Tag Archives: Sarah

Bigger Picture Moments, Sarah’s Rewarding Love

Simple BPM

We have a new plan at Heavenly House for encouraging good behavior.

I KNOW it’s hard to believe, but we do struggle with such boring tasks as doing something the first time mom or dad asks.  We have an even harder time remembering that the tone of voice we use is as important as the words we say.  So, in the line of positive reinforcement when a little girl’s behavior manages to catch up to such lofty expectations as politeness and generosity andthoughtfulness, we have a plan.

Something that’s simpler than a sticker chart and easier to follow through with.  Something that has a pleasing sound attached to it:

To read the rest and to add your own Moment please head over to This Heavenly Life, we’d love to have you!

Live. Capture. Share. Encourage.

Writing Me: Where I’m From {Sarah}

I am from a powder-blue bicycle with pink streamers, from Barbie and hand-cranked ice-cream. I am from the concrete house on the corner that was once a mid-century, valley-hidden gas station. I am from autumn-pink azaleas, and broad-leafed redbuds.

I am from tracking Santa’s flight on the 10 o’clock weather forecast; I am from rosy cheeks and blue eyes, from Grandma Nina’s hands. I’m from made-up recipes and splattered cookbooks; I am from Betty Crocker.

I am from having too much food at the Thanksgiving table, and sneaking siestas behind the recliner. From stomping on puff mushrooms on the way to the creek. From dam-building and mud-pie-making. I am from ‘when your mother was a child’ and ‘Mabel, Mabel, sweet and able,..’ I am from cousin-filled pews and beaming, hand-holding grandparents. I am From the grace of Christ our Savior.

I’m from low-west Missouri surrounded by oaks and acorns; from blustering winter and blistering summer; from pineapple bars and chiles rellenos. I’m from the time Aunt Sherry was lured into a rug-covered pit in California, the poor dear. From the fishing-hook stuck in one Grandpa’s ear and the color ‘purkle’ from another Grandpa’s imagination.

I am from sleepy, early morning school bus rides and sleepy, late orchestra concerts. I am from ‘Nigh-night — love you — see you in the morning.’ From sneaking past mom and dad’s bedroom door. From careening over back roads with the windows rolled down.

I’m from field-parties and trying to be wild. I’m from failing, miserably, at being wild.
I am from the hope chest and the cedar closet; from the wrapped remnants of a wedding quilt and the boxed remains of a seaside vacation; from the yellowing photo albums and the long-saved TV-guide. I am from nostalgia — but reality. From a black puppy sleeping at the foot of my bed. From an angry cat rescued from a walnut tree.

I am from hearts looking backwards into hearts, further than memory can imagine or recall. I am from a hall of mirrors: constantly reflected in the generations of me.

Sarah writes nearly daily at This Heavenly Life. You can visit here there, if you’d like. 

Writing Me is a community writing project. We’d love to have you join us. 

I Don’t Care How Absence Makes The Heart Behave — I Prefer Presence

Though he was only gone for two and a half days, it turns out that we ladies are allergic to Justin’s absence.

He spent this weekend in Texas, pushing his bike-riding limits at a big, hot event, while we became sicker and sicker.  Lauren woke up with a head-to-toe rash, bright and flaming on her sweet cheeks, trickling down her belly and legs, but causing her no apparent irritation.  Mia bloomed with fevers, complaining of headaches and sleeping more than usual. And I, his resilient, capable wife, floundered.

I was bored.

I was lonely.

I missed him to the point that I couldn’t sleep and had no desire to anyway, without him beside me. It’s been so long since he’s spent any time away from home that I’d forgotten how much I dislike it. The dullness of it. The unbroken hours. The quiet. (Conversely, the noisiness of a house settling at midnight evoking images of burglars and unseen creatures…)  But also the busyness that comes from being the only one caring for things.

While I stay at home with the kids all day, it’s different: he might feed the cat in the morning or check the mail at night.  He takes the pressure off of me for bath and bed time rituals. He’ll stop in for lunch midday, showering us with kisses before rushing away again.  He’s present. The promise of him is enough to keep me going when the afternoons become long and tiring.

And without him, it’s all me.  Every chore, task, ritual, and moment is mine.  I do them — and I do them just fine.  I’m not incapable of anything (save mowing the lawn and wrestling….).

But I’d rather depend on him.  I’d rather let him tease me for forgetting to give the cat water.  I’d rather gaze out the kitchen window as I make dinner, waiting for his car to arrive.  I’d rather flip through a magazine while he rough-houses with the girls.  I’d rather have him by my side in every activity and place.

The old adage is true.

My heart does grow fonder.

But I didn’t like the absence one bit.

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Written by Sarah, originally published 30 August 2010. Sarah is a wife and  mother to two girls . She writes about her little piece of heaven, which she is sure messier and louder then the real thing at This Heavenly Life.