traffic on a road trip that should have taken two, we meandered along the beach at Assateague Island, enjoyed a picnic dinner, and spotted one horse along the roadside as we were leaving the area to head home. Despite the standstill Bay Bridge traffic, it was absolutely worth the trip with my favorite people (and dog) in the world.

But lately, my mind has been fixed on my own three wild things with whom I am lucky enough to spend my days. I have been acutely and painfully aware of how fast time is slipping by, how quickly our kids are growing up, and how helpless I am to hinder it in any way (despite all of my best efforts).

Our oldest has wanted to be a pilot for as long as I can remember, but lately his path has become more tangible, more formulated. His goal is to achieve his pilot’s license as a teenager and attend the U.S. Air Force Academy after high school graduation. From there, he hopes to become a commercial or private pilot after his service in the Air Force.

He recently joined the local Civil Air Patrol squadron in Annapolis and received his first promotion to Cadet Airman last week. I stood beside him in my workout clothes, totally unprepared to pin his achievement pin onto his lapel as pictures were snapped by higher ranking officials whose titles I struggle to keep straight. I fought back tears, trying to play it cool along with the rest of the parents in the room, but it was a tender moment as a mom. I was bubbling over with pride for my dimple-cheeked, freckle-faced firstborn, wishing I could pin myself to his uniform and stay with him forever.

I knew this day would come where our children would begin The Great Tearing Away into adolescence, discovering their independence and floating into their own personhood. I’ve prepared myself for it for years, determined not to be a helicopter parent incapable of staying grounded. I’ve fought to keep my own identity as a woman, not just as a stay-at-home mom of three kids, so that when the nest is empty, I won’t feel lost.

But a few weeks ago, when Liam took his seat in the cockpit of a Cessna Skyhawk to ascend into the sky during his first introductory flight, he smiled at me with those deep dimples. In that moment, I not only saw my pre-teen Liam, but also my tiny baby forming his first smile in his sleep, my one-year-old running laps in his crib with that mischievous grin; my preschooler, flashing that same winning smile at me as he’d hand me a fistful of flowering weeds from the yard. I saw my baby, my child, my young man, and my future adult son all in one joy-filled glance, and it messed me up beyond repair. Be cool, Mom. Be cool. I muttered to myself, wishing suddenly that he was back safely in my womb but feigning nonchalance in front of his instructor while my heart broke into a billion pieces and floated off into the sky in the shadow of a Cessna.

The Air Force Academy is ultra competitive, so I’ve turned up the heat at home to prepare him as a serious, well-rounded candidate. We’ve set goals for his academics, extracurriculars, physical fitness, and character development. We’ve made a schedule for the summer and a plan for middle and high school. We’ve set aside time to master advanced math concepts. We run timed drills around the campground, eagerly shaving every second possible off of his 6:54 mile time. (I can’t keep up anymore, so this former cross country runner has turned into a coach.) We count out push-ups on the porch and hold each other’s feet while we do sit-ups.

I’m slowly watching my charismatic, energetic son transform into a responsible, chivalrous, respectful young man, even as his voice cracks and his dad and I exchange secret knowing glances while I try to keep a straight face. He gives up his seat for his sister without hesitating. He corrects my driving because his CAP instructor said the fastest a driver should go is the speed limit (cue all the eye rolls), and he picks up trash around the campground “because volunteerism is his core value.” Who even IS this kid??

One of the benefits of full-time RVing is the built-in community of neighbors and the friendships we make along the way. We will watch our neighbor (and weekend cornhole competitor) Chris retire from the U.S. Air Force next month after 30 years of dedicated service. He has shown Liam how to shine his boots “the old-school way,” and gave him his own shoe shining kit, along with his personal Air Force patch that he wore on his uniform. He taught Riley the proper way to salute his brother, and he frequently stops by our site to offer nuggets of wisdom to Liam, who clings to every word as if it’s dripping with gold. Liam also rides bikes on Tuesdays with another retired Air Force officer and updates him on his CAP progress, while the nurse on the corner smiles empathetically at me every time Liam runs a lap by her campsite.

At the same time, I’m watching the kids wrestle through some growing pains in their relationships with each other. Riley, always and forever Liam’s wingman, is figuring out how to support Liam even when, for the first time since they were born, there’s some tension in their age difference. Riley seems a little more like the little brother, tagging along when we drop Liam off for CAP, while Liam is stretching out of his comfort zone as the usual leader to fit in with the older, more mature crowd. It’s a first for all of us, and it’s a challenge to help them navigate the healthy—though somewhat painful—changes in their relationship as Liam grows into a teenager, more serious about his future. CAP is a great opportunity for Liam to be mentored by older boys while still remaining close to his younger siblings at home. Riley is excited to join his brother as a cadet when he turns 12 as well.

And bless it, Eva is still just here for the snacks. My girl, sweet and spicy and super generous with hugs and kisses. She’s full of spunk and keeps us laughing with her spectacular sense of humor.

I’m excited for this phase of motherhood. I really am. We are really in the sweet spot, where our children are increasingly capable and self-sufficient, pursuing their own interests and still enthusiastically sharing their discoveries with us. I absolutely love watching them flourish and am their biggest cheerleader as they learn to fly (quite literally). But this phase requires more of me physically, mentally, spiritually, and emotionally, whether it’s praying for wisdom in mediating sibling conflict or pushing myself in PT right alongside Liam (I can’t have him in better shape than me when we hike the Pacific Crest Trail together) or keeping myself together when one of them pulls away ever so slightly toward their own independence. Mothering pre-teens demands a leveling up, and I’m here for it, even if it’s with fear and trembling.

Week in review: Library of Congress, Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture, and the U.S. Capitol

I’ve had this recurring dream for more than a decade that, after years of working as a professional adult, I learn that I never passed my high school Early American History class, and therefore my high school diploma and college degree are invalid. And so I scramble, trying to figure out how to re-take the class and earn my credentials. It’s a terrifying dream, and I always shake myself awake, dripping in sweat.

History was by far my worst subject in school; all the dates and people and wars and treaties and acts…it was all so overwhelming, and my brain could not keep the information straight. Basically every history class I ever took required a certain amount of negotiations with my instructors to convince them I deserved a good grade based solely on the amount of effort I put into studying, even if my tests didn’t reflect that effort. And the longer we live in the D.C. metro area, the more I realize just how much I missed out on in my American history classes growing up. This city is fascinating, and there is so much history to discover that it makes my head spin. This week, we explored more of our nation’s capital on two separate field trips, and I learned just as much as the kids about our government and history. Turns out, all I needed was a good field trip or two.

Tuesday, the kids and I spent the day in D.C. We first toured the Library of Congress, and then after enjoying lunch at sweetgreen, a fresh salad-bar spot, we walked nearly two miles to spend the couple of hours we had left introducing ourselves to the National Museum of African American History and Culture.

The Library of Congress was impressive in its stature and architectural details, but the one downside was that we visited on a Tuesday; this meant that the one reading room kids under the age of 16 are allowed into wasn’t even open. I didn’t understand this when reading the library’s Web site, because though the site says its Young Readers Center and Programs Lab is available Wednesday through Saturday, it also states that children can actually read book in the Children’s Collection, so I thought those were two different things. It was disappointing to learn upon arrival that the kids wouldn’t be able to see the children’s area at all, but we were still able to tour the Main Reading Room, which is available at specific times on a limited basis. It was a quick tour; we couldn’t touch anything and no one was allowed to speak. (I think it’s the quietest my kids have ever been.) There wasn’t a guide explaining details about the room. We walked in, circled the center walkway, and walked right back out (but not before I sat my kids on a bench in front of the huge wall clock and snapped their photo!).

We found a guide in the Great Hall who was more than happy to give the children a quick history lesson and some insight into the features of the library, including all the unusual baby carvings adorning the staircases. (Each one has a “job” and is holding or surrounded by objects that provide clues as to what that job is—farmer, teacher, printer, etc.) We enjoyed seeing the Gutenberg Bible, and understanding the significance of the printing process in distributing copies of the Bible into the hands of common citizens. We perused Thomas Jefferson’s library and watched a video about the importance of photography in history in the Southwest Gallery. We saw the first map ever printed with America labeled on it—“our nation’s birth certificate, if you will,” the library volunteer remarked. A gentleman from Egypt was studying the map and explained to us the history of his region and how he couldn’t recognize any of the names of the surrounding countries because they were in Latin and from “a long, long time ago.”

I, for one, could not get over the intricate mosaic tile floors, and found myself (as I typically do) photographing the floors more than the artifacts in such buildings. The Italian Renaissance Beaux-Arts style architecture really is something to behold, and it’s always amazing to me how these buildings were constructed with such elaborate detail.

After the Library of Congress, we grabbed a quick bite before walking to the African American History and Culture Museum. This building, located on the corner facing the White House and the Washington Monument, has always caught my eye when walking down the streets near the Mall. It’s absolutely stunning, and the inside is even more so.

We only had two hours inside the museum, and we barely made it halfway through the concourses on the bottom floor that highlight the earliest African-American history. We took our time, reading all of the displays and discussing each one. A lot of the information presented in the first exhibit was material we’d already studied in school multiple times, but the museum really brought history to life, and I was determined not to brush past any of the displays or treat any of it as common. As a white, Christian family with ancestry rooted in enslavement of African-Americans, our role at this museum was to lament, to grieve, to resolve to fight for progress. It was emotionally gripping, to say the least. I understand the reason there is a contemplative court, a large room with a cascading waterfall and fountain where individuals can catch their breath, reflect, and process all of the information before moving on from the history galleries. After just two hours in the history collections, including spending some time in the Emmett Till Memorial Room, we needed it. And as the court was half-full, I recognized that we weren’t the only ones.

We also enjoyed the music collection in the Culture Galleries on the fourth level before we left the museum, where we saw priceless memorabilia from the likes of James Brown, Jimmi Hendrix, Louis Armstrong, Aretha Franklin, and the Jackson Five, just to name a few. We also made sure to set our eyes on the Black Panther costume, of course.

Yesterday, our entire family scheduled a tour of the U.S. Capitol. We had an amazing tour guide named Charlie, and we were able to see the original Supreme Court room (where they met in the 1800s), the Rotunda, the Crypt, and the National Statuary Hall, or the “Old Hall of the House,” where the House of Representatives originally met.

The Rotunda is of course breathtaking, with its beautiful paintings, statues, and architectural details. We craned our necks to view the cast iron dome ceiling’s The Apotheosis of Washington 180 feet up, painted in the fresco technique by Constantino Brumidi in 1865. The mural is beautiful, but as in the Library of Congress, where there are impressively built brazen images of Roman gods and goddesses, I wrestle with the idea of elevating our first president to the rank of a god (which is what apotheosis actually means). It baffles me why we glorify our historical figures to that magnitude, even considering their contributions to our nation…but I digress.

In the Crypt, Charlie explained that the plethora of sandstone columns (40 total) were in fact built to the support the structure of the Rotunda above it, weighing millions of pounds. Charlie took a moment to point out the markings of hand tools on the columns, which were constructed by enslaved labor. We took a moment of silence to honor those who built the Crypt, literally with their bare hands, and in remorse for the fact that enslaved people were forced to build our nation’s symbol of a nation for its people, called to be free.

It’s called “the Crypt” because it was originally intended to sit atop the burial sites of George and Martha Washington; however, they remained buried at their home at Mount Vernon. In the center of the room is a white marble “compass stone” that marks the exact center of Washington, D.C., where the four quadrants it was divided into actually meet. The Capitol features two statues submitted from each state in our nation; the Crypt houses 13 statues, from the original 13 colonies.

The resounding message of the Capitol tour was that this building was built for the people, where our representatives and senators work to further the interests of the people of this nation. This is our Capitol, Charlie repeated frequently. It was built for us. But what does that mean, exactly? That we should trust our lawmakers have our best interests at heart? That when those interests seem compromised, we can storm the doors of the Capitol and wreak havoc on our own house? Or that we should find ways to engage with our leaders more regularly rather than sticking our heads in the sand and leaving the policies to the professionals?

Honestly, there’s a lot to unpack here for me personally. It’s hard to marvel over marble and stone when I know the hands that touched it were in shackles. It’s hard to stand in awe of our leaders and decision-makers, when I know that back-door, underhanded political games take place within these walls. I wrestle so much with our nation’s dark history, mingled with a solemn appreciation for the men (and women, enslaved and free), who built this country. Their decisions and actions are grievous and horrifying at times, but they also showed tremendous courage and resilience. And so I’m learning to accept our nation for what it is: a hot mess. (No, just kidding.) It’s ever-evolving, complex, imperfect. It’s a beautifully diverse land with a complicated, messy history, working out its redemption the best way it knows how, growing and learning along the way. And I’m learning right along with it.

D.C. lately.

We just reveled in a couple of weekends of incredible autumn colors here in the D.C. metro area, and those humid, sultry days have been replaced by fresh sunny breezes and chilly evenings. The leaves are so vibrant they appear to be ablaze in the sunlight, and daily they fall like confetti to create a crunchy blanket covering the ground. Yesterday, the kids and I spent the afternoon with rakes and clippers clearing out the campground’s walking trail in the woods surrounding the property. I’m thrilled to have such a beautiful spot to hike in nature right in my backyard.

Our family has had some enjoyable outings exploring the nation’s capital since we moved here, so I thought I would summarize them all here in a quick recap:

THE WHITE HOUSE

Our family was invited along with the Australian embassy staff to the official arrival ceremony for the Australian prime minister, Anthony Albanese. We awoke while it was still dark, dressed in our nicest business attire, and scurried along Pennsylvania Avenue to go through multiple security checkpoints to stand on the south lawn with hundreds of others, waving our miniature Australian and United States flags and tiptoeing to catch glimpses of the diplomat with President Biden.

What was most memorable to me about the experience was how excited the Australians were to be at the White House, even appearing more so than the Americans. It gave me some food for thought for the day, and I gained a renewed sense of gratitude to live in the U.S. As dysfunctional as our country can be at times, it’s still a place I’m grateful to live, and I appreciate our international partners who’ve stood by our side for the long haul. In this current world climate, no ally is insignificant.

THE EMBASSY OF AUSTRALIA

After the arrival ceremony at the White House, Kelley walked us inside the embassy for a quick tour of his office. We were able to snap a few pictures of the kids, since they were dressed up so nicely (this was the boys’ first time wearing suits), and then we perused the Aboriginal and Indigenous Australian artwork and met some more of his coworkers. The Australians are extraordinarily warm and welcoming! And I basically want to move in to this stunning mid-century modern building, or at least model our next home after it. The Pacific Northwest vibes made me giddy!

ARLINGTON NATIONAL CEMETERY

The same week of the arrival ceremony, we were also invited to attend P.M. Albanese’s wreath hanging ceremony at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington National Cemetery. What an absolute humbling experience to walk through the unending rows of white marble tombstones, knowing each one represents a name, a person, a life given to protect the freedom my family enjoys. Before our visit, the kids and I spent an afternoon learning about the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier—the history behind the monument, the intense training and preparation the soldiers go through to become guards, the rituals they perform around the clock, how fiercely they protect the tomb. It’s all so intense and beautiful. We were honored to witness a foreign leader pay tribute to the unknown soldiers around the world who laid down their lives for others.

INTERNATIONAL SPY MUSEUM

Be forewarned: the International Spy Museum is a sensory nightmare. Cool? Absolutely. But also, five minutes in, I couldn’t breathe.

I purchased a family membership and we arranged our first visit for Liam’s birthday. I added on a birthday kit, which was full of everything we would need to go on a secret group mission through the museum. (And it came with fake mustaches!) But the museum experience already included a secret virtual mission, so now we had two to keep track of.

Let me back up a little…Our stress started when we tried to fit our giant extended length Ford Expedition into a tiny side-street parking lot. Then, we got turned around walking to find the building and then its entrance (listen, that part of D.C. is CONFUSING and there are LAYERS of streets involved), and I had drunk a bottle of water and travel mug of coffee, so I needed to pee so bad I was sweating. By the time we got to the building I was hot, irritable, and overstimulated from the traffic noise. So, when I was handed a drawstring backpack full of reading material that I was to digest in the 2.3 minutes we had before our ticket call time, I was sweating for a whole other reason. And my family was in a hurry. I frantically tried to rally the troops to decide on our group cover story as we were walking toward the elevator with a group of people. Immediately when we stepped off the elevator, we had to grab badges and get started on our cover for the museum tour. And not only did I have my own information to memorize, I also had to quickly memorize the kids’ as well (WHY ARE MOMS THE KEEPERS OF ALL THE INFORMATION??). The first 20 minutes of our visit was just more of that. Add in the changing, flashing lights and ambient and crowd noises and bodies, and my sensory-challenged brain began shutting down.

Thankfully, my husband made the executive decision to save the birthday mission for another day, after we’d toured the building and gained our bearings, and we slowed our pace waaaay down. I was able to reunite with my body and enjoy the museum.

This place is actually really cool and filled to the brim with intriguing information. I highly recommend a visit, and if you’re a family like ours and plan to go more than once, the family annual membership will more than pay for itself. (It already has for us after two visits.)

SMITHSONIAN NATIONAL AIR AND SPACE MUSEUM

Okay, so we didn’t actually have a lot of time to spend in this one (or energy, as we dropped in this museum after our day at Arlington National Cemetery and visit to the Spy Museum), but it’s on our list to revisit because it is so cool! We spent most of our time in the Wright Brothers exhibit and at the Pan Am display, after spending a solid 20 minutes in one of the museum’s “quiet rooms” in the basement so we could rest our legs and gain a second wind. (You can see how tired they were in the last photo.) My favorite part was seeing the actual first plane that Wilbur and Orville Wright created.

SMITHSONIAN NATIONAL MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY

This has by far been my favorite part about D.C. We visited this museum after watching Night at the Museum with the kids. (We also stopped by the National Archives to see the original Declaration of Independence after watching National Treasure, so I guess we’re starting a trend.)

My first time ever in D.C. was back in May when we visited after Kelley’s job interview in Pennsylvania, and I still cannot get over how beautiful the buildings are here. The architecture is exquisite; I kept getting distracted from the exhibits by the marble mouldings and breathtaking rotundas. The only thing more breathtaking was the Hope Diamond, which I didn’t know existed until our visit, when I realized I was on the wrong side of the glass that encased the 45-carat rock. If only they allowed try-ons! “Yes, I’ll try the Hope Diamond with the Marie Antoinette Earrings and the Indian emerald necklace, please…”

SMITHSONIAN ZOO

Honey, you had me at free zoo. Ok, so it doesn’t hold a candle to say, the San Diego or Memphis zoos, but who doesn’t love walking around a zoo? We came to the D.C. zoo on our Pennsylvania trip, but the kids and I returned recently (after our White House visit) to say goodbye to the Smithsonian’s pandas, which are heading back to China in December. The only ones left in the U.S. will be at the Atlanta Zoo until the end of 2024, so if you live in the states and wanted to see a panda in-person, you’re running out of time. Goodbye, sweet Mei Xiang. Ta ta, Tian Tian. See you later, Xioa Qi Ji.

I was a little sad watching the pandas gorge themselves into a sleepy stupor on bamboo in their individual cages. I always loved seeing the different types of bears at the zoo as a kid (sloth and polar bears are my personal favorite). I hate to think that this may be the last time our kids can watch the pandas at a zoo, though it’s nice to know the Smithsonian zoo has played a pivotal role in restoring the panda population through its conservation efforts.

AROUND THE CITY

Over the past few months, we’ve also been able to see the Lincoln Memorial, the Potomac waterfront, and the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History. Kelley and I attended a James Bond-themed black tie event at the embassy. It took me four hours to get ready and resembled the scene in Miss Congeniality in which Sandra Bullock was getting transformed into pageant-ready Gracey Lou Freebush. This is DEFCON-1, guys! Bring out the sandblaster. Grab the shellac! I bought a $40 dress on Amazon and pulled my pearls and heels out of storage. And then the dress got a hole in it when I cut the tag out of the seam, and Kelley had to sew me up right as we were heading out the door. But we were handed a free glass of champagne at the door and enjoyed chatting up the Aussies.

We’ve been apple picking in the countryside, seashell hunting in the Chesapeake Bay, and people watching at the recreational park down the road. We love spotting the Washington Monument or the Capitol dome peaking out at us above the buildings when we drive downtown. History was always my worst subject in school, but being in our nation’s capital really makes it come alive, and I find I’m learning just as much as the kids. Can’t wait to explore more!

The fruit that's in season.

This morning, Eva tiptoed across the living room in the darkness and gently knocked on my door. “Come in,” I answered, barely above a whisper. I was ready; this first moment of the day is quite possibly my favorite. I scooted my Bible and notebook out of the way to make room and set my lidded travel coffee cup on my bedside ledge (having learned my lesson from Monday’s coffee debacle).

She slid the door open and stood in my doorway in her floral nightgown, her little eyes all squinty and her blonde hair wildly tousled and tangled from sleep, clutching her mint green silky bamboo blanket and stuffed weighted unicorn. She crawled up in my bed on Kelley’s side, scooted under the covers, and snuggled close, pulling the quilt up under her dimpled chin.

Almost every morning she wakes up when Kelley leaves for work and hoists herself up in my bed while the boys sleep. It’s a small moment, but I can smell her coconut detangler in her hair as I scoop her up in my arms and brush her bangs back to kiss her forehead, only her and I in the still of the morning, and I just want her never to stop tiptoeing in my room to snuggle, even when she’s a full-grown adult with a high-paying job and a studio apartment in the city. (Or whatever. You know what I mean.)

I’m really thankful for moments like these, especially with this being the first month back to school. My emotions are a mixed bag, honestly. No matter how much mental and emotional prep work I go through each summer to teach from rest and protect their wild and free hearts, I still have to fight the urge to cling to my lengthy lesson plans with impressive rigidity and attempt to cram as much knowledge as I can down their throats throughout the course of the day, like trying to make them eat their vegetables or take their vitamins.

Here, let’s do flash cards! We have to finish our Summer Bridge books, so one lesson every day in those! Your first essay is due Friday! Here’s your read-aloud and your independent reading and your for-fun reading and science reading! Here’s a video about Australia! Let’s finish before lunch so we can study the world map and memorize all the continents and countries and bodies of water before Dad gets home for dinner!

Every. Single. Year.

Maybe it’s because I know homeschoolers still have somewhat of a reputation of being out-of-touch and weird (think denim jumpsuits and home-cut bangs), which means we study extra hard to prove everyone wrong and make sure our children’s education is setting them up for success and teaching them appropriate social skills. I also fight the panic that there’s so much to teach and time is running out, and by mid-morning everyone’s in tears, including the dog (who’s still a little mad that Kelley went back to work).

But there are so many sweet surprises along the way, and every one of them just makes homeschooling that much more fulfilling.

Like the other day, when Eva fell apart during her math lesson, and Liam (Liam! Who normally thinks his sister is the proverbial thorn in his side) went and grabbed her unicorn and blanket for her and wrapped her in a hug. “It’s okay, Eva. I sometimes have trouble with math, too,” he said, patting her head. It was a few minutes before I could scoop up my heart, which had melted into a puddle on the kitchen floor, and stuff it back into my chest.

Or when the kids spent hours one afternoon on the wooden tree-fort playground with their friends, “insulating” the fort with dried grass clippings and leaves for the upcoming winter as if they were pioneers.

Homeschool kids, amiright?

Or the days earlier on in the month when we finished our studies quickly and spent the afternoon at the pool.

Or last night, when we hosted a family cuddle party on our bed while Riley read everyone a book about a wombat named Chance.

Or the afternoon we spent fumbling through OneRepublic’s “Sunshine”—Liam and me on acoustic guitars, Riley on his cajon, and Eva belting out vocals into a wooden spoon microphone. (My dream of a family band is finally coming true! I can practically hear it now!)

It’s fine. We’re all fine. We’re all going to be fine.

To be completely transparent, I’ve felt a little lost since we got to Maryland. Now that we aren’t traveling and are working to replenish our savings and catch up financially, I’ve been searching for contract or remote work, with no luck. It seems that after a decade out of the creative field, I am way out of my league (even with 20 years of experience! Ugh.) It’s a whole new ballgame, this business of job hunting as a writer, and I’ve been on the bench for too long. Like, I am the homeroom mom to all the other candidates, bringing them snacks and smoothing their hair and straightening their ties. (Do people even wear ties anymore? I’m not sure.) Not to mention that we are still finding our footing here and have yet to dive into any regular activities or community, so life’s been looking a little strange and lonely, like parachuting into a foreign country of which you don’t speak the language or recognize any of the landmarks. It’s been difficult to get my bearings.

So homeschool is the one thing that I have going at the moment—which I realize is a blessing, and I’m grateful for it; don’t get me wrong. But I still fight this ambitious alter ego that strives for a bigger purpose, more vision, clearer direction. And there are days where I feel like it’s not enough, like I’m not doing enough with my life. As if training, discipling, loving, and educating my children isn’t a worthy cause, or quite possibly my life’s most important work, just because it doesn’t bring in a paycheck. On those days, it can be tempting to overcompensate, to use my kids’ educational experience as validation of my own worth as a person. Hence, all the stacking of assignments and cramming of knowledge.

But like the singer/songwriter Ben Rector says, I’m learning how to eat the fruit that is in season.

This phase of life may not look how I think it should. It may come at a slower pace, but that doesn’t mean it’s unfruitful. We all know that slow cookers yield the tastiest meals, right? In fact, the rewarding thing about home education is that I can already catch glimpses of the fruit budding, taking shape, ripening, and brightening, and man is it sweet! These slower mornings full of cuddles and afternoons of sunshine-dotted walks and evenings with home-cooked meals around the table—this time at home with my kids is such a treasure, but it won’t last forever. So, this school year, I’m re-learning how to embrace the season we’re in, see the beauty and fruitfulness in it, and soak up every drop of goodness.

There's no crying over spilled coffee.

This morning, at exactly 7:02, I spilled the entire contents of my coffee cup onto my bed, soaking through seven layers of bedding, saving only my bare mattress. This one mistake changed the course of my entire morning, much like giving a mouse a cookie or a moose a muffin (or a cat a cupcake) will take all of your day and leave you in need of a housekeeper and a nap.

Because I then had to get up and get dressed, stain-treat and drag my coverlet, blanket, quilt, top sheet, bottom sheet, and mattress cover in my all-terrain bright blue collapsible wagon to the laundry room across the campground. But since I was already doing laundry—and heavy bedding at that—I decided this was as good a time as any to wash the kids’ bedding. It had been an embarrassingly long time since we’d washed their sheets for no other reason than because it’s a hassle to re-make their beds on the curved RV mattresses.

And since we were washing that much laundry anyway, I might as well wash whatever clothes were in the laundry basket from the weekend.

Did I mention I’d already washed my sheets just two days ago, on Saturday? So they were clean, except for the giant coffee stain. But I digress.

Liam then decided that since all the bedding was being washed, he would vacuum the mattresses—and under the mattresses—and while the vacuum was out, he’d vacuum the floor, too.

And since their bedding was getting clean, all the kids proceeded to clean out and organize the baskets of trinkets and suitcases of clothes they keep on their bunks.

While the six washers of laundry were at work, I stain-treated and spot cleaned my mattress topper (not to be confused with the mattress cover, which was machine washable) and dried it with a blowdryer.

After that, the dog threw up, so the floor had to be cleaned…again. When I took him out, he jumped all over me in an attempt to play, and my clothes got mud on them and I twisted my ankle. Too bad my coffee-soaked bedding had already eaten all my quarters. Oh well, into the hamper my clothes went for the next laundry day…

Four hours and $20 of laundry later, we were done.

Thankfully, since we homeschool, I pivoted and called today a reading skills lab day, rather than trying to dive head-first into our curriculum halfway through the day. We just weren’t feeling it.

We are now all sitting on our clean, cozy beds, the interior of our RV draped in battery-operated fairy lights, reading the books we picked up this weekend at the library. This is our comeback.

Two things about today: First, I knew my cup was going to spill. I knew, and I did nothing to stop it. When Kelley handed me my hot coffee, I set the cup (a travel mug with a lid, to add insult to injury—it had a LID, for crying out loud!) on my bed rather than on the stable, sturdy shelf next to my bed. And when I did, I had the quiet thought of it possibly tipping over and spilling. It was such a delicate, non-intrusive thought that I brushed it off and set my cup on the soft covers anyway while I reached for my glasses and put away my earplugs and mouthguard. (Yes, I sound like an old woman, and I care exactly none percent.)

I didn’t even notice my cup tipped and was spilling its contents all over my bed. It had plenty of time and did the task with excellence, unhurried. And that’s what I get for ignoring my intuition. Or maybe that small voice was the Holy Spirit trying to warn me, and ignoring him cost me $20 and four hours. Let that be a lesson for all of us.

The second thing to mention is that I met a new friend in the laundry room while I was babysitting the dryers and adding 15 minutes of more time through the quarter slot as needed (which is cheaper than having to start the dryers over on a new cycle, and I’m not a chump). She has four children, and her husband is a government contractor in AVL, of all things. (See my most recent work history.) She used to homeschool, and may return to it in the future, but for now her kids are thriving in public school locally. We talked for almost an hour over the hum and radiating heat of the commercial dryers.

I’ve been praying for us to meet some new friends, as the pool of candidates isn’t super promising at this campground, and we only have the one car at the moment, reducing our opportunities to get out and meet people during the week. I wouldn’t have met her had I not spilled my coffee. And so the second lesson of the day is that God works in mysterious ways. And He can work all things—even spilled coffee—for our good.

I also feel I should mention that today is somehow a public school holiday, so our neighbors’ kids are home from school, which has changed the atmosphere of our day almost as much as the laundry situation. These are the neighbors that begin yelling at each other at about 6:45 in the morning, every morning. Every morning, they step out of their RV volleying expletives back and forth like tennis balls and continue their argument into the street as they walk their kids to the school bus stop, their youngest (who isn’t in school yet) trailing behind, releasing her blood-curdling screams whenever her siblings look at her funny. I actually noticed this morning that I didn’t wake up to obscenities, and it’s because they all slept in.

Today, they have erected a creepy life-size doll at the corner of their site as a Halloween decoration, and it perpetually talks and moves while holding its own creepy little doll. Imagine if Chucky and the black-haired girl inside the television from the movie The Ring procreated. Their evil spawn is now pointed at our site like they are trying to send us a message. It’s going to be a loooong month and a half. Geez, I really hate Halloween.

One of the kids at their site is currently practicing her cello (which is as tall as she is) out in their little yard, and it somehow makes the Halloween doll that much creepier, like the discordant, ominous background music in a horror movie. They are entertaining and terrifying, all at the same time.

In other, brighter news, we may get to move sites soon, and the new one is larger and quieter than this one. I can hardly wait.

Happy Monday, everyone!

One man's trailer trash is another man's treasure.

Things aren’t always what they seem, are they?

This morning, when Kelley left early for work, I turned on the fairy string lights draped over the window in my bedroom. I tiptoed to the kitchen, poured a splash of nondairy creamer in my coffee, climbed back up in bed, and reached for my Bible and journal.

After an hour of quiet time, the kids woke up. Liam took the dog out and fed him, while Eva and Riley poured themselves bowls of Cheerios. I slid into some workout clothes, chopped onions and garlic, and mixed them with avocados and fresh squeezed limes for guacamole.  I sliced bell peppers and put them in a container in the fridge for lunch. I steamed a pot of rice in the Instant Pot, and then I cleared out the pot and seared pork loin to slow-cook, marinated in chipotle seasoning, all day. By mid-morning, lunch and dinner were prepped. Next on the list: laundry and a workout.

It was probably a typical morning for a lot of households. Except that we did all of this on wheels.

We’re back at it, living in the RV, in a campground outside of Washington, D.C. My kids have met some very sweet homeschool kids and have been re-enacting their version of the American Revolution on the treehouse-themed playground every day since we moved here a week ago, as typical homeschool kids do. We lounged at the pool on Kelley’s last day of sabbatical before returning to work. We’ve gone for leisurely walks as a family after dinner, played board games around our dining table, kicked a soccer ball with Ranger at the dog park, and almost entirely blown through the stack of library books we picked up this past weekend at the local library.

We also enjoyed treats from a gluten-free bakery in D.C. that we discovered after spending hours in the National Museum of American History a couple of weekends ago, learning about farming and industry. Last weekend we explored Annapolis, with its sailboats and bay breeze.

There is still such a trailer trash stigma about RV life. There are those even in my own extended family who picture us caked in dirt living in a van down by the river. And I get it. I really do. But there’s something about proximity that gives perspective. The people we’ve met here are mostly kind, humble, hardworking, friendly folk who have just decided that they’d rather live simply with financial surplus than be house-poor in our current economic climate, where the interest rates are more than double what they were 10 years ago and down payments are more than a yearly salary and mortgages are thousands of dollars a month. Or those in the military or medical field who travel full-time for work. You might find that one single mom who chain-smokes and yells expletives at her kids, or the retired veteran who’s a little rough around the edges and mostly keeps to himself and his maltipoo, but they just provide extra entertainment and talking points for the rest of us.

While I was walking Ranger a few days ago, I met a lady who was working remotely on her deck (that she and her husband built under shade trees on their campsite), and we chatted as our dogs frolicked together. She and her husband are both in the U.S. Coast Guard and are stationed in this area for three years, so living the RV life made sense for them. Plus, they scored the best site in the campground. I was admiring her beautiful outdoor space, with potted flowers and tall trees that had Edison lights laced through them above her patio umbrella and a wooden-plank walkway stretching from the deck to her parking space. They’ve made it a home, and there’s nothing trashy about it. (Kelley and I now have a standing invitation to hang out with them on their porch any evening we want, and we absolutely plan to take them up on the offer.)

I also made a new friend (the mom of the other homeschooled kids) last week and chatted for an hour while our kids examined baby squirrels and an injured rat snake that her neighbor, who works with animals, is caring for. He’s a wildlife expert and gave them a free science lesson. That afternoon, I baked cookies for the “neighborhood kids” and listened to Eva read a story from her book of fairy tales. The kids are enjoying riding their bikes around the campground, something they couldn’t do while we lived in an apartment last year. We are soaking up the last few days of summer vacation before diving back into school.

Our lives are very similar to what they were in our brick-and-mortar home in Portland, except that we now have a pool, a playground, a recreation center, and walking trails in our backyard. And we pay about a third of what we’d shell out for a modest apartment in the D.C. area. (Plus, we don’t have to buy any furniture, since we sold all of ours when we left the PNW.) I’d rather keep my extra rent and utilities in my bank account, thank you very much.

Today, as we wait for our laundry to finish its wash cycle, Riley is practicing playing pool and Eva and Liam are competing in a game of darts while I work on our budget and make a grocery list. (I guess this is another Musings from a Campground Laundry Room post. It’s where I do my deepest thinking.) I had a nice conversation earlier with a gentleman who is here on vacation while his daughter attends hockey camp. He recently moved to Delaware from the Bay Area in California. That’s another thing about full-time RV life—you meet people from all over the country and all walks of life. Another former Californian, Marcia, whom we met Sunday in the dog park with her Chihuahua, Baby, took a cross-country road trip until her truck broke down in Maryland…and she decided to stay and start a new life here. It was a happy little accident; she brings that California sunshine every time I run into her.

Kelley texted me on his first day of work at his new position: Just casually eating my lunch inside the Australian Embassy, no biggie. I giggled—they’d never know he actually lives in an RV.

But then again, things aren’t always what they seem.

We're moving to D.C.!

Monday morning, I sat in the mauve microsuede recliner in the upstairs bedroom in my in-laws’ house where we’ve been staying, watching my husband prepare for yet another job interview over Zoom.

He set up a small folding table in front of the shuttered folding closet doors and set a wooden chair from the kitchen at his makeshift desk. Then he slid the towering stack of Rubbermaid totes housing our kids’ books and puzzle and random school supplies just out of view of his laptop camera, and I smiled. If the people he’s interviewing with could only see the rest of the room…

It was a very humanizing view, one that took me back to the pandemic era when adults everywhere were shoving junk out of the way of their background for Zoom meetings, pairing suit jackets and ties with pajama pants or jogging shorts, shutting out noisy pets and toddlers in hopes of a few uninterrupted minutes to get work done. We were all just doing our best to make a good impression while we let our coworkers and employers and clients sneak a peak into our home lives.

It’s the same ritual he’d repeated for countless interviews. Time after time, he’d received positive feedback but then lost the opportunity to an internal candidate. It had been a discouraging cycle. But this time seemed different. There was fresh hope in the air, and also a more intense sense of surrender. We knew that, even though he was fully qualified for the position, it would have to be God who delivered it into his hands.

I was rocking in that same mauve recliner two hours later, answering an email, when Kelley burst in the room, the sound of a woman’s Australian accent coming through his speakerphone. He walked in just in time for us both to hear her say the words we’d been praying for: “We all just really enjoyed getting to know you and think you’re such a great fit for our team. We’d love to offer you the position.”

Immediately, both of our heads dropped in overwhelming relief. Months of intense prayer, listening for God’s voice, following his direction through those small stirrings in our spirits, even when we appeared foolish, then experiencing disappointment and reevaluating the moves we’ve made over the past year, questioning whether we were still on the right path, still hearing His voice. We’d persevered. We fumbled through faith and trust, looking for the joy in the unknown, in the waiting.

And it was all worth it. God came through. And in a bigger way than we could have ever dreamed.

Kelley accepted the amazing job offer for a position in Washington, D.C., with one of the biggest and most prestigious international facilities management companies in the world, managing the account for the Embassy of Australia with more than 20 embassy facilities throughout North America.

Y’all, I just can’t.

I can’t even utter the words out without giggling. It doesn’t seem possible. Just a couple of months ago he was interviewing with PetSmart, and we were just excited about the potential employee discount on dog food. (Ironically, while our family was in Pennsylvania for that interview, we decided to take a day trip with the kids to D.C. and absolutely loved it.) But God has a reputation of doing the impossible, of whispering, “Dream a little bigger.” And He’s the only one who can take the credit for this miracle.

He’s also right on time, and when He moves, He moves quickly. Our family is moving to the D.C. area this weekend, and Kelley will start work around the end of the month. We are heading up north filled with gratitude, awe, and wonder. We’ve had a full year of living by faith, moment by moment, relishing our family time, resting and healing and stretching and growing. It has been such a gift.

There aren’t even adequate words to describe what this position means to our family. Maybe one day I’ll find the language I’m searching for to fully tell our story, but I can look back over the past 20 years of walking beside Kelley and see that God has used everything Kelley has gone through in his career to prepare him for this moment.

I couldn’t be prouder to walk beside Kelley and call him my husband. And I couldn’t be more grateful to the Lord for the ways He’s guided us, provided for us, and exceeded our every expectation. He is entirely faithful.

A beautiful spectrum.

At the beginning of 2021, our son Riley was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder.

Today, at almost 40 years old, I was, too.

Though the symptoms have been there as long as I can remember, way back into early childhood, I didn’t become aware of them as indicators of something deeper going on until we went through the diagnostic process with our son. (When I got married, I quickly discovered that I had quite a few quirks, it seemed—like leaving cabinet doors and drawers cracked because I didn’t like the noise they made when they shut, or how the towels all had to be folded and put away a certain way or I’d need to refold them—but the line of thinking didn’t really go any further than that.) But as we progressed in his assessment, lightbulbs kept going off in my head for my own life experiences. It was as if all my life, I’d been fumbling through the dark and someone finally hit the light switch. My entire life began to make sense as I viewed it in retrospect with new eyes.

How I’d never felt like I fit in—anywhere. I perpetually felt like a square peg trying to cram myself into a round hole. (And it didn’t help that, as I was growing up, having red hair, fair skin, glasses, and freckles were the actual definition of a freak. I really stuck out.)

I have never been very good at reading body language or reading between the lines in social interactions. I have a very black-and-white way of thinking, fumbling through gray areas like walking in quicksand. I use humor as a buffer for my social anxiety but rarely know the line between appropriate and inappropriate jokes. I have been blessed with some truly deep and fulfilling friendships, but in general, relationships are both challenging and exhausting for me, my mind constantly at work trying to interpret data input that seems to be written in another language. It wasn’t until we sifted through information about ASD with our son that I realized what I’d done my whole life to survive social situations was called masking. I just thought I was a bit of a copycat. (Hey, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?)

And then there are the host of sensory issues: lights, sounds, textures, bright colors, smells. I have always been ultra sensitive to them, to the point of almost physical pain. Perfumes and fragrances—or the person smoking in their car two cars over at a stoplight—give me an instant massive headache. I’m weird about food textures. Which is difficult when you grow up in a home where “picky eating” isn’t an option, so you stifle gags on soft or slimy foods at the dinner table. Or when you are a young mom listening to your toddlers squeal and laugh over loud noises from their battery-operated toys and wish you could tear your ears off.

And that’s just scratching the surface. I’ve spent most of my life feeling extraordinarily misunderstood. Why can’t I just get my act together? Why do I have so much trouble being in a group setting? Why can’t I follow through on this or that goal? Why can’t I just act normal, for crying out loud?!

But today, sitting in that practitioner’s office listening to my diagnosis, it felt as if the 2-ton weight of shame and guilt and mysterious otherness I’d carried my whole life was lifted off my shoulders. There was a reason why I struggle so much—an actual deficit that I have to work through to function. Oddly enough, it was such a relief.

I’m sharing this only because I know I’m not alone. It’s estimated that about 80 percent of females with autism are still undiagnosed by the age of 18. Boys are diagnosed at a much higher rate—about four times as much—in childhood because autism presents differently in males versus females. Because females are naturally inclined to fit in socially, we often mask some of the tell-tale signs that would afford us a diagnosis. So we just struggle in silence, masking our challenges, imitating our social cues from others just to survive our social circles.

What makes it more difficult is that autism is a blanket word for a spectrum of behaviors and challenges. As the saying goes, if you’ve met one person with autism…well then, you’ve met one person with autism. It presents differently in each person, and with those of us who are high functioning or even gifted intellectually, what are often symptoms of autism are seen as byproducts of a high IQ or creative ability.

I don’t have the language to express how validating, how reassuring, it is to be able to put a name to what I’ve felt about myself for a while. I grew up in an environment where naming a disorder or sickness or ailment was to give it power over you. Sort of like, you don’t want to put it out there into the universe or label yourself by anything negative because Jesus overcame that thing. And it was seen as victimization or attention-seeking to bring up something that was wrong with you, like you were wearing it as a badge of honor or something.

But that line of thinking assumes that having autism is a bad thing. And if I were to say that it is, I would be saying that there’s something wrong with Riley, too. And we just don’t see it that way. Riley is brilliant and unique, and we’ve loved discovering how his mind works. It’s fascinating and just makes us love him even more than we thought possible. No, there is nothing wrong with Riley, so I can’t believe that about myself, either.

Autism spectrum disorder isn’t a crutch or an excuse, or even an identity. It’s simply, and thankfully, an explanation. It’s a way to understand how my brain is wired, and how I interpret the world around me through neurodivergence. It’s also a starting point. The first year after Riley’s diagnosis was spent engaging in multiple therapies to assist him in developing tools to successfully navigate his world, tools that he can utilize to combat social anxiety and mental and emotional overwhelm. I know I can benefit from some of those tools, too.

There are also strengths to be found in neurodivergence. I’m a sensitive person, but that means I pick up on other people’s struggles or moods and can sense when they need encouragement. I’m honest (okay, maybe I could work on my filters a little more, but you can at least count on me to always tell the truth). And I’m highly strategic; I see and perceive things that others many not have thought of, which can be helpful in group settings or strategic work meetings.

Knowing I have autism now is also helpful in continuing to offer Riley the care he needs; I understand his world better than anyone and can help steer him into healthy behavioral patterns. When I was growing up, there was very little acknowledgement or understanding of ASD aside from those who experienced severe handicaps. But with all the information we have and are still seeking out about neurodivergence, and all of the tools that are now available, I can be a better advocate not just for our son, but also for myself.

And more than that, I can know that I’m doing my best, and that’s simply enough.

Waiting and trusting and praying and hoping.

Sleet stung my face like microscopic darts of freezing fire. It was as if the sky was as brokenhearted as I was to be leaving Oregon, our home. I stood impatiently, hopping from one foot to the next, generating as much body heat as possible under my thin raincoat in that storage unit parking lot, watching Kelley help a local stranger hook up our travel trailer to his truck. I fumbled with my phone in the freezing rain, freezing droplets dotting the screen as I electronically transferred the funds to pay our deposit. With every drop of sleet, I grew more agitated, more desperate. I prayed silently, Lord, please keep our home safe. Please let this man be trustworthy…

It was two months ago that Kelley and I drove to Portland from Mississippi to load up the rest of our belongings that had been sitting in storage, abandoned in boxes for months—kitchenware and bikes and hope of a future still to come in the Pacific Northwest. We met a guy who would haul our RV across the country to where we have been visiting family. We loaded our boxes into a small Uhaul trailer. We ate our favorite Portland foods and hugged our friends’ necks and cried through excruciating goodbyes. Goodbye, Douglas firs. Goodbye, snow-capped mountains. Goodbye, food trucks. Finally, we traveled more than 3,000 miles over three days, dodging weather hazards by driving south to L.A. and then eastward to meet three freckled, smiling faces who awaited us in Mississippi.

It was a step of faith. Kelley had just finished his third interview for a job in Nashville, Tennessee, and we were waiting to hear back on next steps. We felt excitement about the opportunity and had agreed that it was time to say goodbye to Oregon, to start a new life elsewhere in the country, so this was a way to put action to our faith.

As we welcomed the new year in 2022, my prayer was that the Lord would strengthen our faith. It was not enough that I have faith in Jesus, faith that He hears and answers my prayer; I wanted to experience what Scripture means when it says the righteous will live by faith. Day-to-day, hour-by-hour, minute-by-minute total dependence on the Holy Spirit to guide us, on our Heavenly Father to provide for us.

This seems like an ancient notion, an overspiritualization, especially in America with all our grit and determination and resources and self-sufficiency. Even our contingencies have backup plans. But I began to see in Scripture that perhaps that kind of faith, the kind of faith that plans for what will happen if God doesn’t come through, isn’t really faith at all. When uncovered, Fear is there, hovering in the shadows, calling the shots, demanding that we be practical, responsible.

So, I prayed for big faith. Bold faith. Manna from Heaven, daily bread, mountain-moving kind of faith. (I can be a little intense at times.) I wanted the kind of faith that honors God. The kind of faith that astounded Jesus when he encountered the woman with the bleeding disorder or the centurion with the dying child. And the only way to really grow that kind of faith is to exercise it. Even at the risk of appearing very, very foolish.

The past nine months have been a masterclass in faith-building. After more than a year of sensing that God was asking us to leave our workplace without something else lined up, we finally did. We prayed for God’s will, and we removed ourselves and our plans and our strategies out of the way with one sweeping motion to make room for Him to move. We sold most of our belongings, bought a travel trailer, and traveled with our kids full-time for a sabbatical. Then we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Oh, we had an opportunity that we thought would be waiting for Kelley back in Portland after the summer; then that was put on hold indefinitely. I had a maybe-opportunity to do some freelance graphic design for a former coworker, but that also was delayed.

So we waited some more.

We put our RV in storage and drove to Mississippi to spend the first holiday season in four years with family. We reconnected with friends in the South that we hadn’t seen since our move to Oregon four years ago. I homeschooled our children with half of our schoolbooks still in storage across the country. We lived for several months straddling the continental United States, with one foot in Oregon and the other in Mississippi, just trying to keep our balance.

Kelley interviewed for a position with our previous church in Birmingham, but after learning some of the stipulations of the job and experiencing the rather dodgy, cryptic interview process, we had more red flags than peace about taking the job and returning to a megachurch, and he took himself out of the running. Even when the interviewer tried to persuade him to reconsider, he said no—with nothing but faith that God would come through for us and provide something better suited for our family.

And we waited some more.

I’ve learned that faith is very much a waiting game, which feels very lazy and irresponsible for my type-A personality. Kelley and I are get-er-doners. We’re doers, not dilly-dalliers. We’re workers, not waiters. And being that way has very much left us exhausted and empty and trying to bless ourselves with what little we had because we acted too soon.

This time, we made a pact that we would not make a decision based on fear that God won’t meet our needs, that He won’t come through with something better than just scraping by. There have been a couple of job offers that Kelley has passed up because they weren’t what we actually needed, even when people were telling us that a job that doesn’t pay well is better than no job at all. That hasn’t been our experience—quite the opposite, actually—so we’ve held out, believing with everything within us that our Father gives good gifts, that the Creator of the universe can and will create what is needed out of thin air. His supply is unlimited. His economy is fireproof.

Counting on this, we’ve been finding ways to put action to our faith, wait with expectation. And a couple of months ago, it came to us.

Over the few months that we’ve been in Mississippi, we’ve been wracking our brains trying to figure out the best way to move our RV across the country. We learned this summer that our vehicle really didn’t have the capacity for a haul that extensive. Rental haulers were two-way and too expensive. We researched multiple options, and each one seemed worse than the last.

But one day, he came in contact with a man who worked as a hauler, who just so happened to be making a trip to Arkansas from his home in Oregon to purchase a trailer for his business. He was looking for something to transport to the South to cover his travel expenses, and he was leaving that next week. He offered to haul our RV for less than half what everyone else was quoting, less than it would have cost to do it ourselves. It was a divine opportunity, mutually beneficial, so we agreed to it.

A few days after that conversation, and after his third interview with the company in Nashville, I suggested that we just go get the rest of our stuff. We’ll have to move it anyway. Let’s go get it in faith that God is providing our next steps, in preparation and expectation for Him to move in our lives.

So we did. We moved across the country for a second time, saying goodbye to a very different Portland than the one we moved to, still with just enough belongings to fit in a small UHaul. Then I washed and changed our sheets in the RV and cleaned it top to bottom. We started organizing and getting ready for a move.

It never came.

After two months of radio silence from the company in Nashville despite Kelley’s efforts to reach out, he received an email from the recruiter. They were pursuing an internal candidate instead.

What the…?

I wish I could write a better outcome to this story, but it’s still to be continued. Along the way, we’ve felt frustrated and confused, anxious and defeated. We’ve questioned our decisions. We’ve sought advice. Did we miss the mark? Did we really hear from Him?

But the entire time, that still small voice keeps whispering to everyone in our inner circle, “Trust Me.” And what choice do we have, really? Where else would we place our trust? We know our limitations in this process. We know where we fall short, how ill equipped we are to just make something happen in a job market where layoffs and downsizing are everywhere. We have no other option but to trust Him to come through. He’s done it before, and He’ll do it again. I’m certain of it.

Trust Me.

So we do. We trust Him. We are standing on the words He’s spoken. We’re holding Him to His promises. We’re modeling for our kids what it means to live by faith. We are watching Him provide for our needs in miraculous ways and thanking Him for the blessings in the waiting.

Living in a Golden State of mind.

We have officially made it more than a month in the RV! It was a little rocky there for a bit, with our Expedition resembling the little engine that could while it chugged and dragged our heavy RV up mountain passes throughout California, but we slowly ventured down to San Diego, enjoyed our three-week stay, and made our way back up to Oregon.

While we were in the San Diego area, we stayed almost a week in a hotel in the city and took the kids to LEGOLAND, Sea World, and the San Diego Zoo and Safari Park. When we’d arrived at our campground in Jamul, about 20 minutes outside San Diego, we were unable to secure a site with full hookups (which a family of five definitely needed for a three-week stay), and the whole helter-skelter check-in and site selection process felt a lot like a Black Friday/Wild West mashup. So escaping to the city and enjoying the luxuries of a hotel—like hot water usage and city sewer and free breakfast—for six nights was very restorative.

Our kids, especially our middle son, have been begging to go to LEGOLAND for more than a year, and getting them there had us feeling a lot like Clark Griswold’s quest to attend Wally World with his family. Between car trouble, a last-minute RV repair, and a trip to the veterinary ER when our dog swallowed a bee and broke out in full-body hives (TWICE!) just after recovering from a bout of upset stomach from ingesting a foreign object, we could have starred in that movie ourselves. But we made it through, thankfully only slightly worse for the wear.

We opened and closed the park, staying a total of 10 hours. We rode every ride and visited every attraction at least once. The kids were absolutely euphoric as we dragged our worn-out bodies and aching feet out to the parking lot, their hands filled with mini figures and LEGO sets that they bought with birthday money, declaring that their visit to LEGOLAND was the absolute best day of their lives. (A big thanks to Kelley’s parents for funding the kids’ tickets as birthday presents this year.)

The San Diego Zoo and Safari Park days were some of the hottest in San Diego, with the most walking, especially when Eva left her Columbia sun shirt in a bathroom near the back of the zoo, and I half-walked, half-jogged the entire outside loop for a second time to track it down. (Unfortunately, it was long gone by the time we realized it was missing, but at least I got some great exercise in.) Our collective favorite part of the zoo was the Australian Outback area, which featured a handful of adorable koalas sleeping in eucalyptus trees. (Or maybe it was the misting stations that smelled like eucalyptus, which cooled us off and felt more like a spa than a zoo).

The best part of the Safari Park, which took almost another full day, was riding the open-air tram (included in admission) through the African savannah exhibit. It was the closest thing to a genuine safari that one can get without paying exorbitant African safari prices. From the tram, we were able to watch animals found on the African plains in their natural habitat (sans the apex predators; that would have made for an entirely different type of park.) And the extreme heat really added to the authenticity of the African-themed park. I was a little jealous watching the herd of elephants romp around in their cooling pool (with a splashy waterfall) munching on watermelon.

Sea World has always been a childhood favorite of Kelley’s, so we also took the kids to the San Diego location while we were there. Because of all the water involved, including a couple of rounds on some water rides, my phone mostly stayed in our rented locker, so I didn’t get many photos. But we thoroughly enjoyed the dolphin, orca, and sea lion shows (I might have teared up a little at the dolphin show finale—those creatures were having so much fun together!) and the Shipwreck Mountain rapids ride.

Liam and I even braved the new Emperor floorless free-fall roller coaster—which included a 14-story 90-degree vertical drop at more than 60 miles per hour. I’ve always been somewhat of a thrill seeker and have loved roller coasters since childhood, but it is a completely different experience riding it as a parent, watching your firstborn dangle his feet in 143 feet up in the air while being suspended at a 45-degree angle above the earth. I had the lady sitting on the other side of him holding on to him, too, lest his lanky little self slip out of his harness at any point, especially when I almost blacked out on the free-fall. Thankfully, we made it out alive, though a little lightheaded and nauseous.

In between theme parks, we had the opportunity to explore some of San Diego’s more popular neighborhoods, including dinner (and another lunch) at Cafe Coyote in Old Town and a stroll through Liberty Station, a former naval base turned artisanal neighborhood filled with restaurants, shops, and art galleries. There, we meandered through the old barracks and sampled some gelato at Parfait Paris and a variety of flavors at the Mini Donut Co. I wish we’d had more time at Coronado Beach, though we did the ocean-view drive through the peninsula one Saturday afternoon. I also would have spent some me-time window shopping at Fashion Valley, a higher end shopping mall where we stopped one morning and grabbed cold brews at Better Buzz Coffee. (The kids were bored with all the “grown-up” stores—Williams-Sonoma, Armani Exchange, and Prada, to name a few—so we made our visit brief.)

A few logistics that made our week in San Diego more enjoyable: we made a reservation for our dog, Ranger, to stay at the Petsmart’s Petshotel in La Jolla (close to Sprinkles cupcake parlor, which we of course partook of—they were absolutely the best cupcakes we’ve ever had), and I can’t say enough good things about the place. They were genuinely excited to see him, and he was pampered all week—playdates, bubble machines, indoor playground time, and a bath and nail trim including cologne for when we picked him up. We booked the Comfort Inn and Suites on Hotel Circle with our Capital One travel points, which, although I can’t really recommend the outdated, under-serviced hotel, it was a central location allowing easy access to each destination on our trip (and they had free breakfast and comped our garage parking—I don’t recommend the free street parking). I was impressed at how accessible every park or neighborhood was, and it only took about 10-15 minutes to get anywhere we wanted to go.

One thing we’ve started doing on trips like this is washing all of our laundry in the hotel laundry room the night before we check out of the hotel. That way, we aren’t heading home with loads of laundry awaiting us. All of our clothes from the week were clean and already folded when we arrived back at our RV campground.

We also found a nearby grocery store and grabbed easy meal items for the hotel to cut down on dining expenses, saving our eating-out budget for places we really wanted to try, rather than just fast food drive-thrus for last-minute meals. I bought stuff for cold deli sandwiches and kept plenty of fresh fruit and veggies, Once Upon a Farm smoothie pouches, packs of nuts, Good and Gather gluten-free bars, and string cheese on hand for snacks. Our mini-fridge was stocked full of healthy items to last us through the week.

Literally the best cupcakes we’ve ever had, right around the corner from where Ranger stayed.

The strawberry cupcakes at Sprinkles were melt-in-your-mouth delicious. The boys tried the gluten-free red velvet with cream cheese frosting.

We packed as much as we could into our time in San Diego, and I still feel like there was so much more to see, much more that we could have done. It’s a culturally diverse city with rich history, natural beauty, and endless fun, and I have a feeling this visit won’t be the last.

Of light and heat.

(Written August 30, 2022, near Hollister, CA)

Last night, we sat underneath a blanket of piercing stars, roasting s’mores over our first firepit of a waning summer in an area of California that actually lifted its burn ban. We fixed our gaze upward, and our eyes began to ingest more of the extraterrestrial view, identifying the Milky Way spread like a nimbus cloud behind layer after layer of stars in the ink-black sky.

It was the first night in three years I’d been able to gaze at that many stars simultaneously. The only lights in a Portland sky are those of the neon variety. It’s almost never dark enough to see more than Orion’s belt, faintly peeking through the cloud cover.

And this is what I’ve needed all year, to gaze at the burning, twinkling lights traveling millions of miles over the universe, never reaching a destination, reminding me of my minutia stature in a world that rambles on infinitely. As our life in Portland was exacerbating my claustrophobia, the ability to feel small again compared to the expansive sky brings so much comfort. It grounds me. And stars burn brighter the older they get, which gives me hope that the best is hanging over us somewhere out there, still yet to come, waiting for us to catch up just like those stars in the night sky.

Glowing embers radiate their heat underneath my chilled fingers, brilliant hues of orange dance together with blackened ash. Burning flames lick the cold air above them. The moment comes down to light and heat. Above and below me, light and heat.

We are somewhere south of San Francisco by about two hours. Every time we check the weather report, it calls our location by a different name, so I honestly couldn’t say where exactly we are. This campground is set on sprawling acreage that houses a few families of wild boar and a community of black-tailed deer, including some doe who are still fawning, and an unchartable number of ground squirrel and quail. Miles of walking trails surrounded by those high desert mountains keep my secrets as I work out my thoughts on their worn paths. They have secrets, too, I bet.

The other day a young buck spotted us walking near. He high-stepped his front legs, announcing his next move would be a defensive one, and he charged at us, protecting his nearby spotted fawns and their mother. We had wandered into his territory, parked our home on his. We respectfully retreated, and he relented.

Across the park on another evening, I watched five piglets trail single-file behind their mother as their father rooted for rations underneath the soil. Parents caring for, protecting, nourishing their young all over the park, whether wildlife or humanity.

RV life demands intention with every action. Turning off the shower water while I lather instead of absentmindedly allowing it to rain down the drain, knowing that once our family of five is clean, it will be time to empty the tanks again. Hand washing, drying, and replacing every dish in the cupboard after every meal brings us a new awareness surrounding mealtimes, where dining together is nourishment and work. Making every inch count in our 200-square-feet of space, while at the same time being mindful of the weight we carry as not to strain our vehicle’s towing capacity. Counting our quarters and calculating what’s needed to wash our clothing and linens in the communal laundry facility.

There is no autopilot in RV life. Every action is thought through, for this is not an indestructible house. Laminate and particle board delicately hold us on a set of wheels. Precarious materials, and we hold it together with intention and gentleness, mindfully weighing the effects of our every action to minimize the reaction.

Just what’s needed and nothing else. But true needs must be assessed within the limit of space and mass. As in, we need clothing, but my musical instruments must stay behind under the supervision of lock and key. We need food, but not paddleboards. Light and heat and little more.

RV traveling is not the stereotypical dirty-transient lifestyle we once thought it was. We are houseless but not homeless, and the same can be said for others on this same property. Even the boars and deer have cozy spots to bed down, just like us. And as my husband and I stroll through the spacious rows of RVs, motorhomes, and fifth wheels, we see homes—not just vehicles—and the hands that have created them.

For the longer stays, there are gardens or potted plants and outdoor furniture and lawn decor. Families staying temporarily set up their portable homes, placing tin signs showcasing their namesake on the door, introducing the family behind the threshold. Outdoor canopies covered in netting create safe dining areas protected from insect invaders. Some mobile homes have outdoor lights strung from nearby trees, picnic tables covered in cloth, creating a sideyard oasis for barbecues and firepits with neighbors and fast friends. Family pets tethered within portable fencing greet us as we pass. Kids’ bicycles and scooters lean against aluminum exterior walls along with folding chairs and paddleboards. The stray neon palm tree or rope light Christmas tree feels festive. It’s like walking through a suburban neighborhood, though this one could be emptied within hours, its inhabitants driving away to their next destinations, where they will once again construct their castle of laminate and particle board.

The RV community is just that, a community. The quest to conquer the open road and the innate desire for simplicity and even frugality are the ties that bind us, as are conversations about Wifi connectivity and diesel engines, hosing adapters and couplers. Most people here are friendly, and as different from each other as the spaces we originated from across the country, we actually aren’t so different after all. We share our family’s stories and traveling tips, encourage one another, find common ground behind genuine smiles. Generating light, radiating heat.

Like John and Gail, a couple at our previous campground who, after listening to us squabble for an hour over our failing attempts to level the RV and secure the tongue jack on blocks at our campsite, sauntered over and offered aid. Without being prompted (or invited), John jumped behind the steering wheel of our idling SUV, our dog Ranger curiously sniffing his ears and examining his balding head from the backseat, to line up the truck’s hitch with the RV jack. While he took charge and got us set up, shedding light on how to do it right the next time we faced the same challenges, I chatted with Gail about their life in Arizona, her disdain for California gas prices and her volunteerism within the Baptist Church—but not like the Southern Baptists, she assured me. We laughed over some of the heated arguments she and John have had through their more than 30 years of RV travel. At the next campground, Kelley was the one to show a new RVer how to stabilize a tongue jack, just as John had shown him.

Or the former Desert Storm U.S. Marine who lives in the Southern California campground full-time with his war stories and his inoperable brain tumor. He introduced himself as The Hammer during the campground luau when he joined our family in our hiding spot to evade the hula dancers, who were calling up people from the crowd to dance with them. He later tried to volunteer me to join the fire dancers and laughed his magical, gravelly deep belly laugh as I told him how I’d caught a roll of paper towels on fire in our RV the previous night trying to light the gas stove, so I’d had my fill of fire dancing to last the summer, thank you very much. We said our goodbyes to him the night before we left, surprised by our mutual achy sadness over having had such a short time together. He brought light and warmth to our stay in the dry California desert.

Last night, as I held my daughter in my lap near the bonfire, her sun-lightened locks swirled under my chin, the smell of her orangesicle shampoo mingling with campfire smoke, the heat of her little body going limp in my arms under the lure of sleep and the warmth of her cozy sweatshirt she had layered over her sundress. Above me, below me, all around me—it all comes down to light and heat.

Home is wherever we are together. That is the motto we all share, whether we are enjoying retirement or working remote, empty-nesting or growing a family, whether full-time travelers or part-time vacationers. We aren’t so different in this community we’ve created, pieced together—wildlife and lone wanderers and crowded families turning travel into a lifestyle and miles into memories.

Easy like Sunday morning: Musings from a campground laundry room.

It’s midmorning on a Sunday, and I’m sitting in the laundry room at our campground in southern California, about six miles from the Mexican border. It’s laundry day, and I’ve stuffed seven washers full of our laundry into four dryers to save a few dollars, and I am waiting for them to dry so that no one steals our sheets and towels and such. You never know what can happen in an RV campground, you know.

And as it’s Sunday morning, I find myself thinking about church. Five years ago on a Sunday morning, I would have been getting hyped up to play bass on the worship team during a morning of multiple high-energy services at a megachurch. I would have been awake since 4 a.m. (3 if I was traveling to a different campus), running on caffeine and free doughnuts or some other spread of food brought in for the volunteers, affectionately referred to as the Dream Team. And I’d be there until about 2 in the afternoon, only to run home and crash into a catnap and be back for the Sunday evening service rehearsal, which started at 4:30. But I was the spunky redheaded bass player who jumped around on stage and people seemed to love that about me, and I loved that feeling of people being excited to see me, so I was happy to play the part.

In 2019, I would have been driving all around Portland to multiple church campuses, trying awkwardly to hold conversations with groups of techy, introverted volunteers running the production of a service and trying not to sound like the ditsy Southerner who didn’t know the first thing about LED screens or HDMI cables. I was a girl bass player, for cryin’ out loud. I didn’t need to know how my bass worked; I just loved that it was pearly white and had gold hardware. I wore it like fancy jewelry. What did I need to know about LED screens? AV was for boys who liked to play video games. (Obviously my perception was off because a lot of our team members were women.) All I knew about AV was that I liked the bass loud and for the lyrics to keep up.

I should probably be in church this morning, but instead I’m doing laundry at a campground out in the middle of nowhere that has no cell service and very little Wi-Fi, sweat dripping down my back and soaking my clothing because it’s 100 degrees outside and the laundry facility doesn’t have A/C, and I’m listening to worship music and reading Blue Like Jazz. I love this book and haven’t read it in years, but I ran across a copy in the campground library and decided to re-read it because, as I said, there is no cell service here. It’s the perfect book for this season of my life, us being fresh off of a church staff and having been processing deep thoughts about church and Jesus and just all the things. And I love how Donald Miller writes in a stream-of-consciousness style; it frees me up in a way to do the same and not worry so much about finding the most creative or eloquent way to say something; I can just come right out with it, for crying out loud.

I’m tired.

And not just because RV life has turned out to be more work than vacation, and I miss having my own indoor laundry room and a bathtub and dishwasher and normal sized fridge. And not because I’m heat intolerant, and the smoldering summer weather has zapped my energy.

I’m really burnt out and exhausted and wrestling with the whole Western church thing, to be honest. I am actually relieved not to be on a church staff anymore, and I feel really guilty that I’m so relieved. It sounds like a terrible thing to say if you believe being on church staff is a calling, which it probably is, but it’s also a paying job just like any other job—except on a church staff, there’s all this mixing of business language and spiritual language and family language, and things can just get messy and confusing.

I didn’t make a good church staffer, really. I didn’t sound very theological or sophisticated, I didn’t wear white Nikes, and I kept running into issues where my love for Jesus and people and desire to keep things simple started to clash with the whole megachurch programming. I felt like everyone would like me better if I just piped down a little and stopped asking so many questions and just agreed with their strategies they worked so hard on. But it was all so foreign and confusing, and I didn’t really understand why everything was so doggone complicated when the Gospel is so simple. So I asked a lot of questions, mostly because it was all over my head, but I think it all just boiled down to the fact that I wasn’t meant to be on a church staff, which is fine because being on a church staff cured me of wanting to be on a church staff. It was all just too much.

I’ve been a Christ-follower since I was five. Probably since before I could actually read the Bible, I don’t really know. I’ve been a Christian as long as I can remember. And I’ve always loved church. I loved going to church. I loved as a kid when my parents would pass me a couple of coins to drop in the offering plate. I loved the little butter cookies shaped like flowers that they offered in Sunday school and the little pictures made out of felt fabric scraps that told Bible stories. I loved dressing up in my frilly turned-down socks and pink patent leather shoes (that I always wore on the wrong feet), and my dresses that twirled, and carrying my pink little leather New Testament in my stubby little hands. I loved the attention I’d get from people at church. It made me feel seen, and loved, and safe. It made me feel like I had a big family, and every Sunday was a reunion.

When I was in middle school, I wanted to learn how to play guitar so I could be in the worship band. But I had a crush on my older brother’s friend who was the cute youth group drummer, and he said I should play bass instead, that girl bass players were cool, and that too many people already played guitar. I should be different. So I decided to play bass. All because a cute drummer asked me to. I love drummers and will do pretty much anything for them anyway.

In high school, I used to hang out at the church office after school with my friends because it was just my very favorite place to be. And my youth pastor was funny. I’d sometimes go hang out in the little prayer room because it had an altar and soft carpet and was really cozy and made me feel ultra spiritual like I was at a monastery or something.

I have always been a people pleaser, and as such, I made a good youth leader because I was a stickler at following the rules and church leaders love students who follow the rules. So they dubbed me a leader, and I wore that title like a badge of honor, walking around like I was a priest among my peers. I was a weird teen. Probably a weird adult, too, if I’m being honest.

Anyway, I’m sitting in the laundry room watching my workout clothes (you know, the kind of workout clothes with the technology to make sure you don’t smell like a man or get sunburned or show the lingering effects of childbirth but that can’t go into a dryer or they lose all their magic) air-dry next to a window in the 100-degree desert heat and the dryers on the wall spin, listening to the sounds of the old machines groaning and screeching as if the burden of our linens and delicates were too much for them to bear. And I can’t help but thinking back to my decades of church volunteerism, and about the machine of Western megachurch, groaning and screeching under the weight it carries just like those dryers on the wall.

It’s all a lot, you know. The programs and the content and the production and setup and tear-down and coming and going and greeting and serving and the coffee and the childcare and the chord charts and the coloring sheets and slides on the screen with the lyrics to all the songs, and the process of getting legal permission to play those songs, and the lighting and the haze to diffuse the lighting and the mics and the sound system and the in-ear monitors that the band and musicians wear that have to be calibrated just so or the poor AV guys will get an earful, and the AV team is too nonconfrontational and nice to make an issue of it. Or the message notes that some college student upstairs will try desperately to display on the screen at the right time, because if they don’t, the pastor will have a conversation with them after the service about how they really should work harder to do better because Jesus is a King who deserves our very best, when in reality skipping a slide made the pastor lose his train of thought, and he got embarrassed on the live broadcast.

And then there are the announcements and the men’s conferences and the women’s conferences and children’s summer camps and youth camps and Sunday night services and third Sunday night prayer and first Saturday morning prayer and prayer on Facebook and small group semesters (that’s where the magic happens) and service projects and staff meetings and staff prayer meetings and staff retreats and social media—oh, the reels and the carousels and stories and trendy photos of church leaders on stage passionately speaking or singing with the lighting and the screens just so, that those leaders will then repost to social media, along with all the 53 stories they were tagged in that morning, and some humblebrag about being honored just to get to be a part of the show—I mean, service…

The machines drone on, as do my thoughts. I was happily right smack dab in the middle of it for so long, believing that every bit of it was for Jesus until it really began to feel burdensome and not at all like what I experience when I sit with Jesus in my own personal time, and now I find myself wondering why we do all the pomp and circumstance when Jesus says his burden is light and the Gospel is simple and why all the emphasis on and stress of fundraising campaigns and seasonal generosity campaigns? Salvation is a free gift, but those LED lights will cost you. A LOT.

If I’m being honest, the Church looks a lot like the world these days. Maybe not all churches everywhere, but certainly the Western megachurch. And I know from my experience that the Western megachurch tries to look a lot like the world. We call it relevance.

One year while I was on church staff, we were getting ready for Easter services, and the communications department played a rough copy of a promo video they wanted to use to market our services. The comms staffer was satisfied with himself that he’d found a local talented creative professional who didn’t know Jesus or attend church to write the script because it made us seem more relevant in Portlandia. I understood his heart to try anything to reach lost people but was confused about why the video for Easter services didn’t once mention Jesus but instead droned on about people being on a journey or something like that. To be honest, I couldn’t really follow the voiceover’s train of thought, but it was early in the morning, and I was still working on the coffee I’d brought from home. I can’t think about much before I’ve had my coffee. The comms staffer impatiently explained to me that this wasn’t the Bible Belt; people here didn’t like Jesus and wouldn’t normally come to a church on Easter, but that they were lonely and if we made our church out to be less like a church and more like a group of people who live in community, that might attract them to come. We even took the word church out of our logo a lot.

So really, it was a kind of bait-and-switch message to market our church as not-a-church to get people in the doors where surprise! At some point we might talk about Jesus. Got it. I was taking notes because man, this whole church ministry thing was trickier than I thought. I was clearly naive in thinking that Jesus was just as relevant in Portland as He was in the Bible Belt because He loved people everywhere and was a friend to the lonely, whether they were lonely in Birmingham or in Portland. I was as green as the Douglas fir branches waving at me outside the window and clearly had a lot to learn.

All the systems and processes and marketing strategies and events and even the organizational structure and worship team dress code resemble worldly business principles. We turn everything we can into a system because if it’s good enough to make businesses succeed out in the world, then maybe it will help the church succeed, too. And then, when we plant a new church somewhere, we can just plug and play. Choose from the extensive sermon bank and pre-made set lists with the accompanying chord charts and music tracks and just run the play. It’s efficiency, but for both Starbucks chains and multi-site churches.

But I don’t think the Church was designed to be about efficiency. In fact, I’m pretty sure it isn’t. Making disciples who are becoming more and more like Jesus is a long-term plan—a marathon, not a sprint. I know it’s taking decades for me to move the needle in my own life to look even a little more holy. Like when Paul went and lived among the people he discipled, until they imitated him and Jesus and then became models for following Jesus for other people to imitate. And because people come in all shapes and sizes, and the Church is made up of people, I don’t think a one-size-fits-all church planting model really works in the long run. You have to play the long game.

Actually, we shouldn’t be playing a game at all. Because of Jesus, church isn’t something we attend, or market, or plan out in sermon series and small group seasons; it’s who we are. Discipleship is life-on-life, ongoing, messy, sanctifying work. It’s a crockpot, not a microwave, so to speak. And so much real ministry happens outside the church walls, anyway.

In several of our prayer meetings back in 2020, so many people in the church were praying for the riots in Portland to just stop already so we could get back to church as usual, and I found that funny because I felt like it would be more urgent to pray for God to heal the hearts that were broken and angry and to change the injustices in our country that caused that anger and hurt to begin with. I think relevance should look a lot more like courage to work out our salvation together, to see the people behind the issues and have hard conversations about things like systemic racism and homelessness and other social injustices that have grieved so many of the people we claim to love because I 100 percent believe it’s what Jesus would do. And He was very relevant, even without skinny jeans and white Nikes.

It may take longer to see change, to feel like our prayers are working, but I think the Church could stand to think a little more about walking people through processes of healing rather than just praying for the resulting outcries to stop because they’re uncomfortable to face, and we don’t like to be uncomfortable for too long. It’s why an actual well-thought out remodel is better than a DIY house-flip. Sure, you can do the work fast, and maybe it will look good to the naked eye, but what about those rusted pipes and mold in the ceiling?

And so when we try to fit crockpot discipleship into a microwave worldly business system, it’s not only ineffective in making disciples, but it makes the Church look like we’re scrambling to keep up with the world and its ever-changing culture, and the world thinks we look ridiculous and people are the collateral damage. They get burnt out and frustrated and overworked majoring on the minors and minoring in the majors in church ministry, and a lot of them end up leaving the church because it’s exhausting to keep the machine going, or because they feel so unseen and overlooked as congregants. And I think all of that really matters to Jesus.

My thoughts about church began to change during COVID, when I felt more edified sitting around my backyard fire pit with a group of overwhelmed college production interns, encouraging them in their faith, than I did in service planning meetings trying to figure out how to add 30 seconds of a short prayer to the agenda to keep the transition after the worship set from feeling awkward. (Maybe that 30 seconds is where the Holy Spirit could be invited to do His thing? Oh, you already had a staff pastor in mind? Cool cool.) Or how sitting on our couch memorizing Psalm 91 with our children felt more like church than sending them to a room to color worksheets and play games and sing hype-y songs while I enjoyed my free, hot coffee in a dark room with good music and a charismatic speaker.

I’m oversimplifying, of course. Maybe being a little dramatic. But these are all the things I’ve been thinking about, not only in the laundry room but long before, and to be honest I have way more questions than answers. Quite a bit more thoughts to sift through, but this is a blog post and I’ve been told I can be long-winded, so maybe I should do what Donald Miller did and put my thoughts into a 240-page book instead. Though I’m not as funny as he is and I’m not sure anyone would read it.

I know that I can’t possibly speak as if I know what goes on in every church in America, and I do know there are a lot of beautiful people in church ministry who love Jesus and people and are doing beautiful things for the Kingdom, even if they aren’t broadcasting it all on social media. (But if we don’t post it on social media, is it even real? If a pastor does something spiritual and no one is around to see, did it even happen?) But I have been asking myself if God is really pleased with the fanfare of it all, and I have to say, when I see church leaders, myself included, focus more on optics than holiness, I’m not really sure. When I see church members fighting over masks and politics instead of sacrificially loving their neighbors, I start to doubt it. I definitely don’t think He was pleased with me when I told our teams that His ability to reach the lost in our services depended on their ability to get the slide timing or the audio levels or the lighting positions right and eliminate every distraction possible, as if the God of the universe couldn’t break through any opposing force on Earth to reach the heart of a human He loved and sent His Son to die for.

A few months ago, I had a conversation with one of the head leaders at our previous church, in which he expressed concern for our family over iced coffees because we were not going to church services on Sundays. I explained that we had been meeting with a few other families, where we read the Bible together, pray, worship, have communion and encourage one another, with our children sitting beside us. We’re still tithing to the church, I added, in case that was a concern.

He balked at that. So the gathering of the saints isn’t a part of it, then?

I responded that we were doing exactly that. We were gathering as saints; there were just less of us. But when all the fuss of a Sunday service is stripped away, and we just do life together, dig into God’s Word together, pray together, take communion together, worship together, encourage each other to share our faith with our community…it feels like church the way it was originally intended to be. It feels a lot like being the Church. It feels light and easy, words Jesus used to describe His burden. I don’t know, I said, looking down at the melting ice cubes in my cold brew. It’s been pretty life-giving.

I don’t remember much of the conversation after that, but I think we agreed to disagree.

I still love the Church. I love God’s people because we are part of the same Body and are eternally connected, and I want this Body we’re all a part of to thrive, to become the spotless Bride of Christ as God intended, to be known and recognized by our supernatural, world-transcending love for one another and our logic-defying unity, not our flawless music set or engaging speakers or high-definition online broadcast. By thriving, I mean that I have a burning desire and sense of urgency for the Church to become holy, and you can’t be holy and dysfunctional at the same time. Most often, all our programming and events and such serve as a distraction from God’s people becoming holy because they give the illusion that participation in those things means we are being discipled. When in actually, we are being busy. And busyness is a tool of the enemy. If he can’t make us evil, he’ll settle for busy because, either way, we aren’t accomplishing what God calls us to.

I don’t really have it all figured out at this point; I just want to know that God is pleased with how I conduct myself in regards to carrying out the Great Commission and being the Church and teaching my children to be the Church. And I want people to fall in love with Jesus like I have, but I’m not sure they’ll be able to do that if the Church keeps trying to look like the world and build an organization that measures success in numbers and size as the world measures success, rather than measuring it in lives transformed and in people who don’t look or act or think or dress like us feeling right at home within our walls. Or if the Church continues to ostracize people who vote or dress differently instead of loving them unconditionally, if we continue to make ourselves known for what we’re against rather than whom we’re for. Maybe we should measure success by asking ourselves if God is really pleased with our gatherings.

Two weeks in.

Since our first two weeks in the RV are in the rearview mirror, I thought I’d answer some common questions and recap how it’s going and what we’ve learned so far about RV travel:

• RVing is dirty. Seriously, there is dirt everywhere. That has been enhanced by the fact that we have a dog and three kids. One of our first purchases so far has been a vacuum (a battery-operated, pet-specific Dyson that disassembles for easy storage), and we pretty much use it every day. The broom just wasn’t cutting it; besides, we are constantly using the broom to sweep off our outdoor rugs. Our daughter perpetually looks as if she’s been eating dirt. Our white towels are quickly becoming dingy, and no amount of bleach can counteract it. Cleaning is a constant thing.

• RVing is a lot of work. Don’t let Instagram fool you. What we #vanlifers and #RVlifers don’t show is the lengthy set-up and tear-down process every time we move to a new location. Hauling laundry to the on-site facility or an off-site laundromat every few days because you don’t have much space to store dirty laundry. How you have to empty your tanks almost every time five family members take showers. There is a lot of technical work involved, and most of it goes over my head. Thankfully, the Mr. likes to research and is figuring it out as we go.

• One of the concerns brought up to us is how our kids will adjust to being cramped inside an RV all the time. “Kids need a yard to play in,” they’ve said. I give you Exhibit A.

• But does it feel like home? Actually, so far, yes. We’ve learned that home is wherever we are together. Wherever we lay our heads and hang our proverbial hats. I love the challenge of making a place, however big or small, feel like a cozy, comforting abode. It doesn’t matter whether we are on top of wheels or a slab foundation. For us, home isn’t defined by the amount of square footage or material possessions we have. It’s the people who live there with us who make it feel like home sweet home.

• If you want to see what your marriage is made of, go on a road trip together. This is advice my best friend gave me before we left our apartment, and she has never been more right. Spending 24 hours a day together in a constantly changing environment will teach you all the things about yourself and your spouse/partner. For example, I’ve learned that the Mr.’s idea of rest is almost the complete opposite of mine. He decompresses by sitting around chilling, and I de-stress best with tough, physical activity. Our parenting styles are different. Our travel styles are different. Our methods of cleaning/organizing/strategizing are all different. So we’re having to learn how to be one as a married couple while maintaining a sense of autonomy. But whatever doesn’t kill us will only make us stronger…right??

• I’ve never had to care more about how much our stuff weighs. We spend 20 percent of our time enjoying the RV, and the other 80 percent calculating and balancing the weight of everything in our travel trailer. (Those numbers are completely made up, but you get the idea.) Since we aren’t just vacationing—we’ve technically moved in—we brought a lot of things from our home that we use on a daily basis. But switching out the standard RV mattress for our organic Avocado hybrid mattress and topper added a lot of weight to the trailer, and our Expedition has a finite towing capacity, so we’re having to compensate somewhere. Anybody want a set of cast iron cooking pans? Or a 65-lb ridgeback pup and his heavy duty crate? (I’m kidding…kind of.) Which brings me to my next point…

• Traveling with a dog is HARD. Well, probably traveling with a maltipoo or a pug isn’t. But traveling with a large-breed, naturally protective, athletic hound dog is. One who is technically a teenager and kind of a jerk sometimes. One who always wants to be where his humans are at all times and in every situation. He is sweet, but he’s clingy. And right now his massive self and his crate take up the majority of our floor space. He can reach the kitchen counter and wants to stick his nose in the flame of the gas stove, or lay his head on our dining table to beg for food. We had to eat lunch in our car yesterday while on the road because it was too hot to leave him in it while we dined inside, and we couldn’t take him in a restaurant. So, having a dog complicates everything. He’s mostly worth it.

• Campgrounds are a generally safe way to allow our kids to have some independence and show responsibility. They have to keep their belongings organized and out of the way. They have to pitch in and help prepare for travel days. Liam wakes early to take the dog out in the mornings. They have to stay together and practice safety protocols when they run off to the playground together. They are learning to identify and avoid danger and respond appropriately to inappropriate people. (Like the little girl who threatened to hurt Eva with a knife or the boy who announced he’d love to meet Satan. Never a dull moment on those campground playgrounds.) At the last campground, the boys practiced communication and business skills by pitching their horse-stall mucking services to the manager at the adjacent horseback riding attraction, and then learned how to handle rejection appropriately when the lady said no.

• Each campground is different, and not every one will be an amazing stay. Our Thousand Trails membership has been a great value so far. For about the price of three months’ rent in Portland, we have access to more than 200 campgrounds nationwide with full hookups and many amenities at no nightly fee. We can stay up to 21 days at each campground and move park-to-park with no downtime in between, for life. However, not every campground has a resort feel. The last campground we stayed in felt more like a cramped parking lot than an RV resort. A couple of campgrounds haven’t had sewer hookups, which requires more work for us. But for the most part, the parks we’ve stayed in have been safe, relaxing, and fun. Our current campground includes a mile-long walking trail, two pools, a fitness center, playgrounds, a dog park, mini-golf and yard games, and planned indoor activities for the kids. Which goes back to point number three—they are doing just fine without a proper backyard.

• Nothing worth having comes without hard work and sacrifice. We all are in the places we are in life because of the choices we’ve made or how we’ve responded to things outside our control, based on our values and priorities. Our family is able to take a break and travel for a bit because we have made a lot of sacrifices, prayed diligently, researched fanatically, and saved money over the course of five years to make this happen. We sold our home, most of our belongings, including our second vehicle, and said no to other things so we’d be in a position financially to travel without full-time jobs for a bit. We have been willing to embrace discomfort for the sake of something better. This didn’t come easily, and it isn’t easy. But for us, the payoff has been absolutely worth it.

Thirty minutes of fishing a day.

A successful businessman on vacation was at the pier of a small coastal village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellowfin tuna. The businessman complimented the fisherman on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.

The fisherman proudly replied, “Every morning, I go out in my boat for 30 minutes to fish. I’m the best fisherman in the village”.

The businessman, perplexed, then asks the fisherman, “If you’re the best, why don’t you stay out longer and catch more fish? What do you do the rest of the day?”

The fisherman replied, “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, spend quality time with my wife, and every evening we stroll into the village to drink wine and play guitar with our friends. I have a full and happy life.”

The businessman scoffed, “I am successful CEO and have a talent for spotting business opportunities. I can help you be more successful. You should spend more time fishing and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. With the proceeds from the bigger boat, you could buy several boats, eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats with many fishermen. Instead of selling your catch to just your friends, you can scale to sell fish to thousands. You could leave this small coastal fishing village and move to the big city, where you can oversee your growing empire.”

The fisherman asked, “But, how long will this all take?”

To which the businessman replied, “15–20 years.”

“But what then?” Asked the fisherman.

The businessman laughed and said, “That’s the best part.  When the time is right you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich, you would make millions!”

“Millions—then what?”

The businessman said, “Then you would retire.  Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, spend time with your wife, stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your friends.”

I’m sitting in our RV, at a campground surrounded by the high desert beauty of California, the sounds of our kids playing “Red Light, Green Light” outside, sipping a cup of Sleepy Monk coffee from the French press, and this parable keeps coming to mind.

Too many people we know spend their whole lives dedicated to their work, building up their retirement funds, so that one day, they will be able to live the life they dream of…tragically only to arrive at their retirement years in poor health and with estranged relationships because they neglected to take care of their bodies and nurture their relationships for years.

One dear friend that we knew worked tirelessly for decades in the same job, his workaholism glorified by those who knew him as a badge of honor that hung like a millstone around his neck. He developed cancer and passed away the year before his retirement.

Another man we know dedicated his best years to his work at the expense of his relationship with his children. He is now retirement-age and has no relationship with one of his adult children.

The richest man in the world has a child who doesn’t want anything to do with the man, to the point that they changed their last name to erase the association to him.

I’m not saying it isn’t wisdom to save for the future, but for Kelley and me, what is the point if we neglect our most important investment—people, specifically our children—in the process? And what good is it to make travel plans for retirement if chronic illness keeps us engaged in doctor’s appointments and paying medical bills by the time we actually get to have our late-life break? (If we even make it that far at all.)

In the book of Ecclesiastes, King Solomon, who was easily the wisest and richest man to ever live, discusses how meaningless it is to spend his whole life toiling and striving, to gain wealth that will be given to and enjoyed by someone else when he dies. And he doesn’t even know when that day will come—if he will even be able to enjoy the fruits of his labor, or if tomorrow, his very breath would be taken from him. At the end of the book, he concludes that the best strategy of life is to serve God and to work, yes, but to also enjoy the pleasures life has to offer along the way so that your work doesn’t become miserable. He cautions not to get caught up in the meaningless striving for more so that we waste our youth, our best years, on the things that are here today and gone tomorrow.

What good is it to gain the whole world if we forfeit our souls, our relationships, and our mental, emotional, and physical health along the way?

We decided we want to instead give our children our best years. We want to make memories together while we have them under our roof (be it stationary or mobile) and create bonds with one another that will carry our children well into their adult years while we have the strength and energy to. We want to invest first in those relationships, and in our marriage, so that one day, when we are far along in life, we still enjoy each other’s company and haven’t grown into strangers. We want to move and challenge our bodies, focusing on strength and longevity, and then rest when it’s necessary, so that we can finish our race well, rather than having to bow out early.

This is our why.

It’s why we are taking a break. This is largely why Kelley resigned from his job that was deteriorating his physical and mental health and took a sabbatical. This is why I decided to focus my energy and time on educating and training my children to be wise, positive contributors to society, instead of jumping into another full-time job. There are always ways to make more money, but I want to spend every second I can with them while they are in my care, so that we have a solid foundation for our adult-adult relationships later on. And when I’m gone, the deposits I’ve made in shaping their character will hopefully continue to reap a harvest as valuable assets in their lives.

Retirement is a good investment, but for us, it isn’t the only, or even most important one, that we have been entrusted with. I’d rather the magnitude of bonding I have with my family be substantially more than the size of my 401K.

And for us personally, our ambitions aren’t to amass wealth and status, anyway. We don’t need or long for much. We aim to live a quiet life, having what we need but also being able to enjoy the journey along the way. We want to have plenty of sunshine, fresh air, and nature to surround us and the health to enjoy it. We want our physical bodies to be strong for the task at hand. And we are committed to keeping margin so that we have the time and mental and emotional space for the people in our lives.

We want to major in the majors and minor in the minors.

This is our why.

Strangers in this land.

We had hoped to hit the road at the start of this month, but our RV is still in the shop. All is well; my eyes can be a bit too big for my stomach when it comes to my appetite for adventure and travel, and the universe in all its wisdom has held me by the shoulders, forcing me to slow it down a bit. So we are squeezing every drop of enjoyment from these last days in our stationary home, soaking up the sun at the pool, sweating away stress in the gym, serving up all the food that’s left in our freezer and pantry, selling off our possessions to the highest bidder, spinning loads of laundry while the machines sit in our bathroom instead of a quarter-mile across a campground.

I have enough self-awareness to know that it probably seems like we’ve completely lost it. Last year, in a climate where everyone was playing the real estate market, we sold our home and our only source of equity, paid off debt, and moved into a temporary apartment. In the shadow of a recession, we walked away from our only source of income with no other job lined up and bought an RV. While inflation hangs in the air like a curse word, we’ve sold most of our possessions. In a world that’s getting lonelier by the minute, we left our church community clinging to our hope of finding something that looks a little more like the Gospel, pure and simple..

But then again, following God’s lead can look pretty foolish at times.

We’ve had a lot of people ask us where we’re heading, and honestly, I have absolutely no clue. We’ve changed our plans so many times I’ve lost count. We’ve interviewed for jobs in Oregon, Washington, Alaska, and Pennsylvania. Our current plan is to hang out somewhere in California while we wait on word from a job opportunity for Kelley in west Portland, but that plan keeps shifting with the wildfire map.

Never have I ever felt more like an alien on this planet than I do now. Today’s world is almost completely unrecognizable to me. When I look around at all of the things shouting out for our time, our attention, our affection—cryptocurrency, custom Nikes, Teslas, the latest tech, political parties, even influence and followings—it all seems so foreign to me now. While I once would have aspired to attain a beautiful house and beautiful things to fill it with, while I once would have associated success with more and not less—that just isn’t feeling quite right these days.

The more I read about the life of Jesus, the more I discover how transient his lifestyle here on Earth was. The more I realize just how much he encouraged people to lighten their loads rather than gather up more, to get their eyes off possessions and status and influence and onto the things of Heaven, and to walk through this life with a healthy dose of detachment to the temporal. He knew that most often, worldly possessions and success only served as a distraction to keep us majoring on the minors and focused on self. He had nothing of this world to distract him from the people He was called to reach for the life beyond this one. People are eternal; everything else is just made of sand.

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Matthew 6:19-20

As I dismantle this life we built in Portland and sell it off piece by piece, strangely it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. Over the past several years, I’ve been learning the difficult discipline of holding the things of this world with an open hand. It’s a lesson that’s painful in the prying, cramping from fingers wrapped tightly around the things the world tells me are most important. The letting go isn’t comfortable, but then, magnificent, eternal things rarely come to the doorstep of our comfort zone. No, we must step out for them, even if we can’t see what we’re stepping out onto. We can’t see where our footing will come from, but we trust it will come nonetheless, and if it doesn’t…well, we know we just can’t stay on this ledge forever, tucked away in our comforts, wrapped warmly in our status.

“If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.” C.S. Lewis

This world is not our home, which may explain why nowhere feels like home to me at the moment. When we moved to Portland, it was because the Lord laid this land on our hearts after a period of feeling like we were wanderers in the wilderness, so maybe a new land is just over the horizon. Or maybe, what He wants from me now is to find my home in Him, right where it was created to be. Maybe I will continue to feel like the wandering alien until He returns to take me to my eternal home.

So I’m here, open hands and light burden. Resolving to plant my feet firmly in His Word instead of my circumstances, embracing discomfort for the sake of something even better, something more sanctifying, something that’s eternal.

I spent too much time today

on things that don't mean much

The world around me groans under its tyranny of touch

Every wasted thought

and every battle left unfought

All are testimony to my need of you

I'm a stranger in this land

Won't you take me by the hand

I can hear that distant band

But I'm still a stranger in this land

Some days at the strangest times

I feel a sense of loss

A bite or two of stolen fruit

and we all suffer from the cost

But every longing for my home

Even when I'm not alone

Stands as testimony of the coming day

All I've got to do

is to believe on You

Then every struggle seems worthwhile

I can see the promise of Your smile

Stranger in this Land, Waterdeep

Just a regular Friday evening camping in a vineyard.

On a Friday evening, boondocking in the middle of a vineyard while our kids used the last available light of the day turning sticks into swords and acting out an exaggerated storyline, Kelley and I sat together in the banquette of our new-to-us travel trailer, sipping on cabernet sauvignon in plastic cups from the winery down the hill, drafting Kelley’s letter of resignation on the laptop with what battery power we had left.

We were on the last leg home from a last-minute trip to South Dakota to purchase an RV, on a week that Kelley, exhausted and burnt out from his role as an essential worker throughout COVID, decided to take a mental health break. He’d worked through almost every lunch break since 2019, on-call 24/7, and his health had been paying the price for a while. We’d been discussing and praying through our next steps for several months, but it’s hard to have a productive discussion, let alone make wise decisions, when you’re essentially running on fumes. And we’d been dreaming of buying an RV for years, so when the opportunity came up to purchase one that was perfect for our family at a great price, we packed our bags and took a road trip.

We loaded up our three kids and our puppy, who now takes up almost a whole bench seat, in the back of our Ford Expedition, and headed east, the cloud cover clearing like the fog in our brains the farther away from Portland we drove. Well, I drove as Kelley slept off his stress load.

We met Gregg and Marsha a couple of days later at a credit union in Sioux Falls to buy their RV, a 2021 Grand Design Imagine 32-ft. travel trailer. She wore a denim skort and floral blouse, and he wore his military history in the brow lines on his face. They were of good stock and good natured, and after we signed the paperwork, we followed them back to their farm an hour and a half away for lunch.

Blue sky stretched for miles over rolling prairie grass and wind turbines out in the middle of nowhere. The wind was aggressive and unrelenting and made Gregg and Marsha’s home even more inviting, though their midwestern hospitality had drawn us in already.

Marsha presented the kids with camping flashlights and activity books that were sitting on the kitchen island, an early 20th Century Scandinavian carpenter’s workbench that had belonged to her family, and when I asked if the windmills in the distance were theirs, Gregg shook his head and said, “Those aren’t windmills; they’re wind turbines, and we fought to keep from having them installed. Unfortunately, we lost.” He then took Kelley into his office to hand him a signed copy of a book he had published about the hidden dangers of wind turbines. (This was surprising information to us, and I’ll never look at a wind turbine the same way again.)

We said grace around the table and chatted over a deliciously comforting meal of roast and vegetables, with fresh raspberries and vanilla ice cream for dessert, and the kids ran at full speed through the prairie while Gregg gave us a tutorial on the travel trailer. Marsha handed us a bag of homemade oatmeal cookies for the road and hugged us tightly before we finally pulled out of the driveway, cringing at every creak of the trailer hitch as we rolled cautiously down the long gravel road.

The next day we drove through the Badlands and parked for the night on a bluff overlooking the canyonlands, where we’d watched a coyote sprint across the grassland and a couple of bighorn sheep tiptoe on the rocky cliffs just a couple of hours earlier. As we made our way home, we blared the best of Billy Joel through our speakers and wound through the sagebrush-speckled rolling hills of Wyoming, chasing down the jagged snowcaps of the Rockies in the distance. We saluted Our Lady of the Rockies in Butte, Montana, and shared marionberry milkshakes in St. Regis (the best in the world, according to the billboards). And we breathed more deeply and slept more soundly than we had in a long time.

It’s been a little more than a month. One month since we told strangers-turned-friends in South Dakota what we were contemplating as our next steps. One month since we’d marveled at the Badlands and drifted to sleep by the song of coyotes in the canyons. One month since we sat in that vineyard, dreaming daring dreams and planning to step out into the unknown with all the courage we could muster.

And here we are today, once again selling most of our possessions and getting ready to move, only this time we’re moving into an RV to travel as a family. There are a few potential job opportunities in the works, with the possibility of remote work, so we have no idea how long we’ll have before starting a new life somewhere. For now, we’re going to savor every minute of our time together, where we have nothing to do but explore, rest, and have fun as a family. Ranger’s crate occupies most of our floor space in the RV, and we’ve already needed some repairs to both our vehicle and the travel trailer. We are eating our meals in camping chairs around a folding table and sleeping at night on mattresses resting on the floor because our furniture is selling quicker than our move-out date is approaching. But every challenge and discomfort we face is dripping with a richer joy and expectancy than we’ve ever experienced, and our hearts are clutching a faith like we’ve never had before.

And then along came Ranger.

I’m not exactly a dog person. I mean, I have three children, and that’s all the animal I need in my house. I’m more of an intact-leather-sofa, clean-smelling-home-type person.

But it’s really incredible the things you’ll do for those wild animals, isn’t it? Especially when they have their daddy’s smile.

One minute you’re relishing your freedom to go and do wherever and whatever you please and then come home to a nice-smelling, non-chewed up residence, and the next minute you’re fanatically and systematically refreshing the website of a local animal shelter trying to get first pick of the newest drop-offs when their profiles go live that evening.

Our kids have been absolute champs over the past few years. They enthusiastically jumped on board with the notion of leaving family and moving across the country to Portland, where we began a completely different life surrounded by completely new people. After a year of adjusting to private school and two full-time working parents and doing their best to make friends out here in a completely new environment—COVID came rolling in like a mack truck, and overnight, the kids and I were working and schooling from home. Alone. 

It’s not surprising that pet adoptions skyrocketed in 2020.

Still, Kelley and I really didn’t want a dog. I mean, we’d managed to make it 18 years of marriage without one. We knew the hard work that would go into caring for a pet, and honestly, we just didn’t want the inconvenience. Or the additional expense. Or the responsibility. Or the smells.

But you don’t really get a dog for the convenience, do you?

So, two months ago, our family grew by four feet—er, paws.

Meet Ranger the Peacemaker (as his AKC papers refer to him). Ranger, a Rhodesian ridgeback, joined our family in mid-March, and we’ve been acclimating to the pet life ever since.

But we can’t really talk about Ranger without mentioning Rosie, his littermate—our first puppy.

When the Rhodesian ridgebacks from the local animal shelter were adopted ahead of us, we brought Rosie home from an Oregon breeder a few weeks later, before we met Ranger. Though we loved her immediately, she brought a whirlwind of chaos with her. We were exhausted from the constant movement and energy and nipping and biting. The only time we were able to enjoy her was, well, when she was sleeping. I experienced the emotional rollercoaster of post-puppy depression. (Somehow I’d missed the fact that puppies don’t sleep through the night. Why didn’t anyone tell me this??) I’d sit in our bathroom floor and sob, sleep-deprived, sweating from huffing a 20-lb puppy up and down a flight of apartment stairs 12 times a day, and absolutely convinced our life was over. How many more years do we have with her? I’d ask Kelley. At eight weeks old, I was already counting down the days until our life could return to normal.

We’d actually wanted two ridgebacks ever since we read a book about two former CIA operatives-turned-parents who had them (find the book here) and subsequently researched the breed, and I told Kelley I never wanted to go through the puppy phase again, so if the goal was to have two, we would have two NOW. Rip the puppy bandaid off all at once, and then never re-adhere it. Plus, an extra pup would hopefully teach Rosie some bite inhibition and basic manners—and give us all a little break from the gashes and scratches covering our extremities. (Think Rachel Green in the Friends episode where she buys a hairless cat.) The vet agreed, so we contacted the breeder.

Rosie’s breeder had sent us a picture of a male puppy she still had available, and we immediately felt that he needed to be part of our family. Friends told us we were crazy to even consider getting two puppies, and we knew they were right, but we were drawn to him in a way that felt more than just a whim or irresponsible decision. So Kelley and the boys drove the four hours to the breeder’s house one Saturday in Grants Pass and brought him straight home.

Ranger is such a sweet, laid-back, happy puppy. He just wanted to cuddle and rarely nipped at us. He brought with him a sense of calm and peace to our home. Meanwhile, Rosie continued to become more fearful and fear-aggressive, to the point where she would growl and lunge to bite us anytime we tried to handle her. We were constantly walking on eggshells around her, trying our darnedest to keep her calm. We had two different veterinarians and an animal behaviorist express concerns about her being in a home with children, especially one with autism who paced around the apartment several times a day lost in his own imagination. We weren’t even able to allow the kids to interact with her.

It didn’t take long for us to realize that this wasn’t the right home for Rosie, and the most loving thing we could do for her was to help find her a home in which she could thrive. As painful as it was to say goodbye to our first family pet, we coordinated with the Rhodesian Ridgeback Rescue of Oregon to rehome her. (The breeder wouldn’t take her back, unfortunately.) She is now enjoying a loving home, without children, with an owner who’s owned three ridgebacks before her.

Immediately our home was peaceful again. We still miss Rosie, but Ranger has been the best little (er, quickly becoming massive) companion for our family.

Rhodesian ridgebacks are an incredible breed. Originally bred to track down and bay lions in South Africa, they are a blend of greyhound, bloodhound, mastiff, African khoikhoi, and Great Dane. They have a signature ridge of hair down their spine that grows in the opposite direction and looks much like a faux-hawk. They are independent, naturally protective, affectionate, intelligent, and athletic, but not hyper like Labradors and boxers or threatening like pit bulls.

Ranger has already doubled in size and weight, and he will grow to likely be close to 100 pounds when fully grown. Despite his size, he is a loving little snuggler. He is our Ferdinand the bull—his favorite activity is sitting in the sunshine smelling the grass and wildflowers. He is friendly and well-adjusted and is responding surprisingly well to training. Our hope is to one day certify him as a service dog. (Though Rhodesian ridgebacks aren’t typically trained as service dogs, he has the right temperament and has been very responsive to cues already.) We just recently certified him as an emotional support animal for Riley, but he really has been just that for all of us. He is exactly what our family didn’t even know we needed, and we are so excited for him to join us in all our future adventures!

Oh, the places we went.

In the moments before the Mr. and I rang in the new year over a binge session of Cobra Kai, we engaged in the obligatory NYE reflections over the past year, and even with all the plot twists and thickening of the last 12 months, we were still grateful to be able to get outdoors and explore quite a bit as a family.

Since I’m laid up in bed with the sniffles today, I thought I would share some of our family’s favorite travel moments from 2021:

SEATTLE, WA (APRIL)

In April, my in-laws flew in to Portland, and we headed to Seattle to explore the city. We stayed at the quirky Graduate Hotel (FYI, the building did not have A/C, which our hot-natured crew really could have used on this particularly warm spring week) and spent a couple of jam-packed days visiting the Space Needle, the zoo, the History of Flight Museum, and Pike Place Market. If you’re ever in Seattle, you really should grab a latte from Storyville Coffee at the market or a gluten-free fried chicken biscuit from Honest Biscuits, two of our favorite spots.

GOLD BEACH, REDWOOD NATIONAL FOREST, AND SCENIC HIGHWAY 101 (JUNE)

If you want to read more about our trip down the Oregon coast into Northern California, you can check out my other blog posts here and here and here. We started with a camping trip to celebrate our middle child’s and the Mr.’s birthdays, including a trip to the Prehistoric Gardens on Highway 101. But when our campsite got rained out night one, our camping trip turned into a beachside retreat. This adventure was probably my favorite of 2021, where we just had to rally and make the best of a disappointing situation, and it ended up being one of the best vacations we’ve had. And I’m convinced the Oregon coast is one of the most beautiful places on Earth.

OSWALD WEST (JULY)

Sometime in July, we were itching to escape Portland for a bit, so a quick day trip to Oswald West was in order. I remember this day vividly, the strain and exhaustion of daily life slowly melting away as we climbed over nurse logs and tiptoed across the pebbled creek near the shore. We dined at perhaps our favorite restaurant in Oregon, Public Coast Brewing Co., a Cannon Beach treasure we happened upon when Kelley and I came to the PNW for the first time. With their abundance of gluten-free items on the menu, including the best onion rings I’ve ever tasted, it’s our whole family’s first choice when we’re anywhere near the coast. (Every now and then, we’ll make a special trip to Cannon Beach just because we get a hankering for those onion rings.)

OLYMPIC PENINSULA / ANACORTES / BAKER LAKE, WA (SEPTEMBER)

We may be 0 for 3 when it comes to tent camping in the Pacific Northwest, but our “camping” trip to the Olympic Peninsula was still a very rich experience. You can read more about the highlights of our week-long excursion, and our recommendations if you’re ever in the area, here.

BEND, OR / SMITH ROCK STATE PARK (NOVEMBER)

We kind of decided on a whim to go to Bend for a long Veteran’s Day weekend, but we had travel points through our credit card that paid for the hotel and funds from our charter school allotment to take a field trip to the local High Desert Museum, so we planned a last-minute mini-vacay. Bend is, in a word, sunny. I guess that’s the first thing we notice now as Portlanders. We enjoyed strolling through Drake Park in the downtown area, sipping cups of coffee from the Looney Bean coffeehouse as our kids played on the Columbia Park playground. We stayed at a hotel in the Old Mill District and enjoyed gluten-free pasta from Pastini after window shopping. We saw otters and birds of prey at the High Desert Museum and took our best guesses at landmarks from Pilot Butte after enjoying a breakfast of French toast and banana cream doughnuts from the Dough Nut on Greenwood Avenue. (Seriously, you have to try one sometime. They also have a nice selection of gluten-free doughnuts that our kids devoured.) On our way back to Portland, we stopped for a hike at Smith Rock State Park and were, once again, blown away by the natural beauty that is central Oregon, but not before I introduced our kids to the iconic last Blockbuster video in America, where I fangirled all over the blue and yellow interior. (I loved working at our local Blockbuster when I was in high school.)

Almost three years into calling the Pacific Northwest home, and we still can’t get over the varied beauty that’s here. May we never lose the sense of wonder we feel when we step outside our front door, and may 2022 bring on even more adventures to come.

The timelessness of cast iron and linen.

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

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

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

Clinging to the hope of Heaven today.

Snowshoeing on the Mirror Lake Trail

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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