because I don't remember to take pictures like this

There was this weekend in January when laughter was contagious, cousins were wild, and there was so much good food we all left feeling full in a bunch of different ways.

I think when you're the one with the camera most of the time, you get in this groove where all your pictures look the same. My pictures usually capture things closely, they're often zoomed in on one thing, and sometimes the stuff going on in the background or just to the left or right gets forgotten.

Moments where the oldest cousin is being attacked by all of her younger boy cousins.

Funny smirks would be missed - as well as an ear cleaning.

You'd forget that there was a giant bowl of crab and two diligent "crackers."

I'm thankful today that Donna grabbed my camera off of the table and caught a bunch of the bigger picture that made up that evening together.

The brother/sister love/hate relationship made up of mostly love.

The beautiful teenager with a whole bunch of admirers - including her Papa.

The tackling and wrestling and tickling that cousins will remember forever.

And the look that says - I AM MY MOTHER'S DAUGHTER!!

The bigger picture is beautiful.  It's light and dark and everything in between that shouts love.

Moments like this are what keep you coming back for more.

So thank you Donna, for taking my camera for a ride on that cold night in January. For pressing down again and again with your pointer finger. For capturing the pictures I wouldn't have remembered to take.We will all treasure these pictures from now until forever.

p.s. thanks for documenting what most nights in my world are like with Ian ... this picture says it all.

thank you Laura Ingalls Wilder

 I used to dream of what it might be like to be a mom of boys. Funny how reality and dreams are usually nothing close to the same.

My dreams didn't include cow trucks or burning tumble weeds.

They didn't include railroad tracks or cows or rising rivers.

I didn't even know what muck boots were and I never would have guessed that I'd have a mud room full of every size and color of them known to man.

My dreams included farm land and shade trees, but they also had soccer games and campouts.  There were river banks, and wild flowers, and fishing poles. There were trees to climb, porches to sit on, forts to build, and pipe to change. They were dreams made from the beautiful life I'd spent years reading about each time I made a visit to the library or book store.

And almost 20 years after high school, I see and know and am living a lot of those pieces of my dreams - but not in the way I had them imagined.  Not at all. And I think that was God's plan all along.

You see, I think all of the Christian historical fiction/western romances I spent years turning the pages of gave me a false sense of reality. But then again, maybe not. Because here's the thing - the trilogies I would read into the early mornings had beautiful families experiencing hard times and difficult season surrounded by celebrations and love just like we're truly living right now. The part that's different is that with each turn of the page, I lived and survived those seasons with them. I saw what was on the other side of the trials. I got to the last page, wishing for more, but knowing how it all turned out. There was no wondering or guessing ... it had all happened, and I knew, as the reader and watcher of their lives, that they made it. I  knew they were better because of it. I knew that the story was complete.

I'm somewhere between the beginning and the middle of this book about us. The western romance/historical fiction piece that's being lived along the banks and hillsides of the Umatilla is being written now. And as much as I wish I knew what was coming next, I'm thankful I don't.

Life's not supposed to be like a dream - where things turn out just the way you have had them imagined. It's supposed to be real and full, and compiled of days and weeks and months worth writing about.  Worth waking up for. Worth staying up into the night for. Worth living for.

Our days are numbered - just like our cows and calves.

They hold a purpose worth sorting through.

They're meant to be shuffled and mixed up.

They're meant to push us out of 'comfortable' and into a place where you trust the people guiding you ...

and most importantly the driver.

He wants us to trust where we're going - even when the climb is a bit hard ...

so that when we get to that place at the end where we wish more was coming, we realize that we're at a place where we're satisfied. We're happy and we're looking back at where we just came from - and we're whispering to ourselves - that was a great ride.

So for now, I think I'll keep dreaming, but more than that, I'll keep living.

the night before school started again.

This was the end to the most beautiful Christmas break I could have hoped or wished for.

These moments where day turned to night and the barnyard was silent and still seemed to be a reflection of all that the past several days had been made of. A perfect reflection of life well lived.

There was darkness, but there was illuminating light too ... and the shadows were beautiful in their own unique way.

Sometimes, I have my camera at just the right time for just the right moments and thankfully, tonight was one of those times.

It was one of those times in your life where all you hear is God saying goodnight in the greatest of ways.

It was a sunset where tears fill your eyes, and it's quiet enough to hear your heart beat. It was minutes made up of seconds where you know God is with you with each click of the shutter on your camera - capturing each shade of beautiful sinking it's way to the other side of the world - taking God and His peace with it and leaving you with hope for another day just like this one.

Thank you Jesus for the hope found in sunsets and barnyards and even in the silhouettes that make up life as we know it.

Blue.

January 2014

The air was a cold as the sky was blue. There was just enough of a breeze to make you pull your zipper all the way up and wrap the scarf around your neck as tight as it would go.

The sky was clear.  My head was too.  There were no lesson plans to make and no papers to grade. There was no new app to try out or a book to finish reading.  There was just time.

Time to be still and wait for Ian. I'm an expert at waiting for Ian, but not so great at being still.  Today, I was still. There was no cell phone service and the 4G arrows had disappeared from my phone. I'm certain God was cheering about this. I had no other option than to just be still and wait.

I watched the winter river water move slowly by. I searched the sky for contrails.  I sat on the bridge - right on the tracks - feeling for any kind of vibration to let me know a train might be headed my way.

Nothing but silence. Still silence.

And then, from the east came a soft purr of an engine. An engine that may have been searching for the same kind of beautiful I had been soaking up. An engine that waved hello as it slowly made its way through the blue. Wings - soaring through the blue above - quietly making its way through the stillness.

This is home.

This is what life needs to be every so often. Still and silent and as clear & blue as life can possibly be - so that when the noise starts back up and the chaos of winter shakes you to the core ...  and you find yourself thinking you may just break apart with the next big freeze ...you can look up and down and all around and see hope.

You see hope and happiness, and eyes that look straight into your soul - reminding you that you're right where you need to be.  You're home.