This is one of those times I would much rather sit across from you face to face. I’d rather you were able to hear the tone of my voice, that my facial expression could speak deeper and truer than just words. Because this topic feels so tender to me lately. Disappointment has been an unexpected guest in our house for the last couple months and I was tempted to feel isolated in it. But then I started talking it out. After a few different conversations I realized every single one of us is dealing with disappointment in some way or another.
Summer has always been my breath of fresh air season. It’s the time of year I feel the most energized. I shower less, I’m outside more than I’m inside and it just feels like you get a lot more bang for your buck in a day. This year, summer looks a little differently. So I’m on a mission to discover a new kind of summer season. One that still involves breathing from the deepest part of my lungs and soaking in every last ounce of joy from the small things.
Somewhere along the way as our culture broke free from social pressures to entertain and get family dinner on the table by 5pm, we lost the habit of gathering. We let food become fast and convenient, cooking a necessary evil to outsource. It’s funny how that happens with change. We often swing wide in the opposite direction for a while, working so intensely to steer clear of past baggage and mistakes that we lose the goodness that thing had in the first place. The goodness, in this case, being the joy and downright holiness of the kitchen.
About a year ago, God began nudging me about my relationships with the mothers in my life. I am the oldest child, born fiercely independent with a natural mothering instinct (read bossy, protective, and at times overly nurturing). During my growing up years, I always wound the “mom” of my peer group, with little siblings, neighbors, or friends marching behind me.
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