The Adventure Led Me Here

With the best of intentions, I open up a notebook to a fresh sheet of paper every year on January 1st. Pencil scribbling across the pages, I write a list of things I want to accomplish during the coming year. I usually lose the list by mid February. I love making goals. I love working towards something. However, more often than that, life happens. It gets busy, and my goals and resolutions fall to the side faster than the dinosaurs went extinct. This year is different. This year, I'm not making any resolutions (I am resisting the urge to slip in the "my resolution is no more resolutions" joke). I am, however, developing a theme for the year that will guide it. Be intentional. Intentional with every aspect of my life. So often, I drift through life somewhat aimlessly, the days passing by like wispy clouds on a spring day. No more. I want to be intentional with my time. If I'm looking up something on my phone, I don't want three hours to pass wit

Four Ways Your Life is Like a Tub of Hummus: 1). Hummus comes in many flavors. Guess what? Your life comes in many flavors. Somedays life is sad (basil pesto hummus...who really likes that flavor?). Sometimes, it's exciting (spicy hummus). Sometimes, it's calm (plain hummus). 2). Hummus can complement food or stand alone. Yes, it is possible to eat hummus plain. You can choose to have a significant other (my hummus's significant other is usually celery) or you can be single. It's cool. 3). Hummus is unique. Even its name is unique. Hummus. Hummus. Try saying that five times fast. Your life is unique. Just like hummus. 4). Hummus never loses its charm. You never lose your charm. Because you're cool. Like hummus.

Sometimes, I like to pretend I'm a writer. I'll sit with my laptop and plan and formulate story ideas and attempt to type out the words in such a way that will bring the characters to life. As part of my secret desire to be an author, I have a writing board on Pinterest (let's be honest; I have everything on Pinterest). On this writing board, I pin writing tips, inspiration, and quotes. Every so often, I'll stumble across a quote that demands to be heard. It will grab me and hold me until I acknowledge it. Recently, I added a quote to my writing board that I have not been able to get out of my head or my heart. It's six words, but there are a library of books in those six tiny words. "Write what should not be forgotten." Isabelle Allende. I'm not presumptuous enough to think that I have anything particular to write that needs to not be forgotten. My tiny ramblings are but a vapor in the air. But what should not be forgotten? What do we need t

I love Christmas. The lights. Shopping. Music. Cookies (I love cookies year round, but Christmas makes them even more fabulous!). Family. The crispness in the air that tickles your nose. And I love the reminder of hope it brings. Our world is chaotic. Crazy. Broken. The struggles and pain of suffering burdens my heart daily. Over 2000 years ago in Bethlehem, hope arrived. Not in splendor. Not in grandeur. As a baby. A baby laid to rest in a manger, no less. God knew. God knew every tear that would fall from my eye. God knew that pain every person would feel. God knew, and God knows. Through a tiny baby, God showed us a glimpse of hope. Our hope isn't in what we see. It's in what we don't see, in the things yet to come. It rests in a baby who would grow up to save us. Hope arrived, and hope is with us still.

Today, I learned an important lesson about the value of listening. I’m a student teacher in a first grade class room. Today was “hat day,” which is a big deal because it’s the only day during the whole year that kids are allowed to wear hats at school. During reading time, one of the girls rushed up to me, anxious to show me the “special way” she could put on her hat. I was busy with another student, so I redirected her back to her work. After I was finished with the other student, I noticed that the girl was back at her table, but hadn't started on her work yet. I walked over to redirect her. "Can I show you my hat now?" she asked. I was about to tell her “later,” and ask her to get to work, but then I stopped. I realized that right now, at this moment, what this student needed was to be heard. This was important to her, and her mind clearly couldn’t focus on anything else. "Sure." Her hat demonstration took less than thirty seconds, but her whole