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love languages and being thankful for the gifts given
It’s something that all mothers are inherently provided with ample opportunity to learn. But all of humanity gets its share of readily available lessons too. Love comes in different forms. And you need to accept it in whatever form it takes. Learn to see love in its many varied shapes and sizes. And welcome it with open arms. Sometimes, when you’re the mother of lots of littles, love feels sticky and usually is covered in both jam and magic marker. Sometimes love looks like your spouse taking the kids to play outside or waking up early one morning so you can sleep in. Love might look like your five-year…
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unconditional love.
Unconditional love. We promise it. As if we could control it or offer it as a gift – all tidy and sweet in a box, wrapped up in brown paper and a jute bow. Unconditional love. I heard it in lovely vows at a recent wedding. An impossible ideal. And as I mature and stand witness to the world aging beneath my feet I keep looking and I keep trying but I keep finding myself empty-handed and a regular failure at this task that shouts at me and whispers to me through every movie and novel and relationship. Unconditional. I don’t even have a path to that height. And maybe, maybe,…
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initiative & love
I don’t know if we switched up his dog food or if he just had some freakish gut issue for a day or two, but last week our boy Ryder had some serious doggie diarrhea. (You know, I’ve written about kid poop and vomit and all the kinds of disgusting, why not dog diarrhea – eh?) It was so bad that my Google history will reveal some pretty bizarre searches on how to ease all of our suffering over here. At any rate, I think it was a day when everything was already kind of chaotic and when we walked into our home and smelled the horrific dog poop scent…
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know this my sons & daughters
There are so many many things I want my children to know. (Jesus’ saving love. The parts of speech. How to look people in the eyes when they speak. The times tables. Their family’s history. What makes a work of literature great. How to climb a tree. The love of a good dog.) But. In its simplest form, I want my kids to know that I like them. That I really truly genuinely like them. I’m glad they exist. They are not, never have been, will never be a burden to me. I want them to remember more days of laughter than tears. More days of sunshine than gloom. But…
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just reminding myself
What My Life Is Not: a burden something I must endure days to get through rejected about me as the central figure a picture perfect plan in my control What My Life Is: a gift an opportunity a work of art poetry accepted rescued in God’s hands What My Children Are Not: my salvation a liability in my complete control victims hopeless What My Children Are: hopeful worth the sacrifice beautiful gifts incredible potential Jesus followers loved protected rescued
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happy anniversary.
Nineteen. If you’re talking about grains of rice or hairs on your head, that’s a little number. But I’m not talking about food or hair. I’m talking years. Years. And suddenly, nineteen is kind of a giant number. Nineteen. A number that sort of takes my breath away. Today marks nineteen years since I traded my last name for his wearing blue Chuck Taylors and my momma’s wedding dress. Nineteen years since I stood in a field by a stream on a farm in Virginia and said “I do”. It’s not a golden anniversary, I guess, but it’s a good solid stack of years we’ve piled up as Husband and…
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being affectionate. naturally.
I am not, by nature, wildly affectionate. I’m not a hand patter. I don’t walk up behind you and give you a shoulder massage. (Unless you are my husband.) I’m not likely to hug you when I first meet you. I am not like my mother in this respect. (She hugged everyone she met. Every friend I ever brought home could expect a hug upon entrance to her home.) I fell into my dad’s pattern – more physically reserved. But something is changing my non-affectionate ways. It’s called mothering. It has been both intentional and non-intentional. Becoming a mother certainly expanded my heart to degrees of which I have not…
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to wear compassion as a cloak.
My lovely friend sent this scripture passage to me recently. I have needed these words so frequently. 12 Put on then, as God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassionate hearts, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience, 13 bearing with one another and, if one has a complaint against another, forgiving each other; as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive. 14 And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony. – Colossians 3:12-14 Another friend pointed out how kind it is of God to allow us to put on traits like compassion and kindness and meekness and patience. Because He knows those characteristics are not natural to people like me. I need help to put on a…
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I can’t believe we said yes: what love will make you do.
Last week we celebrated Bergen Hawkeye’s birthday. Up until now, the guest list for most Keigley kid birthday events has been almost exclusively grown ups. Usually summer staffers. But this year we invited a few of Bergen’s buddies, drew out a couple treasure maps and created challenges for each of the kids. Turned out to be a perfectly sweet evening with fun and games and kind friends and chocolate cake with peanut butter frosting. (Bergen didn’t want any food dye in his icing.) A few days before the party, my friend sent me this text. “Can we get Bergen two parakeets for his birthday?” I responded, “Um, are you kidding?”…
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What it is.
Two weekends ago I attended a wedding shower for a friend. Last weekend I attended another wedding shower for a different friend. Sunday we were sitting in a field with an incredibly lovely mountain top view watching two sweet friends holding hands and exchanging promises. Love. It’s just all over the place this month. Love. I like weddings. I like romance. I like the idealism associated with newlyweds and young love. It’s the beginning and it’s sticky sweet and it’s hopeful and it’s full of glowing words and bold proclamations. It’s nice. But when I saw this instagram picture on my phone last week, I was reminded of the kind…
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Love
Love. It just isn’t the one big thing. That giant gift with the fat price tag doesn’t earn you a free pass. I can’t buy my children a really cool game for the Wii one Saturday night and then not speak to them all week. And when they wonder where dinner is on Tuesday evening I just point to the Wii game. That’s ludicrous. I can’t read Piper six chapters of a novel when she’s four and then never pick up another book until she’s eight. “What? Another reading of ‘Guess How Much I love You?’ Nah. I read you six chapters last year.” That’s crazy talk. I’m learning that…
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In Praise of the Wilde One
Otto Fox Wilder is definitely the baby of a family of six children. He has about three mothers and each of those moms has a distinctly different parenting style. But this little man is endlessly entertaining lately. He’s still loud, but he’s funny. He sings along with music we play. Right now his favorite tunes apparently are “Pirate’s Gospel” and Mumford & Sons “The Cave”. He tells the same joke over and over. It goes like this – “Dada!” (Wait for Daddy’s response.) “Ha.Ha.Ha.” Still no progress in the potty training department. (Although being the sixth child, I have learned that, for our house, rushing that skill is not the…
Keep Reading . . .
this day. this life. some sort of a mood.
Oh hi. It’s me.
friday afternoon thoughts.
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good.
If life has taught me anything, it is this . . . Good days are not a guarantee. Therefore I make it a priority to recognize one when I see it. To hold it in my hands and tell myself, “This is a good one. Slow down. And be.” I took a long shower. Kevin fixed breakfast for the kids. Berg asked for the return of his mohawk. In red. Hannah and I picked four gallons of strawberries with all the Little Ones. Shelby instructed the girls in math so that I did not have to. I might have just purchased my last dozen grocery-store eggs. Hannah is building a…
