Mom thoughts: six months
Dear Bunny,
Dear Bunny,
I was crying in front of the TV last night. My first thought is that I’m a total weirdo, but then I just embraced it. Something had touched my heart in some way…probably important to embrace it and feel it. (And write about it, since I’m still thinking about it).
What was I watching? Ha – the comedy/romance/spy show, Chuck. I’m over ten years overdue from when the show came out, and I’m not a big TV person. But I ended up watching and getting hooked on it a couple months ago when Corbin suggested it.
My disclaimer about most shows I’ve seen is that I like parts, but won’t enthusiastically rewatch or 100% recommend due to various content issues. Chuck was no exception – some episodes were a little gritty.
Something different about this show, though, was how the characters grew and related to each other, especially the two mains, Chuck and Sarah.
There are some teeny, tiny shadows of a wrinkle beginning to form under my eye.
Corbin says I’m being paranoid, and I agree with that statement – no one else can tell except me, I still look much younger than I really am. I have good genes and take care of my skin. It’s such a small thing.
It’s a sign, though, that the inevitable is happening. I am aging. Why am I surprised at this? After all, I’ve aged to my late twenties now. I have lived the transformation of child to teen to adult. What makes this transition weird or frightening?
I’ve aways said I want to age gracefully, to be shining with joy inside and out, never obsess over gray hair or crinkles and be beautiful in spirit even as my outward shell fades away. I’ve always told myself that I’m going to be fiercely committed to embracing my age
hello world, i haven’t written in *quite* some time and i’ve been feeling this itch building up in me lately to get some. form. of. words. OUT. i struggle with this feeling of “i need to write because i MUST record what’s happening in my life or else i’ll forget it and then blah blah blah” like there’s some kind of pressure to do it. but i’d rather write when i feel like there is actually something to say vs. some weird pressure i’m putting on myself to do it (which i am very good at doing and not so great at catching). so, i feel like there is something to be said today.
M y L i f e L a t e l y
I spent the afternoon baking today and it was lovely. We had nothing to do today – some friends were supposed to come over this morning
Like many who love a good relationship drama, I adored watching Netflix’s To All The Boys I Loved Before. Armed with snacks and my best friend, I indulged in the sweet and quirky tale of high school romance between Lara Jean and Peter complete with a bubblegum color palette, fun music, and loveable supporting characters. I couldn’t wait for the sequel, and then, finally, the final chapter in this story which came out a few months ago right around Valentine’s Day.
It’s senior year, and Lara Jean is in a tough position. She didn’t get accepted into Stanford, her dream school that she and Peter had planned on both attending together, and now she has to figure out what to do. Attend college across the country at NYU, or choose a “safe” option and a college closer to home (and Stanford, and Peter). The ending of the movie was slightly predictable, but
I stepped outside and the scent of sunshine, of warm wind, of a very specific olfactory sensation hit me. It made me think of hope and memories yet to be made from late-night dorm talks, the smell of change and excitement and bewilderment, of discovering twenty one pilots and having eyes wide open to every experience happening to me.
I felt 18 again for a moment.
I’ve always been the type of person to take in everything and savor it, remember it, feeling the weight of the small hours and seconds that make up our lives. Sometimes a small voice shouts in my head, Remember, remember this! when a this tangibility happens, a snapshot that I ought to grab and file away and hold.
2020 has been one large roller coaster of weirdness, fear, hope, and curiosity. No one could have predicted what has happened in our world. I’ll never forget trying to plan
I think it’s week 6 of my shelter-in-place/quarantine/coronavirus panic insanity? It’s a bit unsettling that I’ve somewhat lost track of the days. I’ve tried to keep track by baking something every weekend. But it’s blurry.
Our world is in chaos due to a tiny germ that broke out of the East and floated around the world on unsuspecting travelers. Many comparisons have been made to sin, the metaphors abound, talk of lament and prayer and reliance on the Lord are ABUNDANT. So many articles. Devotionals. Stories. I’m drunk on it, there’s too much to read, too many opinions, too m a n y t h o u g h ts.
The news is exploding. No one even remembers the Biden/Sanders primary race (was that really, juuuust a month or so ago?) There’s nothing else to say and nothing else to talk about. I know the names of a lot more governors and
Everyone is human. And that means everyone is broken – we all struggle and fight in this life, whether it’s circumstances, others, or our own selves.
I never thought Kobe Bryant would be the one to move me out of my long writing hiatus, but it’s been a strange week, and I’ve been wrestling for a while with thinking that I have things to say, but there are so many words already out there, that it doesn’t really matter in the end. But it kind of does, and keeping thoughts in my brain don’t usually serve a good purpose for anything besides my own mental filing cabinets.
Some would call the death of basketball star Kobe Bryant and his daughter Gianna tragic. I would agree to an extent – it seems so senseless, a helicopter crash that shouldn’t happened, an absolute star and his little girl and a group of friends taken
I’m almost six months into my new job. Some parts still feel new to me, but I’m grateful and blessed by my coworker’s words that accurate describe my happy situation:
“It’s like God put a Kaitlyn-shaped hole right here at church, and you’ve just fit right in.”
One of my favorite parts of my job is corresponding and caring for our 75+ missionaries around the world. Several of them are retired after serving faithfully for many years–in Africa, in the US doing rural church planting, in the untouched places of South America. I deeply admire their commitment, resolving to follow God’s call as fresh twenty-somethings who, sometimes with their spouses, sometimes alone, ventured out on ships to translate the Bible and teach it when being a missionary meant living in a dirt hut and taking malaria medicine that makes you lose your hearing.
One of our dear ladies I decided to call and