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Hawthorne House Renovation

The House, Week 1

The House, Week 1: Part Deux

The House, Week 4

Day Drinking in the Rubble

Renovation Lessons: God is God, I am Not

One Year Later: An Update…Of Sorts

Two Years Later: A Before and After

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I’m so tired I don’t know what day it is. My h I’m so tired I don’t know what day it is. My house looks like a pint-sized tornado ripped through it (hint: because one has). And I’ve changed so many diapers this morning that the smell of poop is permanently lodged in my nostrils. But I wouldn’t change a thing. Because this is worth it.⁣ ⁣ These days, these babies—they’re worth it all. They’re worth the decades of waiting—not for “a” man, but for “the” man. They’re worth the years trying and failing to conceive. And they’re worth the long, arduous, fear-drenched, sorrow-soaked emotional labor all our adoptions required.⁣ ⁣ They’re also worth every deadline missed and opportunity sacrificed, every hour of sleep lost and pound gained, every purchase not made, every dollar not saved, and every plan changed or upended.⁣ ⁣ Yes, this is hard. But it’s the best kind of hard. The kind of hard that forms you, shapes you, and recreates you. The kind of hard that doesn’t make you less yourself, but more yourself. The kind of hard where every death leads to new life, a life beyond your imagining and control.⁣ ⁣ Which is maybe why our culture finds motherhood so terrifying. It rips the script of your existence out of your hands. It blows up your carefully curated life, making something ragged and wild of days once smooth and predictable. It calls you to a habit of selflessness for which few in our culture of instant gratification are prepared. And it launches your heart straight out of your body, into the world, stripping it of every protection you’ve erected around it. ⁣ ⁣ ⁣Motherhood is not safe. That is its hardest reality. Enjoying it requires a kind of holy madness, a willingness to die a thousand deaths and endure unimaginable sorrow all for the sake of the child entrusted to you, a child who, for a time, is more likely to hit you over the head with a sippy cup than thank you for all you do.⁣ ⁣ In the end, though, that’s not madness. It’s sanity itself. For every child is the image of God. And every death we die for them is a step along the road to life. You must lose your life to find it. He said it. He meant it. And a culture that denies it, that values neither children nor motherhood, is a culture destined to die.
Early morning Rosary with my little lady. Also, do Early morning Rosary with my little lady. Also, don’t let the picture fool you. The house may finally be clean again, but it still smells like poo. And yes, I’m open to suggestions for managing the aroma of three under three, all in diapers #wealreadyhaveadiapergenie #probablyneedanother #wholehousebathroom #thecandlebudgetisgoingup
What is “Letters to Myself from the End of the W What is “Letters to Myself from the End of the World”?⁣ ⁣ To start with, it wasn’t the book I was supposed to write in 2020.⁣ ⁣ My plan was to spend last Spring and Summer writing a funny memoir about our house restoration. Before I could make much headway on that, though, the world fell apart.⁣ ⁣ Then, as Spring turned to Summer, I saw people struggling all around me. They were struggling with the Church. They were struggling with injustice. And they were struggling with their fellow Catholics. They also were struggling with themselves, with anger, isolation, fear, doubt, motherhood, and the reality of their own mortality.⁣ ⁣ In those people, I saw myself. I saw people asking questions I’d asked and fighting battles I’d fought. But they weren’t always finding the answers I’d found, answers which have helped my faith grow stronger, not weaker, with each passing year.⁣ ⁣ I thought about responding on Instagram. But I wanted to give you something of substance, to offer meat, not milk, and to write words that would endure long after this platform disappears.⁣ ⁣ So, I set aside the book I was supposed to write and started writing letters to the young woman I was 20 years ago. In those letters, I wrote about the questions and battles I’ve faced since returning to the Church. I wrote about holiness and perfectionism, anxiety and anger, Church scandals and online mobs, God’s silence and unanswered prayers, the work of loving our enemies and the necessity of spiritual reparation, Mary and the saints, hope and suffering, human dignity and the human family, exhaustion and unchecked to-do lists, motherhood and work, body image and envy, and so much more. For months, I wrote and wrote and wrote, penning 45 letters in total.⁣ ⁣ Somewhere along the way, I told Emmaus this was the book I had to write in 2020, whether they wanted it or not. Fortunately, they wanted it.⁣ ⁣ Now, I’m hoping you want it, too. “Letters to Myself from the End of the World” comes out June 5, but you can pre-order it now from Emmaus Road. Pre-orders are so important for books like this, so as a thank you, there will be a special gift for everyone who orders before the release date. Stay tuned.
Hi, I’m Emily, and I have a confession to make: Hi, I’m Emily, and I have a confession to make: I’m struggling a bit to catch up with myself.⁣ ⁣ 5 years ago, I was a single woman, who spent her days meeting writing deadlines, her nights hosting fun dinner parties, and through it all, was dressed to the nines in gorgeous dresses from Anthropologie. My papers were filed, my basement was organized, and my body was as fit and trim as could be.⁣ ⁣ Now, I’m married to Chris and mom to three babies born of my heart: 2-year-old Toby, 9-month-old Becket, and sweet Ellie, who turned 4 weeks today. We live in a new to me old house in a new to me old city. I still write, but am so behind on deadlines I may never catch up. I also still occasionally host parties, but most nights I’m tripping over trucks and washing the 9,467 bottles we go through every day. All those gorgeous dresses have been exchanged for yoga pants, and please don’t ask about my papers or my basement. As for my body, well, let’s say between the babies and two bad knees, each with a torn meniscus, fit and trim aren’t the adjectives that come to mind when people see me anymore.⁣ ⁣ Don’t get me wrong: I love this new life. I longed for it. I prayed for it. I worked for it. It’s amazing. Miraculous. A total gift. I wouldn’t trade it for all the organized basements and size four dresses in the world. But sometimes, I do feel taken aback by it. It’s like a new haircut that catches you by surprise when you walk past a mirror. It’s beautiful. It’ suits. But it can still take a minute to recognize yourself.⁣ ⁣ When that happens, I look to my constants: Agatha Christie and gin martinis; long conversations with my closest girlfriends and bright red lipstick; cooking risotto and kissing Chris; writing on my Mac, surrounded by books; receiving the Eucharist and praying the ancient prayers of the Mass; and most of all sitting with Jesus, looking at him, and listening to him. These things were me, are me, and always will be me. They speak to the heart of who I am, babies or no babies, dresses or yoga pants, size 4 or size not 4.⁣ ⁣ So, that’s me. But what about you? What things speak to the heart of who you are? What are your constants in your ever-changing life?
My third baby of the last year is ready for pre-or My third baby of the last year is ready for pre-order!!! “Letters to Myself from the End of the World” won’t be released until June 5. But you can order it starting today, from Emmaus Road Press. Tomorrow, I will talking about the book with @katieprejeanmcgrady on her Sirius XM radio show, and I am super nervous because I have a hard time talking about the book without crying. It is my heart on paper, my whole heart, and while the letters are addressed to my 25-year-old self, it’s really a collection of love letters to you. These letters are reflections on love and grace, sin and spiritual warfare, the Church’s scandals and the Church’s saints, Mary and the Eucharist, injustice and anger, motherhood and social media, prayer and suffering, envy and waiting, trust and hope, and so much more. There are 45 letters in total. Some are theological, others are practical, but all are personal, with each letter giving you a glimpse into struggles I’ve faced or questions I’ve asked, as well as the healing I’ve experienced and the answers I’ve found. This book was both easy and hard to write, and it’s both easy and hard to send out into the world. I am so excited and so scared all at the same time. But my prayer is that this book helps you navigate our crazy broken world with greater faith, greater wisdom, greater compassion, and greater love. The hope of that prayer being answered makes the hard and scary worth it. More than worth it, actually. Thanks for reading the words I write, friends. You are a blessing to me.
Adoption is not a fix for infertility. I’ve said Adoption is not a fix for infertility. I’ve said that before, but it bears repeating. Adoption is its own call—it’s own crazy, complicated, beautiful call—and no one should enter into it thinking it will just make all the pain of infertility go away.⁣ ⁣ When we were in the thick of trying and failing to conceive, admonitions to “just adopt” stung. First, because I knew no such thing as “just adopt” exists. No matter how it looks in these squares, adoption is neither simple nor easy for anyone.⁣ ⁣ Second, I knew adoption couldn’t change the realities I was grieving. I wanted to be a mother. But I also wanted to be pregnant. I wanted to give birth. I wanted to look at a child and see Chris and me staring back. Adoption offered me one thing (and ultimately, the most important thing), but not everything.⁣ ⁣ Before Chris and I began the adoption process, before we could be the parents our children needed us to be, I had to grieve those losses. I had to offer my broken dreams to Jesus, and trust He would not permit me to carry the cross of infertility unless He could bring something beautiful out of it.⁣ ⁣ That’s why I call infertility an invitation. It might be an invitation to adoption or it might not be. But it is always an invitation to cling to Jesus, to suffer with Jesus, and to trust Jesus.⁣ ⁣ Like every cross our hurting race carries, infertility is an invitation to walk with Jesus to Calvary, abide with Him there, and discover what it truly means to be loved by Love Himself.⁣ ⁣ That discovery changes our perspective on the hard journey to it. It helps us see it as blessed. It also helps heal us, giving us the grace to embrace whatever other call Christ has for us, whether that’s adoption, spiritual parenthood, or remaining with Him on Calvary as His co-worker in redemption.⁣ ⁣ If you are walking through the Valley of Tears that is infertility, adoption might not be on the other side. But Jesus is. He is with you now and always. Seeing Him and holding fast to Him is the only fix there is. For infertility. And for every wound our hurting race bears.
Four years ago, I thought I was cursed.⁣ ⁣ Fou Four years ago, I thought I was cursed.⁣ ⁣ Four years ago, I thought I was broken.⁣ ⁣ Four years ago, I thought I was forgotten.⁣ ⁣ Four years ago, I wanted to die. That’s how dark infertility made my mind. Every atom in my being was crying out to God for the gift of motherhood, but month after month, year after year, that cry went unanswered.⁣ ⁣ Today, though, I know my infertility wasn’t a curse. It was an invitation.⁣ ⁣ Infertility invited me to cling to Christ. It invited me to hold His hand as He led me down a different path. It invited me to walk with Him through the valley of human suffering, to see it and know it in myself and others as I had never seen it and known it before.⁣ ⁣ Infertility also invited me to trust—to trust that I wasn’t cursed, to trust that I wasn’t broken, to trust that I wasn’t forgotten and believe instead that God’s love for me was greater than I could imagine and that His plans for me were more beautiful than I could dream.⁣ ⁣ I did not say yes to that invitation easily. I cried, complained, argued, and whined. I felt sorry for myself, and I felt angry with God.⁣ ⁣ But somehow, by grace, I said yes just the same. I clung to Christ, and He led me to where I am now, staring at the face of my beautiful daughter, my third baby in three years. ⁣ ⁣ As it turns out, infertility was my path to motherhood. Following Christ down the road I didn’t want to walk led me to exactly where I wanted to be. If not for my body’s inability to conceive, I wouldn’t have been there to say yes to my beautiful babes, when their first moms asked me to be the mom to raise them. ⁣ ⁣ For me, infertility wasn’t a curse. It was a blessing. Without it, I wouldn’t be mom to Toby, Becket, and Ellie. And there’s no thought I can think of sadder than that.⁣ ⁣ So, during this #infertilityawarenessweek I want to say, thank you to infertility. Thank you for the invitation I didn’t want. Thank you for the life I now live. Thank you for the children you gave me.⁣ ⁣ And to all those still staring that invitation angrily in the face. I see you. I hear you. I understand you. And I’m praying for you. It gets better. It even can get beautiful.
In my 45th year, I watched the world stop.⁣ ⁣ In my 45th year, I watched the world stop.⁣ ⁣ In my 45th year, I watched cities burn.⁣ ⁣ In my 45th year, I watched friendships and families fracture, broken apart by rage, fear, guilt, confusion, and old wounds that festered for far too long.⁣ ⁣ In my 45th year, I witnessed our democratic republic wobble and almost topple.⁣ ⁣ In my 45th year, I kept my eyes on Christ and His saints while corrupt politicians and faithless shepherds betrayed those they vowed to serve.⁣ ⁣ In my 45th year, I bit my tongue so hard it almost fell off. ⁣ ⁣ In my 45th year, I waited and cried for a baby I thought would never come.⁣ ⁣ In my 45th year, I raced across the South with my husband and son, desperate to get to that baby, who did come, and who was waiting for us, alone in a Dallas NICU.⁣ ⁣ In my 45th year, while my country wrestled and reckoned with race and racism, I became the mother of a beautiful boy with gorgeous black skin.⁣ ⁣ In my 45th year, I wrote letters to my younger self, putting my heart, soul, hurts, hopes, faith, and fears on paper for all to see.⁣ ⁣ In my 45th year, another baby—unexpected, unasked for, but desperately loved—grew in my heart.⁣ ⁣ In my 45th year, I drove across mountains, plains, and deserts made of salt, to hold that baby in my arms.⁣ ⁣ In my 45th year, I became the mother of a little girl and the mother of three.⁣ ⁣ In my 45th year, God stretched me, challenged me, and blessed me, answering prayers I thought impossible to answer, showing me how far He and I have come together, and helping me see how much further I have to go before I can stand before Him and see His face and hear the words, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”⁣ ⁣ This was my 45th year. The hardest year. The best year. The craziest year. The most unexpected year. The year that reminded me God is never done with us while there is breath in our bodies—never done blessing us, healing us, teaching us—and that His plans are always the absolute best.⁣ ⁣ Thank you for praying and loving me through this year. You all are far kinder to me than I deserve. And please keep those prayers coming. Because 46 starts today. And God only knows what’s coming next. #happybirthdaytome
I am exhausted. I am overwhelmed. I am crying hour I am exhausted. I am overwhelmed. I am crying hourly as I learn to navigate, for the first time, mothering a medically fragile baby. But...Oh. My. Gosh...I love being a mom of three. I love that there are more of them than us. I love the fullness of love and laughter and chaos that has descended upon us. It is the best, the very, very best. There are suddenly so very many of them. And each one is pure gift, pure joy, pure grace. Thank you God for the overabundance of it all. You are so good. So very, very good. #momofthree #thatescalatedquickly #zonedefense #adoptivefamily #irishtwins #catholicfamily #catholiclife #catholicmom
Meet Eleanore Rose Colette Chapman! Who is going h Meet Eleanore Rose Colette Chapman! Who is going home today! And who is ours! She has a couple medical complications that will require monitoring for a while, but other than that, she is doing great! Please continue to pray for her as we meet with some more doctors here this week and wait for permission to begin the journey home! And thank you!
Thank you for all your prayers over the craziest T Thank you for all your prayers over the craziest Triduum Chris and I have ever experienced (and given last year’s Triduum that is saying a lot).⁣ ⁣ For those of you who were off social media over the Easter weekend, Eleanore Rose Colette Chapman was born at 36 weeks, via emergency c-section, on April 2, Good Friday, at 12:29 p.m. She weighed 5 lbs, 6 ounces and measured 19 inches at birth. She was then transferred from the hospital in Truckee to a NICU in Sacramento for closer observation due to some breathing issues and a few other things.⁣ ⁣ We were already en route, but increased our pace, sleeping for a few hours each night at truck stops and gas stations, then continuing on. We made it to Sacramento yesterday and even a black and white filter can’t hide my tired eyes. Ellie is an absolute love, though, teeny tiny and as gorgeous as can be. I’ll share more photos tomorrow after all the papers are signed. ⁣ ⁣ In the meantime, continued prayers are appreciated for her birth parents, who are grieving the loss of their daughter, as are prayers for an uncomplicated signing, smooth ICPC process, our exhaustion, Ellie’s brothers, and most of all for Ellie’s health. She’s really doing quite well, so hopefully we can blow this pop stand soon. Two NICU stays in two different cities with two different babies in just eight months time is not as fun as it might sound. 😉⁣ ⁣ But seriously, we are desperately in love with our Ellie already and beyond grateful that a gift so precious has been entrusted to us. Thank you again for the prayers that helped make her safe arrival possible.
Sometimes, openness to life looks like driving the Sometimes, openness to life looks like driving the large van around town, with half a dozen children, who look just like you, strapped inside.⁣⁣⁣⁣ ⁣⁣⁣⁣ Other times, it looks like renting a large van to carry you, your spouse, and your two children, who look nothing like you, across the country, to welcome into your family another baby, who also looks nothing like you.⁣⁣⁣⁣ ⁣⁣⁣⁣ Or it looks like putting up with endless paperwork, backlogged courts, and burned out caseworkers, to give little ones in need of a safe harbor a place to rest while their parents heal.⁣⁣ ⁣ ⁣ Or like letting the neighbor kid, whose parents are going through a divorce, spend more time at your home than he does at his own. ⁣⁣⁣⁣ ⁣⁣⁣⁣ ⁣⁣⁣Or like opening up your spare room to the expectant mom with no ring on her finger and no place to go. ⁣⁣⁣⁣ ⁣⁣⁣⁣ Or like saving a place at your dinner table once a week for someone in need of a friend.⁣⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ Or like ditching happy hour and spending an hour in your kitchen instead, making a meal for a new mom with not enough hands for all her babes.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣⁣⁣ For different people in different seasons, openness to life can look completely different than they ever imagined. But it always looks beautiful. And it’s always what this broken world needs. ⁣⁣⁣⁣ ⁣⁣⁣⁣ #randomthoughtswhilepacking #nobabyyet #justpacking #andpraying #andcleaning #andmakinglistsforourhousesitter #packingforfiveforamonthisnojoke #opentolife #adoption #adoptivemom #adoptingfamily #catholic #catholicmom #catholicfamily
For those of you here for the cute babies, this pi For those of you here for the cute babies, this picture of our book loving toddler is for you. For those of you here for book recommendations and random theological insights, this post is for you.⁣ ⁣ In an age of scrolling, the best books often sit neglected. But books matter. They not only give us knowledge, but they also shape our vision and our hearts. They introduce us to worlds and people we might never otherwise encounter. And they challenge our prejudices and biases, upending pre-existing notions about ourselves and others.⁣ ⁣ Yesterday, when I mentioned my abiding love for C.S. Lewis, a few of you wondered why a Catholic like me would give so much weight to the words of a Protestant like him. Don’t we have fundamental disagreements on questions of dogma and doctrine?⁣ ⁣ On some things, yes. On most things, no. But it doesn’ really matter. What I love most about Lewis, what I owe to Lewis, is not what I believe, but rather how I think about what I believe. His writing taught me how to think about the faith. It also taught me how to understand truth and the nature of human freedom.⁣ ⁣ Articulating that yesterday, got me thinking about the other writers who left a lasting mark on me. As I did, I realized that all my favorite authors come in pairs. For every author of non-fiction who influenced me with their thoughts, there was also an author of fiction whose work put flesh to those thoughts, incarnating in a story the teaching or ideas that touched me so deeply.⁣ ⁣ Which makes sense. That’s how we humans work. We need truth to take a human form. We need witnesses. We need stories. Ideas affect us more deeply when they have faces and names, even fictional ones. So, for example, I don’t know if Lewis’ work could have impacted me like it did, if not for Agatha Christie, whose mystery novels echoed the same clear understanding of truth and human freedom as I found in Lewis.⁣ ⁣ The right words and good stories can change the world. I know they can because they changed me. So, today, in my Stories, I’m sharing some of my favorite thinkers, their literary dopplegangers, and where to start with their books. Feel free to share your own favorites below!
Jesus is not tame.⁣ ⁣ I gave my life to Him wh Jesus is not tame.⁣ ⁣ I gave my life to Him when I was 19. If I’ve learned anything in the 26 years since, it’s this: He is not tame. He is not my pet, who waits to do my bidding. Nor is He a besotted lover, smitten by my virtues, blind to my faults.⁣ ⁣ Jesus is my God and Savior. He died and rose, not to affirm me as I am, but to buy me back from the devil. And I did not come cheap.⁣ ⁣ For me, Jesus was beaten, mocked, pierced, then pierced again. For me, He hung on a cross. For me, He descended into Hell. That’s what it took to save me. And you. And all of us. We are that broken. We are so mired in our own muck that nothing short of God becoming man and making a blood sacrifice of Himself could pull us out of the mess we made.⁣ ⁣ Yes, Jesus loves us. He knows every part of us and thirsts for us. He longs for us to nestle against His Sacred Heart, which burns with love for us, and know more joy, peace, and life than we dream possible.⁣ ⁣ But, here, now, our broken, confused souls can’t hold that much life. Not yet. They have to be stretched and purified, with every desire and attachment not of God rooted out to make room for Him.⁣ ⁣ That stretching hurts. With Jesus, we have to look into the darkest corners of our soul and name the sins, lies, and wounds that live there. We have to face the hardest truths. We have to see how beautiful we were made to be and how far short of that beauty we fall.⁣ ⁣ Then, we have to let Jesus heal us. We have to give Him everything so He can redeem everything. We can hold nothing back. He gets everything or we’ve given Him nothing.⁣ ⁣ And all the while, with Him, we have to carry our cross up the steep, narrow road to Calvary. Few go that way. It’s hard. It’s full of the unexpected. People will call us fools for it. At times, we’ll feel like fools. But, in the end, we’ll find we’ve taken the better way. For after Calvary comes resurrection. After Calvary comes life. After Calvary comes forever, a forever free of pain, doubt, fear, sorrow, loneliness, rejection, and regret.⁣ ⁣ That’s His promise. He will challenge you, upend you, ask the unthinkable of you. Jesus is not tame. But He is sure. He is true. Now and forever.
You can think too much about your house. You can s You can think too much about your house. You can spend too much, care too much, work too much, all to impress others, find your worth, or compensate for the love and life missing within its walls⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ But you can also care too little.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ You can neglect your home. You can fail to be a good steward of it. You can let it go, not for a day or a week or a season, but for the whole of your life in it, never finding even the littlest ways to let in beauty—with more light here, a bunch of flowers there, a little less clutter everywhere.⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ Homes, in their way, are living things. They change as we change. They become more full as our lives become more full. They soak up the spirit of those who live within them, so that when you walk through their doors, peace, love, and joy...or chaos, grief, and misery become palpable. Homes reflect us. And they remember us. Something of us lingers on in these places—blessings or curses, hope or desolation—long after we’re gone. ⁣ ⁣ Our home is in a flurry of change right now. I’m foraging in the garage and basement, hunting down cheap finds on Marketplace and Amazon, rearranging rooms and imagining new ways to use the space we’ve been given. In some moments, I wonder if these hours wouldn’t be better spent writing or doing some other important work. But then I think about how our family is growing and changing, how we’re rearranging ourselves and our days, as we prepare to welcome yet another new life. Then I know this is just how it should be.⁣ ⁣ This home is part of our family’s story. It’s a world unto itself for my children. It will form their imaginations and haunt their dreams for the rest of their lives. To work on it, love it, remake it as we are remade is to acknowledge the truth of it, to honor it for what it makes possible, and to give our hopes for the future a concrete shape. This is holy hopeful work, imaging the God who carefully crafted a home for his children and who invites us, in time to do the same for ours. And today, although I too celebrate the world’s great women, I also celebrate the hidden women, doing the hidden work, to make a house a home. And I’m so grateful I get to be one of them.
Before I became a mom, I was prepared for the beau Before I became a mom, I was prepared for the beauty of adoption. I expected the joy. I expected the grace. But I wasn’t prepared for the grief. I didn’t realize that when you share a child with another woman, you also share her pain. It abides in your heart and weighs on your soul. Her loss is always nestled up against your gain. The more beauty your babe brings into your life, the more conscious you are of the beauty she’s missing.⁣ ⁣ I understand why my sons’ birth mothers placed them for adoption. I can’t thank God enough for letting Chris and me be the ones chosen to receive these babies and help them become the men He made them to be. But I would be lying if I said I never looked at Him, shook my head, and wondered Why. Why us and not them? Why did life do to them the things it did, the things which led to them handing over their beautiful boys? Why was I protected and spared from the sorrows and circumstances that afflicted them?⁣ ⁣ There are days when I have far more questions than answers about adoption. It is not simple. And as the weeks fly by and Ellie’s birth draws closer, my heart is growing heavier, not lighter. If all goes according to plan, and we bring her home, that homecoming will be filled with joy. She will be joy. But preparing for the birth of an adopted child isn’t like preparing for the birth of a child born of your body. Right now, I’m preparing to walk into the vortex of another woman’s pain, another woman’s brokenness, another woman’s wild, untamed, unchecked grief. I’ve seen this grief before. I know what it does to her and to other birth mothers. That knowledge is my shadow as I pass through this last month before we leave for California.⁣ ⁣ Please pray for Ellie’s mom. Masses. Rosaries. Whatever you’ve got. Please also pray for all birth moms (as well as birth fathers and all birth family members). And please pray for our family too–for the grace to withstand the coming storm and to love Toby’s birth family as they most need to be loved. This world is so broken, and while adoption may be beautiful, it also calls you to abide at the heart of that brokenness. That can only be done well with prayer and with grace.
My family exists because of God’s grace and the My family exists because of God’s grace and the heart wrenching sacrifice of two women. It also exists because of the generosity of others. Over the past 3 years, as we’ve welcomed 2 babies into our home and prepared to welcome a third, friends and strangers have stood alongside us and helped us with the exorbitant costs of adoption. We are beyond grateful for this generosity. Our babies needed homes, and you’ve helped give them one.⁣ ⁣ It’s been hard for us to receive this help. It’s always hard to receive help, but it’s even harder when you know so many other women don’t have the same help. Facing an unplanned pregnancy, they don’t know where to turn, and many choose abortion. A few choose adoption. But no one should ever feel like they have to choose abortion or adoption because of lack of support—whether financial or relational. Help is out there.⁣ ⁣ One of our favorite ministries providing that help is the Sisters of Life. They do great work in cities across the country, supporting women facing unplanned pregnancies. They also provide support to grieving post-abortive women. The sisters are some of the most beautiful, loving women you will ever meet, and one of my life’s goals is to radiate even half the joy they do.⁣ ⁣ As of last night, Chris and I have all the funds we need to bring Toby’s biological sibling home. But I don’t want to just use this space to raise funds for our adoption. I want to help moms in need find the help they need. So, for the rest of Lent, I’ll be food blogging to raise money for the Sisters of Life: 3 new meatless recipes a week, over at TheCatholicTable.com. One recipe will be fast, easy, and kid-friendly. One will be allergen friendly (gluten, dairy, and nut free). And one will be kinda fancy. There are no ads on my blog. I make no money from traffic or clicks. And 100 percent of the tips left in my Venmo “tip jar” will go to the Sisters of Life. Head over to Stories later this morning for more details. Or just pretend like it’s 2010 and go to TheCatholicTable.com. 😉 ⁣ ⁣ Thanks for every donation and every prayer offered for the Sisters and the moms they serve.
It wasn’t much. Just a quick, simple brunch afte It wasn’t much. Just a quick, simple brunch after Mass for my family and the family of a good friend (who also watches my boys three mornings a week, while I work). There wasn’t even time for taking good pictures. But I still pulled out my prettiest spring tablecloth, courtesy of @lovely_lady_linens , put some fresh Eucalyptus in one of my old silver coffee pots, and tried my hand at devising a breakfast galette (Brie and Peach, with Fresh Sage). ⁣ ⁣ And you know what? It helped. It helped beat back the end of February blues. It helped life feel normal for just a few hours. It helped me feel like me.⁣ ⁣ The easy thing for me right now is to stay focused on my crazy long to-do list—to plow through my days like a general marching to battle, only doing what’s necessary, not wasting time on inessentials like tablecloths or new recipes. Or, let’s be honest, on friends either.⁣ ⁣ But what’s easy isn’t always what’s best. Not for us and not for the people we love. Life isn’t meant to be marched through. It’s meant to be lived. And that requires doing more than checking items off a to-do list. It requires lavishing love and attention on family, friends, and the other people God sends our way. It requires beauty and good conversation. It requires taking the time to remember to laugh. Brie and Peach Galettes don’t hurt either.⁣ ⁣ We’ve got just over a month left until our family’s life will likely upend itself again. I’m going to try my hardest to keep living life in these coming weeks. Maybe with some new recipes? Definitely with more prayer. And hopefully with some long overdue phone calls to people I love. Who’s with me? What do you need to stop and make time for this week so that you’re actually living life and not just plowing through it? ⁣ ⁣ #catholiclife #houseandhome #ordinarygraces #catholicmom #adoptivemom #smellingtheroses
A year ago this week, we became what the adoption A year ago this week, we became what the adoption world calls a “waiting family.” I had no idea how long we would wait or what the wait would bring. But if you had told me last year, that in February of 2021, we would be waiting for this little boy to become a big brother for the second time in seven months, I would have thought you were off your rocker. But here we are. With a 2.5 year old, a 7 month old, and just 6 more weeks to go before Eleanore Rose Colette makes her appearance. Pray for us friends! For our boys who have so much adjusting ahead. For Toby’s birth mom and dad. For Baby Ellie. For Chris and for me. And if you are waiting right now—for some prayer, some dream, some baby, some person—remember that life can change in an instant. Prayers can be answered and multiplied so fast, they leave your head spinning. God is generous...and full of surprises. 👶🏻👶🏾👶🏻 #waiting #trusting #hoping #andofcourseworryingalittle #hardnotto #adoption #infertility #answeredprayers
Hitting the point with this blasted book, where I Hitting the point with this blasted book, where I want to burn the whole thing and become a kitchen designer. #dreams #almostdone #homestretch #polishingandproofing #writingbooksishard #writingbookswithkidsisharder #anyonewhosaysotherwiseneverwrotebookswhentheyweresingleandchildless #donewhiningnow #timetocook #dearemily #letterstomyselffromtheendoftheworld
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I like to keep things simple around here...and happy. So, don't say anything in the comment box that you wouldn't say at someone's table. Comments that are uncharitable, obnoxious, or rude will be sent straight to the trash. That includes comments lecturing me or anyone else about the ingredients used in recipes. My house. My rules.

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