A letter to my Son After a Bad Bedtime

I just need to write, to process life through words and to blog, I miss it and even if it’s imperfect or not tagline worth I’m going for it.

So today I’m sharing this letter I wrote last week after a particularly bad bedtime, I bet you’ve been there too. 

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Dear son,

you fell asleep in the hallway tonight, laid your little body down on the cold and unforgiving wood floor in protest of something that, to you, seemed monumentally unjust.

I tripped on you a bit as I made my way down the hallway, because you’d wrapped yourself from head to toe in your quilt. You scared me, I had no idea you were in there, I was sure you’d given up and crawled into bed.

I have no idea why you chose to fall asleep this way, but I’m sure it has something to do with the protests you were yelling down the stairs to me, the ones I ignored by turning the TV up and repeatedly yelling “goodnight!”

The last thing I heard you were complaining about your sister breathing too loud, so I’m thinking your floor shenanigans had something to do with that. I never have any idea what to do with that request, by the way, people need to breathe, that slow rhythmic in and out is something to be thankful for.

It was a rough bedtime, with Dad gone and you making multiple trips down the stairs requesting a snack, a chance to give the cat a treat, some time to watch TV with me and of course the breathing complaints.

I told you the kitchen was closed, I threatened to take away screen time, but mostly… if I’m honest? I yelled at you. Continue reading

Church Plant Postmortem

Photo courtesy of Flickr, user serzhile

Photo courtesy of Flickr, user serzhile

Last year we made the official announcement that we were planting a church on the NorthEast side of Grand Rapids. This past January they gave us the keys to a beautiful old building, a well loved home for our new church. We soaked in the pictures of the beautiful sanctuary together, and you all offered your most sincere prayers.

We had so many dreams starting out, I was going to write weekly updates and blog about the church plant, both here and on our church website. We were going to be a place of authenticity that made space for brokenness and lament, a community that could weathered life’s seasons and hard questions together.

A community that engaged creativity

That loved our neighborhoods by being a part of them, shouldering burdens, being present.

I committed to bring my true self to this church, not the paper doll pastor’s wife I felt I should be.

We labored over a name and many of you got involved by taking a survey.

We bought a house specifically so we could be nearby the church and engage our neighborhood with Christ-centered hearts, loving honestly and opening our home. We wanted to be authentic members of our community with no agenda other than to show love.

I saw so many dinners and real-true conversations happening in these rooms when we walked through this home for the first time.

Sometime this summer I stopped writing about the church plant, because well, when things aren’t going well you’re generally not the first to bring it up, you deflect or hope no one will ask.

Last week Wednesday Kel and I sat in a meeting where we agreed that it was time to close the book on our little church plant. Continue reading

Superman’s Smile.

Yesterday was a really hard day for our family, I’m not trying to be cryptic, I’ll fill you in when I can. 

There are a lot of things I could be worrying on, freaking out about, angry over. All of them rightly so

But you know where I am fixing my gaze instead? On this picture.

supermanIt seems like I would say “I’m keeping my eyes on God” or “his provision” or “his faithfulness” and I am saying that, but for some reason no verse or quote is saying as much to my weary heart as this picture.

This picture says “everything’s going to be fine” and “God is watching out for us” to me in a way that nothing else can.

It’s not a high quality photo, it won’t look impressive to you in a frame on our wall. It was taken in the dressing room of a Halloween Store under dingy florescent lights.

We stopped in because I knew we needed to. I’d spent the morning paying bills, reducing this line and that on the spreadsheet until it all worked out…. ish.

Writing checks, calling doctors to pay uncollected co-pays with one ear as the other one was filled with the voice of a little boy.

“Mom, instead of numbers, let’s look at superman costumes on your computer! Mom! CAN WE LOOK AT SUPERMAN?!”

No, No, No buddy, please wait, not now… 

And then, you know what? Yes. Before we can’t anymore, let’s go get a superman costume. Continue reading

Thoughts and Feels on Being Judged About My CSection

Tomorrow will find me 32 weeks pregnant. Can you believe it? I can’t, but then I get up to pee for the 173rd time each day and and yup, I can believe it. I’m so ready to be done peeing.

This pregnancy has flown by and dragged on simultaneously. One the one hand I feel as though I’ve been expecting this little girl forever, then on the other hand I am completely unprepared to bring her home.

No, my bag is not packed. I actually don’t even have the things I need to pack, my nursing camis from the last two babies disintegrated and the yoga pants I brought to the hospital became rags after being bleach-stained beyond repair.

No, the nursery is NOT ready and it might not be before she arrives. Kel is working two jobs and we don’t see a lot of each other these days. When we do finally have a chance to be in the same room, painting is the last thing on our minds. Usually it’s more like, “hey come sit on the same couch as me, bring the remote. Let’s pass out.”

So I’m not ready, but I know our sweet new daughter will be here soon, just the same.

And if I need to have a friend or family member run to target to buy nursing camis and yoga pants and she sleeps in a pack and play in our room for the first months, so be it.

It’s not even a third baby thing, it’s a life-right-now thing. I’d rather have a sane family, a (sorta) rested husband and space to take it all in than kill ourselves putting together a pinterest-worthy nursery.

The state of our hearts over the look of her room.

However, there is one thing I am extremely ready for.

I’m ready for people to stop judging me about my C-section. Continue reading

Giving Up on Why

Today I am guest posting for my dear friend across the pond, Tanya Marlow to kick off her fall series on God and Suffering. Hope you’ll start here and click over and as always thank you for your presence and readership.

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This past spring, my husband graduated from Seminary after a seven-year, marathon journey of taking classes when we could afford it, both time-wise and financially. He started on campus, and finished up with intensive courses and online.

To celebrate, we made the seven-hour trip down to Kentucky for the commencement ceremonies. As I took my seat after checking our two children into child-care a single, paralyzing thought occurred to me.

I am here alone.

I was surrounded by a gymnasium of people, clustered together to celebrate their graduates. Some had signs and balloons, most chatted happily as they waited for the ceremony to begin and there I was, literally alone in a crowd.

I started to cry, and masked it by flipping through the program, hoping no one would notice the lonely woman bawling.

Let me fill you in on a little of the backstory as to why I found myself alone that afternoon.

Shortly before I met him, my husband’s father died from two, rare types of brain cancer. The beginning of our relationship was steeped in his grief. His birth mother died a week earlier and, although he hadn’t had contact with her for fifteen years, her death was a hard blow as, with it, all hopes of reconciliation were shattered.

A year and a half later, I received a phone call from my Mother: my father had passed away overnight in his office chair after a sudden heart attack at the age of 49.

 

Five years after that, another phone call: my mother had taken her own life on the train tracks of our hometown.

So that afternoon I sat at seminary graduation alone, feeling the weight of our collective losses. It wasn’t the first time I felt the holes left behind by our parents, but this time it was particularly sharp.

So many people who should have been there beside me…

As the graduates received their diplomas the people who had gathered to honor them stood to cheer. A few names in, a paralyzing thought occurred to me: “I will be the only one who stands and cheers for him; he deserves so much more than just my lonely voice.”

God why did you have to take them all?

Click here to head on over to Tanya’s blog to finish up. 

The day I realized I had Kindergarten all wrong

“Her mom probably cried when she left for Kindergarten and I celebrated with my friends by going out to brunch.”

I picked up this (mis)quote somewhere along the road (I think it’s from Jen Hatmaker and I think it’s from her blog, or her book Seven. Forgive me for my terrible sourcing here.)

I’ve repeated it with friends during friendly banter about how ready I was for my children to go off to school.

I’m one of THOSE moms, I said, the ones who will drop them off at school and head for the coffee shop with a grin on my face.

And then came the night before Kindergarten. As I emerged from the bathroom after brushing my teeth Kel signaled for me to follow him into the kid’s bedroom.

“This is the last night we have two preschoolers, she starts Kindergarten tomorrow… We have a school kid!”

We squinted at each other in the dim light and exchanged some sort of “holy crap” type look complete with raised eyebrows.

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She was going to school, for real school, not preschool but like big, huge, out in the world school.

And then I started to cry, and panic, and wish that we had some paper bags in the house so I could hyperventilate properly. (Kel offered to get me a plastic bag to which I responded “are you trying to kill me?!?”)

We headed to bed to chat about it all more and I started sobbing to him.

“I get it! I get why Moms cry when they send their kids to school! It’s not because they can’t stand to be without them for a while, it’s because this world is so damn scary and mean and we won’t be there! I need five more years to talk to her about All. The. Things!”

“Like how to be resilient when people are mean to her! And how to show love to a kid who everyone else is being mean to! And how she needs to believe what we teach her about who she is and who God says she is so if someone teases her for being too busy or picking her nose she will know that what they say doesn’t matter because people suck Kel! And OH MY GOD someone is going to offer her drugs like tomorrow, I just know it, we haven’t talked about drugs. I need five more years, I won’t be there! She is NOT READY for the big world.”

I am not ready to let the world have a crack at her. Not yet.

Because guys? The world can be so mean, so so mean and she is sweet, she is all kitties and big brown eyes and almost too many hugs and kisses every single day.

I don’t want careless people to break that.

Do you remember how scary school can be? And how mean kids are? I may as well toss her to the wolves as send her to Kindergarten!

I know she will come home crying and I know that we will have 17,842 more talks about life as it’s happening, complete with names, faces and context.

But Kindergarten day was dawning and I felt suddenly obscenely unprepared.

Still, the sun rose and we pulled on her skort and her polo. I did her hair in pigtails WITH little braids in them, completely exhausting my updo skills.

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We walked down to the fantastic Montessori school and I kept breathing as we stood amongst a crowd of other excited buzzing parents and children.

When her teacher walked out I eyeballed her and thought something along the lines of: you better cherish her little heart and see how wonderful she is or I will break you in half…(just kidding Ms Jennifer… if you’re reading this I’m sorry and I swear I will rock snack duty next week.)

It’s like this:

“Making the decision to have a child – it is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body. ” ~Elizabeth Stone

This quote nails it.

Suddenly you wake up and you send your unprepared heart to Kindergarten, and it’s all exposed and out there. You can’t swoop in to protect it and past experience tells you that there’s a 1000% chance it will be broken time and time again.

You think of every mean thing that happened to you and try frantically to protect your child from enduring the same. You know broken is beautiful and that she has to learn to endure heartache, to believe in who she is because she’s had to defend it, to see the world through other people’s eyes because she has access to them…

And you want to believe that God has her, but your life tells you that his “in control” and your “in control” are worlds apart. He will allow hard things to happen to her, the bitter and the sweet are coming, neither of which call to question his power or love… somehow.

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So you send your heart to Kindergarten and you make peace with the lump in your throat and the look of terror on your face. You remind yourself that you are new at being a school-kid mom and that you have much to learn as well.

And you will learn, both of you, and it will be some sort of okay even though it will constantly take you by surprise.

And you realize the morning of Kindergarten that not only do you have no idea how to spell the world, that you grossly misjudged how it would feel to send her through those doors to face the big world, to let it have access to her.

See how I spelled it wrong? I clearly don't get Kindergarten. Stupid german words.

See how I spelled it wrong? I clearly don’t get Kindergarten. Stupid german words.

Oh world, be gentle
Oh God shape her, May I always be her safe place second only to you as you are the only one who has staying power on this earth.
Oh Noelle, be brave, be unapologetically yourself, be a good friend, a passionate learner.
Oh God… be with her in that classroom, preserve that heart so she can show the world how much beauty you jam packed in there… 

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Hard Just Happens

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We are in a hard season. Normally I’d blog about what’s going on, about what’s hard and what’s helping but if I’m honest I just can’t do it much right now.

This song works well for this post, Hard Times, Eastmountainsouth.

I can’t let everyone in this time, I can’t talk about all the details online and I can’t even post pictures of how our house is coming along. I just can’t fling open the doors right now to show you our hard, beautiful, painful question-laden mess.

This season calls for small circles of sharing and slow, intentional healing.

It’s a season of prayer, wondering, hoping, doubting, trusting and seeing each minute as a chance to start again, believe again, try again.

But writing, writing helps.

Oh and don’t worry, no one is dying, Nickel baby is growing healthy and strong, the bills are paid, even if only just.

Some seasons in life are hard. This is true in the lives of everyone you know. Now, it might be that everyone you know is private about their hard seasons. This seems to be the case more often than not.

Some share it only in small circles because they can only trust a few with the nitty gritty of it all.

Some don’t share at all and burry it deadly deep within, shouldering it unnecessarily alone.

And then there’s over-sharing, in line at the grocery store and on social media, that’s somewhere in the mix too but it’s always hard to know where the shifty, mythical line between vulnerability and over-sharing lies.

But hard seasons, they come. They come no matter how well we plan.

And you know what? I’m finding that they come more than you’d like and that they stay longer than you’d hoped.

A friend texts and says: “Hey! How is it going?”

And you want to say something like: “Better!” but you can’t. Because it’s a lie, and you’re done with that lying game.

You want so desperately to give a good report, to chime in and reassure them that you’re fine but the truth is, you need them to know that really you’re on your ass both literally and figuratively in that moment.

The cloud cover lingers and you wake up some days wondering if you’re broken or to blame.

If only you’d read this book instead of Netflix binging, gone to that counselor, gone running more often, not eaten that, said this thing over the other one, spent less, saved more, developed that habit, gotten up earlier…

Because good people don’t have lingering hard seasons, right?

Wrong. Everyone has hard seasons. It’s not just you.

And again, hard seasons come more often than we’d like … and they stay longer.

Hard is part of the cycle of life, birth, death, joy, struggle, rest… these changes compose the stuff of our earth-treading lives.

You look around and it seems like everyone is doing better than you are, they seem to be killing it, loving it, soaking it all in and earning success that seems miles out of your reach.

Their lives are filled will achievement and glory. They are the embodiment of all those well intentioned quotes you keep meaning to hang on your wall.

It’s not you.

Yes, ultimately you’re the one who has to claw your way out.

But this will be so much easier given these two truths:

1) Hard happens to everyone and often times it lingers.
2) You can’t “good enough” to keep it from happening, no one can.

Marriage is hard, jobs are fickle, kids call for your every resource and the world is broken-beautiful.

You can’t good-enough it away.
You can’t prepare efficiently enough to prevent hard seasons from settling in.

And when they do, you can’t always to-do list them away immediately.

Hard happens.

It’s not just you.

Yes there are things to be done, piles of earth to move from here to there to get back to place of greater peace.

But that earth moves easier with a friend and that shovel is a little lighter without all the shame attached to it.

Hard happens. We’re doing hard right now. Maybe you are too. You’re not alone.

There is a time for every season, but they change.

They change.
This isn’t a forever thing. I know it feels like it today, but it isn’t. It won’t stay.

So pick up your shovel, or stare at it for another hour if you need to.

phone a friend,
say a prayer,
listen to a song,
read a poem.

What are you going to do with your one wild and precious life?
Mary Oliver, The Summer Day.

Hard happens. To me, to you.

The winds of change and the God of peace has not forgotten me, or you, or the sparrow for that matter.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

If you like this, there’s more to come. Use the box below to have new posts from this blog delivered to your inbox.

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How to learn gratitude from Epicurus while on your way to the porta-potty

Hi, I miss us. I will get into a better blogging routine. I swear. I promise. I think.

I owe you a house tour, a wrap up to the Love Showed Up Series and the ending posts for Kel and I’s story.

And thoughts, feelings, convictions on so many topics, probably spirit led and everything yet lost under a pile of laundry, pregnancy exhaustion and summer routine-less-ness.

The bad voices are trying to tell me I’m a crap blogger and my writing career may as well be done, but I’m choosing to call insane season, baby growing and keep trying.

For now hi.

Can I tell you about this cliché I am trying to hang on to? (This strikes at least me as odd because my most viral post is called 12 Grief Clichés and the Reasons they suck)

It all starts with an epiphany I had on the way to a porta-potty. If that doesn’t get catch your attention then I have no idea what will. Who has epiphanies while walking to a porta potty?… Except maybe “Wow this is going to be gross” or “Crap I forgot hand sanitizer.”

 

It was the Fourth of July and dusk had already settled all across the expanse of dark green grass in front of the high school. The lawn was crowded with blankets, lawn chairs and wagons filled with people, eager for the first official firework to be launched.

In the background a band planted on a trailer stage finished the last notes of “sweet caroline” just before starting into the slow, deliberate opening on the national anthem. The signal that the fireworks were about to start.

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Somewhere in that crowd behind me sat my family and friends, a smattering of faces in a sea of patriotism and glow sticks.

If the evening sounds Idyllic, it’s because it was, and it’s our norm for the Fourth of July.

Each year, bellies full of burgers and ice cream we head to the smaller stage of the Grandville fireworks and settle on blankets and into hoodies to enjoy the show.

And as I walked to the porta-potty two things came into sharp conflict inside me.

The warm glow of gratitude I felt for the privilege of that moment and the cloud of discontent I’d been living under. 

A Pinteresty, wooden sign cliché instantly came to mind. Turns out it’s less clicheé because it’s written by Epicurius. Greek Philosophers add a lot of clout.

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“Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; But remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.” ~Epiucurus, 300 B.C.

Flash back to months of house shopping, patiently waiting for “the right one”, one we could work on a make our own. Which we now have.

Flash back to hot days in Oklahoma, wishing we could live in Michigan, aching for the joy of a Northern summer.  And here we are, year two.

Flash back to evenings worrying about pregnancies, hoping for the gift of a healthy baby. Of which I have three, two wiggling like crazy on a blanket in the crowd and the other doing the same in my midsection.

Flash back to prayers of a career that would support our family. Our fridge is full, our bills are paid, we are well sustained.

Flash back to nights spent thinking that a man who would love me well would never come along. And I spend far too many evenings counting his flaws these days.

All those “hoped fors” brought into vivid reality and still I feel mainly discontent.

I wanted to drop to my knees right then and there and cling like a suction cup garfield to what was unfolding in my mind.

Why, why why is gratitude so elusive and how do I hold onto it with both hands? I’m coming to find out that my life depends on it. 

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I made my way into the porta-potty, did what I needed to do, which as a pregnant woman I seem to do every 13 minutes these days. Then emerged to discover that technology has brought us foot pump sinks for post porta potty hand washing.

Clearly a sign from the heavens that gratitude is in order.

I made my way back into the sea of people, struggling for several minutes to find our blanket among the hundreds of others.

When I found it, I hunkered down and kissed everyone appropriate for kissing, right on the cheek.

And you know what? Here’s the part where things get real.

The next morning I woke up and nothing changed. Not right away.

This epiphany would only be a game changer if I did something about it, took action to change my brain space.

Because gratitude is a habit and a practice and you have to do it intentionally at first, over the din of discontent.

Play it loudly overtop the sighs of “I hate our kitchen” or “there must be more money in the budget somewhere” or “why can’t I have her (seemingly) better-behaved kids?”

In the end I don’t want this blog post to lead you to believe that my porta-potty run in with Epicurus led me to an instantly more grateful heart.

It didn’t. But it can be another jumping off point. Another reminder that gratitude truly is the richest and best rhythm in which to live.

And so I am scribbling thanks
And I am contemplating a large piece of Epicurius art in our fireplace room.

I am looking at un-mowed grass and choosing to be thankful that it’s in Michigan and surrounding a house that is an answer to prayer.

I am thanking God for all we have and trying to stop saying things like “you know what we need?”

I am Setting reminders on my phone 4 times a day that remind me not to criticize the husband I used to hope for, but instead to build him up.

I am getting Brené Brown’s books on tape to get them into my head even if I can’t always slow down without falling asleep. We are all worthy of love and belonging. 

True gratitude will take practice, because deep down change doesn’t happen from one epiphany but from thousands of intentional changes.

Epicurus, please continue to haunt me, Spirit, please direct my thoughts, friends, please remind me of this truth when I complain about the messier gifts in my life.

If you like this, there’s more to come. Use the box below to have new posts from this blog delivered to your inbox.

Enter your email address:Delivered by FeedBurnerAnd when share with your friends, well that makes me pretty happy. 

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Homemade Chicken Stock: The Easy Way

A few nights back I made chicken stock at our new house for the first time. This was a much needed step because we were out in the freezer and I’ve become stubborn when it comes to buying it at the store.

I had multiple friends and readers ask for my recipe. In all honesty, this shocked and flattered me. There are bazillion tutorials on this, but I thought hey, why not take the time to add my process to the mix?

If you don’t like it find another one. Seriously, this is JUST how I DO IT. It’s a compilation of other methods over time. 

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First off, here is why I make my own.

1) The “good stuff” is expensive ranging from .75 – $1 a cup.
2) The not good stuff will say things like “chicken flavored” broth and include food dyes, which no one needs.
3) It makes our house smell amazing and I end up feeling like a mighty, resourceful pioneer warrior.
4) The flavor is amazing.
5) Ridiculous money-saver.

Also here is the difference between broth and chicken stock. Basically chicken stock is a lot more flavorful and better for you as it contains the gelatin from the bones. The longer it simmers, the better it tastes and the more it will do for your health.

Ideally you start with a chicken you roasted yourself, which is free range and all that jazz. These birds are unarguably better for you and generally $10 or more. If this is in your grocery budget, I’d do it.

It’s not in ours so generally I get a fryer from the store (a roaster will also do. Here is the difference between them) or I cheat completely and buy a rotisserie chicken from the deli. This was the instance with this particular stock, they are $5.99 at our local Meijer and for an already-cooked, versatile and relatively healthy main you can’t go wrong.

If you’re roasting yourself, this is my favorite recipe. Yes it’s Ina Garten but it’s not fancy, just use regular onions and don’t make the sauce if you don’t have the time. But totally make it if you do… you will not regret it. People WILL propose. It could get awkward. 

Okay, so however it happened you have a roast chicken. Now it eat for dinner or make chicken salad out of it. Either way you’ll have this chicken carcass leftover.

And odds are if you dig into it and give it a once over you’ll find a couple more cups of meat that you missed. And you’ll pop an obscene amount more chicken in your mouth as you pick. (I happen to be VERY good at picking a chicken due to my deli days making chicken salad. You can’t teach this, it comes with time and a willingness to get greasy)

Whatever you find, save it, put it on a salad, use it for soup because FREE CHICKEN! You’re a genius!

So now you have a picked clean carcass. I realize I’m already almost 400 words in but this part really isn’t that hard. You just need to get to carcass stage.

Now get your largest pot. I like this one and got it on a mother’s day sale for about $60 I think.

You will need the following
Chicken Carcass
Celery
Carrots
Onion
Bay Leave
Peppercorns
Salt

celery and carrots

Big chunks and no need to peel.

1) Throw in your bones and carcass.
2) Grab 2 big carrots, 2 celery stalks, a large onion (quartered) 2 Bay leaves and a handful of peppercorns and a tsp of salt. (Honestly? I eyeball ALL of this)
3) Cut your carrots and celery into big chunks, throw em in the pot along with your peppercorns, bay leaves and salt. Add some smooshed garlic cloves if you’re feeling it.
6) Put the pot in your sink and fill to the top with water.
7) Place it on the stove and bring it to a boil. Once it’s boiling, turn it down to a simmer.
8) If you see a film on top, skim it off with a wooden sppon. This is fatty grossness and you don’t need it per say. Feel free to do this several more times.
9) When the water gets low, add more.

Let it simmer until you go to bed. Then turn it off and put the whole thing in the fridge (use a pot holder. Don’t melt your fridge) because it probably has only been going for four hours or so and needs more time to become awesome.

The next morning throw it back on the stove if you have time (you can also do this the next evening) and let it go for about 4 more hours or so. If it looks gelatinous when cold this is a good thing, it means you have thick, hearty broth. You done good kid.

When you’re satisfied with flavor optimization get a huge bowl or another large pot and strain it.

Use your finest strainer, or if you’re like me, use your biggest one first and then strain it more finely as you move it into storage (I do this because I am the proud owner of a tiny, crappy, dollar store mesh strainer.)

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I strain it once to get out the big stuff and then again through a fine mesh strainer.

Now move it into storage. I use off-brand ziploc baggies and store most of it in 2 cup servings which I can use for either soup or recipes. Sometimes I do a 4 cup serving for a soup recipe, in which case I put it in a tupperware bowl with a post-it to label.

Then I make a round or two of ice cube tray chicken broth and throw them all in a big ziploc bag when they’re frozen. This way I can use just a little for those recipes that call for 1/4 cup or some such nonsense.

(With my ice cube trays 3 cubes = 1/4 cup)

Ludicrous Handiness

Ludicrous Handiness

The best part is realizing that you just took leftover bones and turned it into a TON of broth you can use for cooking. It’s not only more more nutrient dense, but it’s ridiculously cheaper.

For instance my recipe yielded 16 cups of broth. 
Chicken Carcass- Free, leftover after already eating the chicken (which yields more than one meal)
Carrots and Celery – $.30
Bay Leaves- $.30
Onion- $.50 (at the most!)
Peppercorns- $.10
Salt- Not even going to factor this in people.

So you spent maybe $1.25, IF THAT and you got 16 cups of much chicken breast that would have cost you about $15 or more in the store.

Store them flat to free and THEN you can put them wherever.

Store them flat to free and THEN you can put them wherever.

Okay, this is JUST how I make stock.

Also, I swear upon the very old table I am working on, that once you get through this once it will become easy and second nature.

It’s just this thing that is happening at your house making your house smell like maybe you are in fact the Pioneer woman herself.

Did I leave anything out? Do you have any questions? Please let me know and I will field them as best I can. I will try to take better pictures and change them up next time I make this.

Lessons from a Creepy Bagel Gawker (On Encouraging Moms)

A few weeks back Caedmon and I were out for Bagels as a break in the middle of errands.

I let him pick out his bagel and his cream cheese flavors from the case we affectionately refer to as cream cheese heaven. (Think a glass case full of huge bowls of every flavor cream cheese and you’ll see why.)

We waited at our table for our toasted and schmeared carbs to be delivered and as we did he started to whine for juice. This happens a lot, but I generally hold my ground because I want my kids to drink water. Also I hate shelling out $2.50 for a bottle of juice.

Yet, he wouldn’t drop it, he’s three, there are very few hills he won’t die on when it comes to getting his way: Underwear, hand washing, juice, who turns off the TV… these are all battle-worthy topics to him.

It went something like this:

“I want juice!”
“I’m sorry buddy, we are having water today. But I think your bagel will be here soon.”
“I don’t want it, I want a donut from Tim Hort’s… and juice!”
“Those aren’t choices right now, but a blueberry strawberry bagel is. Here it comes!”
“No, I hate bagels!” (goes to smack bagel basket…I block his shot because I know his game)

All the while I notice a middle age man across the aisle staring at us, obsessively and without apology. I try not to catch his eye after the first round because he is really making me uncomfortable with his constant gaze.

Eventually, somehow Caedmon calms down and digs into his bagel, even sipping and backwashing into his water after a few minutes.

All the while our friend across the aisle stares us down like my son stares at a Tim Horton’s donut case.

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From this past Sunday when we accidentally missed church and ended up giving our kids donuts instead of Jesus. #wetried

My creeped out levels were high when he got up to clear his table to leave (Phew!)

As he did he walked crossed the aisle to our table: “Hey. I just wanted to let you know that you’re doing a great job with him. You’re a good mom.”

My jaw dropped open. (don’t worry there was no bagel in it, I devoured that in 1:17 flat)

The whole creepy staring was an appreciation of my parenting skills? Who Knew? And what a weird way to go about it!

I thanked him profusely, felt immensely flattered and proceeded with the rest of my errands like the all star mom that I apparently am. With an extra dose of patience and understanding because of the compliment I’d been paid.

What’s up with the power of these words: “You’re a good mom.”

I hate that it takes a compliment from a real live person to make me feel more secure in my parenting, certainly I would like to be in a place where my call and my identity in God speak to that the most.

Yet, I cannot deny that every time someone has made a point to lift me up as a mom, it stands out.

I remember it, I feel it for the rest of the day and even longer.

Then last night, I saw Facebook post that brought all these compliments back to the forefront of my mind.

A friend from Oklahoma, who parents six beautiful children like a rock star, received a note on her windshield from a stranger at Target.

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Someone took the time out of their daily jam to notice her with her children, find a paper and pen, write a note and stick it under her windshield!

Whoever you are Target stranger, you are an answer to prayer.

Because how many days do we pray for strength, and how many times could we be the answers to each other’s prayers by taking the time to say: “Well done good and faithful (and obviously exhausted) mama?”

Not enough.

So yesterday I posted a Facebook challenge:

“Mom challenge: Let’s all tell three mothers that they are doing a great job this week. Bonus if it’s a stranger, double bonus if they’re having a hard day.”

What if we all complimented three mamas this week? Went our of our way to tell them that they’re great mothers?

What if we took the time to say “Hey, well done mom. It’s hard, but you are loving those little ones into beautiful people.”

What if we left notes on the windshields of dirty mini vans and cars?

What if we bought their much needed coffee at whatever drive thru is on their way to the grocery store or soccer field?

What if, when we saw a Mom struggling we intervened by holding doors and sharing looks of “I’ve been there?”

I know my world would be a more beautiful place if I answered a few more prayers with my actions.

So, are you in? If you are please let me know in the comments, or leave a comment about your encouragement in action. 

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