A friend of mine recently told me about a pastor friend of his. This pastor led a small town church of about 100 people. They weren’t a wealthy community, just your average small town country church. One of their members was confined to a wheelchair. So, the pastor and his congregation decided to raise a bunch of money and convert a section of the church into an elevator. My friend commented – “Wow, you did all of that work and spent all of that money for one person? That’s amazing!” The pastor replied “Well no, we did it for the other 99 of us.”

We need each other. We really do. This community understood that.

If there’s one thing that my parents taught me about church, it’s that loyalty is everything. I’m a writer, so I suppose I speak in hyperbole… so, almost everything. They’ve seen their fair share of up and down seasons being on “church staff”. Anyone who has ever worked with the church has. This has nothing to do with the church they attend. That place, my childhood home church, is amazingly generous, sincerely loving, and warmly welcoming. Truth is spoken, talent is abundant, and hearts are genuine. The changing of seasons has to do with the fact that the church is made up of humans.

I think their loyalty to that community tells their friends and family a lot about who they are, who they have been, and who they will be. It speaks of Jesus… of His commitment… of His faithfulness.

I think it’s a valuable lesson as we live in a very “church-hoppy” society. It’s a condition of the greater mentality. If it doesn’t “work” for me, if it doesn’t make me happy, if someone upset me, hey, there’s a church on every corner. (At least there is in the Midwest.) Or, as Miranda Lambert says it in her new hit, “Automatic”, “staying married [is] the only way to work your problems out.”

Time for the caveat for those that are helplessly broken or just peeved at me now: Yes, there are times to leave the church. Yes, abuse happens. God forbid. Yes, sometimes people stop preaching that Jesus is the Son of God. God forbid. Beyond that, perhaps we should question some of our other reasoning.

“I was fighting with so and so. I’m DONE here.”

“I don’t like the music. I’m DONE here.”

“I don’t agree with the pastor on this issue. I’m DONE here.”

With as many opinions/convictions/panties-in-a-wad-type-stuff that we have, we might as well all have our own church.

Perhaps this is especially why the last month at church has absolutely blown my mind. It’s been on the heels of many people leaving. (This is no secret by the way.) And revival has come.

People have come UNDONE.

About a month ago, I wept at what I witnessed. Not just during the service, I wept for 2 weeks and still do when I write about it. Our church, in my opinion, does the hard work it should when it comes to justice issues, serving in broken places, encouraging discipleship, and creating all things artistic. That particular week, our senior pastor put it all on the line and reminded our congregation of who calls us to this, Jesus himself. He drew the line in the sand regarding salvation. It felt less non-denominational, and more old-school-Baptist. I come from a long line of Orthodox-Catholic-Baptist-Methodist-Church of God lineage. I’m a church mutt and am familiar with this type of round up… Where will we spend eternity?

After a message of asking this and other very pointed questions, he sat on a chair placed on the stage and took his shoes and socks off. Lots of the other minions church staff came out from the woodwork and opened up the floor where the baptismal was ready to go.

The water was warm. There were clothes waiting backstage for anyone who would come forward. There were pastors ready to get in the tank. Everything was set for anyone wanting to make a decision. The staff had no idea if anyone would come.

They came. One after the other. A steady stream for four. straight. services in a row. Older couples being baptized together. Teenagers. Children. Mothers and fathers with their on looking kids.

At one point, our sweet little 7-yr old family friend ran to the tank. Her daddy was leading worship. He saw her and started taking off his gear. And his shoes. And he got in the tank. UNDONE.

Over 325 people were spontaneously baptized. And I witnessed it with my own eyes. I came UNDONE.

What struck me more than anything though was one particular “type” of baptizee. Living in what is known (at least within the last few years) as the seventh wealthiest county in all of the US, there are many churchgoing women who look and seem like, well, they live in the seventh wealthiest county in the US. Nails – DONE. Hair – DONE. Makeup – DONE.

So when the church ran out of clothes in which people could change and these women walked the aisle to the tank anyways, going unabashedly into the water and coming up with flat hair and streaming mascara, I found it to be the most powerful vision in all of the experience. They came completely UNDONE for Jesus. Expensive clothes hung wilted as they rose out of the water – completely saturated in the loving new robe of a rebirth. UNDONE.

I’m thankful that any little tiff or rift that I’ve experience with a fellow human that happened to be in my church community did not cause a gap that caused me to leave before getting a glimpse of this beautiful promised land. Praise God from whom all blessing flow. Praise Him for this revival.

“I see a near revival stirring as we pray and seek. We’re on our knees. We’re on our knees. Hosanna!” ~ Brooke Fraser Ligertwood (Hillsong)

I’m so honored to have been invited to post on my friend and great writer’s blog today! This post has to do with the competitive spirit… another post about letting some of my demons out. 🙂

Visit Charity’s blog here for the post:



Sarah xoxo

One of the McBabies has a birthday this week. If you’ve followed my blog, you know what that means. Lots of celebrating, lots of prayers and tears. And my traditional bday-eve-viewing of Happy Gilmore. (“…’til the night closes in… big gulps, huh?… you eat pieces of xxxx for breakfast?”… see, don’t you feel better already?)

While we were on vacation a few weeks ago, there were some early mornings. (Refer to a previous post about “vacationing” with kids.) The McBabies were dead tired, up later at night than normal, swimming their hearts out, and – wait for it – getting up earlier than average. It’s as if God was pointing and laughing.

Ana woke one day at the crack of dawn and I brought her into our bed. I knew the routine. She’d quickly wake everyone in the loft where we were staying. Shocker of all shockers; she laid down in between us and conked back out. I honestly don’t know if she’s done that since her newborn days.  I know that I could’ve fallen back asleep next to her, but I was so taken with the sweet line underneath her chin – the little crease that makes her 1-yr old face have a double chin. I could not stop staring at her. She had her arms folded – one resting under her chin and the other crossed across her tummy. She was breathing peacefully and my gratitude was leaking out of my eyes.

I looked next to me at an amazing man. A man who hasn’t aged a year – unless you’re talking negative numbers. He’s like the real-life Benjamin Button. I want to grow old with him – my weird little baby man… 

I looked to one bed and saw my 4-yr old little boy with his bum raising his blankie in the air. He’s got more love in his little finger than I could ever have imagined. I looked to another bed and saw a little girl who oozes with generosity and makes presents and cards and bracelets and paintings and writes songs and crochets designs for all of her friends and family. 

God is good. All the time. But that morning, I felt His kindness in massive waves. 

Thanks be to God.


To be honest, I just spent the last hour sobbing. It’s a wave that comes over me from time to time. It’s not just a hormonal thing. It is the depth of my soul crying out for all things good and broken too.

“So what part of your trip are you looking forward to the most?” asked my father-in-law.

“Other than seeing my brother… that’s easy, meeting someone new on the airplane. I love meeting strangers and becoming friends.” I replied.

We were headed to visit my brother who was working in Yellowstone. I’d always had a love for talking to Jane Doe and realizing she was my schoolmate’s cousin… or, you know, something like that. I’d always loved how small the world really is. This most certainly came from my parents. I’ve blogged about this before – my parents have more stories of mutual friends they’ve met in various states, piano bars in which they’ve ended up randomly playing, or unlikely dinner companions than anyone I know. I guess it’s in my blood.

So, maybe it shouldn’t shock me as much as it does that we just vacationed with people that we’d only met one time before. For one day. In another country.

Last June, we visited Quebec City. (Let me add that it was all thanks to Jeff’s grandparents who generously lent us a week of their timeshare! Merci beaucoup!!!) It was our first time there and it fueled my love for all things French, all things quaint and charming. On the last day of our stay, we connected with another family staying at the same resort while at the swingset. We were on our way back to Indiana and made one last stop at the basilica in Beaupre, Quebec. We ran into this family again. For whatever reason, we couldn’t stop chatting and the kids couldn’t stop playing. The wife spoke Polish as her native language, then English, then French. While she was fluent in all three, it was comfortable for us to speak French (seeing that it wasn’t her most rapid speak) with one another… thanks to her patience with me.

Well, long story short, we stayed in touch all year. Our kids were all the same ages – almost to the month. We had both chosen homeschooling – after we’d had our kids in the public school first. This entire post could be filled with things we have in common. So, we decided (after that “chance” 1-day encounter) to meet them in Quebec again this year and vacation together. Is that crazy or what?!?

We just got home from our trip. It was nothing short of amazing. Kindred spirits, our families are. We went dancing together, dining together. Swam and cooked together. Sipped wine and swatted mosquitoes together. Pushed our kids on the swings and went grocery shopping together. Talked exclusively French and taught our kids at times and pushed through the heat and fatigue of pushing six young children through Quebec City together. Watched our children bond and then hold each other’s hands together.

It was a true gift to have connected with “strangers” at such a deep level.

And then we had to say goodbye. There were laughs about how often we’d Skype; there were promises to make it back next year; and there were tears upon saying goodbye.

McHusband told me tonight that while he was driving us home and the rest of us were asleep in the car, he felt a suffocating heaviness after saying goodbye to them. He felt, simply put, bleak. We talked tonight of what that goodbye represented. Another summer vacation gone by where we’re saying farewell to the people. We’re saying ciao to those experiences. Mostly, I’m going to go all existential (or maybe Marty McFly???) on you… we’re saying goodbye to that version of us fully knowing that even if we came back to that same place with the same people the next summer, the kids would be a little older. Things would be the same, but very different.

That thought rabbit trailed us on to a deep heaviness tonight. A few hot topics…

– my friend with the damn cancer that has been told that nothing else can be done and the 6 boys she leaves behind
– the thought of our three grandmothers, now widowed, sitting alone most evenings before crawling into bed solo
– our friends who are overwhelmed with moving an ailing parent into their home for full-time care

After all of this, we had the awesome terrible idea to look at pics of the McBabies from last summer’s vacation. I might as well have asked for a tear duct and snot explosion. The ugly cry happened.

“I am 37. If the Lord lets me live until a normal life expectancy, that means I’m almost halfway there. I feel like I can do it.” McHusband said.

I knew exactly what he meant. Sometimes, life just feels so weighty. We’re aware of our own brokenness, the brokenness of the world too. It feels hard to know that this is a lifelong bag to carry.

And so, we did the only thing that we know how to do. We prayed. And then we each told 10 things we were thankful for. And we chuckled at some of them. And God worked in our spirits and psyche somehow. And I feel a little better.

And just to seal the deal, I think I’ll watch something funny before bed.

bee museum photo_1-2 photo_1-3 photo_2-1 photo_2-3 photo_2-4 photo_3-1 photo_3-2 photo_4-1 photo_4-2 photo_5 photo_5-1


It could’ve been the wind in my hair or the sound of the waves. It could’ve been fatigue (see yesterday’s post). It could’ve been the excessive amounts of chocolat and biere/vin we’ve had this past week. But, for whatever reasons, watching the people next to us on the ferry boat made me sappy and nostalgic.

McHusband and McBaby #1 & #2 were running around the boat we’d just embarked (to a beautiful little island off of the Charlevoix region’s coast). Because McBaby #3 was taking a long overdue nap, I decided to stay in the car with her. The young couple in the car next to me kept looking at me. I couldn’t figure out if they were just being friendly or what. I kept glancing over and smiling back. Finally, the husband jumped out of the car briefly and I noticed the woman’s familiar pose and gauze-y blanket. This young mother was just finding a convenient place to nurse. I realized they had probably been watching me to see if I was watching them. Been there, done that.

The husband jumped in quickly to check on them, took the little baby and burped and smooched her so lovingly. The baby was covered with a teensy sun hat. The car seat was nice and clean and had cute play things on the handle for baby to look at. It seemed very first-kid-ish. You know, the clean car seat, the right sun protection, the helpful daddy for pass-off.

I feel a little more third-kid-ish wondering if I remembered to feed the baby while hoping that McHubz knows where the other (and their sunscreen/hats/shoes for that matter) are. There is beauty in this too. We are a well-oiled machine in many ways. We know that McHusband is the bath-giver, the trash-taker-out-er, the scary-story-teller. We know that I am the milk-maker, the clothes-packer, the last-bedtime-smooch-giver.

I feel that each season with the kids gets better and better and better, but I got weepy seeing that precious new life and missing my own little forms of my McBabies. I was also moved to tears at the new life that couple was experiencing. They had their own rebirth; the same kind that McHubz and I have had and continue to have. Thank God for this day.

The thought has crossed my mind and people have asked; so this is something I’m working on. This is a very rough draft, but just a concept. Might as well let y’all in and see whatcha think. My aunt would refer to her kids and say “the horns hold the halos up”. I’ve always found that funny and true. As I’ve entered this season of parenthood, I also think it goes for the parents. There are many things that make us saints and sinners. Forgive how snarky this may sound right now… first drafts can be that way…

The Horns Hold the Halos Up

Chapter 1 – Vacation

I watch my kids play in the sand. They’ve successfully built a tower at the playground with two small Poles and a little Scot. As we are on an international trip, no one speaks the same language while simultaneously all speaking the same language. Though my children have had three baths today, there they are in the sand again. I laugh at the thought of this, feeling carefree. It is very Norman Rockwell of me to watch this unfold and feel this way. Then they come asking me to refill their water bottle – the makeshift tool for creating packed sand. That requires me to get up. I envision the getting up which means putting down my book, walking in the condo, dropping sand in said condo, risking waking up the baby, looking at the dishes to be done, permitting the kids to play longer, thinking of the fourth bath that will ensue, the potential meltdown and fight that will probably come, the drink of water that will be needed to quench the thirst that comes when it’s bedtime and, suddenly, I’m angry. It is very Kathy Bates in Misery of me to feel this way.

A friend once told me that there are three types of vacations: (a) vacations with/to see family; (b) vacations with children; and (c) vacations without children. All of them are, indeed, “get-away”s. They are also “go-to”s. In (a), you realize that you may get away from your town and your normal routine and you go to see many other dysfunctional people while sleeping in an either too-hot or too-cold house on a too-hard or too-soft bed while getting too little sleep. In (b), you get away from everyone else but your spouse and children and, again, leave your normal routines and you go to a place where you’re anonymous. This is nice until you realize that you don’t know any babysitters in this newfoundland and being with your kids all day, every day, feels strangely like every other day of your life… all while getting too little sleep. In (c), which happens to be my favorite kind of vacation, you, again, get away from your normal routine, normal responsibilities, and (ab)normal people and you go to a utopia where you remember what it’s like to read a book uninterrupted, take a sh*t undisturbed, and eat a meal without standing/bouncing/rocking through half of it. Fooling yourself, you think you’ll be able to sleep in without tots around and you end up, wait for it… getting too little sleep. You quickly go to a default M.O. of being guilt-ridden as you think of the old ladies at church who remind you that your days with your children will go way too fast and you’ll miss them (the days and the children). You cry because you actually don’t want them to go fast. In fact, you want them to go more slowly but can’t figure out for the life of you how to recalibrate your pace. You just want to know how to concurrently enjoy the little people you adore who are a pain in the @$$ at times.

This is the cycle and this is the tension. Gratitude. Chaos. Frustration. Guilt. Grace. Gratitude… and so on. If you are a hamster on this wheel or a rat in this race, you are not alone. I am here drinking out the same cloudy water sippy-thingy in the corner and standing on the same nasty wood chips that you are. It’s okay to know that the old lady is right and what she says is true but also wanting to tell her to go to h-e-double-hockey-sticks because she has Gramnesia.

Welcome to vacation.

It’s not every day that you hear an elderly black man speaking Mandarin. More specifically, a native Yankee cracking up a group of Chinese tourists.
We thoroughly enjoyed our visit to Niagara Falls. Wow. This is the third time I’ve been, but it still is still magical. McHubz and I loaded up the McBabies, covered them with the cheap ponchos that accompany your ticket to the Maid of the Mist, and got on the boat to head into the center of the ring of falls. McBaby #3 was only slightly interested and was increasingly aggravated at the plastic hood on her poncho. McBaby #2 was curious and aware while simultaneously clinging to our legs or the handrails. McBaby #1 asked why we didn’t bring her bathing suit and promised to try to stay in the shallow end if we’d let her get in. Apparently she was unafraid by the massive amounts of water coming down and the thunderous roar they made.

What we left talking about more than anything though was a man we met on the elevator on the way down to the gorge where the boats departed. His name is Dexter. He is probably in his 60’s. When we got on to ride down to the entry, he greeted everyone (there were probably 20 on each elevator) with a smile and salutation. In our lift was a large group of Chinese tourists chatting amongst themselves. Dexter jumped in speaking in Mandarin and they responded with shock and laugher, then applause as he continued conversing with them. He then spoke Spanish to another gal. On the way back up the elevator, I greeted him in French… my little experiment, I suppose. Of course, he replied in French and continued the conversation.

When asked how he had learned so much, he said with a huge smile that he’d just picked it up while riding up and down chatting and listening to the fine folks on the elevator. He laughed when he spoke. It’s a laugh that will stick with me. I certainly don’t mean to say his job isn’t a great job, but, simply put, his job requires few tasks daily. He takes a group down, then up, then down, then up, then… you get it. He presses perhaps a couple buttons.
As the jazzers say though, “t’aint what you do, it’s the way that you do it.”

Thank you Dexter for the best trip I’ve ever had to Niagara Falls.

Since there is a piano here… I thought I’d add the little ditty. 🙂 I’m in my blogger uniform – geek glasses, knotty bun, and pjs. Forgive me. Here is “T’aint What You Do, It’s the Way that You Do It” on YouTube. below…

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