I always enjoy spending the first few weeks of a new year reflecting back on the old. I read through the my journals and scroll through the pictures I took, reminding myself of what I’ve learned and experienced over those 365 days. I note the highlights and the lowlights, what was the same and what was different, what was new and what was old—and this is what I found for 2019:
There were wonderful old things—
Old friends to catch up with…
The faithful, breathtaking repetition of seasons…
Old favorite vacation spots from our childhoods, revisited with our own children…
Time-worn traditions and celebrations honored once again…
And not-so-exciting old things—
The same old piles of dirty dishes every day…
Bigger quantities of the same old cycle of laundry: wash, dry, fold, put away, repeat…
Vehicles aging, old parts needing replaced…
Old habits struggling to be broken…
But in the midst of all the old, the good and the bad, His mercies were new. Fresh, marvelous and breathtaking every day, breathing life and purpose and wonder into the sameness and drudgery of life.
There were also wonderful new things—
New faces to become friends with…
New recipes tried, new books read…
New ways I was challenged and uplifted spiritually…
A new baby to carry, birth and nurture…
And not so fun new things—
New goodbyes to be said this side of heaven…
New-to-me levels of sickness and health issues, and need for help as I went through them…
New things to forgive and be forgiven for.
But in the midst of all this, the good and the bad, His mercies were old. Not old and worn out, but old and timeless and sure. Unchanging, firm, and the same, an untold comfort in the midst of change and uncertainty.
And now I’m three weeks into another new year,
days adding to days without stopping to wait while I reflect,
already colored by the un-calculated quantities of baby spit up on my shirt, giant snow storms and unexpected events.
And I’m here to say that I’m already discovering that the same old story from last year is on repeat in the new: His mercies are new every morning and great is His faithfulness. May you discover the same, in abundance, in the upcoming year!
“But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. “The LORD is my portion,” says my soul,“therefore I will hope in him.” (Lamentations 3:21-24)
P.S. Featured here are a few odd pictures that I never got around to using from 2019! Also, I know I’ve been absent from this space for awhile, but I’ve had good reason in the form of one tiny adorable little man who arrived to change the landscape of our family forever in October. To those of you who have inquired with such kind interest as to the future state of this blog: Thank you for your patience as I’ve taken a long break from here to focus fully on adjusting to life as a family of six. Lord willing, I do hope to get back to more writing and photography as this new season permits! Meanwhile, you’ll find me taking baby portraits and writing in his baby book about first smiles and that time he slept eight hours….
We’d seen them before, my husband and I. The weird eroded shapes of the badlands. Four massive solemn faces carved into a granite mountainside. A herd of buffalo calmly holding up traffic. Bighorn sheep leaping effortlessly up the faces of seemingly sheer precipices. But oddly, seeing them for the second time seemed more meaningful to me than the first—and it was all because of three little people strapped in the back seats behind us.









The wonder continued when we visited the world’s largest collection of live reptiles. We watched our littlest girl’s eye’s practically pop out of her head at the sight of a massive anaconda. We looked together for loose tiny geckos running around in the conservatory, and gasped with them to find an (uncontained!) snake hanging in a tree over our heads. We felt their excitement as they got to pet baby alligators and giant tortoises. We laughed with them at the parrot who could meow like a kitten.


On this trip, I though a lot about what Jesus meant when He said: “Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” (Matthew 18:3)
Well, hello there! If you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been absent from here for a while. Not by plan; just, as it sometimes goes, by circumstances of life. Quite frankly, I’ve been behind ever since the sickness I alluded to in my last post, full recovery was slow because of also being pregnant, and then we decided to go on a last-minute family trip before baby arrives. Finding energy or time in the midst of all this for extra things like writing and photography has been a challenge.






I’ll look forward to meeting you back here in a few days with a little virtual glimpse of some South Dakota beauty!
Sometimes, when you’re sick in bed, watching the world go by without you outside your window, it’s good to do something other than focus on how sore your throat happens to be. Or maybe, for you, it’s more like sick in heart and focusing on how deep your hurts happen to be. Either way, they can end up feeling pretty similar: discouraging.





I remembered the




I remembered the fish we saw, and the fish we caught,

I remembered eating ice cream in a shop that smelled of vanilla and waffles,




And, as is often the case, it was easy to go on from there and remember the things I didn’t have photographs of, like…
They are one of those last American frontiers of wilderness, these mysterious places that have triumphantly resisted many a pioneer effort to tame them. We drive north, and great stretches of land spiked with the craggy silhouettes of stunted spruce and feathery tamarack are all that meet the eye for miles. From the speed of the car window, it would seem that these trees are the only flora that manage to monotonously thrive amidst the swamp grasses. And inaccessible as they are, it can be a misconception difficult to prove otherwise.

If you’re fortunate enough to traverse a bog walk, however, you will find out that beneath the feathery tamarack branches there are wonderful, amazing plants that thrive in the water-logged, acidic soil, plants that you will see nowhere else but here. There are strangely beautiful carnivorous plants…
…


There are cranberries, bunchberries and labrador tea.





And who knows what else might lie beyond? The view a state park board walk lends is only a glimpse into this mysterious damp world of peat moss and uncertain footing. I like the intrigue of this, imagining the rare orchids hidden away in the vast reaches of the bogs, never to be discovered.
We’ve seen them other years, stopping very briefly on their way to other destinations or merely flying over—but this year, two (and sometimes three) lingered for weeks. The deep-throated trombone of their voices was an exotic addition to our usual local symphony, putting the normally dominate swan trumpeting to shame, and for awhile, they would even sound off like clockwork around 5 AM every morning. Who needs an alarm clock, my husband and I would mumble groggily to each other, when you have sandhill cranes in your back yard?
Frustrating as it was to have my designs foiled time after time, I had to begrudgingly admire these giant fowl’s sense of awareness though. It reminded me of the sobering topic we’ve been studying on Wednesday nights at church, and in particular, this verse:
As the coral sun sets in a sea of softly apricot sky, I drive down the familiar bumps and curve of our own driveway after a long day in town. Three small girls, happily sticky with the residue of free Dumdum suckers from the bank, tumble out of the car and I herd them inside to put on pajamas, brush teeth and crawl into bed. We kill all the mosquitoes in their room, say prayers together, turn out the lights. And then, I go back out to unload the groceries, a flat of plants from the greenhouse, and a newly repaired bicycle that’s ready for a six-year-old to learn to pedal. It’s late and I’m tired, but suddenly I pause in the midst of my trips up and down the porch steps, because—
Have you ever made a judgement of something or someone, only to find out later that you were entirely wrong? I’m going tell you one of my own such errors, the tale of me and a bank of moss.
There is the judgement between right and wrong, truth and lie, meted out by courts of law, mothers weighing out eye-witness accounts and facts to determine who actually took the cookies, and by God at the end of the world. This kind of judgement is good, righteous and necessary for order and justice.
I’ll never forget the time my wise father encouraged me as a young person to reach out to another new young lady at church. Without having ever spoken to her, I had already decided, in all my youthful “wisdom”, that we probably wouldn’t have much in common and had foolishly written off the idea of friendship. Out of respect for him, however, I agreed to make the effort to introduce myself, though I expected little to come of it. And what do you suppose happened? You guessed it: we not only met but became good friends, and a relationship blossomed that would be a tremendous blessing to me in upcoming times of unexpected loneliness. I often think about how much I would have missed if I had followed my foolish inclination to write her off instead of stepping outside of my comfort zone. It’s a lesson with a happy ending that I will never forget.
Winter is well suited for contemplation. Spring, I’m reminded lately, is not. Spring is, rather, for living in the moment, moving constantly from the enjoyment of one beautiful, wonderful thing to the next, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re probably still missing something wonderful. Nothing sits still, lingers or waits for you. There is a great tension of panic and excitement that wells up inside of me at the recognition of this. I feel a little like my children, oh so impatient to be done with phonics and math, oh so eager to run outside and not miss a single glorious day of this fleeting season.
“How good it is to sing praises to our God,
how pleasant and lovely to praise Him!
Great is our Lord, and mighty in power;
His understanding has no limit.
Sing to the LORD with thanksgiving;
make music on the harp to our God,
who covers the sky with clouds,
who prepares rain for the earth,
who makes grass to grow on the hills.
He sends forth His command to the earth; His word runs swiftly.
He provides food for the animals,
and for the young ravens when they call.
Hallelujah!”
Life didn’t begin when the crocus burst open to the sunshine early this week, purple pinstriped petals unfolding to reveal delicate saffron orange stamen.
Scientists have found that when this occurs in a human womb,
“For You formed my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother’s womb.