Maturity happens in the middle.

Last month, our oldest, Liam, competed in the Commander’s Cup Fitness Competition through Civil Air Patrol. He has always been a natural runner, so I coached him in the 3-mile and 1-mile events during the short time we had to prepare. (Those who can no longer do…teach, no?)

He was the only cadet from his squadron to show up, but he ended up placing sixth overall in the mile with a time of 6:07, a PR for him. He narrowly missed third place (by one stride!) in the three-mile. I watched as he pushed the third-place runner faster and faster, who collapsed at the finish line half a second before Liam. It was hot, and they’d run in direct sun through thick, wet grass, up multiple hills—a tough course, even for experienced runners. I felt like my heart would burst with pride, remembering what those kinds of courses felt like as a high school cross-country runner.

Liam had had two different medical procedures, one on each foot, requiring recovery time in the weeks leading up to the competition, and we were out of town on multiple trips in May, so we ended up training for about a week total. I taught him to run with proper form, how to breathe, how to sprint the last 200 yards, and how to strengthen his supporting muscles with cross-training exercises. But a YouTube video I found on racing the mile was particularly insightful.

In this video, the runner describes best practices for achieving a PR in a mile race. He gave tips on how to warm up sufficiently, how to pace yourself throughout the four laps around a track, and how to really push it at the end. The first two laps, you’ll be running off adrenaline and keeping up your race pace. And at the last lap, you’ll find that extra push because you know the end is near, and the natural response is to give it all you’ve got.

The third lap, he noted, was the one that would require the most effort.

Halfway through.

In the middle, things get harder. Whereas the first half of the race, excitement and nerves feed your muscles, and it’s easy to give it all you’ve got at the finish line, the beginning of the second half is when you hit resistance. Here is where you notice that the run really takes more effort. Adrenaline moves aside to make way for good, old-fashioned determination. The third lap becomes work, and if you don’t lean into it and push yourself harder, you’ll begin to slow down or even risk injury.

And isn’t that just a metaphor for life? For work, for parenting, for reaching goals, for a fulfilling marriage? For anything at all worth doing—at some point, we will recognize the shift, where our inspiration begins to slink away, our vision becomes blurry, and we hit a proverbial wall. It takes more effort just to maintain progress, and if we don’t give more, we’ll slow down. It’s a decision point. We either lean into the heavy, the difficult, and meet it with increased effort and tenacity, or we let it wear us down and weaken us from that point forward. One thing is for sure: maintaining the status quo isn’t going to work.

Here is where, I stressed to Liam, you will have to remind yourself why you chose to do this. You’ll no longer have adrenaline, but purpose, to propel you further.

It can make us nervous knowing that things will eventually get tough, but we have a choice to either let it catch us off guard and knock us backward or to expect the resistance—to welcome it, embrace it, and allow it to produce perseverance, strength, and maturity in us—the very traits that will carry us over the finish line.

I have found this to be true in marriage. In the beginning of our relationship, romance was effortless. We were riding the high of hormones, and love lifted us through courtship. Our enthusiasm about the relationship encouraged spontaneity and affection. But after 20 years of marriage, something different, deeper, has had to emerge, or we would risk moving backward against the resistance. In the mid-life season of raising older kids, homeschooling, caring for a pet, and juggling home life with a demanding career, we’ve hit the point where perseverance, not puppy love, fuels our marriage.

We reached the inevitable decision point of our middle-age marriage: coast toward complacency, or intentionally inch toward intimacy. The latter requires more effort on both of our parts, but the former would do nothing to serve our family in the long run and would only weaken it one weary month after another. We are choosing to cling to our why and to each other, making the extra effort to keep the home-fires burning.

I have also found this to be true in my health. At almost 42, I’m approaching the entryway of perimenopause, and the healthy habits I had in my 20s and 30s are no longer producing the results I’m after. I can no longer eat like a 13-year-old boy and not immediately and persistently feel the after-effects. I can no longer endure 45-minute HIIT workouts without feeling the symptoms of a bad flu.

It now takes increased effort just to maintain my current level of fitness, but achieving and maintaining optimal health in my 40s requires a completely new game plan that I like to call “Suck it up, buttercup.” I can either accept that I have to give it more effort and make the necessary changes to gain strength and vitality, or I can get weaker from here on out.

For me, this means laying off the sweets and the empty carbs. It means getting my derriére in gear multiple times a week to lift weights and go for walks, jogs, or a game of tennis. It means getting to bed at a decent time, drinking lots of water, and eating lots of plants. Basically, it takes discipline and a constant reminder of my why—to have the energy and health to enjoy a full, satisfying life with my family.

As I’m writing this, my kids have been back home for a week after spending half of June in Mississippi with their grandparents. The time was good for them, but I didn’t realize how much I needed the time to myself. Parenting older kids has been a fresh kind of difficult that I wasn’t exactly prepared for. When they were little, a lot of parenting was black-and-white. Challenging but simple. These days, they are all growing both intellectually and spiritually, which has been exciting but also really intense. Like, I’ve prayed for them to know God on a deeper level but kind of thought that could happen instantly and miraculously, and without me having to be so involved. (I kid, I kid, but seriously, why can’t He leave me out of it and handle it Himself?)

Turns out, their maturity is a daily grind of endless questions, deep conversations, corrections, and accountability. It’s late-night visits to our room to ask existential questions with no quick answers. It requires a level of patience and equanimity that I didn’t know I was capable of. It’s an arduous process, and it’s been completely draining. I needed a couple of weeks to get my head back in the game. I needed time to rest, to regain my composure, and come up with a better strategy for the more demanding workload in this season of parenting.

No one really likes the middle. When I was on the cross country team, I would start off races fast, picking off my opponents like lint on a sweater. But midway through the race, when I was wheezing and sweating, I’d panic. Scared I wouldn’t have enough left to finish the race, I’d go into survival mode and slow down, conserving my energy until the finish line was in sight.

I was an average runner. I had the endurance to last for miles only if I went slowly, but I was afraid to push myself past what I thought were my limits to see just how much speed I could gain. (I also had undiagnosed, untreated asthma, as it turns out. Now that I have an inhaler, I understand that it’s possible to run without wheezing and gasping for air.) So one day, when Liam was practicing mile tempo runs, he complained to me after his first mile that he was tired and didn’t feel well, so his next mile would most likely be slower. I informed him that negative self-talk was all in his head, and I wanted him to try to push past that feeling and see how well he could run the next mile. (I of course made sure it wasn’t true heat exhaustion or something serious.) He got annoyed with me, but I told him I knew he could push past what he thought was his limit and do more, faster. I jokingly told him to use that irritation toward me to fuel his next run. He not only completed the next mile but shaved 20 seconds off his time.

On the day that he was sitting in the podiatrist’s office, waiting on the doctor to perform his second procedure, he asked me why God allowed us to go through trials. He said he’d prayed for healing for his foot and didn’t understand why God didn’t answer his prayer.

After reminding him that, sometimes, God chooses to heal in ways different than we would have thought—in this instance, the procedure would bring the relief he needed—I shared that God is more concerned with our maturity and strength than he is our comfort level. I reminded him of the words spoken in the book of James: “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, when you encounter trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith develops perseverance. Perseverance must finish its work in you so that you will become mature and complete, not lacking anything.” Maybe this procedure was an exercise in endurance, faith, and reliance on God’s grace, and he should embrace what it could produce in him.

It’s easy to run our race with fresh legs and a full tank of energy, but the good stuff—the deep, lasting stuff—is formed in us during adversity, when we feel the burn in our lungs and muscles. As Rocky Balboa says, “Going that one more round when you don’t think you can, that’s what makes all the difference in your life.”

It’s in the middle, when we encounter resistance and choose to persevere, to lean in, to dig deep—that’s when we gain strength to finish the race before us.

Right after placing fourth in the three-mile.

Like fireflies in mason jars...

The heat this week has been unforgiving; the humidity a blatant bully. It’s the kind of heat that causes me to reconsider all of my life choices, the kind that necessitates head-to-toe linen and that whole-body deodorant advertised on television because of the sweat beading up in all the nooks and crannies, in places I didn’t think possible. The kind of humidity that has me clutching my inhaler like a security blanket and considering shaving my head bald.

Reminders of the heat are everywhere, like the traffic light I sat at yesterday, sandwiched between a pool supply company van and a Reddy bagged ice delivery truck. My short-haired dog doesn’t even want to bother with his daily walks, panting and dragging his paws like he’s being punished.

On the upside, I have enjoyed what will be two full weeks of time to myself (and with Kelley, when he’s not working), as the kids have been staying with family in Mississippi, collecting memories like fireflies in mason jars. (They’ve also, quite literally, been catching fireflies in jars.)

Some of my fondest childhood memories are of summertimes spent at my grandparents’ homes. Playing on a rainy day in a galvanized tub that, miraculously, my younger cousin Hannah and I both fit in. Driving to the local snow cone shop with my aunt Martha for my favorite strawberry-and-cream combination. Transforming the towering cedar in the front yard into a cozy home, swinging on the sturdy, expansive limbs and setting up tea parties under the fluffy branches. I remember one summer day, I climbed resolutely almost to the very top. I couldn’t find the way back down, however, and panicked, and Hannah fetched my older cousin Ben to rescue me.

I had three girl cousins who were stair-stepped with me in ages. We didn’t see each other nearly enough, as our homes were spread out in Alabama, Mississippi, Tennessee, and Florida. But we were pen pals, best friends, and in our teen years, bandmates. I come from quite a large family on my dad’s side, with close to 20 cousins out of my dad and his six sisters. There were days I never even saw my parents in my grandparents’ large home that they built over the course of my dad’s teen years, but there was no shortage of watchful eyes—the older cousins looking after the younger, the younger getting into harmless mischief but working it all out eventually. With my cousins, we learned conflict resolution, teamwork, loyalty, and the words to “Do Re Mi” from The Sound of Music, which my cousin Angela forced us to watch on repeat. (That movie triggers me to this day.) We dressed up in my grandmother’s vintage dresses and played wedding, stayed up late engaging in delicious girl talk, snuck barefoot to the deep freezer in the laundry room for Pop-ice, which we double-fisted back to our room in the back of the house while everyone else slept. During the days, my cousins and I would hide out in the woods, executing elaborate imaginative play under cover of the pines as mosquito bites dotted my scraped-up legs.

I remember my grandfather and all of his epic dad (granddad?) jokes. “How do you pronounce the capital of Kentucky: LOO-EE-ville or LOO-IS-ville?” After his unsuspecting victim made their selection, he’d boom, “Well, I pronounce it FRANKFURT!” and laugh exuberantly. I’d walk hand-in-hand with my Granddaddy down to his pond to feed the fish from his “slop bucket” (what would now be more sophisticatedly referred to as a compost bin) and practice reading with my grandmother, who wore short curls and cat-eye glasses as a teacher and librarian at the local school.

My mom, the oldest of five, had a large family as well. I hold close the memories of riding in the back of my Papaw’s pickup and learning to fish on the pond at his hunting camp, ending the days with a family fish fry. Sometimes on a Saturday morning, my uncle Robby would swing by to pick me up for a doughnut run, or my aunts Rebecca and Dianna would take me through the drive-thru themselves, coaxing me to confess which of them was my favorite.

“Stephanie,” I’d reply, referring to my uncle Jimmy’s wife, to which both of them would (slightly and playfully) bristle with indignation.

I loved going on shopping trips with my impossibly generous grandma to Toys R Us, where she would spoil me with a new toy or two. Riding with my Papaw anywhere in his oversized Ford pickup was such a treat (especially when we’d go to his bank, and the teller would slip me a strawberry-flavored sucker), and I can still hear my grandma’s sweet voice singing songs from her younger years.

These are the memories that return to me when the heat picks up. When I pass a Krispy Kreme or watch my kids snip the tops off their oblong freezer pops. When I see the fireflies sparkle at dusk, or when I catch the smell of cedar. It makes my heart swell to think that my kids will carry these same types of memories with them throughout the rest of their lives: rating daring dives off the board at their cousins’ pool, constructing LEGO sets and playing board games like Monopoly and LIFE together. This past week, they’ve fashioned fishing poles out of cane in the backyard and caught crawfish in the creek out front. Liam has learned how to drive the John Deere Gator with the help of his Honey (Kelley’s mom), whom he drives around the 30-plus-acre property. They are spending such precious time with ones who can teach them the things that I can’t, and I’m so grateful for it.

I’ve missed them terribly, but I am happy to be picking them up next week with their lumpy luggage and mason jars full of memories, their faces freshly freckled and legs dotted with mosquito bites, all signs of a summer well spent.

Spring 2025: Thompsons take on the Big Apple

One conversation the Mr. and I kept having while we were in NYC for our 20th anniversary in December was how enjoyable it would be to introduce the kids to the city, though it would be out of our budget to plan a family trip in the foreseeable future.

So when Kelley was assigned to travel to New York for work in May, the kids and I quite literally jumped at the chance to tag along. We left for the city just a few days after we returned from Philly, but the hassle of back-to-back trips was worth it to experience NYC with the kids.

We woke up early that Wednesday morning and boarded the Amtrak from Union Station in D.C. to Penn Station in Manhattan with just our backpacks for luggage. (We weren’t sure we’d be able to check in to the hotel early, and I didn’t want to cart luggage all over the city with the kids while Kelley was at work.) This was the kids’ first time traveling by train, and we could feel their palpable excitement from across the cabin aisle.

We arrived at Penn Station around lunchtime, so we grabbed a quick bite in the train station before starting the 1.6-mile walk to our hotel to see if we could drop our bags, stopping by the Empire State Building for a quick photo op on the way. We were pleasantly surprised, however, when we reached the Fifty Sonesta in Midtown East—the same hotel Kelley and I stayed at in December—when they did us one better and allowed us to check into our room early. We freshened up and then hit the streets to mark off as many tourist traps as we could off of our list while Kelley headed to the Australian ambassador’s residence for work.

It rained three out of the four days we were in NYC, but having lived in the Pacific Northwest, we didn’t let that slow us down. That afternoon, we caught the last 10 minutes of Catholic Mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, which was an experience in itself. There is a whole protocol to Mass that we Protestants were ignorant about, but we followed along the best we could and even got in line to receive a blessing from the priest. (We thought we were going to take Communion, too, but I guess we didn’t give the correct hand signal and weren’t offered the sacraments. Whoops.) Our visit was educational, a lesson in reverence and respect for other denominations of our faith.

After Mass, we crossed the street to the LEGO store, which was the coolest. There is a whole cab made of LEGO that the kids could sit in, among other large displays. Then we headed for Rockefeller Center and explored the building, stopping for ice cream at Van Leewen’s and coffee at Blue Bottle. We grabbed some hats and a Christmas ornament of the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree (something that Kelley and I missed purchasing to commemorate our December trip), stopped by Radio City Music Hall (unfortunately, we couldn’t get inside this time but settled for a picture of the kids in front of the sign) and then spent way too much time in FAO Schwarz fawning over adorable stuffed animals.

That evening we found a fantastic mostly-gluten-free restaurant, Friedman’s, near Times Square. The fun thing about this place is that each of their wait staff is a professional singer, so every 15-20 minutes one of them sings a number from a Broadway musical. (Notice the trend? What is with our family and singing waiters?) Our waiter just happened to be from Huntsville, Alabama, and he was by far our favorite singer. The gluten-free chicken and waffles with habanero honey dipping sauce was probably our favorite meal of the trip overall.

After dinner, we ran inside a Target so I could grab some slippers for the hotel (I’d forgotten mine and have a thing about walking barefoot on hotel floors) and then walked through Times Square on the way back to the hotel. To be honest, I’m not a fan of Times Square. There are a lot of shenanigans that happen in this area. A lot of suspect characters roaming around. Complete sensory overload. I was hesitant to walk the kids through what felt like a medieval gauntlet, but Kelley took the lead, and we all survived, though once again, he had to shield me (and Eva this time) from the intrusive lens of a random man with a camera. (Though I guess that’s better than a maze of giant axes swinging from a pendulum.)

Day two, the kids and I headed out toward the Upper East Side in pursuit of gluten-free bagels at Modern Bread and Bagel on Third Avenue. Here, I almost got into it with a woman who cut the line. We were standing in front of the display cases, waiting at least 10-15 minutes on one of the two cashiers to get freed up, when in walks an uppity East Side spinster (I’m profiling, of course), who squeezes past us to stand in front of the register. I guess she can feel the heat from the laser beams shooting out of my eyeballs toward her, because she turns to look at me and asks if we were waiting to be served.

“Yes, we’re in line,” I said quickly.

“Well, the line is usually right here,” she said curtly, to which I shrug and respond, “We aren’t from here; this is our first time in this bakery.”

“You can go first, I guess,” she says in that stereotypical impatient New Yorker fashion, “but the line is right here.”

“That would be great, thanks!” I said, matching her tone and scooting in front of her. “We’ve been waiting a while.”

She waits a minute, and then says, “I’m sorry I was rude.” I don’t think you mean that, I thought, discerning more of that impatient tone in her voice.

“Eh, it’s New York,” I say.

We then started talking about the selection of pastries as if our little tense exchange never happened. The kids each ordered their own selection of bagels (Liam and Eva chose cream cheese, Riley crafter a breakfast bagel with egg and cheese), and I ordered a chocolate babka and a square of rugelach for us to sample. We also tried the coconut French toast sticks with coffee caramel dipping sauce and vanilla coconut custard, which were way too sweet and fell apart when we tried to pick them up. Overall, the kids were happy to have tried an iconic New York City bagel. We tossed the French toast and headed through an East Side neighborhood—where I drooled over the charming architecture and spring blooms—to the Guggenheim Museum, passing the Metropolitan Museum of Art on the way.

This past spring in D.C. the kids attended a couple of special classes offered for homeschoolers at the National Building Museum that highlighted Frank Lloyd Wright’s life and architectural style. We perused the Frank Lloyd Wright room, where we viewed the original plans to his most famous projects, including the Guggenheim Museum in NYC. Naturally, we had to see it in person, so I got us tickets to the museum, where we also attended a lecture on the thought process behind the museum’s unique beehive-esque design. Fun fact: Did you know that Wright originally suggested the Guggenheim be painted bright pink on the outside?

We walked up and down the entire interior ramp, stopping to discuss the various styles and methods of the pieces we passed by. We saw paintings by Renior, van Gogh, Picasso, Degas, Guaguin, and Rousseau, as well as a new contemporary exhibit by Chicago-native artist Rashid Johnson. (We found some of his creations a little creepy, but his canvases made for some funky photo backdrops.) Then after leaving the Guggenheim, we stopped at the Ancient Playground in Central Park to let the kids decompress after a long day of learning before heading back to the hotel. That night, we enjoyed dinner on the patio at La Pecora Bianca, a cute Italian place with gluten-free offerings at Second Ave. and E. 50th.

The morning of day three was a rainy one, so the kids and I headed inside the New York City Public Library to explore their exhibit celebrating the 100th anniversary of The New Yorker magazine. You guys, the details in the Greco-Roman-inspired Beaux-Arts style architecture in this building…there are no words. Every wall, every ceiling was a work of art in itself. Intricate carvings, antique chandeliers, bronze ceilings, painted murals, Vermont marble everything. The kids found a few little hiding nooks under the grand staircase in the main lobby, and we really enjoyed exploring the library, including the children’s section in the extension building across the street, for a couple of hours.

As a journalism major, I geeked out over the The New Yorker exhibit, reading old memos typed on typewriters and reminiscing the old cover illustrations. I fangirled over the Goddess of Grammar memorabilia, honoring copy editor and grammarian Eleanor Gould Packard. Can you imagine having a nickname like that?

Kelley got off work early this day, so we met him for lunch at Slate Cafe down the street from our hotel, and then we decided to get an Uber and explore the Financial District in lower Manhattan, riding by the Brooklyn Bridge along the way. On our list, the One World Trader Center, Oculus, and 9/11 Memorial sites; Wall Street and the New York Stock Exchange; Trinity Church and the resting place of Alexander Hamilton; and Battery Park. We walked by the Charging Bull statue just north of Bowling Green park, but it was so crowded we decided to keep walking, though not before we noted the ridiculously long line of mostly women (and mostly international) waiting to get their pictures taken…grabbing the bull by the balls. I did not know this was a thing. Curiously enough, there were more people lined up behind the bull than were trying to take pictures in front. But I digress.

After Battery Park, we hopped on the free Staten Island Ferry to get a great view of the Statue of Liberty. Just a side note, if you are approached near the waterfront by someone soliciting boat tours of the Statue of Liberty, don’t fall for it. There are plenty of scammers but few official tours. But the ferry is free and provides great views of Lady Liberty.

Of course, on any trip to NYC, you have to pick and choose what you will do; there is simply too much to take in on any one trip. I would have loved to explore the Met, the 9/11 museum, and Ellis Island during our stay, but there was just not enough time.

On our last day in NYC, we were graced with sunshine and warm weather, so we took the kids to Central Park for most of the day before we headed to the train station. We saw most of the highlights before walking to Glace ice cream shop on Madison for ice cream “macwiches”—ice cream sandwiched inside a macaron. I chose the pistachio, Kelley and Eva both tried the Nutella, and the boys had the toasted almond. These were so good that I kid you not, I’ve contemplated driving the four hours to the city just to have another one on multiple occasions since our trip. Is that crazy? I personally don’t think so.

After ice cream, we walked back toward the hotel, stopping at the official New York Yankees club shop for hats and then a hole-in-the-wall New York-style pizza place (Cassiano’s? Little Italy? I can’t remember which one, but it was on 2nd Ave.) that served gluten-free pizza. (Their regular pizza is also outstanding and everything NY pizza should be.) When we returned to the hotel for our bags, we’d already walked about 20,000 steps in the heat, so we caught an Uber to the train station, grabbing some treats from Magnolia Bakery before we hopped on the return train to D.C.

To be honest, the thought of traveling to such a major city with the kids seemed a little daunting at first. I love how adventurous and adaptable our kids are, but it’s a lot of walking (well over 30 miles total in three days), and even more sensory overload, with all of the sirens and car horns and typical sounds of the city, combined with driving rain and of course, the crowds. I was concerned our kids would be exhausted, overstimulated, and stressed trying to navigate such a large city, but I really should have had more faith in them. Of course, after our Philly trip, we attempted to prepare them mentally: “Just expect to walk the most you’ve ever walked in your life, but you’re getting to see NYC, so no complaining!” It was a different experience than a couples-only trip (we spent a LOT of time in toy stores), but experiencing the city through the eyes of our kids was a memory I’ll never forget.

Spring 2025: Philadelphia

If you have spent more than five minutes with me, you probably know how much I love the Rocky movie series. I was probably Eva’s age when I first dreamed of running up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art just like Rocky Balboa…perhaps even with Rocky Balboa (though multiple attempts to proposition Sly Stallone for a run and a Philly cheesesteak on me were, unfortunately, unsuccessful.)

But this past school year we completed a U.S. Government and Constitution curriculum, and I wanted to take the kids to see in person Independence Hall and the other historical sites we’d studied together. So for Mother’s Day, we spent a long weekend exploring Philadelphia, which culminated in a run up the Rocky steps and a check mark on my bucket list.

Our first day in Philly, we explored Reading Terminal Market and enjoyed gluten-free corn dogs at Fox and Son’s, a charming carnival food booth inside the market. For dinner, I made reservations at The Victor Café, where the restaurant, Adrian’s, that Rocky owned in Rocky Balboa was filmed. The wait staff at The Victor are all professional opera singers, and they take turns singing a number from different famous operas every 20 minutes, so the experience at this cafe includes dinner and a show. The food was delicious, and we ordered the crème brûlée for dessert (the first time the kids and I had ever tried it; it was good, though a little over-caramelized on top). It was gratifying to get dressed up and pretend to be in Rocky’s restaurant for a night. (Okay, I was the only one pretending, but still…)

We dedicated our first full day to all things history, starting with the President’s House, where George and Martha Washington (and briefly John and Abigail Adams) lived, and the Liberty Bell. The bell cracked down the side the very first time it was rung, when the citizens of Philadelphia were summoned to hear the first public reading of the Declaration of Independence. The giant fissure down the side has become a valued part of the bell’s history, and the symbolism of its notoriety coming from its major flaw wasn’t lost on me.

But did you know there was actually another bell, the Justice Bell, designed and commissioned by a woman, Katharine Wentworth Ruschenberger in 1915? The bell’s clapper was chained, preventing the bell from ringing, to represent the silence of women who didn’t have the right to vote. It was loaded in the bed of a pickup truck and taken on a road trip to tour all 67 of Pennsylvania’s counties to raise awareness for the women’s suffrage movement. When the 19th Amendment was ratified in 1920, ensuring women’s right to vote, the Justice Bell was rung 48 times—once for each state in the union—during a celebration on Independence Square in Philadelphia…and it didn’t crack. (Maybe the Liberty Bell should have been designed by a woman, too, but I digress.)

After the Liberty Bell, we toured the cemetery where Benjamin Franklin was buried, along with several other signers of the Declaration of Independence and Revolutionary War heroes. We walked on to the house and burial site of Betsy Ross, the creator of the first American flag. (She’s apparently to credit for the five-pointed stars on the flag; George Washington initially asked for six-pointed ones.)

For lunch, we walked to Oh Brother’s in Old City to cross off another Philadelphia bucket list item, (gluten-free) Philly cheesesteak. We enjoyed the laid-back vibe in this restaurant and the mural of Philadelphia icons on the wall (including mine truly, Rocky Balboa). Then we walked down the block for ice cream at the vintage soda shop, the Franklin Fountain. (I loved how the employees wore bow ties.)

We meandered through the grounds of Christchurch, and then window-shopped our way to our guided tour of Independence Hall.

I’ve mentioned that I’m no historian and didn’t care much for the subject in grade school, but something about standing in the room where the Declaration of Independence was signed made me emotional. To think about a room full of men, prepared to commit treason in their quest to form a more free country, signing the sacred document by candlelight in a humid, stuffy room…well, even I can appreciate that. To see the chair with the rising sun that George Washington sat as the president of the Constitutional Convention—just to be in that same room was special.

We then toured Carpenters’ Hall, where the First Continental Congress met, before exploring the grounds of Benjamin Franklin’s property and print shop. We watched a demonstration of how his printing press worked, and the graphic designer in me totally geeked out before heading back to the hotel for a break.

Saturday evening, we regrouped and walked by the famous LOVE sculpture for a photo op and then walked through the open-air city hall, stopping to wave at strangers in Poland through the portal in the courtyard (yes, this is a thing, and yes, they all waved back!), before heading down S. 12th Street to Sueño for street tacos. The food was delicious, but there was a moment during dinner when we heard loud bangs coming from the street outside and started getting nervous. They grew louder and louder, until a drum trio marched into the restaurant, the beats of their drums ricocheting off the walls, which I could have sworn began to close in on us. “Put down the guns; pick up some drums” was emblazoned on a sign hanging from the front-man’s tom, while the guy in back wore a full Elmo costume. This must have been a local treasure, because a group of girls at the bar began squealing and pulling out their phones, remarking that they’d never been able to see this group in person. The street performers added some excitement, but it freaked out Eva so bad that Kelley had to sit outside with her for the rest of our meal while she calmed down. So if you’re ever in Philly, be on the lookout for the traveling drummers.

Sunday was the icing on the cake for me. Early that morning, we headed down the street to the Philadelphia Museum of Art to run the Rocky steps and see the Rocky statue. I wore my custom-ordered “Win Rocky Win” shirt and played Gonna Fly Now on my iPhone as we walked. Yes, I looked ridiculous, and no, I didn’t care one bit.

There are actually two Rocky statues; the real one, which sat at the top of the front steps of the museum, and another smaller one in a shaded courtyard off to the right at the bottom of the steps. We visited the smaller one first, where a random man stood ready to offer to take our photos. He had the Rocky soundtrack playing on his boombox and had just finished taking photos for another family, so we obliged. For a small cash tip, I got about 40 posed photos of our family in front of the statue.

Then the moment I’d been waiting for finally came.

I had “Gonna Fly Now” cued up to the part in the song where Rocky ran the steps, a gaggle of kids trailing him. Kelley was going to video the kids and me reenacting the scene while the music played, and then I’d return the favor for him. He gave the signal, and we took off, flying up the stairs at maximum speed. We got to the top and jumped up in the air, our fists above our heads. My heart was soaring; I’d played out this moment in my mind repeatedly over the years. Everything had to be perfect, and it was perfect.

Until I turned around and caught a glimpse of Kelley.

He was still at the bottom of the stairs, frantically waving us back. Puzzled, the kids and I descended the steps to meet him. “You’re going to have to redo it; the video didn’t record.”

…

So we ran it again. I heard the kids coaching each other “not to pass Mom” as I skipped up the steps, which pushed me to pick up the pace, but our second run was a bit slower. The sunny, 30-minute brisk walk to the museum, followed by our first sprint up the 72 steps, had me panting and sweating. Why I thought wearing denim shorts and my hair down were a good idea is beyond my comprehension. At least I looked camera-ready, even if I had sweat dripping down my back and was breathing heavy. But like my favorite quote from Rocky IV, which is emblazoned on the base of the Rocky statue, says, “Going that extra round when you don’t think you can, that’s what makes all the difference in your life.” (Seeing this quote on the statue made me tear up.)

Well, so I got to run the Rocky steps twice. Then Kelley took his turn, and we snapped two dozen more photos with the real statue. I didn’t expect to cry, but as I gazed up at the statue against the brilliant blue sky, the emotions overwhelmed me. I stood in Rocky’s memorialized footsteps and thought about how much this moment truly meant to me. I reminisced about my teenage self, tacking Rocky posters on my bedroom wall for inspiration during my workouts. I remembered holding my Sony Discman as steady as possible, careful not to make my Rocky soundtrack skip as I’d go for runs through my neighborhood. Unwrapping my Rocky box set (on VHS!) the night I graduated from high school.

I thought about the night I walked into the Baptist Student Union at Mississippi State University for a worship team practice and noticed a 2-ft. tall talking Rocky doll standing underneath my mic, a gift from my bassist and friend David, who’d seen the doll on a trip to Philadelphia and thought of me. I’d hosted an all-day Rocky marathon at my apartment my freshman year, and David was one of my friends crowded in our tiny living room. To this day, it’s one of the nicest surprises I’ve ever received; one of the times in my life I felt the most seen.

Getting to share that moment with my family after having watched the movies with the kids this year was so meaningful. (You know, just raising up the next generation of Rocky fans over here.) It was the perfect Mother's Day gift.

We closed out our weekend with fresh-made, gluten-free doughnuts and popcorn chicken from Okie Dokie Doughnuts in South Philly before heading home. (I do not recommend running in the heat and then eating a warm Boston cream doughnut.) Philadelphia felt like a city of hard-knocks; it was dirty, and there were people passed out on park benches and sidewalks from illicit drugs or alcohol, which was heartbreaking to witness. It’s a far cry from the historical gem of America’s past. But as the gritty backdrop for the rags-to-riches underdog story of Rocky Balboa that I love so much, it brings to life the possibility that beauty and resilience can rise from ashes.

Summer 2025—Laissez les bon temp rouler.

I bet you can’t guess where I am right now…

No, I’m not in a dust-covered campground swarming with mosquitoes and summer flies.

I don’t have my feet hanging over a murky, filmy campground pool, wondering what that is lurking on the bottom and if I or one of the kids will end up with an eye infection this summer from whatever that mysterious, blobby object is.

Nor am I hanging off the crowded RV banquette, elbow-deep in schoolbooks trying to simultaneously teach algebraic equations and the life cycle of a newt.

Nope. NOT TODAY.

I am currently in a fluffy white bathrobe, cozy in a downy, king-size bed on the tenth floor of a historical hotel, The Lord Elgin, in Ottawa’s city center, looking out my window over a beautiful park.

BY MYSELF.

No rambunctious kids. No 100-lb ridgeback shedding, drooling, or testing just how many ways he can invade my personal space.

This is so rare that I’d like to take a moment of silence to appreciate the anomaly of my current circumstances.

…

This week, I tagged along on the Mr.’s work trip to Canada while the kids are enjoying a couple of weeks with family in Mississippi. (The kids are fine: they are catching fireflies and crickets for fishing and playing Scrabble and making forts and swimming in their cousins’ clean pool. Don’t feel sorry for them.)

The first order of business after we checked into our hotel Tuesday was of course to hunt for French pastries at a local bakery, as Ottawa has a heavy French influence. This is the moment where I was kicking myself for not sticking with those French lessons on Duolingo. Très terrible. But honestly, who speaks French in the U.S.? I’ve gotten way more use out of Spanish. (For example, one day inside a public restroom, an English-speaking woman was trying to ask a pregnant Spanish-speaking woman about her baby, and I was able to translate for them: “Tú bebe es un niño o niña?” “Tú estas muy cansada?” I was rather proud of myself.)

Anyway, I tried my best to appear like a local (“Bonjour!" “Merci!”) as I ordered a sandwich and, of course, tiramisu (wait, I thought this was a French bistro…) However, I was very aware that, you know, one of these things is not like the other when we sat at our table and I noticed the very French lady sitting near us.

You know all of those Pinterest links describing life as a French woman and how to be just like her? How to dress like her, how to behave like her, how not to get fat just like her? Well, this woman was the femme modèle. Dressed in sleek, latte-hued trousers in probably a size 2 and a mocha cardigan (it was 80 degrees outside! I guess French women don’t sweat, either), delicate ballet flats and a chic leather bag, her hair pulled neatly into a chignon, daintily sipping soup off a spoon while a croissant the size of a football sat untouched on a side plate. I will never be French. I would have gone straight for the croissant. Suddenly, all I could think about was my wide-width Hokas on my feet and the mess of curls on my head, which was generating the same amount of heat as a wool afghan and expanding by the minute. (Side note: I’ve said for years to Kelley, Why don’t we move to Canada, where it’s colder? It is definitely NOT colder. I haven’t stopped sweating since we stepped off the plane.) My skin was dry from the plane, my rosacea was peeking out from behind the foundation on my cheeks. Even my BBQ chicken sandwich, though hardly the drippy, grotesque mess of the Southern U.S. equivalent, was still very much something an American would order.

Everything about her was très elegant; it was difficult not to stare. She was like a work of art, from her impeccable complexion and smooth hair to her exquisite table manners. Of course, my Aspergers went into full-on masking mode, and I picked at my food just like her. I crossed my ankles (hard to do with sneakers the width of frying pans) and stopped slouching just like her and vowed to dress a little more chic at dinner. At least I was also wearing neutrals—natural linen pants and a black high-neck tank. I’ll give it a 5/10.

After the bakery, Kelley and I (and the French woman) parted ways. (Au revoir, beautiful French woman. You have no idea what kind of mental tailspin you sent me into.) I went meandering passed Parliament Hill and through the quaint downtown area while Kelley headed to work at the Australian chancery. I made my way through the Byway Market and sat on a shaded park bench across from Notre-Dame cathedral, enjoying dreamsicle gelato from a wooden paddle-spoon (yes, my second dessert of the afternoon, don’t judge me) and listening to the unintrusive soundtrack of the neighborhood. As I sat there, a French-ish Canadian man rode up on his bicycle and remarked, “Eating ice cream alone on a park bench in the middle of the afternoon?”

To which I responded, “I prefer it that way!” (How very un-French of me. You can take the girl out of America…)

This, of course, was right before I got kicked out of the American embassy.

To my credit, I did consider this was a reasonable possibility. But a sign mentioning “embassy visitors” was displayed right beside the door, which led me to believe that the embassy did, in fact, allow visitors. I may never be French, but I am American! American, I can do. I waited until I saw a woman in regular street clothes open the door, and I walked in after her. (Surely, she doesn’t work here. She’s wearing white cropped chinos. How very American.)

Immediately, a guard appeared out of thin air. “Is she with you?” He asked the woman, pointing at me. She enthusiastically said no (a little unnecessary, if you ask me. One nation undivided and all that. We’re Americans! We’re all together!), and she briskly walked through the next set of doors. “Let’s talk outside,” the guard said to me, walking back into the sunlight. I followed him, and I KID YOU NOT, the door began to close on me. I squeezed through just before being crushed by the huge, heavy metal automatic door. The guard glanced at me, a little amused and not at all concerned by my near-door-death incident, and waited for me to speak.

Flustered, I flashed my passport at him. “Um, I’m an American! And I just wanted to see if I could take a look inside our embassy? It’s my first time in another country.” I spread my most charming smile across my face.

“I’m sorry, I can’t let you in.”

“What?? But I’m an American (as if that wasn’t painfully obvious yet). I have my passport!”

After a few back-and-forths about the current tumultuous U.S.-Canada relationship and the new no-visitor policy (President Trump, in the words of Avril Lavigne, “Why’d you have to go and make things so complicated?”), I noticed he was moving between me and the door as I was silently sizing up this beanpole of a guard who was clearly younger than me and thinking for a moment that I could probably knock him to the ground and bolt past him to the door without breaking a sweat (if I wasn’t already sweating).

“What if I was in trouble?” I asked. “Could I come in then??” This was an important question I didn’t know I needed answered until that moment, as scenes from The Bourne Identity flashed through my mind.

“Then we would figure it out together. What kind of trouble are you in?” He asked.

Forget it. This wasn’t happening.

“Oh, I’m not in any trouble, sir. I just wanted to look inside our embassy…Can I just peek through the window?” He laughed, clearly amused by my ignorance. This was probably the most human interaction he’d had all day. But he still wasn’t letting me in, so we said our goodbyes, and I walked away, disappointed.

You know, in the movies, you see Americans in other countries going into our embassy like it’s a bank. They walk up to a counter in the lobby with a row of banker-looking clerks and do their business. I was under no impression I could freely walk the halls upstairs, sticking my head into random offices and chatting up dignitaries, but I at least thought I’d make it into the lobby. I took satisfaction in knowing that I had my two feet planted on U.S. ground for the 3.2 seconds I was inside the door, and walked on to the hotel and miraculously took a nap. (I guess it is possible for me to sleep during the day, when the kids and dog aren’t around and I have a gigantic bed all to myself in a quiet, dark room. How curious…)

For dinner, we ate at Brown’s Socialhouse (delicious! best fish and chips I’ve ever tasted—but I bet the French woman would have ordered a salad) before talking a stroll down the riverside path around the Rideau Canal.

Day 2, I treated the hotel like a spa and made good use of the amenities. (I love a good hotel gym.) I woke up late, took my time getting out of bed, drank my superfood greens, and headed to work out in the gym while Kelley was at work. When he returned, we had a late lunch at Starling in the Byway Market, walked around Ottawa, and then crossed the walking bridge into Quebec (where everything’s in French!) just to say we did. (At Starling, I ordered a sandwich with “fries and champagne” as a side. Of course, I interpreted that literally and expected a curious but perhaps whimsical pairing of fries with a glass of champagne. I was surprised when they delivered a poutine-ish bowl of fries topped with cheese curds and a thin, Alfredo-like “champagne sauce”—no sparkly flute. Again, a painful reminder that I am perfect for the role of a clumsy, confused American.)

Also at Starling, we sat next to three men in a business lunch meeting, scheming on how they would convince an L.A.-based tech engineer making an $800K USD salary to take a drastic pay cut and move to Ottawa. “His girlfriend lives in Toronto! We got this in the bag,” they laughed. At the sound of $800K salary, I muttered, “Woah,” under my breath, and the twitchy, rowdy one turned and shot a glance my way. I have so many questions after eavesdropping on that conversation; mainly, how do I get into the tech industry?

On the way back to the hotel, we grabbed some iced coffee and a quick respite from the scorching humidity and direct sunlight at Little Victories coffee shop. Afterwards, I swam some laps in the indoor hotel pool, relaxed my sore muscles in the whirlpool spa after walking 18,000 daily steps AND overdoing it on the treadmill that morning, and then took what felt like the longest shower of my life, not having to worry about the lack of elbow room or hot water as in the RV.

Getting ready for dinner was like the scene in Miss Congeniality where Sandra Bullock undergoes a massive transformation to become pageant-ready, except in my case, we were going to a classically French restaurant, and I needed a do-over from my first bistro experience here. I paired my black square-neck tank and silk high-waist leopard-print skirt with dainty jewelry and a woven clutch. I pulled my makeup inspiration from my be-like-the-French Pinterest board, but I had to use the hotel hair dryer without a diffuser, and there was no way I was wrangling my disobedient curls into a French chignon, so I cut my losses and wore it wild.

Is it possible to fall in love with a restaurant? We sat at a candlelit, velveted semi-circular booth in Cocotte Bistro, and everything about the place was ethereal. I ordered the summer salad (greens, goat cheese, candied pecans, vinaigrette) and the gnocchi with grilled chicken, which had caramelized onions, candied tomatoes, and the most delicious sauce that I could have drunk with a spoon. My mouth is watering just reliving the memory. (Is it dinnertime yet?) For dessert, we shared a crème brulee with fruit, which was divine and just as crème brulee should be.

As I mentioned earlier, this was my first international trip. (How I have never made it out of the country at 41 years old, I have no idea.) I’ve loved every minute of our time in Canada. It is the perfect gateway country: unique in its Canadian loveliness, with enough European influence to make it feel like a distinctly different country, though sharing enough similarities to the United States as not to be a complete culture shock. We didn’t need charging adapters or exchanged currency; paying with a card was seamless (and cheaper in American dollars than Canadian). Thankfully, everyone we interacted with was bilingual, though I did try to speak as much French as I could remember. (And they weren’t impressed or amused one bit. No one cared whether I could thank them in French.)

Here at the end of our trip (our flight leaves this evening), I’ve stopped trying to blend in as a local (as if I ever could have passed for one). This is absolutely not the blog post of an influencer sharing tips for how to pack, dress, travel, speak, or order food like a French-Canadian. I am a tourist; that is the truth, and I will walk in it. I will wear my joggers and sneakers and New York Yankees hat. I’ll carry my valuables in a sling instead of a purse, and I’ll ask questions about (not a-boat!) the menu that I don’t understand. I will fawn over all of the Canadian beauty and dream of moving here (maybe when the weather is cooler). I will stop kidding myself that I can pull off that exquisite French style, but I will not stop drooling over French cuisine. I am absolutely dragging my feet and delaying my hotel check-out until the last possible second, and I will absolutely stop at each pastry stop between here and the airport.

Welcome, 2025. We're so glad you're here.

Happy New Year! I sincerely hope your family had a wonderful holiday season.

Last night, the five of us wearily stepped back into our RV after two weeks of travel and almost one week of the flu, which tore its way through our crew and several other family members we visited over Christmas. Our holiday break included a busted tire and a trip to the E.R. for a breathing treatment and IV steroids after I suffered an asthma attack Sunday night, delaying our trip home even further. But we welcomed the new year in cough-medicine-induced hibernation, cozy in our own beds.

I have perhaps never been more ready to ring in a new year than I have been today. The second half of 2024 was a real humdinger for our family. We started off June on a high note with a week-long vacation with our dear friends from Portland, who now live in Texas and Tennessee. They stayed in cabins here in the campground, and we enjoyed multiple cookouts, campfires with s’mores, pool days with a cooler of popsicles, Dads vs. kids NERF wars, and exploring both D.C. and Annapolis. We treated everyone to the LEGO Discovery Center for Riley’s birthday, and we took a tour of the U.S. Capitol, the National Archives, the SPY Museum, the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum, and the Washington Mall. It was perhaps the best summer vacation we’ve ever had, and we were grateful to spend it with such good friends.

In July, Liam attended Encampment with Civil Air Patrol, his first overnight camp ever. This was such a stretch for our family; not only was he gone for a full week, but we didn’t have any contact with him the entire time. So, we all wrote little notes to him and hid them all throughout his suitcase for him to find during the week. It was an intense basic-training style experience for him that made him begin to question whether the Air Force was a good career choice. He was homesick half of the week, got physically ill along with a third of the cadets due to contaminated water, and just didn’t understand why they all kept yelling out orders all the time. But he got to ride in a Blackhawk helicopter and a C-130, which were the highlights of the week for him. Whether he decides to apply for the Air Force Academy or just pursue his private pilot’s license, we’re proud of him for bravely stepping out of his comfort zone and trying something new.

The week that Liam came home from camp, we adopted a second ridgeback after a lengthy and exhausting vetting process through the Rhodesian Ridgeback Rescue. At almost five years old, her owner could no longer keep her due to an extensive travel schedule for work. So I flew to Dallas, Texas, and drove her home. Unfortunately, what we thought was going to be a fun experience for our family and a playmate for Ranger turned into somewhat of a nightmare. Through all of our careful thought and research about Remy, we were not given her full story, and we discovered a little too late that she had some significant behavioral issues. Though for the most part, she was a sweet, cuddly companion, she was unpredictable, and after about two weeks with our family, she attacked our son Riley without any provocation or warning. Thankfully, he didn’t need medical attention; his wounds were all over his body but mostly superficial. But because she tried repeatedly to attack him after I separated her from him (and because, as it turned out, it wasn’t her first time to bite a human), we immediately surrendered her to our county animal control. It was heartbreaking, to say the least. Though it was really a non-decision to give her up, we still grieve her absence. We know we could have given her a great life and a lot of love here.

To add to a tumultuous summer, a few days after we said goodbye to Remy, Liam suffered buckle fractures in both of his wrists after (unsuccessfully) jumping out of a swing at a nearby state park, all while Kelley was out of the country on a work trip. Because of his age, he wore a combination of hard casts and soft splints for about three months. I had planned a fun overnight excursion to Luray Caverns and Shenandoah National Park that week, since Kelley was out of town, and we were supposed to leave the next day. After leaving the emergency room after 11 p.m. that night, we stuck to our plans to demonstrate to Liam that his life didn’t have to come to a standstill despite encountering a major setback. (We just had to walk a little slower throughout the underground caves, and I had to constantly remind him not to run through the outdoor garden maze.) It was a lesson in mental and emotional toughness. He promised he wouldn’t try to fly again unless he’s in an aircraft, but autumn was a test of humility for him. He couldn’t do much on his own and had to learn the art of contentment in just “being” instead of constantly doing. This was a tough lesson for a kid who hasn’t stopped moving since he exited the womb, but I was so proud of his determination, resilience, and strength. Through the whole experience, he kept an upbeat attitude, and when people would ask what happened to him, he’d respond, “Bar fight…but you should see the other guy.” (He actually made this comment at church youth group one night, and the other kid, who didn’t get the joke, slapped him in the face. True story; I guess not everyone has his sense of humor.) I was also so proud of how his siblings comforted and supported him, taking on extra chores and looking for ways to serve him. They are growing into such great human beings, all of them.

Throw in a little campground drama with a crazy new neighbor (a story for another time), a few fun field trips to the National Portrait Gallery, Mt. Vernon, and the Planet Word Museum, and a handful of work trips for Kelley, and that about rounds out the year for us.

If I’ve learned anything in 2024, it’s that, when I am gifted a bit of margin, it’s okay not to feel the pressure to fill it or spend it. I’ve always felt that if I have extra time, or extra funds, or extra of anything, I should look for opportunities to give it away to others or be the most productive with it. (We have just enough space in the RV; let’s get another dog!) But maybe the point of margin isn’t to always reinvest it but to savor it. Enjoy the pause, the bit of extra breathing room, the little smidge of rest. No sooner do you acknowledge it than it could be gone.

We have several goals for 2025, including finding a new living arrangement. We moved to D.C. within a week of Kelley accepting his new job, so the travel trailer provided a quick place to land in a part of the country we weren’t familiar with. We also weren’t sure how long we would be in the D.C. metro area, as the company Kelley works for provides plenty of opportunities for promotions and transfers, so it didn’t make sense for us to rent or buy a place that we’d have to furnish if we could be moving within a year or two. It also didn’t make sense to buy a larger RV or a second vehicle when the possibility of moving overseas this year loomed overhead.

But while living in a travel trailer has had its benefits, including ample bonding time and cost savings and the amenities of a campground, it’s simply run its course. Our kids are getting older, and we have quickly outgrown what was never intended to be our permanent home, but only a travel vessel. Our teenager is several inches taller than me now, and the younger two are quickly catching up. Our dog is twice the size he was when we moved in, and our homeschool curriculum and supplies demand more space than what we have available. While we have relished all of the adventures we’ve been fortunate to experience over the past five years—traveling all over the U.S. and spending quality time together as a family—we are getting to a phase in our family life where we yearn to put down some roots. We are ready for a place where our kids can begin to pursue some of their individual interests and make friends in our community. A place that doesn’t feel so temporary all the time.

We are ready for indoor plumbing and in-home laundry and a decent oven to cook in. And dressers and closets. And more than one bathroom. We are ready to find a home that we can settle in while our kids are still in the house with us (possibly only five more years with Liam—yikes!), where they can enjoy playing with LEGO, where we can spread out jigsaw puzzles on a card table and practice our musical instruments (I will NEVER let go of the family band dream!), where the dog can play off-leash in our back yard. Where I can roll out pie dough onto my marble pastry slab on an actual kitchen counter and bake with the kids. It’s not lost on me that while the kids’ toys sit in boxes in our storage unit, our kids are quickly outgrowing them. Time with them at home is so precious, and it’s going by so fast that it takes my breath away. In my gut, I know it’s time not to feel like we’re stuck in transition, just waiting for some distant point in the future when we’re able to set up home. It’s time for everyone to be able to sleep in their own beds—actual beds, not pull-out sofas or cramped bunks. It’s simply time not to feel like we’re perpetually camping. We don’t know the when or the where yet, but we’re actively looking forward to the next step as we yearn for more stability.

One thing is for sure, 2025 will be a year of some big changes, and I’m looking forward to it.

New York, New York.

Probably my favorite thing about our wedding anniversary being in the middle of December is that it feels as if the whole world is celebrating with us. Everything is adorned with twinkling lights and sparkly baubles and fragrant with greenery, wreaths and swags and garland. Mistletoe mischievously drips from doorways, begging those perched underneath to pucker up.

We got married and honeymooned on a youth pastor’s salary in our very early 20s, but it still felt festive. We snagged a little cabin in the mountains outside of Gatlinburg, Tenn., where fresh snow blanketed the ground and sparkling strands of lights hugged the whole town. It was humble, but magical.

This past week, we celebrated our 20th anniversary, and since two decades of marriage seemed like no small victory, we decided to visit New York City for the occasion. Christmastime in the Big Apple has been a bucket list item of mine for as long as I can remember, and it’s only a three-hour train ride from D.C., so this was the perfect year to go.

Our train arrived on a Tuesday afternoon, and we walked our luggage the two miles to our hotel in Midtown East, passing Madison Square Garden, the Empire State Building, the New York Public Library, the elaborate store window displays of Fifth Avenue, and St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Once we dropped our bags at the hotel, we ventured out to perhaps the one thing I was most excited to see, the iconic Rockefeller Christmas tree.

There’s just something so special about that tree. I think my love for it dates back to the first time I watched Home Alone 2, in which nine-year-old Kevin McAlister tearfully reunites with his mother in front of that tree. The rows of angels blowing their horns leading up the walkway of the plaza are simply stunning. I may or may not have teared up as I gazed at the bundle of lights and evergreen towering over me, a faithful symbol of Christmas wonder. Being the week before Christmas, the area was a madhouse, but we managed to have a sweet moment in front of the tree as an older couple took our picture. (I’ve always heard that when you are allowing a stranger to use your phone, you should select someone you know you can outrun. So yeah, that’s what we did.) We decided not to attempt ice skating at the rink below (no one needed a broken ankle on this trip), but it was amusing to watch the bundled up skaters gliding across the ice.

After Rockefeller Plaza, we moseyed over to Times Square, just to say we did. It was immediate sensory overload, and I was both taken aback and a little flattered when a complete stranger tried to take my picture while Kelley and I were walking along the sidewalk. (Kelley threw his coat up in front of me to block the camera shot, while I resisted the urge to thank the guy for deeming this 41-year-old mom of three a worthy subject.) Besides, the women with the bare backsides flanking a dressed up Spiderman down the way would have made for much better pictures, I’m sure.

We quickly made our way through Times Square and on to the Bryant Park Christmas market, where we watched more ice skaters and perused the pop-up trinket shops. Then, we walked through Grand Central Station to sample some Doughnut Plant doughnuts. (We shared the vanilla bean and the blueberry cake; neither of them disappointed.) On our way back to the hotel, we stopped in a hidden gem of a pizza parlor, La Bellezza Pizzeria, for a traditional New York slice.

On Wednesday morning, we went to an excellent little spot called The Smith for brunch before we attended the Radio City Rockettes’ Christmas Spectacular (a Christmas gift from our dear friends and adopted family in Pennsylvania). The Smith has a clean, modern vibe and some of the best miniature biscuits with honey butter I’ve ever tasted. We ordered the herbed omelettes with breakfast potatoes, and it was so delicious that we went back for breakfast the morning we left NYC.

The Rockettes’ Christmas show was, in fact, spectacular. Every bit of it, from the grand art deco architecture of Radio City Music Hall to the remote controlled frost fairies floating above our heads to the kickline finale. The show was riveting from beginning to end, but perhaps the most moving part of all was their rendition of the Christmas story. They introduced the three kings of Orient (or the three wise men, or Magi, whatever you want to call them) by name and location, and they described the gifts each king presented to Jesus and why those items were so meaningful: gold, for the new King; frankincense, for the high Priest; and myrrh, for the great Healer. They led live camels in their caravan, and live sheep and a donkey took their places in the nativity scene, where the kings, shepherds, and angels surrounded and worshipped the new King Jesus RIGHT THERE IN RADIO CITY MUSIC HALL. It was such a touching moment that I cried as I secretly took video footage of the elaborate, reverent display. The show was the highlight of our trip, and we were so grateful we had the opportunity to attend.

That night, we dressed up and celebrated our anniversary with an authentic Italian dinner at Toscana 49 and swooned over their homemade tiramisu and ricotta cheesecake for dessert. It was really a beautiful place, the cherry on top to our perfect anniversary. (Side note: it sure is a lot easier to be fancy on vacation when you do not have three kids and a 100-lb. dog in tow, and I made sure to document this fact, so when I’m feeling particularly stay-at-home-momish at our RV campground, I can remember a time when I looked a little more put together. Another pleasantry of this trip.)

On Thursday we enjoyed hand-rolled bagels from Ess-A-Bagel before meandering around most of Central Park and Bloomingdales before heading to Serendipity 3. (A word about the bagel place; it’s fantastic, and the bagels are delicious. Meaning: if you ever go, GET THERE EARLY to avoid the endless line that will inevitably spill outside the door and wrap around the corner. I ordered a breakfast sandwich on an everything bagel and a cinnamon raisin bagel with rosemary fig cream cheese. Oh, and a black-and-white cookie. And then I ate them like it was my job.)

This was our biggest walking day (taking public transit or ride sharing or Uber, etc., is pointless in NYC during the holidays; the streets are practically a parking lot). We saw the iconic Bow Bridge, Belvedere Castle, the Alice and Wonderland and Balto statues (and snapped some pictures for the kids), the Central Park Rangers, Turtle Pond, the Friends fountain, and everything in between. Then, we headed to Bloomingdales, where I bought a small box of Godiva chocolates that was on sale just so I could have the little brown bag. (Kelley offered to snag me a bag for free when the clerk wasn’t looking, but walking around with an empty one just seemed a little sad, so I bought the one thing I could afford in that store. And yes, I realize the silliness of this behavior, but it’s the little brown bag! When in Rome…)

The Bloomingdales Santa Clause, with his original emerald suit, took my breath away and immediately transported me back to my childhood, where I giddily grinned as he caught my eye and waved at me with his snow-white-gloved hand. It was a total MOMENT, and I’ll never forget it. I almost regret not getting my picture with him, but for one, I imagine that would have been an awkward social scenario that I was not prepared for, and two, our little moment was entirely sufficient, maybe even better.

Next came Serendipity. Yes, I’m a sucker for the movie, and yes, I realize this is probably an utterly basic white girl thing to do, but I don’t care in the least. The frozen hot chocolate was delicious (though the food was a little average, in my opinion), and it wasn’t until we were on the train back to D.C. watching Serendipity that we realized we sat at the exact same table Kate Beckinsale and John Cusack (and Molly Shannon) sat at in the movie, complete with the white-mantled fireplace and everything. It wasn’t even supposed to be our table, but one of the hosts sat another couple before us by accident, and we got rerouted, pretty auspiciously if you ask me, to Kate and John’s table. (I’m assuming that because I’ve sat where they have, we’re on a first-name-basis now.)

That evening we walked to Macy’s on W. 34th and enjoyed riding those antique wooden escalators (which were hard to figure out where you needed to place your foot, and I pulled a Buddy-the-Elf escalator maneuver more than once) all the way up to the ninth floor. We weren’t able to see Santaland; unfortunately, we didn’t realize you needed a reservation, but the whole store was still glitzy and glamorous, and it was fun to explore the indoor Christmas market and old replicas of past Macy’s floats. Then we tried a bouncy cheesecake from Keki’s Modern Cakes in Koreatown before having dinner at another slam dunk Italian place, Barolo East, near our hotel. (Basically, we just ate our way through Midtown on this trip and pretended like we’d never heard the words “gluten intolerance” before in our lives.)

On Friday, before we headed back to Penn Station, we ate breakfast (again!) at The Smith. So, cute little story, we asked for additional biscuits on our first visit (as we should!), but they were out of them. So, on Friday, we asked our waiter for some extra biscuits (they really are THAT good, y’all, and so tiny that you don’t feel bad eating more than one). Our waiter apparently ran into our first waitress, and she mentioned that we’d been in there before and requested (unsuccessfully) extra biscuits. So our waiter brought us a to-go bag with a container of biscuits and two containers of the honey butter as our consolation. He also brought us complimentary mimosas because we mentioned we were in town celebrating a milestone anniversary. Both visits, the food was excellent, and I would 100 percent recommend this establishment to anyone visiting Midtown Manhattan.

It started snowing that morning, and our train was delayed, so we headed to the station earlier than planned (by several hours) just to get out of the cold. Kelley decided to ask the attendant if an earlier train was available, and luckily, we were able to board one about three minutes later. I guess you could say it was serendipitous. (Wink, wink.)

This was by far the best trip we’ve ever taken as a couple (though there have been so few I could count them on one hand). The past two decades have not been easy, though what marriage ever is? We married when we were just a couple of kids; the downside of that is I can at least say for myself that I didn’t fully know who I was at 20 years old, and this led to some tumultuous times. But the beautiful upside of marrying young is that you get to grow up (and old) together. We have quite a few silvery white hairs on our heads and some delicate lines around our eyes now, but we fought to earn them and proudly display them as battle scars. We’ve been through a lot as a couple (who hasn’t?), but we’ve stood solidly beside one another, and it’s the challenges and trials that refine and deepen a marriage. Through it all, we’ve been able to hold fast to joy, be led forward together by peace, and are building a family that is the greatest gift we can be sure we don’t deserve.

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.