This is us, caught by my brother, in my cousin’s cozy home on Thanksgiving afternoon.

A luggage topper teetered above our cobalt car as it carried us – my John, my tall brother, my three tiny men and me – over the roads from Virginia to Cincinnati.

My mom and her handsome, wide-hearted Todd drove down from Nebraska with two of our beloved step-brothers while my aunt – my dad’s sister – and my little lookalike cousin flew out from California.

We were all together, this beautifully mashed up family. Blood and not-blood, chosen, nurtured, cherished the same.

My aunt made Grandma’s sweet potatoes and our traditional Ferguson family ham roll-ups. We were up too late playing progressive rummy. We laughed so much. So much.

I talked to my dad on the phone at midnight. I hadn’t heard his voice in over a year.

This life is sharp and lovely and it pulls at my breath, the way the shattered glass shines so gloriously. How have I been given this grand gift, of being allowed to live the days as they are twisted into a magnificent, abstract, deeply-felt masterpiece?

******

I’m still overwhelmed by the response to my quickly scribbled tribute to military wives. Thank you to all of you who shared it, commented and emailed me about it. We are all in this together.

I’ve been moonlighting here and there:

Dress For The Day at Dear Abby Leigh

“So I dressed anyway, in clothes to fit this day, while chugging my first cup of coffee (of an eventual three).”

Telling the story of how I dressed for the day I wanted to have, instead of the crazy day that was trying to have me, complete with photographic evidence!

Quick Nails and Eyes at Together in 10

I’m a contributor to this fun new site featuring quick and stylish style inspiration for busy moms. Here, I’m spilling my secrets about hiding between minivans and SUVs while smoothing on makeup and then painting my nails in the car.

I trip down the stairs each morning, puffy eyed, hair wrapped in a band, clad in shorts and my husband’s triathlon t-shirt for pajamas. Kiss the baby and set him in his cradle to coo at a string of bright elephants crafted by women in Uganda. My eyes are accustomed to their presence and I don’t think of the women’s fingers holding thread while I push buttons on that beloved Keurig and have a steaming cup of coffee ready in one minute flat.

Two tablespoons of coffee creamer (70 calories) and Canadian bacon (25 calories). Cereal for the two big boys who are ready for fun and activity and what can we do today, Mama?

We all need diversion.

 

“There are worse things, Ashleigh!” She shrugs and she grins, the phrase passing her lips easily and often. “Oh well, there are worse things in life!”

I stare at her blankly, when she says it. Because my head hears the words and knows their accuracy, but my heart says that the school problem or the illness or the family drama is pretty darn difficult for today. And coming from someone who has endured multiple real life nightmares, I don’t understand how this could be her pet phrase.

But it is. And she means it.

 

There are worse things.

There are very tiny boys who can’t take in nutrients and lose weight before their parents‘ eyes.

There are young men who earn neuroscience degrees and sip beer with friends before shooting automatic weapons into trapped crowds.

There are people who spend their days skipping gleefully around the internet leaving mucked up word trails as they rip to shreds with typing fingers the real lives of real people with real feelings.

There are men who hurt children, adults to whom a child’s sobbing and a child’s pain mean nothing.There are people who turn a blind eye.

 

There are worse things. My friend is right.

And yet the baby was up all night and my brain is ready to be shut off for the night by 10pm and so I nibble chocolate and read a book.

Because diversion comes whether or not I wish it and I hate myself for it.

 

linking up with the lovely Heather, and all those who just write.

Just over a year ago I admitted that I’m not always sure I believe in God.

In 1000 words, I traced my path to blind following, detailed the circumstances surrounding my crisis of faith, and illustrated my own desire to follow Christ anyway.

I tied up the words with a pretty ribbon and presented them to you and to myself, self-made evidence that I would be okay.

But if I’m going to be honest, I have to tell you the ribbon continues to come untied.

Read the rest over at A Deeper Story, where I’m still dealing with my God issues. Go figure.

 

Yesterday I ignored the alarm. The baby had been up often during the wee hours and since he has spoiled his mother with a typical eight hours of sleep each night, I fancied myself justified in choosing an hour of dozing over my planned jog.

By noon I was cursing that extra rest and the way it derailed our entire morning. I was cursing alarms and breakfasts and errands and that stupid 5K in September.

All three children napped at the same time after lunch and I stared at the wall for ten gloriously silent minutes before stumbling to the Keurig for an afternoon cup of piping hot energy.

The inventor of the Keurig was an exhausted mother. I have no idea whether or not that’s true (I’m guessing not), but let’s pretend.

I told myself I would harness that moment of quiet for writing, but I watched two episodes of Arrested Development and cleaned out my inbox instead. Apparently being on a social media sabbatical for six months doesn’t stop the email from piling up. Who knew?

Once a month I face a deadline and realize it’s been three or four weeks since I’ve written anything serious. Once a month I stare at a blank screen and struggle to find coherence in the jumble of thoughts I’ve shoved into some dark cranial crevice. And once a month I curse all the afternoons I’ve surfed Facebook or booted up Netflix instead of tapping a keyboard. I curse my commitments and my lack of planning and my crippling fear and my inability to find balance.

My homegirl Anne Lamott (as my other homegirl Sarah Bessey calls her – I stole that one) suggests the discipline of writing 300 words a day. I told myself and my confidantes I’d do that, for my own sanity, if I stopped writing in this space. I didn’t.

My sanity seems to be holding its own these days, except for being so cluttered with crappy, unfinished thoughts it could qualify for an episode of Hoarders.

So here I am. Getting out a few inconsequential crappy thoughts. Clearing away the cob-webbed words. Just doing a little house cleaning.