Sometimes, it just feels right.

The choice or the man or the word. It fits, lives where it should.

It’s what I felt, dropping him off. The crazy old house, the organized clutter of the workshop, the tomatoes ripening heavy in the back.

He humoured me, all the pictures and the poking around the shop when no one was looking. The jokes about the first day of school, and the mother-caution to tie back his hair so it wouldn’t get caught up in the sawing and the sanding, and the laughing about how the other students looked just like him with their worn jeans and old t-shirts and fuzzy faces, and the long hug.

But it was a sweet goodbye.

Because sometimes, it just feels right.




We unload the boxes of Kraft dinner and ichiban noodles into the cupboard, and pack the banana bread into the freezer and I know that, tucked into his duffel bag is a bible, and I think this is the church for him right now. The small prairie town, the workshop, the quiet, the work. The art.







He stands under the horseshoe, bowl-shaped for good luck, but I know he doesn’t need it. He’s in the carpenter’s shop, with the carpenter’s blessing, and he’s got everything he needs.

Bless your heart, Son. Enjoy and learn and be nourished.


Colton brought the first egg to the house. Finally, those hens are starting to do what they are meant to do. From the day we brought them home as helpless one-day-old chicks, we’ve been waiting. Feeding them and watering them and watching over them. And now, it begins.

I took a picture of the first egg. But I didn’t take a picture of the second one.

Dad wrote an interesting post last week. He talked about all those kids starting their first days of school. He talked about beginnings, about learning, about teaching. About flying.

There’s only one first day of school each year.

Like Dad mentioned in his post last week, I also oohed and awwed over the sweet first day of school pictures posted on Facebook and blogs a few weeks ago. I loved seeing the cuteness of small children hefting huge backpacks. Standing on their lawns or by the school bus. I loved the homeschool first-day pictures of children seated around their kitchen tables, stacks of sharpened pencils waiting. Ready to begin. Ready, as Dad said, to learn to fly.

I didn’t see any second-day-of-school pictures.

There’s only one first day of school each year, and it’s right and wonderful and joyful to celebrate it and to document it. But the beginning quickly turns into the middle and the middle can sometimes be a challenge.

The middle calls for commitment. It’s the daily grind, the doing it over and over, the day after day after day. The middle is where the learning to fly happens, with all its bumps and stumbles.

So, all you mommas out there. All you wonderful, amazing, hard-working, grace-giving women who do this mommy thing morning after morning, busy day after busy day … know that you are cared for and loved and prayed over today. From my messy middle to your messy middle, we are all in this thing together.

You are all awesome.