I went for a consult first. After years of avoiding the dentist—not my dentist, not my neighborhood dentist, just all dentists—I found myself in the reclining chair of my fears. I had a literal mouthful of problems to address, most of which my tongue could easily have told you about. A break on this tooth, a too-large gap on this one, a chip here and a chip there. It wasn’t pretty. How ugly was it? The dentist showed me. Not in a mean way, but in an educational, the-more-you-know kind of way. On his big screen he pointed out what was going on and what we were going to do about it.

Now, friends. I deal in the world of lovely images. Pretty pictures. Even the not-so-pretty ones are far more interesting to me than the state of my mouth. What was meant to be educational and instructive was, to my mind, a nightmare. Let’s just say I’m not a dentist for good reason. I don’t want to see my own mouth, or someone else’s for that matter. I don’t want to see anyone’s feet either. And though I’m fascinated by childbirth, I’m cool without seeing a cervix, too. Though I am the daughter of two nurses, I did not inherit their skills whatsoever.

Today I saw x-rays of my hands. For a decently tall woman, I have surprisingly child-like hands; they surprised the PA who commented on their delicacy compared to the burly hands she normally sees (lots of elderly men, I suppose). And like my experience in the dentist’s seat, I was shown images that I’d rather not see. Rheumatoid arthritis, up close and personal, doing its slow work of gnawing away at my joints. In the big picture, the little pictures of my hands were no big deal. The disease process has not altered my hands in two years and for that I am grateful. Really, it wasn’t until I was sitting in my rheumatologist’s office that I realized that I feel pretty good overall. Sometimes it takes a pause for reflection before I realize how good things are. But the hands revealed a little bit more. They showed tiny bits of damage. Small spots where RA is present. I was shown places on one wrist where bones were smooshed together when they should’ve been separated by more tissue.

I walked out of the office like a balloon with a tiny pinhole in it. Not utterly deflated, but reminded of the truth of my mortality. RA is working within me. And I’m battling against it with all the tools I have. But it’s there. Try as hard as I might to dismiss it, it’s undismissable.

As good as my life is, I know it won’t last forever. Whether I live on this earth for 37 years or for 73, it’s going to go fast. How glad I am that I’m made for more than this! What a relief to know that this life isn’t the only one I get to live. Though I’m relatively content with the body and life God has given me—relatively being the key word there—I really look forward to the resurrection someday. In Christ, I’m going to be a new creation. What’s true in my soul today will be true in my body. No more damaged joints—maybe I’ll do lots of cartwheels in glory? No more cavities. No more need for doctor’s appointments with x-rays I do not want to see. What a relief, this promise of Glory. It’s enough to patch up the pin-pricked balloon. For a few moments at least. ;)

In May I struggled to come up with words to explain my life, a life that was quite full of good things but for some reason didn’t feel quite right. My friend accurately said I felt “untethered.” Yes! Untethered. The schedule of the school year had just dissipated into summer vacation. A few weeks earlier we celebrated the reunification of our foster son with his mama. Our weekly bible study at Redeemer wrapped up and I completed my duties as administrator of the women’s ministries committee. There was a lot of freedom in my days. I felt untethered. Which leads me to the photo above. Ian. In the park. Free and happy on a swing.

My buddy Ian used to live next door to me and whenever I wanted a bit of companionship, his mom was there. Renae was easily accessible. As an extrovert, that companionship was highly valued! We lived on the same block as our church for quite awhile, which also meant that we’d have friends drop by regularly. But as the seasons of life shifted into new ones, and both Renae and I moved away from the old ‘hood, it’s become a tad harder to stay connected, to stay tethered to people. I daresay it requires intentionality that it didn’t before. It’s for this reason we’re doing a little something called Summer Lunches at Redeemer. Summer is the most untethered of all seasons and that can be a good thing! The freedom of vacation and nice weather and long days can be wonderful. But so can connection to friends new and old. Summer lunches are hosted at a different park every week and, in the simplest of terms, they’re an on-ramp to relationships. Every week someone will be at a park. They might have a lunch, they might have a kid or two, but they’ll be there and you can be there, too.

As I get older I realize more and more the beauty of belonging to a church body. The first and biggest beauty is belonging to God and worshipping him. But beyond that, there’s a sense of camaraderie of knowing that my brothers and sisters in the church are there to love and support me. In the most beautiful way possible, they are present. I belong. In Christ, I am tethered to them so that even in the hot summer months I have a place to know others and to be known.

This isn’t an advertisement for summer lunches or for Redeemer. But because I am who I am, I’m going to say this anyhow… If you want a place to belong, come to a summer lunch at a park with me. Or come to church with my family! I cannot think of a more lovely way to be tethered.

I was going to type “The Baby” and then injected “Last.” Wow, that sounds kind of intense! But really, I think this will be the last small nugget we foster around here. There are loads of reasons why, but you have to take me to lunch to hear them all.

So I’m going to show you some pictures, okay? Because this baby boy is SO DANG CUTE. Boy, blog, have you missed out. Ready?

Here’s a shot of him climbing into an extra carseat in our living room. Isn’t he funny? Can you tell he’s proud of himself for conquering it?

Here’s another. He’s towering over the dog, who has his ears back as he wonders if the Baby will squash him. Baby is a solid 10 pounds heavier than Shiloh, and as you can see in this shot all those pounds are in his tummy.

Oh and this one! He’s chugging a sippy cup of milk. In a minute he’s going to throw it down the hallway. Cute. And strong. Never forget, this boy likes to throw things!

Oh and this one kills me. See him all cuddled up in Jeremy’s arms? The boys. They do love each other. The Baby hasn’t always liked to cuddle, but now he does. Every single time Jeremy walks in the room the Baby expects a daddy snuggle. Man, what that does to a woman’s heart!

Did you enjoy my foster baby photo album? I hope so. I’m sorry if this was confusing to you! Foster babies—though real flesh and blood—are pretty much invisible online. You can imagine how fun that is for a photographer mom, right?

1) Arranging snow removal prior to a snowfall is probably the wisest way to go because…

2) Scooping snow after paying thousands of dollars for elbow surgeries at Mayo is really not wise.

3) Also not wise? Scooping snow with a back that has suffered a herniated disc.

4) Not all snowfalls are equal, however, so it was feasible for three Tredways to conquer the driveway and walks after the second snowfall last week.

5) As much as I love sunshine and warm temps, snow is so beautiful and peaceful and I love snuggling up at home with my family safe at my side.

6) My ten year old is now old enough to wear my long johns and, if needs be, my winter coat. When did this happen??

7) The Baby liked eating the snow that fell in the house when I opened the back door. So glad he could finally enjoy the tidbits off the floor for once.

8) If you don’t shovel a path to the yard, your small dog will happily do his business on the patio. Or so I’ve heard. Rumors really.

9) Much of our snow melted over the weekend. New England friends, my heart goes out to you! Spring will come eventually.

My little space on the world wide web isn’t getting much attention these days. It’s not that I don’t have time really, but my creativity is often expressed outside the internet realm. It’s summer time. And for this freelancing photographer and part-time SAHM, it means I’m here full-time with the spectacular Livia Raine. Our days are filled with lots of face-to-face time, which can be entirely fabulous or entirely draining depending on the moment.

We do Mommy School in the summers on most mornings. Not only is it a way to encourage personal and academic growth, it also serves as a way to keep me from answering the “I’m bored” statement (which is really a demanding question, isn’t it?) and thus being cast immediately in the role of cruise ship director where I plan activity after activity to keep my only-child occupied. No one needs that. And yet, Liv doesn’t have a sibling to play with, so really, Mommy School helps us out—for a few hours at least. We read, we solve problems, we do math, we write, we play. It’s all good. And all the structure inevitably encourages more independent playtime later. Win-win.

There are those summer activities everyone wants to participate in. Camps and clubs. Hours logged at the swimming pool. Park playdates and evening strolls with ice cream. Museums and road trips. We’ll get some of those in as well.

I find the transition to summer to be challenging. I love the solid assurance of the normal 8:00am-3:00pm school day. Life gets mapped out in neat little chunks and I can fit my ESFJ self into it. On Wednesdays I have bible study, which means I get to study the word of God, might get to lead the study, have lots of girl time and drink hot coffee. Some Mondays include Moms in Prayer and then it’s like a smaller repeat of bible study days. And in between I’ll take on a photo job here and there, edit the shoots, have lunch with my mom or other women, and arrange all the usual things it takes to keep a household running. By 3pm I am All Liv All the Time. And I eat it up. It fulfills both the scheduler in me and the spontaneous part of my personality that is far more P than J.

Summer, well… Summer changes all that. As I said, lots of face time. Lots of free time. A lot less adult time. I get a little lost for the first few weeks as I struggle to gain my footing. I ask myself why I feel so off-kilter, why it feels like I’m wearing a shirt that just. doesn’t. fit. right. Is it the tag? Is the neck too tight? Is it a loose thread? No, it’s just summer. Free-wheeling, kid time, unstructured summer. And eventually I adjust. I build the structure I need and go out to coffee dates a lot more. I find other moms who are at home and I inundate them with texts and Facebook messages and phone calls until I’m satisfied. I dream of the next date night with Jeremy and am excited when it rolls around.

I might even write a little. I might shoot a lot of pictures. I might get creative. And I might show some of it here.

Then again, it’s summer. So I might not.

I’m a member of a Facebook page or two where photographers can invite other professionals to critique their work. One guy recently complained about how some folks don’t have a Facebook page for their business, so how can you see their work and then determine if their critique bears any merit or not? It’s a fair question in a way. For sure I take advice from photographers who’s work I admire and weed out the stuff I deem uninteresting or simply not skilled. Then again, I don’t have a Facebook business page either so what do I know?! (Said tongue in cheek. An online portfolio is in the works. The cobbler’s children have no shoes, you know what I mean.)

What I do know is this: clients should hire photographers based on their work. Peruse a Facebook page, a blog, a professional portfolio. Look at what they do and then hire them if you like it. If you don’t like it, don’t hire them.

What we all like is so subjective. I know what I like and I shoot that. When I start shooting what I do not like, I lose my creative spark and passion for my art. I am finding more and more photographers who are slaves to trends—and I find that pretty boring. I won’t be shooting sexy senior portraits or Anne Geddes baby images or engaged couples in positions that would make our grandmothers blush. Instead I will shoot families that love each other. I will shoot a mother looking adoringly into her newborn’s face. I will capture a quirky toddler laughing and doing his own thing and holding up dirty fingers for my camera. I will capture real moments. Life-giving moments. Real world experiences and memories for a lifetime. I want to be there, documenting the gritty moments as well as the posed ones that look kind of nice on the mantle in the living room.

I love photography. I love people. I love sunlight. Critique is helpful in moving forward as an artist and someone else’s opinion bears merit if I let it. But I have my own eye, my own perspective, and I aim to use it.

My big brother very sweetly bought me a card and a little pot of tulips for Mother’s Day. On Sunday the buds were so tightly closed that I couldn’t tell what color they’d be, but they opened up charmingly by my kitchen window within a few days. (Thank you, Adam! This gift is making me very happy.)

I’m ridiculously in awe of spring this year. Or is it every year, I can’t tell. Jeremy is frequently subjected to my exclamations of appreciation for all the GREEN. One tree out front appears much larger and more shade-providing than last year and I can’t get enough of the way sunlight filters through its branches all day long, casting flickering shadows on my living room carpet while I work in the next room. And there’s another tree in the back yard whose green branches fill up my view as I walk into the kitchen. I don’t feel like I live on the plains this spring. With a little imagination I live in the rolling hills of California or Georgia and my acreage—just dreaming here—is covered with trees. Livia is even getting in on the gushing action. We drive through an area called Wilderness Park frequently and I often draw her attention to the way the trees are changing and filling out as the seasons change. The last time we drove this path I was distracted by texting and from the backseat I hear a voice that perfectly echoed my own thoughts. If nothing else I hope I’ve given her an eye that utterly delights in God’s handiwork.

Thank you, God, for warm weather once more and a world that is changing in color all around us. Thank you that I now have something new to photograph. Thank you for not leaving us in the cold deadness of winter. Thank you for spring and the anticipation of summer. Thank you that school is almost out and the pace of our days will change. Thank you for rest. Thank you for this season of renewal. Thank you for your constancy and goodness and love, for every good and perfect gift comes from you.

What holds me back from telling you how I really feel are a thousand little voices on my shoulder. One voice says that I’m a bleeding heart and I should shut up. Another voice says that the only reason I’m here is because I haven’t been able to get pregnant and sustain a pregnancy. Yet another voice says that it’s annoying to sound this trumpet over and over again, that people don’t want to hear it. And still another says that if Jeremy and I are this scared every time we get a phone call, every time we say yes, then who in their right mind would willingly join up?

The voices are going to take a back seat for a minute. I have something to say.

The need for loving, mature and capable foster families is huge. It is huge and it is real and it is not going away anytime soon.

As soon as one family takes in a kid—whether for a short duration or a long one—another child is in a bad situation and will need a home. As soon as one bed is filled, another bed is needed. We could talk until we’re blue in the face about why this is. Why does foster care exist? Why are people so terrible to their children? Why are people irresponsible and why does the government, of all entities, have to step in? We could get absolutely lost in those types of conversation and then miss the fact that the most vulnerable in our society still need beds and warm showers and three square meals a day and, oh yeah, adults who love them.

When you read a story in the newspaper about a drug bust where children were present, you can bet a foster family is getting a call that very night to take in those children. When you hear a story on the news about an infant found in squalor in an apartment, perhaps with roach eggs on his feet, you know a foster family’s phone is ringing. When you hear that a parent is cited for neglect because their five year old was found wandering downtown streets at 11 o’clock at night, you know a case is being built and perhaps that child will need another home for a time until their parents can figure out how to parent a little bit better.

The need is real. The need is huge.

There are stories we all hear, but then there are actual phone calls I get. I recently got a call to take a one week old infant and had to say no. It broke my heart to say no, but with our health concerns, I simply couldn’t tend well to the needs of a newborn and still tend well to my own needs. This was wise, but it was sad, too. Awhile back I got a call for two little sisters. Their mom had lots of services to help support her family but she still chose not to protect them from dangerous people. They needed a place to go. Another call involved sisters again who needed a home while their mom went into drug rehab and yet another involved little boys whose mother constantly neglected them. One series of calls revolved around a baby boy whose outlook for life was pretty rough after he sustained tremendous abuse from an adult in his life. Did this little guy need a lot of care? Absolutely. Is he worthy of care and respect and love as long as he needs it? Again, absolutely yes.

My request is that you open your eyes and simply do what you can. Don’t pretend like these kids don’t exist or like their lives don’t matter. But do what you can! If you can become a foster parent, sign up for the next session of classes. Babies, toddlers, middler schoolers and high school kids all need homes. Kids without support systems can use your help. If you cannot foster, support these kids another way. Lincoln is full of charities designed to aid kids in need, not just foster kids but other at-risk youth, too. Project Everlast, Lighthouse, Christian Heritage, Cedar’s, City Impact, the City Mission, The Bay, so on and so forth. You can give money, you can volunteer your time, you can rally a group of moms from your school, workout partners from the gym, neighbors and/or friends to do something big together. You can also provide support to foster families you know by taking meals, sending encouraging letters, providing diapers, sharing baby supplies, driving their kids to therapy appointments, getting background checks so you can babysit and so on. Your support is incredibly valuable if you didn’t know it already. That pack of pacifiers or diapers may not mean much to you, but I can guarantee it means a lot to the foster family who is working fast and furiously to prepare for new little people in their home.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. If you’ve read my words and have kept an open mind, thank you. If you’re supporting the kids of my beloved city, thank you a million times over.

I can say with utter sincerity, these kids are our future. They are our most precious commodity. Let’s take care of them.

I’m taking a week off of Facebook to see what it’s like to be a little less plugged-in. My general feeling after these first few days is that 1) I miss knowing what my friends are up to and I’m forced to find other ways to interact with them and 2) taking a break is nice.

I’m also forgoing my routine time-wasting reading online which includes a gamut of entertainment, celebrity and pop-culture news. I find myself poring over other news sites to find out the gossip I’m missing. Genius, I know. The thing is I’m way too lazy to explore much online—I’m a total creature of habit—so the end result is that currently I’m not online as much. That’s a good thing. Really, it is.

I also said I’d give up blogging this week. That was stupid so I’m blogging anyway. This blog is a happy home for my photos and words and has been for a long time now. No need to give it up this week.

Finally, I’ve been writing down pseudo Facebook statuses today. It’s odd how Facebook has affected the way I think and now I find myself wanting to share brief moments of my day with a wide audience of people. Weird, right? Here are my instead-of-Facebook statuses:

12:06pm
There’s a reason why people like southern California. Case in point, weather.com: Clitherall, MN, 43 degrees. Port Townsend, WA, 48 degrees. Lincoln, NE, 54 degrees. The Disneyland Resort: 79 degrees.

2:14pm
In case you were wondering, only children are used to having the WHOLE couch to themselves while watching cartoons. #getouttamyspace

7:55pm
How many parents have to tell their kids, “No, you can’t have a canvas in the bathtub”? #alwaysanartist

Yesterday I became a Jury Duty Reject. I was simultaneously relieved and disappointed my name hadn’t been called for the 12 members of the jury and two alternates. Where did I go wrong? Clearly I had to relay the truth in court that day. Was it the question I answered about possibly having sympathy for a potential witness? Or the part where it was revealed I’m both a mom and a foster mom? Or was it the confirmation that I have a degree in education? Who knows? Jury selection is not my area of expertise. However, today I find myself itching to be back in a courtroom. What a fascinating process.

When we potential jurors filed into the courtroom yesterday the defendant was sitting at a table with his attorney. In that moment, you are faced with your own prejudices, your own shortcomings, your own preconceived notion of right and wrong, democracy, fairness and the like. All these thoughts, compounded by the newness of the experience—for me at least—was dizzying. And electrifying. In short, I felt like passing out when I realized the gravity of the situation. And I am not your typical damsel in distress. I thought I was prepared for this moment. In all fairness, the charges alone involved some graphic and disturbing details. Surely I was not the only juror unsettled by it all.

Another feeling arose as the day went on: pride. Like, I’m proud to be an American. I was proud to be a part of this incredible court system where the defendant truly did get to be innocent until proven guilty and where the jurors vowed to try the accused based on evidence only presented in court. And the whole 12 jurors thing? Brilliant. It’s not just a judge or just one person or even three using level-headed common sense. It’s 12 people. Also, these people? My fellow Nebraskans. Again, the sense of pride was strong. From all careers and income levels and job experiences, these 36 people (plus a few leftover for alternates if needed) vowed to tell the truth. In the courtroom I heard some people admit very hard truths while being questioned by the attorneys and judge. It was an amazing sense of having a level playing field—something I’ve never seen so blatantly practiced anywhere else in my normal everyday life.

As I took a lunch break yesterday I prayed hard for wisdom. I both hoped to be chosen for that jury and hoped to be passed by. But I knew if I was chosen, I’d potentially have to make some challenging decisions regarding a person’s guilt. The pressure momentarily felt overwhelming until I recalled that God already knows the truth. As important as it is to have a panel of jurors determine someone’s guilt or innocence, the final judgement will be far more important. A guilty party could walk free if the right evidence isn’t presented, but a man cannot hide from his sins. A day is coming where all people will be judged and a righteous and perfect God will do the judging.

He will bring justice to the poor of the people; He will save the children of the needy. (Psalm 72:4)

I long for the day this world will be set right again.