The bike bug

A few weeks ago I bought myself a bike, and I've really been getting into it! You know those people you see down on the river trail hunched over their road bikes, huffing and puffing and sweating as they push their muscles to the limit to achieve maximum speed? Yeah, that's not me. I bought a bright purplish-pink cruiser with a basket and a cup holder and giant seat for my big... well, let's just say it's comfy. It has back pedal brakes, just like the bike I had when I was a kid, and no fancy gears to mess with. All I need is a bell, and I'll be all set!

The fun thing is that the kids have really been getting into riding their bikes too. We've enjoyed bike rides along the river trail and to Two Rivers Park as well as daily rides through our neighborhood. Brielle is doing great riding like a big girl (no training wheels), and I think she loves the attention. Everywhere we go, people smile and say "Awwww" when they see this tiny cyclist with her unicorn helmet. Perrin told me yesterday that riding his bike feels like a roller coaster ride. I'm all in favor of free thrills.

Even though the kids like riding bikes, sometimes I'm the one trying to convince them to go for a ride with me.

Me: Hey kids, can we go for a bike ride now?
Perrin: Maybe in a few minutes, Mom. I'm kind of busy.
Me: (Waits two seconds) Okay, now?
Perrin: Mom! We can go soon, okay? Just be patient.
Me: (Whining) I wanna go now!

Thankfully, they're good sports and are just about always up for a bike ride with Mom.

Last night we were biking at Two Rivers and it was starting to get dark, so we turned back. We were nearly back to the bridge when we went through the forest, which was significantly darker than the path we'd been on through the open field where all the deer were hanging out. Fireflies were glowing everywhere--it felt like a magical, enchanted forest straight out of a fairy tale.  

I haven't been able to quite put my finger on what it is about being on my bike that brings me so much joy, but I think in a way it makes me feel like a kid again--in a good way. It feels like freedom and fun and energy and exploration. It feels like fresh, clean air and a sense of being alive. It feels like quality family time. And this morning it feels a tiny bit like soreness too. But that's okay. I love my bike. 

2017--the good, the bad, and the death of dreams

It's been a long time since I've posted anything here. I was thinking today about the past year and how much has happened and what a great year it was. I started forming a blog post in my mind of all the things I'm thankful for from 2017--Trey finally getting hired on full time by BCBS; a family trip to Kentucky and, more recently, Disney World; and our biggest news--a new house. It's been a good year, and I'm incredibly thankful. But as I started forming this blog post in my mind, I realized that it was an incomplete picture of the past year. I'm guilty of the same thing most of us are guilty of--I tend to share only the highlights on social media, which makes my life probably seem much better/easier than it really is. I don't do this on purpose--I'm not trying to impress anyone or paint a false picture. But I'm by nature an optimist, and I simply prefer to dwell on the happy things.

Even so, there's some benefit to acknowledging that my life, like everyone else's, is full of bumps and dead ends and disappointments. Yes, I'm thankful for Trey's job situation and for the family fun we've had and for our new, spacious house and for a million other little things. It would be easy for me to announce the good parts without explaining all the difficulties that led us to those points. Take Trey's job, for example. Working in the IT industry means lots of risk of outsourcing, downsizing, etc. We've been married for nearly 12 years and have dealt with almost non-stop tumult associated with his jobs. For over a year before he finally got hired on to his current full-time position, he was a contractor with no benefits (meaning no health insurance for our family). I won't go into all the long and boring details, but let's just say I was stressed to the max. I'm breathing easier now, and I have a new sense of gratitude for job stability and awesome perks like being able to go to the doctor when I'm sick. But it's certainly been a long, hard road leading to this point, and I harbor no delusions that we'll never experience job-related upheaval again. There's a lot of good to celebrate, but there's been a lot of bad to wade through too.

Or take the situation with our house. I'm really thankful for it, and we're enjoying buying new furniture and getting it set up just right. But most people who hear our good news and see our pictures of it probably have no idea that this blessing is only possible because of the very painful death of another dream. For the past few years, our goal has been to build a house on land we own. We've spent countless hours researching, getting quotes, meeting with contractors, etc. We poured over home plans and spent almost $1,000 working with an architect to design the perfect plan. We spent another $400 or so on a perc test. We've paid hundreds in property taxes the last few years. And all of our attempts to build ended in failure. It seemed like nothing worked out right, no matter how hard we tried. We dealt with contractors who would fail to call us back, or contractors who would meet with us several times to start the process only to tell us they wouldn't be available after all. We saved and saved money only to realize it wasn't going to be quite enough. We tried to sell our house only for it to sit on the market for nine months while we kept it spotlessly clean in hopes that a buyer was just around the corner.  We finally admitted defeat, and it was heart-crushing. But I had to let that dream die to see what else God might have in store for us. I'm content with where we landed, but it's not the path I thought we would take, and it wasn't without pain and disappointment. By contrast, the buying and selling process that allowed us to move into our new home a few weeks ago was an absolute breeze, as if the path had been perfectly laid out for us. I don't completely understand it, but this was simply meant to be. It's made it a little easier to let go of my former dream to make room for a new dream. I'm excited to see how God uses us in this house and in this neighborhood. But in the midst of all the joy, there is some sadness too as I continue to release my own plans and desires.

I've been thinking a lot about this "death of a dream" concept because it seems that most people I know are experiencing it too in some form. Maybe someone is desperate for a new relationship or a baby or a new job or a house or some other good thing. Maybe it seems like everyone else has it, whatever "it" is. I can think of an area of my life besides the house thing where I'm struggling to let go of another dream. This particular dream may come to fruition someday, but for now it seems to be the wrong timing. Letting go of it for now doesn't mean I'm letting go of it forever, but it's still hard. But like I said, I'm an optimist. And sometimes letting go of a dream means allowing room for doing whatever God wants me to do or being wherever He wants me to be right now. 

So, yes, 2017 has been an amazing, wonderful year. And it's been a painful, difficult year. And probably 2018 will be more of the same. I'm trying to hold my dreams loosely and be flexible because the coming year almost certainly won't go as planned (for any of us). So here's to 2018 and all the great unknowns! May we forever be thankful for every dying dream that leads us to exactly where we're meant to be, and may we trust the One who holds our dreams, sees our pain, and knows better than to give us everything we desire.

I went to jail last night

Last night our citizens police academy group took a field trip to the Pulaski County Regional Detention Facility. It was eye-opening, exciting, depressing, and fascinating all at once. Sheriff Doc Holladay welcomed us into a room with a couple of long tables set up and went over some background information and ground rules while we were served dinner—the exact meal the inmates had been served that evening. The meal came in a hard plastic tray and consisted of a mystery meat patty, some yellowish mashed potatoes swimming in gravy, cooked carrots, a roll, and cornbread. Each meal only costs 89 cents (which made me feel a little better considering most of the food our group was served ended up in the trash can.) The daily meals are very specifically designed to meet certain nutritional criteria—2300 calories for an inmate who is active (has a job of some sort within the facility) or 2100 calories for an inmate who is sedentary.

Sheriff Holladay blessed the food for us (the Lord knows that food needed some blessing), then told us a little about the facility. It’s HUGE. I wish I’d had a tape recorder with me so I could verify all the facts, but I believe he said it’s over 400,000 square feet. It holds 1,200 inmates, and they’re nearly at capacity. They have some juveniles in the 14-17 age range who are being tried as adults. They have seven pregnant inmates currently. The facility is basically a small, concrete town: they have medical services, a library (where inmates often go to read up on the legal system and prepare for their cases), a commissary, a huge kitchen, and laundry facilities with machines that can handle about 600 pounds of laundry at a time. Whew. Imagine doing laundry for 1,200 inmates. In our house, it only feels like I’m doing laundry for that many people because my kids think that if a piece of clothing touches any part of their body for any amount of time, it’s automatically dirty.

Anyway, Sheriff Holladay warned us that we might overhear inmates saying things that aren’t very nice and mentioned that they tend to show off a bit when new people come around. He asked us to please not engage them in conversation and to make sure we still had our phones with us when we left the prisoner units. Wait, what? I didn’t realize we were actually going to be in there with the inmates. The sheriff told us that the inmates weren’t segregated based on crimes, meaning a rapist or murderer might be strolling about in the unit with a person who hasn’t paid their traffic fines. There would be no way for us to know which was which when we were in there with them.

Our tour guide for the evening was Toni Rose, captain of security and housing. She’s been there over 20 years, and while you can tell that she has a sweet side, she also has to be tough as nails to do what she does. When asked if anyone had ever attacked her, she showed us a scar on her hand where she’d been bitten.

The tour started with a trip past the room where deputies control all of the cell locks and video cameras for the facility. Then we toured the kitchen and laundry room where piles and piles of orange and blue jumpsuits were stacked and waiting to be used. One staff member told us that he has to order about 300 new jumpsuits every few weeks.

The first unit we went into was a unit for the boys under 18 who are being tried as adults. They’re kept in a separate unit from the men, and their crimes are pretty serious. We didn’t go very far past the entrance because one boy was taking a shower, and the shower doors are only partial doors. A few of the boys were in the courtyard, which is a big concrete block with a chain link roof and a basketball hoop on one wall. We (and the guards) could watch them through glass. They didn’t really pay much attention to us at all. I was sad to see these kids throwing a basketball around just like it was a normal Tuesday night at the park, but really life is anything but normal for these kids who have already made terrible life decisions due to drugs, gangs, etc. Captain Rose told us that they don’t try to separate gang members from rival gangs—all the Crips and Bloods are mixed together in the units—but they do ask each inmate if he has any personal enemies who are already there, and they make sure to keep them in separate units.  

Next we went into a men’s unit. Policy says there must be one officer on duty for every 80 inmates. I believe this particular unit had about 96 men, so there were two officers over it. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t like those odds if I were one of the officers! We trooped into the unit and had a look around. It looked a lot like the one we had just come out of, but we were able to walk in a little farther and see a little more. Each unit is two floors. The bottom floor is a common area where men can watch TV, play checkers, or go outside to the concrete courtyard. Cells line the walls on the lower and upper floor. Fencing has been installed throughout the stairways and upper railings to keep anyone from trying to commit suicide.

The men in this unit seemed far more interested in our group’s presence. The ones inside looked up from their TV and games and seemed genuinely curious. Several who were in the courtyard wandered over to the glass and began peering through it and pointing at us. I glanced over, and a couple of them waved at me. I felt really uncomfortable, but I didn’t want to seem like a snob or like we were a group of tourists coming to look at them like animals in a zoo. So I gave them a quick wave back. That was probably a mistake. For the next ten minutes, they seemed to be playing a game of trying to see who could get me to wave at them. One of the ladies in the group turned to me with a frown and said, “I think they’re waving at you.” I purposefully kept my eyes averted and told her I was going to pretend to be in deep conversation with her until we left.

Strangely enough, I really didn’t feel frightened of the men. The women were another story. When we went into one of the women’s units, they were being pretty rowdy. A couple of them were having a very vocal argument about something, so we hung back for a few minutes waiting for things to settle down. Rather than being curious about our presence, the women seemed annoyed that we were there. They were lined up with cups of water, ready to get their daily dose of medications from the nurse. Apparently nearly every inmate is on medication of some sort. Captain Rose told us that the women weren’t allowed to have makeup, but we noticed a few that seemed to have on lipstick or eyeshadow. Captain Rose told us that they buy skittles or M&Ms from the commissary and use the color from the candies as makeup. She also told us that she very much prefers working with the men than with the women. “The women are so whiny,” she said.

The next unit we ventured into was the scariest by far—the isolation unit. This unit is used not because of the severity of the crime that got the person put into jail in the first place, but is based on their behavior once they get here. Inmates can be sent to the isolation unit anywhere from five days to 180 days if they’re really causing problems (attacking officers, for example.) The inmates in the isolation unit are locked in their cells 23 hours a day. Each door has a slot where their food is delivered. They heard us come in, and a few peered at us through the tiny window in their door. Then the yelling started. And the banging. It sounded like wild animals, and one inmate getting riled up caused all of the others to get riled up. It felt like a very dark and depressing place, and I was thankful to leave.

We also took a tour through Intake, which is an offender’s first stop when they arrive. This is the place where the officers do their paperwork to admit someone, and it’s where the inmates are fingerprinted, searched, photographed, and placed in a holding cell while they wait to see if they’ll make bail or change into a uniform for a longer stay. Several people were being processed when we got there. One girl (and I say girl because she looked like she couldn’t have been over 18), was wearing a green tunic rather than the standard orange or blue jumpsuit. Captain Rose explained that she was a suicide risk. Each person gets asked a series of questions, and depending on how they answer, they can be flagged as a suicide risk. In those cases, they’re dressed in a green tunic and sent to a cell with only a blanket, no bed. This particular girl looked so sad to me. I wondered what her story was and what had led her to this place and to whatever poor choices she had made.

One guy was handcuffed to a little nook in the wall while he waited. Captain Rose explained that he might be there for a couple of hours. He shouted back, “Five hours so far!” But if he was looking for sympathy from our group, he wasn’t going to get it. Hopefully the experience will be unpleasant enough that it will keep him from wanting to come back. The reality though is that 50% of the inmates will be back within three years—that’s what Sheriff Holladay told us.

Like I said, it was fascinating, but also pretty heartbreaking. Sheriff Holladay admitted that while they provide many programs to allow inmates to improve themselves (such as classes on conflict resolution, parenting,  finances, etc), there isn’t a lot of rehabilitation going on. Captain Rose said when she first started working there, her heart would break for the women who were sobbing things like, “I miss my baby!” Once she saw those same women come through for the second, third, or fourth time, she had to acknowledge to herself that if these women really missed their babies that much, they wouldn’t keep doing the things they’re doing. So what makes a person return to a life of crime over and over again? I have no idea. But I do know what can keep them from returning to a life of crime over and over again: nothing but a powerful, life-changing encounter with the God of the universe, who can take their cold, hardened hearts and make them new. I’m saying a prayer for all 1,100+ inmates of the Pulaski County Regional Detention Facility, that the truth would set them free.

My ride-along with an officer

Last night I spent four hours in a police car with Officer Morris, driving through the streets of Sherwood keeping an eye out for bad guys... and mischievous animals (but more on that later.) Sherwood is divided into three sections: South, Central, and North. We were assigned to Central, which just happens to be my stomping grounds. There weren't a lot of calls coming in (perhaps everyone was being on their best behavior for Mother's Day), so we drove in and out of neighborhoods keeping an eye out for anything that looked suspicious, watching for speeders, and calling in occasional license plates. After we stopped to help a guy on Kiehl who had spilled a bunch of junk from the back of his truck onto the road, we assisted with a minor accident at 107 and Brockington, and then Officer Morris asked me if there was anywhere in particular I wanted to go.

"We could go down my road," I suggested. "Ooh! I could text my husband and have him tell the kids to look out the window so they can see me driving by in a cop car and looking cool!"

Officer Morris was totally on board with my dorky request, and he said we could even stop for a few minutes to give the kids sticker badges and let them play with the blinky blue lights. I suddenly had this weird sense that he had somehow seen my facebook post from earlier that day. I had posted about getting ready for my ride-along, and my exact words were: "Think they'll give me a badge to wear for the evening? Or let me press the buttons to turn on the flashing blue lights?" I was amused that he was offering these options for my kids. I guess he thought I was too mature to want to press the buttons myself. So we stopped by the house, and the kids got to climb into the car and try out the lights and even the siren, very briefly. 

They thought it was so cool. Score one for Mom!

I gave the kids hugs and kisses and told them good night, then we set off on our next adventure. A couple calls came in: one was a medical emergency in a home, and the other was something about a crazy guy in the grass. Not sure what that was all about. The next call was the one we responded to, and it was about a big, mean raccoon hanging out on a balcony at an apartment complex. Officer Morris knew exactly where to go. He had dealt with this same call and same raccoon previously. Basically, this repeat offender has claimed a certain apartment building as his home. For some reason, animal control hasn't been able to catch him yet, and for some reason, animal control likes to have an officer presence when tenants call about the raccoon. 

We pulled into the apartment complex, and sure enough, the raccoon was exactly where Officer Morris said he would be. We parked and shined the spotlight on him. Moments later, another officer pulled in, so we all got out and stared at the raccoon for awhile. I actually think raccoons are pretty adorable, but this one was really large and feisty, and he had his eyes on us. He was sitting on a ledge just outside of one apartment where a visitor and his dog were stuck because they didn't want to come outside with the raccoon only steps away hissing at them. So the other officer decided to take matters into his own hands and see if he could get the raccoon to leave. He grabbed a broom and walked up to the second floor balcony and poked at the perpetrator. The raccoon ROARED. That's the only way I can describe it. I've never heard an animal make a noise like that. The officer scurried back down to where we were, and we continued staring at the beast from below. 

A few minutes later, another officer showed up--this time, a female. She admitted she came because she was bored and wanted to see the raccoon. When she heard that the other officer had tried unsuccessfully to get it to come down, she decided to take matters into her own hands. She walked up to the second floor balcony, grabbed the broom, and nudged the raccoon until it took a flying leap toward the ground. I had a brief moment of wondering if the raccoon might come straight for us (is this why they told me to wear close-toed shoes?) but instead he landed in the bushes and scurried away. We all patted ourselves on the backs for showing another Sherwood ruffian who's the boss, and we informed the trapped citizen that it was safe for him to come out now. The raccoon will be back, I'm sure, but it'll be a problem for animal control some other day. 

While we were tied up with the raccoon, another incident occurred in a church parking lot. A car was sitting in the shadows in the back of the lot, and another officer on duty just happened to see the car and decided to go check it out. There was a guy in the car doing who knows what, and the car was full of drugs. Needless to say, he got arrested, and we made our way over to see if there was anything fun left for us to do. Most of the excitement had died down by then. The car was still there waiting to be towed, so we waved goodbye to the other officer and continued on our way. 

My time was almost up, but we assisted a lady on Brockington who had run out of gas (another officer pushed her car to a nearby gas station while we provided some traffic control/protection for them), and then we escorted a tow truck to the previously mentioned drug car because he had been given the wrong location and was sitting in another church parking lot wondering where everyone was.  

I couldn't believe that my four hours were already up. I wasn't quite ready to leave! I had peppered Officer Morris with questions all evening and learned a lot about the job and how and why they do the things they do. Even though it was getting late, I felt wide awake and wouldn't have minded going on a high-speed car chase or two. But alas, it seemed that most of Sherwood was tucked safely and innocently into their beds, and it was time for me to do the same. I thanked Officer Morris for having me along for the ride, and I made sure to drive the speed limit the whole way home.

Police Academy, week one

I have a great life, and there really isn't much that I would change about it if given the chance. But my day-to-day activities are a bit... vanilla. I work. I homeschool the kids. I clean the house and cook dinner. We take walks as a family and go to church on Sunday. Then repeat. Over and over and over again. 

Now that the kids are getting a little older and a little less needy (supposedly), I'm trying to push myself as a writer. I spent about five months working on a novel (it's finished but not what I would consider publishable.) I taught a couple of writing classes to junior high and high school kids at our co-op. I got a devotional published. Now I'm trying to consider my next project, and I keep coming back to fiction writing. I love fiction. So what's the problem? It's hard to be creative and write imaginatively when your life is dull (see paragraph one.)

I decided I would try to push myself in other ways this year and attempt things that I wouldn't normally do. I'm very much an introvert and would probably be content to spend all of my free time alone on the couch or outside on our deck with a good book. But I seldom take advantage of opportunities to try new things or meet new people, which I think are key elements for fostering creativity. So I did something totally out of character: I signed up for the Sherwood citizens police academy training. 

We meet twice a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Last week was our first week, and I was pleasantly surprised by how interesting it was. The first night we met the chief and several officers and got to see an international gold-medalist give a self defense demonstration. Thursday night we learned some tricks of the trade for traffic stops, went outside to see a demonstration of Sherwood PD's drone, then came back in for a lecture on narcotics (they piled a table full of drugs and drug paraphernalia they had procured from various drug busts, so we got to see real examples of the things they were telling us about.)

Here's a picture the drone took of our group:

 

We have some other fun activities coming up--a K9 demonstration, a tour of the jail (I've heard rumors that they'll offer to feed us there), range time with the SWAT team, and something I'm equally excited and scared about: a drive-along next weekend in a cop car. When we signed up for drive-alongs, the officers told us to wear close-toed shoes (in case we need to run???) and warned us that if the officer gets a call that we're not allowed to go on, it's possible we could get dropped off on a street corner until they can radio someone else to come pick us up. Hmmm... what am I getting myself into? I don't know the answer to that question, but I do know that I'll take advantage of the momentary excitement and hopefully get at least a few good blog posts out of this whole experience.

Why Lent?

Want to know how you can tell when your sugar cravings have gotten out of control? When your husband brings home red weed-eater line and it makes you salivate because it reminds you of twizzlers, that might be a clue. I don’t even really like twizzlers, but the weed-eater line is looking strangely scrumptious to me right about now.

I’m on day 36 of Lent, and I’ve chosen to give up sweets, candy, dessert, etc for the 40 days leading up to Easter. I chose to do this partly because of these ridiculous sugar cravings that need to be told who’s boss. But mostly my reasons are more spiritual in nature.  So, why Lent? It’s a bit strange that I would decide to observe Lent considering I had never even heard of Lent until I was nearly out of high school. That’s right—I grew up in church, I’ve been a Christian most of my life, and I didn’t even know what Lent was until I was about 16. Even then, my knowledge of it was limited and my general feelings on the topic hovered somewhere between suspicion and disdain. Perhaps my aversion to Lent in the past is because I was raised in Protestant churches where anything that smacked of salvation by works was avoided. I remember an acquaintance of mine in high school sharing that she was giving up sodas and chocolate for Lent and in the next breath bragging about her recent sexual exploits. I self-righteously concluded that I would never do something so trite as to make a sacrifice for Lent under the misguided assumption that it would earn me favor with God.

So, why Lent? In some ways my opinion hasn’t changed—I’m fully aware that my avoiding dessert won’t earn me any brownie points with God. (See what I did there?) So why bother? Right now, for example, I would really like to eat some chocolate chips. Why deny myself?

 First of all, self-denial is a good spiritual discipline. It’s rare that I have to deny myself anything of consequence. If I want new shoes, I buy them. If I want to go on a weekend trip with my family, I make plans and go. If I want to eat chocolate chip cookies, I eat them. I’m in a position where I can say “yes” to nearly every (realistic) craving that comes along.  While I do have to exercise self-control in many areas of my life on a daily basis, I find myself saying “yes” to my whims and desires far more often than I say “no.” Contentment isn’t a result of giving ourselves everything we want; it’s a result of refusing to feed our fleshly appetites and appreciating what we already have. Celebrating Lent is a small reminder to me to find joy in self-denial.

Second, Lent is about repenting and refocusing our lives on Jesus. I use my cravings for sugar as a reminder to spend time praying and reading the Bible. Frankly, this whole experience has been much tougher than I expected it to be. It’s shown me how weak I am and how quickly I turn to comforts of this world when I’m stressed out, exhausted, angry, and emotional. Observing Lent has allowed me to recalibrate and turn to the only One who can truly satisfy me.

Third, Lent allows us to partake in the sufferings of Christ. Now, let me be very clear: my giving up sweets for 40 days IN NO WAY qualifies me to understand or identify with the kind of suffering Jesus went through. The very idea is laughable and probably borderline blasphemous. But I repeat: this has been much harder for me than I expected it to be. My teensy tiny itsy bitsy bit of “suffering” has given me a new appreciation for Jesus, who truly suffered and denied himself even to the point of death. I gave up something small and insignificant. He gave up everything. I am slowly (slooooowly) learning what it means to be sacrificial, and perhaps God will use this seemingly trivial period in my life to prepare me for deeper levels of suffering and sacrifice.

Finally, observing Lent makes us appreciate Easter that much more. Easter is a day to rejoice and celebrate and shout hallelujah and cry tears of joy—suffering doesn’t last forever. Death is defeated. Jesus is Lord. There’s nothing sweeter than that.

House envy

I have a confession to make: If you and I are friends and you have at some point invited me over to your house, I can admit with some certainty that I have walked into your house, done a quick estimate of your square footage and number of bedrooms/bathrooms, admired your updates and decor, and left feeling jealous and dissatisfied. I've driven away thinking the same toxic thoughts that have gone through my brain a thousand times in the last few years: I don't know ANYONE else who has to share one tiny bathroom with her husband and two kids. I don't know ANYONE else who has such a small, old house in such an ugly neighborhood. Why am I the only one who has to put up with this injustice? 

A couple years ago, Trey and I thought we were on the brink of building a home. We put our house on the market... and it sat. And sat. The few people who came to look at it voiced the same concerns we had: it's too small. I was praying the house would sell, but at the same time, I was praying that if this wasn't the right timing, our house wouldn't sell. Our house never sold. We finally took it off the market because I was exhausted from months and months of keeping it in pristine cleanliness while homeschooling two very messy children. (I distinctly remember one particularly frustrating day when we were in the middle of our schoolwork and I got a call that a realtor would be showing the house to someone in twenty minutes. I threw all of our books, papers, pencils, crayons, rulers, math blocks, and science supplies in a closet, speed-cleaned the kitchen, and rushed the kids out to the car where they finished getting their shoes on while I peeled out of the driveway. Minutes later, it started raining and the couple decided not to come look at the house after all.)  

On the other hand, a tiny house comes with a tiny mortgage payment. I've only worked part-time since Perrin was born, and Trey took a new job with a pay cut about a year ago, and yet we've never truly struggled financially, nor have we ever gone into debt.

Our tiny house has allowed us to enjoy life in ways that we wouldn't be able to if we were stuck under the burden of a house we could barely afford. We've been able to take vacations, remodel our kitchen and bathroom, and give to our church and others in need. Our house is a haven filled with good memories, complete with a huge backyard for the kids to play in and situated in a safe neighborhood where we take walks as a family nearly every day. What more do we need? Would a bigger house really make me happy, or would it simply cause me to find something else to be discontent about?

I'm not going to lie--I still have plenty of moments of discontent. Sunday mornings are the worst when we're all trying to get ready in the bathroom at the same time. We have NO privacy in this house. I'm used to one (or two! or three!) people barging in on me while I'm trying to take a shower. But I'm slowly (sloooooowly) learning to be grateful. I'm grateful that our house is easy to clean. I'm grateful that our house keeps us from buying things we don't need (because if we don't have a place to put it, we don't buy it). I'm grateful that I can talk to my kids and hear them no matter where I'm standing in the house. I'm thankful for the memories we're building here--huddling around backyard bonfires, reading books on the deck, walking to the nearby field to launch rockets, working together on Saturday mornings to clean the house or rake the leaves or plant new flowers. Our house is just a house, but it's allowed us to have a lifestyle that fits our values and has protected us from a lot of unnecessary stress.

Maybe one of these days I'll be able to walk into your beautiful house, compliment your fireplace or granite counter tops or tray ceilings or covered patio, then climb into my car with a genuine smile, thinking that you and I are both so very blessed to have a wonderful place to call home. I think I'm almost there.