Speak Life

We all know some variation of the well-meaning phrase, “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never harm me.” In fact, most of us were taught to recite something like this in an attempt to protect ourselves from word grenades. What a dangerous lie. In my adult life, I’ve come to understand that sticks and stones can break some bones, but words can nearly kill you. I’ve had very hurtful things said to and about me over the course of my life. And though it’s painful to admit, I’ve said hurtful things as well. Just ask those closest to me. Most of the time, people blind themselves to the soul damaging power their gun-powdered words have.

But this post isn’t about word wounds.

Three weeks ago, I turned 35. And do you know what I did? I hung out at home all day taking care of a baby. No party. No cake. No gifts. Glamorous, I know. But it ranks up there with one of the best birthdays I’ve had. That’s a strange thing, indeed, considering my love language is gifts.

But guess what happens when bows, ribbons, and expensive dinners aren’t distracting you? You are able to fully see the gift of PEOPLE.

Even though I was terribly inconsistent with wishing others a happy birthday this past year, on my own birthday, the wishes kept pouring in. Some of them from people I hadn’t connected with since the year before. And I felt full of life, ALL.DAY.LONG. Responding to each message brought me such joy.

How many times have I wished others “Happy Birthday!” and haven’t thought much of it? Surely it’s been thousands upon thousands of times. In fact, most of us don’t pay much attention to the power of words except when we are on the receiving end of them. They’re just words, after all. But, our words have both the ability to produce life or death in the soil of someone’s heart. It’s an incredible responsibility to guard that which rolls so easily off our tongues.

The gift of kind words inspired me to intentionally seek out ways to encourage others around me, even if it’s just a simple “hello.” There are times I don’t speak up because I don’t think anyone else needs to hear what I have to say. But maybe, just maybe, they are in need of a fresh cistern of water to replenish the garden of their souls.

Yes, words can wound. But, words also have the power to generate life.



What Depression taught me about Black Lives, Trump Voters, and the Homeless

Last week, I came across a Facebook sticker that claimed the following:

Food is the most abused anxiety drug.
Exercise is the most underutilized antidepressant.

I agree with the generality of this statement. There are people who abuse food as a coping mechanism, and exercise is proven to release endorphins. True and true.

But, I did what you’re not supposed to do: read the comments.

A lady who apparently has never suffered from chronic depression decided to impart her expertise about the issue. Bless her heart.

“Feed the homeless and hungry. Take a poor person to lunch. That is a great antidepressant…thinking of someone other than me me me.”

I wish it were that easy. Yes, her suggestion is a good one for people who are dealing with situational depression. But for those who, regardless of their circumstance, require medication to help keep them centered, doing things for others is not the remedy. Their problem is not that they are experiencing an egocentric pity party. Depression is a disorder. You can’t just random-acts-of-kindness it away.

She made a call based on her own perception of a plight she doesn’t understand. And, quite honestly, it made her look foolish.

But how often do we do that?

Consider the white person who argues that black people are not the victims of racism. That black people are the ones keeping it alive. That if they look like thugs, they deserve to be treated like thugs. That if they would just follow an officer’s orders, most of their problems would simply go away. It’s easy to look at someone else and say exactly what they should do to fix all their issues.

But, of course, I’m not black. I will never be black. I don’t know what it feels like to be fearful of my child leaving the house with a hoodie to keep warm in the cooler months, or to know there is a greater chance of prejudice against me and those I love, just because of my skin color. And because my skin is white, I will never understand what it feels like to be in a black person’s shoes, anymore than a man understands what it’s like to be in labor.

Or consider the person who labels every single Trump voter as a racist, misogynistic nationalist. They argue that if you voted for Trump, you give zero cares about social issues, and that you are, quite frankly, a piece of trash.

But what about the farmers who are living in poverty who don’t have the luxury to fight for social issues. They are barely surviving and able to care for their families. These men and women needed to take a chance on something politically different to see if it might sustain their families a bit longer. The current system wasn’t working for them. They are in survival mode.

I’ve never lived in poverty. I don’t know what it’s like to worry about feeding my family and supplying shoes for my kids. To keep my children home from school just to have the manpower to work the fields. Is it fair to call him a racist, misogynistic nationalist just because he took a chance on improving his family’s quality of life? I’ve never even spoken to him. I don’t understand his issues, his concerns. But too often I feel justified because he hasn’t taken up the cross I deem most important.

Or consider the homeless man on the street corner. He is labeled a no-good moocher who just needs to get a job. Anyone who gives him help is an enabler. And, if you give him money, you KNOW he’s going to spend it on drugs and alcohol.

But I’ve never been homeless. I’ve never experienced the soul-crushing humility it must take to ask for help. I’ve never stood on a street corner during a blazing hot summer day, cardboard sign in hand asking for a meal or bottle of water. I’ve never had a disability that might make it impossible for me to have a job, leaving begging as my only option.

And the list goes on and on.

Are we right in the assumptions we make? Sometimes. I’m sure there are black men who might still be alive if they had followed an officer’s orders. I’m sure there are followers of Trump who are racist. I’m sure there are beggars who are scammers.

However, it is foolish to tell someone with depression that they need to just stop thinking about themselves, or to ignore people of color’s plea to listen to their concerns of marginalization. Or to call every person I know who voted for Trump a misogynistic racist. Or to tell the homeless man on the street corner that he needs to quit asking for handouts and get a job.

The lady who threw every case of depression into the egocentric basket was a great reminder to me. The next time I am tempted to tell people what they are and how to fix all their problems, I need to take a moment to step back, to ask myself if I know what it’s like to be in that person’s shoes. Because if that’s never been my plight in life, sometimes the best action I can take is one of humility. To ask questions. To listen. To try to understand.

To not speak.

The only way we will understand is to engage. But too often we build walls around ourselves with our words. Usually words that make us look like the fools.

We mistake our passions and opinions for authority.

Perhaps one of the greatest tragedies is people who are unable or unwilling to see from any perspective other than their own.

I don’t want to pretend I know what it’s like to be in someone else’s shoes. But if someone is willing to share with me, I want to listen.


An Apology to my Subscribers

Dear Faithful Following,

When it comes to my blog, I feel like a 1982 kid trying to fly a 2118 rocket ship. Just recently, I’ve decided to streamline all four of my blogs into one. Originally, I had created a different blog for each style of writing. However, trying to juggle them all makes me incredibly inconsistent. For that reason, I’ve been working very hard over the last week to move old content from my other blogs over to this one. Everything in one place.


In trying to do so, I’ve accidentally shot out emails when I’ve published new pages or edited old ones. And every time I do that, the commander of this rocket feels like she’s dumping a bucket of ice water on all of her passengers. And for that, I deeply apologize. I’ve always tried to be careful not to bombard you with emails.

The site looks entirely new! So what can you expect from now on? I will continue to post at least once a week. In addition to my main “life” feed, I also have new columns on finance, poetry, education, and reviews/tutorials.

I know many of you didn’t sign up to read all my “extra” stuff, so please know that now that I have the email alerts under control, you will continue to only receive emails for the types of articles you are used to seeing from me. I’ll still post other things that will be catalogued in the main feed as well as the specialized content feed, but you’ll only see that if you’re looking for it.

For some time, I’ve considered starting a Facebook page for those who don’t want to miss ANY posting, but the jury is still out. I feel like such a spammer going that route.

As always, thanks for coming along with me on this journey I started a little over four years ago. It’s brought me much joy. If you ever have any questions or have an idea for me to address, please let me know. If there’s any feature you think my blog is missing, please let me know through the “contact” tab. I love interacting with you. Also, please let me know if you find a typo or misspelling. I painfully scour each post before publishing, but sometimes, I still miss something. Your brain tends to autocorrect when reading from a screen. I’m not too proud to be notified of a mistake.

I hope you enjoy the new look of the site as well as the additional features. You can now search for articles based on content or keywords and easily share articles you enjoy. Oh, and no more faceless comments! I figured out how to give you the ability to upload your own avatar.

Thanks for hanging in there. You each are a blessing to me.



Mixed Messages

Sometimes I need a dose of my own medicine, specifically, the “I’ve already told you this 1,000 times” white, chalky spoonful that’s hard to choke down.

I have finally figured out a truth about parenting and it’s this: You have to continuously recalibrate yourself.

When I was pregnant with my daughter, I was an idealist. I had dreams of how we would bond, what traditions I’d pass down from my family, what new traditions we would implement. I subscribed to Parents magazine and clipped out ideas of fun, memory filled activities and I kept them in a binder…and then she was born and I never opened that binder. In fact, when I was cleaning out a closet a few months back and came across it, I tossed it. Why?

Because, life happens. And when it happened for me, I realized that babies and small children are definitely not my thing. There’s a reason I taught middle school and high school students for 11 years! I’d rather deal with a sassy-mouthed teenage gorgon than make believe a tea party. It’s how I’m wired.

But deep down I knew I wanted to be a purposeful mom, even though it didn’t come naturally to me. So, when my daughter was about 2 years old, I ordered Dobson’s Bringing up Girls and devoured it. I passed it along to my husband who read it as well.

I then bought Revolutionary Parenting, and an assortment of other books to help give me some insight and instruction on this crazy, try not to fall off a cliff hike known as parenting. But, it didn’t take long after I was done reading and taking notes for the practical information to become fuzzy in my brain. In fact, I can’t really tell you anything I learned from any of those books from 4 years ago.

Because, life happens.

I hear a lot of mommies who wish their children would “stop growing up,” but when Elizabeth was born, I just wanted her to move from one phase to another, on the expressway, so she would get to an age that I was comfortable with. I spent a lot of her younger years dreaming of her bedtime. And now I’m looking at my daughter who is 6 years old, and I already wish I could steal some of our time back.

But here’s the thing. I have a picture of what I’d like my relationship with my children to be like when they are older. I have a picture of what I’d like their values and character to be. I have a picture of a family who is bonded and loves each other deeply. But…painting that picture starts now. As a teacher, it was always fairly easy to tell which of my students had parents who were active, intentional participants in their lives, and those whose parents were on autopilot. And over the past 6 years, I’ve been guilty of stretches of autopilot. I assume we all are at some point.

Last night before I went to bed, I sat down to read, but kept thinking about this intentionality and what it looks like, because I realize that in order to be an intentional mommy, I can never stop learning. I can’t go to one class or read one book or watch one video at a single point in time and be done. I have to continually encourage myself in this way. Never stop reading, never stop listening, never stop doing life with families in our faith community.

So I logged into and started searching for parenting studies. I clicked on one and only watched about 10 minutes of it (it was a little bit of a snoozer), but the speaker said something that struck a chord with me. She said, “you are sending messages to your children all day long.” This comes in the way we interact with them, the way we react, the way we ignore or put them off. Even the things we do that aren’t interacting with them (the way we respond to others or talk about situations with our spouses in front of them sends them a message). Everything we do sends a message. They are constantly absorbing and studying us. Not what we’re saying, but what we are doing.

Wow! I immediately felt convicted. While I’m really starting to enjoy the age at which Elizabeth is at, I specifically thought about all the times she has approached me to ask a question and I’ve been in the middle of doing something on my computer or phone, and I told her to wait. And while I believe parents don’t need to put down everything every time their child has a request, there are so many times I’m doing something trivial with technology that I should put my device down and cancel the message that says, “my phone is more important than you.”

And then I started thinking about my device usage in general, even when she isn’t vying for my attention. My husband and I don’t let her use electronics or watch TV during the school week, but how much time does she see me spend on my laptop or phone when she’s home? Sometimes it’s not the length at which I use it, but rather the frequency at which I pick it up. What am I modeling for her? If I don’t want her to become a teen who is glued to her phone, I have to put limits on myself, because what I model has more of an impact than what I say.

I also have a habit of checking my phone while I sit at red lights. When my daughter is old enough to drive, I don’t EVER want her looking at her phone, even when she is temporarily stopped. But what I DO has more of an impact than what I’ll teach her with my words.

I realize this post is a bit scattered. When I sat down to write it, I had the intention of listing multiple different ways in which to be intentional, but I wrote myself into thinking about the impact technology has on family units these days. And getting it under control is a tough hurdle to jump…I’ve eaten dirt way too many times. Because even though I’m having this epiphany now, I’d be lying if I hadn’t already had this epiphany multiple times over the past 6 years. (Remember that time I read Notes from a Blue Bicycle and wrote this post here?)


But life happens. We forget. We need to be told that 1,000th time. We need to constantly learn and relearn. A regular spoonful of medicine helps us be intentional.


After We Die

Once a month, a group of women from Northland meet in a dear friend’s home to encourage one another on our journey as wives and mothers. A few weeks ago, we were asked what we wanted to be remembered for after we died.

I quickly counted the ladies in the room to see if there were enough that some people wouldn’t have to answer (me being one of them).

Yeah, no.

It was a small enough group; everyone would end up on the hot seat. I’m an introverted processor so I need time to think through my responses to posed questions. Even if you asked what my favorite ice cream flavor is, I’d have to categorically break it down and completely understand what it is you’re asking of me before I can answer. Are you talking about anything resembling ice cream including Jeremiah’s? Do you want to know my favorite flavor according to brand? And if so, which one? Do you mean my favorite flavor I can purchase at Publix or if I go to an ice cream parlor?

The downside (is there an upside?) to being a processor is you end up going last because you 1) are fearful you don’t completely understand the question, and 2) you are searching every catalog in your brain for an answer.

I still thought I might get away with not saying anything until it was obvious I was the last one…and then came the words, “Beverly, no pressure…”

Seriously! All of the good answers were gone. The ones about being a loving mom and wife. Someone who was gracious. A woman who was compassionate for the least of these. You get the point. And those are all such wonderful things. But none of them were the first thing I thought of.

Years ago, I actually worked through this question and wrote down all of the ways I wanted to be remembered. Forty-nine bullet points later…I wish I were kidding. I actually wrote down FORTY-NINE specific ways across FIVE DIFFERENT CATEGORIES I want to be remembered (hello, neurosis). That’s what I mean when I say I’m a processor. The problem is, I process to the degree that I drive myself nuts. I went back and looked at those forty-nine things this morning and laughed because now I know why I couldn’t think of one quickly enough to be the first to answer a simple question.

I’m not good at any of them.

*    Was always willing to turn off the television, put down my book, or stop writing immediately if my husband desired my attention. Bwahahaha! If you interrupt me when I finally get a free moment to myself, I will cut you.

*    Was a living example of those things that I taught my children. I say as I tell my daughter to turn off the iPad while I simultaneously scroll through Twitter, watch the news, and write a blog post.

*    Didn’t try to mold my children into who I wanted them to be, but rather helped develop their own unique characteristics and strengths. I bang my head on the wall because my daughter is nothing like me and I DON’T UNDERSTAND HER!

*    Never became too busy to put my children first. See the part about me getting a moment to myself…and the cutting…and the head banging.

After an awkward silence and a realization that all other decent answers were gone, I said the safe thing: I want to be remembered as someone who deeply cared about and had compassion for her students, especially the ones who felt they had no teacher advocate. And that is the truth. I sincerely hope I’ve made a difference during my time as a teacher.

But that’s not what I wanted to say. What did I really want to say?

I’m not telling.

Just know it wasn’t on my pious forty-nine item list I made six years ago.

And it might involve pizza.

The reason we think about what we want to be remembered for after we die is to give us some goals while we are alive. Goals are good.

But there are some days where the only goal I want to think about is a field goal. And pizza. Lots and lots of pizza.


The Bare Minimum

If you haven’t watched the Netflix documentary, Minimalism, you should. It’s only a little over an hour, but the wealth of information and inspiration packed into it is worth more than that small cost of time.

We are a culture who loves stuff.

I’ve always struggled with clutter in my space. When I was younger, it was because every item I owned was a treasure to me. My mom would savagely go through my room when I went off to summer camp and I’d come home to Mapleton Drive. At first I was upset she took some (half) of my belongings without asking, but her argument was that I wouldn’t even notice what was missing. And she was right. I rarely did.

As an adult, my problem with clutter has nothing to do with the inability to let things go. My problem as an adult is when I look at a cluttered space, I feel so overwhelmed that I become paralyzed. Brent has to pry the matches and lighter fluid from my hands because I feel that’s the only way out. Something is melting down: either me or my space!

About a year ago, I was chatting with my girlfriends at dinner group, and they mentioned Marie Kondo’s The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. I’ve never read a book on organization or de-cluttering. I always thought I just didn’t have enough storage solutions or space. I found out that my problem had nothing to do with space. It was that I had too much stuff!

In a nutshell, according to Kondo, you should only keep what is an absolute necessity and what brings you joy (or according to the Minimalists, what adds value to your life). She has a whole system to help you let go of all the excess we are prone to accumulate.

One of the most eye-opening exercises in Kondo’s book is when you have to sort through your clothes. She requires you take every single item of clothing out of your closet and drawers and place it in one big pile. You are then required to pick up each item individually and ask if it sparks joy. If it doesn’t? Sayonara!

So, I did this. I placed every single item of my clothing on top of my king size bed. And it was absolutely shameful. You do not realize how much you actually own until it is all corralled in one place. By the time I finished sorting, I had half of my wardrobe in the donate pile.

Last year, I went through every room in the house getting rid of everything that didn’t add value to our lives. It was embarrassing how much stuff we donated. Our contact at the Christian help center asked if we had anything left in our house. We did. And lots of it. You wouldn’t even be able to tell we got rid of anything.

You’ll never see me live in a tiny house, even though I think the concept is really cool. And I’m not ready to try a capsule wardrobe. But, thinning my possession out considerably has affected my mental health! Have I missed or regretted anything I’ve gotten rid of?

Watching Minimalism was a great reminder to let go of the clutter and embrace a fulfilling life, free from the weight of material possessions (along with the debt that often accompanies excessive spending).

It’s an hour and eighteen minutes that could impact years of living. And if you’re a reader, you should definitely check out Kondo’s book. Want to get organized once and for all? To me, she’s the be-all-end-all on the subject.

The calming peace that accompanies simplicity? You can’t buy that in a store.



Every time I listen to “Center Aisle” by Caedmon’s Call, I weep.

It’s been fifteen years since I received one of the worst phone calls of my life. I was only nineteen at the time, living in an apartment in Lynchburg with my youngest brother. When the phone rang that day, I picked it up, my dad on the other end. And you just know when things are not okay. There wasn’t time for pleasantries. I still remember the words very clearly:

“Beverly, someone in your class has died.”

I knew he meant my high school class. The class of 2000. My class. The class of only 14 other students. My family.

My mind raced through a list of the most likely to get in a car accident, because it had to be an accident. There could be no other explanation.

And then he dropped the name, followed by, “He took his own life.”

It didn’t make sense. He was our class salutatorian. He was an incredible musician. He was athletic. He was attractive. He was witty. He was the guy that you went to when you didn’t know how to do something. I still remember sitting in front of a computer in the basement of his house because I had less than 8 hours to finish my research paper, and I was struggling with formatting issues. He never turned down helping anyone. I didn’t know anyone who didn’t like him.

I didn’t see this coming. You can’t breathe in that moment. Your brain struggles to comprehend what you’re told. I was left with why?

Several of us finished up our midterms just in time to travel back to Asheville for the funeral. One of his closest friends, Michael, invited all of us back to his house afterwards. We spent time sharing with each other, recalling and laughing and crying and asking and wondering. Michael had gone over to his house after it happened and helped his mom go through some of his stuff. He found a paper he had written for one of his college courses, and in it, he explained some of the demons he was fighting. Some of them since he was a kid. It was his journey, the dissection of his worldview in fourteen pages. Michael made copies. I still have mine. I read it every year. I can hear him through the pages.

You go back and relive moments in your mind, wondering if there was something you said or did that helped contribute to his ultimate decision. Everyone in our class was a friend. When there are only 15 of you, you become family. We were over at each other’s houses. Many of us grew up together from a young age. But that also means you fight sometimes like siblings. You tease each other because that’s what high school friends do.

One of my last memories with him is when I was home visiting from college. He and my best friend, Becca, went with me to get my first tattoo (sorry, mom). We also spent time with a handful of other kids from our class at Becca’s house later on. I had a video camera with me and recorded some of our night together. I love going back to watch Michael and him being silly as they played the guitar.

I have a file where I keep his college paper, a few pictures of us, his funeral program, his obituary. My 19-year-old friend shouldn’t be sandwiched between two 79 year olds with health problems. I pulled it out today like I always do every year and forgot that I had also printed out an email Michael sent to us following the funeral. It was folded up at the bottom. It reads:


It’s about 10:30 on Tuesday everyone just left my house and I finally got a second by myself. I wanted to let you all know how much it meant to me to see all of you there at the funeral. Not only because you were there but just the way we have all stuck together is so amazing to me. It’s such a shame that something like this sometimes has to put everything back in perspective and you begin to see what life is all about- relationships- I hope you guys will keep me in prayers and I will try and do the same for you. Time will help heal a lot of the pain, but it will always remain. I will try and keep in contact with all of you the best I can. I love you guys.


I often wonder if any of us had completely understood what he was dealing with, if we could have somehow prevented what happened. We’ll never know the answer to that question. We can’t go back and change the past. But we can choose to live intentionally. To remember what Michael said: that “life is all about relationships.”

It’s been fifteen years, and this is the first time I’ve sat down to write about it. I thought after all this time I wouldn’t cry, but I was wrong. Today, it still feels raw. I would give anything to have just one more conversation with him. To feel like I had answers. To offer him hope.

He’s the reason I’ve always been open with my students about my struggle with depression. When I was growing up, nobody talked about it. People who were “feeling down” were just said to be “moody.” He’s the reason I’ve always left my classroom door open for students to have a safe space to talk about the dark twisties going on in their lives, free from judgment. To talk to an adult whom they feel has no agenda except to listen and empathize. Because I get it. I know what it is to win that battle. But, I also know what it is to lose. I want them to know they are not alone, and there is strength in numbers.

In the black hole of it all, sometimes you just need a little hope. I wish I could have given that to him, had I known his struggles. But I can offer hope to other young people who struggle. If they can make it just one more day. Put one foot in front of the other. Hope. Hold on. It will all be okay.


The Art of Gratitude

This morning I woke up with an overwhelming sense of gratitude. It’s a stark contrast to the mornings I wake up feeling like a 500 pound weight is resting on my chest. Those are the days I feel I can only be thankful for the 150 milligrams of happy to help me cope.

It’s hard to keep your heart in a constant mode of gratitude, but it’s one of those attitudes that produces contentment and joy, something the world could use more of. Instead, we are under a constant state of blitzkrieg with messages of items we simply must have. We need to upgrade the old. We need the biggest and best. We need fast. Consume, consume, consume. We never have enough. Sometimes I feel like I never have enough.

During the Thanksgiving season, when I was in high school, teachers would ask students what they were thankful for. Everyone would go around and name something, usually big ideas like family, friends, or a huge material possession they had just acquired. And when it came to me, I always had to be weird. I would think up something stupid like my pillow. And I would share that. Friends would snicker at the idea and teachers would think I was being obnoxious, but the more I thought about it, the more I liked it. Most people probably don’t think to be thankful for a pillow. It’s something most of us have always known. But have you ever tried to sleep without one? It’s not fun. I imagine the multitude of homeless right here in the States. People who don’t have a bed to sleep in. Somewhere to lay their weary heads. Yes. I’m thankful for my pillow. Usually we are told to focus on the big picture and not get lost in the details. But isn’t the joy in life in the little things? And if we’re so caught up in the big picture, sometimes we miss the details. And sometimes we need to focus on those details, because they can produce immense joy.

About four years ago, I read Ann Voskamp’s 1,000 Gifts and began keeping a journal of my own beautiful moments throughout the days. Seemingly dumb things to be thankful for. I recently went back and looked at what I wrote on the first few pages. Many of them I can vividly see, smell, hear, taste, or touch.

Classical music in ears on Sunday mornings.
Ketchup cornered smiles.
Brown sugar shampoo
Dancing raindrops on pavement

 And some of them I don’t remember what they mean.

Ace of Base winks from Jesus

I don’t doubt that in that moment I must have felt confirmation or assurance about something going on in my life. I’ve always believed God to speak to me in ways other than church, the Bible, prayer, or friends. Sometimes I hear him in the rain, or a breeze across my face. Sometimes through music (which this apparently was). He talks to us in a multitude of ways if we are willing to listen. And often times a grateful heart will open those windows for us to be receptive, because we aren’t so tangled up in our own selfishness.

Gratitude. It’s hard. It’s even harder to instill this in the hearts of children, especially when most have an overabundance of selfish nature. But the best way to shift their focus onto what they have instead of what they have not, is to model it ourselves. Yikes. Not an easy task.

My family prays according to Acts (adoration, confession, thanksgiving, supplication), and when we say our family prayers at night before bed, we spend the majority of our time moseying around in the “thankful” portion. We thank God for the seemingly mundane, the things we take for granted. The things we just assume will always be there: our house, two working vehicles, food in the pantry, bicycles to ride, clothes on our backs, and pillows on which to rest our heads. I love hearing my daughter thank God for all of these things. It’s a good reminder to me when I get into the slump of desiring more. Don’t get me wrong, wanting and having nice things is not evil. But if we don’t balance that out with a grateful heart, we flirt with our selfish desires a bit too much. We become egocentric. Our hand becomes a fist instead of an open palm. It’s an ugly, scary place to be.

So today, what am I grateful for?

Toothless gummy bear smiles
Whispering winds through tree branches
Raspberry lime scented candles
Texting dates with childhood friends
Morning first sips of coffee

 Each of you who continue to encourage me


Cut to the Quiet

If you are reading this entry, it means that you are one of my faithful subscribers. If you make it to the end, it will be because you’re sitting in a waiting room with nothing else to do, you actually care about me, or you find it a challenge because I’m betting you won’t read the whole thing. Why? Because it’s going to be long. It’s also going to sound like my thoughts vomited onto the keyboard, and I most certainly am not going to end up where you think I’m going. Instead of A to B to C, I go A to -37 to purple fire hydrant.

So, where to begin…

I want to sell my current two homes, purchase land, build a farmhouse, buy a milking cow and some egg-laying hens, plant citrus trees, and grow a vegetable garden. I’ve always been a marriage between city and country, so this isn’t too far-fetched of a scenario.

But first, let’s rewind to two weeks ago.

The best way I know how to put it is that I’ve been experiencing an identity crisis. For as long as I can remember, this has been the equation for my life:

Beverly = School.

I’ve never not been (for more than a few months) either a student or a teacher (sometimes both). Now that I’ve closed that chapter of my life, I have taken on a new full-time role of wife and mom. Sounds easy, right? I get to do what many women wish they could. I’m living my dream. But now that the newness of fitting into my new role has washed away, I’m finding myself restless. Not because I want to go back to work, but because I almost feel as though I don’t know who I am anymore. Being a mom and wife is fulfilling in its own right, but I have always needed something that belongs just to me. Something in which I feel I excel. My name means “industrious one,” which means I need to find a craft. When I left teaching, I thought adding “writer” to what I identified as would solve the problem. So, I’ve been writing.

I’ve always known my blog isn’t something that would go viral. I’m not the world’s best writer, I don’t write with a universal audience in mind, and I’ve committed to only write about ideas that come to me and ferment for a while, which is why you only get an update every few months, at best. My real side project has been working on a manuscript for a novel. I’m eight chapters in of a potential 24-30, and two weeks ago, I was ready to throw in the towel. I’ve been working on poetry, but much of it is riddled with dark themes describing the brokenness of humanity: suicide, abuse, murder… I fear I can’t share without others thinking something must be wrong with me… But back to the point. I have always believed everyone has at least one thing in which they are really great. I’m good at a lot of things, but I’ve never felt as though I’ve been great at one thing.

Insert crisis.

Thankfully, I have a couple of good friends who listen to me without judgment. And by that, I mean, even when I walk away, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt they aren’t thinking something different than what they said to my face, and I know what was said will be kept confidential. So I texted with one about this crisis and had coffee with another. Both graciously listened to me and gave me advice on what I should focus on. Even after that, I still just felt frustrated, and for the first time in my whole life, completely lost. What am I doing with my life? Who am I? Why am I not great at something? Why do I always feel distracted?

When people who know I’ve been working on a manuscript inquire about how far I’ve gotten since the last time they asked, I’m embarrassed to say I’m in exactly the same place. I tell them I don’t have time. I don’t even have time to read. I’ve been reading The Lovely Bones for three months now and have only conquered ten chapters. The only “reading time” I’ve allowed myself is when I sit in the tub at the end of the day. But invariably, I find myself catching up on what I’ve missed online since I checked in the morning…or since lunch…or since that afternoon break…or since thirty minutes ago.

I woke up several times Sunday night thinking about why I can’t seem to make a major dent in any of my projects and about how much “noise” is in my life. I’m constantly reading people’s conversations on Facebook, keeping up with what’s going on in my own world as well as the world at large through Twitter, I’m focused on seeing the cool life everyone else has on Instagram. I love music, so whenever I’m in the car, I have the radio on. At home, CDs are always the backdrop for chores, cooking, playing, eating,…anything! I even bought tickets to three different concerts all within a week’s time!

The next morning when I awoke, I impulsively deactivated Facebook for seven days. I can’t delete my Twitter or Instagram app because it will delete it’s content, so I moved them to the last page on my iPhone and committed to not opening them for the full seven days as well. I need quiet. Apparently, I’ve become more interested in everyone else’s life than my own. I’m afraid I might miss what one of my friends I haven’t seen in twenty years and probably will never see the rest of my life had for lunch.

Back to Monday morning. After I dropped Elizabeth off at school, I came home and picked up the book Notes from a Blue Bike by Tsh Oxenreider. A friend had lent it to me a few weeks ago. I wasn’t even really sure what this book was about. I picked it up and finished the whole thing within two days…and in rolled the farm.

Even though non-fiction isn’t my first choice when I go to pick something up, this book spoke to my soul. It was so timely. Within chapters, she eloquently explained the struggle I was experiencing:

“…I find my soul frequently calling for a rest from the loud cacophony of the Internet. It’s too easy to confine the world to little pixels and square-shaped photos that ask for a “Like.” When I can dive into that world at any given moment, from the stoplight to the church pew to the grocery line, my heart begins to hurt. The Internet is clamoring for me to admire and interact with the thoughts of my friends and readers around the world, but the payment is the three-dimensional people around me the ones with whom I live and breathe in community” (Oxenreider 73). *

My first day without social media was amazing. I felt newly alive. I even decided to not turn on music or talk radio for this sacred week of quiet. It’s then that I remembered that I had seen a sticky in Brent’s car the previous week when I borrowed it. Plastered right in front of the gas gauge were these words:

“Be still and know that I am God.”

I wonder if I had been thinking about that subconsciously, and that was what originally woke me in the middle of the night.

Monday night I asked Brent what we did before we had easy access to the internet? When I think back, life might not have been as convenient, but I do believe it was richer.

Tuesday, I drove to Melbourne and back to visit my parents, which is almost a two hour round trip. Usually this is my time to put in some of my favorite CDs and just zone out or sing at the top of my lungs. Instead, I drove in silence. I allowed myself time to quietly think.

I have friends who have never even opened a Facebook account. I’ve always thought they were missing out. Now I believe it is I who am missing out. It’s much harder to go back once you’ve opened Pandora’s Box…especially when I opened three (FB, Twitter, and Insta), but I am on my fourth day and I haven’t missed it one bit. I honestly haven’t wondered what is going on in everyone else’s life because I’m focused on my life. What is right in front of me. I would really like to give up social media altogether, but there is pressure if I want to (maybe) be a writer, I have to build a platform…and that platform is mostly built online. So while I know I can’t completely give it up, I will figure out a way to balance it. I might only check social media once a week. And because I do that, I will have to check “popular” instead of “most recent,” a momentous challenge for my OCD brain.

So, if I don’t “like” a status, or “favorite” a tweet or “love” a picture, it’s most likely because I didn’t see it, not because I’m a snob.

Our current generation is at a real disadvantage because of their easy online access. Yes, it’s a handy tool, but they are missing out on life by staring at a screen. I’ve seen this played out over and over again in my last few years of teaching. Instead of using a study hall wisely, over the course of a year, students waste an obscene number of school hours watching YouTube videos or Netflix, or playing games. We want them engaged (even within education) with a screen rather than with those around them. We wrongfully tell them they are engaging the culture and each other through technology.

And forget about allowing our kids to be bored! Oxenreider writes an entire chapter on the subject of boredom. Here are just some of her thoughts:

“If boredom is simply a lack of stimulation and the unpleasant feelings that go with it, then the antidote is not finding a source of entertainment – it’s finding motivation to brush away those unpleasant feelings. If I quickly solve my kids’ boredom problem with movies in the car, the next great video game, a slew of extra-curricular activities, or even lying on the floor with them to serve as a playmate because no other kids are around, we’re short-circuiting what could ultimately be a beautiful thing. History has shown that boredom is the impetus to creativity” (Oxenreider 182).

Our kids rarely have the chance to be bored, and it’s really our fault. We, as adults, don’t allow ourselves to be bored either. We often model the need for constant entertainment. I can’t even stop at a red light without checking to see if I’ve missed an email.

We’ve also eaten the lie that in order to be productive, we need to multi-task…and we wake up wondering why we have a bellyache. Sometimes to be productive, we need to be quiet. And still.

During the last few days of quiet, I have one word that keeps coming to me. At the beginning of the year, my resolution was “be.” I’ve done fairly well “being” in the moment when there is a moment to be in. But isn’t it true that when we begin to master one area of our lives, a new construction site is opened before our eyes? I keep hearing the whisper of “Repurpose.” I’m not sure if that means I’m learning what my new purpose is now that I am listening, or if I’m supposed to go buy used materials and repurpose them, or start a side blog titled “repurpose” that will follow my journey and give encouragement to others to live intentionally and simply. But I kid you not, this word has been repeated in my mind at least 100 times daily since Monday. It must mean something.

Live simply. Live intentionally. Minimize the noise.

When Brent got home from work last night I asked him the following question: Do you think we could go a whole year without buying any new clothes? We have so much! We are so rich (in comparison to the rest of the world, not to mention non-monetary richness)! We consume, and consume, and consume. We have so many unused items on shelves and behind cabinet doors that I could probably make it a mission to just tell myself I can’t buy new eye shadow or nail polish until I use up what I already have. And I’m not even a hoarder. Brent knows when he turns his back I’m constantly weeding things out to donate or throw away.

Don’t get me wrong. I like new stuff. We’ve scrimped in the past because we don’t believe in living outside our means. Right after we had Elizabeth, I colored my own hair until just a few months ago (she’s almost five), we rarely went out to eat, and we lived on $80 for weekly groceries. Credit cards and debt was not an option. So now that our dedication has paid off and there’s more than enough wiggle room, I enjoy going out to eat, taking the occasional shopping trip, or being pampered.

But what if I went for a year giving myself my own pedicures, wearing the clothes I have in my closet that haven’t been worn in three years (maybe even reinventing them with my sewing machine), used what I have. Lived on what I have. What would I learn? I would probably learn about savoring life. Having a rich life. Because it would be on purpose. I would consciously be making that decision. There’s nothing wrong with having it the other way. I just fear I’m allowing life to live me when I choose convenience over quality.

I realize that I have the advantage over many people because I don’t work outside the home, but in my several days of quiet, I have realized I haven’t done some of the things I’ve been wanting to do for years because of the distraction of all the noise around me. I live a quarter of a mile from the drugstore and grocery store. I should be riding my bike up there if I only need to pick up a few things. How long have I lived in Florida and I don’t even have a library card yet? It’s been six years since I’ve wanted to bake cookies and take Shadow over to the fire station. Make my own pasta. Roast my own coffee. Cook from scratch. Eat organic, whole foods. Learn how to can. Do the things that my family did just a few generations ago (some of them just one generation ago). Enjoy the sweetness of it.

I need to write out the principles I want to instill in my daughter and figure out how our family can instill those in her through the intentionality of our lifestyle. I want her to have knowledge about the world, not just her world (believe me, it’s not going to come from access to the internet).

I want her to live a real flesh and blood life, not a digitized life. I want her to be bored so that she can create.

It seems I might be going backwards, but when I think of savoring life, I think of my grandfather. He was the oldest of nine kids who lived on a farm when he was younger. He knew what hard work was. He even built several of the homes he and his family lived in. He knew how to live a self-sustained life, dependent on no one, not held captive by the almighty dollar or consumerism. And savoring life is often about enjoying the fruits of your labors, is it not?

I’d love to one day sell our two houses, buy some land in the “country” outskirts of Orlando, build a house (a distant dream Brent and I had when we first married), grow some of our own vegetables, plant citrus trees, and even have some livestock.

To live life slowly. Yes, it would be hard work, but think about the togetherness our family would experience from weeding a garden, milking a cow, and cooking from scratch in the kitchen. Oh, the lessons Elizabeth would learn that can’t be taught in school. I know I sound like 1900, but there’s something to be said about the way they lived life back in the good ol’ days.

I’ve been thinking lately about what the best way is to honor my grandfather’s legacy since his passing not long ago. It’s not by necessarily doing all the things he did, but at least creating a life conducive to reaping the same benefits of the life he had, whether it be in the country or not. Being content and resourceful, working hard, not wasting, caring about people and not things.

It’s easy for me to get excited about all of this because I’m in the romantic stage of this awakening. Check in with me in three months and I might be moving to Winter Park, getting weekly pedicures and eating donuts. Even if I never own a cow named “Brownie” like my grandfather once did, I do want to purposefully set aside time to recalibrate myself on a regular basis. To spend time in the quiet. Listen to my own thoughts. Be willing to sacrifice convenience for quality.



Oxenreider, Tsh. Notes from a Blue Bike. Nashville: Nelson Books, 2014. Print.

*Sorry I don’t know how to format a block quote in my blog. The English teacher inside me panicked, but the ex-English teacher inside me doesn’t care!


One Word New Year’s Resolution

It’s New Year’s resolution time, and that typically means it’s time to recycle my list from last year:

Exercise at least five times a week.

Eat clean.

Read more books.

If you’re a task-oriented dreamer like me, you enjoy creating your goals. Nothing brings more satisfaction than making that list and picking the items off one-by-one in front of the firing squad. And if you’re melancholy like me, you will also find yourself feeding your shredder that same list around day 23 as you ride the elevator up to the penthouse of defeat, personal pan pizza in one hand and twitter feed in the other. One thing is for sure. The only crunches that will be happening are from the handful of chips in my mouth.

Of course, I rarely feel guilty about not keeping my resolutions. I mean, I make the same ones every year. But I’ve finally discovered the problem. I’m always dealing with quantitative data, and defeat inevitably creeps in when my numbers get behind. It’s the curse of the melancholy.

That’s why, for this year, I’m going to make my resolution simple. One word, to be exact.


Yep. That’s it.


Ah, yes. Finally. A resolution that is qualitative instead of quantitative.

Technically, I can’t fall behind my goal because all I have to do is be better than I was last year. And that really won’t be hard, because I’ve always been terrible at just being.

You see, I have a disability known as mentalitus interupticus, and it goes something like this: I’m at a Christmas party surrounded by lovely people talking about lovely things, building relationships and making memories, but I’m only partially listening, nodding my head up and down, halfway engaged because here’s what I’m really thinking: Did I rotate the laundry? Great, now I’m going to need to rerun the load. It’s 8:00 already. I hope Brent remembers we need to leave at 8:15. What am I going to cook for dinner tomorrow night? It’s 8:03. My phone is vibrating. It could be an emergency. Why can’t my house just be organized? 8:07. Brent better start winding down this conversation. I’m not joking about my 9:00 bedtime. I haven’t heard back from that email I sent over 2 days ago. Need I read into that? 8:15. Time to dig my elbow into Brent’s side. 8:15 and 30 seconds. He’s still talking. We are going to be sooo late getting home. That means I won’t have a full 8 hours of sleep and tomorrow’s events will be sent into a tailspin. 8:25… He’s a dead man.

See how easy it is for me to sabotage the present?

About six weeks ago, I experienced a moment of personal crisis when my husband went out of town on business. Plagued with off-and-on sickness since summer time, a diagnosis of depression, and a house that hasn’t been completely organized since we moved in three years ago, I melted into an emotional puddle. My brother kindly invited my daughter and me over for the afternoon. While the kids were playing with chalk on the driveway, my brother, his wife and I sat in camping chairs in their beautiful Disney forest of a front lawn, sipping coffee, and talking about life…for three hours. And it was the best three hours I had had in a LONG time. That’s when I realized that is the stuff life is made of. I had made myself so busy, physically and mentally, that I had lost sight of what is important. Relationships and the beauty of nature…everything else is rubbish. I’ve always known this innately, I think everyone does, but to be consciously aware and intentional about just being has caused a paradigm shift, at least for me, someone who has an anxiously loud brain.

So then why am I always so consumed with thoughts that in the long run have very little to do with enjoying nature and the presence of others? Why do I waste my time worrying about an unorganized house? Why do I spend my time half-engaged in conversations because I’m so hyper-sensitive about the time? Why do I allow the chiming of my phone to distract me from the people and experiences right in front of me?

Just two weeks ago, I was visiting my parents in Asheville, North Carolina, and my favorite uncle and his wife came to visit. This past year he was diagnosed with Leukemia, and after a long, hard battle, and what we believed was eminent death, God spared his life and he is in remission. I don’t remember all of our conversation (I blame that on the anti-depressants and not on the importance of the words), but he did speak briefly about “being in the moment.” So much of our life is wasted thinking about future moments that we don’t fully engage and digest the moment we are in. We are busy looking through camera lenses instead of experiencing images through our raw vision. We are so busy thinking about how to make the future perfect that we aren’t fully present.

Relationships. Nature. Being.

Who cares about tomorrow. Tomorrow will take care of itself (Matthew 6:34).

I need to just be.

I know, I know. All of the things my brain thinks about are still important. I can’t ignore them. But, I can quiet my thoughts so that I can appreciate the present for what it is. Instead of stressing about my 9:00 bedtime, I can remind myself that the visit I’m having with dear friends is far more important than trying to shuffle them out the door by 8:50.

So for this year, my resolution is simple. I will still need grace. I will still need forgiveness. I will still deal with anxiety from time to time.

But I can’t imagine the beautiful opportunities, memories, and richness that will blossom for me, all by simply being.


Now, pass the pie.