I’ve played in a ton of bands. Lots of them have gone on to get Dove Awards, Grammys, Emmys, sold hundreds of thousands of albums, saved babies from runaway trains… you know, stuff like that. I won’t spend time namedropping further, but I tell you this so you know that I’ve had a front row seat to watch many others’ success. Front row? Maybe a backseat? Or the car behind?

I’ve spent lots of time comparing myself to others. Am I as good as? Am I a better _____? Am I thin enough? Should I have said/done _____? Does anyone care about what I’m doing? I want to be in the driver’s seat if I’m honest.

One of the triggers for me for this conflicted questioning comes at the beginning of many events with which I’m involved. No merch table? The sound man didn’t show? The lyrics for corporate worship don’t follow the music? The piano is located where I can’t even SEE the congregation? I’m opening for a freaking magician? No one asked if I’d had a chance to eat – or even had a rental car in this new city to get food? What town is this again? And on and on and on. It gets me in a tizzy where I can’t figure out if I’m in it for serving the Lord or not. I mean, it’s not about me – so maybe I shouldn’t worry about how many CDs are sold or if I’m visible to the “audience” or if anyone gives me an intro. At the same time, I’m not here to be a cover band. I don’t want to show up just to get the music box “checked”. I’ve prepared in a way that I trust the Lord brought me with a purpose for the weekend/week/night. If audio/visual/logistical things are oversights or, worse, distractions, these interfere. Naturally, any hard worker would be bothered.

What sneaks in for me though are these thoughts:

“…if Natalie Grant were showing up, they sure as hell wouldn’t have forgotten the merch table”

“… if Sara Groves were here, people would be preparing a fully stocked green room out of respect and care for their guest”

“… if Sandi Patty were coming, they’d give her a kind introduction and people would line up for her CDs”

Those kinds of thoughts lead to these next ones:

“…no one cares if I’m here”

“…I’m too exhausted to do all of this myself”

“…I’m not successful”

“…they don’t take me seriously”

And those kinds of thoughts lead to anger, bringing up the worst thoughts of all:

“… the church sucks”

“… I should’ve been a dentist/lawyer/accountant”

“… I deserve better than this” ***** CRINGE*****

Yes, I’m being flat out honest and saying that I can fall into this sinkhole of thinking that because I have done a, b, and c, then I should successfully be x, y, and z. And if x, y, and z don’t happen, then, by the transitive property (ummmm), I have been robbed of something that should be mine. The brass ring. The awards, the recognition, the _____. I deserve better than this?? I’m leading worship under the cross – literally, under a cross hanging or standing in a sanctuary – saying “I DESERVE better than this?!?” Yikes. Um, wake up call, Captain Obvious. I don’t.

I’ve been leading worship and performing at events for about twenty years. While I love my work and have connected with so many people around the world, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that for many of them I hoped it would bring more business and exposure and the speakers would have me back and hook me up with bigger and better gigs. And then, FINALLY, I will be successful. I’ll have arrived. It’s natural to want to do well in your career, but I do wonder how many moments I failed to be present in because I wondered if they were going to lead to the next big thing I certainly was “destined” for.

“As Samuel was offering up the burnt offering, the Philistines drew near to attack Israel. But the LORD thundered with a mighty sound that day against the Philistines and threw them into confusion, and they were defeated before Israel… Then Samuel took a stone… and called its name Ebenezer; for he said, “Thus far the LORD has helped us.” ~ 1 Samuel 7:10, 12

Recently, I vividly pictured myself on a rapidly rushing stream. Going across the stream were large stepping stones. I was bouncing across the stream from rock to rock. Each rock represented an event with which I’d been involved in my ministry. God stopped me in my tracks and I felt Him remind me:

Every stepping stone has, in fact, been an Ebenezer.

God brought me to each rock and provided the stream, the landing place, the legs to get to the next dry spot. He gave me experiences on each of the various rocks. He has helped me every step of the way. How many more must I take before I see that the stepping stones have been the destination all along?

There’s no tidy wrap up for this. There’s no Nobel Peace Prize for the new book I’m releasing or news that one of my songs is nominated for an award. Just sharing honestly that the struggle is realz, y’all. As I tell my kids though, nothing easy is worth doing. (Except for the beach… and even then, it’s a pain in the @$$ to get all of the crap for a family of 7 down to the shoreline where we can hang out in the water…)

Peace to you and yours…


I am what you might call an icee. I LOVE my ice. I love to chew it and I love to have cold drinks. I love to, just like my grandmother did, refill my glass with ice halfway through the meal. And as a woman who feels about 14 months pregnant right now in August humidity that you can cut with a knife AND who is managing the limits of gestational diabetes – my only real treat at the end of a meal is an icy drink. You get the picture.

Our new (to us), stainless steel, $2700 oversized, double-door fridge is. the. stuff. It makes different kinds of ice. And counts the ounces as you put the ice and/or water in. And has a fancy-pants computer screen on it. And a special little produce sliding drawer. And basically is like a family member because I love it so much.


#excusethecrap #likeievenneedtosaythatanymore

So, when the ice machine stopped working, I thought “no, no, no… This can’t be.” Not now. I only have a few weeks left in this pregnancy- “not my ice!!”. I thought that maybe I’d just emptied it all in one evening and if I waited a handful of hours, it would come back. I waited. For days. No luck.

McHubz watched YouTube videos and googled the part that seemed to be failing. Eventually, he needed to call in appliance repair. Sure enough, the repairman said it was, indeed, a broken part and was near-$400 to fix. Not much over the part for cost that Jeff had found online too.

So, I decided to pray over my fridge.

This may not sound weird to you at all. You may pray about/over things all the time.

Or, you may be like me, I pray for the health of my unborn babies. I pray for injustices in the world. I pray for sick friends. I pray for acquaintances’ family members that I read about on Facebook. I pray for our World Vision children. I pray for mental health when things are hard. I pray with gratitude over our provisions – food, our home, our clothing – the necessities.

But, somewhere along the line, I decided that praying for the little things just doesn’t seem fair or right.

I’ve heard it said that when it comes to prayer, one man’s parking space is another’s healed cancer. Some folks can pray for either with equal fervor. Because those desires seem inequitable to me, I don’t pray to find good parking spaces.

A funny thing happened though when I felt the stirring to pray over the fridge. It was, after all, $400 that we had not planned on using this way and that really needed to go toward more important things these days. I prayed that it would be clear to us if we should even spend the money on fixing this.

That evening at dinner, the McBabies told me that they had prayed with daddy for the refrigerator to work that day. I said – “huh? You did what?” McHubz confirmed that they did, in fact, pray all together that the ice machine would simply start working.

Lo and behold, come that night we heard the sound of all sounds: the ricochet of an ice cube falling in the giant empty ice tub inside of the fridge. WHAT?!? And, the next morning, the ice machine was full and has been working since.

An answered prayer? Who knows if it will work for 1 week or 10 years? McHubz and I were thankful, but still were saying things like:

  • – “Well, maybe when we were in there, the repairman or I wiggled a connection that was lose and got it working again.”
  • – “Well, maybe I just overdid it and ate too much ice that day and it needed a break.”
  • – “Well, maybe the filter is reading incorrectly and it won’t make ice if it needs a new filter.”

And then McBaby #1 said:

  • – “Well maybe God just reached His invisible hand in there and fixed it.”
  • Crickets *

This really isn’t about the icemaker. I am convinced that God saw fit to fix it, yes. I am very, very grateful. I’m awake now at 2:28am and just heard a plop of ice in the bin that makes me grin as I type. It’s awesome.

It’s about the fact that if I don’t think it is “fair” or “right” to pray for the little things, then, somewhere along the line, I have determined that it IS fair to pray for other things. Not only that, but I’ve resolved that I have some sense of what is and isn’t fair – as if I’m the epicenter of truth in being the receiver. I’ve also established some sort of cosmic barter system in my daily life that some things are okay to pray for and expect healing/help/guidance/provision and some aren’t.

So really, again, this extends far beyond the icemaker.

You see, I have almost-5 children. Three are already among us in the world. They are beautiful, healthy, learning, growing, developing, funny, and loved and treasured like you wouldn’t believe. #biasnoted


At times, I’ve had difficulty praying for my twins (in utero) during this pregnancy. I mean, after all, we’ve gambled three times and had God’s favor in their well-being. We have a wonderful house, nice reliable cars, relatively cute clothes, the American dream.

Who am I to ask for anything else???

The problem with this way of thought is that no matter how I felt when those things all came along, I somehow now believe that if this isn’t fair, then there is a fair-o-meter of what is.

You can’t say something isn’t fair unless you have some sort of inclination that something else is.

And, apparently, I think, at some level, that it is fair to ask God for a white picket fence, 2.5 children, a brand-new minivan, and organic food. But beyond… now that’s just too much.

God pours His lavish love on us. He pours His grace on us. He pours His provision on us. Even when some around us suffer and we feel guilty asking for anything. We “rejoice with those who rejoice and mourn with those who mourn” and, in this, I’m believing that God wants us to come to Him with big needs and small needs – not because they’re both fair to ask of Him, but because we are not the judge, the gift-giver, the future-seer, the life-sustainer, or even the one who turns water into wine. Or, in this case, ice. #seewhatIdidthere

If He cares about the BIG things that seem to require all kinds of logistical, systematic, political, and spiritual changes in many lives, countries, and even doctrine, perhaps it is not far-fetched to think He is capable of guiding the LITTLE things in our lives and homes.

The working ice machine has caused me to question some of my beliefs and insecurities that may stem from guilt, not reverence.

I’ve spent the rest of this week touching things in my house after everyone is asleep already. I’ve touched the crib and asked the Lord that He would bless it and the babies that will sleep in it in just a handful of days; that He would, in His kindness, offer them (and let’s face it more for us) the gift of sleep in that season. None of this up-every-hour-crap that new babies can sometimes pull. Times 2 – twins!!!  I’ve touched the desk in the McBabies’ playroom and asked God that as we transition from homeschool to public school this year that the kids would find fruits in their labors at a “new” school, that they wouldn’t destroy the room with Sharpies, and that they would enjoy having a place they can call their own to work.


(me at almost 33 weeks in front of said desk)

I’ve touched the closet doors and prayed that God would somehow make that one bedroom closet like a cup of oil that runneth over. It is currently housing 5 kids’ (put that in your pipe and smoke it!!!) clothes – including dressers. It makes the most sense for our family to arrange it that way and I’m asking God to meet that request because it will help streamline our mornings this fall so I don’t end up in the loony bin.


I’m touching the piano praying that the little hands that play its keys will grow in their creativity and know when to play and when not to so they don’t wake the wrong people around here. The list goes on.

And sometimes the other shoe drops and life is much, much harder and we are faced with reeeealllly hard shit. And it may be for long seasons even. But, the reality is that all of this other stuff also (and perhaps mostly) is what fills every day, every moment, every life and God is in all of the details. Perhaps we should come to Him with ALL of it.

paper chain

(the kids LOVE countdowns, surprises, anticipation; long paper chain = countdown to babies; 2 short = to their school; 1 medium = to daddy’s school)

It was 1989; I was in the sixth grade. I was in Mr. Boling’s algebra class. Math was kinda my thing. If Rocket Math were a thing back then like it is in elementary schools now, I would be Buzz Aldrin. Not that it gives me any “cool” points to tell you. That being said, my classmates were mainly kids older than me.

I came to school dressed in a sleeveless romper made out of a heavy cotton, sweatshirt-like material. It was basically a big sleeveless, footed onesie and had a drawstring waist. I know, I know. Be jealous that I was so cool. My mom and I had splatter painted it blue ourselves. I paired it with some slouchy blue leg warmers that I’d borrowed from my grandmother because I thought they were rad. (If you are not familiar with that word, please find a dictionary [app] and learn it.)

Last night, I was putting McBabies #1 & #3 to bed. They insisted on sharing a bed, two little girls with their little heads poking out of assorted Hello Kitty paraphernalia.

“Tell me a story about when you were little.”

It’s kinda the same rigmarole every night. It’s amazing that I’ve lived for close to 4 decades and have a hard time coming up with stories of my life some nights. Often though, I’ll start a story and then happen upon a memory that I didn’t even remember was a memory, much less a real-life happening.

I told them about a day that I wore my splattered blue romper to school and how the older boys in the class whispered, pointed, and laughed at me. I told them about how I had to wear it the rest of the day until the bus dropped me off and I had to wonder if everyone else was doing the same thing behind my splatter-painted back the whole day.

McBaby #1 started laughing uncontrollably. She covered her face so that I couldn’t tell. (I could.) McBaby #3 started laughing because she does whatever #1 does.

I guess it was kinda funny.

I wandered in to McBaby #2’s room for the “one-more-kiss” song and dance. I told him the same story. He responded.

“I like that story.”

What?? I asked him why he liked it if the kids weren’t being nice to me.

“Because I like the way you dress and I love you.”

He hugged me. If you know him, you’ve probably received a hug from him. There’s a name for people like him. * Hugger. * He felt my pain about something a teensy bit sad from a long time ago. He saw me and loved me.

I guess it was kinda sad.

Somehow, last night, it was as if this version of me was able to say to a young(er) version of me that it’s all right. That memory was both funny and sad. And it will be all right. Someday, your kids will hear it retold and will enter it with you in their own way. And you won’t feel alone. And a tiny bit of healing in the retelling will remove the sting.

PS – And… you will still care what people think, but not nearly as much and not really when it comes to what you wear. Exhibit #1: see pic of me dressed in my 4-yr old’s banana costume that he refused to wear to Chick Fil A on our Halloween playdate a couple years back. It came from freaking Pottery Barn and was going to get worn by SOMEONE even if I did have to suck in and stuff myself into a 4T.



“Well I think you did a great job,” he said.

“No offense, but it doesn’t matter what you think. It matters what I think.” I responded.

“It matters what God thinks.” He replied.

“Well, yeah, but it matters what I think God thinks.” I said getting irritated.

We were in bed before 10pm on New Year’s Eve 2014. I’d spent the hour before staring at the flames in the fireplace contemplating the year gone by. Our New Year’s plans had fallen through, and though we had others we could’ve accepted last minute (I know, I know, we’re so popular…), we decided to enjoy a night in. After trying to decide if we should watch adocumentary or play Scrabble (beware, party animals live here), we, instead, got lost talking about our goals for 2015.

Goals are good; helpful; motivating.

I’ve always been a goal-setter, largely due to my Dad’s wise and helpful teaching.

For me, goals for the future are also a bit of a Pandora’s box. As soon as I lift the lid a little, thoughts of the how-I-did-it-befores and what-if-I-need-to-changes come pouring over the sides.

With the goal-setting comes a looking-back-upon that tends to get me a bit choked up. New Year’s Eve the litmus test for the past 365 days.

How can another year have gone by already?

This is the last time that I will kiss the McBabies goodnight in 2014.

This is the last time that I will kiss the McBabies goodnight in 2014 when they are 7, 5, and 2.

This is the last time that I will kiss the McBabies goodnight in 2014 when they are 7, 5, and 2 and the first time that I am thinking about it.

This goes on for quite some time and borders on needing a calculator to keep the number of first and last times straight.

Did I do all that I could have with 2014? All that I should have?

Are we even close to flying cars and hover boards? Squirrel… 


This is what it all comes down to, really. I fear that perhaps I did not and the reality that I can’t go back, can’t get this year back, feels too heavy for me.

I’m not exactly sure where all this comes from, but while the rest of the nation seems to be toasting to a clean slate, watching an apple drop and blowing on a paper kazoo streamer thingy, I’m, once again, too melancholy to embrace moving forward.

Am I the only one? Surely SOMEONE else gets slumpy and down on NYE.

I have so much to be grateful for. I have my health, my family, my friends. I have a village. On paper, this was my “best” year when it comes to my career. I seek love and accept grace. What more could I possibly want?

Freedom. To. Move. Forward.

As nice as a clean slate and a new year sound, I want the stamp of approval for the one gone by. I don’t feel as if I can have one without the other.

When I go to my shelf of journals, almost all of them start the same. They all have a chunk of pages starting out in early January. It’s my “low” time. Yeah, yeah, I’m sure the weather doesn’t help. Or the carb-loading I did the month of December making my daggone pants so tight. It’s something else though that keeps me journaling from Jan 2nd-ish to the end of the month.


This post doesn’t wrap up in a tidy way. I have shared plenty of redemptive stories. Naturally, there is some pride in sharing the looking back. I don’t have that. Right now, I’m addressing you right where I am – in 2014 and a half. One proverbial foot in each year. I’m praying to replace fear with freedom… for me and anyone like me.

My dear friends returned a very empty baby bouncer today. They walked up my driveway and a lump caught in my throat. I was dreading this day.

A little over 7 years ago, Jeff and I found out that we were expecting. It was the best surprise (TMI? Welcome to my blog) of our lives. We were showered with gifts and prayers for our new arrival. We received lots of foreign items. (Cue Sting: “I’m an Englishman in New York”…) We were in new territory. We received a Rainforest Baby Bouncer (that’s probably trademarked???) to assemble. We didn’t know just how handy it would be. Each of the McBabies would fall asleep peacefully in its comforting sling and vibration.

At that point, it was just an empty bed.

It represented new things to come. Things we knew nothing about, really.

Of course, each of the babies outgrew it and it was passed around to friends and cousins to use. At some points in between, it sat in our garage or shed with the rest of the Goodwill-store-just-waiting-to-be-opened-at-our-address.

It was just an empty bed.

It represented used stuff; stuff that was forgotten about and impertinent and in the way of our new crap routine.

Our sweet friends Josh and Molly delivered news that they were expecting. They took us up on an offer to use some of our baby things. They took the bouncer and then had a precious baby boy, Tage Thomas Monroe. He was beautiful. He had sweet eyes and (as his parents say and I concur) pouty, kissable lips; and in the nooks and crannies too small to see, he had a disease in his mitochondria. Lovely little Tage, at almost 8 months old, went home to be with Jesus just a couple of weeks ago. I’m writing this much more matter-of-factly than I’m both feeling it and than it is. I’m writing this much shorter than the tale that it is. I’m writing this while treading lightly because it’s not my story to tell. (Caveat: I’ve asked permission to even respond to this at all.) I’m writing this to point to Tage’s story and Josh’s heart and Molly’s hope and the Monroes’ written stories and the Church’s loving arms and Jesus’ blood and the Hope of a Savior.

Today, Molly texted me and, minutes later, brought back the baby things. That’s why the sight of them in the driveway with the bouncer brought the lump in my throat.

It was just an empty bed.

It represented loss and heartache. It represented what wasn’t to be. It represented a gift taken much too soon.

The McBabies immediately squished their long arms and legs and big heads (thank you McLaughlin genes) in the bouncer. I’m sure if I would’ve been monitoring the situation (wait… did I just admit negligence???), I would’ve heard the seams ripping and seen the metal frame bending. Sure enough, a fight ensued and I was yelling from the kitchen for the kids to get out of the baby bed and break it up!! The baby toys were now off limits.

Once again, it was just an empty bed.

It represented frustration at my kids. I was angry that they could go from best friends to bullies in moments. It represented guilt that I even have kids at whom to be maddened. Who am I to have a gift so fragile? Who am I to be the one in my shoes while my friends must walk in theirs?

“She hid him for three months. When she couldn’t hide him any longer she got a little basket-boat made of papyrus, waterproofed it… and placed the child in it. Then she set it afloat in the reeds at the edge of the Nile. ” (Exodus 2:1-3, The Message)

Long ago, Jochebed, mother of Moses, had a rich love for her son and a deep trust in the Lord. She received a vision from God and responded obediently by placing her baby in a basket to see his life spared.

It was just an empty bed.

It represented surrender. It represented open-handedness. It represented safety.

“Jesus, with a loud cry, gave his last breath… there were women watching from a distance… among them, Mary the mother.” (Mark 15:37-40, The Message)

Long after, another mother watched helplessly as her son was crucified. She would, inevitably return home. Home – the place where little Jesus had run and played; where she had tended to his skinned knees and scraped elbows; where she had soothed him when he had a fever or a bad dream. It is probable that she would see his childhood room – at the very least, in her mind.

It was just an empty bed.

It represented loss and gut-wrenching grief. It represented injustice.

Of course, being on this side of the story, we know that only days later, Jesus would live again. The stone would be rolled away, curious onlookers would peek in and they would see it…

It was JUST an empty bed.

Hallelujah. For the first time, it represented victory. It represented hope. It represented eternity. It, miraculously, changed every empty bed that had gone before it.

As Josh and Molly portrayed through their faith and transparency, Jesus changes everything. We will all leave behind this world. We will all leave behind, in essence, an empty bed. We all will meet a Maker who desires that we know that death is not the end of the story.

There is no way to write this without potential cliché. Far be it for me to say anything that doesn’t represent how shitty a tragedy like this is on this side of heaven.

Nonetheless, I’ve seen a steadfast family serve a steadfast God.

There is nothing more heart breaking than reading the parents’ letter to their late young son. In the case of Tage, who was so used by God and so gifted with incredible parents, there is also nothing more hopeful.

Because their story is powerful and God is still loving, I turn you over to my friend Molly. May her words wash over you and bring hope in the midst of the tension: Visit Molly’s page HERE



We fell into bed with our normal end-of-the-day sigh of relief.

“I’ve been thinking that it would be cool to build a loft in our kitchen.” I said.

“A loft? What kind of loft?” McHusband replied with his eyes already closing.

“You know, like one of those ‘tiny house’ kind of lofts so we could sleep up there? And the kids could read up there.”

“Sleep up there? In the kitchen? Like instead of sleeping in our bedroom?”

“Well, that would free up a bedroom for one of the kids or an office or something.”

“Well, I love that you are full of ideas, sweetie. That seems kinda… involved though.”

When my life feels busy, feels crammed, my default idea is to either build/change something or to move. I’ve named this idea for what it is: escapism.

  • es·cap·ism/əˈskāpˌizəm/
  • noun
    • the tendency to seek distraction and relief… especially by seeking entertainment or engaging in fantasy.

There’s nothing wrong with having lots of ideas. Life might be, well, boring without the influx. At the same time, I’ve had the ideas in 2014 alone to buy an airstream camper, move to France, build a loft, get some chickens, intern in Nairobi, and buy and convert a school bus among other, you know, more far fetched goals.

Essentially, I believe at some level that these would finally bring the simplistic overhaul that we need. #irony

A couple of weeks ago, we went on a home school field trip with some other sweet families from church. We visited another home school family with a horse farm. Upon first glance, it looked like the life I’ve always wanted. A cute little white farmhouse on acreage with turquoise vintage chairs and red boot flower pots lining the front porch; a barn out back with rows of corn on the horizon; the land where the deer and the buffalo roam… or something like that.

We enjoyed tried to sit through a great science lesson on mammals and heard about caring for horses, bunnies, and chickens. We learned about 4H and life on a farm. It was idyllic. The house was Pinterest-worthy with all sorts of upcycled/recycled/unicycled décor. The teenage children spent their mornings gathering fresh eggs and grooming horses. Ahh, the life…

Fast forward to just under one hour later. ONE. FREAKING. HOUR. I had lost my youngest child. #parentfail #momoftheyear

Cars were pulling in and out of the driveway while I went screaming and waving for everyone to stop their cars. Long story short, we found McBaby #3 wandering around the front porch; the part of the property close-ish to the road. This was after the “science lesson” which consisted of me chasing McBaby #2 around while he was joyfully and obliviously hopping over straw bales, trying to stick his fingers in the bunnies’ cages and juggle farm-fresh eggs.

And it hit me: this isn’t the life I want to live. This is the life I want to put on my Pinterest board. I don’t even want a dog yet, what in the world makes me think I could/would/should be cleaning out coops or scraping sh poo out of hooves?!?

The week before that, I read Dad is Fat, the new book by Jim Gaffigan. Not a deep read, but a funny one fo’ sure. My favorite chapter was when he described (with diagrams) what it is like to do the bedtime routine with 5 children in a tiny two bedroom apartment in Manhattan. He also described how he gets the three oldest to three different schools all around the city using… wait for it… public transportation. Suddenly, this sounded idyllic. Ahh, the life…

We could sell everything and move into a teensy-tiny studio apartment in off-off-off-off-off-off-Broadway. The energy, the diversity, the – wait, sometimes I nearly come unraveled shushing the kids when another is asleep and almost come undone when rolling the stroller and holding the other McBabies’ hands from the Chick-fil-A parking lot. What would happen if living on top of each other and the subway were part of our daily routine?!?

Once again, a life I want to pin.

These are idyllic – for someone, perhaps. What is our ideal though? What works for us? What makes our home a peaceful refuge? I’m not quite sure yet.

I know this much, it isn’t as easy as pinning a DIY plank wall, stenciling a room, or building a rustic beam floating shelf. It is an issue of the heart to pray for direction, for rest, for guidance. It’s a matter of keeping the territory we already have. Tending to the ones with which God has already entrusted us.

It takes great intentionality to stop the board-dom.

I’ll pray for you and you pray for me.

PS – While I did take the afore-mentioned ideas off the table today, I also bought a daybed with a trundle this evening from someone on Craigslist in hopes for the next project… #confession