Well, we’re home from our week away. We had wonderful food, wonderful weather, and a wonderful time. Here’s a brief pictorial summary. 

We enjoyed some beautiful days out in nature. We looked for trails that were on the shorter side as you know I’m the weak link on our family hiking excursions. Apparently, I inhaled too much of nature as I came home afflicted with allergy and sinus troubles- so, for the last couple of days of romantic getaway bliss, I smelled of honey lemon menthol and snorted a lot. 

I shared with our guide the memory of being called to the den whenever one of Billy Graham’s crusades was being televised. It didn’t matter what you were doing or how many tests you had the next day or who wanted you to come out and play, when Billy Graham came on, you were going to sit on the couch and listen to his sermon and nobody was getting up until they started singing “Just As I Am.” That was a wonderful time back when people would pack stadiums to hear about God and the major networks would televise it in prime time slots and families would sit down together and watch. Our country sure could use some of that about now. 

We stopped at the Downton Abbey exhibit on the way home and it was wonderful. So many costumes, props, and sets were there. It was nicely done and had drawn quite a crowd of fans on that day, which was the day before it was ending. 

Well, eight years ago, Motherhood and Muffin Tops was born and this is her 497th blog post. With a little better planning, the 500th post could have fallen on this special day and it would’ve gelled better with my almost obsessive partiality for round numbers, but I will try to look past the unevenness of it all and not allow it to ruin the day. 

We’ve talked about almost everything in the last eight years. The past. The future. Our worries and fears. Our joys and blessings. We’ve loved and nurtured. We’ve lost and mourned. We’ve held tight to some things and then had to let them go. We’ve felt the weight and the joy of our calling as women. We’ve laughed and cried and, sometimes, we didn’t know how to feel. We’ve aged and grown. We’ve giggled and digressed. There were serious topics and spiritual matters. There were silly topics and sentimental matters. We’ve done it all together and I’ve loved every minute. 

When I’ve been joyful, grateful, and optimistic, you’ve traveled to those places with me. And when I’ve felt down, discouraged, or cynical, well, I’m sorry if I took you along. A lot has happened in these eight years in my life and yours. I had a college freshman and a ninth grader when this started. I was 45 and slimmer and my neck skin was as taut as a trampoline. There was a bumper crop of estrogen in my storehouse. I had more eye brow and less goatee. My mind wasn’t this foggy and my thoughts were more focused. My memory was longer than the lifespan of a mayfly. I could come up with the word I was trying to use and remember what I was saying until I was done. Those were good times. 

I could be like Tom Brady and leave while I’m ahead, but what would be the fun in that? No, I want to drag this excursion out until you all start to wonder if I’m ok and begin asking each other who you should call. Yeah, we’ve beat some subjects to death. We’ve repeated and rehashed. We’ve had absences and dry spells and reruns and disjointed messes. But, every now and then, I have a lucid thought that flows to the keyboard so smoothly that I know there’s no way it’s my own. Those times keep me doing this. If only, every once in a while, I can relay a word that can be helpful, then I’m still in it. So, if you can muddle through with me amidst the fogginess of menopause and estrogen insufficiency, I think we’ll forge ahead. Together if you’ll come. 

I thought my day, yesterday, pretty much summed up the experience of womanhood in a nutshell. I had my yearly appointment with my OB/GYN. At my age, we’re down to just the GYN part only. Anyway, when you go to a doctor, who still delivers babies, you never really know what to expect as far as wait times go. So, I get there and check in and couldn’t help but notice the unusually large gathering of women in the waiting room. It looked like a Pampered Chef party or a WMU meeting. I took my seat and soon the nurse came out to tell us the doctor was still at the hospital, but he would be back soon and they’d get us seen as quickly as possible. Well, I saw that for what it was- nurse talk for “some of you will need your headlights to get back home from here.” It was then that I decided to count the women waiting and there were thirteen- not including me or the men, who were there supporting their plump-bellied wives. I was his 2:00 and, from the looks of things, these were all the women who had after-lunch appointments prior to mine. With some quick math in my head, I decided to reschedule- helping his appointment pileup dilemma, while kicking the can down the road another month for myself. Win, win.  

When I left, I went to run a few errands with my newfound time. Well, because I was going to the doctor, I’d selected one of the bras from my “going to the doctor” collection. You know the ones that are nicer, newer, and never as comfy. We all have them, so don’t pretend you don’t. The mamas of our day really emphasized the importance of reserving our best undergarments for medical situations. As much as we heard about it, we were brainwashed into believing that there was some heavy underwear scrutiny going on down at the hospitals and clinics. Anyway, I’d tightened the nice bra straps that morning, because they were a bit loose and nothing is worse than a falling strap or so I thought. But, when I was out and about, in and out of the car, reaching for things over my head- it didn’t take long for me to realize I’d been overzealous in my tightening and that “comfort band” kept riding up, up, up. I’d look from side to side to see if I had an audience and, when the coast was clear, I’d grab the band of that thing and yank it down. Repeating the process about a dozen times. Rides up. Check surroundings. Yank it down. 

Meanwhile, I’d also put on some pants right out of the dryer. Y’all know there’s a big difference in pants out of the dryer and the same pants after a day or two of wear. Well, those particular pants didn’t have a very high waist, which is very much a drawback when one gets to a particular age. Without the added coverage of the high waist, the pants have less ground to travel before they’re over the hump of the muffin top and, once they’ve cleared that, well, there’s nothing stopping them then. So, I’d get my bra pulled down and, after another glance around the aisle, I’d hike up my pants- as far above my muffin top as possible- buying me more time before having to do it all again. Pull down. Pull up. Pull down. Pull up. I was certain the people watching the security cameras in the back were enjoying this spectacle. Nothing will cut an afternoon of errands shorter than bad shoes or band and strap discomfort. 

It’s not always rainbows and butterflies being a woman, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Let’s travel this road together for a while longer. Journeys are always more enjoyable that way. 

Thank you for reading. You do my heart good. 

JONI 

The other day, I drove by the church that housed the Christian school that my brothers and I attended during our elementary years. I looked over at the far corner of the parking lot- the area that served as home plate for our kickball field. The large front lawn where we, girls, would sit in the grass and make wildflower chains during free time. The old playground area where we’d see how far we could jump out of the swings. There are a lot of memories in that church that was once my school. 

For some reason, I started thinking about the special jobs that would be given to us there. Being a small school, there was no cafeteria. Lunch was catered and delivered on individual plates wrapped in foil and we ate in our classroom at our desks. There was a large refrigerator in a common area that held little cartons of “white” and chocolate milk. So, every week, two people from each class were chosen to go get the milk and two to go and get the plates of food and bring them back to their class. The milk people would take the milk order down to the refrigerator and count out the right amount of chocolate and white milk cartons- counting and recounting for accuracy- and then bring them back to the class on a tray. There was one person on each end of the cumbersome tray so to not risk any lactose disaster. It was an important job to take that little sheet of paper with those vital numbers written by the teacher and to come back with the correct white/chocolate milk breakdown. I mean, if someone ordered chocolate milk to drink with their spaghetti, then they expected chocolate milk and if somebody ordered two cartons of white, then, by golly, they wanted to get their full .30 worth. The accuracy of the milk people was vital to class hydration and, really, the overall quality of their education. It was the same with the lunch order. The lunch kids were to go down with their tray and give the caterer the number of plates with which they were expected to return. Depending on what was being served that day, the numbers could be higher if it was something particularly good like hamburgers or lower if more kids opted to bring their Holly Hobbie and Evel Knievel lunchboxes to avoid the fish filet. I can’t put into words how excited I’d be when it was my week to have a job. It was a feeling of “If I don’t bring the children their food or drink, who will?” It was my mission. I’d been tapped for it and it was a good feeling. 

There were other jobs given in that little school building that gave us purpose. We all know the bittersweet responsibility of being selected class monitor when the teacher needed to leave the room. Basically, she was leaving class security in your hands until she returned. If mayhem and bedlam broke out, while she was gone, well, it happened on your watch. You’d rip out a piece of paper from your spiral notebook, have your pencil ready in the writing position, and keep your eyes and ears open for any funny business. Oh, the responsibility and the burden of that pencil. Wanting to do a good job securing the premises for the teacher, but the weight of causing someone to sit inside during recess was a load that cannot be overstated. Invariably, there would be some kid whose name, not only ended up on your paper, but also had a string of check marks beside it for additional offenses. There were some who could really rack up some checks by their name. As burdensome as the job could be, at times, there was a sense of fulfillment and purpose knowing that you’d been chosen for it and it was important. 

Besides milk duty, probably another favorite was being asked to deliver or pick up something from the office for the teacher. Of all the kids in the class, she’d decided you were the one and would send you on your way with an envelope to deliver or a stack of freshly mimeographed sheets to retrieve. When you held that envelope in your little hands, you imagined what kind of top secret, highly critical information it contained. Sometimes, it was to deliver the day’s lunch and milk money and it felt like your job was just slightly less essential than the man in the armored truck. You were tasked with getting whatever it was safely and securely to the highest school officials- of course, taking the slowest route to do so as the high pressure job did have its obvious perks. And if the job was to bring back the day’s mimeographed worksheets, well, you had all the pleasure of holding the warm papers in your hands and taking the first whiff of the damp blue ink. Nothing was better than being given a job that implied a level of trust and getting it done. 

Kids like to have jobs to do, but we all really thrive on having tasks and a purpose- especially those that we feel like God has given to us specifically. In my life, most of my callings or assignments from Him have been made obvious to me as they’ve appeared clear in their timing and my placement, or their alignment with my particular resources. Whether the assignment was a specific person or a need or a task, they always seemed to quietly draw me in as if to say, “hey, Joni, this is something YOU need to do.” Speaking to that little elementary girl’s heart that lives inside of my 53 year old body, it still gives me a sense of purpose and urgency to have a quiet charge with my name on it. 

As we get older, we start thinking more about making our days count. Maybe because we begin to realize that we don’t get as many as we once thought or that they really pass a lot more quickly than they once did. We have more of an urgency to fill our time with things that matter. With the kids grown and being retired from working, I find myself with more time on my hands. I’ve had some space open up in the last few months as tasks were completed or needs were met or circumstances changed and I’ve been praying, since then, not for time-fillers, but for some new meaningful assignments. I’ve kind of felt like I did back when the teacher was looking around the room, trying to decide who to pick to erase the board and I’d have my hand up and waving it. “Me, me. Let me.” I’m ready for new tasks to come up that bring my name to the mind of my Creator. He’s been slow in making those known to me, but I know they’ll become quietly apparent in His timing as they have in the past. Until I hear my name called, I’ll just keep doing what I know He wants from me in the waiting. 

“May the kindness of the Lord our God be upon us; And confirm for us the work of our hands; Yes, confirm the work of our hands. Psalm 90:17 ASB

JONI 

Well, the house is a complete disaster zone. Davis and I have been working for the last week to get things ready for the contractor to come since we received word that he will begin just as soon as deer season ends in less than two weeks. We do live in Mississippi, after all, so this is not a complete surprise. So, to get ready, I’ve packed up most everything that could possibly get in the way and have taken pictures off the wall and rolled up all the rugs and removed the window treatments. Davis, always eager to save, has taken down light fixtures, pulled up carpet in some bedrooms and is working on removing vanities and such. Basically, our house currently looks similar to Cindy Lou Who’s place after the Grinch’s night of unbridled plundering. 

The following has been Carson approved. 

Well, Carson starts his last semester of college, next week. (Cue the singing angels.) He’s been home since December 11 or so and he plans to go back to school just as soon as some shoes are delivered here on Friday. I imagine he’ll have his truck packed and idling at the end of the driveway, waiting on the UPS man. It’s been a wonderful holiday season with him, but it’s time. I think we can all agree. It’s time. 

There’s something so magical about when your kid comes home from college for the Christmas holidays. They’re relieved to be done with schoolwork for a while and excited to be home to enjoy the food and festivities of the season and you’re happy finally feeling like your holidays can begin. They walk through the door and it’s almost like a sappy Christmas movie. You’re sure you hear Bing singing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” softly in the background. The lights are twinkling. The smell of cider simmering on the stove fills the air. Their favorite meal is in the oven to welcome them home. They rush over to hug you. Even with the season’s frost on the window panes, all the cozy feels of your fuller home are bubbling up inside of you. Even their bag of dirty laundry reminds you of Santa’s pack as you happily take it to the laundry room. It’s just like when they were kids. You’re finally under the same roof again to enjoy all the family traditions together. 

The first few days are considered the honeymoon period. You can’t wait to get started on the list of Christmas activities you have planned. There are movies to watch and lights to see and presents to deliver and friends to visit and food to cook. The refrigerator is full of all of the ingredients needed to make their most favorite 42 dishes over the course of their stay. You’ve got whipped cream for the cocoa, all the favorite cereals, a hearty supply of sausage balls formed in the freezer, and a pantry that looks like the snack aisle at Kroger. You’re happy to play the role of doting Mom for a while and they’re more than happy to be on the receiving end of it after eating the standard college fare and doing their own housekeeping. 

Pretty quickly, there are noticeable changes in the flow of the household. After all, it’s been on auto-pilot, running on the schedule of two old people, who are neck deep in their habits and routines. All of a sudden, you hear the door open at 12 a.m. as they head out for a midnight jog. The kitchen light is on intermittently throughout the night. Eggs at 1:00 a.m.. Leftovers from dinner at 2:30. The clothes pile in the laundry room has been self-perpetuating ever since Santa came home with his pack. The washing machine knows no holiday. That package of Chips Ahoy, you bought the day before, sits on the counter housing only crumbs. A box of cereal that would normally last a week is gone in two sittings. Milk pours out from its cartons like gutter downspouts in a rainstorm. It’s lunch time and you find yourself putting the barking dog outside, so she won’t wake the slumbering house guest. You wonder what time of day would warrant you entering their bedroom for a wellness check. Is that the shower running again? Is that the third or fourth time today? 

But, this is what you’ve been waiting for, so you’re quick to overlook any disruptions or inconveniences. You’re just so happy to have them home, so you look for the cuteness in it all. It’s the holiday season and you want them to feel full, rested, and loved as long as they’re under your roof. With Christmas just around the corner, you can sense they’re starting to feel the excitement of the impending festivities. Just maybe being back in their childhood home reignites a small spark of that long-gone childlike anticipation of Christmas. They’re in a jolly mood. Laughing. Joking. They’re the picture of merriment in the glow of the twinkling lights and flickering candles. Each gift seems to bring out the excitement they had when they were small. All is merry and bright in the warmth of kith and kin. 

Carson: Appears as pictured, flaunting his chest hair. “I’m ready, girl.” 

Happy Christmas memories. All is well. 

Cue record player needle scratching across record. 

The holidays are over. The house is a complete wreck. They’ve been home for three weeks now. That regenerating laundry pile has lost its luster now that the twinkling lights have been unplugged. The errands they were happy to run for you, a few days ago, are getting to be a pain since Santa is no longer working on that list thing. Your insistence that they rinse the dishes off before putting them in the dishwasher is seen as nagging now that Bing has stopped singing in the background. Long moments of silence in the car are no longer periods of reflections on the season, but simmering aggravation fueled by someone being too something or another. Extended time holed up in their room is not for wrapping up surprises in pretty paper anymore, but a retreat from too much time spent where the love light gleams. Cooking 4 meals a day has lost its appeal since the candles have been extinguished. AirPods become permanent ear plugs for reducing exposure to irritating parental music and banter. So, yeah, it’s getting about that time. 

“Stop with the pictures, Mom.”

So, Carson will leave us on Friday. Back to just the two of us and Ruby. The thing about a man leaving his father and mother sounds so unbearably sad to a mother of a little boy. She just can’t imagine living apart from her little man and not being the center of his world. But, it’s a miraculous thing that God does. He ever so carefully and gradually and gently takes us, mothers, to the place where we’re really fine with that. Not to an uncaring and unloving place, but to a warm and proud place where the mother of a son is ready for him to go and be a man and she knows he could never do that under her feet. For me, I came to the place not long after he’d gone off to college. When I look at the once little boy who wanted to marry me, I see a man now and my heart finds it a lot easier to let go of him that way. 

So, Friday, we’ll wave goodbye as he drives off toward his last semester of college. Davis and I both pray for God to lead him to the life, love, vocation, and destination that are meant for him just like we did for his sister. We really did enjoy our time with him- likely our last extended Christmas holiday together. But, I imagine we’ll all be doing a jig Friday to get back to our norms. Him being out from under our watchful eye. Us being back on our beaten and familiar path. Ten years ago, the thought of him leaving us would have left me sobbing in my pillow. On Friday, I’ll be waving and smiling. Not as big as him though. It’s pretty cool how God helps a Mama’s heart get from one place to another. 

I found this prayer when Carson was born and have it written in his baby book. 

Build me a son, O Lord, who will be strong enough to know when he is weak; and brave enough to face himself when he is afraid; one who will be proud and unbending in honest defeat and humble and gentle in victory. 

Build me a son whose wishes will not take the place of deeds; a son who will know Thee- and that it is the foundation stone of knowledge. 

Lead him, I pray, not in the path of ease and comfort, but under the stress and spur of difficulties and challenge. Here let him learn to stand up in the storm; here let him learn compassion for those who fail. 

Build me a son whose heart will be clear, whose goal will be high; a son who will master himself before he seeks to master other men; one who will reach into the future, yet never forget the past. 

And after all these things are his, add, I pray, enough of a sense of humor, so that he may always be serious, yet never take himself too seriously. Give him humility, so that he may always remember the simplicity of true greatness, the open mind of true wisdom, and the meekness of true strength. 

Then I, his father (and his mother) will dare to whisper, “I have not lived in vain.” 

General Douglas MacArthur 

Lord, be with all the mothers on the path that starts with holding a boy and leads to letting go of a man.

Happy Thursday! 

JONI 

So, I’ve been on extended holiday break, but here I am- all rested and refreshed. I’ll hit some of the highlights of the last couple of weeks and their coordinating life reminders that I can take with me into this new year. 

Probably the first thing that happened after I last blogged was my trip to the ER with my mother who had a cut from some Coke cans that fell on her head from an upper shelf at the grocery store. My sweet friend, Debra, happened to be there when it happened and stayed with her until we could get to her. It wasn’t serious- she just had a big knot and needed a couple of staples, but the real story was in the waiting room, where we spent 6 hours before getting the said staples. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but my mother is nothing if not fiercely protective of her people, so for 6 hours our conversation went something like this. 

Mama: “Joni, go home. You’re going to get sick for Christmas. I’m just fine to be here by myself.” 

Joni: “Mama, I’m not leaving you here, so you can just forget that. 

Mama: Big sigh followed by frustrated silence.

3-4 minutes of small talk and waiting room observations. 

Mama: “Joni, I’m serious. Go home. You’re going to get sick for Christmas sitting up here. I’m 79 years old and capable of being here by myself.” 

Joni: “Mama, like I said, I’m not leaving you here alone, so let’s just talk about something else.” 

Mama: Big sigh. 

Silence. 

5-6 minutes of small talk. 

I take another trip to the information desk to see if, in fact, they do have information on how much longer it might be. 

Mama: “Joni, now listen to me. Look, that lady over there looks like she is so sick- coughing and holding her head. It will ruin Christmas for your family if you catch something up here. Please, go home and I’ll call you when I’m done.” Big, frustrated sigh.

Joni: “I’m not leaving you and it doesn’t look like either one of us will be home by Christmas at this rate, so it won’t really matter.” 

Repeat verses 2 and 3 and then the chorus. 

I start googling things like “What is the window of time for stitches after an injury?” And “Can you really close a wound with super glue?” 

At last, the heavens open up and we hear her name called. 

Life reminder to myself: Your mama doesn’t ever quit being your mama until she goes to meet Jesus. It’s a love that doesn’t ever soften or show cracks or wear thin over time. Enjoy the years that you have of being someone’s baby- even if if seems as if some of them are spent in a waiting room. There’s a finite time that we are given to be daughters. Be a good one. 

Christmas was kind of different. We had a small family gathering on Christmas Eve night at my aunt and uncle’s house. Our celebration with Davis’ family, earlier in the day, was cancelled due to cases of Covid. It was Blair and John Samuel’s year to be at his parents’ house on Christmas morning, so Davis and I sat and watched Carson open a few of his presents and then we went to Waffle House. Yeah, you heard me. If you’ve ever wondered who would go to Waffle House on Christmas, well, now you know. We were all set to have our usual Christmas night feast, so I didn’t want to cook a big breakfast for just the three of us. We started that new tradition of going to Waffle House on the years that the married couple is celebrating Christmas morning elsewhere. You wouldn’t believe the exuberant Christmas cheer the workers and other patrons had that morning. It was fun. 

We have our children and my mother over to enjoy a big meal and open gifts on Christmas night. I did a tenderloin and John Samuel boiled shrimp. That time has become one of my very favorite parts of Christmas. 

Everyone seemed to love their gifts. 

Just like Christmas, the next day was hot as blue blazes. Seriously, it was 79 degrees. In recent years, my family has been getting together the day after Christmas and we usually do soups and light finger foods since everyone feels like a big gray tick at that point in the holiday season. A couple of hours before everyone got here, after having bumped the air down for the second time, I decided we were moving the party outside into the spring-like weather and so we set up tables for a family Christmas picnic. We did that last Thanksgiving because of Covid, but this was purely a weather decision. Yes, there were some shorts and flip flops present. And on top of all the food everyone brought, I had all the food that I’d bought for our cancelled meal with Davis’ family, so we had an eclectic mix and enough to feed the neighborhood. None of us could remember a warmer Christmas week and, while it didn’t give us all the usual Christmas feels, it was pretty neat in its own way. After we ate, we put our chairs in a circle and opened gifts outside. My family is pretty much an outside people, so we enjoyed being together in the most unusual and un-Christmasy way. 

My little brother and I were gifted quilts made from our daddy’s old shirts by my sister in law, Teresa. With the completion of ours, she has now made one for all of his children and grandchildren and, of course, his wife. What a labor of patience, time, and love. 

Life reminder to myself: Christmas changes through the years. Every year, it becomes harder to gather everyone at the same time and place as in times past. Some years, it may not even “feel like Christmas” because of the adaptations. Life is constantly changing, so stay ready and willing to adjust and make new traditions, while remembering the quilt of memories from Christmases and lives past. 

Two days after Christmas, we left with our kids and Ruby and our granddog to enjoy the mountains for a few days. It was warm and rainy, but we didn’t let it stop us from getting out and enjoying the scenery. We tried to do two hikes a day. I’m the dead weight- the one whose stamina they have to consider when choosing the trails. Any one marked as family friendly, I’m generally up for as this distinction would indicate that small children, women with babies in slings, and elderly grandparents could complete the course. I stayed back one afternoon so they could all enjoy a legit hike. One day, we walked a short .6 mi from the parking lot to the highest point in GA- albeit a straight up vertical .6 mile. There was one point, I wondered if it was, indeed, my last day. I so didn’t want the last words I heard on this earth to be, “You comin’?” The fog was so thick that we couldn’t see a thing when we got up there. We could’ve taken our group picture back in the parking lot and no one would have known the difference. Supposedly, you can see Atlanta, North and South Carolina, and Tennessee from there. I’m sure it was all out there somewhere. 

One day, we went to Long Creek Falls in the Chattahoochee National Forest, which is on the Appalachian Trail. We’d been to the area before and it’s really beautiful. Well, we hiked to the falls about a mile from the car and we snapped a few pictures and explored the area and then hiked back to the trail. The rest of my party turns left back onto the trail heading away from the car.

Anyway, back to my story. I thought the objective of our hike was to go to the falls, look around, and then go back to find other natural attractions, but they say,“We want to hike on the Appalachian Trail for a while.” When I hike, I’m the type of person who wants there to be a grand finale- the trail ending at a waterfall or with a glorious view to behold. I’m not really into walking uphill for miles to just turn around at a random spot and go back the way I came. I don’t really see the point in it. But, I’m a team player, so I take my place at the back of the line and follow. 

We met a man who was just a few miles from finishing his trek down the entire Appalachian Trail. He’d been at it since July 6 and had lost 80 lbs. As a side note, he smelled like someone who’d been hiking since July, but he was just a few miles from the end when we passed him on December 30. Whatever it is that those kind of people have, I was clearly absent the day God passed it out. 

Anyway, I follow behind my group. And then further behind. I mean, I can walk all day long on level ground, but that uphill stuff is for mountain goats of which I am not. Finally, when my left lung collapsed, I called ahead that I was turning around and would see them at the car when they came out. Davis wouldn’t let me go back alone. He didn’t want his cook to be abducted or ripped apart by wild animals, so he walked back with me. I sat in the car in the drizzling rain, while he explored the area nearby. I dozed off for a while. I waited and waited. I wasn’t worried though. I had a gun, the car keys, a bag of sausage balls, a cooler of water, and some leftover Christmas candy. I was perfectly content. Almost three hours later, they came back out having turned around at some random spot on the trail and Davis wandered up from another direction. Life reminder to myself: Life isn’t just about searching for the wow moments and momentous pinnacles. Most of life is made up of just going along routinely with nothing particularly unordinary to see. Appreciate the quiet beauty in the everyday journey and in the people traveling along with you. 

Since we got back in town, I’ve spent the last few days picking out colors and finishes and materials for our renovation that starts “at the end of the month.” Of course, that could be contractor talk for “you’ll see me when you see me” or maybe he was careful not to name the particular month at the end of which we’ll see him. Either way, I’ve been looking at paint samples with names like Temporal Spirit and Dove Wing and Balboa Mist. I don’t know who’s in charge of paint naming, but I’d love to get in on that. Kitchen fixtures, pull handles, the varying heights available in toilets. If one weren’t a decisive person, I could see how one could get bogged down in the ridiculous amounts of choices and details. Fortunately, indecisiveness isn’t something I usually struggle with- I either like it or I don’t. I have asked a trusted friend to validate a couple of choices, but I’m typically a quick decider. I mean- it’s a bathroom faucet- not a life changer. Life reminder to myself: While you’re spending time putting a fresh face on your earthly home, see it for what it is. Like the paint name- it’s just temporal. This home ain’t where it’s at. 

It’s a new year. It’s a new start. A clean page. A fresh supply of potential. What will we do with it? I’m excited to get started. 

Glad to be back with you, friends.

JONI