The truth about the truth

The more fiction I write, the more I’m completely fascinated by it. And by how it’s totally not what I thought it was. So as I wrote my little book I had a handful of questions that I wanted to answer.

The first one is how do you fight a war without a weapon in your hand.

The second was what does it take to turn a nice boy into a murderer.

But there’s more.

With this book I wanted to think about Church politics. If you haven’t read the book, I have it set up so that the “favored” community represents the church as a body of believers set up over several locations. With my Academy set up as a representative physical church. A place my characters assume they’ll be safe from the murderous Underlanders.

But as most Christians are aware, standing in a church does not make you a Christian in the way that standing in a garage does not make you a car.

My characters are not safe in their church. The church has just as much internal conflict as any other organization that mankind dreamed up. Administrative runaround, discrimination and cliques, putting the needs of one’s self ahead of the needs of the group at large. No one likes to admit that these things exist within the church, but they do.

So much untapped tension in the church. I love it. So much more I can’t wait to point out in the future.

Don’t call us goody-two shoes. You have no idea. We’re just as messed up as you are.

So not so much of a question this time around as a comment on human nature.

True safety will never be found with another human or within a building.

The whole Christianity faith has so many different little nuance-y conflicts. Internal conflicts, external conflicts, some are more pronounced than others. But they're all rather beautiful in their own right, I’m not sure how many I’ll be able to address with these books. Some day. All of it. All these pretty little threads that tangle up my mind will be woven into something that makes sense to someone else.

 

 

On creating a murderer

When I first started writing I was all about trying to figure out a series of events that followed a logical progression. But after I was nearly done with the first draft of this book I realized I had no idea how to write a book. I had no idea that it wasn’t really about the sequence of events at all.

It was mostly about how my characters responded to what I did to them.

As in how they survived the worst things I could think up to do to them. Because the backbone of good fiction is pushing your character to his limit, just to see what he’ll do.

One of the questions I set out to answer in this story is what happens when you take a couple of normal people, people like me and my family, and back them into a corner. Then give them a weapon and see what they do.

When I think about my male lead, Tobias, I think of my son, Alex. What would it take for my boy to take a weapon and use it to murder someone? Would he be able to do it? How far would an enemy have to push him to get him to that point? And when he got to that point, would he really be able to do it? Would he lay down and die or fight back? If i was me, I’d probably just die.

Which is why I’m not a character in my story.

When characters revolt

So I’ve probably said it before, but I’ll say it again. Writing fiction does weird things to your head.

I’ve always had a bit of a screw loose (don’t laugh, Dad). I know. But writing fiction takes my oddness to a whole new level. So let me tell you a bit what it’s like when your characters decide that they’re real people. And don’t believe you when you try to say otherwise.

In the book I wrote, Dissident, my female character is Shiloh. I wanted her to follow in the footsteps of the other strong feminine warrior heroes. With girls like Katniss and Tris to live up to, she needed to be fierce or get out of the way.

But. One day I was twiddling around, trying to avoid responsibility and so I sat down with Pinterest to find some visuals. Ok. I decided to take her shopping. Shiloh and I. Shopping on Pinterest. Weird things to your head I tell you.

So anyway I was trying to figure out weapons and such, and she told me she didn’t want a sword. She wanted lace. LACE. I died just a bit when she said that. How am I supposed to have a warrior in a lacy top. Seriously. But she wasn’t kidding. Then she picked out a gold necklace that she wanted (which incidentally made it into the book, her picking out a gold necklace in town) because SHE WAS A GIRL and wanted to be treated LIKE A GIRL.

Who was I to argue?

So after her little “don’t give me a sword tantrum” I was left to figure out how to deal with this heroine who needed to learn how to be fierce without a weapon in her hand. I think as the story continues (still collecting ideas, but I think I’ll be able to complete the story with three books) I think you’ll be pleased to see how Shiloh figures out how to wage battle against her enemy without the sword I tried to give her. How to fight corruption and injustice on her own terms. How wars are one with words instead of with weapons.

Which is so much better than what I had originally figured out.

Strange things to your head I tell you. Characters that write their own stories.

Characters that don’t realize that they don’t really exist.

This is my world.

Death to perfectionism. Don't tell my realtor.

God has been showing me so much as we’ve been in the transition to a different house these last few months.

A big part of the moving process is making your house presentable enough for other families to come and look at it. To see how they would live their lives in your space. Which presents interesting challenges when your family obviously does not fit in the space they’re confined to. And you have a special needs child who doesn’t have the slightest clue about how the process works.

So a challenge was thrown down. The challenge to find the balance between maintaining show ready perfection and the reality that we are real people living real lives. That balance is going to be different for everyone, but when I prayed over the quandary this is the answer I got.

 Let people into your imperfect house. Not because they’re going to buy it, but because it’s ok to call perfectionism a trap. I don’t need your house to be perfect to sell it, so just trust Me on this one.

Ugh. That was a hard pill to swallow. Laughing in the face of the natural inclination towards perfectionism. Choosing to be above having a perfect house, when every fiber of my being screamed that my rational was insane and demented. Intentionally leaving those tiny Legos in the crevices of my house because God said I could. Such a rebel. I know. Don’t tell my realtor.

So from the home owner who’s probably a bit too far on the “anti show ready” end of the spectrum. Well. What can I say,

Besides screw you people who made fun of the Lego’s on my floor.

Ok, that was mean. Maybe what I want to say is I would prefer not to manipulate you into thinking that we are perfect people living perfect lives with children who never touch anything. Thank you for not noticing the stray Legos that are EVERYWHERE. We’ll take them with us when we leave, but until you put in an offer, it’s really not worth it to try to get every single one off the floor. So there. God bless.

the rest of the mower story

So last time I told you the mower story. A story about how I almost gave up on life because I couldn’t start the stupid mower.

Which wasn’t so much a story about having a tidy yard as much as it was a testament to the fact that God uses funny things to show us the Truth.

But in the days that followed that little showdown, in the moments where the tears came back each time I considered what had really happened that sunny summer morning on my driveway, I had to wonder why.

Jesus and me. We’re like this. Thick as thieves. So why on earth did He let the failure chatter get so thick that I was ready to give up over something so silly? Where were the warning lights? Caution tape? A quick “hey lady you’re being silly. Stop it.” would have gone a long way.

So a few days after that little stunt I was standing in my new “sanctuary” (aka that spot on my driveway where that stupid mower finally started up) trying to get a sense of why things had gone down the way they had and got a moment of revelation.

Satan had permission to call me a failure until I hit my breaking point so that Jesus could show me that I wasn’t. End of story.

Working mowers don’t lie. A freshly mown lawn is proof that everyone can see. A flashing beacon if you know the story behind it. Jesus was here. Satan is dumb. Don’t believe him.

the infamous mower story

Over the last couple weeks I’ve been sharing with you about how the transition to a new house has affected me and the things that I’ve learned from the process. I hope in some odd way you’ve found a way to connect to our situation. Or at least laugh about it.

So this last one is a bit personal. The kind of personal that makes me guard it fiercely because I don’t want to be that vulnerable with you. But those are the best stories. Am I right?

So here we go. Eek.

Our house has been on the market for 4 months. 4 agonizing months. Which is normal. I know. But for some reason I thought we’d be special and get an offer in the first 3-5 days. Which we did, but then they walked away. Long story.

So 4 months in to the process I’m feeling rather vulnerable and angry that this isn’t what I signed up for, because I’m the mother of a special boy and I’m ENTITLED to an easy transition. So GIVE ME WHAT I WANT. OR ELSE.

Ha ha, I know. I’ll give you a moment to get your chuckling under control.

Ok, so that’s where my little heart is, all angry and frustrated about the slowness of the transition. And I’m vulnerable with a capital V.

When Satan tries to tell me that this is my fault because I’m a failure.

This little “I’m a failure” bubble followed me around for at least a week. Subtle at first, but the more I listened to it the more I heard it. I’m a failure at moving. I’m a failure at special needs parenting. I’m a failure at… fill in the blank with your own topic, because I fail at everything.

Which sounds funny to you, because you aren’t the one who was vulnerable.

So this is the storm that’s raging in my head and I refuse to tell anyone about it and I’m just trying to breathe in and out (because I obviously am not a failure at breathing) and I go out to mow the grass.

 And can’t get the mower to start.

And the world's biggest liar whispers in my ear: See I told you that you were a failure. You can’t even mow. Just sit down and accept your failure.

Cut to the image of the girl crumpled up on the driveway this close to admitting defeat. This close to believing a life crippling lie once and for all.

When truth whispers. “Wait! Wait! One. More. Just try one more time.”

So with a face soaked in tears, and a heart full of doubt, I give the stupid thing one more yank (pulling a muscle in my shoulder, thank you very much).

And the mower starts.

These are the things that only happen in the movies. Am I right?

Let’s just sit a spell and let the glory settle. The stupid mower started. But only after I chose to listen to the Truth. Even though I thought it was a really dumb idea. And I sort of only did it so that I could call the Truth a Lie. No joke.

And I have a strained muscle in my shoulder. Not because I yanked too hard on that stupid mower, but because I had an arm wrestling match with Satan. And I won. Which is a bit predictable when you think about it. But it didn’t seem like it at the time.

So then, what can I say, besides let my perfectly mowed lawn stand as a tribute to the Truth. Every time you drive past it (this week because surely I’ll just have to mow it again before too much longer) you’ll praise your God because He started that mower when I wanted to quit.

And each time the failure chatter starts again I just go stand in my yard. In that little spot where my arm wrestling match took place.  And I look at the grass. It’s a nice spot, really, right up by the road. You should come stand there sometimes too.

Jesus is in the boxes

We’re talking about transition these days. We’re elbow deep in cardboard boxes, eager to find our way to the next house that God has for our family.

But the reality of this move is that it’s not so much about having more space as it is about having the guts to laugh at the uncertainty of it all. It’s easy to believe in God when things are going good. When people leave awesomely encouraging feedback about my cute kitchen (that’s sadly in the wrong part of town for their family).

But what happens when the chips are down. When no one is coming to see what we’re selling. When the timeline isn’t going according to plan and I probably won’t be done with the transition in order to start school in the new house.

The house that has our names written all over it, but someone else is probably going to snatch up before we can put an offer on it because no one will buy the house we’re in. And it would be stupid to try to own both, even for a tiny little while.

Then I have the worst day ever and my special boy is a complete monster and someone asks if they can have a showing in an hour and a half. And then those stupid last minute people don’t even write an offer. Probably because my house is a hot dirty mess. Just like I am. For real people.

This is where Jesus really is. Where Jesus really wanted me to go. Where I’m gritty and dirty and raw. And fed up with the senselessness of it because this house isn’t really that bad. And whose idea was this anyway.

Where I still choose to believe that this is all a part of the plan. Even though I feel like I’m either crazy or brilliant because I continue to cling to a plan that’s so insane that I’m not even sure I can pull it off. But frankly I’m just a bit too defiant to give in just yet. Because God does funny stuff like this all the time.

When God leads you well past your breaking point just so you can laugh at what a wimp you were on the other side of that barrier.  

And He shows you that all of this really has nothing to do with the house anyway.

That is where Jesus is.

And it makes me wonder why we pray for God to make things easy. When things are so much more interesting out where Jesus is. The stories are so much more fun to read out here. And way more fun to write for that matter. Because if you’re going to go through the insanity, you might as well come through it with an interesting story to tell on the other side, am I right about that?

New digs

We did a little redecorating around here. Did you notice? All the stuff that blogger would let me change has been changed.

I was sort of sick of the last design. I put it together when we were adopting. When I was trying to figure out what I really wanted to do with this blog. When we made the gentle shift from being a blog that was only read by people I knew, to a blog that was read by a broader audience. When I realized that many people were touched by our adoption story, and those people were coming to hear more about the crazy things that God was doing with our family. People who didn’t know my entire life story, and frankly didn’t care what we did with our Saturday mornings.

So I feel myself shifting again, not back towards the “look at my breakfast” blog (heaven help me) but to acknowledge that people who have read my fiction might stop here. And I’d like to welcome them.

So if you’re on facebook I put together a newly decorated fan page to talk about all my stories, and all the stuff that passes through my brain that relates to my life as a writer.  

And…

If it makes it easier to remember, I made myself easier to search for by adding a static page.

elissa-peterson.blogspot.com

There’s a tab on that page that’ll bring you here, but if there’s a way to get from here to there I haven’t figured that part out yet.

Finding God in the transition

So we’re in a bit of a transition around here. We put our house on the market last May and have been on the moving tidal wave ever since. Up down, up down, down a bit more, crash. Pick yourself up and repeat the cycle all over again. Eye roll.

There have been so many beautifully sweet lessons during this time I can’t begin to remember them all. But over the next few weeks I have a handful of moving inspired posts to share, I hope you’ll find a healthy take away from my troubles.  Or at least find the humor in this big fat cardboard box headache.

So the main reason we’re moving is that we’re a family of 6 living in 1300 square feet of cute little house. Did you catch that LITTLE part of that discription?

Jory and I have been avoiding this conversation for years, tried to make it work for years. We like small. Small is efficient. And easy to keep clean. And find things. Minimal living. That’s us. We’re happy with less. Really.

But this year homeschooling 3 students on my side of the master bedroom – an area that’s about 6 x 8. Computers, textbooks, chairs, desks, and people. Use your imagination. Eye roll.  

We did it, it worked. But it was horrible. The kind of horrible that makes you take a real look at life and say is this worth it? What is my priority here, educating the kids or making the house work for just a bit longer?

Sounds a bit silly when I say it out loud.  Why would I put my house above my children?

But the whole transition to a new house thing has really been so much more personal than simply saying “we’re moving because our house is small”. If that’s the only reason I had for the transition, then I probably would have given up a long time ago. Not sure the process is worth it just to get more space. Not for me anyway. This house isn’t that bad.

So stick with me over the next few days as we unpack all the stories and take aways from the move across town that I’m affectionately calling “it’s not because my house is too small”.

Dissident

So things have been a bit quiet around here this year. It's not you, I swear, it's me.

You've heard it before. I know.

But my little word lovin heart has been pulled in so many different directions that it's unreal.

So most of my facebook people know that I've taken this spring to finish the book that I started about 18 months ago. A book that I say I wrote for my oldest son, but really I was just playing. Watching a story unfold beneath my eye lids and putting into words what I saw, all while praying that I actually made sense.

If you're a writer you know what I'm talking about. If not. Uh... Sorry? Writing fiction does weird things to your head. No joke.

But my story is done! Done I tell you. Until I find an editor to shred it to pieces that is. Over the next few weeks I thought maybe I'd talk a bit about this crazy adventure I've been on. But for now, here's the synopsis of the story I wrote.

Tobias's world is turned upside down when Shiloh shows up on his family farm. She has come seeking shelter after her home was attacked and destroyed by a roaming mob of Underlanders, leaving her alone and afraid. 

When the mob catches up with her, they are both forced to leave Tobias's family and flee to the relative safety of the New Haven Academy in search of someone who can help them find safety with other members of the Favored tribe. 

But life at the academy is far from the safe haven they were seeking. Insane professors with bizarre teaching tactics and overly protective monitors both threaten the thin veneer of safety they thought they had found when they entered the academy.  If that wasn’t enough, Shiloh and Tobias must keep their cool in the face of bullying and deep seated discrimination.  All of these factors work together to divide both students and staff, distracting them from the work the Overseer has for them.

Tobias and his friends must learn the skills necessary to take care of themselves and recognize the almighty Overseer's guidance. They must figure out who they can trust to help them find their way before the unthinkable occurs.

Sound good? I can't wait for you to read it.

12 years old

Dear Alex

So 12 years snuck up on me. 12 years means 7^th grade. Junior high. Eek. A big adjustment that every family goes through. It doesn’t affect us the way it affects your non-homeschooled friends, but it still affects us. And by us I mean ME.

So 12. There are a few things I want to remember about you as you approach this milestone. The first thing, sort of a long story, but one that is so telling of your personality this summer. So I’ma tell it anyway

I snapped at you last week when your swimming coach had her hands full and you were completely oblivious. Which, don’t get me wrong, is totally normal for someone your age to not notice. But you notice these things. You always see it when someone else needs a hand and spring forward to save the day without any prompting from anyone.

Which is why I had to laugh at myself for getting mad at you at the pool that afternoon. Sorry bout that.

And for the record, when I pointed out the problem you did jump up and ask Coach Kelly what you could do.

The second thing I want to remember about you from this year isn’t exactly summer related. It’s school. I try really hard to emphasis the joy of learning and not the glorify the fact that you’re a bit of an overachiever. I’m a bit of a stickler about not comparing ourselves to other learners. It’s never a good idea to think that you’re better at something than someone else. Which is why I like that you’re in a class of 1.

That said.  This year with school we did something new. In August I handed you an entire years worth of curriculum and said “do it.” And that was all you needed as far as direction. You set your own pacing schedule, and organized all your own documents. You planned and organized the whole stinking thing without a bit of help from me. Which is so awesome. But the part of this story that surprised even me is how driven you were to keep yourself on track. Not only did you finish the entire years curriculum a month early, but you dug in and completed some of next year’s curriculum just for fun.

And yes, I did have to tell you to cool it more than once when you wanted to work on your lessons and I needed you elsewhere. Sorry bout that.

So to my just turned 12 year old boy. You rock. We love you. You’re fun to have around. And it thrills my heart that you seek out your dad and me for advice and companionship.

But you give the worst massages ever. EVER.

Yeah. You know what I’m talking about. Stinker.

Love,

Mom

The big D (disabled, that is)

When we adopted two years ago we thought we were taking on a (mostly) healthy seven year old, who was only a bit vertically challenged. As in, he might look like a five year old, but his behavior and cognitive function were mostly on target for his age range, if you give him a bit of extra leeway to account for his traumatic social history.

The last two years have been a humbling process as we have been handed diagnosis after diagnosis telling us what was evident right after we took custody. That our little guy wasn’t nearly as healthy or mentally stable as the Russian paperwork made him sound.

You’d think it would get easier after a spell, that you’d develop a thicker skin each time you accept a new name for a set of personality quirks; a label that helps professionals know how to approach your child. A special set of words that opens doors to extra assistance because your kid is qualified.

But it doesn’t. 

Each one comes like a swift kick in the gut. A chink in your armor. And the latest one isn’t any different.

Our paperwork is back, the board of disabilities has taken my son into their database. My son is officially disabled.

Disabled.

It is so easy to park myself on that word. To feel overwhelmed by its implications. To be not quite ready to call myself the parent of a disabled child (even though I embraced the roll a long time ago). To be emotionally blinded by a label that doesn’t change my child in the slightest bit.

And how weird it is that the only thing that this emotionally charged label really changes is how my son’s needs impact our finances. How many services that used to cost us money will now be provided free of charge because he owns a different word. A word that makes him qualified for government assistance.

Disabled. Such a bittersweet word.

I think I'll sing anyway

So, we’re moving. Or at least we’re trying to move. You know how that goes. The highs and lows of negotiating with people who may or may not be trying to do what’s honorable.   Mix that with a whole lot of helplessness  while you wait on imperfect people. It’s pretty much a powder keg of stress and emotion. Especially the first time you do it.

One of those things that makes me wonder if moving a mile up the road to a bigger house as an act of obedience is really what God wants or if I’m just plain crazy because this house really isn’t that bad.   

So here I am in my not-so-happy little powder keg using all the stuff God has taught me about keeping my head every time the inevitable disaster hits. And I’m mostly fine. Not caring about the hills and valleys, not caring about how people respond, only caring about my own obedience.

Then yesterday we got a triple whammy of losing a contract on this house, losing a sure bet on another house, and a septic guy telling me I need to spend $500 to put ugly markers all over my yard – right in a high traffic area where people are going to trip on them.

Yeah. It was a good day.

Eye roll.

So my head and my heart had a little disagreement. It sounded something like this.

Heart: wahhhhhhhh!

Head: Stop being a crybaby. You’re fine.

Heart: Did you hear me? I said WAHHH!

Head: I think it’s time to sing.

Heart: I don’t like singing. I only like crying.

Head: La la la. I can’t hear you. I’m singing. You should try it. You’ll feel better.

Ok, so the illustration was a bit on the comical side. But I hope you can hear what I’m saying. My head and my heart are not always on the same page. My head knows the truth, logic and reason. My heart only knows emotion -happy or sad.  And there are so many times that my crybaby heart ruins my day because it will just not listen to the voice of reason.

So yesterday when I was driving around, tired of listening to my crybaby heart that wouldn’t shut up I decided to sing. Out loud. Louder than my heart was crying. I totally pulled the “la, la, la, I can’t hear you” card on myself.  

And it totally worked. My heart tried to shout over the singing for a while, until it realized it wasn’t doing any good because my brain was too busy trying to remember what words were next in the song to listen.  And finally it gave up and started singing too.

Standardized testing. It's like, whatever.

It’s testing season. Even though most of my children are homeschooled, they still take the same statewide assessments that all Ohio children take. So the last two months have seen a lot of practicing, reviewing and stressing about filling in tiny little circles.

I have one cracker jack learner who picks up whatever you throw at him without even trying. Completely independent, needs nothing from me as a teacher. That kid could pass the test with one arm tied behind his back, hopping up and down, and blindfolded.

But then I have two beautiful students who are absolutely miserable at math. Two girls who think “who needs to add when you can read. Or write. Or create something from raw materials.” Bless their hearts, they’re just like their Mama, who had a good reason for marrying an accountant. Love you babe.

Anyway. High stakes testing on a subject we dislike. And a Mama who struggles with having a good attitude towards curriculum that teaches differently than she learned, and doesn’t always make sense the first time she reads it.

Yep. Stress.

I know standardized tests are a hot topic. I know curriculum standards are a hot topic. I am one of the quiet few who does think that standard curriculum and evaluations are a good thing.

Even as the parent of a special kid who will never be able to pass standardized tests, I still think my other children should strive for the same mark as every other kid in America.

So no, this isn’t going to turn into one more Common Core bashing post. Because if I don’t like the way the lesson is presented I do have the right, as the teacher, to tell my students to nod and smile politely and then completely throw the entire lesson out the window and do what makes sense. (Which I think I’ve done once or twice).

Why?

Because that’s the beauty of homeschooling for one thing. And for another, we as a family chose not to define ourselves by state tests, or just about any other set of results that assesses the work of our hands.

We work hard. We learn what we can. We put our best work out. But once it’s out of our hands we stop caring.

We are children of God. Not people who can (or can’t) pass tests. We care about improving our character. Not impressing people who live far away. Or close by for that matter.

So on our last day of testing we’ll nod and smile because someone somewhere cares about the list of numbers and statistics our tests produced. And then we’ll go back to developing the things that really matter to us. Character. Creativity. Community.

And we’ll say take that OAA.

(nearly) wordless wednesday

 

 

frozen Marblehead

 

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Dear Max: Year 10

Dear Max

It’s finally come and gone. The day you’ve been looking forward to, dreaming of, and talking about for 364 days. That’s right. Yesterday was the best day on your calendar. Your birthday.  Some of us enjoy birthday week, but you’d really prefer if we celebrated birthday year. As in it’s your birthday every single day of the year. Which amuses me to no extent.

Birthdays are such a big deal in your little world. Like who needs Christmas, Disneyland or summer vacation when you can just have a birthday. Or tell someone else happy birthday. The yucky parts of your past make it so hard for you to remember even the most basic lessons your teachers teach you at school, but you never forget someone’s birthday. Ever. You cherish each person’s special day like it was your own.

Which also amuses me to no extent.

So this year on your birthday I can tell you what your first mama told me about the day you were born. You came at 3:50 AM, and you were a tiny little guy. It’s not much information, but it’s more than I knew about your special day last year. Maybe someday we will have more details about that cold winter night in northern Russia when you were so tiny and sweet in your first mom’s arms. But for now we’ll use our imagination.  

Happy birthday to my favorite outside playin-diving board jumpin-lego enthusiast-chatterbox of a boy. Hope your special day lived up to all the dreams that you had.

Love,

Mom

Inch 84 - We don't hate you.

For our 15th snow day of 2014 we chose to not be angry.

 

 

Some of us did not panic because our schedule was disrupted (again).

 

We did not bulk as our 84th inch of snow fell out of the sky, and the temperature dipped below zero (again).

 

We took ourselves out to see the ice floes on Lake Erie,

 

and checked out the cool phenomenon known as blue ice, which is common in arctic glaciers, but rather rare in the great lakes region (and is rather hard to photograph in broad daylight).

 

And we decided that inch 84 wasn't so bad after all.

(nearly) wordless wednesday

Just. Not. Fair.

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Mealtime devotions with AIO and a FREEBIE!

My lovely friends at Focus on the Family have done it again! This time they’ve sent me their newest family devotion, AIO’s Whit’s End Mealtime Devotions: The Second Helping.

This little gem has 90 family devotions. Each little devotion has a prayer, an “appetizer” a “main course” and a healthy dose of vitamins and minerals. So clever. How fun to do over the course of a meal or at snack time.

What we loved: Anyone familiar with anything produced by Adventures in Odyssey knows that these people always put out quality Bible based products. This one was another solid win for AIO. Also, I loved the fact that they were simple enough to do with my boy who’s developmental age is 5, but had enough meat and potatoes for my 11 year old to chew on. And they were quick, each one took our family about 5 minutes.

And you know why I love these people the most? Because they’re so quick with the freebies. I've got a weeks worth of devotions from this book to share with you. Because I like you. Check it out here.

Please Note: We received this book for review purposes. As always, our opinions are 100% our own

This beautiful life

Hanging on to this ordinary life with every thing I have.

Refusing to let winter win. 

Loving each kid in their own individual way.

And just trying to keep it all together.

Instagram moments from my very ordinary, and very beautiful life. 

Moments that I don't dare forget...