Write or Die

A couple months ago I decided to enter a writing contest through the Chickasaw Nation. If that seems random, allow me to explain that through my mother's side each of us are citizens of the Chickasaw Nation and on the Dawes Rolls. Because the Chickasaws have been so, so good to me over the years I always try to vote in the elections and be as active as I can living outside of the nation's boundaries.

That being said I entered the Anoli' Creative Writing Contest. Today I was informed I got 2nd place! Of course I am elated, although admittedly I would always want to be first. :) The Chickasaw Nation may choose to publish the winning entries this fall, but I do retain all rights to my work. So...here is the 2nd (should've been 1st) place entry in this year's Chickasaw Nation Anoli' Creative Writing Contest. (Original work by me---did steal some small truths from some of the guys we know)

The Grind

By Avery Pullin

Idiot. I just threw two strikes on the paint, lighting it close to 93. I need to throw my curve. I’m solid with my curve. And this idiot is calling a slider? I haven’t thrown my slider all season. Let’s get out of this game and on the road.

I shake my head wanting him to see in my eyes the cuss words running through my head for him.

A changeup? You gotta be kidding me, Golder. How are you here?

It’s the bottom of the ninth, and although I’m usually middle relief I’m closing tonight. We have two outs and the only runner on base I inherited from the new guy who just got moved up from Low A. He didn’t even make it a third of an inning. Young guys. They always think they’re something until they get here. Especially hotshots like him drafted out of high school.

I shake off Golder until he calls my curveball.

STRIKKKEEEE!!!

Ball game. I come off the mound beaming. I’m shocked when I hear the 14 fans in the crowd explode into applause. Then I see Sammy the Seagull and Rusty the Fishhook on top of the home dugout doing a bobblehead giveaway of one of the Astros players. I shake my head. I barely remember when fans came to watch me play baseball.

Winning tonight put us one game ahead of the Hooks for this half of the season. Golder marches in complaining about what in the world I threw him with that last pitch. “A strike. I threw a strike.” I walk off.

In the locker room my bullpen buddies pat me on the back. Like me they’re thankful to get out of the blistering heat and humidity of Corpus Christi. It is time to go home, wherever that is anymore.

This is my fourth season in minor league baseball. I have consumed approximately twelve hundred peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a few homemade meals from my host family, “food” the clubbie makes and one dragonfly hamburger. The burger wasn’t bad after I pulled off the dragonfly, but I didn’t realize I left a wing until I got extra crunch in that one bite.

A quick shower and back to the bus. It has been a long road trip, and I am ready to sleep all the way back to Midland. Gosh. All I can think is that if I don’t sleep on this trip, the little guy I share a house with will be up playing Legos about 2 hours after we roll into town. I like the kid. I might even love him. But how he can make Legos the loudest toy in the universe at 7 am is about the most annoying thing in my life.

My host family really is great. I make $1,500 a month for a few months a year, so I do appreciate that they let me stay there for free. They even make meals. My host mom is a little over the top always wanting to come say hi after the games and pretends to take a picture of me with the kids. I know she just wants to chat with my teammates. She doesn’t realize how old she is now. But they’re great. They are really great. At least my host dad gets me on the golf course during the All-Star break. And they have casseroles stocked for me. Most of the time.

I had just dozed off when the lights of Buc-ee’s startled me. Thank, God. The only two good things about the Texas League is the occasional Buc-ee’s stop and Whataburger. Other than that these road trips are a grind. Finish a game, shower, get on bus for 10 hours. Every week. Just when I think I hate minor league baseball and bus trips with guys playing poker at 3 am and I have a draft email to my agent I’m about to send, we always manage to pull into Buc-ee’s.

I spend more time than is appropriate smelling the cleanness of the Buc-ee’s bathroom. Minor league clubhouses sound like they’d be fun with buddies joking around and playing baseball all day. In reality they are about as sanitary as a sewer line. No. Sometimes I’d rather change in the sewer line.

This clean bathroom gets me every time, and I run out with barely enough time to grab some beaver nuggets for the rest of the trip. I had 10 bucks left, but the nuggets were worth it. Might as well spend the last six on one hand of poker. I’ll get paid in two weeks. That’ll be the paycheck I save for school next semester.

Oh, yeah. I’m still in school. I spent four years playing for the LSU Tigers. We made two college world series appearances. I shined in Omaha my last year. But it was my last year, at least in eligibility, and teams knew that. The A’s took me in the 8^th round, gave me a $9,000 signing bonus, and said they’d pay for college. I didn’t know a) how fast $9,000 goes and b) that “paying for college” had a limit.

I’m surprised when I see a text from my girlfriend. She is usually asleep by this time. After college she did the successful thing and started working at a bank. She’s smart. She’s beautiful. In college I loved her because she kept me humble, reminding me I maybe wasn’t the stud ESPN raved about. In the minor leagues I keep loving her because she is about the only person I know who stays up to listen to my games. Her and my parents. Everyone else has pretty much forgotten the All-SEC kid from 4 years ago. Now she reminds me that the grind will one day be worth it and that I really am what they always said all those years ago.

Life has become two seasons. Baseball and the off-season. I get frustrated because I hate them both. During baseball season I want to be back home in Mobile working a 9-5, getting married, chilling with my friends. Then off-season comes, and I spend my days paying someone more to train me than I make actually doing the job I’m training for. And, well, I miss the grind. For the life of me I don’t know why I miss chugging expired milk from my ice chest. I guess I was born for this. At the end of the day being poor playing baseball during the season is better than being poor as a host at Applebee’s during the off-season.

That’s right. I’m 25 years old, a full grown man, and I’m not even a server. It used to embarrass me when tables asked for refills, and I had to go get the college freshman to take their order. Now I just go with it. If they find out I play professional baseball, sometimes they get excited and want to talk. Once I tell them we grill cheap steaks on an electric gridle in the hotel bathroom and I park my ‘07 Nissan Versa next to one of the 40-man guy’s Range Rover, they lose interest.  

“Wake up, Shortstop!” I hear as Tuesday punches me in the arm. I’m not a shortstop. I actually have never played shortstop in my life. Not a single inning. But my dad was my high school coach, and I’ve caught crap ever since. Only coaches’ kids play shortstop.

For what it’s worth, my buddy’s name isn’t Tuesday. His last name is Mundee, but we can’t call anyone by their actual name. This. Is. Baseball.

I slap the door frame of the bus as I climb off. I have to. I did it once in 9^th grade after throwing in my first varsity game. I had pitched three innings with no runs and 4 strikeouts, so in excitement I slapped the door frame of the bus when we got home that night. I have had to do it ever since. I can’t not do it.

My beaver nuggets didn’t fill me up like I had hoped. It’s four in the morning when I try to tiptoe with my travel bags through my host family’s house. I’m starving. I pass the refrigerator on the way to my room. I sit on the bed trying to remember where we were last night. I can’t get over my hunger. I decide to raid the refrigerator. Afterall, they said to make myself feel at home.

Bingo! My host mom has a casserole sitting front and center. She knew I was coming home! Sometimes I am so thankful she tries to be the cool host mom. God, I feel sorry for her kids when they get to be 14. But they won’t go hungry. These casseroles are amazing. They’re the kind you get at the Baptist church on potluck day. I pull out the casserole and grab a fork. I don’t even need a plate.

Beans? A whole freaking pan of beans? Why is this woman wacko?

I look back into the refrigerator. Absolutely nothing else except sliced cheese. I grab two slices and go back to my room.

I am completely zonked in the middle of the best sleep of my life. I hear my phone buzz, but even my girlfriend will have to wait. And now there go the Legos, straight for the wall I share with the playroom. My sleep is ruined.

When I grab my phone to call my girlfriend back, I see it was our manager. Crap.

I can barely breathe as I call him back. Am I getting released? Just because I won’t throw my slider?

“Shortstop, pack your stuff.” I knew it. This is it. I try to hold back the tears. “You’re heading to Las Vegas. Flight is at 2:00 this afternoon. Congratulations!” I sit in shock. I just got called up to Triple-A.

It is bittersweet saying goodbye to my host family. Little guy gives me a fist bump, and I make him promise to come watch me later that summer. My host mom won’t quit crying like I’m her actual child and I just died. My host dad shakes my hand and offers me a ride to the airport. I accept. It’s then I realize they are the only people I know in this entire town. I don’t know anyone in Las Vegas. Man, this might be harder than I expected.

Triple-A is better than Double-A. We take a plane everywhere and not a bus. Our pay is a tad higher. Guys in the major leagues come down for a game or two at a time for various reasons, and they usually cater a nice meal. And I am one step. One solitary step from the show.

Two days into my Triple-A career and the manager called down and said a few choice words about my backside and to get it up and move. I scrambled. Words will never describe my love of the adrenaline that runs through me when I’m warming up in the bullpen. My first Triple-A game. We are in Salt Lake, and I don’t even know if I’m breathing as I trot to the mound.

Strike. Ball. Ball. Strike. Home Run.

Dang. That ball flew really far.

This happens three more times before I get my first out. With that I’m pulled. At least I struck out one guy. And, well, I didn’t let the guy behind me inherit any runners. Baseball is all about almost every statistic except the final score, so you can make it look any way you want. All in all it was a rough night. I’m pretty sure the balls were juiced. Or maybe it was the elevation. I know it probably wasn’t me. I am actually a great pitcher. I am really something. At least I was until I got here.

Gosh, I love baseball.

What Do You Say?

As I sat down to write this morning, my cute little 4 year old popped his head into the dining room, "Mom, what does a sheep do when he gets dirty?"

"I have no idea."

"He takes a bath! HA HA HA HAHAHAHA!!!"

He is now on repeat with the joke that he made up. This has been our life lately, and it is absolutely amazing. Between binge watching Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and the rad jokes our 4 year old makes up, we have laughed until our guts hurt.

A few years ago my friend Meredith encouraged me to listen to a podcast called Simple by Tsh Oxenreider. At the time I did not know that this one podcast would provide me with such solace and be exactly what I needed to hear in many areas of my life. Over the years I've heard Tsh talk to farmers, priests, writers, friends and travelers. She always kept to the theme of simple.

It was probably 2018 when I decided to do a word for the year instead of a resolution. I used that word for 2 years now, and over time I grew into finding ways to make life exactly that. Maybe simple sounds lazy, but I found it took a lot of practice to learn to say yes and no when I needed to.

Going into 2020 my word is present. I want to be present in each moment. When I'm with a friend, I want to be present in our conversations. I try to block out that time when I can be present; when I'm not being the modern woman juggling too many commitments and deadlines. When I'm with my kids (which is A LOT), I try to truly invest in their today. This week the weather was perfect, so we laid on the trampoline and ate popsicles. Not every day is as relaxing, but I find when I am present in each moment of the day I can find so much more joy in the everydayness of life. When I'm with my husband, I try to put my phone away and really know about his day. And when I'm with myself, I blast my podcasts or Walker Hayes and go to town cleaning house or writing or whatever I need to do. Sometimes that is fun. Sometimes it is housework. Sometimes it is simply necessary.

This is taking practice--with my friends, my kids, my husband, church, Bible study, phone conversations. It is not something I am good at naturally, so the two weeks I've been purposely embracing this word I have found it takes work.

Being present in what I'm doing in this moment means saying no to other moments. Last week life got hectic. We had choir kids from Uganda for a couple nights, baseball camp, mid-week services, our first small group, school and Bible study starting back up. I had to choose what to say yes to every moment of those days. Everything was fun, but everything would have killed me. When the week was over, I realized I enjoyed so much of the week because I was present in what I said yes to. Had I said yes to everything, I don't think I would have enjoyed any of it as much.

So I took this lesson and contemplated this week. When do I say yes and no? I live with anxiety and one thing I've learned about myself is that when I say yes to everything, I am not doing well. I tend to pile on commitments almost as if it will distract me from the anxiety of any moment because I have too many moments to consider.

I also know for me personally I need to write. My husband loves rocks; he is incredible at his job. My mom loves to work outside, and their farm is immaculate. My sister is an amazing educator, and she shines at work. What does that look like for me, a stay at home mom still in her pajamas at 11:00? What can I say yes to for myself so that I care for my children yet function as a complete human? For me it is to write.

Recently I signed a contract to write for a regional magazine. I'm enjoying this! It is quite fun to write a topic that someone assigned to me--a topic I didn't have to create. However, I am still trying to squeeze in my personal writing. I need that part of me that longs to create with words. This fall I began listening to Shawn Smucker and his wife Maile share on their new podcast "The Stories Between Us." Much of what Maile shares resonates with me, and I have found encouragement to sit down and write and not feel guilty. (If my kids were hungry or not clothed, I might feel guilty. But right now I sent them to the playroom and allowed them to learn to play by themselves and I carved out time for me and the words that come out.)

Both through experience and listening to Maile, I have learned I don't have to sign contracts or sell my soul to any publication to be a writer. To create. I can be that independently, and I'm still as much a writer if my six chapters of my novel never become thirty and get inked in black and white on a shelf at Barnes and Noble. That would....oh, EXCITING! But that wouldn't make my writing more real for me.

So today I said no to Bible study. I could tell I needed to be home, and I know the kids need it if I'm feeling it too. I said no to lunch out with the girls and listening to an awesome women's Bible teacher. While it would have been a blast, I would have paid for it all afternoon. And I said yes to my kids and watched them play Mario Kart. I said yes to myself and made a white chocolate mocha (maybe 2) and wrote a blog post. I said yes to a healthy lunch at home with my husband. It is okay to say no. But it is okay to say yes too.

Be Blessed,

Rooted

Since I was a kid, I have always enjoyed genealogy and the family lore my grandmother whispered as if the whole county didn't already know. My grandmother Naomi made gossip an art. She often proudly reminisced that as a teenager she gently opened family letters above a kerosene lamp so that she could read the latest happenings. Then she would seal the envelope back together before being caught and whipped for such a crime.

It has been no surprise to me as I have grown older that I am undoubtedly my grandmother's child in numerous ways. Her love for knowing family legend was passed to me across her kitchen table. Her love for writing it down was passed to me from her soul.

This summer I spent a great deal of time in Arkansas. In one visit I took the chance to attend a writer's conference from a local author and teacher. While I could list numerous lessons I learned in that week, perhaps the most impactful was my narrowing down of what words I wanted needed to write. I've heard it said that you should never embark on the journey of writing a novel unless you feel deep down you cannot go on unless you share that story. I've always had an idea bouncing in the back of my head but was too afraid no one else would care. I shared this with Gwen, our instructor. She gave me the confidence that I would have readers and that I should--I must--put this book into focus.

I came home to Texas and thought.

Then my fingers could not quit wrestling. They had to write this story. I have written two chapters--both of them are Chapter One. It is a book my soul cannot live without telling, yet I fear deeply that I will not tell it adequately.

As I have researched for this novel, I have spent countless hours with my grandma's brother who has provided (a bit unknowingly) a plethora of stories from which I have pulled. I have also had late nights and early mornings sitting here at my dining room table browsing the latest hints on ancestry.com. My dad's phone records would show my influx of calls telling him I found a headstone related to the lore or an infant child we never knew about or a picture of kinfolks we had never laid eyes on before.

Today as I studied our family tree I found that my great-great-grandmother was born in a little community north of town called Jethro. You may know my parents own Jethro Farms and suffice to say I lived the first 18 years of my life right there in Jethro where my great x2 grandmother was born in 1879.

While I have always known we go generations deep in North Franklin County, it is reminders such as these that make me think about the land on which I came of age. It amazes me the trees I rode my horse through were trees where my great-great-grandparents may have met. It fascinates me that the river we played in was a river that for so many generations provided for my family. It fills me with daydreams that the very dirt beneath my feet for the most formative years of my life was the dirt that my great-great-great grandparents cultivated to merely survive. It is the dirt on not just where I was raised, but it is the dirt of home. Roots so deep that try as he may my husband has yet to pull them completely out of Jethro. Land where when I take my last breath and my body longs for rest that I pray it finds its peace back in that very dirt where I can take my place alongside my ancestral legends. And, honestly, I pray too that when that day comes the lore told of me pales in comparison to what I have learned of them.

I thank those of you who read this blog. I do not post regularly, and it has never been my intention to gain a wide audience or payments for writing it. I prefer writing when it's good. When it's something that strikes me. For now my writing is centered on my book, but as you see today sometimes I need a break. Occasionally I need to write in a new format and feel more casual. So thank you for allowing me this outlet to put thoughts on paper and explore ideas. And, if you're curious about this book I'm writing, here is a prelude to give you a taste. It is historical fiction. I will stress fiction. I don't need crazy kinfolks pulling out their old ways on me. But much of it is of course history too. I will let you decide on which side each word falls.


It was all over the news that summer: records from the Great Heat Wave of 1936. Maybe it was a record worth recollecting; maybe it was a slow news day. Either way the news reporter sent to our local nursing home to get recounts on this heat wave 60 years later sent a chilling shock into our home. At first no one could blink for fear they would miss the story unraveling. I stared at my dad who held his breath as his grandfather was the first resident interviewed.


“Sir, do you remember the summer of 1936?”


Stone cold and not looking up from his afternoon dominoes, my great-grandfather gave a hard no.

Taking his cue that the old man either didn’t remember or didn’t care about the summer of 1936, the reporter went to the next table. There he found a few folks who enjoyed a reminiscent chat a little more than my grandma’s folks. At least when it came to 1936.


Grandma was always telling stories of her kinfolks from the old days. But those kinds of things you just tell family. And probably family doesn’t really believe it anyhow. When she marched into our house that evening, that smirk meant both she had told us so and yet could we believe anyone else almost found out. We lived out in the country so we didn’t have neighbors within any sort of earshot, and it was probably for the best since she didn’t even make it to the door before she let in on everything she had told us forty-eleven times about 1936, “And that old man just sat there like he couldn’t even remember yesterday. Oh, he remembered that summer. He remembered. He could lose all his memories and half his toes and he’d still remember 1936.”

The Turkey Plant

The summer I graduated high school and turned 18, my dad forced me to get a job on the line at the local turkey processing plant. While I had looked for any other job in our small town, none were to be found. So I spent those summer months netting turkeys. Hard hat. Hair net. Smock. Gloves. Rubber Boots. Ear plugs. It was real cute.

My dad had worked at the turkey plant throughout high school and again when he returned from serving 5 years in the United States Air Force. My dad's dad had retired from the turkey plant. He was a manager on the loading dock. Worked his way up one minimum wage hour at a time. 

The job wasn't too difficult by way of thinking and processing. But it was a grind on productivity. If I close my eyes I can still see turkeys getting backed up on the conveyor belt and my partner pushing them through the tunnel to me as fast as my little hands could go. I can still feel the movement of tying a loop of netting and sending the turkey down the line. I can still hear the silence that would fall as portion by portion of the line would escape to their 15 minute morning break. I remember the chants as the cardboard sign would be carried around announcing the end of the first side which meant we would be done for the day in 2 hours. 

I knew my time there was brief. 3 or 4 months tops. Then I was off to college and the whole big world. But it was not lost on me that the people I ate lunch with every day had been having that same lunch in that same spot for 35 years. And they'd keep having that routine long after I was gone. The turkey plant was a summer experience for me. For them, just like for my grandfather, it was life.

It wasn't until my 3rd year of teaching, 7 years after that summer job, that I finally came face to face with the reasoning behind my dad's demands of me to net turkeys for a summer. I sat in a parent conference with a sweet mom who was trying to find the best accommodations for her son. When a time for the next meeting came up, a teacher suggested she just come see us during our planning periods. A lump caught in my throat and my heart stopped. I had worked with this mom at the turkey plant; I knew she could not stop working to drive 30 minutes one way for a meeting in the middle of the day. She was not given that type of luxury working on the line. Quite convenient for us teachers, but for a mom trying to make it. No. That couldn't work. She just stared blankly.

I quietly asked if we could all just meet early one morning. I could not look at the mom, but later she came to my room to thank me. It was not some great insight I had on education techniques or the wisdom I wish I had had. It was the sounds of a turkey processing plant that could not escape my mind. While it had been brief, that summer had changed my life. Until that moment I did not even know how.

Skip forward almost a decade. Yesterday my husband and I went in for our scheduled hearing to protest our most recent tax valuation. We had been working on this protest for weeks. We had driven around and observed the comps. We had researched the tax values of the homes in our neighborhood. And the bottom line was that most of the homes in our neighborhood are *shock* similar to ours. We had a couple facts to argue, and we did, but I calmly asked them to consider the principle. 

We should have a home similar to our neighbors'. But they raised us all 10% in our valuation. If our homes are similar and we are all raised 10% every year, then when does that stop? If I go up 10%, they go up to 10%. It will never end. I assured them nothing in our home had increased in value that much in 1 year (we were also raised the 2 prior years as well). I asserted that I believed they were only valuing supply and demand and not the actual home. The appraiser said I was correct.

I argued that by increasing our home prices by 10% every year is pricing us out of our own home. That this gives no incentive to live in Midland, Texas. Just because all of the new jobs in Texas are in the Permian Basin does not mean I should pay 10% more every year in property taxes. In fact that should perhaps decrease my individual share if more people are here to split the costs.

Everyone agreed. But I was told to go to Austin and protest. Their hands are tied here. They're just following the law.

The 3 men on the panel made a motion, seconded, and passed no change to our 10% increase before we could even speak. 

As I left in tears I asked Cash, "What is the purpose of being here? Why would I live in Midland County? You make extraordinary money, but at the end of the day it is no more than half that pay somewhere else. They raise taxes. Then they raise the value of the homes. Then they put up 500+ million dollar school bonds. Then they pass road bonds. Then they add a new fee for new homes being built. If it isn't the county, it is the city. If it isn't the city, it's the church. If it isn't the church, it's another non-profit. Everyone always needs more. Wants more. I simply cannot give enough. I can't do it anymore. And if I can't do it, how is a single mom on the other side of town supposed to do this?" And I can't shake that thought.

I'm a pretty basic white suburban mom. I stay home and drive a full size SUV in which I take said kids to Mother's Day Out twice a week. We go to church north of the Loop and wave at the neighbors when we get home on Sunday afternoons. 

But what about the people who aren't in our bubble of white suburbia? What about those who can't take half a day off work for a hearing on their ridiculous tax valuation? What about those whose new valuation would truly price them out of their homes? No one is talking for them. No one is saying, "Hey, hold up. These folks and their families matter too."

It took me back to standing next to a metal worktable, hair pulled back, pushing a thousand turkeys a day waiting for that cardboard sign. It took me back to that parent meeting seeing the look of I wish I could for my kid but I just can't be here during 3rd period. It took me back to the days when I felt my voice was nothing but shy and less than.

Yesterday gave me sour grapes. I was reminded of the greed that oozes from every pocket of our government. That if you have then they want more; if you have not they don't even want to hear your voice.

I'm a raging conservative Republican by day. But as the days have gone on, I've realized that I'm just raging by night. Today my blood boiled at such a high rate that for the first time in my naïve little life I disavowed the voices in the Republican party saying that they will cut our taxes. Bull. Our city is 95% Republican and not a single Democrat would ever be elected in our local or state elections. Yet here we are with every single one of them approving tax increases across the board.

For the record I don't believe the Democrats either. They say tax the rich to help the poor. Listen, folks in my neighborhood are being taxed to death. We can't afford more of your taxes. At some point we all run out of money if you tax us enough.

I don't know. I simply don't know what to do. I really love sweet tea, but anymore of this from both sides on every stinkin' issue and I am going to have to find a harbor lake stream xeroscaped lawn to throw it in. 

And There She Grows

In June I sat under my parents' pavilion with my teenage niece and nephew. I was staring a 600+ mile drive in the face the next day and longed for another set of arms in the front seat that could throw snacks and drinks at the kids as I kept it on 10 and 2ish. After some begging and promising of half my savings account, Addison decided she could in fact take 3 weeks out of her summer plans to make a trek to the desert.

So for 3 weeks (and 2 days) I watched my niece. When we left Arkansas I had seen her still as the little girl I've always known. By the time we got back I realized she was no longer the child I had remembered. Yet she wasn't quite a young woman either. My mind circled this through time and again. Not a girl. Not a woman. What does it mean to be right there in the middle?

lawn concert

helping in the backseat

I think society lets boys grow up faster. Whether that is anti-woman or unfair or even completely true, I am not here to debate that. I simply think it is how it is.

Addison is old enough that she was able to watch Henry and AnnLouise for an hour at a time. She could help get them down for naps. She could shop for clothes with me and actually articulate what she knew looked good together. She talked on the phone with her friends in the most mature conversations. For instance she asked a friend what her sister's major at college would be and followed along in depth as another friend shared stories of her family's vacation. Addison is not a little girl.

makeup with Ashlee of Let's Face It Makeup Studio

Then she would not think about taking off her pajamas until I told her she simply must change before we went into public. No unicorn fleece PJs at HEB today. When my other nieces came to town, all younger than her, she played so sweetly with them. And most often I felt she played with the older two as though they were friends and not kids she was strapped with watching. Together they created backyard families and plastic meals and made-up games that didn't even make sense. The imagination of a child still lingers in her mind.

catching a ride to Mimi's

imagination central

I found myself hoping her imagination stayed. Not only Addison's but all 6 of the kids in my backyard. My heart yearned for them to keep their innocence. Their daydreams. Their childhood. Yet I could almost see Addison's youthfulness slip away as the expectations for her to help with a task lured her back inside.

It kept me up at night wondering when little girls become young ladies. What day does that happen? When do they play pretend in the backyard for the last time? And then, what, the next day they just sit on the porch and watch while they talk about boys? How do we hold their childhood dearly and then know when we can let it go?

I wonder the last time my mom called me in from the backyard? One day I was back there shooting hoops getting yelled at to come eat supper. Today I'm doing the cooking and yelling and so forthing. Or when was the last time a friend stayed the night with me? Did I have a friend over one night and the next day decide I just don't have slumber parties anymore? 

camping in Ruidoso

only brave one to pull out the rubber rat when geocaching

A few things in life we have definitive time frames for. Graduations, weddings, births. Those days we know the next day will look different. But coming of age doesn't have a timeline. It has memories and pictures, but it doesn't warn you that's all childhood is about to become. Coming of age lingers through the teenage years. It gives you dreams of things to come while holding you captive with innocence. It makes you want to move on but desperately cling to what you know. It gives you the space to venture but yanks the rope to bring you back.

These meandering teenage years and the confusion they bring are just settling in on Addison. My hope for her is that she clings as long as she wants to childhood, not allowing the pressures of middle school to grow her too fast. But as time does to all of us she too will eventually be pressed into a new age. When that day comes, I pray she stares down womanhood and embraces all of its wonderment and beauty. And then I pray we open our cradled arms and watch her soar.

Life and Lessons from the Pitcher's Mound

Last September I wrote about our family hosting a minor league grinder. In April we were ecstatic that he was heading back to Midland. However, we knew our time was likely fleeting as he had had an awesome season last year and even started Spring Training at Major League camp. When time is limited but you don't know by how much, you try to make every moment count.

On Friday the kids were at MDO, so Cash and I and our favorite baseball player went out for pizza and bundt cakes. It was a chilly, rainy day--rare in Midland in May--and we savored a chance to just get to hang out with him. Not a worry in the world except for his poor buddy scheduled to pitch that night in 45 degree weather.

We had planned to go watch him Saturday when he was scheduled to pitch, but he came out of his room that morning still in a state of shock and excitement that he had been called up to Triple-A with a flight out in less than 24 hours.

And that's how fast it goes.

One day you're eating pizza talking about the weather. The next day you're cramming all you can into 1 suitcase and saying goodbye to everything you know right now.

Yesterday morning I had to work, but I went into the church about an hour late so I could say a proper goodbye. The kids and Cash took him to the airport and wished him well on this new phase of life. And there he went. That evening I turned on MiLB TV and saw him in the Las Vegas dugout giving a high five to a new teammate who had just hit a grand slam.

Last night I went into his room to turn off the air. I just stood there and caught a lump in my throat wondering how time really did pass so quickly. In June last year we had 24 hours to prepare this room before a stranger walked into our home. By this May I couldn't hold back tears as I turned off air and lights and whispered goodbye to the 5th member of our family.

I've spent the past day reflecting on motherhood. Naturally. What an odd turn for Mother's Day weekend. I thought a lot about his momma who must say goodbye every Spring. I thought about how she sent me a message in March when she finally had the strength to wash his sheets again knowing he wouldn't be there for so very long. How she had stood in a room just like this so proud of him yet missing him so deeply.

I thought about my mom. How she is always there in Ozark, Arkansas. I never doubt it. How I get to go "home" and it always feels like home. How it has been 15 years since she stood in the driveway and watched me head out to conquer the world. I knew nothing (and she knew that), but there I went ready to learn it all. And for 15 years I have driven back up the gravel driveway knowing that once I cross that cattle guard I will smell fall scented candles and know I'm home.

I thought about my husband's mom. How she watched her 2 boys get married and begin to make a life with a different woman. How she watches Henry and reminisces that it was just that long ago when that was Cash saying those same things and getting those same spankings.

And I thought about what it means to be a mom myself. How we put up a crib not even 4 years ago and it is already in the attic having cradled 2 babies in that short time. I thought about these moments of sitting on the back porch watching them hammer dirt and knowing this is the very time that is passing by. How it will feel like it has been 10 days when I walk into their rooms and turn the air and lights off. How we'll stand in the kitchen and give a hug and wonder who in the world will cook for them or buy ice cream for them or cheer them on as they go into the next phase of life. How we are now the comforts of home for someone; the ones who will always be right here when they long to come back one day.

I learned a lot about baseball this past year. Perhaps though I learned more about life. I heard him talk about pitch counts and a girlfriend and buddies and GoT. But I heard his momma talk about him. I saw in her that goodbye doesn't mean life is over. It is just starting again. She taught me to allow others to invest in your kids and be a part of their lives. She reminded me to celebrate people for whom they are without their jerseys more than for whom they are with them. She encouraged me to embrace this phase of motherhood and be there in the little moments of right now.

We gained much more than a 5th member of our family through minor league baseball. We gained perspective. On time. On motherhood. And on strikes. It depends on your view. From the batter's box a strike seems too fast or too inside or a missed opportunity. From the pitcher's mound it looks like a fist pump.

This year I learned to give time and motherhood a fist pump. Every day.

Get Off My Coattails

Late last night I was scrolling through Twitter when I came across a public figure who declared 7 or 8 times that fetal tissue is not a person. She then signed it from those who have "abortions and miscarriages." Since planning my own unborn child's funeral over 2 years ago, I have not weighed in on this hot topic. Until now.

You see, for 2 years I've struggled. Something I once was staunchly against I was now doing. Kind of.

The doctors shared the statistics of a girl with LUTO: 100% of them die. We had two choices. We could either give birth at 20 weeks and let her pass being premature. Or we could give birth at 40 weeks and let her pass of suffocation. Both are terrible choices and neither do you want to make for your child. At last we chose 20 weeks. If given the same circumstances again, I'd still choose 20 weeks.

Many of you know at 18 weeks we discovered God miraculously healed her. She was born at 38 weeks happy and healthy with Prune Belly Syndrome. She turns 2 years old next month.

Since then I've praised God for His miracle and spent as much time hating myself for choosing an abortion. I hated it was called an abortion. I hated I had to make that choice. I hated I DID make that choice. Thank God that choice did not have to be lived out. For a long time after that I wrestled with where I stood on abortion in general.

I wrestled because had it not been for a political debate we would not have had to make a decision before 20 weeks. I wrestled because when faced with this dilemma myself, my choice didn't seem fitting for an ultra-conservative, Bible-belt mom. I wrestled because the wild politics forced us to have to deliver in a different town with a different doctor during the most crucifying time of our lives because abortion isn't allowed in our town. I wrestled because for the first time in my life I walked in shoes I had never worn and my eyes were opened to another side of the coin.

I hated the pro-life group who put up a billboard next to my OBGYN's office, because I wanted my child so deeply. Yet here I was seeing this sign about my terrible choice when my choice was death or death. I hate that billboard. It pierced my heart deeper with pain than you can imagine. I still see that sign when I go to the same building for labs for that same child. It still pierces my heart. And, honestly, I think it is distasteful and the folks who put it up have no idea the suffering they've caused every mom in my shoes. No idea.

So for 2 years I have kept quiet about abortions. Mostly because I didn't fully understand how I felt anymore and somewhat because it felt grey. And maybe somewhat because I was embarrassed I chose 20 weeks.

But last night I saw this tweet forcing together abortions and miscarriages. I saw line after line repeatedly stating fetuses are not humans. And my rage and emotions that have built up for 2 years exploded.

Abortion is wrong. Not because you don't get a say in your body. Go for it on your own body. But because you don't get a say over life and death for that child. At least you shouldn't.

Abortion for babies who are going to die at any stage in the pregnancy aren't abortions. That needs to be law. If hospital boards and legislators on either side of the aisle had a shred of human decency they would quit calling a delivery of a child with a fatal medical condition an abortion. I have cried my own tears and I've cried with friends whose babies never could make it out of the womb yet medically were considered to have had an abortion. We could not deliver our beloved daughter with our own doctor because our local hospital has policies against abortion. Great. Love that. Just separate medical issues of the child from behavioral issues of the mom.

Lastly and most importantly, abortion activists who market themselves as "pro-choice" better get off my coattails. I harbored a lot of grief for far too long wondering about my own beliefs. It hit me: my choice was out of love and had to be done while abortion activists make decisions like mine cloudy for their own gain. If we quit having elective abortions, then my child's medical condition wouldn't have been a moral issue. She could've gotten the affection she deserved because our minds and medical boards and governing bodies wouldn't have had clouded judgments of what an abortion is.

I have heard the cries from the left about a mother's choice. I have understood the argument about a young lady in poverty who finally gets some attention from a man and the outcome would be a single mom who can't do it on her own. I shutter remembering a woman who said she needed Jesus followers at the backdoor of the abortion clinic more than at the front door. I have heard them. I mean really heard them. And I 100% believe we as Christians need to get to that backdoor. We need to love women so hard that they know their worth before, during, or after an abortion. We need to pick them up with such mighty hands they choose to go and sin no more.

But I don't believe you get to choose what you want with no consequences. No matter your morality, it will hit you one day. I don't believe abortion has anything to do with a mother's choice. I think that's such a poor marketing scheme that these groups use to justify themselves but ultimately has killed millions of children all in the name of making themselves feel okay. I believe the church should step up and help, but I don't believe you get a free pass for an abortion until they do. And I believe abortion activists need to quit hurling themselves onto the traumatic endurance of having to choose the most ethical way for your child to die because she has an incurable medical condition. Get off my coattails. I let you ride them for 2 years, but today I start fighting back.

Also, P.S. The little girl who was supposed to be "aborted" and is now almost 2 is quite the sassy thing. And she's tired of abortion activists using stories like hers to legitimize their abhorrent behavior. You won't want to get in her way.

Reflections

I have a few minutes this morning before the running and screaming and chaos begins, and I wanted to share some thoughts that have been on my mind lately.

When I was single and a teacher, I didn't realize it then but I had grown a bit embarrassed of myself. How did I end up like this? How did I let myself become a teacher in this small town? I could've gone to this school or that if I had only tried harder. I could've lived there or had those friends. Yet there I was. A teacher. And I wasn't okay with it.

Fast forward to 2013. I was a newlywed in a new state and ready to conquer the world. I went to work for a bank...as their trainer. It was awesome. I love learning, and I did a ton of that. I got a couple promotions and met so many people. One of the last things I did before I left the bank was create a leadership training. I should brag, because it was cool. Within it was a poverty simulation, an overnight camping trip to Palo Duro Canyon, a day serving our troops, and time spent with Texas legislators. The bank supported me 100% and gave me the resources and connections to do this. It was even featured in one of the banking magazines, and I still can't get over it.

At the bank I wrote other trainings, some that were one-offs and some that were departmental. I appreciated the opportunity and the accolades, but what I couldn't put into words then was that it wasn't whom I was at my core. I enjoyed banking. But God made me a teacher. And I didn't realize it then, but my heart was longing for where it began.

A few short years later I was having Henry and felt strongly about staying home. Of all the decisions we've made, this was the very best decision of mine and Cash's married life. It still is. Watching my children grow every day and being in every moment with them gave me a new purpose in life. I'm not saying you can't experience that if you don't stay home, I'm just saying it was what I needed. I needed to be shown there is purpose in my life even when it is not glamorous. That even without a title or accolades, I am still important and doing God's work.

Through staying home I found my identity in Christ alone. When I had nothing exciting to share at social events or had throw up running down my yoga pants, I learned my value in the world is different than my value to God. When Henry hit 2 and became half-child half-monster and I could not figure out his attitude, I learned I don't have every answer. When we were told our child would never live and I had to walk into a funeral home and buy her urn, I learned I had no strength beyond Christ alone. It was somewhere amongst the depths of despair and the mundane of fixing breakfast before a playdate that my heart and my head learned nothing else matters.

Last year I started a part-time job at our church. I could list 3,000 reasons why I love it. But I can sum it with this: God made me a teacher.

Today that makes me proud. That is whom God made me to be. Instead of trying to find a place in this world I created myself, I find joy in exactly what God created.

I now have dear friends who are doctors and judges and stay-at-home-moms and bankers and teachers and crossfit instructors and choir directors and farmers. They all really rock whatever they do. Not because of their title. Because that is whom God made THEM to be.

So 2019, I'm ready for you. 2018 taught me to own who I am and who God created me to be. 2019 will be the year I rock it.

Ol' Razorback Red's Maiden Voyage

We have hit our thirties. Officially. We bought a camper.

For a while we had been considering a camper since the kids are mobile and love using that mobility outside. So a few months ago we made a trip down to San Angelo to check out their selection. We went in knowing the basics of what we wanted: small enough we could be comfortable hauling it yet big enough we would actually be comfortable in it. We found the perfect size and shape in a Winnebgao, and lo and behold we found out they also come in a bright red.

Now I thought the bright red was pretty, but what really sold me was the salesman who tried to claim this red as Texas Tech Red Raider Red. No. I could not have that. This is Arkansas Razorback Red. So. We got a red camper to haul all over the country. Funny thing. After 3 weeks of football season, I am trying to find a new favorite red-colored team.

This past weekend my folks came into town to help us out on the maiden voyage. We were nervous as cats, but all in all it rode smoothe and we had no major hiccups. I'm sure no one noticed the black water hose hanging out and then the black duct tape holding it in the bumper. And I forgot olive oil and butter, but hey-no one is remembering all the things I DID get.

Here we go!

The food still tasted good thanks to our camp chef Cash.

If you are unfamiliar with West Texas, all you may know of it is Midland/Odessa. Midland: home of George and Laura Bush (heyo, I am super proud her childhood home is 1 block from our house). Odessa: home I'm sure to someone but it ain't me. Okay, fine, Odessa is where Permian High School is and all the Friday Night Lights hoopla. Some of you may have heard of it.

But there is so much more to West Texas than oil rigs and tumbleweed. A couple hours south of Midland is a tiny ranching town called Ft. Davis. Here the school is so small they don't have 11 kids to field a football team, so in Texas High School style they play 6-man football. This is a thing. Everyone should watch at least one 6-man game in their life.

He's just here for the cheerleaders.

A solid 1:2 flag to player ratio

6 players. 4 cheerleaders. 1 team.

Ft. Davis Indians vs. Sierra Blanca Vaqueros
(You can't make this up.)

Also in Ft. Davis is the McDonald Observatory which is actually part of the UT-Austin campus. On weekends they host star parties. I know you're snickering. You think I'm a real big nerd. I've actually been to 3 star parties now, and I admit each time they get cooler. I am obsessed. At the star parties they point out to you all these constellations you still can't see, but they also tell you neat facts about our solar system and beyond. To steal my dad's quote, on a good night I can pick out the moon. But man, at the star party you see so much more. They had one telescope set on Saturn where you could actually see the rings around it. My mother, bless her Arkansas-farm-girl-don't-you-dare-take-me-to-a-nerd-convention heart, even admitted it was worth the 45 minute wait in line to see the 6th rock from the sun. Who knew we had this deep love for Saturn?

From the top of the state park you can see the McDonald Observatory in the distance

On Saturday we went to Marfa. Marfa is one of those places you can see, but it is best felt. You with me? Marfa has all these funky little shops where artists are sculpting on the doorstep or hand sewing self-designed clothes at the cash register. My sweet man snagged me a beautiful leather purse handmade at Cobra Rock as I chatted with the owner who was busy making a pair of shoes. He said it takes him 3 weeks to make 1 pair due to drying timed but he could do 8 in a week. 8! That's it! They literally make every last stitch and then sell them right there.

West Texas comes alive in Marfa

Over in Alpine we stopped for lunch at Reata. It is a pretty famous restaurant, but most folks know it by its Fort Worth franchise. Right outside of Alpine is one of Claytie Williams's ranches where he always had his infamous Ranch Parties. Driving by that ranch had me all kinds of nostalgic for the old days.

We stayed both nights at the Davis Mountains State Park, and the kids had the best time running and driving trucks and going on walks. On our way home little Henry begged to go camping again. I don't know if it was the good times or the incense I bought in Marfa, but I seriously considered asking Cash to just keep driving to the next state park. There we would've shown everyone our Roll Tide Red camper.

That Ol' Ballpark, Man, Was Back in Gear

The summer flew by. I have no idea how I went to sleep last night when it was Memorial Day yet today I woke up and it is Labor Day.

I love fall. I love winter. I love spring. I hate summer.

Every year as the temps begin to rise and shoot into triple digits and the grass starts turning brown and school is out I get into a rut of depression. In May Cash asked me what about summer makes me do this. I didn't know. I just hate being so hot and confined. Maybe it goes back to being a single teacher when I got extremely lonely in the summertime. I don't know what it is. But I feel summer with my whole heart, and I hate it.

Then this summer happened.

In June I saw our local Double-A baseball team was looking for host homes due to our housing crisis in Midland. I called to ask about what it involves. Cash and I talked about it for about a week when we finally decided to just give it a shot. We figure we wouldn't have anyone for a month at least.

About an hour after I turned in our application, the office emailed to say they had just had players moved up the day before and this would be perfect. (The A's pay for 2 nights of hotels when the players get moved up. Then they're on their own.) Needless to say that night we got an email from a player saying he would be moving into our home the next night after the game.

We were shocked! It happened so fast, and we started scrambling to get his room ready and make our house look presentable and not look like 2 kids tear it up on the daily.

The next night we met our house guest. Over the next 3 months, however, he became so much more than that.

Somewhere between playing trucks with Henry and eating leftovers when he got home every night and watching The Bachelor with me so he could recap it with his girlfriend we gained a member of our family.

Starting lessons at 2 years old with a 90 MPH fastball

Brothers ❤

He is a starting pitcher, which I learned only pitches about every 6 days, so we went to every home game he started. When he was away, we listened on the radio. I became this baseball stats kind of woman. I found myself saying things like, "Oh, he pitched 7 and a third innings, no hits, 1 walk, 8 strikeouts. He did great. Yeah, they lost, but no one cares about that because he didn't get the loss because those weren't his runs." When you stop looking at the final score and only care about the stats, you are a baseball fan. When you start wearing your shoes on the wrong feet and eat the same food every game day because that's what you did last time, you are a baseball fan. In all my life no one ever accused me of being a big baseball fan. Baseball pants? Yes. Baseball itself? No. But Summer 2018--that was my summer of baseball.

Summer 2018

Signing autographs 

His biggest fan ⚾️

During his time with us, the team traveled to Arkansas to play both the Naturals and the Travelers. My parents got to make the trip to Little Rock where they met his grandparents and watched him throw an exceptional game.

Rockhounds dominated the Travs!

Last week his parents came into town and got to stay down the street at my in-laws'. I knew it'd be fun to meet them, but my gosh I cried when they left!

While his parents were here, we snagged them from the baseball game on Friday to take them to their first Texas high school football game. They brought sweet presents, each one so thoughtful, and even introduced us to sugar cream pie. If you've never heard of sugar cream pie, you have not lived (you also probably have never been to Indiana). One morning while Cash was at work I dropped the kids off and met our player's parents for coffee and after an hour of just chatting I drove like a maniac to pick up the kids because I was late. I found myself wishing we lived closer because although we hosted their son, they quickly became wise, older friends to us. And what an awesome moment when I got to tell them my heart ached for a third kid I would never have but that their son filled that gap for us this summer.

All the 😍 for new friends who feel like old friends

This summer has been surreal. What was once a season of depression and sadness for me became a time of learning, hospitality, and new friends. It wasn't a change in the weather or a new house or a fancy trip. All that changed was doing as God calls and opening our home to others. That one gesture of opening the door of our home opened up so much more for our family.

Today we gave our hugs and a small goodie basket and waved goodbye to the nicest guy in baseball and a whole summer of memories. With tears streaming down my face, I walked in his room to make sure he didn't leave anything. Instead I found a bottle of wine and a note...and a Starbucks gift card labeled "for Avery during Mother's Day Out."

I died. That was too much. Hilarious and sweet at the same time.

As the sun goes down on this Labor Day and puts the final stamp on our summer hosting a minor league baseball player, I thank God for His provision. Of all the players we could've received. Of all the families he could've gotten. Of all the things that had to be timed perfectly, I truly believe God blessed us all this summer when we grew our family by grafting in a whole clan from Indiana.

Pullin family of five

Never underestimate the power of an open door, especially when there's a guy in baseball pants on the other side.


Be blessed,

Men of the Mountain

Arkansas was as beautiful as you may imagine. If you're not from there or haven't traveled to Northwest Arkansas before, may I suggest you give it a shot? I'm totally biased and admittedly love the whole Arkansas Traveler image, but honest to goodness if you get off the beaten path and let yourself wander you will come across scenes you would never believe. In fact last weekend Cash got to experience some of these fascinating views and learn all about what backwoods can really mean.

West Texas is a desert. It is dry and barren and just today we suffered through a terrible dust storm all day long. When I dream about a new flower bed in our front yard, in my mind I toss around the idea of cactus and yuccas. So you take a guy from this geography and plop him in the backwoods of the Ozarks, and you have the making of a pretty comical reality show on your hands.

Because I genuinely love North Franklin County so much, my dream is to have a second home there even if we only get to go a handful of times a year. I had been homesick something fierce a few weeks ago and told Cash about this dream. He saw the pain I was enduring and assured me one day we'd consider it.

The next day I found out a cabin close to my parents' was up for sale. I could not contain my excitement and did not sleep a wink that night. The next day I called the owner and set up for us to go look at this cabin when we were there last weekend.

So we did. The view was stunning. I love trees and water and mountains. Currently I live around none of these, but this cabin has it all.

The day I found out it was for sale, I would've written a check. But Cash thought if we were going to entertain this idea then we needed to look at other cabins too. He found one on a road called Cat Holler. Note to self: if something is deep in the holler, maybe that's the first sign it isn't the place for my desert dweller.

Before dinner we drove over to Cat Holler and started down the road. We came to a creek. Now it had been raining for several days, and even though I had grown up in the area I had never been on this road. I didn't know if the creek was high, and Cash certainly didnt have experience fording a river. I also should say I get super psyched out about driving through water as my best friend in college died doing such. So it was another early sign that maybe our hearts couldn't get on board with this cabin.

At that time we decided to just go to dinner. We were meeting my sister and her family for dinner at the new Stockyard Feed & Grain Restaurant at County Line, so we just turned around and headed that way. At dinner my brother-in-law started getting curious about this "river crossing" and cabin up in Cat Holler. He decided he could guide us. So off we went back to Cat Holler with an army in tow.

Once we got to the creek crossing, I thought my brother-in-law was going to lose it. It was absolutely laughable to him that his West Texas brother-in-law was scared of a little stream.

What do you think? Major waterway or shallow creek?

We passed, with ease, the first crossing. Then we came to another. Then another. And yet another. We finally decided to turn around at a house we had come to when the owner stepped out of his truck in the front yard. He had been out there listening to the Razorback baseball game (because of course) and hopped out when he saw us turning around in his driveway.

He was super friendly and told us we had about 4 more creek crossings before we got to the cabin we were looking for. My brother-in-law concluded we had come this far and should just try to find the place. So we kept going and came to a fork in the road. We chose our route and plunged full steam ahead.

A minute or two later we passed a cabin on the left and a clothesline on the right. I thought it was odd that the road just split his front yard like that. It was maybe about this time we heard banjos in the distance and thought we should turn around.

In rain and the dark and soft ground on top of a hill Cash made an Austin Powers maneuver and finally got us turned around. We came back up to the cabin/clothesline and the closer we got the more we realized the owner was standing in the road, beer in hand, waiting for us.

A few F bombs later, he finally caught his breath and asked what we were doing on his property. We tried to explain we were looking for a cabin for sale. Once he calmed down, he told us we were only halfway (HALFWAY!!!) there. Then he looked at Cash's Titan and said, "And I dont know if you can make it up there in this thing." Ouch.

We apologized immensely. Look, I get it. It's dark on a Friday night and a random out of state truck just barged through his front yard. And considering this cabin is for sale no telling how many times that has happened lately. Luckily, we got out of there but decided that even if it was the most perfect cabin in a whole world of cabins that it most definitely wasn't the cabin for us.

The next day we headed out for Turkey Camp in the snow and freezing rain. What?! It was so stinking cold, but it was all worth it when we cozied up next to the fire and ate that famous camp breakfast.

Huddling around the burn barrel

Camo & coats for days

Camp comedian Rocky Joe

Sorry to rush you, horse, but we are trying to get back to camp

Mountain creeks 😍

View coming off the mtn

The whole weekend the kids played and ran and laughed and went for walks and looked for sticks and rolled around in the dirt. They had the time of their lives. It was awesome to see my kids playing with my Hub sister Heather's kids. Heather and I spent our entire childhood together, and after moving so far away I often feared our kids wouldn't know one another.

Hub friends

I love friendships like that. Those that neither time nor distance can stop. I cherish my friendships in Midland, those that help me get through day to day life. But those friendships of years gone by are so sweet and special. I hope everyone has at least 1 of those friends.

After a weekend at camp it was time to head back to Tejas. This was my last week before I officially start my new gig as the Children and Women's Ministry Coordinator at our local Anglican parish. I also serve on the board at our local Boys & Girls Club, and our 2nd annual gala was this week. Between wrapping up silent auction donations for the gala and trying to find a sitter for staff meetings, this week flew by.

Cruisin'

Girly girl 😂

Getting in all my cuddles

And all those giggles

I love how this metal print turned out! My former colleague did this. Check out his gallery!

I also was so proud of this Farmer's Market basket!

with our friends the Rules

Sunday brings about so many changes for our family. I have worried about our kids as I begin a part-time job, but I also worry about myself. I've never had to leave them. I've stayed home even before Henry was born, and in my heart I never thought I'd go back to work. But this opportunity came up and felt like the perfect thing at the perfect time. So here's to new beginnings...and hoping that this new path doesn't lead us to a cabin and a clothesline somewhere deep down in Cat Holler.

Be blessed,