Month: January 2026

On Friday, Shiloh’s math lesson included the instruction to count the members of his family. Easy enough. He held up 4 fingers. Papa, Mama, Shiloh, Shadrach.

“Wait!” he said, “There’s one more! What’s my sister’s name?”

Poppy. Her name is Poppy. Shiloh’s sweet remembrance brought tears to my eyes, because I’d already been thinking about her that morning. I always do on the coldest days.

Seven Januaries ago, we had the worst cold snap I’ve ever experienced in my 20 years as a Wisconsinite. I’m talking temperatures in the -20s, and windchills approaching -50. School was closed for over a week, but my mind was happily occupied elsewhere, because on our one-month anniversary, a Thursday, I discovered I was pregnant. The next day, Sandy’s work also closed due to the weather, which was a rarity. We had our joyous news and an impromptu three-day weekend together! What could be better for newlyweds?

I made pancakes. We went for a walk and took a picture, just to say we did it. And we talked and wondered and dreamed about our baby. I remember that weekend of cold temperatures and warm hearts with great fondness.

On Monday, I miscarried. The dreaming and wondering were over, starkly and abruptly, the cozy joy of our weekend replaced by grief. The brevity of her life did not diminish the ache. We named her Poppy, because she was the size of a poppyseed when we found out she existed. It was only after I had my two sons that I began imagining her as my daughter. (If I get to heaven and find out Poppy’s a boy, that’ll be ok, too.)

We have a picture of a field of poppies hanging in our kitchen as a tribute, and when the boys ask about it, I tell them about their big sister who lives in heaven. And whenever the temperature dips near 20 below, I remember that bittersweet cold snap, and imagine my little Poppy, safe in the arms of Jesus.

I’ve been a mom for 6 years, but I’m brand new to formally schooling my sons. Together with my husband, I decided that kindergarten for Shiloh was going to be mostly recess with reading, writing, and ‘rithmetic sprinkled in for good measure. It’s going well so far, but my favorite part is the incidental learning, the unplanned “classes” that happen as we live life.

One of the boys discovered an old college anatomy textbook I had on a bookshelf, and when I explained that these were pictures of what our bodies look like on the inside, both kids were soon engrossed in the different systems. Throughout the day, they followed me about the house with the massive book, peppering me with questions.

I understood their fascination. It’s probably genetic. I developed my interest in anatomy books from my mom. She reads them for fun and even integrates them into her devotional time, worshipping the Creator while perusing his intricate design.

Upon noting my boys’ interest in the human body, I got several children’s “body books” from the local library. Shiloh and Shadrach quickly found their favorite pages in each, namely the ones with illustrations of preborn baby development (“Did I look like that inside you, Mama?”) and the digestive system. (They are little boys, after all!)

I consider these books and the discussions about them our informal biology class. The boys now know the esophagus is for food, and the trachea is for air (and that we need to be careful when eating so that doesn’t get mixed up). They understand that when they are sick, the tiny good guys are fighting the tiny bad guys inside of them. They know that the muscles that wiggle their fingers are actually in their arm. They can trace the path of a bite of sandwich from the mouth to the, well, you know where.

Their introductory understanding of anatomy and physiology comes into play frequently in ordinary conversations. Recently, I told Shiloh to use the bathroom. He balked, telling me matter-of-factly, “But Mama, my pees haven’t gone through my kidneys yet.” Nice try, bub. I still made him go. Then, the other day, Shadrach was jumping on the trampoline. “You wanna feel my heart? It’s blinking so fast.” I did indeed feel it.

Blinking hearts and kids’ anatomy books. Yeah, I love this kind of biology class.

I’ve always loved English classes. In high school, there was a whole hour a day, five days a week, dedicated solely to reading and writing. Plus, homework! I mean, does it get any better than that?

Because I love the subject, I’ve also always had an affinity for my English teachers. I can name them all to this day, except that old guy from my junior year of high school in Pennsylvania who somehow made dry dust out of a feast of British lit. I’m glad he was the exception.

My last (and favorite) English teacher, Carol Helland, passed away on Friday. I’m saddened, but so happy for her that she is with her Savior. As I sit typing today, it’s hard for me to put into words the impact she had on me and my writing.

I took her grammar and composition classes as part of the Grace Institute of Biblical Studies twelve years ago. She lived in Minnesota, I in Wisconsin. Classes were virtual, so I only met her in person a handful of times. Yet, she rekindled in me a love for the structure and order of the English language.

She taught how grammar was important, because we were training to be communicators of God’s Word, both through writing and speaking. A good grasp of the structure and order of our language was critical for clarity and precision in our message. We worked through participles and pronouns, adverbs and gerunds. We diagrammed sentences, dusting off a part of my brain that had lain dormant since the early ’90s. Then, we wrote and wrote and wrote, which was my favorite part. Inspired and encouraged by a teacher who loved English and taught it well, the essays never felt like work to me.

After I graduated, Mrs. Helland and I continued to correspond by email. She once wrote the following to me, “You will always hold a special place in my teacher’s and writer’s heart . . . you have the ‘sound’ of good writing in your head, and I trust that you will use this gift and ability to the glory of God.” I especially treasure these words today as I imagine her reveling in God’s glorious presence.

Mrs. Helland practiced what she preached in her classes. She spoke at countless ladies’ gatherings, where her own excellent communication skills were evident. She was never bombastic or overly dramatic, but spoke with a gentle, firm clarity, confident in the truth of Scripture. She expertly wove illustrations throughout her messages, holding the listeners’ attention and bringing encouraging principles to life. I’ll deeply miss her teaching.

I saw her in person for the final time last March. It had been several years since we had seen each other, but as she always did, she looked at me intently and asked, “Are you still writing?”

Yes, Mrs. Helland. I am writing. Still. Thank you for being an important reason why.

It’s been a decade. The last time I wrote a post here was February 2016. It was never my goal to stop writing a blog, but since my goal stopped being to write a blog, here we are. Or, here I am, at least. It’s a little presumptuous to assume there is a “we” to talk about, considering my 10 year hiatus.

So why write here again? There are numerous reasons, but a couple of months ago, I turned 45. That’s not considered a milestone birthday, but to me, it feels like a milestone. I’m solidly middle-aged now. 45 is young when you’re 60, or 73, or 97. But 45 is still a good dose of life, and on my morning birthday walk, as I filled healthy lungs and felt my feet move steadily beneath me, I expressed gratitude to God, who has given me so many blessings.

Something about the day made me think, I need to start writing again. Then, upon checking this blog a while later, I saw my last entry was from 2016. It seemed fitting to pick up the proverbial pen again in 2026.

Now, it’s not as if I haven’t written anything in the last approximately 3600 days, but this decade has seen my life change more than any I’ve lived, except perhaps my teen years. Practicing writing* has taken a back seat to other endeavours.

While my writing has experienced a definitive drought, my life otherwise has been rich and full, so very full. I went from being a single career woman on a mission trip in 2016 to a married homemaker and mother of two in 2026. The rocket ship portion of the decade was the 3.5 years from first date to married with two kids (January 2018-July 2021).

My single-speech-language pathologist-could-barely-cook-eggs self would hardly recognize my hunter-wife-sourdough-seller-homeschooler-rambunctious-boys-referee self that I am today.

One of the most important lessons I learned in this decade of dramatic change was that I didn’t lose myself or find myself in all the iterations of life I’ve experienced: singleness, career, marriage, babies, leaving my career. I was “me” through them all, because my life is anchored in Jesus Christ, who never changes. My identity as a child of God was the same through each twist and turn. Lest you think I slid into every new phase of life with that calm awareness, I can assure you I did not. Getting married at 38 and giving birth at 39 and 40 is a life-rocking adventure. But God is never late, and the lesson that my identity is not found in what I do, but who I am in Christ came just at the right time.

God knew my roles would look very different in 2026 than they did in 2016, and “in every change, faithful he remain[ed],” to quote the old hymn. I’m so glad he planned for the content single career girl to (very) eventually be the married mama. Jesus does all things well.

And, since you’re reading this, I suppose there is a “we” after all. Thanks for coming along as I begin writing (probably weekly) again. I’m planning on sticking around this time, you know, for the practice.

*Writers are always practicing; we never “arrive”. Each blank page brings a new challenge to communicate our thoughts clearly and effectively.