Before I reveal the new house, let’s look at what we started with, after cleaning up a pile of sunflower shells left by a mouse.

My dollhouse was in its 26th year of storage in our garage. It had endured the love and play from our kids, and their friends and cousins. And it had weathered the temperature ups and downs of so many years sitting on the top shelf in the garage, all but forgotten.

But it was destined for new life. The story is, my husband and I were cleaning out the garage a couple of months ago. We came across the dollhouse, and we had no use for it … I have grandsons, no granddaughters—yet. And, honestly, there was no way I was going to give it to Goodwill. So we left it on the shelf. We’d deal with it another day. But then an opportunity was revealed (I will not reveal where it is going to protect the privacy of the recipients), only by God’s divine intervention, and I found a home for my dollhouse and the inspiration to give it the renovation it deserved. I was THRILLED!

And now for the reveal! Ta-da!

I learned so much in the process, and found unique ways to be creative in the decor and finishes. For instance: The roof is made from the non-skid tape you’d put on your outdoor stairs. I just cut slits every half inch to create “asphalt roofing”. So much cheaper than the ready-made roofing you’d buy for dollhouses.

I cannot wait to deliver it this weekend.

Here’s a video complete with furniture:

This has been such a delightful project. I’m so happy with how it turned out, so perfectly imperfect in every way!

Thanks for following along!

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Doing all of those things in miniature is an absolute JOY!

Here’s a sneak peek of my wallpaper/flooring for the bathroom:

And here’s the kitchen:

The dining room and living room wallpaper:

And these are peeks of the wallpaper/flooring for the bedrooms.

And here is a peek at the front door and stairs:

Finishes are pending …. The roof will be done today; the porch needs to be sealed completely—you can see some sealer there—and the curtains are almost done.

And here’s the thing. Nothing is perfect. Nothing WILL be perfect. And as a closet perfectionist (most people who know me wouldn’t describe me as such, but when it comes to some projects, it’s crippling), that fact was humbling, and necessary to accept.

Doing this project was a big learning experience for me. My dad built it from scratch. I don’t think he had any directions. The dollhouse was modeled after my childhood home. So when I got stuck in this process—building a front door, for instance—I didn’t consult YouTube right away. I used my noggin. My dad didn’t have YouTube back in 1969. And I felt my brain sparking to life as I stared at a raw piece of oak, willing it to be a door. In all, I cut three doors, learning from each one, testing the proper way to hang it (more than once) so it would open and close and look/feel like a real front door. I learned to measure twice and cut once (or twice). And overall, I learned that nothing will ever be perfect.

There are a few mistakes still to fix. For example, the roof must extend over the trim—which I put on after I started the roof. I didn’t know. Now I do. Luckily, I ran out of roofing material, applied the trim, and figured it out.

Through this process, I’ve become more patient with myself. I’m doing my best after all. And when I make mistakes, I stop to ponder and figure out how to do the task at hand better. Trial and error. It’s the stuff of life. And what we need is grace.

Doesn’t it always come down to grace? Yes, it does.

Coming soon: A finished home tour. (Hallelujah!)

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Thankfully, this house has really good bones. It’s solid. Thanks, Dad.

No major hiccups, except one.

Distraction.

Minutiae.

Minutiae in the sense that the details are, by nature, tiny.

This is my M.O.: When a task becomes more challenging, I ruminate on it, and in mulling it over, I find something else to focus on—something that seems more doable than the project at hand.

Which brings me to the situation in this current project.

Did you know that there is a whole community of miniature enthusiasts who make tiny little things for dollhouses? Things so cute and creative, I cannot even stand it. And they’re made out of stuff I have lying around the house. (Buttons, felt, bottle caps, beads, paper, popsicle sticks)

Here are a few …

And a few more …

And here are little tiny paintings to hang on the little tiny walls …

And this is the state of the house at the moment. Yikes. It looks scary, but it’s tight as a drum.

I have actually done quite a bit of work. The walls and floors are smooth. Sides re-glued and nailed (they were starting to separate). Cracks and missing siding patched—outside and inside painted white to ensure even coloring of the wallpaper to come. A final coat of white on the outside will finish it off. I’ve picked out all the wallpapers and flooring, and most of the paper has been cut to fit. I have curtains waiting to be made by my seamstress (me—no sewing is involved because I can’t—no, I don’t wanna).

I’m currently working on framing the windows. They are plexiglass, and they were cut by a kind sir at Makerspace. The framing is tricky and is making my brain work overtime, but I can do it. Yes, I can do it.

And on a side note, my husband made the mistake of uttering the following words: “I’m buying a tool for a particular job, but it’s worth it because I could need the tool in the future, but if not, that’s okay.”

So true. Even if you only use a tool once, it’s A-okay.

So I immediately purchased the cutest little miter box and little saw to make the perfect cuts for my window frames and pillars for the porch, and picture frames, among other things. And even if I never use it again, I had the right tool for the job. Right?

So it’s coming along, in spite of the distractions. The distractions are necessary in the long run, and they’re oh-so-cute, but I would do well to focus more on the bigger task.

OK, what am I doing right now? I gotta get to work!

Next update: Wallpaper and flooring sneak peek.

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I’m in the middle of the demolition phase, and I’m happy to report that there weren’t many surprises. The roof was in disrepair, although no moss was present, which, in the Pacific Northwest, is a minor miracle. No dry-rot, no water damage, no termites. Electrical and plumbing were all good (because there is none).

The one surprise was a pile of sunflower seeds—evidence of a mouse that had squatted in the home a few years ago. I should have added video surveillance so I could be more proactive and prevent minor chewing on the siding and … um … feces and urine from damaging the flooring.

No worries, though. I’ve removed the old wallpaper and flooring and I even dug up the lawn. I purchased new wall coverings and tile for the bathroom, as well as wood flooring throughout the rest of the home. I have a roofer scheduled to put on a new roof (me). A contractor lined up for final sanding and wall/floor prep (also me), and another contractor to do other repairs, replace windows, and install the finishes throughout the home (me, again). A landscaper will reseed the lawn and add some interesting yard accouterments (that would also be me).

Before you become too impressed with my perceived abilities, here is the before photo of my home, after removing it from the high shelf in the garage after 25 years of storage. It’s missing shingles, a front door, and a few window panes. (I blame the squatter. I do not remember it being in such a sorry state.)

It is a 1969 colonial—a replica of the home I grew up in, built by my dad for my fourth Christmas. He apparently stayed up until 4 am on Christmas morning to finish it, and I’m so glad he did. I loved it. I played with it ALL THE TIME. I remember my friends and I spending many afternoons dreaming up the lives lived in this dollhouse.

Sometime in the early 70s, my brother squeezed honey in the chimney as little brothers are prone to do. I don’t remember the act, but I remember my outrage and “telling mom.” We cleaned it up, as well as honey deep inside a balsa wood chimney can be cleaned.

When I renovated it in the 90s for my daughters, I removed the chimney and fireplace due to … well … the nearly 30-year-old honey residue situation. I added the wood shingles to the roof (they looked nice at one time), added wallpaper to the painted walls, and changed the original felt carpeting to lush velour fabric. It was splendid once again.

Fast forward to now.

I have found a new home for my beloved dollhouse, and that is why I’m renovating it. I want it to be beautiful for the kids who will play with it. I want it to bring them joy and spark their imagination, as it did for me when I was a little girl.

I’m so excited to start painting, wallpapering, and adding the flooring and new, more realistic grass.

Don’t even get me started on decor. Curtains, paintings for the walls, and furniture (if you know anyone wanting to get rid of dollhouse furniture, I’m in the market to buy—I have no idea what happened to the furniture we used to have—the mouse probably stole it).

I’m obsessed. This project has taken on a life of its own.

And throughout this renovation, I’m thinking of the sweet souls who will get to enjoy it, and I cannot wait to get it done. Stay tuned for more updates!

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It was a photo taped to the cover of a woman’s writing notebook. She was in the first writing group I attended, and one of my favorite people in it.

She was an older, spunky woman with stories to tell, and they inevitably drew a chuckle.

On her notebook, she’d taped a photo of herself in her teen years, posing in a bathing suit, hand behind her head, back arched—you know the pose. Mind you, she wouldn’t be caught dead posing for a picture like that at the time, but she flaunted her former self with abandon—and rightfully so.

The characters in my novel were inspired by her spunk. I loved her honesty. The kind of honesty that doesn’t care what others think—that lives life to the fullest without regard for pleasing everyone else. A distinct lack of decorum, if you will. (Decorum has always been a pebble in my shoe.)

So that sparked the idea of a writing group filled with interesting, fun, flawed, wonderful women and the love of vintage photographs.

So to justify my obsession with them, I’m offering a few old photos to (hopefully) inspire you to write a story.

Here are a few questions I always ask myself when perusing vintage photos.

• What is happening here?

• What emotions are present?

• What led up to the photo?

• What happened after the photo was taken?

• Are there clues to an underlying story?

• Are there relationships in the photo—be creative.

• What object/action is in the periphery?

May these inspire you!

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I mentioned in my last post that the reason I decided to try painting is a story in itself. So here’s the story:

I became a Nana in 2020. I have three sweet grandboys as of this post, and I adore them. Most nanas want to give their grandbabies a special gift. Something they create for them. The classic gift is a sweet baby quilt for their crib or first bed.

Well, I don’t quilt. I don’t sew. I’ve tried my hardest to make things out of fabric. Let’s just say, it’s never been pretty, and it’s always exhausting. If you sew, I’m impressed!

So I thought about what I could make for my babies, and the answer was obvious. I write.

So I wrote Beckham’s Backpack for my first grandson and wondered how on earth I would find an illustrator. Lo and behold, my daughter’s friend, Grace, was more than happy to help. Over the next two years, she painted incredible watercolor illustrations for my book, bringing it to life. It is beautiful!

When the book was published (by published, I mean I paid Gorham Publishing in Centralia to print a limited number of copies, not for resale), I quickly found that my sweet illustrator would not be able to help me with another book. She has two little boys and ambitions to illustrate her own children’s books. I understood completely. If I’m honest, by that time, the idea of me illustrating my next book was exciting. Daunting, to be sure, but a fun challenge to consider.

I wrote Kai’s Wild Ride for my second grandson. It is about a sled ride gone awry. On the way, a fox, musk ox, moose, bear, and hare join in the ride, ultimately to be rescued by a watchful bald eagle. When I realized I must illustrate the book, the animals scared me. Why, oh why did I write so many animals into the story?

I didn’t know how to draw or paint, nor where to go to learn how. So right away, I consulted YouTube. What a treasure trove. Still, I needed more, so I sought a teacher. Thank the Lord, I found one!

I’ve spent countless hours practicing and learning—and it’s paid off. I will continue to glean knowledge and skill for the rest of my life. I don’t fancy myself an artist in the traditional sense … yet. To lump myself in with my grandma or any working artist is silly to me, but I’m starting to believe I can eventually finish illustrating Kai’s book, which was the impetus for my painting journey.

I have one more book to write. I have an idea in mind, and now it’s a matter of writing the prose. The working title is Ollie’s Quest. Blueberries will be involved. I’m excited. I’m pretty sure I can paint a decent blueberry!

So, that’s the story. My grandma instilled in me an admiration for art and painting, and my grandsons spurred me to action.

I’m thankful.

(The first photo is a collection of 2” x 2” paintings I created to inspire me as I work on Kai’s Wild Ride illustrations. All the characters in the book are represented. It hangs over my worktable in my studio, reminding me to work on it, because I tend to avoid things that intimidate me. Illustrating a children’s book is very intimidating!)

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My dad’s mom was the most prolific painter, selling her work to support herself. She loved to paint barns and pastoral scenes of country life. Which is ironic since she lived in suburban Los Angeles.

I remember my dad stopping the car many times on country roads to snap a photo of an interesting barn to send to his mom. We enjoyed her paintings on our walls growing up, and I have three hanging in my home now.

I’ve always been creative, but my mantra was, “I don’t draw or paint. That’s for real artists.” I don’t know if my grandma’s talent intimidated me, but until recently, stick figures were all I’d ever attempted.

A couple of years ago, I decided to learn to draw and paint (that’s a story for another post).

I found a wonderful teacher (Bertha), and over the past year or two, I’ve grown in my ability and in my belief that I can actually do it!

I think confidence is the biggest barrier to taking on an artistic discipline. I’m my worst critic. I have a vision in my mind when I begin a painting, but it’s rarely/never realized as I’ve imagined. I’ve had to learn to give myself grace and adjust my expectations.

I’ve hung one of my grandma’s paintings in my studio (spare bedroom) to inspire me. It does. Recently, my sister gave me a photo of her standing next to her art teacher’s car, which has a spare tire cover advertising his art business. It’s such a great image! I’ve hung it near her painting.

My brother recently surprised me with a gift. He brought me an old black zippered case. Inside was my grandmother’s watercolor paints. I gasped, broke out in applause, and I’m pretty sure I smothered him in a hug. In terms of watercolor, there’s a TON of paint in that small case. It’s all panned in what appears to be ice cube trays.

So to honor her, I painted a patriotic barn (or shed) with her paint. I’d like to think she’d appreciate my use of her paints, but I’d also welcome her critique. Oh, if only.

I LOVE painting. I LOVE drawing. I had no idea I would until I tried. I started painting when I was fifty-eight, proving that it’s never too late to learn something new.

What have you wanted to try? Have you done it? If not, why not?

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When I was in the thick of motherhood—kids running amok—I heaved a sigh when I saw this scene.

Crumbs dotting my floor, my table, my counters, my chairs—it was constant, and although I didn’t expect perfection, I did want to, maybe, possibly, have a somewhat clean floor on occasion. Is that too much to ask?

But that’s not possible during the growing-up years. That busy, exhausting time when the kids are … well … kids.

Since my nest has emptied, my floors are generally clean. The most frequent offender is boring old dust.

But last week, my sweet grandboys visited. And the crumbs returned with a vengeance—and I loved it.

My daughter made quick work of cleaning after an especially crumbly meal. I found myself wanting to stop her. What’s the hurry?

The crumbs represented joy. The boys had loved their lunch. It made me happy to serve them something yummy. I cook for my husband, sure, but he doesn’t do a bum-wiggling happy dance when he enjoys his food.

They also represented the presence of the little people that I adore. My kids have blessed me with three sweet boys who fill my heart with the joy of being a mom all over again … in the funner form of Nana. All my sweet boys live far away, and to have them in my home is just … amazing.

So while my daughter vacuumed, I hustled to capture a photo of these precious crumbs left by boys. I never imagined missing messes … missing the things that used to frustrate me.

I wish I’d appreciated crumbs when my kids were little. Childhood is such a short span of time. The days are long, but the years are short … as the saying goes.

I’m grateful for the reminder that spotless is overrated and that a crumb-covered floor is a blessing.

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My novel, The Grace Writers, invites the reader to join the ladies in their weekly writing group.

Claire Baldwin finds a box of vintage photographs among her deceased parents’ things. The photos inspire stories to share with the Grace Writers.

Look carefully at the photos. Sometimes there are interesting side details that are missed with a simple glance.

Confession: I have a vintage photo prob— let’s call it an “issue.”

In an effort to justify my expansive collection, I will share a few with you. I hope that, if you’re so inclined, they will inspire a story or two! (Now I’m a poet.)

If you have a writing group, feel free to share them as a fun little prompt.

If you don’t have a writing group, click below for my post on how to start one. It’s easier than you think!

Happy writing!

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I noticed an elderly lady sitting alone in the booth beside me. She waved over the teenage girl sweeping up nearby.

“Dear, would you mind bringing me some ketchup? And could you bring me a lot of ketchup? I really, really love ketchup.”

I smiled. I love that she asked for exactly what she wanted. That woman had spunk.

The sweet girl quickly obliged, and the lady thanked her. Then she leaned over to me and said, “I’m so hungry, and I love the burgers here.”

“Me too.” I smiled at her as she arranged her cups of ketchup on the table.

Then she leaned over to me again. “I’m on a blind date,” she said.

I looked at the lady, wondering if I had heard her correctly. She was no spring chicken. I assumed she was in her 80s. I leaned closer. “Excuse me?”

“I’m on a blind date.” She flashed a mischievous smile. Her dangly earrings sparkled in the sunlight.

That was what she said! Intrigued, I asked, “How’s it going?”

She shrugged. “Well, it’s fine.”

“What have you done so far?” My curiosity was on fire.

“Well, he took me to a play, but we arrived late. He said they published the wrong time on the website.” She sighed. “But it was still a good show.” She looked around, I assume to see if he was nearby. “He asked for his money back, and they gave it to him.” That detail obviously bothered her.

“Oh. Interesting.” I looked across the restaurant to the cluster of folks waiting for their orders. I saw an older gentleman wearing a fedora standing near my husband. “Is he the one wearing the hat?” I asked, pointing.

“Yes, how did you know?”

“I just guessed. He’s handsome.”

“I know. When I opened the door, I was so surprised!” She giggled. “I’m ninety-three, he’s eighty. Can you believe it?”

“Robbing the cradle, huh?” We giggled together then. “How did you meet?” I had forgotten it was a blind date.

“My friend set us up. A friend of a friend. He’s apparently a retired preacher.”

“What do you think of him so far?” Yes, I am nosy, but she’s practically begging me to be.

She shrugged again. Her nose wrinkled. “I’m not sure. He seems nice.”

“You’ll get to know him a bit more over dinner.” I offered.

“Yes, but women my age need to be careful. Younger men date older women for their money, you know.”

Aaaaah, the refunded play tickets had hit a nerve. “Yes, I’ve heard that.”

“He seems nice, but … I have to be careful,” she repeated as the gentleman arrived with their burgers.

She looked at the box he carried and asked, “Didn’t you get me fries?”

I tried not to chuckle as I recalled her pursuit of ketchup. She was ready for those fries!

He did have fries. They were covered by napkins. She was surprised he didn’t get fries for himself, though. (I swear I wasn’t staring. I was taking strategic glances and listening intently.)

Our meal came moments later, and as I ate my delicious burger and well-done fries (oh, the crunchy goodness), I will admit that I did eavesdrop as extensively as I could, because … I’m nosy, and I knew I’d write about our encounter and I needed as much information as I could gather … for you, dear reader. You’re welcome.

From my stealth observations, I gathered that they didn’t share the same level of spunk. There wasn’t much laughter or fun between them, which was too bad, because there was plenty of laughter and fun between her and me. She had it going on! He dominated the conversation, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying over the din of the restaurant (sorry). If she hadn’t told me otherwise, I would have guessed that he was older than her, so I’m thinking it may not be a match.

All is not lost, though. She will likely make an appearance in The Weathered Vessel as a fun side character.

I love meeting characters in the wild!

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I love this photo.

It’s my husband reading an early author’s copy of my debut novel.

He’s not a reader. He’s never read for pleasure. He hadn’t read any part of my book before it was published. (He was, however, consulted on law enforcement procedures for my book since he’s a retired cop.)

But once I stopped editing it to death and published the thing, he couldn’t wait to read it. He spent several mornings reading a few chapters at a time. In the end, when he finished, he gave me a big hug and told me he loved it. Whew! His opinion meant a lot. His pride in my accomplishment was worth the years-long struggle.

He’s a big fan, but he’s not my biggest fan.

My mom is.

After reading the first awful draft of my novel, she pestered me for years to keep going … to get the book published. She read every draft of it. She encouraged me when I floated scenes and ideas to improve The Grace Writers and cheered me on. She told me over and over, “You’re a good writer.” My response was always, “You’re my mom. Your opinion is unreliable.” (I’m not wrong.) She’s told me since I was eleven that I was a good writer. I didn’t know at the time that moms are biased.

But the thing she said—the push that made The Grace Writers cross the finish line was, “Publish your book before I die!”

Oh, mom ….

So, when it became clear that my book would finally be published, I dedicated it to her. She is the reason I followed through on my dream of writing a novel.

I’m glad she said it. I did think about the brevity of life. I did want to publish it before she died. Thank the Lord, she’s held the book in her hands … and uttered the words, “When are you finishing the sequel? I hope it’s published before I die.”

I’m workin’ on it.

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I was instantly attracted to the embossed leather cover. Then I opened it to find that it is a Biographical Dictionary, circa 1845.

The book states: Universal Biographical Dictionary / Contains the lives of the most celebrated characters of every age and nation.

Apparently, it’s a record of every notable person—ever.

Jesus even made the cut. Hallelujah!

As I perused the pages, I stumbled upon some interesting people and realized that, as a writer, I had made an amazing find!

These are potential characters. In one or two sentences, their lives are summed up by their most interesting accomplishments … or transgressions.

Take these Margarets, for example:

Three Margarets in a row…one attending to her husband in wars in the holy land, behaving with heroic intrepidity when he was captured.

Another Margaret married the king of France, a beautiful and sensual woman who was eventually strangled (yikes!).

The third Margaret was married to the infant of Spain (Apparently, in Spain, the heir to the throne is a prince or princess; all other sons and daughters are infants. Go figure.) and the duke of Savoy, and displayed religious zeal against the Lutherans. (The fourth Margaret is quite a character, too.)

A book like this is amazing fodder for stories. Of course, names would be changed to protect the innocent … or guilty, as it were.

And then I found this gem. (Unfortunately, Earl’s story was split into two columns.)

Can you imagine? Earl, having officially gotten away with murdering his brother, sits at the dinner table, annoyed at having to go through the rigamarole of defending himself. His father, the king, is glowering at him from the head of the table, when suddenly a brilliant idea pops into Earl’s head, and he says, “Please pass the bread.”

The king, who still believes his good-for-nothing second son is nefarious as the day is long, nods to the butler who strolls down the long table with a loaf. Earl stands to his feet, grabs a slice of bread, lifts it in the air, and exclaims heavenward, “If I hath killed him, may this bread sticketh in my throat!”

The king, believing God is righteous and just, knows his son just proved he’s an idiot.

Earl takes a generous bite. It sticks in his throat. He chokes, and he dies.

And although it happened in 1052, I’m writing about him today. 974 years later, he’s remembered for that very moment … forever. Unfortunate.

I’m going to keep flipping through this treasure trove of characters. Perhaps some of them will make an appearance in a future story.

I love finding odd items at estate sales. When I’m long gone, if someone is inspired to write a sentence about my life, it will likely be something like, “She bequeathed to her children a peculiar hoard of curiosities she discovered by rifling through the belongings of strangers.”

Next week, I’ll share the story of a fabulous woman I met at In-N-Out. She will likely make an appearance in my next installment of The Grace Writers series (The Weathered Vessel).

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I didn’t establish a Bible-reading habit until I was in my fifties.

Why, oh why did it take so long?

I’ve been a Christ-follower my entire life, and tried to establish a habit, but I read my Bible in fits and starts, failed, tried again, failed, felt all the guilt, and still didn’t succeed.

How did I finally make the habit stick?

I’m so glad you asked.

For me, the thing that turned the guilt of not reading the Bible enough into a hunger and thirst for the Word was writing it down. Copying it word for word in a notebook.

I began in Ephesians, and let me tell you—you have to pay attention to what you’re writing. Any missed word or punctuation may change the meaning of the verse. So I carefully copied the book of Ephesians into a composition notebook. When I was done, I realized it had changed me.

Ephesians came alive. I gleaned so much more than simply reading had ever imparted. I’m a writer, so I enjoyed writing in longhand. I don’t usually write that way. I usually click away on my keyboard, and writing with a pen was somehow utterly satisfying. I also enjoy tasks that have a beginning and end (unlike laundry or doing the dishes). When I was done writing Ephesians, I had pages of scripture to show for my effort. That made me keep going. I looked forward to writing in my nondescript notebook every morning. I rarely missed a day. It was a habit before I even thought about making it one.

Over the course of over a year, I wrote most of the New Testament and some of the Old Testament before I decided my mission was accomplished. I loved reading the Bible. I loved the treasure in the pages of the Word of God. I needed it daily. I am so grateful.

Now, I make my coffee, go into my art studio, read the Bible, then paint a bit. It’s a morning routine I treasure.

My goal now is to incorporate an intentional prayer time into my morning. I am a pray-er, but not a focused pray-er. I pray as the urge hits during the day. Needs, thankfulness, joy, worry—all brought before God as it comes. But I realize that a habit of focused prayer is a needed addition to that. I’ll keep you posted.

I want to add that, throughout my life as a believer, I felt a lot of guilt about not being in the habit of reading God’s Word. I don’t think that guilt is from God. It never served as a motivator for me. I wanted to have the habit, but failed far too often. That desire is from Him.

The path to that habit is something we all have to navigate for ourselves. Reading the Bible out of guilt or “filling a requirement of my status as a Christian” is not the same as desiring the Word of God, which is a natural response of Christ in us. The enemy of our souls will throw obstacles, guilt, and frustration in our way, piling them on when we fail. But if you explore different channels and methods for incorporating the Bible into your life, you will find what works.

We are all created uniquely—morning readings won’t work for everyone, writing the Bible won’t work for everyone, but there is a way for you to be excited to be daily in the Word. (I mean daily with grace … to myself and to you … because we all go on vacation or have a busy day, or whatever. Perfection is not required or achievable.)

I hope my journey to a Bible-reading habit has inspired you. I wish it had stuck with me sooner, but I’m relishing it now.

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I packed my regular walking shoes for our trip to the Big Five parks in Utah. I realized my mistake on the first hike up a ridge to watch the sun rise.

Sand-covered rocks are common on the trails, and I slipped almost immediately. No big deal. I caught myself. Then it happened again, and again, and then I fell. I wasn’t hurt, but I’m of the age where if I slip just right, it could be a bummer.

I was not prepared for this trip. The right shoes are undeniably important.

So we went into town and found a good, grippy pair of hiking shoes. Man, what a difference! I can’t tell you how many times I uttered the phrase, “I love these shoes!”

They really proved their worth when we did an 8-mile hike through two slot canyons—miles of narrow trails with giant boulders to climb over and piles of rocks to maneuver. My shoes saved me from slipping into the depths, and skidding off ledges, and gave me the uncanny ability to scale walls.

This life is full of obstacles, slippery slopes, and narrow pathways.

In Ephesians 6:10-17, Paul instructs us to put on the full armor of God. In verse 15, he writes, “and, as shoes for your feet, having put on the readiness given by the gospel of peace.” A note in the Amplified Bible states, “to face the enemy with firm-footed stability and the readiness produced by the good news”.

Readiness. Preparation. Knowing the Gospel. Standing firm. Moving with purpose and security.

Being prepared for this sojourn in this world is of utmost importance. The enemy of our souls does not rest, and being ready and firm-footed is essential because we will find ourselves in treacherous situations. This world is full of them.

Just as the right shoes are important for keeping our feet from slipping, knowing and receiving the Gospel of peace will secure our steps in this life as we abide with the One who created the beautiful vistas.

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When asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, My answer was always, “I want to be a mom.”

Always.

My mom was a stay-at-home mom, and I never imagined doing anything else. The value of her presence was not lost on me.

So when I became a mother, there was no question that I would be home with my kids.

But when I became a mom, it was MUCH cooler to be a working mom.

Perhaps it hasn’t changed much.

Over and over, I was asked, “What do you DO all day?” There wasn’t a pat answer.

What did I do all day? Never what I planned to do when I woke up, that’s for sure.

The days were a blur of meeting never-ending needs. And snuggles. Lots of hugs and sticky kisses, which made the messes and tears a lot easier to manage. And playing. So much playing. So much fun!

But always the question—asked in a group no less, “What do you do?”

“I’m a stay-at-home mom.”

“Aren’t you bored? I could never do that. I have to use my brain.” (Yes, that was a real response.)

How does one describe a 24-hour-a-day-with-no-breaks, emotional, exhausting, hilarious, dirty, fun, smelly, sleepless, satisfying, dream job?

When my kids went to school, I had extra time during the day. I planned to look for a job, but those plans changed. Instead, I created a few side hustles and shuttled kids to endless activities. With my husband’s crazy law-enforcement/Army Reserves schedule, I wouldn’t compromise being there for our kids.

But I had big dreams for myself.
I wanted to be a writer.

I tried to write when my kids were little, but I felt the Lord telling me to wait, focus on them.

He knew how obsessive I can be when a story takes over.

So I waited.

I wrote Christmas letters, but that was the extent of it.

And then the last kid graduated, and I dove right in. I’m so glad I focused on my kids rather than a story. I would have missed so much.

I am so thankful that God gave me my kids! I’m so grateful to my mom for being a beautiful example to me. I’m thankful for my husband for supporting my desire to be home with our kids. And I’m grateful for my children - for loving me and honoring my efforts (mistakes and all) by being the wonderful, successful people they are. I couldn’t be prouder.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there in the trenches of raising littles. I hope you’re enjoying this precious, fleeting season! It’s a job that will never end this side of heaven, but it keeps getting better and better.

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The Grace Writers is a story—in large part—about church hurt … and forgiveness. Being hurt by someone in authority in the church—the place that should be filled with the love of God—well, it hits differently than other kinds of hurts. Reality tells us that people are flawed—people will disappoint us. But expectations are elevated when we cross the threshold of a church.

Recently, I browsed through the comment sections of social media posts about several prominent church leaders’ misbehavior. I was struck by how some of the faithful clung to unwavering support for the leaders, driven by the sincerity of their apologies. It gave me pause. There was little said of the victim or of those whose trust had been violated by the person/pastor in question. When a leader misbehaves, someone, sometimes many, are hurt.

Some (most?) churches have a super-protective mechanism that activates when someone has caused harm—too often shielding the church above all—under the guise that God’s work must be protected. Hard truth: He doesn’t need us to fulfill His plans. He invites us into them. They will happen with or without us. To roughly quote podcaster Allie Beth Stuckey: “God is on the throne, nothing takes Him by surprise, and His plan is going off without a hitch.”

I’ve witnessed misbehavior by leadership in churches I’ve attended. It’s always shocking when it happens. My faith in God has carried me through the ups and downs. The church will never be perfect, but God never changes, and He never fails.

I wrote The Grace Writers because I wanted to tell the messy story of being a believer—and loving the church. I haven’t met anyone (unfortunately) who hasn’t been hurt by the church or someone in it. We go in with high expectations—as we should, right? But what if our expectations are dashed by bad behavior?

That’s where The Grace Writers picks up. What is the hurt person to do with all that hurt? How does someone harmed by the church maintain a relationship with God and find a home with a church family again? It starts with trusting who God is, not giving up, and … spoiler alert: Forgiveness.

Even when no one apologizes.

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One summer evening, a thunderstorm loomed on the horizon. I love a distant display of lightning, but the dark clouds closed in fast. I was listening to the radio as I cleaned the house, and with each flash, static interrupted the music.

It wasn’t long before flashes of lightning and static became more frequent, and thunder crashed mere seconds after each flash.

It was almost here.

I decided to hunker down in the hallway. I felt a little foolish. I’m a grown woman. I like to think I’m fairly brave, but there I sat, knees to my chest, fingers in my ears.

The flash came—a blinding white light. My radio went dead, and the lights went out. The silence was deafening—for a millisecond.

CRASH!

An intense, angry blast jolted the house. The windows rattled, and the hall vibrated as thunder growled over me.

I thought of only one thing: The caricature of a lightning bolt hitting a stick figure from heaven—God striking someone down for disobeying Him. As the house shook, my mind raced to the way that the world has rejected God.

Churches today tend to focus on the kinder, gentler scriptures that speak of His grace and mercy. And we often sugarcoat our testimony with the sweetness of His lovingkindness. “God loves you, God is gracious, God is kind and merciful.”

All of those things are true.

But that night, as the floor trembled and darkness enveloped me, I felt the immense power of that single bolt of lightning. I felt a sliver of power compared to God's. It reminded me that with every passing moment, the day when Christ will return and righteously judge us all is drawing closer. When that day comes, will those who have rejected His love, mercy, and grace say to us, who knew of the wrath to come, “Why didn’t you tell me about His wrath?”

Could it be that while some are drawn to Him by His love, others will require the fear of God to recognize their need for a Savior?

What stood out to me in this read-through of the Bible is that God is not mocked and His wrath will and has come with a Holy fury. There are countless examples of this in the Bible. He did not slap those who continually disobeyed Him on the wrist and tell them to do better. He gave them a chance to obey, but they didn’t, and He destroyed them completely.

Why would He deal with us any differently? He won’t.

Perhaps we who know Him should season our witness with more of the full truth of His character—His righteousness and His justice—by sharing both the consequences of rejecting God and the benefits of accepting His grace and forgiveness.

Perhaps in the dark of night, when the earth shakes, and the radio goes dead, and the air is silent, that knowledge will seal in someone’s heart the need for a Savior and will cause some who are lost to be found.

Then the kings of the earth and the great ones and the generals and the rich and the powerful, and everyone, slave and free, hid themselves in the caves and among the rocks of the mountains, calling to the mountains and rocks, “Fall on us and hide us from the face of him who is seated on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb.” Revelation 6:15-16

The fear of the Lord is a healthy fear. A reverent fear. It’s a good thing that leads us to acceptance of all the wonderful gifts He freely offers us.

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Last May, I set a goal. To read through the Bible in a year. I just met my goal a bit ahead of schedule.

It’s the best, most timely book I’ve ever read.

I’ve read it all before. But this time was different.

You may have noticed, it’s been a wild ride in this crazy world. There’s so much going on. If I’m honest, I’ve never been more confused.

My faith is solid, but my faith in people … in knowing what’s true … in understanding current events … in trusting people in positions of power, both inside and outside the church … well, it’s a challenge.

It was probably the best time to read through the Bible.

In the past year, when questions arose, I either found the answer as I read my Bible, or I found peace—the reassurance that God is not surprised. He is not taken aback by anything. That He is still on His throne. And that his plan is going off without a hitch (to quote Christian podcaster Allie Beth Stuckey).

I’ve read my Bible daily as a habit for the past several years (why it took me until my 50s to establish that habit is fodder for another post), but reading it cover to cover—especially the books I haven’t read often—opened my eyes to many of God’s attributes. He has never changed. Sin is and has always been sin. He doesn’t alter His holiness to accommodate how I, or anyone, feels. He is just. He is a God of wrath (more on that in a future post). He is in control. He knows us completely—and He loves us anyway. He knows and loves us from the moment we’re conceived and pursues us until our last breath.

If that doesn’t give you peace in the midst of chaos, I don’t know what will.

Is it time to challenge yourself to read through the Bible? You can start any time. It is not your average book. It enriches your life, imparts wisdom and understanding, and best of all, draws you closer to the One who is before all things and holds everything together. (Colossians 1:17)

So, I highly recommend my favorite book—the Bible. Two thumbs up. Five out of five stars.

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We followed the signs on our way home from church. It was the last day of the sale. Needless to say, there wasn’t much left, and we ended our tour in the home office, pawing through bags of paperclips, pens, pencils, and a box of paper goods (I love office supplies).

Mixed in with the notebooks and empty file folders, I found a clutch of handwritten pages. The writing was so small that I couldn’t quite tell what it was about, but I was instantly intrigued. I searched the box for every page and inquired about them.

“I found these papers in the office,” I said, “Do you know what they are?”

“It’s Grandma’s life story,” the woman tending the sale replied. “You can have it.”

Why would she give away her grandma’s life story? I asked if she was sure she didn’t want it, and she assured me she did not. I was both shocked and thrilled.

I went home and began to investigate. Did I have all the pages? I found tiny numbers in the upper left-hand corner of each page, and I had pages 1-43 (both sides covered in cursive) … the story ended on page 43. Hallelujah! It appeared to be a complete volume. The author counted every single word on each page, writing the number in the margin. The end count was 77,000 words!

Now, to read Grandma’s story. At first, it seemed like a life story. A boy and a girl growing up on the same street, falling in love, but separated when the boy goes off to college. When she switched to the young man’s point of view, though, she knew his thoughts and conversations with people the girl couldn’t know. It was then that I realized it probably wasn’t Grandma’s life story. Was it a novel, instead, or perhaps her story written in novel form? Maybe she wrote what she thought happened when she wasn’t there. The two lovers married other people; her husband wasn’t good to her, and they eventually divorced. I couldn’t get through the entire thing. It wasn’t just the tiny script, but Grandma wrote in an antiquated style that was difficult to follow—no paragraphs, little to no punctuation, and an omniscient point of view that jumped around endlessly.

It was written during a time of scarcity, perhaps during or after the Great Depression or World War II. Grandma had a limited amount of paper to work with, and as I read, the handwriting became smaller and smaller … and smaller. She wrote in perfect cursive (also hard to decipher) with only a few mistakes! Several pages were written in ink.

The story may be hard to read, but what makes it a treasure is the author's immense effort and the handwritten perfection. My goodness, how could you write so small, so straight—on unlined paper—without mistakes? Amazing.

So many questions swirled in my mind. How long did it take to fill 43, or rather, 86 pages with her story? Weeks? Months? Years? Did she spend a lot of time thinking before she wrote to avoid mistakes? Was it her story or fiction? Did she ever try to have the manuscript published? And who is Grandma?

I protect each page of the volume in a sleeve and keep it on a shelf in my studio. When I need a nudge of encouragement, I peruse the artful pages, reminding myself that I’m blessed to have a computer with which to write. This novel inspires me to keep going when I’m stuck. If a mysterious grandma can write a novel by hand, with limited resources, surely I can do it with ease on my laptop.

This estate sale treasure also reminds me to do whatever my hands find to do with all my heart. (Ecclesiastes 9:10) Grandma surely did.

Below is a video of a flip-through of the manuscript. Note the tiny script on the final pages. It’s amazing!

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Many years ago, something strange occurred in my neighborhood.

A minivan was parked on my street, and a woman sat in the weeds on the side of the road, staring into the field.

I noticed her as I took the kids to the bus stop.

I waved.

She waved back and continued staring.

She was still there when I came home that afternoon.

The next day, another lady parked her car on the street, sat in the weeds, and stared into the field. Curiosity overwhelmed me.

I walked to where she sat and asked, “Excuse me, what are you doing?” As the words left my lips, they seemed a little abrupt, but I live in a small neighborhood in the country. It isn’t every day strangers park their car on my street and sit outside in the rain and weeds, staring into a field.

“I’m trying to rescue that dog,” she whispered, pointing.

I hadn’t noticed the dog.

In the middle of the field, a filthy mutt stood alone—his ears and nose raised as he peered above the tall grass.

My knee-jerk reaction was to climb through the barbed-wire fence and collect the dog so the lady could get on with her life. Two different women had spent two days waiting for the mutt to come to them. As a busy mom of three teenagers, I couldn’t imagine spending one day, much less two, sitting in the weeds watching a dog.

Instead, I asked, “Is it your dog?”

“No.” The woman’s eyes didn’t leave the field.

“Whose dog is it?”

“We don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“The dog is timid and won’t allow anyone near. My friend rescues dogs, and we’re trying to gain his trust so we can give him a home.”

Don’t get me wrong. I love dogs. But this seemed a little over-the-top for dog rescues.

I asked if she needed anything. She didn’t. She obviously wanted to be left alone to do her work.

The two women spent two full weeks, from sunrise to sunset, sitting by the side of the road, staring into the field, waiting. I didn’t bother them—they didn’t want to be bothered. Their sole purpose was to earn the dog's trust. They had food, treats, and water. I could watch the scene from an upstairs window, so I’d check on them throughout the day.

One day, the dog inched right next to one of the women and began eating from a dish. I saw them touch the dog and stroke his back. But even while they had him in their hands, they didn’t force him into the car.

Honestly, I honored their patience but questioned their sanity. Who in their right mind would spend literally every hour of daylight for weeks on end to pursue a stray dog? Eventually, they all disappeared. I assumed the women succeeded.

I’d forgotten about the women and the dog until recently. They came to mind, and I chuckled about the seeming silliness of it. Then I heard a whisper …

God offered His take on the situation. “You know, that’s what I do too.”

My chuckling abruptly stopped. I pondered what He meant. Does God sit in the weeds and wait for us?

Aaaah … yes, He does.

God waits for us to accept His gifts of love, grace, and forgiveness. He is kind. He does not grab us against our will. He is gentle and patient—offering exactly what we need, adoption into His family.

See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! (1 John 3:1)

God loves us—he doesn’t leave any of us alone in the field of our unbelief. He wants everyone to have the choice to come to Him—to be rescued—or not. He waits in the weeds, the rain, the wind, in the stench of our filth, guilt, and shame. Do you see Him? Do you hear Him calling your name?

About a week after they all disappeared, the dog reappeared in the field, and the ladies were back on the side of the road. This time, they disappeared after a couple of days. Perhaps the dog was testing them. Do you really want me? Are you really who you say you are? Do you really care about my life? The ladies’ persistence proved their love.

God’s Word says, For the wages of sin is death … thankfully, it doesn’t end there. But the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord. (Romans 6:23)

God proved His love when He sent His Son to die on a cross to take the penalty for our sin and all of our shame onto Himself.

On Easter morning, He conquered death and rose from the grave.

Jesus offers us the gift of eternal safety, belonging, and eternal life. All we have to do is accept it and be His child.

We aren’t so different from that dog—we’ve all been lost, dirty, hungry, and skeptical. We all need to be rescued. This Easter, as we celebrate the resurrection, God is reaching His hand to you. The weeds may be tall, but we only have the length of our one precious life to trust Him. Will you?

The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. Instead, he is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance. 2 Peter 3:9

May you grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ. Ephesians 3:18

Happy Easter!

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