It’s become more common to see pictures of adorable infants surrounded by their mama’s IVF needles. Really, it’s very artistic and creative, and in the middle is the glorious result of all the pokes and aches women have faced in order to produce a snuggly babe. These pics? Yeah… they’re a little different. If I had saved all the syringes since my diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis some 14 years ago it might equal a small mountain. And what do I put in the middle of the picture? An image of me walking down some stairs or putting away the dishes? Ha! Not quite as charming. I am a work in progress though, and I am not ashamed of the medication that keeps my joints functioning. None of us are promised easy lives, and what you see above is a bit of my burden and how art can be found in anything—even images of syringes without a chunky cherub amongst them.

I don’t know why God gave me the eyes that he did. I see loveliness in the most ordinary of places and get caught up in the way the light flickers over a t-shirt, the way a tulip curves beyond it’s vase, the way glassware drying next to the sink gleams. I have an eye for the beauty in ordinary life, and that’s oftentimes what you’ll see represented on my blog.

While I want to be great and accomplish something incredible and make a book someone wants to read, I wonder if my life will instead look a bit like the gleaming glasses next to my sink. Very ordinary most every day, but, hopefully, extraordinary for the people I’m closest to. Perhaps my legacy will be the little bits of myself ordinary self that I’ve given to Jeremy and to Livia, to my family and to my church family. Whatever happens long after I’m gone, I know there will be a large number of files on this computer that show off the sweetness found in the ordinary. Because I think, many times, that the ordinary is actually extraordinary.

Case in point: salad in a jar. I made them yesterday with wonderful people from church, and this week I shall eat them. I think they’re lovely.

I’ll be on my back deck if anyone needs me. So far I’ve done some writing, some reading, some thinking, and some repotting of my succulent babies. Spring is coming. Fist pumps to all who have fought to survive winter this year.

When she was little we practiced pew-sitting. We realized that it was a rare occasion that our squirrelly little one had to sit still next to us, and so we literally practiced on the 8-foot pew—picked up somewhere along my parents’ many moves across the country—now taking up space in our dining room.

When Livia was three each Sunday felt like a little bit of a crisis for me as a stay-at-home mom eager to receive rest and rejuvenation. Our church tragically burned down that summer, and I remember writing our pastors an email and begging for children’s church to be reinstated, you know, for the single moms who really needed a break (and me, PLEASE!). God bless those people who love crazy three year olds; for me it was, let’s say, a challenging time.

As it turns out, our daughter didn’t stay three forever. She grew in stature and in maturity, and sitting at church became easier and easier. We moved from those days of goldfish snacks and soft-sided toys to crayons and books, and then to listening fully to the sermon and participating in the service.

I will say this for church: it is one of my favorite spots of the week. There are myriad of spiritual reasons why I need church—why anyone does—and that is to get my heart re-routed to what God says is important. I have the memory of a gnat and forget day-to-day, if not moment-to-moment, who I am and Who God is. Worship on Sunday becomes a “reset” button for the rest of my week. But I’ve found a delightfully unexpected joy in the regular act of church worship, and it is the quiet action of sitting with my family, hearing God’s word.

Every Sunday we go to church. It’s what we do. In the early days of our marriage, Jeremy and I had lengthy discussions about why we went to church, and interestingly enough, our strong-headed natures (which caused lots of fireworks the first two years) kept us faithfully attending church. We were students, which meant we were really tired and always behind in some sort of classwork, but when one partner was lazy the other wasn’t. We went to church. That same stubborn determination continued when we had kids, only it was remarkably easy to make it to church for a period of years as we had moved to the same city block as our home church. It just gets embarrassing when you sleep through a service instead of rolling out of bed and down the block with the other parishioners.

So now we are in church every week because we need it. Because we love it. Because God does something different there when His children are gathered to worship Him. Because our souls get fed the spiritual food they crave. And because we are loved well by that rag-tag group of human beings, from every walk of life it seems, gathered together under one roof because we are each other’s family in Christ.

In the pew at Redeemer my little family is focused on the same topic for 90 minutes each week. The Holy Spirit moves in us differently, and we welcome the work He is doing. I get to reach out on one side and hold my husband’s arm. I can reach out on the other and pull my daughter to my side while singing choruses. (Note: she’s now moving farther and farther away from me in the pew. Y’all behind me can watch the Progression of the Teen Independence these next few years. Get yo popcorn.) We are a family, and we go to church together. I am not in control of Livia’s thoughts about church, and the way she’ll interact with God and His people in the future is not up to me. But I hope the truths she finds in our church—and in our home—will carry her forward in this life until she meets the Lord face to face.

This sweet little baby came right on time and is such a gift to her parents, grandparents, and the wider community. It’s especially fun to watch friend turn into parents before your eyes. Kat and Alex are handling this brilliantly and it was my joy to meet baby Lydia last weekend. Congrats, Borremans family!

This winter is killing me softly with its song. And its song includes grey skies, continued snowfall and icy rains, and cold temps that make me long for a hot bath every night around 6 o’clock. I’ve run into multiple people who’ve informed me that “this time last year we had 70 degree weather.” This fact does not make me feel more chipper about our seemingly never-ending winter. I am aware that March is just around the corner and I’m holding fiercely to the fact that seasons will change quite soon. But sometimes you’ve got to find creative ways to dig out from the cold funk, and this is what I had in mind when I texted Renae this past week. Cameras in hand, we found some green. And then found some sushi. And my spirits were delightfully lifted.

All photos taken in the lovely and new-to-me Mulhall’s Greenhouse in Omaha, Nebraska. Not only did I get my fill of green and actually got warm enough to discard my winter coat, we also both came home with some cute little pots for succulents. This store is wonderful. Please go visit them and chase away your own winter blues.

Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros sing it best: Home is wherever I’m with you.

I struggle greatly with travel anxiety. As much as I love to go to new places and experience new things, I have a hard time doing it on my own. It’s less about extroversion and more about chronic conditions that can get weird in a heartbeat. (Diabetes, I am TOTALLY talking about you, you punk.) I play a game called “worse case scenario” that sometimes helps me, but when I go alone, the anxiety is there. My brain is constantly trying to figure out how to keep my body safe and I end up being on high alert for hours on end, if not the entire trip. Not my fave.

Last week I had the enormous privilege of traveling, much like a turtle, with my home with me. Though we lacked the creature comforts of our own beds and pillows—Jeremy’s biggest problem—and our own bedroom doors that shut–Liv’s biggest problem–all of us expressed pure joy that we were **together**. Team Tredway. There’s an unexpected tidiness of this only-child situation where we can easily share one room together, we can easily sit by each other on plane rides, and we can share in adventures now that Livia is older. It is tremendously sweet. We were not without the very human struggles that families have, but we were highly aware of the fun of an adventure together.

At some point I realized the intense lack of anxiety I was experiencing with my family with me. And what. a. relief. Airplanes and airports became more fun. Plane delays were no big deal, and schedule changes were met with flexible spirits. I had no parental guilt of leaving a kid behind because she was with me! And bonus, I had my BFF-husband the entire time. As I write this I recognize how often I travel without them, too. And that can be a good thing as well.