when the best option is to jump.

I've never been a huge fan of trampolines.  There is something about the lack of control one has when others are jumping next to them that just puts knots in my stomach.  Maybe because when I was about 22 years old, I found myself with an ankle swollen to three times the normal size after a fun "jump off" with my friend Chad, and walked around in an air cast for weeks. Yes, I'm pretty certain that absolutely has something to do with it.

My boys would love it if the whole world was a giant trampoline. They would run and jump everywhere - flipping, twisting, turning, and casting all their trust in the rebound ... knowing and believing that with each bounce, the momentum won't stop ...  the adrenaline will keep them going ... and they'll always bounce back.

Something happens when we "grow up" that takes the trust right out of the jump.  We quit doing it.  We quit jumping like we should, which means we quit trusting like we should too.  Notice all of the "grown ups" just watching?  {yes, I was one of the watchers too} Why do we reach this place where we are afraid to jump?

I questioned why I hadn't brought my sweats that day in my mind. And then I laughed to myself just picturing what it would look like jumping with my boys while all the other "watchers" watched this mama absolutely make a fool out of herself.  I can't jump worth a darn any more.  In fact, I'd be out of breath before I could even get out of the first pit - I'm sure of it.

The point is, I shouldn't be afraid to jump.  I may not be young anymore and physically capable of bouncing from one surface to another with ease, but there are a lot of areas in my life where "jumping" should be the only option - the only option for really learning what it feels like to fly.

The next time I find myself watching from the sidelines, I'm going to grab a pen or my phone and start typing away.  I'm going to start writing down where I need to be more bold and brave.  I'm going to type the names of those people I want to have a "jump off" contest with.  And I'm going to ask myself where I'm supposed to be jumping to and get it down in print.

There's nothing worse than just watching and not doing anything about it. Jump.

Jump and soar your way through those places where you feel like you're sinking.

Bound after those dreams you've had hidden away because they seemed too silly to catch.

Glide into a new place - where you say {I trust in YOU} because I know You've got me and You already know where I'm going to land.

And before you know it, you'll be jumping ... and you'll have a whole bunch of people jumping with you.

And you'll never be afraid to have a {jump off} again, because you know that you'll win.

missing Bama & revisiting Christmas

Dear Bama, 

Christmas was in Pendleton this year.  We had moved cows most of the day, so as usual, we weren't on time. Bryn & Josh picked the boys up early, so they were able to have a full afternoon of fun with their cousins creating chaos throughout every part of the house.

Bryn had made a sweater for Josh for a party they had attended earlier in the week - but decided the sweater should be given to Ian.  It has bells attached to it and "rings" with every step.  You would have loved it.  George also had a sweater with a bit of jingle to it, and although it didn't make noise, the moment anyone saw his sweater, laughter would erupt - so it got the same effect as the bells essentially.

Most people like to post pictures where everyone has their eyes open and that are just the right color and are totally in focused.  I guess I'm not most people.  Go figure. I am a Murdock, so you know that is far from "most" people. You see, I'm about a month behind sorting through these pictures, but have realized, that that is a gift in itself.  The magic of Christmas has come rushing back to the forefront of my mind, and I'm giggling to myself as I flip through the pictures on this cold afternoon reliving each little moment.  Pictures are good like that.  They help us remember the best parts of our lives - even when life is hard.

Thing haven't changed much.  Ian doesn't sit down for more than a minute or two usually, but when he does veer away from Mr. Serious - watch out!  His humor settles in and the jokes don't stop. I've caught him laughing more often than not lately - even in the hard - and for that - I'm grateful.

The prime rib {that was far from cheap$$$}did get charred, but was salvaged and enjoyed around 2 full tables.  Tables filled with family, food, glasses of wine, and a bit of chaos.  There is always chaos and that will never change.

We played games, had thumb wars, tickle wars, and even managed to get through a staring contest or two.

Leslie should have charged per piggy-back ride ... she would have made a small fortune.

Hugs were given, kisses were placed, and we somehow managed to get through all the present opening.

And after a wonderful afternoon and evening spent with those we are blessed to call family, I think I know what you'd be telling all of us to remember.

Every year is different, special, and unique in it's own way. Every year is worth the effort of setting aside time to just be together. It's worth all of the dishes that have to be washed. It's worth all of the nerf bullets stuck to the windows. It's worth so much more than that. And as every year will continue to change, someday, it will be our last year. {Every year should be celebrated as if it's the last year because it may just be.}

You were there with us in spirit - I know you were because with the twinkling of the lights and the notes of music playing - God surrounds us with memories of those we love most through gentle whispers! You were there - playing games, laughing, exchanging white elephant presents, and sneaking one more olive. You were there when shouts erupted as wrapping paper was tossed aside. And you were there when the last dish was put away.

Thanks for being a Murdock that we all hope to grow up to be like someday - a woman filled with grace & a sense of understanding that is missed at every gathering we have. Your legacy lives on & hopefully your grace and love are at the forefront of every interaction, every conversation, and every hug any of us that are still here living life the best we know how can give.

Missing you and hoping we're making you proud - 

Lindsay & the rest of the crew

P.S.  Mack is definitely a whisper and a wink from you.

things about a Sunday.

I'm a counter.

I count cows going through a gate, contrails in the clear blue sky, phone poles in the fog, minutes until cookies are out of the oven, hours in a day ... you get the picture.

I'm also a counter of good things, hard things, real-life things, and after reading from the heart of Ann Voskamp, I have counted thousands of these small, but meaningful moments in time as gifts.

It's how I've survived some of the longest seasons of my life and how I plan on continuing to push forward as another calving season has just begun.

Some might say it's silly.  Others may think it's too much work.  I say it's worth your life if you think your life is worthwhile.  And I've never known a life to not be of worth.  Never.

It's January - the start of new for many, but more importantly, the chance to see those things in your life that might otherwise be missed as gifts.

It's not a fad.  It's not just what the "cool" kids do.  It's life saving, mind altering, heart pounding, tears flowing, God whispering - I'm here. 

1.5.14

Something you're reading, making, seeing.

There is this beautiful thing about January, which is also the hardest thing too.  Funny how hard can be beautiful.  I think God intended it to be seen that way as a source of hope.  Hope in something other than ourselves to give a sense of peace about what's to come.

I'm not very good at "reading" heifers that are ready to calve.  Not very good at all. But Sunday was different. I watched her walk away from the group up to the other side of the small pasture right below our house - also known as Heiferland, but not to be confused with Disneyland. Watching a cow calve is like reading a book.  Each step is a new chapter, each push is a new page, and the whole time you're watching, you're just praying there's a happy ending.  

She saw me "reading" her from the distance and her eyes focused on each step I took.  I wanted so badly to be just a little bit closer, but from experience (and a husband yelling at me to put the damn camera away and get back) I walked backward until I was out of her sight.  It was beautiful.  She stood up, circled for the last time, laid down, and then pushed. I whispered soft cheers as I watched her gain more strength with each push from behind the tree, praying that the new life inside her would be alive.  Minutes passed, and then just like that it a calf was on the ground, she was on her feet, and new life said hello to our hillside with soft moos and grunts.

I'd say she was the best read I had all break.

Mason's been gone all of break.  It's been weird and wonderful all at the same time.  Mack has loved the quiet evenings at home with just us, the chance to drive the feed truck whenever he wants, and his choice of movies at the redbox day after day.  The quiet is about to end, but I think we're all ready for him to be home.
The making of this sign was one of the greatest gifts for us and him.  I wish I had a picture of the headlights from the car when they drove in at 9:00 and a recording of his giggles in the car.

Welcome home Mason.  Welcome home.

This has been one of the greatest breaks from normal my life has ever seen.  It's been filled with mornings of feeding with Ian, a snuggle bug called Mack, cups of hot chocolate whenever I feel like it, beautiful sunrises, and the most gorgeous sunsets.

Thank you Sunday for offering this sky and this kind of quiet day after day after day, but especially on this evening that is whispering goodbye to some

this thing about pie.

I have a dream on repeat in my mind.  It's a dream where I  find myself in a crowded room and overhear someone say - "yes, that's her ... she is the pie maker/baker I was telling you about."

Pathetic, but still a dream of mine none the less.

The dream probably won't ever come true, but for now, I'm totally fine with the three people I care about most shouting for joy when they walk in from a long day and find one of these.  

A pie made with love, surrounded by a crust that is still far from perfect in appearance or flakiness, filled with goodness that seems to whisper {thankful} with each and every bite they take.

Here's to 2014 - the year that I learn how to make really, really good pies and my crust is blue-ribbon worthy.