I do hope you can make it. We’ll have food plenty of book themed decor and lots of books for sale. But whether you can come or whether you cannot, I want to tell you thank you for your sweet support as this book has been released. The terrifying is mostly over, and I’m settling into content and thankful. I’m content that this book that has been rolling around in my heart and head and hands is finally out of mine and into yours. And I’m thankful to know you’ve been receiving it.

Haven’t been around here before? Watch the video. Read the first chapter. Buy the book. Have a cookie. (sorry. no link for that last one.)

There’s something really magical about having a sister. Here you are, a grown up person, but there is this other grown up person who knew you when you were a little person. And she has the same parents! It’s like, she’s kind of me. But not. I’m friends with myself. Except so much better. Because I would get on my own nerves, but she? Is fantastic. And supportive. And hilarious. And thinks I’m funny even when I am not.

You know the best part about writing a book? Having a sister who is excited that you wrote a book. And so she’s hosting a party to prove it. Go on over to her place for the preliminary details. And if you live within a reasonable distance to Charlotte, save the date and I hope to see you there!

She chose a better way. She chose a life of beauty, of thanksgiving, of trust. She has lived that better way for many years alone. And so on Saturday, when it seemed God reached his long arm into the future and picked up the sweetest summer day, dropping it down right on top of us, no one at the wedding was surprised. On that borrowed day, we celebrated the kind of redemption that can only come from his hand, the kind that is made out of ashes and broken pieces. And we all accepted the fact that he had brought this impossibly beautiful weather just for her.

She didn’t know there would be a forever love in her future. But she trusted anyway. She lived beautifully anyway. All those many years ago when her heart was broken up, the Lord knew this day was yet to come. He knew, and he took her by the hand, even then, and led her forward. There in the past, he was here in the future, and he knew. And this weekend, we joined him in the place he already has been, and we celebrated together.
It may feel comfortable to drown in the sorrow, to rename yourself bitter, to decide that your life is already decided. But what if the future isn’t so gloomy? What if there are plans we know nothing about? Even better, what if we believed that we don’t have to wait for joy and goodness and love to show up later? What if we believed they were available to us right now?

But this week, weepy is my new normal. So many of you showed up to support and encourage me and my nervous self, and I’ve been living in on the brink of the floodgates for days now. Ann I and have talked about how this book writing path is so very much like a birth – and then Amber said this:

“It’s been neat how open you’ve been about this journey – and now it’s like hundreds of us women are crowding into the delivery room, anxiously awaiting the arrival of this precious birth.”

-Amber, Grace 2 Be

And so even though there are six months to go until she arrives, (the cover is finally up!) I have been so thankful for your sincere support and connection. Even though I’ve written the book to out her, that good girl still lingers. And she has impossible expectations of me. But your voices have been God-words, true and loving and received. And I wanted to extend a most sincere thank you.

It’s been work to close the laptop this week, to get down low to the ground with my son and enter into fantasy; to watch the girls move the dolls hands, watch them form the crayon circles and read the words, slow and sounding out. I’m breathing in their slowness, learning to keep with their rhythm. In the midst of new emotions beginning to unearth this week, I am letting myself embrace their smallness and let it be my own.

When I first met Edie a few years ago, I liked her with every single fiber of my being. She’s one of those women who you don’t just want to be your friend, you kind of want to actually be, just like Allysa Milano when I was a kid. When she painted her kitchen cabinets blue last year, I just knew she was my kind of girl. She is beauty, grace, style, and fun. And she is an artist in every sense of the word that I can think of.

Edie with her daughter, Caiti – a photo I have shamelessly swiped from her.

But it was this post Edie wrote when her daughter turned 18 that I’ve gone back to read a few more times than normal. Because for all the ways I admire her beauty, her spunk, her sense of style, I think it is her deep, beautiful, thoughtful writing that speaks to me the most. She writes of mothering in a way that breaks me apart. I’ll let her show you:

“They tell a story all their own. How we labor so diligently for days and weeks and years, and wonder if it matters at all? Will it ever be more than a heap of yarn?  Will food and laundry nourish a life?  Can bread be His body broken?

And finally, mercy gives way. Heartache becomes forgiveness. Stubborn melts to grace. Tangles of yarn slowly take form of a sweater. Years of meals nourish a body like years of love nourish a heart. Redemption rushes in and finishes the work.

And it did matter. Every little stitch. All the countless hours. . . Hoping, begging, praying that she knows just how very much she matters. And that she will feel in the blue—the warmth of  a mother who loves from the broken place and the peace of a  Father who forgives.”

-Edie, Life in Grace

Thank you Edie, for piling words on top of feeling, for putting paragraphs around the flailing and grasping that sometimes is motherhood, and for doing it with such lovely abandon. You are an inspiration to me, the kind of mama I hope to be when my girls turn 18. I wish you a most sincere Happy Birthday.

And so, I know there are many of you reading who also read Edie. I want to encourage you to write a post about how she has been an encouragement to you and link up over at her blog today! If you read her but don’t have a blog, there are instructions posted at her place today on how you can send a letter instead. She could use a little encouragement, as well as some sweet reminders of the ways she has brought grace and beauty into our lives. So go be a part of her online birthday card!

Oh, and Nester? I’m Edie.

We went home, had help, friends were kind, family was supportive. But my body started to give me signs that all was not well. The activity and stress began to catch up. And then I looked at the calendar – two weeks until Christmas. And then I looked at my reflection in the mirror – tired. And then I looked at my pantry – disarray. And as my sister dug through a cabinet to find popcorn that I swore we didn’t have (we did), I lamented my mess and lack of organizing.

She opened the popcorn bag, stuck it in the microwave, and offered freedom she didn’t even know I needed: You’re being too hard on yourself. The microwave buttons dinged, and as the little machine roared to life, my recent days played out quick like a movie reel, straight in front of me and laden with heavy worry – about this and that and them and those things. And in nearly every corner, I found shame.

It doesn’t take a hero to offer grace to the grace-filled. But to extend grace in the midst of ungraciousness? That is a most difficult task. And I can be a most ungracious girl to myself. When I forget an ingredient for the cookies, I roll my eyes and call me stupid. More than once. Out loud. And then it spirals into worry that I’m not good at having people over. I get too overwhelmed and I come undone too easily. I may have good intentions, but my follow-through is sloppy. And only an idiot would try. I should just go ahead and wish this Christmas season right away.

When someone else is running late, I am the first to dismiss it. It’s fine! I don’t mind! And I genuinely don’t. If someone else is struggling, I sincerely long to offer support. When you forget an ingredient for the cookies, I can laugh with you and we can make the best of it. I can extend grace to you and it is easy and right. Messed up is what makes you touchable, endearing, lovely.

I will extend grace to you in the midst of your tired and your need. I have difficulty extending grace to me. I don’t want to be my own most unwelcome guest at Christmas. I already see the potential to be swept away by the impossible expectations of perfect, invisible me. Has she been lurking around your house? Force that girl out and offer grace instead. Shove silly in her face and give yourself permission to laugh at the days to come.

I tend to take photos of stuff like this. Because, hello? How cute. While chatting with Stephanie, she asked me if I am ever intimidated by the fact that my sister is The Nester, and whether or not that makes it hard for me to measure up in my own house.

People actually ask me this question a lot, so I thought it might be helpful to answer it here. As you know, my sister hasn’t always been The Nester. But she has always, always nested. And she’s always been creative, brave and free when it comes to crafting house into home. When I got married nearly nine years ago, I thought those instincts might kick in with me as well. They did not. In fact, the exact opposite happened with me. I became a ball of insecurity, not necessarily in comparison with my sister, more because I lacked confidence in my own taste or ability. I didn’t have that same sense of freedom.

Where my sister would paint a wall, hate it, repaint it, hate it, repaint it, and change her mind, I would leave it white and worry. Afraid to try. Afraid to fail. Afraid. Over the years, she has helped me to know how to think about my house, to not let fear be a motivator, and to give myself permission to fail.

“Is your home a place to be or a place to be careful. If you can’t make a mistake at home then where can you try out something new? If you are determined to worry about something, worry about cancer or a meteorite hitting the earth or the end of the world. DO NOT worry about paint colors.”

~The Nester

You have to admit, she makes a great point. Because the truth is, there is an uncanny parallel between how we approach our home and how we approach our life. The heavy, hovering cloud of fear does not discriminate. If we let it, it will overwhelm all areas of our life, from cancer to curtains. So to answer Stephanie’s question: No, I am not intimidated by the fact that my sister is The Nester. If you have met her, you will I’m sure agree that she is simply not an intimidating person. But there have been times where I was envious of her freedom. I wondered why I couldn’t just let go and live in my home and feel free to make it rather than letting it undo me.

I sincerely hope this doesn’t sound too cheesy or dramatic but I’m going to say it anyway. I credit my sister for ushering me into a place of healing and freedom when it comes to expressing myself in my home. I now feel fairly confident in my own taste and style, and it isn’t because she told me what to like or because I copy her. It is because she has encouraged me to try, play, mess up, have fun and try again. I would do well to apply that same philosophy to the way I live my life.

I kid. Kind of. Actually, we wanted to make Pioneer Woman’s cinnamon rolls because they are the most wonderful, festive, fantastically delicious tin full of fat you will ever eat. So my kitchen was filled up with flour, sugar, tag-playing-kids and Bing Crosby’s White Christmas.

There was a lot of butter and a little dancing. The recipe makes seven tins of rolls. Pioneer Woman talks about making these and delivering them to friends at the holidays. What a great idea, we thought, as we finished off the third tin. Granted, there were twelve of us. But still. That’s a lot of rolls.

I did deliver one tin to my sister-in-law and it was extremely satisfying to show up on her cold doorstep with warm, maple, coffee smelling rolls. I assume everyone has heard of these, but if you are one of the three who haven’t, here is the recipe. And we only ended up using three sticks of butter, so they’re that much closer to healthy.

**I’m linking this post with Sandy’s Home is… party.

But then I went to this wedding last weekend. I know, I keep on talking about it and I am sorry about that. But it was simply a really big deal that this girl loves this man and that he loves her right back. I got there on Wednesday and rushed around making appointments and dry cleaning dresses and loved on my college roommate when she got teary. The wedding day passed in a flurry of stressfully happy eventfulness, a mosaic blend of holy and crazy, just as weddings ought to be. And then, it was time for the party.

Just like that, my college best friend was married and busy celebrating with guests and new husband. I retreated to the back of the reception tent to watch from a distance and breathe. Within minutes, I was surrounded by girls from college who I haven’t seen in years. And I couldn’t hug them tight enough. Nor could I stop the tidal wave of girly emotion from rising up and spilling out all over them.

As I stood there in my mess of giggles and tears, Amber’s Sister Party came to mind. I spent the rest of the evening lauging, dancing and catching up with my college sisters. The girls who knew me when. The girls in front of whom it is impossible to be embarassed because they loved me then and love me still. I reveled in the fact that, even though I forgot to plan my own sister party, I was still able to celebrate the bonds that run deep between girls. And I was thankful.

I was in Charlotte this weekend for the More conference I told you about last week. Or maybe it was two weeks ago. I can’t keep track, what with all these kids of mine going off to kindergarten.

My sister and I did one of the breakout sessions where we talked about how to turn the house you have right now into the house you’ve always wanted. I promise I’m not singing there. I know it looks like I am. I’m still kind of amazed that people let me have a microphone. But microphones and I have been getting to know each other better lately. Did you know if you write ‘microphone’ enough, it starts to feel like you maybe might have made the whole word up?

Seriously, the real reason people came to the conference was because of Lysa Terkeurst. Clearly.

She is fantastic with the microphone. So fantastic, in fact, that she wears one of those special Secret Service microphones. See it all camouflaged up there by her cute face? It was skin colored and everything. If you ever have a chance to hear Lysa tell her story, microphone or no microphone, I highly recommend it. Really hard stuff + honesty + brokenness + Jesus = a powerful story of new life bursting forth from painful death. I just love that girl.

I look forward to getting back into the swing of things here at home. Especially on Tuesdays. I have missed unwrapping Tuesdays with you. Let’s start it again. Join me next week, September 8 with a grateful heart as you take time to notice the gifts in the midst of the ordinary. I can’t wait.