Every morning for the past 45 days, I woke up and warmed water for Tommy’s bottle. As the water warmed, I poured myself a cup of coffee. After mixing the bottle with formula, I’d walk outside with a mug in one hand and a bottle in the other and shout, “Tommy!” I’d laugh as he’d “Baa!” in response and come running toward me at a gallop.

He’d chug his bottle, wagging his tail the whole time, and then nuzzle against me. Most often, I’d scoop him up and carry him to the back porch swing where he loved to be rocked to sleep for a morning nap. Dave would refill my coffee while Tommy slept in my arms (Dave, being the earliest riser, would have let Tommy out of his makeshift kennel bed to graze in the yard earlier). When he woke, or when it was time for me to begin getting ready for the day, I’d set him down in the backyard near his favorite: the clovers. He’d look up, give me a “baa!” goodbye and happily begin grazing in the vast green and white speckled clover patch.

As the day went on, the kids would run outside to play with Tommy and, if I was working, to feed him his bottles. When they swam in the pool, he always jumped in trying to get to them. When he was hungry for another bottle, he would come to the door and call out “Baaaaaaa!” and we would scramble to get one prepared. When he was tired, there were always plenty of open arms ready to hold him as he slept. His favorite thing was to tuck his head under your chin and fall asleep; I think it made him feel safe.

He weathered a tornado, rode in a boat, attended carline at school, went to church with us and made friends with our pups and in particular, our cat, Ellie. She was endlessly curious about this new creature.

He became very ill a few weeks ago and was temporarily blind. His joyful demeanor never wavered. Our vet was amazing and we quickly administered treatments that, over the course of time, seemed to work. The vet attributed the illness to a weakened immune system. Tommy’s first three weeks of life weren’t spent on our farm, he was with his sheep momma who simply couldn’t provide him with enough milk and nutrition to thrive. When our neighbor, Mr. Tommy, told us about his sick little lamb, we didn’t hesitate taking him in and caring for him. We never considered that love, nutrition and medical attention wouldn’t be enough.

Devastatingly, it wasn’t enough. We very unexpectedly lost our little guy yesterday. He was just too sick and there was nothing more we could do.

Our compassionate vet allowed us plenty of time to say goodbye. We held him and cried. We prayed over him and one another. We waited for Dave and Sylvie to arrive from basketball and then cried some more. Telling my babies that this little creature whom they had cared for so very well wasn’t going to be with us anymore was one of the hardest things I’ve done in a long time. My heart ripped in two when they begged me to try something else to save him. I was silently begging God for the same thing.

In the end, it was peaceful. Our precious vet prayed over us and we held him as he fell asleep. We buried him under a shady tree by the pool – his favorite spot – and that tree will forever be known as “Tommy’s Tree.”

Farm life is so abundantly beautiful and joyful most days. But, some days, it’s simply brutal. On mornings like today, I want to not love so deeply because it hurts so badly. I know some will say, “he was just a sheep,” but he brought us immense joy and he was so special. I think of the parable and I know for certain that I would leave the 99 for the 1. The one was worth it. He was worth the heartbreak and the sorrow. He was so loved and will be so deeply, deeply missed.

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Two years later, they would return; desperately seeking respite from hardships life had thrown their way. This time, their parents joined them and, together, they trekked up and down the land, pausing in cathedrals along their way, lighting candles and lifting prayers. As they pilgrimaged along the ancient soil, their weariness dissipated and they returned home refreshed and full of hope.

Several years later, they returned seeking another soul-invigorating exhale. On the flight over, they received an email about making a television show back home. They prayed over the idea among the olive groves and cypress trees.

Years passed and the kids started a family and built a life on a farm. They became very busy with the television show. Their family grew again. They loved and laughed and, all the while, dreamt of returning to the land they loved over the sea.

When the world came back to life after the-big-and-terrifying-scare, the two kids knew it was time. They boarded a plane with their own kids and returned to the magical land. Once again, their old friends were there to meet them. Life was celebrated and joy was abundant.

The very next summer, they returned. They exhaled. They slowed down. They dreamt with their friends about a big renovation on a property they had just purchased. They sent the idea up the chain and fought to make it happen. Soon, they found themselves working in the magical land they loved so very much. They pinched themselves. It was too good to be true. And, yet, it was very hard too. Good and hard. Joy and sorrow. Both exist simultaneously in life. 

I sure hope you’ll join us two kids as we begin a dream project in the place we hold so very dear. Fixer to Fabulous: Italiano premieres tomorrow night at 8/7c on HGTV.

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We currently have twelve renovation projects going and on any given day, we are getting up early and hurrying out the door to check in on multiple houses per day (usually with a camera crew in tow). Not to mention, in the last month we have celebrated four of our kiddos birthdays, have a farm to run, are preparing for Berry Fest, have hosted out of town guests, and shuffled kids to camp. May and June are always busy but it feels extra crazy this year.

Because of a schedule shift in what we had going on this morning, I had the wonderful gift of an unexpected slow morning. I found myself reminiscing and came across a post from this same day in 2017. I remember this day and this experience as clearly as if has happened yesterday. And, I know, I needed this reminder today. I thought I’d share because maybe someone reading this does too.

June 13, 2017:

Two days in a row, I’ve spent my morning hours at the vet. Today, the kiddos were feeling extra wiggly and I needed a clone of myself in order to be in two places at once. I was slightly frustrated and frazzled.

Checking out, I noticed the candle burning on the counter. The candle signifying someone was saying goodbye to their beloved pet today.

Then, I glanced over and saw him. An older gentleman, in his 80’s, clutching an older, graying dog tightly to his chest. I smiled his way and turned back to sign my receipt. I kept feeling the urge to look his way. Feeling rude, I forced myself not to turn around again.

“Jenny, mind your own business. Do not be rude and assume anything. Just sign the receipt and leave. You have too much to get done, do not walk over to him. Just go home.”

^^ My thoughts even as I slowly approached the gentleman and the tear streaks along his cheeks came into view.

Placing my hand on his shoulder, I gently offered my deepest condolences.

For the next fifteen minutes, my littles and I had the great privilege of hearing this man’s stories- we learned about his best friend. He was saying goodbye after fourteen years together. He spoke with a cracked voice and tears flowed freely from each of us. I prayed with him and we shared hugs and more tears.

It was time. He walked slowly into the back room after one last hug.

I left that office with puffy eyes and tears continuing to stream, my heart fully aware of the life lesson tucked within this experience.

He was all alone. I could have walked right by and kept my eyes squarely focused on my seemingly important to-do list.

Keep your hands open, friends. You never know what holy encounter you will enter into today if you allow yourself to listen to the still, small voice rather than the clanging shouts telling you to not to bother and to mind your own business.

I’ll likely never see that gentleman again this side of eternity, yet, he impacted my life today profoundly. I was allowed into his tender grief and reminded of the significance of slowing down and offering compassion.

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Which leads me here: in absolute awe that God opened the doors and led me on a windy, often unexpected, path to this exact moment. A moment He planted in my heart of hearts all those years ago.

I’m humbled, overjoyed and nervous to share the big news that I’ve written a book! “House + Love = Home” has been an absolute labor of love and, if I’m honest, it’s still surreal that the labor portion is finally over and the book is being printed and will be on bookshelves November 14th!

 I didn’t want to write a standard how-to guide for decorating or renovating your home. There are enough beautiful and well-written books on the subject out there already. And, honestly, I don’t believe there is a one-size-fits-all guide that accounts for personal style and preference. Instead, I wanted to write a book to encourage you to be creative with your home. 

Throughout the book, I share personal essays and reflections on life and the concept of home. Dave also makes many special appearances, adding his own take on our life and work here in Bentonville.

I think it’s important to know that my goal for this book is not to help you turn your home into a place intended for a picture-perfect magazine or Instagram-worthy photos. Perfection is impossible when it comes to home. Because perfection is actually the antithesis of a real, well-lived-in home. But intention is very much possible. If you address each room in your home with thoughtful intentionality, you can transform any space from a place of chaos into a place of peace. Intentionally planning a space allows it to work better for you and your family. And, most important, you can bring more personality and joy and love into the four walls of your home.  

I always say that a home should be a reflection of the family that lives there, and my hope for this book is that it will inspire you to make a few simple changes that will allow your home to reflect your heart. 

House + Love = Home officially hits stores in November but you can pre-order at select retailers now! I’d be honored if you pre-ordered your copy today, you can order HERE.

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Dave and I are home after a week in Italy. Even now, just 24 hours after departing, it feels a bit like a dream. The fact that we were there to help friends with a project still feels surreal. Last summer, the four of us sat together around a table after dinner – the candles burnt low, dishes scraped clean, glasses half full – while the kids played inside, their laughter carried out onto the terrace by the warm sea breeze. We had all traveled together to the seaside at the end of our own family’s vacation. As we sat together, the project came to life. We talked about how it could work. We discussed logistics and timelines and possibilities. Even as we spoke the words aloud, they felt half-hearted and full of idealistic hope but not grounded in actual reality. We dreamt together but doubted the dream would come to fruition.

And now, it has begun. I hope to be able to share all of the details soon. What I can say is that it’s going to be a long process with many weeks of travel ahead. I can also say that it’s a bit overwhelming and the – now, very real – logistics feel staggering. Even still, it is fueled by a pinch-me level of excitement that this is really happening. Long ago, the soil of Italy imprinted itself deeply on my soul and I have ever since had an undercurrent of longing to return. Many years ago, this is the land that brought me back to life as I walked through a long, dark valley. Back then, as I poured myself into planning the trip and attempting to learn the language, a renewed hope ignited within me. Over the years of visiting since, we have met new friends who now feel like an extension of family. We have explored off-the-beaten-path towns and places that are so full of culture and rich history, I can hardly wrap my finite mind around the vastness of this place. We have marveled at the breathtaking beauty of the land and the deep heritage of family ties within it.

Even as much as I long to return as often as possible, I also still struggle deeply with fear when I fly over the sea. I have had countless panic attacks over the ocean and have prayed and begged God to remove this fear from my life so many times. This latest trip was no exception. I was gripped with fear on the first flight of the journey. Physically trembling, I prayed as worship music filled my headphones. After landing safely, I quickly texted friends who I knew would pray faithfully as we journeyed on the long flight over the Atlantic. I physically felt their prayers for peace and protection during the next nine and half hours. Even still, I asked the Lord why He had given me such a longing for a place so very far away. I told Him I didn’t know how I could keep making the trip with so much fear blocking my path.

This morning, as I read a book I’ve read during Lent for years, I was freshly struck by Alicia Britt Chole’s words:

In short, I ache. I ache for my Bridegroom. I ache to live every waking moment conscious of His presence.”

– 40 Days of Decrease, Alicia Britt Chole

Her words made me realize that it’s when I’m flying through the air, trapped in a metal tube, with zero control over my circumstances, that I depend wholly and completely on Him. I cling to Jesus in those moments. I cry out to him in desperation and He meets me with peace and assurance and reminders of His past faithfulness.

In my everyday life, I don’t often enough ache for Him. I run from commitment to commitment. I meet pressing deadlines. I answer the constant onslaught of communication via text and email. I worry over details. I forget to rest.

Maybe this is why He keeps leading me back to a faraway land, only accessible by an airplane. For it’s in that plane – the place where I’m most uncomfortable and afraid, where I feel most frail and incapable – that I am most acutely aware of His presence. And, in the way that only God can do, He uses all things for our good and His glory. He redeems my moments of fear and meager offerings of faith to remind me that He is near. That He is faithful. That I can trust Him. That He has called me by name and I am His.

Where He leads, I will always follow. Even if my knees are shaky and my heart is pounding. Simply because I ache. I ache to live every waking moment wholly aware of His presence.

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Dave and I were traveling home last Friday after a long week of filming in Colorado for Hometown Takeover. We were tired and really, really ready to be home.

After we went through security and stopped off to buy a souvenir for each of the kiddos, we headed to our gate with little time to spare. As we walked down the stairs, we noticed a mom with a baby in a carrier strapped to her chest and a toddler who was in full-meltdown-mode. He was thrashing and wailing and she was very visibly struggling with the luggage, the baby, the stroller and the out-of-control toddler. We walked quickly down the stairs and headed her way to see if we could help. By the time we arrived, an older couple was alongside her trying to calm the little boy. We assumed they were the grandparents and decided to leave them alone and not intrude.

However, we both felt a nudge to stay for a moment longer just to be sure they were okay. As we watched the interaction, we realized the older couple wasn’t related to this young family and were offering their help. So, we walked over and asked if there was anything we could do. The visibly exhausted mom didn’t hesitate to accept. She handed off luggage, including a car seat that was precariously balancing on the stroller and a very heavy backpack. She was struggling to pick up her son with the baby strapped on her chest and asked if I would pick him up and set him in the stroller. I tried to calm him down in order to pick him up but he wasn’t having it. We tried coaxing him into the stroller on his own. Instead, he rolled on the floor and screamed as loudly as possible.

Dave and I, along with the other couple, spoke calmly to the little guy and, eventually, I was able to lift him into the stroller. He refused to stay in and, as his mom pushed, he climbed out. This went on for about twenty minutes.

Our flight was now boarding at the gate and each precious minute that ticked by meant we were closer and closer to missing our flight. If we missed the flight – it was the only one that night headed to NW Arkansas – we would be stuck in Denver until the next morning. I had established a countdown with the kids that was based on how many “sleeps” we would be away and they had woken up that morning so excited because we had “no more sleeps!” apart. We could not miss the flight. We had to get home.

This thought pounded in my mind as we helplessly tried to assist this momma to her gate. Finally, mercifully, the little boy agreed to race Dave and I on the moving sidewalk. We were moving forward, closer to her gate which was fifty gates past our own. The little guy eventually started laughing and found the new game entertaining. We were making progress.

As we raced along, I asked the mom where they were traveling from. She told me they had been visiting her husband who was in the military, stationed halfway across the globe. This hit me so hard. She was emotional, exhausted and had been traveling for over 24 hours. Her kiddos had left their daddy after a brief visit. They were emotional and exhausted. She also shared that her son had diabetes and his blood sugar was too high, causing the erratic behavior.

We finally made it to their gate, said goodbye and wished them well on their journey and then raced back to our own gate. We were the final two passengers to board. But, we made it. I exhaled in deep relief as we settled into our seats.

This all happened a little over a week ago and I still can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about how we could have easily ignored the struggling mom and went straight to our gate because our own kids needed us to make it home. I can’t stop thinking about how the other couple could have made their way to baggage claim and headed to their home nearby.

Instead, we offered what little we could: extra hands and a little encouragement.

I’m not sharing this to garner any praise for what we did. It was truly so little. (And, I always lend a hand to a struggling momma traveling with young kids in an airport because I’ve been there and have been the recipient of the kindness of strangers).

I’m sharing this because it’s a very tangible reminder of the fact that we never really know what someone else is going through. Before we are quick to judge the toddler who is acting out or the momma who is exhausted and visibly struggling, we should offer a hand to help. The four of us had no way of knowing her son was sick or that they had been traveling for two days after visiting their deployed father. We just knew she needed help. And, we answered the gentle nudge urging us to do so. We helped in a small way. We carried luggage and made a little boy laugh.

I pray I never become so caught up in my own pressing needs and overpacked schedule to notice the needs of others.

In this season of life, I sometimes find myself on autopilot. Racing from one commitment to the next. Never stopping to glance beside me. Never checking to see if there is a need I could easily meet. This interaction in Terminal B at Denver International Airport reminded me to slow down and look around. It reminded me that, in our humanity, we all very similar. We all have struggles that are both visible and invisible. We can all use an extra hand from time to time. It reminded me to be slow to judge and quick to help.

I’m sharing here because maybe someone else needs this reminder today, as well. We all have something to offer. Let’s keep offering what we have and remaining open to ways we can help others.

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My top traveling-with-kiddos tips:

1. Embrace the adventure. Magical moments happen when you release your plans and set down the guidebook. Things won’t go perfectly but remember: it’s all part of the adventure. {Yes, you may stall the five-speed car and block traffic and start to cry because you can’t figure out how to reverse and people are honking and shouting words you can’t understand, but, your husband will pull over and run along the highway and jump in the car to save the day. And, once again, you are grateful and reminded that life really is one great, big, wild adventure}.

2. Lower your expectations. Your kiddos will not be able to appreciate every museum and monument and historical site. It’s okay if they don’t appreciate the “pile of rocks” (deep breaths) because this is their vacation too. Sometimes, you need to forget the “must-see” list, grab a gelato, find a park and let them play.

3. Remember to rest. Slow down. Don’t come home more exhausted from the trip than when you left. Exhale.

4. When crankiness rears its ugly head, turn to the basics: food, water and a nap.

5. Upon arrival, buy the necessities. A soccer ball to kick around the piazza (and help facilitate new friendships) and a few small toys to entertain the littles. {We got more use out of the 7€ set of tiny trucks we bought Luke at the start of the trip than about anything we brought with us. New trucks are just more fun}.

6. Packing ideas {items you may not have considered}:
• Playing cards {they’re compact and perfect for playing in restaurants or on slow afternoons}.
• Noise cancelling headphones compatible with airplane TV’s are a must.
• Inflatable arm floaties that flatten for packing for littles.
• Cotton balls for little ears upon landing {I don’t know why or how but they work. A kind lady gave me some on a flight years ago when one of my toddlers was in pain during landing and they helped. I now always keep them in my carry-on}.

7. Your kids will surprise you. They’ll try new things and meet new people and their natural curiosity will usher in beautiful teaching moments. The memories created as you navigate the world together will be ones you will absolutely cherish. 

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Rest in Peace, Larry-the-llama.

You fought so hard. It was my deep privilege to spend the past week caring for you around the clock. Our entire family helped dispensing meds, giving you shots and electrolytes, hand-feeding you, praying for you and cheering you on.

We loved you so very much, buddy. You have no idea how much I’m going to miss your goofy smile and your lopsided gallop toward me whenever I step into the pasture.

As Luke and I waited for the vet this morning, we sat with you and stroked your head. I played music and the song, “Find You Here” started to play on my Pandora station. In the midst of such sorrow, it was a sweet gift to listen to the poignant lyrics. The words served as a reminder that, even though we didn’t get our llama miracle, God was right there with us in the little barn. He didn’t leave us there alone; sitting on the hay, my tears steadily falling on your head. The lyrics, “you can see my pain and it breaks your heart” felt like a Divine message for my own aching heart.

Farm life can be both beautiful and brutal. Today, is certainly one of the hard days. And, while I know there is joy to come, I am going to sit in the grief for a bit.

A dear friend (who is acutely familiar with this farm life) shared this wisdom with me: “Being His means holding all of it – the miracles and the pain – and still raising our hands and saying, I don’t understand it and I wanted a different chapter, but I trust that you are still good.”

Oh, friends. I can’t thank you all enough for loving our Larry from afar. You’ve prayed and encouraged and rooted for our guy. I’ve been blown away by your kindness and compassion. I have hesitated typing these words today because while our family mourns and cries and talks through this hard loss, I know that so many of you are waiting for a Larry update and I so desperately wanted to have different news. He was a good one to love and he was loved until the end.

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“Moses was eighty years old, and Aaron was eighty-three when they made their demands to Pharaoh.” (Exodus 7:7)

I believe every word of Scripture is God-breathed and written down for a purpose. Here’s the thing, the age of Moses and Aaron could have been left out of the story of Exodus, but this one seemingly insignificant sentence is on the page for a purpose.

As I read these words this morning, I thought of three distinct conversations I’ve had over the past 48 hours: a friend in her early thirties, one in her mid-forties and one in her late fifties – all stepping out in faith. The circumstances are varied but they all share a common thread: God is asking them to do a new thing and they are listening. For some reason, the only one who is confidently stepping forward without hesitation is the one in her thirties. The other two feel silly or like their time has passed.

This is not okay.

Our society tells us that we aren’t wise enough to be listened to when we are young and then we need to step quietly out of the way as we age because we have had our chance and God couldn’t possibly choose to use us now.

That is a lie.

God has a good plan for each of our lives. And, sometimes, He anoints us with our calling when we are a teenager, like David. Other times, He waits until we are eighty years old, like Moses.

I don’t know who needs to hear this today but please remember this: you are not unqualified because you’re “too young” and you are not counted out because “you’re too old.” Just keep on running your race well because you are here – living and breathing, right now, this very day, at this exact point in history – for a purpose. 

(I happened upon this old post from Instagram and felt like it needed a permanent place here on the blog as I think it’s a relevant reminder for all of us).

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I’m no stranger to the in-between. The waiting. The expectant Hope. The held breath.

Ann Voskamp’s words jumped off the page earlier this week, “in that moment of surrendered lack, you’re given the gift you’d receive no other way: the gracious hand of an unlimited God.”

She calls it “the gift of utter dependence.”

I’ve spent the last couple of weeks living in that gift: utter dependence. Face down at the feet of my Savior, pleading for yet another miracle for our family. He’s done it many times before, and, although my knees were shaking and my heart was racing and the whispered lies of doubt and disappointment kept trying to force their way in, I resolved to plant my feet firmly in the faithfulness of my God.

Today, the waves of relief are palpable. The healing has begun. The road ahead will be long but light has broken through the darkness we have been treading through. Gratitude is abundant.

While I won’t share the details (as it’s not my story to share), I will say that someone we love very much was fighting for life and our little family battled alongside in prayer. When we felt physically helpless, we were reminded of the unstoppable power of our God. Listening to my babies pray with equal measure of confidence and desperation was both heart-filling and soul-crushing. I begged God to answer their prayers. We all knew the prayers were asking for a miracle. A miracle was the only way.

God spoke so clearly through His word. He would send it to me when I needed it most, through a friend or a verse or a song. He reminded me over and over: Do not fear. I am here. I hear your prayers and I see your tears. I’m at work. Be still and watch. I’m going to do something that will astound you.

And, He is ever-faithful. He always astounds. He is always near. He shifts the energy in a room from fear and panic to peace and quiet trust.

Today, if this last Sunday before Christmas finds you in the scary in-between, be encouraged. God is the same yesterday, today and tomorrow. Cling to Isaiah 43:2 in the storm. And in Isaiah 43:5, He says, “Do not be afraid, for I am with you.”

God with us.

That’s the beauty of the Christmas story, after all. God is with us. Even now, even in this broken and scary world. He is right here.

Gratitude is abundant.

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