tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70641501332011929212024-03-23T03:16:47.038-07:00SEASONED WITH SALTLiving a creativity-filled life as a wife and mother, always with Christ at the center. Hoping my musings add a little bit of salty goodness to the everyday.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-7208310260968699632024-01-18T13:20:00.000-08:002024-01-24T13:21:41.561-08:00On Frugal LivingLast night I had a steak dinner. In my quiet, tiny kitchen, the red meat sizzled in a cast iron pan while au gratin potatoes bubbled in the oven. I couldn’t help imagining the scene that would unfold. I would serve it with steamed veggies, and my husband and I would enjoy the rest of a decadent cheesecake for dessert. My son would beg for bites of the delicious, velvety goodness. I hummed to myself while I cooked, the smells of my cooking tantalizing my senses, feeling my daughter bounce around in my belly after I took a cold drink of water.<br /><br />I felt very fancy. And as I stood in my kitchen taking stock of it all, I did something I usually do while I waited for the heat and the stove to do their jobs. I calculated how much the meal cost me. Au gratin potatoes— one dollar. I bought a box at Aldi. I forgot to buy butter so I didn’t even technically make them correctly, but they tasted great. Steamed veggies— another dollar. A frozen California medley from, yes, Aldi. The steak? Vacuum sealed Wagyu beef that was given to my husband over a year ago by his generous employer. The cheesecake—I made it this weekend as a special treat. It cost about five dollars to make. So, the grand total for the steak dinner I’d been craving all week came to seven dollars, even if we counted the whole cheesecake. But we’d been slowly eating it all week so I don’t even know if we can count it.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1608100014049-ad0f788bb44f?crop=entropy&cs=tinysrgb&fit=max&fm=jpg&ixid=M3wzMDAzMzh8MHwxfHNlYXJjaHwxMnx8c3RvdmV8ZW58MHx8fHwxNzA1NTQyOTUyfDA&ixlib=rb-4.0.3&q=80&w=1080"><img height="331" src="https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1608100014049-ad0f788bb44f?crop=entropy&cs=tinysrgb&fit=max&fm=jpg&ixid=M3wzMDAzMzh8MHwxfHNlYXJjaHwxMnx8c3RvdmV8ZW58MHx8fHwxNzA1NTQyOTUyfDA&ixlib=rb-4.0.3&q=80&w=1080" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@juno1412">KWON JUNHO</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/">Unsplash</a></div><br />It’s tempting, in moments like these, to take credit for the meal by patting myself on the back for my frugality. To remember the painstaking budgeting I’ve done every month for all of our bills, for scouring the shelves for the best meals to fill our bellies. But I didn’t fill my freezer with high quality cuts of red meat. I didn’t get my husband his job that brings a steady paycheck every two weeks. And I certainly didn’t get to a place where I can joyfully manage the household’s money without an immense amount of grace from God.<br /><br />Since getting married, my husband has been laid off a couple times (from no fault of his own). One of the times was about a month after our son was born. Another was at the beginning of last year. Now he is in a job where he excels. He has a Christian boss who treats his employees with respect. And even though the work is seasonal (lawn care), his boss makes sure to find them things to do in the shop all winter so he doesn’t have to do any lay offs.<br /><br />My dad taught my siblings and me pretty early on how to save and how to budget. When my husband and I were both working everything was pretty easy. Once I had our son, I started staying home and the budget got tighter, but it was still manageable. We’d planned for it! All of our financial plans before we got married worked on solely my husband’s income. This made it easy to save before we had kids, and made the transition easier. After my husband lost his job in the first quarter of 2023, it was tough. When he got his new job, everything got easier again. But inflation, a new baby, random car expenses, (I mean, this is just life, right?) kind of threw me for a loop. I spent the last couple months of the year constantly moving money around to cover unexpected costs. So one of my goals for 2024 is to trust God more wholeheartedly with our budget.<br /><br />It started at the grocery store in those last months of 2023. Echoing the advice of my sister, when my grocery bill crept closer to the limit I’d set, and I had to make choices on what to put back, I’d thank God that He’d given me the resources to make use of Aldi’s great prices. When I found meat on sale, I counted it as a blessing from God. How good is He, to let me find the red sticker so I could stock our freezer? And then as we moved into the new year, I asked God to help me be a better steward of His blessings, and to please help me figure out how to reset our budget.<br /><br />And He did. I don’t know really how it happened, but suddenly when I made our budget spreadsheet, everything was perfectly in line. My husband’s paycheck covered all the anticipated expenses, without any moving money around until his second check of the month. Now, don’t get me wrong, we weren’t in dire straights. We had enough money coming in, I was just struggling to figure out everything on paper, and it was resulting in a lot of annoyances and stress.<br /><br />But last night, as I sat with my family and ate a delicious, frugal steak dinner, I felt blessed beyond measure. I am breathing a little easier, trusting God more, and trying to be intentionally grateful that He’s given us what we need for me to be able to stay home with our kids. Not only that, but He is helping me to be better at managing with this relatively new budget. I’m so thankful for a God who not only cares if I am fed, but he cares whether I smile while I eat.<br /><br />I am thinking of sharing some of my favorite “frugal” recipes that have kept me sane on my tight grocery budget in an upcoming post! Let me know if that sounds like something you’d like in the comments :)Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-55880259403068687232024-01-11T12:58:00.000-08:002024-01-24T12:59:20.808-08:00The Story of My Little Old HouseA little under two years ago, I began looking for a house. I was in love, soon to be engaged, and planning for my new life to begin. We wanted a June wedding, and my hope was to be able to move in to our new home together once we were married. But that meant we were on a tight schedule, in a housing market that was competitive for buyers.<br /><br />Our first few outings with the realtor felt surreal. We had a lot of fun looking at different houses to get a feel for our options. The first house we loved was tiny, but charming. Within our budget, right next to a great trail, walking distance to some delightful restaurants. We placed an offer and were outbid by a lot. My husband and I were dumbfounded. How we were going to find a house if we get outbid by 25K on the tiniest house we’ve ever seen?<br /><br />It went like that for a few months. Meeting with the realtor, seeing some really weird houses that seemed absurdly expensive, finding one we could see ourselves living in only to be outbid at every turn. We considered looking for apartments, but compared to our estimated interest rate, an apartment would cost double what we’d spend monthly on a house. And I’d spent years saving for my dream of owning my own home. Now that I had someone to share that dream with, I wanted it even more. Plus, I knew we’d want to start a family fairly soon, so it just seemed like the best time was now.<br /><br />But the market was so competitive. If a house was within our budget and not gone immediately, there was something wrong with it. Foundation issues, weird layouts, terrible neighborhoods. Investors bought those ones up too. One house had shag carpets on the walls. Another was so close to the highway that you could hear the nearby hum and zoom of every car on the road. As the weather got better, houses sold faster. Connor and I were at a loss.<br /><br />My grandmother, who has since passed, messaged me on Facebook a lot to see how things were going. I know what you’re thinking, but she was probably more tech savvy than I am. She always used FB messenger. I was two and a half months away from my wedding, and still we’d not found a house. She asked me if we’d been praying about it. I said yes. She said she had one more suggestion. “It might be goofy, but in my experience it works,” she told me. “You and Connor should sit down with pen and paper, write a letter to the Lord and tell him what you are both wanting in your house.”<br /><br />Today I was cleaning out my Notes app due to a decluttering challenge on Instagram (LOL), and I found the “letter” Connor and I wrote to God based on my grandma’s advice. My husband lived with a bunch of messy dudes, so we couldn’t find a pen, so I typed it up on my phone and we prayed about it together. Then we waited. Here is the letter:<br /><br /><br />Dear Lord,<br /><br />We would like a house with 3 bedrooms, 1.5 bathrooms, in a safe neighborhood. We would like it to have a good roof and gutters, working appliances, and finished hardwood floors. A nice full kitchen with space to host people. We pray that it is in our budget, and will be easy to sell when you call us elsewhere. We pray that there will be good neighbors, that we could witness to and take care of each other. That it will be ready by the time we need so that we can start our married lives together in a house of our own. We know You brought us together, and we trust You to take care of our living situation. <br /><br />Amen<br /><br />Two weeks later, exactly two months before our wedding date, we had an offer accepted on our current home. It has three bedrooms, two FULL bathrooms, a two car garage, finished hardwood floors, a good roof (no gutters though), a tiny kitchen (but a large dining room with ample space for hosting). It was also well within our budget, the owner introduced us to all his wonderful neighbors himself, and we were able to close on the house before our wedding date.<br /><br />My husband was able to move in before our wedding and get the house ready for us to live in. He got bids for gutters, set up our bedroom, kept the lawn mowed, and tried to find places for all our wedding gifts. Although I’ll admit I did most of the arranging once I moved in.<div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fb0e4b47a-1f8c-4043-9af1-33ddc98d5939_1047x1396.jpeg"><img height="400" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fb0e4b47a-1f8c-4043-9af1-33ddc98d5939_1047x1396.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">me, 9 months pregnant, standing in front of our beautiful little house</div><br />Did our “letter” to God magically make a house appear for us to buy? Did it convince God to look down on us with special favor? I don’t think so. I think God is good and gracious and blesses His children for no reason at all sometimes. What I do know is that finding the letter reminded me of God’s faithfulness. Finding the letter reminded me of what a blessing our house is. I get to see a tangible reminder of how God answered my prayers in that chaotic season before I married my sweetheart.<br /><br />I’ve used my grandmother’s advice quite a few times since that house hunt. In our <a href="https://open.substack.com/pub/juliamcmullen/p/on-preparing-for-the-worst?r=1idgq1&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcome=true">car troubles</a>, in my prayers for labor (in my first pregnancy and this one). Not only does it help me be intentional about trusting God with the desires of my heart, but it lets me look back and see how He worked in each of them.<br /><br />If I had written down every prayer I’ve ever prayed, I’d have a paper trail of God’s goodness. I’d see my expectations change, see my heart let go of things I didn’t need, see God working in all of it, giving me the things that are truly good. I’d see Him holding me in my heartbreak, and the rays of sunlight as He built my faith to help me heal. My prayers of paper and pen are a testament to His goodness, and a reminder that where I once was lacking, God came through.</div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-12219025284896012502024-01-04T12:55:00.000-08:002024-01-24T12:57:35.503-08:00New Year, New Me?As I simultaneously enter the new year and the third trimester of this pregnancy, I have been feeling this enormous sense of urgency. Urgency to do all the things I love before a new postpartum season where I am flung yet again into the unknown. Hadn’t it taken me almost a year to feel like myself again after becoming a mother? What if my writing changes again? What if I don’t recognize myself?<div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1605812830374-16edfbeb5b60?crop=entropy&cs=tinysrgb&fit=max&fm=jpg&ixid=M3wzMDAzMzh8MHwxfHNlYXJjaHw0MXx8bmV3JTIweWVhcnxlbnwwfHx8fDE3MDQzMTY2MDB8MA&ixlib=rb-4.0.3&q=80&w=1080"><img height="267" src="https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1605812830374-16edfbeb5b60?crop=entropy&cs=tinysrgb&fit=max&fm=jpg&ixid=M3wzMDAzMzh8MHwxfHNlYXJjaHw0MXx8bmV3JTIweWVhcnxlbnwwfHx8fDE3MDQzMTY2MDB8MA&ixlib=rb-4.0.3&q=80&w=1080" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@kellysikkema">Kelly Sikkema</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/">Unsplash</a></div><br />I’ll admit that I spent a great part of 2023 feeling a bit lost. Not on a day-to-day basis. Nor was I wondering what is my purpose in life or doubting my future. But I felt lost. Like the part of me that makes me me was hiding and I couldn’t find her.<br /><br /><br />In so many ways I am thriving. I have been writing this blog weekly for months now, have been submitting and writing poetry regularly, am learning to keep my house tidy. New recipes are finding their way into my repertoire, and I even have improved my efficiency in the kitchen. Perhaps that is part of my feeling lost. As I settle in to a routine and rhythm based on these new, long-term roles I have (wife, mother), I am rediscovering myself. I am not longing for the next stage of life like I was when I was single and paying off student loans. I am living my dream.<br /><br />But something about changing identities so many times in so little time has given me a bit of whiplash. I went from single to dating to married to being a MOM all within a… 15 month time span (if we are counting my son’s time in-utero as motherhood, which of course I do)? And less than a year after my firstborn arrived, I became pregnant with our second, and time is showing no indications of slowing down.<br /><br />Part of “living my dream” means realizing that there is an entire person who’d been partially buried underneath my desires. I spent a majority of my twenties in a space of longing. Longing for love, for family, for purpose. Longing for God to fulfill the desires He gave me by giving me a husband and children. He did, and I am so grateful. Now the longing is replaced by the sanctifying work of being a wife and mother. Now the things I wanted for my life are mine, and the only thing left is to make the most of it. Perhaps that is an oversimplification.<br /><br />But suddenly, my passions for music and writing and baking are no longer distractions from what I don’t have. I am finding ways of integrating them into my “new life” (as I think of it), and as I do so, there is a bit of grief for the person that I was when my love for them began. My poetry is less lovesick. I am less prone to daydreamy meditations on life, nature, and art. My spiritual walk with God is emptied of those arduous prayer sessions where I begged to be in the next season of life, where I begged for Him to help me be content where I was. Now I am praying daily for the strength and grace to steward wisely the gifts He has given me. The longing now is a daily ache for God, and a more earthly ache to have His help along the way.<br /><br />In all this newness, I am relearning what I’ve learned before, and learning more than I ever have. I am still finding out who I am, who I am in this role God has given me. I’m figuring out what it means to be trusted with the care of two precious souls. I am wondering how I’ll juggle all the rest of life. This year, as I continue to write this newsletter, I’m sure I’ll still be figuring it all out. But I’m looking forward to having you with me.</div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-17540156215938251352023-12-21T12:03:00.000-08:002023-12-23T12:04:38.346-08:002023 ReflectionAs the year draws to a close, and Christmas is peeking its head around this weekend, winking at me, I decided to write my final post of the year. We will be traveling to see family over the holidays, so I want to be full present and actually rest during our time away. I will get back to regular posting on the first Thursday of the New Year.<br /><br />This was a year of many things. It was the Year of Sanderson, which was a kickstarter campaign from Brandon Sanderson. I received one new novel every quarter, and my sister and mother did as well, so we had a book club for each one. Each book was very entertaining and they also look gorgeous on my shelf, so it was definitely worth it.<br /><br />I want to take a look at some of my goals for the year and evaluate myself. This post is mostly for me, but if you are like me, you’ll enjoy reading my 2023 wrap-up. Some of my goals included:<br /><br /><b>Read 36 books</b>. I did not accomplish this. I read 17, which was more than last year, so I have no regrets. I read a lot of picture books out loud to my son, some of them multiple times in a row… so I am gonna cut myself some slack.<br /><br /><b>THE YEAR OF THRIFTING</b>. I had a goal to thrift EVERYTHING this year. Everything non-essential, that is. Some things I thrifted include maternity clothes, presents, books, a rocker/recliner, kitchen utensils, and home decor.<br /><br /><br /><b>Submit more poetry/write more poetry</b>. This is always on my list of goals at the end of each year. This year, because of my friendship with <br /><a href="https://open.substack.com/users/3911435-e-r-skulmoski?utm_source=mentions">E R Skulmoski</a>, I submitted more, wrote more, and even had poems <a href="https://open.substack.com/pub/juliamcmullen/p/new-published-poems?r=1idgq1&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcome=true">published!!</a> Collaboration is so so helpful.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><b>Treat myself like a real writer</b>. I wanted to be more consistent and intentional about my blog. This year I started posting more consistently, especially after creating my Substack, and I even have plans for more content and structure in the new year. For now, I am just very proud of the consistency I’ve maintained in the past few months.<br /><br /><br /><b>Become a better homemaker</b>. Though I struggled with a lot of anxiety this year, I did find ways to integrate a few new routines that have made keeping house much easier. I hope to continue this momentum into 2024, even if things get a little out of whack with arrival of baby girl.<br /><br />Looking ahead to 2024, I want to be more intentional about gratefulness. I want to spend time regularly reflecting on what is good in my life, and celebrating it. I struggled so much to feel like myself again after my son was born, and I think I missed lots of opportunities be grateful. So in an effort to kickstart my brain in that regard, I’m going to do a quick monthly “highlight reel” where I name one cool thing that happened in each month!<br /><br /><br />January: Byron had surgery for a hernia, and while that was scary, it went so well and he recovered so quickly! Praise God for amazing doctors.<br /><br />February: Annual Valentine’s day date, this time with our sweet little third wheel, Byron!<br /><a href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Ffdbe9fce-5fe7-4f5f-ae39-70755ad3a814_1440x1080.jpeg"><img height="300" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Ffdbe9fce-5fe7-4f5f-ae39-70755ad3a814_1440x1080.jpeg" width="400" /><br /></a><br /><br />March: A favorite coffee shop from my college town opened a location in my city, and one of my close friends got the job as the manager! So of course I went with my sister-in-law on opening day!<br /><br />April: Visited Connor’s parents in Indiana, and Connor took me to see Chicago for the first time on our way back<br /><a href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Ff0cf7a15-d7eb-43fc-8c01-b2cfb3efa15c_3024x4032.jpeg"><img height="400" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Ff0cf7a15-d7eb-43fc-8c01-b2cfb3efa15c_3024x4032.jpeg" width="300" /><br /></a>this adorable photoshoot happened in the hotel pool!<br /><br />May: Byron started walking! (and also the new Zelda came out and I played it way too much)<br /><br />June: Hubby and I celebrated our second anniversary! I made a cheesecake and Connor bought me beautiful flowers.<br /><br />July: Found out we were pregnant with our second baby!<br /><br />August: Went to Minnesota to attend my grandpa’s wedding. It was a joy seeing so many extended family members we haven’t seen in a long time.<br /><br />September: Got the long-awaited dual bump picture with my sister just in time! My nephew arrived a little over a week later.<br /><a href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F05010ca7-75d0-4409-9efe-644f135be5a4_3024x3780.jpeg"><img height="400" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F05010ca7-75d0-4409-9efe-644f135be5a4_3024x3780.jpeg" width="320" /><br /></a><br /><br />October: Unexpected visit from Connor’s younger brother and his wife. They stayed a few days, and Byron absolutely adored his uncle. Gave him a hug every time he came into the room.<br /><br />November: Did the Writer’s Digest November Poem a Day challenge, and didn’t miss a day!<br /><br />December: Spent a lot of time with family, eating good food and celebrating the holidays.<br /><br />Thank you so much for coming along with me for my 2023 recap! I hope your holidays are merry and bright. I’ll see you next year!Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-3282683956326699952023-12-14T12:02:00.000-08:002023-12-23T12:03:00.991-08:00The Gift of MusicOne of my favorite parts of the Christmas season is Christmas music. Whether it’s one of the Mannheim Steamroller CDs playing in my mom’s kitchen, or a candlelit concert at the cathedral, my heart rejoices at the magic of the seasonal songs. And as a performer, there is no better treat than to participate in a Christmas concert.<br /><br />Last night was the dress rehearsal for the Christmas program at my church. It is a lovely program with beautiful music, an orchestra, and of course, adorable kids. I am blessed to be singing “O Holy Night” to start off the show, and then I get to join the orchestra. I rarely play my violin. I laugh that it’s just my Christmas instrument. But playing with people is such a treat, even if the occasion for it is rare now that I am no longer in school.<div><br /><a href="https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1482627750753-afdba16659ef?crop=entropy&cs=tinysrgb&fit=max&fm=jpg&ixid=M3wzMDAzMzh8MHwxfHNlYXJjaHwyMnx8Y2hyaXN0bWFzJTIwY29uY2VydCUyMGNhbmRsZXxlbnwwfHx8fDE3MDI1MzExNDZ8MA&ixlib=rb-4.0.3&q=80&w=1080"><img height="427" src="https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1482627750753-afdba16659ef?crop=entropy&cs=tinysrgb&fit=max&fm=jpg&ixid=M3wzMDAzMzh8MHwxfHNlYXJjaHwyMnx8Y2hyaXN0bWFzJTIwY29uY2VydCUyMGNhbmRsZXxlbnwwfHx8fDE3MDI1MzExNDZ8MA&ixlib=rb-4.0.3&q=80&w=1080" width="640" /><br /></a>Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@davidbeale">David Beale</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/">Unsplash</a><br /><br />Today, as I rehearsed “O Holy Night” with the orchestra playing behind me, I had to distract myself from the urge to cry. Letting my voice ring out on the high notes as the orchestra swelled behind me reminded me of my time in college, where making music ten times this caliber was commonplace. There is a little ache on my heart when I think of it even now. A mixture of longing for what was and grief that it is over.<br /><br />Music used to be so central to my life. It still is, but not in the ways I used to believe it would be. I used to think I’d make a career of it. That I’d go to graduate school, then land a gig at an opera house, make ends meet by singing and traveling and doing this thing I excelled at. God had other plans. I had a generous offer at the school of my dreams, but He called me away. I met my husband a few years later and now I have the family of my dreams. He knew what I needed. He knew that my desire for music and my desire for a family were at odds with each other. He asked me to trust Him, and so I chose to leave the career behind.<br /><br />I’ll never regret it, because what I have now is suited to me in every possible way. I would have been at war with myself constantly in order to make a living as a performer. And God has given me ways to continue using my skills. I teach voice lessons and write lullabies for my son, and am on the worship team at church. And every Christmas, I get to make beautiful music for my favorite time of year with my church family.<br /><br />When I was singing “O Holy Night” up on that stage last night, I remembered why I loved performing in the first place. When I let my voice ring out, the music flowed like pure joy from my body—it seemed to create the joy. I was reminded of what a gift from God music is, and He softened up that achy part of my heart where music lives. He reminded me that most important of all, the gift of music’s purpose is to glorify Him, and draw me closer to Him. It might seem small, but I haven’t felt that way while singing in a while. I could have done countless things with my talent for singing—but the most important question has always been “what will God do with my talent?” Last night, He used it to remind me of His goodness, to give me a thrill of hope in my weary little world.</div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-80824917075588178422023-12-07T07:00:00.000-08:002023-12-23T12:01:48.507-08:00Romanticizing Winter<br /><br /> The snow hasn’t quite made it to my little piece of the word, but I’m all anticipation for the white, shimmery blanket to finally grace my lawn. My house is warm, my kettle always ready to boil water for tea, and my oven is constantly rotating between dinner and dessert.<br /><br />I’ll admit that I’ve always loved winter. The world quiets down in the cold, and invites me to participate in a stiller, slower, more intentional season. Because I am naturally inclined to spend cozy days indoors, the slow, grey days do not bother me. They invigorate me. I find no difficulty in romanticizing the winter season. I can spend countless hours inside, writing, baking, tackling small projects around the house, without ever feeling guilty that I’m wasting a beautiful day outside. Except of course, when there is fresh snow to be played in. Here is a rondelet that I wrote a few years ago, attempting to capture my love for snow:<div style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-family: Lora, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"><hr style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background: var(--color-detail-themed); border: 0px; height: 1px; margin: var(--size-32) 0; padding: 0px;" /></div><br /><br /><b>Rondelet</b><div><br /> The softest snow<br />falls gently on the frozen earth.<br />The softest snow<br />turns all the world like stars that glow,<br />all shimmering in winter’s birth,<br />and all the cold, though deep, is worth<br />the softest snow.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe my favorite part about winter is one that is a little bit abstract. That the sleepy, frozen earth is not the end. We will, in a few short (or long) months, see the new buds of springtime. To take it a bit farther, in the context of our faith, the winter season is a chance to reflect on the promise of a savior—the long, sometimes difficult darkness points us to the hope of spring, of redemption. As Christians, it might not be easy to slow down and let the seasons remind you of the truth of the gospel, but I think that embracing them instead of resisting allows us to reflect on our faith. And every season holds a different beauty for a follower of Christ. Springtime is new life, summer is the glory of creation, autumn is traditionally harvest (reaping the bounty of God’s blessing), and winter is a time to reflect and prepare our hearts to receive his grace.</div><div><br /><a href="https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1544235653-a313b8a430d9?crop=entropy&cs=tinysrgb&fit=max&fm=jpg&ixid=M3wzMDAzMzh8MHwxfHNlYXJjaHw0Mnx8c25vd3xlbnwwfHx8fDE3MDE5MDk5Nzd8MA&ixlib=rb-4.0.3&q=80&w=1080"><img height="640" src="https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1544235653-a313b8a430d9?crop=entropy&cs=tinysrgb&fit=max&fm=jpg&ixid=M3wzMDAzMzh8MHwxfHNlYXJjaHw0Mnx8c25vd3xlbnwwfHx8fDE3MDE5MDk5Nzd8MA&ixlib=rb-4.0.3&q=80&w=1080" width="512" /><br /></a>Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@visualbygino">Gino Castillo</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/">Unsplash</a><br /><br />All that being said, this year the prospect of winter has taken more of a toll than I expected. The chaos of a toddler and the fatigue of pregnancy is forcing me to be much more intentional about how I slow down and embrace the season. So I thought I would share a few things that help me romanticize winter and live my best Hallmark Christmas movie character life.<br /><br />The first thing I do is prepare for “hibernation.” I clean my house, decorate for Christmas, stock my tea shelf, and make sure I have plenty of ingredients for all the baking I might want to do. Warm socks, cozy playlists, and snuggly blankets all help too.<br /><br />The second thing I do is plan for some seasonal activities. This is really easy in the month leading up to Christmas, but it’s still important to keep making the most of winter for the few months afterward. Ice skating, sledding, book clubs… if it can be done in the snow or done in a warm cozy house it’s worth planning during the slow, lonely months of winter. And don’t underestimate the power of a snowy walk. Nature is just as magnificent while tromping through snow.<br /><br />Seasonal foods are last but not least! My Christmas cookies have been baked and decorated! I make soup and chicken pot pies and biscuits and pumpkin bread as often as my family will eat them. And since I’m nearing my third trimester, I’m testing out some cozy and easy recipes to prep ahead of time for maximum baby snuggles.<br /><br />Your list might look a bit different from mine, but the key is to find ways to highlight what you love most about this season—even if it’s hard to find. Intentionality can bring about really great results.<br /><br />What are some of your winter traditions/coping mechanisms? I’d love to hear from you!<br /></div></div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-18136023367904966472023-11-30T07:00:00.000-08:002023-12-23T11:59:39.254-08:00New Published PoemsHello friends! As November draws to a close, I am looking forward to settling down and enjoying the cozy month of December. Although, my schedule (as always) is getting fuller and fuller. This month I participated in the Writer’s Digest <a href="https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetry-prompts/november-pad-chapbook-challenge">November Poem a Day Challenge</a>, and was actually successful! I still have to write a poem today, but I’m not worried about breaking my streak. I am very proud of myself for committing to at least attempting a poem every day. Some of the prompts got just the very start of a poem— but hey! That’s better than nothing.<br /><br />This has been a big year for me as a writer. I started a Substack, and then joined <a href="https://oftreesandpoetry.substack.com/">another</a> to write with my friend <a href="https://open.substack.com/users/3911435-e-r-skulmoski?utm_source=mentions">E R Skulmoski</a>, have gotten braver about sharing my work, and have had 5 poems published! I’ve talked about the <a href="https://juliamcmullen.substack.com/p/my-first-published-poems">first three</a> already, so today I am going to share the other two, and talk a little bit about each!<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fb051a00f-63af-45a6-b08e-e7cac87314c5_1080x1080.png"><img height="400" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fb051a00f-63af-45a6-b08e-e7cac87314c5_1080x1080.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />The first poem, “<a href="https://www.thewayback2ourselves.com/journal/mulberryseason">Mullberry Season</a>,” was published by The Way Back To Ourselves in their fall journal. This poem, very dear to my heart, was written after an outing with my son, in which we simply walked down the street to a lonely mulberry tree and picked a bag of berries. For some reason, this simple activity spurred on lots of thoughts, most of them centering around gratitude for a peaceful day. When my son was first born, and for many many months after, I struggled immensely with anxiety. This poem was born out of a day where I realized I hadn’t felt that weight on my shoulders for a while.<br /><br />Some poems come to me very easily, emotionally, and all I have to do is piece the words together in the right way. Other poems are not so easy. I think there are two ways I write— pouring emotion onto the page, like I did in “Mulberry Season,” or carefully crafting after getting an idea that I just can’t shake. That’s how this second poem worked for me. It is called “Adam lights a cigarette and doubts God’s existence for the first time.” It was published this week by <a href="https://www.solidfoodpress.com/post/adam-lights-a-cigarette-and-doubts-god-s-existence-for-the-first-time">Solid Food Press</a> (which I highly recommend you peruse). The title came to me first, along with an image of Adam blowing smoke into the air as the weight of the broken world sat heavy on his shoulders. But the title and the last few lines were all I had for a year. A year! I sat on that poem, revisiting it occasionally, wondering what it needed, how to expand on this picture in my mind. And finally, because I desperately needed to bring something fresh to my critique group, I sat with it until I could get the words on the page.<br /><br />My process was so different for each of these poems. For “Mulberry Season,” it was cathartic and emotional, and the actual process enjoyable. For “Adam,” it was more like a puzzle, very satisfying to finally figure out, but often frustrating. I think that oftentimes as a writer, especially when I was younger, I chased the enjoyment of process vs outcome. If the poem wasn’t “flowing” out of me, I struggled to commit to sitting down and hammering it out. Now that I am older, more determined, and more confident in my poetry as craft and not just expression, I finish way more poems. I love the payoff of working out a really good poem. Writing regularly helps me build my confidence, because I always have plenty of material to craft with. Sometimes I revisit a note on my phone and a line stands out to me and boom. Something clicks. Other times I show my trusted writer friends a verse that is troubling me, and they force me to think about it in a new way.<br /><br />If you’re anything like me, it’s easy to doubt yourself when the process of creating your art doesn’t feel good. But rarely is the outcome contingent upon how the process feels. Some of my best poems were so difficult to write that I said to myself, “this cannot be any good.” And when I reread them later, they had a lot of promise. Of course, I’ll never stop chasing the high of writing a poem that feels like it’s just using my pen as a way to be born. But I’m ok with knowing that if I want to be a successful writer, those can’t be the only poems I finish.<br /><br />Thanks for reading, friends! I hope you enjoyed reading my new poems and hearing about my process. Do you relate?Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-58358415593880125312023-11-23T07:30:00.000-08:002023-12-23T11:57:58.399-08:00A Feast of FixationsThe day of feasting is upon us! (If you live in the United States, that is) I, for one, am excited to graze upon the bountiful dishes at meal time, and then sample each of the wonderful desserts my mother has baked. Until the wonderful Thanksgiving gathering, however, I am pondering abundance, and its role in my life. I have an abundance of loved ones, an abundance of joy in Christ, an abundance of anticipation for our new baby…the list goes on. There is much to be grateful for.<br /><br />Another intangible thing I seem to have in spades is hobbies. The internet might call them hyper fixations, and it’s pretty trendy to talk about them right now. Which is why I’ve been recollecting all of the creative phases I’ve been through in my life. There have been a…lot. When I was younger, I learned how to crochet very basic things, then I tried out quilting (and made a quilt for my barbie!). At one point I really loved making “<a href="https://happyhooligans.ca/gods-eye-craft-weaving-for-kids/">God’s eyes”</a> after learning how to do them. I also remember “writing” books before I was really fluent in pen and ink. I’d staple pages together and scribble on them to make it look like writing. One had a very cute drawing of a bunny on a cover, and that is the only clue to what it is about. Making <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Svq2Kscmmwc">hexaflexagons</a>, writing poetry, crocheting, sketching, musical theater, calligraphy, <a href="https://open.substack.com/pub/juliamcmullen/p/a-sourdough-saga?r=1idgq1&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web">sourdough</a>… I’m sure I’m missing a few.<br /><br />Some of these creative ventures turned into actual pursuits. My love of musical theater morphed into a love of singing which led to me majoring in Vocal Performance and discovering that I had talent to perform in OPERAS. I still write poetry, and have never really stopped. My focus has shifted occasionally but I always feel pulled back to writing. Sourdough is now a routine I use to bless my family (and my tastebuds). I use my music degree to teach private voice lessons, and I sing at church. And I do make the occasional baby quilt to give as a gift. I’m planning on making one for the upcoming addition to our family.<br /><br />My creativity, nurtured by my mother, gave me a passion for trying creative hobbies. Many of them were short-lived “fixations,” as one might call them, but they were not a waste of time. If I were a different person with different talents, sketching might have been the hobby that changed my plans for what to study in college. Or crocheting might have become my central hobby instead of poetry, and I’d be crocheting beautiful blankets while listening to audiobooks.<div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fb4856087-4e34-4266-9741-850a9cc42401_1080x1080.png"><img height="400" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fb4856087-4e34-4266-9741-850a9cc42401_1080x1080.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />Now, in my full-fledged adult life, I can see how those hobbies I pursued as a child/adolescent shaped my life. They gave me healthy outlets where I could try new things and make mistakes without judgment. As a mother and a wife who is pursuing her passion of writing, they still provide that outlet. They provide a safe space to create without an inner critic. Those old fixations feel familiar to my hands and to my mind, and sometimes I find myself picking them back up just for the sake of calming my mind. My mind, which is always thinking of the next thing on my to-do list or worrying that I am not good enough at writing, needs that.<br /><br />When I consider the abundance of my hobbies, and the rest I am still able to find in them, I can’t help but be so in awe of a God who designed me. I, in all my anxieties, in my inability to be still, was given a proclivity for naturally restful activities. In those hobbies I often find blessed rest, the kind of rest that points me back to my Creator, and fills my heart with the grace of a Father who knows me so well.<br /><br />God’s abundant blessings are never wasted. He designed us with a purpose, and that purpose is ultimately for His glory. Your desire to create beautiful things, to rest, to enjoy art and poetry and music, are ways He might have designed you to give you rest, to give you a glimpse into His heart for you. This Thanksgiving, I am grateful for the abundance of His love, and the special ways I find grace to receive it.</div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-40942465496133407282023-11-16T07:49:00.000-08:002023-11-16T07:49:00.144-08:00The Creative Life of a Homemaker<p>As I sit down to write this, I know a few things. There are most definitely remnants of scrambled egg on my kitchen floor that I missed when cleaning my son’s breakfast mess. There is a basket of clean laundry that has been folded for at least a week but I still can’t find the motivation to put away. And my bed isn’t made. But, I have poems to write and newsletters to send, so I am sitting down at my desk, typing away, trying to ignore the welling up of anxiety stemming from all the things I haven’t done. Oh, and I’m hungry, but I do have a snack break scheduled, so I’m hanging in there.</p><p>Today I thought it would be fun to talk about how I manage a household while also managing my creative impulses. Mostly, how do I find time for creativity in the mundane day-to-day of keeping house. And a little bit about how I set aside time for intentional creating (such as up-keeping this newsletter and writing/submitting poetry regularly). I hope that if you, too, are a creative homemaker, that you will at the very least find this relatable. If so, I’d love to hear from you in the comments. Solidarity is a very valuable thing indeed.</p><p>Without further ado, here’s my small list of some processes that have been helping me lately.</p><ol><li><p>I do not “meal plan.” At least, I do not meal plan in the traditional sense. I do not liking making time to plan out meals. I do not like the stress in the grocery store of having to find every single thing that I need. Instead, I buy pantry staples, and stock my fridge. I have a very limited budget, so I buy meat that is on sale, keep things simple, and use a calculator at checkout. Then when I am home, I can be creative in the kitchen! I use what I have to come up with delicious meals. I’ve been doing it long enough that I have go-to recipes that use those pantry staples I mentioned, but not meal-planning keeps me from overspending for the sake of my menu. And I do enjoy the flexibility to cater to my cravings or creative whims.</p><div class="captioned-image-container"><figure><a class="image-link is-viewable-img image2" data-component-name="Image2ToDOM" href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4c15f197-0d93-42e2-a7fe-dc574b28f575_3024x4032.jpeg" target="_blank"><div class="image2-inset"><picture><source sizes="100vw" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4c15f197-0d93-42e2-a7fe-dc574b28f575_3024x4032.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4c15f197-0d93-42e2-a7fe-dc574b28f575_3024x4032.jpeg 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4c15f197-0d93-42e2-a7fe-dc574b28f575_3024x4032.jpeg 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4c15f197-0d93-42e2-a7fe-dc574b28f575_3024x4032.jpeg 1456w" type="image/webp"></source><img alt="" class="sizing-normal" data-attrs="{"src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/4c15f197-0d93-42e2-a7fe-dc574b28f575_3024x4032.jpeg","srcNoWatermark":null,"fullscreen":null,"imageSize":null,"height":1941,"width":1456,"resizeWidth":378,"bytes":1197261,"alt":null,"title":null,"type":"image/jpeg","href":null,"belowTheFold":false,"topImage":false,"internalRedirect":null}" height="503.91346153846155" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4c15f197-0d93-42e2-a7fe-dc574b28f575_3024x4032.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4c15f197-0d93-42e2-a7fe-dc574b28f575_3024x4032.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4c15f197-0d93-42e2-a7fe-dc574b28f575_3024x4032.jpeg 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4c15f197-0d93-42e2-a7fe-dc574b28f575_3024x4032.jpeg 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4c15f197-0d93-42e2-a7fe-dc574b28f575_3024x4032.jpeg 1456w" width="378" /></picture><div></div></div></a><figcaption class="image-caption">homemade chicken pot pie with biscuits made from pantry staples</figcaption></figure></div></li><li><p>I love DIY/Thrifted home decor. Right now I am in the middle of a “<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/7064150133201192921/4691075006509032023" rel="noopener noreferrer nofollow" target="_blank">Year Long Thrift ONLY Challenge</a>,” so I’m being even more strict with how I decorate my home. I save a lot of money buying furniture, decor, etc., secondhand. The payoff is also great, because sometimes it takes MONTHS to find that ideal piece for my home. By the time I get it, I know <em>for certain</em> that it is what I wanted, because I’ve had to really think about whether the effort is worth it. And DIY home decor is really fun, and a great way to have a creative outlet that beautifies your home. Since I’m decorating my baby girl’s room soon I’ll probably be showing that process. I’m so excited to thrift all the things!!</p><div class="captioned-image-container"><figure><a class="image-link is-viewable-img image2" data-component-name="Image2ToDOM" href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fdabb446a-60e8-48e6-946c-4196c81f353c_3024x4032.jpeg" target="_blank"><div class="image2-inset"><picture><source sizes="100vw" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fdabb446a-60e8-48e6-946c-4196c81f353c_3024x4032.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fdabb446a-60e8-48e6-946c-4196c81f353c_3024x4032.jpeg 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fdabb446a-60e8-48e6-946c-4196c81f353c_3024x4032.jpeg 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fdabb446a-60e8-48e6-946c-4196c81f353c_3024x4032.jpeg 1456w" type="image/webp"></source><img alt="" class="sizing-normal" data-attrs="{"src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/dabb446a-60e8-48e6-946c-4196c81f353c_3024x4032.jpeg","srcNoWatermark":null,"fullscreen":null,"imageSize":null,"height":1941,"width":1456,"resizeWidth":504,"bytes":1528837,"alt":null,"title":null,"type":"image/jpeg","href":null,"belowTheFold":false,"topImage":false,"internalRedirect":null}" height="671.8846153846154" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fdabb446a-60e8-48e6-946c-4196c81f353c_3024x4032.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fdabb446a-60e8-48e6-946c-4196c81f353c_3024x4032.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fdabb446a-60e8-48e6-946c-4196c81f353c_3024x4032.jpeg 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fdabb446a-60e8-48e6-946c-4196c81f353c_3024x4032.jpeg 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fdabb446a-60e8-48e6-946c-4196c81f353c_3024x4032.jpeg 1456w" width="504" /></picture><div></div></div></a><figcaption class="image-caption">My dining room table- DIY centerpiece and other clearance finds</figcaption></figure></div></li><li><p>Another thing I try to do for myself is to set aside time for creative pursuits. Writing poetry feels like a job to me. I <em>need</em> time to write. With the demands of a baby, a house, and a husband, it can be hard to find time to just sit down. Sometimes I spare an hour of Byron’s daily nap to sit in front of a blank page and write. Sometimes my husband takes Byron to do things so I can have some time. If I am here, he inevitably wants “mommy!” Even though it feels counter-intuitive to take spare quiet time for myself rather than for cleaning or tidying, I do it. </p></li><li><p><a href="https://bulletjournal.com/" rel="noopener noreferrer nofollow" target="_blank">Bullet journaling</a> really helps me stay on top of my chores though! When I know what tasks need to be done, I am less likely to waste time wandering, getting sidetracked by reorganizing an entire closet. What I love most as a creative person is the amount of flexibility it affords me. I can set up my planner exactly the way that works for me. (Plus they cost less than planners designed the way I’d want.) Sometimes I even doodle in them, making my pages oh-so-pretty. Other times… I am more utilitarian and I just scribble away.</p></li><li><p>Above all, the biggest tip I have for the creative homemaker is to give the work to God every day. My sister told me once that she made it a point to give God time in prayer before anything else, and ask that he’d bless her so she could make the most of the day she had. On the days that I sit down and follow her advice, I am more productive. One, because God is merciful and kind and blesses me more than I deserve. And also because once I’ve given the day to God in prayer, I don’t want to waste it. I want to use it for His glory. Colossians 3 says “<a href="https://biblehub.com/colossians/3-23.htm" rel="noopener noreferrer nofollow" target="_blank">Whatever you do, work at it with your whole being, for the Lord and not for men, because you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as your reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving.</a>” I want to do that honor God in everything I do. </p></li></ol><p>What about you? What are some things that help you be more creative in your every day life?</p><div class="subscription-widget-wrap" data-attrs="{"url":"%%checkout_url%%","text":"Subscribe","language":"en"}" data-component-name="SubscribeWidgetToDOM"><div class="subscription-widget show-subscribe"><form class="subscription-widget-subscribe"><div class="fake-input-wrapper"><div class="fake-input"></div><div class="fake-button"></div></div></form></div></div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-2194289000318763722023-11-09T11:39:00.000-08:002023-11-15T11:40:36.348-08:00Living in an Old HouseMy family lives in a very old house. Over a century old, in fact. With this very old house come beautiful things like original woodwork, stained glass windows, and fancy doorknobs. Some other not-so-desirable things include mice (YUCKY), drafty windows (BRRR), and… lead hazards.<div><br /><a href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4ddd30c9-4838-4f13-8087-53dceaafcd64_3024x3780.jpeg"><img height="640" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F4ddd30c9-4838-4f13-8087-53dceaafcd64_3024x3780.jpeg" width="512" /><br /></a><br /><br />To be fair, the lead hazards are mostly innocuous to the average grown adult. But to a young child who eats every random crumb they find on the floor, it can be a little trickier to avoid the toxic metal. At Byron’s one year appointment they tested his blood for lead (with a finger prick) and found that his blood lead levels were elevated. Not “dangerously” high, but any lead is bad lead. And his were higher than the CDC’s threshold for monitoring and retesting. After the finger prick, he had to get a real blood draw to confirm. It was awful. I am not great with needles, but managed to not cry while Byron screamed and tears streamed down his red face.<br /><br />Of course, I immediately began to look more intently for where he might be getting exposed to lead dust. I read the city’s resources on how to clean properly if your home has the potential for lead dust. I cleaned my house from head to toe, got into a more rigorous cleaning routine, and… still worried. I prayed that God would help me be able to feel like my home was clean again. All I could see was that lead dust could be anywhere. My midwife had me get my blood levels tested to make sure I was ok. Luckily mine are fine, so I didn’t have to worry about the babe in my belly. But I worried about when they’d arrive- would my home be a safe place? I was suddenly wishing we hadn’t bought the old fixer upper, wondering if we’d made a mistake when buying our house.<br /><br />After praying and seeking advice from family, I looked into resources for helping families get rid of lead hazards. I found a grant that would replace or repaint windows, stabilize exterior lead paint, and address other miscellaneous lead hazards at no cost to the homeowner. My husband and I qualified based on our income and the fact that we have a hold who has tested positive for elevated lead levels recently. And since September, I’ve been going step by step through the extensive process of getting approved for the grant, getting the house inspected, and meeting with the very kind people whose job it is to contract the work for the grant.<br /><br />Well, there was a LOT of lead paint in our house. We are in the final stages of getting everything finalized, and will soon be getting new windows, having our whole house repainted, and getting other various lead paint throughout our home stabilized. They will also retest for lead dust after all the work is done to make sure their work made a difference. So I will get peace of mind knowing that someone has gone through and thoroughly addressed all the potential lead hazards in my house.<br /><br />The amount of work that is being done to our house is an incredible blessing. These are things Connor and I would have had to save for years and years to be able to pay someone to do. And praise be to God, we are getting it through a grant! Although this whole season has felt a little stressful and overwhelming, I am feeling so blessed by God that He found a way to provide so abundantly for the needs of our growing family.<br /><br />This was just such a testament to the goodness of God. Even in a season where I thought I was alone, in over my head, God reminds me that He is a generous and loving God, and that He is faithful. Sometimes even despite my doubts and fears, despite my struggle to have hope. He is providing me with the things I need to raise these little gifts he’s given me-a safe home, a stronger faith, and stories of His goodness that I’ll be able to share with them someday.<br /></div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-60081397341793534082023-11-02T11:37:00.000-07:002023-11-15T11:38:42.775-08:00A poem for my daughterOctober is gone and with it a lot of the warmth. The fall air is crisper and the wind a bit chillier, but I am keeping my house cozy and warm with expectation. Being pregnant in the fall is so cozy. I can slow down and snuggle my son, and just in time for spring we will be welcoming our baby girl!<div><br /><a href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F56431eb8-52bd-46d9-86eb-5e02dcfc3871_476x303.jpeg"><img src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F56431eb8-52bd-46d9-86eb-5e02dcfc3871_476x303.jpeg" /><br /></a><br /><br />Today’s prompt on Writer’s Digest’s <a href="https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/2023-november-pad-chapbook-challenge-day-2">November Poem a Day Challenge</a> was to choose a childhood object and incorporate it into a poem. I thought it fitting to write my poem about my daydreams about having a daughter, as my mind is full of them. Here’s my poem:<div class="preformatted-block" data-component-name="PreformattedTextBlockToDOM" style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-family: Lora, sans-serif; font-size: 20px;"><pre class="text" style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; -webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; font-family: var(--font_family_body, var(--font_family_body_preset, 'Spectral', serif, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, 'Apple Color Emoji', 'Segoe UI Emoji', 'Segoe UI Symbol')); font-weight: var(--font_weight_body_preset, 400); text-wrap: wrap;">"For my daughter"
A dollhouse from my childhood
waits, collecting dust,
Its rooms furnished
and ready to welcome
your tiny hands
and fresh imaginings.
I open the curtains in your room.
I sweep the dust away,
imagine you sleeping and dreaming,
so soft and precious to hold.
My hands have prepared for this,
Trimming the miniature home,
with wallpaper and handmade decorations,
Filling it with dolls and furniture.
Now I do the same, but the windows
look out to a cottonwood tree,
The trim is a hundred years old,
walls cracked with the weight of age, and
we are but passers-through, and you,
my darling daughter will soon
Brighten up the room I am preparing.</pre></div><p style="--tw-border-spacing-x: 0; --tw-border-spacing-y: 0; --tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-family: Lora, sans-serif; font-size: 20px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0 0 var(--size-20) 0;"></p>It is hard to imagine what a daughter will be like compared to my son. I am looking forward to meeting her, and for my son to be the best big brother ever. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a million decor ideas and reckless confidence that I can pull off my entire to-do list before this baby arrives…now with a little bit more pink and florals mixed in ;)</div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-14068415361722055552023-10-26T11:36:00.000-07:002023-11-15T11:39:05.257-08:00My first published poems!I recently had a few poems selected for publication in Foreshadow Magazine. My first published poems! I was very happy with the set of three I curated, all written during a time when I was wrestling with some difficult parts of my faith journey. I wrote about the process for one of them <a href="https://juliamcmullen.substack.com/p/intersection-of-beauty-and-truth">here</a>.<br /><br />For anyone who would like to read them, I’ve linked each one below!<br /><a href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F41bc90aa-5a5e-4b70-b631-38c16f4aac9f_1300x913.webp"><img height="450" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F41bc90aa-5a5e-4b70-b631-38c16f4aac9f_1300x913.webp" width="640" /><br /></a>Ras-el Abiad, coast of Syria (n.d.) by David Roberts<br /><br /><a href="https://www.foreshadowmagazine.com/magazine/locusts">Locusts</a><br /><br /><a href="https://www.foreshadowmagazine.com/magazine/red-sea">Red Sea</a><br /><br /><a href="https://www.foreshadowmagazine.com/magazine/in-the-belly-of-the-whale">In the Belly of the Whale</a><br /><br />I highly encourage perusing the rest of the magazine while you’re at it!Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-41208153300336050162023-10-23T10:58:00.001-07:002023-10-26T11:01:29.213-07:00Ted Kooser's Poetry Stole my Dad's HeartI’ve been writing, reading, loving poetry since I was young. This love was largely given to me from my mother, whose recitation of verse and enthusiasm for rhyme inspired me to write my own. My father has always of course been proud of me, very supportive and always willing to read my poetry, but poetry itself has never been a particular delight of his. Unless you count Homer’s Odyssey, which he did read to us infrequently, though the English translation is not particularly poetic.<br /><br />Then one day my mother, <br /><a href="https://open.substack.com/users/146674322-rebecca-j-gomez?utm_source=mentions">Rebecca J. Gomez</a> (whose <a href="https://gomezwrites.substack.com/p/that-time-when-ted-kooser-taught">account</a> of this day is spot-on) and I enlisted him as a chauffeur to drive us two hours west to a poetry reading from Ted Kooser. I didn’t expect to him enjoy it at all. And I was thoroughly delighted (and a bit perplexed), when I sensed my father’s immense enjoyment at the simple, down-to-earth verse that Ted Kooser read that evening.<br /><br />I’ll admit I felt a bit jealous, which is, to be fair, a common emotion I experience when reading or hearing beautiful poetry. But this time I felt my usual swell of inspiration to pursue my craft, not only so I could perhaps master my own poetic voice the way Kooser does, but so that one day, just maybe, I’d write a poem that would affect my father in that same way.<br /><br />And as is usual for me, I decided to work out these feelings in a poem, and after many drafts, came to a conclusion which I think is best expressed in the poem itself, which you can read below.<div class="captioned-image-container" style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-family: Lora, sans-serif; font-size: 20px; margin: var(--size-32) auto;"><figure style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; margin: 0px auto; width: 728px;"><a class="image-link is-viewable-img image2" data-component-name="Image2ToDOM" href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F28f66471-1dba-4357-ac54-50d942d3e876_1080x1080.png" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; align-items: center; border: 0px; cursor: zoom-in; display: flex; flex-direction: column; height: auto; margin: 0px auto; padding: 0px; position: relative; text-decoration-line: none; width: auto;" target="_blank"><div class="image2-inset" style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; display: flex; position: relative;"><picture style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0;"><source sizes="100vw" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F28f66471-1dba-4357-ac54-50d942d3e876_1080x1080.png 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F28f66471-1dba-4357-ac54-50d942d3e876_1080x1080.png 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F28f66471-1dba-4357-ac54-50d942d3e876_1080x1080.png 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F28f66471-1dba-4357-ac54-50d942d3e876_1080x1080.png 1456w" style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0;" type="image/webp"></source><img alt="" class="sizing-normal" data-attrs="{"src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/28f66471-1dba-4357-ac54-50d942d3e876_1080x1080.png","srcNoWatermark":null,"fullscreen":null,"imageSize":null,"height":1080,"width":1080,"resizeWidth":420,"bytes":1061090,"alt":null,"title":null,"type":"image/png","href":null,"belowTheFold":false,"topImage":true,"internalRedirect":null}" fetchpriority="high" height="420" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F28f66471-1dba-4357-ac54-50d942d3e876_1080x1080.png" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F28f66471-1dba-4357-ac54-50d942d3e876_1080x1080.png 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F28f66471-1dba-4357-ac54-50d942d3e876_1080x1080.png 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F28f66471-1dba-4357-ac54-50d942d3e876_1080x1080.png 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F28f66471-1dba-4357-ac54-50d942d3e876_1080x1080.png 1456w" style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; display: block; height: auto; margin: 0px auto; max-width: 100%;" width="420" /></picture></div></a></figure></div><div class="preformatted-block" data-component-name="PreformattedTextBlockToDOM" style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; background-color: white; color: #404040; font-family: Lora, sans-serif;"><pre class="text" style="--tw-ring-color: rgb(59 130 246 / 0.5); --tw-ring-offset-color: #fff; --tw-ring-offset-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-ring-offset-width: 0px; --tw-ring-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-rotate: 0; --tw-scale-x: 1; --tw-scale-y: 1; --tw-scroll-snap-strictness: proximity; --tw-shadow-colored: 0 0 #0000; --tw-shadow: 0 0 #0000; --tw-skew-x: 0; --tw-skew-y: 0; --tw-translate-x: 0; --tw-translate-y: 0; -webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; font-family: var(--font_family_body, var(--font_family_body_preset, 'Spectral', serif, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, 'Segoe UI', Roboto, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif, 'Apple Color Emoji', 'Segoe UI Emoji', 'Segoe UI Symbol')); font-weight: var(--font_weight_body_preset, 400); text-wrap: wrap;">“I used to wish my dad loved me like he loves Ted Kooser.”
And by Ted Kooser and me, I mean our poetry.
We dragged my father to a reading. Ted read slow
and he read well. My dad breathed deeply and
wet his eyes at his words. On the way home,
he spoke of nothing else. I searched through my mind—
my catalogue of poems penned, wondered which
would fill Dad with this same inspiration, and faltered.
Later I found a picture in my closet.
He holds me on my first day on this earth.
His eyes are bright as if he has just seen
everything there is to see, and I am swaddled close
to his grin. How could the words I write
eclipse that moment? How could anything compare
to the miraculous moment of first breath,
a babe crying out from the coldness of this new air,
than a first child beheld in a father’s eyes?
I am an infuriating creature, to have not seen
it before. His eyes wet from Ted Kooser’s
soft, fresh poetry, the exhalations at his words…
There, at the reading, where we’d pulled him
from the comfort of his home, he’d been born,
and poetry, for the smallest point in time, had
been his breath.</pre></div>Isn’t it wonderful to see someone you love find joy in something you love, even if it is something as simple as this? I am so grateful for moments like these that I can treasure forever, and nearly as grateful that I have a pen and a paper who can help me preserve their life on the page.Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-5399142463025702912023-10-19T08:11:00.000-07:002023-10-19T08:11:00.139-07:00A Sourdough Saga<p>The fresh smell of bread fills my kitchen early in the morning at least once a week. Sometimes, if I am particularly motivated, one of the loaves is a delightful cinnamon raisin, which my husband devours. My son begs for a slice every time he sees me cutting into the round, crusty globes of goodness. He knows what’s good, I say. The flour that dusted my counters gets scraped into the bin. I put away my fancy scoring tools (an old paring knife), my bread baskets (sometimes I resort to lining a colander with a tea towel), and wait for the loaves to cool.</p>Routine pleases me, but intimidates me. I struggle immensely to start new habits. However, I have been maintaining my current sourdough starter for about six months now. His name is Dr Ian Malcolm, and he lives in my fridge, always waiting patiently for his weekly feed. Before him, I have tried and failed on two separate occasions to create and keep my starter alive. The first was in the beginning of the pandemic, when there were no customers where I worked and I desperately longed for a hobby. My good friend suggested I take <a href="https://tessauroraweaver.com/sourdough-guide/sourdough-at-home">this online sourdough course</a>, which I’ve linked because it taught me all I need to know. I took the course, made my starter, made one loaf, and then washed my hands of the whole ordeal. The loaf was incredibly zingy and dense, and I was pretty disappointed by it.<br /><br />The second time I tried to really keep a starter going was at the beginning of this year, but I think my municipal water killed it. But then, my mom decided to try her hand at sourdough, so I walked her through the process. When she made her first successful loaf, I was inspired, and tried again. Somehow the whole routine was much less overwhelming after seeing how simple it was to teach someone. But the most incredible part of this story is that Dr. Ian Malcolm is STILL ALIVE! Hallelujah! He saves me a lot of money at the grocery store. And he makes the most beautiful loaves:<div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F1a652d1f-7883-4173-8040-92bda3892535.heic"><img height="400" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F1a652d1f-7883-4173-8040-92bda3892535.heic" width="300" /></a></div><i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>my latest loaf</i></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Now that I’ve been regularly integrated bread-making into my household routines, I find the practice incredibly relaxing. The process is slow yet rewarding. My family benefits in a tangible way from work I’ve done with my hands. But it isn’t as tedious a chore as scrubbing toilets or mopping my floors. The practice of bread-making is one I can easily find gratitude for. From the delightful way the dough feels as I fold and stretch it, to its delicious crunch when I make toast, I am creating a practice that creates joy. For me, for my family, for my dedicated instagram followers who are subjected to pictures of my most impressive bakes… And that joy has taught me how to invite gratitude and a smile into even the most tedious tasks I face as a homemaker.<br /><br />And honestly, it goes a bit deeper than that. In my relationship with God there is such a reluctance on my part to look UP and see what He is doing, and to embrace His goodness as a daily practice. But the beauty of sourdough is in the routine. I keep it, I feed it, and with just flour, water, and salt, I can create nutritious loaves of bread for my family. The same way my sourdough nourishes my family through upkeep and routine, so God nourishes my faith through my daily acts of faithfulness. So, as I grow in my daily disciplines as a mother, wife, and homemaker, I am inviting in gratitude and joy, and looking to God as the source.<br /><br /><br />Thanks for reading Seasoned with Salt! <a href="https://juliamcmullen.substack.com/publish/post/%%checkout_url%%">Subscribe </a>for free to receive new posts and support my work.<br /><br /><br /></div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-43381738610957736102023-10-12T08:30:00.001-07:002023-10-12T08:30:00.133-07:00Bittersweet AnticipationAbout fifteen months ago I brought home my son Byron from the hospital, sat on the couch, and cried. When my husband asked why, I exclaimed, “because in only five months it’ll be his first Christmas!” Ah, postpartum hormones. And the sudden realization that time would most certainly refuse to let me savor these first weeks with my sweet baby boy.<br /><br />What followed were some of the longest months of my life. Though, I can confidently say now that time is indeed a thief. Where is my tiny baby? And who is this independent, funny, brave boy I have running/climbing/falling around my house? <br /><br />With the new baby on the way, I am imagining all the changes in our life. I am stealing every hug and kiss I can get from my son, and wondering what he will think of the new baby. Right now, he is mine and I am his and that is really all there is to it. Except when I snuggle “Dada” and he has to force himself into our laps. <br /><br />Last week, I nursed Byron for the last time. The journey was slowly coming to an end, and with pregnancy (and a sometimes inconsiderate toddler with TEETH), I decided to wean him before I was completely fed up. That way I could end it on a good note. Now, Byron wants snuggles more often. Sometimes he begs to drink his milk while sitting on my lap. I oblige, and we cuddle and I sing to him while he happily babbles and sips from his cup. <br /><br />I am immensely grateful for the time I spent nursing my son. When we first brought him home, I struggled so much to feed him that I worried I’d be pumping for a year. Instead, through the grace of God, a supportive family, and much determination on my part, I was able to nurse my son for 15 months. What a blessing! <br /><br />It feels so bittersweet to be finished. And while there is so much more to look forward to as Byron grows, I’ll miss the sweetness of nursing my first baby. With the new baby on the way there is so much excitement, but I’m also going to soak up the snuggles with my son before he has to share me with a new lil’ cutie. Excuse me while I cry for the next 5 months. <br /><br /><br /><p></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-61346253606879148812023-10-11T12:30:00.003-07:002023-10-11T12:30:23.507-07:00Demonetize: A poem about creativity<div class="separator" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: start;">I’ve been thinking a lot about why I create. The oldest most constant reason has been that I cannot help myself. But lately as I’ve grown older, more responsible, have home projects I want to fund… the idea of monetizing my craft feels more and more appealing. There is nothing wrong with wanting my craft to bring in a little extra cash, but I never want it to become more important than the real reason I write: because God blessed me with an affinity for words.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><span style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;">Truly, writing has been a blessing to me throughout my life. Many words I’ve penned and never shared have helped me deepen my relationship with Christ.</div></span><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><span style="text-align: start;"><div style="text-align: left;">And on a less serious note, writing sparks my imagination and almost feels like magic. So, in this poem I am embracing my inner Wizard of Words, shedding blue light for candlelight, and letting go of the need to turn my writing into cash.</div></span></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F8d57018c-2106-4ebb-956a-6aee741cd285_1080x1080.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img height="400" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F8d57018c-2106-4ebb-956a-6aee741cd285_1080x1080.png" width="400" /><br /></a></div><br />"Demonetize" <div><br /><div>Let me turn my poem into money. </div><div>A kind of modern alchemy, </div><div>A kind of instant time travel </div><div>Into the current era. </div><div>It is
An ancient practice— </div><div>Pen and paper, ink </div><div>And hands whose creases </div><div>Smudge the grey or blue </div><div>Across the page. </div><div>Let my words
Digitize, </div><div>becoming pixel dust </div><div>And remaining forever out of reach, </div><div>Let me watch the numbers </div><div>Climb as I monitor my bank account </div><div>From my couch, let </div><div>My poems let me live. </div><div><br /></div><div>On second thought, </div><div>Pixelation feels too distant. </div><div>My hands feel useless now, </div><div>Fingers beg for gold coins, </div><div>Not cash transfers. </div><div>So I moved my poems </div><div>back in time this week, </div><div>from blinding screen </div><div>to parchment under candlelight, </div><div>I stole a feather from a bird </div><div>And pigment from indigo, </div><div>Carved my name on a tree </div><div>while I was at it. <br /></div></div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-69936962679589436882023-09-28T08:18:00.000-07:002023-09-28T08:18:00.140-07:00On Preparing for the Worst<p>When Connor and I got married, we took our honeymoon to the Lake of the Ozarks, and on day two of being there, totaled our car. It wasn’t a huge accident, but the collision damaged the wheel, which was not a cheap or quick fix. We sold our adorable getaway car to the body shop, not able to afford fixing it, and came home in a rental. </p><div class="captioned-image-container"><figure><a class="image-link is-viewable-img image2" data-component-name="Image2ToDOM" href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F7d42a9a6-f5cf-4322-8e78-e25bfb24b9bc_6720x4480.jpeg" target="_blank"><div class="image2-inset"><picture style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><source sizes="100vw" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F7d42a9a6-f5cf-4322-8e78-e25bfb24b9bc_6720x4480.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F7d42a9a6-f5cf-4322-8e78-e25bfb24b9bc_6720x4480.jpeg 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F7d42a9a6-f5cf-4322-8e78-e25bfb24b9bc_6720x4480.jpeg 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_webp,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F7d42a9a6-f5cf-4322-8e78-e25bfb24b9bc_6720x4480.jpeg 1456w" type="image/webp"></source><img alt="" class="sizing-normal" data-attrs="{"src":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/7d42a9a6-f5cf-4322-8e78-e25bfb24b9bc_6720x4480.jpeg","srcNoWatermark":null,"fullscreen":null,"imageSize":null,"height":971,"width":1456,"resizeWidth":null,"bytes":8828953,"alt":null,"title":null,"type":"image/jpeg","href":null,"belowTheFold":false,"topImage":false,"internalRedirect":null}" height="426" sizes="100vw" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F7d42a9a6-f5cf-4322-8e78-e25bfb24b9bc_6720x4480.jpeg" srcset="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_424,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F7d42a9a6-f5cf-4322-8e78-e25bfb24b9bc_6720x4480.jpeg 424w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_848,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F7d42a9a6-f5cf-4322-8e78-e25bfb24b9bc_6720x4480.jpeg 848w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1272,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F7d42a9a6-f5cf-4322-8e78-e25bfb24b9bc_6720x4480.jpeg 1272w, https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F7d42a9a6-f5cf-4322-8e78-e25bfb24b9bc_6720x4480.jpeg 1456w" width="640" /></picture><div></div></div></a></figure></div><ul><li><p><em>I mean, just look at how cute we are.</em></p></li></ul><p>Once we got home, my car started acting up. A blown head gasket, which, I learned, was car-talk for bring it to the junk yard. That left us with no cars. My parents drove us to work for a couple days. My dad spent his spare time bringing Connor to trusted car lots and we found a reliable car within our budget relatively quickly. God provided. We had the cash to buy it outright. My dad helped Connor haggle the price down and graciously gave us a cash gift toward paying for it. </p><p>For almost a year, we had one car. Connor drove me to work an hour and a half early so he could get to work on time. It made the most sense this way, but I remember a lot of early mornings napping in the break room before my shift started. He’d get off work in time to pick me up right at the end of my shift. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love the extra time in the car with him. But it wasn’t the most convenient set-up. </p><p>When I got pregnant it got a little more inconvenient with all the appointments I had. But we stuck it out. Our goal was to get a second car for me to have at the house once I had the baby. God provided again. About a month before baby Byron arrived, my aunt sold us her car for a generously low price, allowing us to keep most of our savings in tact while getting a car to serve our family. </p><p>That car lasted a little less than a year before it started making a weird noise. Our mechanic looked at it and said we better start car shopping. I was devastated. This again? For months my sister graciously drove me to the grocery store each week. I had to bring Connor to work on the days I had appointments or was teaching voice lessons. Cars were expensive, and we didn’t have cash to buy a reliable car within our budget. One day I asked Connor to pray intentionally about this for our family. He did. The next day his mom suggested that he talk to a family friend. He had a hobby of fixing up old cars, and was really good. He gave us an incredible deal on a car that fit exactly in our budget. </p><p class="button-wrapper" data-attrs="{"url":"%%share_url%%","text":"Share","action":null,"class":null}" data-component-name="ButtonCreateButton">In all those situations, God provided. Yet I still wrestle with anxiety regarding our vehicles because I know how easily my comfortable routine could be thrown off if something happened to one of them. And when my car started making a loud noise on the way home from getting groceries last week, I began preparing for the worst. We’d made it through so many cars dying on us that I knew we’d be fine, though I couldn’t ignore the sense of dread completely. If we had to junk this car, I was resigned to use the bus or walk everywhere. Maybe ask my sister for the occasional ride to an appointment. I called my husband crying, he assured me everything would be ok and that he’d take care of it.</p><p>And guess what? He did. He swapped one part and the car was back to normal that night. I almost cried with relief. I didn’t realize how much of a gift it would be to have a small car problem for once. No major inconvenience, no thousand dollar loss. Just a simple fix and I could rest easy. After so many cars dying on us in such a short amount of time (<em>we’re talking five cars in two years… I didn’t even mention the cars that died during our short engagement… LOL</em>), the biggest win was that the most likely culprit turned out to be the actual culprit. </p><p>I prepared for the worst, but it turned out to be the best case scenario. While preparing for the worst, I trusted God to take care of us regardless of how bad the car was. I don’t think faith requires me to ignore the possibility of the worst-case scenario. Something I used to struggle with, especially in the earliest days of our marriage where things kept going wrong, was guilt over the fact that I didn’t feel optimistic enough. I didn’t feel hopeful enough. I thought too much about contingency plans and worst-case scenarios. I wanted to be prepared for the worst. For some reason, that made me feel ashamed. Like my faith was somehow weaker. But as I’ve learned more about myself through adversity, I’ve learned that my ability to see many different outcomes to a situation and plan for the most inconvenient one… is actually an asset. And it’s part of my personality. Preparing for the worst has been an helpful to my family quite a few times.</p><p>My faith isn’t weak just because I prepare for the worst. My faith is about trusting that God has given me what I need. My faith is about knowing that even if the worst thing happens, God is still good. And in a way, that means I can always really prepare for the best. </p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-16103076060902670192023-09-21T08:24:00.001-07:002023-09-21T08:24:00.160-07:00In Anticipation of Hobbit DayTomorrow is Hobbit Day! For those of you who are not acquainted with the lore of our beloved shorties Frodo and Bilbo Baggins- Hobbit Day is a yearly holiday celebrating these two birthday buddies. Both were born on September 22. Both know how to party, and one of them saved Middle Earth. (Please read or watch Lord of the Rings if you are still lost)<br /><br />But this day holds a slightly deeper, warm and cozy kind of joy for me. You see, I too was born on Hobbit Day. On my eighteenth birthday we decided to celebrate in style with a Hobbit FEAST. Cake, strawberries and cream, bread, mushrooms, roasted meat, cheese, ale (ginger), etc…a delightful spread. So delightful that we asked ourselves why we hadn’t done it before, and vowed to make it an annual tradition. We haven’t missed one since. <br /><br />Three years ago my now-husband and I were chatting at a Labor Day cookout with friends. I mentioned my birthday because I always look forward to hobbit day. My husband said his was also September 22. Was it fate? A few weeks later we danced the night away at a Hobbit Day themed dance with those same friends, and began to date just a week later. Nine months after that, we got married. A year later, we had our son! <br /><br />This year will be my husband’s and my third hobbit feast since getting married. It will be Byron’s second, but he will actually get to enjoy all the food this time. It’s pretty special sharing a birthday with my hubby, but the fact that we also share it with the Baggins Boys makes it even more fun!<div> <br /><a href="https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1584956861988-913b8c1c7270?crop=entropy&cs=tinysrgb&fit=max&fm=jpg&ixid=M3wzMDAzMzh8MHwxfHNlYXJjaHwxfHxob2JiaXR8ZW58MHx8fHwxNjk1MzAxODE0fDA&ixlib=rb-4.0.3&q=80&w=1080"><img height="300" src="https://images.unsplash.com/photo-1584956861988-913b8c1c7270?crop=entropy&cs=tinysrgb&fit=max&fm=jpg&ixid=M3wzMDAzMzh8MHwxfHNlYXJjaHwxfHxob2JiaXR8ZW58MHx8fHwxNjk1MzAxODE0fDA&ixlib=rb-4.0.3&q=80&w=1080" width="400" /><br /></a>Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/@ahda_gallery">Adrien Aletti</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/">Unsplash</a><br /><br />We will host our cozy gathering in our own dining room. I’ve spent a fair bit of time and energy making the room a place I enjoy hosting (despite the horrible red walls that my husband loves for some reason). Our home is the closest thing to a Hobbit hole we have, and with all the food and family it might be my favorite occasion of the year. All we are missing is a wizard, some fireworks, and an uncle to give a cryptic speech before disappearing. <br /><br />Bilbo knew how to tell a great story. I think it’s easy as we get older to lose the ability to let things capture our imagination. When I was a child, stories fueled me. I could get lost in the wonder of what it could be like to live in a place like the Shire or Rivendell. As an adult I struggle to get lost in a book anymore. My mind wants to tug me away to present cares and worries. Celebrations like Hobbit Day allow me to embrace that child-like excitement. I am so grateful that I have friends and family who get as excited as I do for this Not-So-Unexpected Party. And I can’t wait to pass on the excitement to our children as they grow. <br /><br />Cheers, friends! May your Hobbit Day be full of merriment. If not a feast, then maybe find time for the quintessential seven meals that you deserve. <br /><br /><br /><p></p></div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-20461868817078430922023-08-24T08:00:00.001-07:002023-08-24T08:00:00.141-07:00A little about grief<p data-pm-slice="1 1 []">I have been thinking about suffering this past week, partly because of <a href="https://thewayback2ourselves.substack.com/p/our-sacred-scars" rel="noopener noreferrer nofollow" target="_blank">this</a> post by <a class="frontend-components-mention-module__mention--UisMf" data-attrs="{"name":"Kimberly Phinney","id":122923004,"type":"user","url":null,"photo_url":"https://substack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com/public/images/98901fbf-8243-4526-8a8f-382047446866_1440x1440.jpeg","uuid":"c41ce82f-cfea-4b66-a869-0cb95dfbec0f"}" data-component-name="MentionUser" rel="noopener" target="_blank">Kimberly Phinney</a></p> (I think she’s doing something great at her Substack). I’ve also been struggling with some crippling anxiety lately, and when my mind wanders into the terrifying “what-ifs,” I sometimes entertain them. If the suffering I envision were to come to pass, what would it mean about God, life, and the point of it all?<p></p><p>Oftentimes, the Christian response to suffering is to tell the sufferer that “everything happens for a reason.” While that does <em>feel </em>true if you’re on the other side of a difficult season, I think it misses the mark. I’ve certainly been tempted to look at past seasons of suffering with that lens. Maybe God intended for me to experience that grief, so He could teach me this valuable lesson I’ve learned! Wouldn’t that be so great? But I think the <em>truth</em> of this feeling is not quite “everything happens for a reason.”</p><p>The truth is that terrible things happen for no reason at all, but we have a Creator who can work His purposes out in even the most difficult situations, and redeem any pain for His glory and good. When you experience this redemption it might be easy to say “well, if I’d never lost X, I’d never have learned X, and that feels invaluable.” But <em>that </em>is the miraculous work of God, not proof that He intended you to suffer. </p><p>Suffering and grief oftentimes feel senseless. They oftentimes <em>are </em>senseless. Why is my aunt fighting the battle with breast cancer again, why did my friend lose their baby, why does anything terrible happen? The most difficult part of being a Christian sometimes is the senselessness of suffering. The best part, however, is a God who can give us meaning and purpose even in our darkest hours. That has been a comfort to me in difficult times. And it’s a much better way to sit with a grieving friend. Hold them in their grief, acknowledge the suffering, and assure them that there is a God who longs to demonstrate His love even in the pain. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgh43ZsxcLWwOnXudlbZ3N0ts0pKSQJ5y3hCIyfSq6VetOFxX65MIzEqdc4rd3df4gKaOLAK3okghle5GJc1yp4FUEj0Cp-M2YH3WHEKPywW5yjtCYTQ8leTwuinLTarzI528-q91kJruWJxw6gQzgSJQVCDxucNpMYW_8e-NlazhV863tmrNrJrETmK9g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1080" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgh43ZsxcLWwOnXudlbZ3N0ts0pKSQJ5y3hCIyfSq6VetOFxX65MIzEqdc4rd3df4gKaOLAK3okghle5GJc1yp4FUEj0Cp-M2YH3WHEKPywW5yjtCYTQ8leTwuinLTarzI528-q91kJruWJxw6gQzgSJQVCDxucNpMYW_8e-NlazhV863tmrNrJrETmK9g" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-53722057058737854352023-08-10T08:00:00.001-07:002023-08-10T13:06:46.151-07:00Poetry for FriendsThis week has been a whirlwind. Why do the summer months go so fast? We might never know. Today I thought I’d share with you all a few little poems I’ve written for friends, for different occasions. I am a firm believer that a poem can come out of anything if you want one. And so, for my friends, I sometimes write verses to commemorate small things.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif_ehgWk6zHvpzMX7pCUG-JoGIq_BwgD1972DLE5d4ONMneONTSoJX_RSgpFlezZPRzfZhft0vhO0AlwqDR5CU74q4idbeFrE1b2GVVkLCSM4FyfzKVsrcWlc87pJqKMrT_-cihcAvY-Hqqrbl3vDGgAqnmnmv89IGTPRA3t4MjY-DwSmUVXe6BlJnDEo/s1080/POETRY.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif_ehgWk6zHvpzMX7pCUG-JoGIq_BwgD1972DLE5d4ONMneONTSoJX_RSgpFlezZPRzfZhft0vhO0AlwqDR5CU74q4idbeFrE1b2GVVkLCSM4FyfzKVsrcWlc87pJqKMrT_-cihcAvY-Hqqrbl3vDGgAqnmnmv89IGTPRA3t4MjY-DwSmUVXe6BlJnDEo/s320/POETRY.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><br />The first example is a poem titled “Dr Pepper Thank-You Note,” which I sent in an email to a coworker after they returned from their lunch break with a fridge-cold Dr Pepper for me.<br /><br />"Dr Pepper thank you note"<br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This pop is fizz-city</div><div style="text-align: justify;">bang bop whizz, biddie</div><div style="text-align: justify;">brown sweet liquid sippy</div><div style="text-align: justify;">pepper poppin</div><div style="text-align: justify;">sweet tooth stopping</div><div style="text-align: justify;">got me feelin like I’m bopping</div><div style="text-align: justify;">to a carbonated ditty</div><div style="text-align: justify;">it slaps, man.</div><br /><br />I was doing a daily poem challenge at the time, so I was delighted that the soda inspired this experiment with sound and rhythm. My friend thought it was fun as well. <br /><br />The second poem is one I wrote for a friend when she was out of town. We were roommates at the time, so I wrote this note and put it on her favorite plant- a beautiful indoor tree that was in front of her bedroom window. The title, in all-caps, made me giggle. Here’s the poem:<br /><br />“WHY THE TREE IN JORDAN’S ROOM IS ALMOST AN ACCEPTABLE REPLACEMENT FOR HER”<br /><br />It is lush, bold, beautiful,<br />growing toward the sun,<br />brightens up a room, and<br />has a friendly face…<div><br />and is unabashedly standing<br />naked at an open window.<br />For heaven’s sake, tree, put<br />some clothes on or shut<br />the blinds, and close that door<br />until you’re decent.<br /><br />Jordan found the type-written poem on her tree when she returned from wherever it was, and we all had a good laugh. Which is no small thing. <br /><br />Sometimes as a poet I get a little caught up in the “artistry” of the work. I want to write things that are deep or meaningful or expressive (but only expressive of certain emotions). So I enjoy writing silly little poems for friends to bring them joy, and to give myself a little reminder of why I love writing poetry. Because it’s FUN.</div><div><br />I hope you enjoyed reading these little poems for friends. Maybe you are inspired to write some of your own! I’d love to see them in the comments. </div></div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-79869194378229319542023-08-03T08:05:00.001-07:002023-08-03T08:05:00.126-07:00Light and hope: finding a metaphorThe light in my bathroom was out for a few months. My husband and I tried a few troubleshooting things. It wasn’t the lightbulb. It wasn’t the breaker. It wasn’t the outlet. At a loss, and not really wanting to deal with finding an electrician, we started to just make do. We got used to the dim showers, the shadows draping over the sink. <br /><br />At first, every time I entered the bathroom my hands would automatically gravitate toward the light switch. I’d hear the click but remain in the dark. My hand would sink back to my side. Right. Dim showers it was. Eventually the disappointment became resignation. My hands no longer tried the switch. The impulse was gone. I would keep my hands at my sides until I needed them to help me find my way in the darkness. <br /><br />This went on for a few months. It began to feel normal. I forgot what it was like before. But then it started nagging at me again. I asked my husband about it, who asked our friend, who came over a week and a half later to help. It was a simple fix. The homeowner before us had taken some shortcuts, and the power to the switch just needed to be plugged in. Somehow it had gotten loose in our basement. I’m not sure how. <br /><br />So this evening I turned on the light. It felt strange to put my hand to the wall and feel the bright glow touch my eyes. However, I don’t think it will take very long for my hands to begin automatically reaching for the light switch again. And that makes me think of hope. Hope is like that faith in the light switch. It took me a week or so to stop reaching for the light. But I’m guessing it will only take two trips to the bathroom for me to start reaching again. <br /><br />Sometimes life can feel like months of reaching for the light switch with nothing to show for it. You might persevere in your hope longer than I did. Maybe your hands would reach for the light switch for months, not just weeks. I think the moral of the story is that hope remains even when hope is given up. The end of my light switch story was never doomed to be darkness forever and ever. The solution was there even in the months that I forgot to look for it. All we had to do was reach out to a friend. Isn’t that how it is with God? The end of the story for a believer is always light. Even when in the darkness I forget to hope, hope is there. Hope isn’t dependent on whether I persevere consistently. Maybe that’s one reason there are other people in our lives, to remind us how to see the hope that is still there. To imagine the light coming on when your hands reach for the switch, and believe it’s actually possible.<div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3dUcEMuqL63iSuZ77k6K5qNZz1oNQrz0XWVqS71Xg_lbwW55sm4vFyykRZnKe19FMneeZ9AwlyKLqEHn_-i2sSamG53GPEVWiAkTEM1LDRd8gJ7OhXORnmHCEbwEJHpLzHY6nwLqpe8_hNH6LhSjcr1zKB9yEzXzUWo6C4Ffab7ZQuUZIHbwV-Eoy6tU" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg3dUcEMuqL63iSuZ77k6K5qNZz1oNQrz0XWVqS71Xg_lbwW55sm4vFyykRZnKe19FMneeZ9AwlyKLqEHn_-i2sSamG53GPEVWiAkTEM1LDRd8gJ7OhXORnmHCEbwEJHpLzHY6nwLqpe8_hNH6LhSjcr1zKB9yEzXzUWo6C4Ffab7ZQuUZIHbwV-Eoy6tU" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /></div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-38820362816982377582023-07-27T08:13:00.001-07:002023-07-27T08:13:00.145-07:00My son turns one this week...My sweet, funny, giggly, stubborn boy turns one this week. I really can’t believe how quickly time has gone. I feel like just yesterday I met him for the first time. I can’t really seem to write any cohesive blog-post type thoughts about it, so I wrote a poem to share. Here it is, a poem commemorating a very special birthday indeed:<br /><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> “For Byron”</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F61ba2dbd-0148-4983-9bdf-fa887e1061bf_3024x4032.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a></div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The summer you were born I moved like molasses. Weeds sprung up in my garden, too wild for me to ever tame again, and I reveled in that urban wilderness. The heat kept me inside. I spent endless hours waiting for you, your kicks, your slow hand across my belly, reminding me that you were mine and we would meet. I could close my eyes and picture you, dream of you. You were born in a flash on a humid night. I cried because I felt so empty without you, rejoiced because my arms could hold you, my hands could feel the softness of your face. Now a year has passed and you are the wild weed I cannot tame. My dream has become a song I sing as you fall asleep. In a flash you have grown, my silly, smiley boy. Your hands and feet learn something every day, I wait for time to slow, I ache for what I’ve lost, I yearn for what’s to come. My wild weed, can you become like molasses? Can I hold you in my arms, feel the softness of your face? Let me sing my song and keep you young, keep you one, for one year more.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img height="400" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F61ba2dbd-0148-4983-9bdf-fa887e1061bf_3024x4032.jpeg" width="300" /></div></div><div><br /></div><div>If you enjoyed reading this, <a href="https://juliamcmullen.substack.com/" target="_blank">subscribe</a> to get my posts straight to your inbox.<br /><br />And here is the adorable birthday boy :)</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNmoiLbi7HyJ5Wq2IGiovc_2vmoC_eN4neWnUEkv7CjpIOgdYbySW8eWwUlQjHPHyU67p4J1YFXEsBRGUOZ11x7EF_lj2bUbZBIJPnQDfP76p3Dyzidft1KRSJaDMu35PCZM42XCalUQoZX9M15NhnOVowROFigN2PHpe0mVtHIDUJYOf1XoAQj7k8KC0/s4032/83FC20C2-32FD-424A-AF3B-E4CB9822A049.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNmoiLbi7HyJ5Wq2IGiovc_2vmoC_eN4neWnUEkv7CjpIOgdYbySW8eWwUlQjHPHyU67p4J1YFXEsBRGUOZ11x7EF_lj2bUbZBIJPnQDfP76p3Dyzidft1KRSJaDMu35PCZM42XCalUQoZX9M15NhnOVowROFigN2PHpe0mVtHIDUJYOf1XoAQj7k8KC0/s320/83FC20C2-32FD-424A-AF3B-E4CB9822A049.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> <br /><br /><br /></div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-55841148066188436142023-07-13T09:18:00.001-07:002023-07-13T09:18:00.137-07:00When it feels like it will never get betterI am writing to you today to tell you of a story of a girl who believed it would get better. It goes something like this:<br /><br /><i>Once upon a time, there was a beautiful maiden. Me, of course. And one day this beautiful maiden gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. She wore pink slippers to the hospital. She didn’t even have time to pick a playlist. Her son wanted to be born. And he was even more precious and loved than the maiden had imagined. Her husband was so proud, her heart welled with love like the tide of every ocean was within her. But the baby cried. He tried to nurse but it didn’t seem to come naturally to him. The beautiful maiden cried. How could this not work? Hadn’t God made it to work? She tried and tried and prayed and cried, but feeding her baby was so difficult and painful. <br /><br />She did not despair, however. She let hope fill her like a light. She trusted God, she trusted her body, she trusted that some day, she would feel the serene bliss of nursing her baby, pain-free. She enjoyed every moment. She grinned ear to ear. In four short months, nursing became a magical, joyful, precious bonding time with her son. It was as if hardly any time had passed at all. She had suffered with incredible grace. The end.<br /></i><br />I sometimes tell myself this story. I sometimes ache in my heart knowing that more often than not, trusting God looked more like crying and yelling and begging and wondering if I could trust him. I wish I had grinned ear to ear more. I wish I had spent less time dreading my baby waking up. I wish, I wish, I wish. <br /><br />But that story didn’t sound real, did it? The truth is gritty, the truth is painful. In the days after my baby was born, until he was four months old, I could not nurse my baby without pain. I went to lactation consultants, I went to my midwife, I watched so many youtube videos that my algorithm is forever altered. We even took our son to baby therapy. Nothing helped. Deep down, I knew that the only thing that would help was practice. Painful practice, and time. I asked God why I couldn’t have “just this one thing.” I asked him why it had to be hard. Then I saw a video online of a calf slamming its head into his mother’s udder. I laughed. Even animals had painful nursing. God wasn’t singling me out. <br /><br />Still, I felt angry. I felt disappointed. I felt like I was being robbed of something I’d never even realized could be stolen. And the prevailing feeling was despair. I believed, on some level, that it would never get better. Which sounds very dramatic, but there was a lot going on emotionally in this, my first postpartum season. <br /><br />Looking back on the trial when I first overcame it, I felt ashamed. Why hadn’t I been more like the graceful maiden who suffered so well? Why had I ugly cried, doubted, let frustration get the best of me? But the truth is, no story can avoid those messy moments. I am not a cartoon princess who cries with dainty sniffles before regaining my composure. My eyes drench my face with tears. I get all red and splotchy. My hands grasp for hope but sometimes they slip. Sometimes the only thing keeping me tethered to the hope of “it getting better” is the hand of a loved one who can see more clearly than I can. <br /><br />I realize now that this suffering was a greater gift than I would have believed possible. Now, when I imagine a future difficulty, a future suffering, I can tell that my heart will hold tighter to hope. Not because I really have any more actual faith in God’s goodness, but because I am learning that my imperfect, messy, tearful self is not a failure. I am not giving up hope just because I have moments where I can’t see the end of the trial. I am not suffering poorly because I need someone to help me see God’s goodness clearly in the midst of pain. <br /><br />You see, God didn’t mind my sobbing prayers in the dark nursery. He remains faithful. His mercy and love all remain true whether or not I believe it will get better. So when it feels like it never will, I can cry out to Him and hope that it will. And that in the meantime, that “suffering well” means suffering with God, in all the messiness of uncertainty.<br /><div class="subscription-widget-wrap" data-attrs="{"url":"%%checkout_url%%","text":"Subscribe"}" data-component-name="SubscribeWidgetToDOM"><div class="subscription-widget show-subscribe"><form class="subscription-widget-subscribe"><div class="fake-input-wrapper"><div class="fake-input"></div><div class="fake-button"></div></div></form></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggYTE9Zc547P14_lq7Ms9bZyjDdcvUVGXCeh5FLrMm4if9LNEEdsHOLUtazdmXofXmtHkEej4kxB-pOBG4wPf0O_gm2ObMhaozIBeK8wEvw1HhnhEV--Zvy_bTX5tAFKBd62VZqe8TgQWniaewZvP0g0wJM0Ki4uoAtAfp7jKYRjHcLEAyT641uKJjcr4/s1080/His%20mercy%20and%20love%20all%20remain%20true%20whether%20or%20not%20I%20believe%20it%20will%20get%20better..png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggYTE9Zc547P14_lq7Ms9bZyjDdcvUVGXCeh5FLrMm4if9LNEEdsHOLUtazdmXofXmtHkEej4kxB-pOBG4wPf0O_gm2ObMhaozIBeK8wEvw1HhnhEV--Zvy_bTX5tAFKBd62VZqe8TgQWniaewZvP0g0wJM0Ki4uoAtAfp7jKYRjHcLEAyT641uKJjcr4/s320/His%20mercy%20and%20love%20all%20remain%20true%20whether%20or%20not%20I%20believe%20it%20will%20get%20better..png" width="320" /></a></div><br />Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-47733384175386855792023-07-06T11:07:00.000-07:002023-07-06T11:07:33.155-07:00Intersection of Beauty and Truth<div><p data-pm-slice="0 0 []">I have been thinking a lot about art lately. More specifically, about beauty and truth, and where the two intersect. Mostly within my own creative work. Writing poetry is my main expressive outlet. I always say the first draft is for me, and the revisions are in case someone ever reads it. But as I’ve gotten older, that motto has felt more and more necessary. </p><p>When I write a poem, they usually stew for a while and come out onto the page in one impulse. I am not gate keeping my feelings, I am not censoring my thoughts. Oftentimes, the “belief” of the moment is drawn out of an emotion/experience I’ve been wrestling with, especially when it comes to my poetry about my faith. I’ve written several poems lately that capture difficult feelings of doubt, depression, loneliness…you get the gist. Usually after reading these poems back, I ache because they <em>feel </em> true. And in that sense, they <em>are </em>true. I wrote a poem about wrestling with faith, using imagery from the story of God parting the Red Sea. The <em>experience </em>of the poem was true, but when I took a step back after my first draft, I realized that what it said about God was <em>not </em>true.</p><p>I had left the poem on an unresolved note that made it seem like God had abandoned me. I chose to revise it for two reasons (aside from my normal desire to revise). </p><p>1) God is not a god who abandons His children, and 2) revising the poem to make it truer was an important step in letting the poem help me heal. So, instead of leaving the narrator of my poem helplessly facing an impassable sea, I chose to end the poem with the imagery of Moses’s staff moving, alluding to the hopeful ending that particular story has. Now, when I read the poem, I am encouraged by it. I can see in its imagery the struggle I had, can remember how it felt to pour the words out of a raw heart onto the page. But there is also the hope. Because I wrestled with whether the beautiful thing I’d created was also <em>true,</em> God was able to remind me of his kindness, allowing me to use my creative expression in a kind of spiritual exercise.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUhh4GIbXdo3po3-WSQHtyoZIBoVFABlonqXJc1txS0h8GAyMbV6jZv8DsS7ReBOtDYYCE5TeAapsSFf0ogyXSroVswf3CM6u2pbMz8dQbEaeCKV_lKwmsCAAxF7PLb349PHSAQipZOoIULMElmSxr8Iek-WE_MsNNBeXLXu0T8WZF0DRfx8rNbF6hb9M/s1080/Intersection%20of%20Beauty%20and%20Truth.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUhh4GIbXdo3po3-WSQHtyoZIBoVFABlonqXJc1txS0h8GAyMbV6jZv8DsS7ReBOtDYYCE5TeAapsSFf0ogyXSroVswf3CM6u2pbMz8dQbEaeCKV_lKwmsCAAxF7PLb349PHSAQipZOoIULMElmSxr8Iek-WE_MsNNBeXLXu0T8WZF0DRfx8rNbF6hb9M/w400-h400/Intersection%20of%20Beauty%20and%20Truth.png" width="400" /></a></div><p>So then I asked myself, as a Christian poet, where does beauty intersect with truth? Does it matter if my art is also true? I think it does. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and in that sense, truth might only beautiful to those who believe it. An atheist might not find the idea of heaven and angels beautiful, but they might see the way someone is compelled by their faith and remark about the beautiful simplicity in their tears of joy. I think for a Christian, the most beautiful art is art that is true. </p><p>I think this is a freeing notion. I think it frees us to enjoy art that isn’t Christian, finding the beauty in the experience of others, in the beauty of the human existence. I think sometimes Christians are a little legalistic about what art they consume. The creativity of humanity is God-given. I rejoice at the opportunity to experience art that reflects the beauty of creation. And if the <em>experience </em>of the artist is true, then we are free to create. We are free to express ourselves, and in that expression, to seek the truth, allowing God to be glorified. This might apply mostly to poets, since I am largely speaking out of my experience as a poet. I do think I have a responsibility to make sure my poetry is true before sending it out into the world. And if a poem remains in a hopeless place, I personally like to share it with an explanation. I hope that my work can always point people to the merciful, loving God of the bible. Most importantly, I hope that as I create, that it is all for the glory of the One who created me, and that He can use it to teach me more about Him.</p><p>What do you think? Has God ever used your creativity to reveal His character?</p></div><p></p>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7064150133201192921.post-32478779447619176182023-03-20T10:46:00.002-07:002023-03-20T10:46:39.805-07:00Turning toward scripture for comfort in motherhoodWhen my son was born, I remember feeling like I had just been born as well. Everything felt new. The great big swell of love I felt for my son eclipsed many of the things that had been major focuses of my life. And on a literal physical level, my body was different, and is always going to be different. Suddenly I had the capacity to feed a tiny human being. Suddenly I knew that I could and would do anything to protect my son, and my brain was constantly walking through every possible scenario. The answer to each of them was "yes, I would do that for him," or "it's a lot of bad guys, but maybe I should become a ninja master just in case I ever need it." And then there was the overwhelming LOVE I felt for my son. My husband would laugh at me because I'd be holding our son and crying about how he was going to get old some day. <div><br /></div><div>So, along with all of these very real changes in <i>me</i>, I was also trying to learn how to care for a new baby. He was cute, cried more than I thought he would, was very bad at eating, got gassy, slept all the time, but never when <i>I </i>wanted to sleep... it was a lot. I went from being an individual who could shower, eat, use the bathroom whenever I wanted, to wondering when I would even have <i>time</i> for those things, let alone be able to do them. My son needed me constantly. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is normal. Babies need their mothers. I am sure I am not unique in my experience of being surprised by how much he really did need me. And in the midst of being needed day and night, as I became the main source of comfort for this tiny, squishy baby, I began to wonder... "<i>But who will comfort ME?"</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>My husband's job had him working out of town, so I was without him 4 nights a week. I was struggling to breastfeed without pain. My body felt traumatized after a very fast, intense labor. I was afraid to use the bathroom. I had this intense feeling that I had no idea what I was doing. Motherhood is overwhelming. Motherhood can be lonely. And in those lonely, overwhelmed moments, what I needed most was comfort. Yet it felt like no one could provide the kind of comfort I needed, because this was a deep, spiritual longing. </div><div><br /></div><div>I told my sister that I wished Jesus could give me a hug. I told her I knew God loved me, but I needed His comfort. "And how can I get comfort if he can't give me a hug?" was my main lament as I cried into the phone. I think that's the difficult part about Christianity. Our God is very real, but Jesus only came to earth for such a short time. Not enough time to give us all hugs. Not enough time to sit with each and every one of us knee-to-knee like a friend. And yet, my sister in all her wisdom urged me to ask God to comfort me. Her suggestion seemed silly, but scripture paints a picture of a God who <i>can and will </i>comfort us despite the great cosmic distance between us. At her advice, I began diving into the Word, seeking scripture that reminded me that God is a God of comfort. I ended up finding Psalm 77 by searching the word "comfort" in my bible app. Very resourceful of me, I know. The first verse stood out to me:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="text Ps-77-1" style="background-color: white; position: relative;"><span class="versenum" face="system-ui, -apple-system, "Segoe UI", Roboto, Ubuntu, Cantarell, "Noto Sans", sans-serif, Arial" style="display: inline; font-size: 1.2rem; font-weight: 700; left: -4.4em; line-height: normal; position: absolute; top: auto; vertical-align: text-top;">1 </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">"I cried out to God for help;</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="background-color: white;" /><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white;"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-77-1" style="position: relative;">I cried out to God to hear me.</span></span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span class="text Ps-77-2" id="en-NIV-15096" style="background-color: white; position: relative;"><span class="versenum" style="display: inline; font-weight: 700; left: -4.4em; line-height: normal; position: absolute; top: auto; vertical-align: text-top;">2 </span>When I was in distress, I sought the Lord;</span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white;"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-77-2" style="position: relative;">at night I stretched out untiring hands,</span></span><br style="background-color: white;" /><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white;"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-77-2" style="position: relative;">and I would not be comforted."</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white;"><span class="text Ps-77-2" style="position: relative;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE_iwEuG31j2b-FANmjwBKLV-MnJHf9Vds2D4jubl3-TCA_ygeuiHxO8spR8YoyWK-G2KGOcoSeRsjiJtdnEdIsVkgmrV078w4N1JC361RRNYI6Cv-NWnaxEeMWW07-KAIzcIzJSYQSq6Iu7ORiD5OF7VHXE_4dOjmnmUFQ0S85OfH3IIpCEz4Tr0U/s1080/Psalm%2077.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE_iwEuG31j2b-FANmjwBKLV-MnJHf9Vds2D4jubl3-TCA_ygeuiHxO8spR8YoyWK-G2KGOcoSeRsjiJtdnEdIsVkgmrV078w4N1JC361RRNYI6Cv-NWnaxEeMWW07-KAIzcIzJSYQSq6Iu7ORiD5OF7VHXE_4dOjmnmUFQ0S85OfH3IIpCEz4Tr0U/s320/Psalm%2077.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span class="text Ps-77-2" style="position: relative;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white;"><span class="text Ps-77-2" style="position: relative;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white;"><span class="text Ps-77-2" style="position: relative;">The writer of the Psalm goes on to wonder if God has forsaken them, until verse ten, where it shifts:</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white;"><span class="text Ps-77-2" style="position: relative;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="text Ps-77-10" id="en-NIV-15104" style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px; position: relative;">"Then I thought, 'To this I will appeal:</span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px;" /><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px;"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="font-size: 0.42em; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-77-10" style="position: relative;">the years when the Most High stretched out his right hand.</span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px;" /><span class="text Ps-77-11" id="en-NIV-15105" style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px; position: relative;"><span class="versenum" style="display: inline; font-size: 1.2rem; font-weight: 700; left: -4.4em; line-height: normal; position: absolute; top: auto; vertical-align: text-top;">11 </span>I will remember the deeds of the <span class="small-caps" style="font-variant-caps: small-caps; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal;">Lord</span>;</span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px;" /><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px;"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="font-size: 0.42em; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-77-11" style="position: relative;">yes, I will remember your miracles of long ago.</span></span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px;" /><span class="text Ps-77-12" id="en-NIV-15106" style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px; position: relative;"><span class="versenum" style="display: inline; font-size: 1.2rem; font-weight: 700; left: -4.4em; line-height: normal; position: absolute; top: auto; vertical-align: text-top;">12 </span>I will consider all your works</span><br style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px;" /><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px;"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="font-size: 0.42em; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Ps-77-12" style="position: relative;">and meditate on all your mighty deeds.'"</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px;"><span class="text Ps-77-12" style="position: relative;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px;"><span class="text Ps-77-12" style="position: relative;">I encourage you to read the entire thing. The psalmist remembers the good deeds of God, and the psalm ends on a higher note than the one on which it begins. It's very poetic in its descriptions. But the important thing is that <i>meditating</i> on the mighty deeds of God brought out this hopeful change. I resonated so much with the first verse- crying out to God for help, reaching out untiring hands in the dark of night... yet when <i>has </i>God forsaken me? When I meditate on His work in my life, it is a work of blessing and renewal. He has rescued me from sin, restored my spirit, given abundantly when I do not deserve it. Why should the current darkness be any different? God's comfort is as present in my difficult times as it is in my rejoicings. When I look and see that it was <i>His hand </i>that carried me through so many hardships, how can I believe He will turn away from me? How can I not have hope for my future? And if my own memory or experience had been lacking, I could have turned to countless stories in the bible that demonstrate God's provision and love for His people. </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px;"><span class="text Ps-77-12" style="position: relative;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px;"><span class="text Ps-77-12" style="position: relative;">It may seem a small comfort to some, but this exercise brought me out of my distress and into a renewed understanding of God's character. God is constant, always good and gracious. I am the fickle one, slow to trust, afraid that His provision is not enough. When I sought the truth in scripture, God was able to shift my perspective. Sometimes I have to do this exercise hourly. And though it isn't the same as a real live hug from Jesus, the baby snuggles are a definite consolation.</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px;"><span class="text Ps-77-12" style="position: relative;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px;"><span class="text Ps-77-12" style="position: relative;"><br /><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="indent-1" style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px;"><span class="text Ps-77-12" style="position: relative;"><br /></span></span></span></div>Juliahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06282694327356496824noreply@blogger.com0