What's the Plott?

There are days when I look around at our life and think, we really are living in a little slice of blessing. Not because of fancy vacations or extravagant outings — truthfully, we don’t live that way. But because our everyday life feels a bit like a mini-vacation in itself. The energy that fills this home with a constant flow of activities; the full calendar of birthday parties, school sports, cousin days, friends’ events, fishing days, holidays, and family gatherings. There is a steady hum of a life shared with people who love each other deeply. And sure — some days it feels like a lot. Coordinating schedules, budgeting for activities, saying yes when we’re tired, showing up even when it’s inconvenient. There is planning involved, and sometimes sacrifice. But the richness of living life with purpose, intentionality, and abundance!?  It is worth every bit of effort. This fullness isn't accidental. Jesus said: “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” — John 10...

There’s something special about recognizing a voice — truly recognizing it — not because it’s loud, not because it’s demanding, but because it’s familiar. It is recognized because it is woven into your heart through time, repetition, trust, and love. -Annie the Sheep and the Voice She Knew- Before we ever had a flock of our own, we had Annie. Sweet, fragile Annie — a rescued lamb we bottle-fed back to health. We kept her warm, fed her often, and talked to her constantly as we nursed her. When she was strong enough, we returned her to her original herd. And honestly, I wondered if she would forget us — if she would blend right in and not look back. But a week and a half later, when we came to check on her, something incredible happened. We called for her. She lifted her head. And out of a field full of sheep, she came running to our voice. She knew us. She recognized where she belonged. We were imprinted in her. And that day, when she left her original herd to follow the sound she trust...

  (Shout out to “The Three Amigos” fans — you know the line!) All of us at some point have tried to plan something down to the smallest detail, only to have it unravel in the most unexpected way. This story is one of those times. When my husband and I received our invitation to join our friends' tent at the  Steeplechase of Charleston , I went into full-on preparation mode. I had never been before, and I wasn’t about to show up underdressed or uninformed of the expectations of this high-profile, annual equestrian social event of the Lowcountry. Race-day hats, coordinated outfits, the perfect mix of casual yet classy — it all became a personal mission to look the part! I researched what to wear Pins. I planned. I tried on multiple outfits and even borrowed a few accessories. I arranged for the boys to all be where they needed to be for the day, RSVPed to our hosts, bought our tickets and parking passes, and double-checked everything. By the night before, I had it all planned...

There’s an unspoken acknowledgment around here: life doesn’t pause just because the weather isn’t ideal. With the rainy weekend we had recently, it certainly proved true. A few weekends ago, the boys headed out for a Boy Scout trip to a horse rescue ranch. It was cold. It was muddy. It rained the ENTIRE weekend. But the Scouts didn't cancel — they just pulled on ponchos and kept going to accomplish the good service that they set out to do. After all, the chores at the horse rescue needed to happen regardless of whether the scouts showed up to help or not.  Meanwhile, back at home, I was living a dream I almost forgot existed: a quiet house, a clean kitchen that stayed clean, the glorious freedom to binge-watch that 6-year-old show that no one else wants to watch. And to enjoy it all without interruptions every 12 minutes.  It was bliss. Holy, quiet, candle-lit bliss.  Well… almost. Because as luxurious as it was to have a quiet house and a “just me” weekend, the farm didn...

- October 13, 2022 (Originally penned in an older blog I used to have that no one read - But Truth does not change - a few details were adjusted to reflect our current year plans for the weekend!)  I was withdrawn from a school when my mom got wind that a Halloween festival was being hosted in the field behind the playground, and the nuns could be seen wearing witch hats from her kitchen window. We did not celebrate Halloween. Instead, our church hosted an All-Saints’ Eve, a festival of harvest and a celebration of saints. There were games, cake walks, candy treats, and costumes. Everyone was challenged to prepare biblical costumes. The intent was to keep the event family-friendly - Jesus-centered. We had your typical shepherds, a few sheep or other ark animals, the occasional Mary, and so on. But every year, someone would knock it out of the park. I remember one All Saints'. Eve, my sister’s gown was beautiful. She was Esther the Queen, and boy, did she look it! (Esther Chapter 2...

As we make our way through fall, my kitchen leaps into its finest season. By now, we have figured out our school schedules, and things are humming along towards the holidays. Every night, everyone is hungry, and - in finding ways to enjoy the kitchen grind and keep them fed- sourdough found its way into my routine. In my best Frankenstein voice, I hear myself saying, “It’s alive!” way too often. But in fact, it is — growing, bubbling, needing daily attention. You can’t just toss it on the counter and walk away. It demands presence. Feed it too late, and it weakens. Neglect it too long, and you’ll be starting all over again. Around here, our sourdough starter has become part of the weekly chatter. It sits near the oven vent next to my cooking utensils and favorite burner, in sight daily and quietly reminding me that some things only thrive through daily care. I don’t bake bread every day, but every day I must attend to the sourdough. I aim for nothing to go to waste, and we make snack...

There are days when I wonder if my boys will ever get along. Most mornings start with bickering over bathroom time and their small shared bedroom, and most afternoons end with a disagreement over something as small as who’s wearing whose socks or who ate the last cookie. But every once in a while, something shifts. Lately, it’s been the treehouse. Now, let me be clear — I don’t actually know what they’re building. All I hear are bikes clattering back and forth from the barn, the rattle of old nails being hammered into scrap wood, and their voices calling each other’s names (without fighting!). From a distance, I catch glimpses of creativity in motion: one boy inspecting scraps of wood to be repurposed, the other balancing items on the back of an old golf cart to be hauled to the construction site,  both of them lost in a world where adventure feels bigger than any argument they’ve ever had. They call it a treehouse, but I’m not sure that is what’s being built. What I do know ...