The storyteller…

I wrote my first self-proclaimed “novel” at the age of fourth grade, typed with my pointer fingers on an ancient brick of a laptop in our breakfast nook. I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do with my life, but I knew these three things: I loved my mom, I loved my home, and I loved to write.

Skip ahead a few years, and I still know those things to be true…I love my mom, and I love being a mom; I love this home my husband and I have created together; and I love, absolutely love to write. I’ve written myself all over the place…a silly blog in college, newspaper articles, a brief stint post-grad working for lifestyle and political magazines, prayer journals, love letters, Instagram captions, six or so chapters of a book I pray is published one day.

And yet, I thought to myself…I need to start again. That thrill of sitting in my college dorm room, scribbling down stories that made my mind turn, hoping people would feel the same, laugh when I laughed, practicing the art of sharing thoughts the only way I know how: written.

The storied home…

I take absolute honor in saying I am, for the most part, known for my home, at least to my friends on the Internet. I’d be willing to say most people came to know me through table setting, making my morning coffee, before & afters of my 100 year old cottage, my comfy white chair and a half nestled in the corner of my library.

And along the way, I’ve found a place to share stories of motherhood, of friendship, of living in prayer, living slowly. There’s only so much you can say on the tiny few sentences under a reel, and so for the few of you who might have ventured over here: I wanted to share not only pictures of my home, but the stories of it, too.