They can keep their purees.

I will take something with substance and a little more soul.

Apple crisp has character. It redeems the forgotten things, the bruised apples abandoned in the fruit bin, the last handful of oats from that fleeting “healthy choices” phase at the grocery store. It does not judge. It simply transforms them into gold beneath a rustic crumble that is half sweetness, half resolve, and all heart.

Like any good story, it invites improvisation. A dash of bourbon for courage. A scatter of cherries for complexity. Rhubarb if you are feeling audacious. Cardamom if you are trying to impress someone who annotates their poetry.

When guests appear unannounced, apple crisp is effortlessly obliging. No crusts to finesse. No pastry melodrama. No frantic search for rare ingredients. Only butter, sugar, and grace working quietly together.

Pumpkin pie can enjoy its ceremonial spotlight. Sweet potato casserole can continue masquerading as a vegetable. Apple crisp is the one that does not need whipped cream or marshmallows to prove a point. It stands on its own, humble, golden, and quietly triumphant.

If the point of fall is comfort, apple crisp is its purest expression. It is the most homelike of desserts, a reminder that the best warmth often comes from what is already in your kitchen, transformed by a little patience and shared with the people you love.

There is no detour around sorrow,
no shortcut to wisdom,
but there is gratitude 
and grace 
along the way.

My fire no longer burns out quickly
in flares for attention,
but glows steady
as a kitchen hearth.

I have sat with silence
until I could translate its language.

I no longer feel the need to explain myself—
especially to those
who have purposed themselves
not to understand.

I have been shipwrecked,
rescued my crew,
and come up breathing.

When the winds roar,
I ride them now—anchored, steady—
because I know the truth holds.

I know what I love, and I savor it unapologetically—
the salty-sweet scent of my husband’s skin,
my peaceful sleep when all of our children are home,
the first kiss of strong morning coffee,
the slow, even burn of a good cigar,
the faithful reciprocity of real friendship,
the geometrical seduction of orchids,
the way my tears keep time to certain hymns,
the way my Bible opens to Psalms,
the trust that grows from changed behavior and forgiveness,
when someone truly cares about the answer,
and the powerful courage of righteous rebellion.

I will always be a student —
but I have graduated
into a school
built by time
and experiences.

When something new meets my tongue,
I have the framework
to taste it fully,
to observe its complexities,
and to know, instinctively,
how to use its flavor in a recipe.

My aging body—
less obedient, more honest—
speaks now in quiet aches,
bloodwork,
macros,
and hard-won resilience.

It calls me to tend to it with discipline and rest,
instead of brute force,
stress,
and energy drinks.

I purpose to keep it strong—
because I finally see its design 
as holy
and I 
its steward.

These hips have bore five children
(and lost one before I knew their name).|
These hands have welcomed newborns,
and held vigil for the dying.

In these small acts, 
I consecrated the ordinary. 

And my husband—
he knows every freckle,
every fold,
and reads the map of my battle scars
like sacred text.

He still runs his fingers through my silver hair
as though it were still red.
His patience is deeper than my ocean.
His laughter is my heartbeat.

He laces his fingers with mine,
asks the blessing on our food,
and on the hands that prepared it
(and squeezes my hand
in acknowledgement).

His nearness is home, 
no matter where we are.

My dearest friends
are not the kind who go to parties to be seen,
but to celebrate with others, 
and who find the quiet guest in the corner
and welcome them 
with encouragement
and belonging –
and who stay to help with clean-up
until every last red Solo cup 
is accounted for.

I have learned that good people come and go—
sometimes for reasons,
sometimes for none at all. 
I hold each person in reverence—
for there are no mere mortals.

I press on…
Shaping the path with my footsteps,
mending the cracks,
pulling the thorns,
hoping for the joy of someday sharing it with grandchildren,
mindful that the road may remain,
though a hundred years from now,
no one will recall who forged it.

As I entered through the heavy door, I could feel my eyes adjusting to the dimly lit room. The blinds were closed. The air was stagnant. The room was dressed in gradients of corporate gray—walls, floor, and ceiling. It was purposefully utilitarian and forgettable.

Four vinyl-padded chairs lined the wall by the window.

A water cooler hummed quietly in the corner.

There was a plain wooden door straight ahead, which I guessed led to the exam room.

Protected behind a reinforced glass pane, a young woman in scrubs sat at a desk and scrolled through her phone. She didn’t look up when the door opened. Her false lashes were long and feathery. Her hair was dyed plum.

The motion sensor on the check-in kiosk caught me as I stepped in. Without a sound, the screen efficiently blinked to life with instructions:

PLEASE SCAN YOUR STATE-ISSUED ID.
I placed my driver’s license into the holder, barcode up, under a red beam of light.

IS THIS INFORMATION CORRECT?
I checked my birthdate and address on the screen and pressed the green button.

SOMEONE WILL BE WITH YOU SHORTLY.

I chose the chair farthest from the door. Back to the wall, eyes on the exit. Old habit.

That’s when he came in.

Seventies, maybe older. Shaved head. He wore a heavy blue flannel shirt, like armor against the cold. Only, it was a warm day. He simply couldn’t hold onto body heat anymore.

He moved with a black plastic cane and pain, each step deliberate. His frame was skeletal.

He carefully lowered himself into the first chair, three seats away from me.

When I’m unsure of someone, I default to being assertive with a smile.

“Good morning, sir.”

He leaned slightly toward me, his voice quiet but angry. His eyes were dark yet cloudy—cataracts, maybe.

I noticed a white plastic hospital bracelet peeking from beneath his sleeve. Tattoos covered his hands—faded ink on weathered skin, the kind that once meant something and now just marked time

“They sent me home to die,” he snarled.

“To die?”

He nodded. “I made the doctors release me from the hospital. There was nothing more they could do except try to keep me comfortable. But, I told them no – I need to go home and put my affairs in order.”

He said the doctors offered one more blood test—a consolation gesture — to make it seem like they were still trying. He said they told him it might show whether the cancer was the kind that stayed put—he pointed to his chest—and could be treated, or the kind that would spread. That’s why he was here. It was worth a shot.

“When I got home last night,” he said, “I told my family. Instead of saying kind things to me, my kids started fighting. Not over who would care for me, but over what I’d leave behind when I’m dead. My estate. Things. As if I wasn’t sitting right there next to them.”

He looked away, closed his eyes, and sighed in disgust.

“So, I’m thinking I might leave,” he said. “I could go up to my place in the mountains, into the woods. Me and God.” He gave a soft, bitter laugh. “They won’t find my body, and they can’t claim anything without a death certificate.”

His voice cracked as he added, “I love them, but I don’t know if they feel the same way about me. They weren’t there for me when I got sick. Not even to help me get to appointments.”

There was nothing to say to that. Not really.

The pain in his heart seemed to hurt him more than the cancer.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“José,” he said, pointing to his name across the top of a rumpled pile of lab slips stapled together.

“May I pray with you, José?”

He nodded.

I stood up from the corner chair and moved to sit beside him. I placed my arm gently across his back—I could feel every ridge of his spine through the flannel. I began to pray.

“Thank You, God, that You blessed me by letting me meet José today. Please comfort him and hold him close.”

The plum-haired phlebotomist came out from behind the exam room door and called my name across the room.

I didn’t move.

“I need a minute,” I said, holding up one finger in her direction.

I continued to pray. “Please give the doctors wisdom as they look at his test results, and let there be a clear answer.”

José began to sob—his shoulders shaking. He put his head on my shoulder.

“Please forgive me, God,” he pleaded, choking on sorrow and grief. “I don’t deserve it, but I’m asking You for another chance.”

“Lord, hear José’s prayer,” I prayed. “Thank You for sending your Son Jesus, who is the same yesterday, today, and forever. We trust You with our past, our present, and our future. Because of Jesus, we are forgiven. Because of Jesus, we don’t have to fear death. Because of Jesus, we have victory.”

I could feel the phlebotomist staring impatiently.

I didn’t care.

“Holy Spirit, work in the hearts of José’s family and bring peace to his household. Help his family to see God in this situation and to trust in You. Strengthen José so he can live to see this peace. Keep his eyes on You while he walks through this valley, knowing You love him and will not leave him or forsake him. In Jesus’ name I pray, Amen.”

I gently squeezed his shoulder.

I looked toward the cooler. “José, may I get you some water?”

He nodded.

I dispensed the water into a plastic cup and handed it to him. He carefully held it with both hands and sipped it slowly.

Then he looked up at me, eyes shining through the cloudiness.

“Thank you, mami,” he said.

I followed the phlebotomist through the wooden door. She snapped on her blue latex gloves as she walked ahead of me.

When I came back into the waiting room, pressing the small cotton ball to the inside of my arm, José was just being called in.

“I’m praying for you, brother,” I said.

He smiled and gave me a thumbs-up.

I got to the car and checked the time. It was only 8:09.

I would have missed him if I’d been on time.

There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilization—these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit—immortal horrors or everlasting splendours. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of that kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously—no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption. And our charity must be a real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinner—no mere tolerance or indulgence which parodies love as flippancy parodies merriment. Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbour is the holiest object presented to your senses. If he is your Christian neighbour he is holy in almost the same way, for in him also Christ vere latitat—the glorifier and the glorified, Glory Himself, is truly hidden. – C. S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory (PDF)

Referenced in Dr. Gregg Strawbridge’s  Sermon,  February 11, 2018, The Transfiguration (Mark 9:2-9)

Yeah, yeah, yeah.  We cook all the time at our house.  Sometimes, though, we need something fast and filling. Chicken patties are one of my secret weapons in the kitchen. Here are some ways to prepare them beyond the basic chicken sandwich!

Chicken Parmesan 

• Frozen chicken patties
• Tomato sauce
• Mozzarella cheese
• Italian seasoning
• Pasta (to serve on the side)

Place frozen chicken patties in a baking dish.  Cover with tomato sauce. Top with mozzarella cheese. Sprinkle Italian seasoning on top. Serve over pasta.

Chicken Piccatta 

• 6 Frozen chicken patties
• 2 Tbsp butter
• 1/2 cup chicken stock or dry white wine (such as a Sauvignon Blanc)
• 2 Tbsp lemon juice
• 1/4 cup brined capers
• 2 Tbsp fresh chopped parsley
• Pasta (to serve on the side)

Bake the chicken patties to package directions, in a baking dish (you want them to be crispy in the end product).  In the mean time,  in a sauce pan, melt butter. Add stock / wine and lemon juice.  Reduce to half the liquid.  Stir in capers. Take the chicken out of the over just before it’s supposed to be done. Top with sauce and caper mixture.  Place them back in the warmed oven for another 5 minutes while the sauce absorbs slightly into the chicken. Before serving, garnish with parsley.  Serve with pasta.

Japanese Chicken Katsu

• Frozen chicken patties
• Kikkoman Tonkatsu Sauce
• Finely shredded green cabbage
• Sesame vinaigrette dressing
• Pink pickled Ginger
• Rice (short-grained is ideal)

Start the rice. Bake the patties (or fry them if you have time) to package directions.  Shred the cabbage and mix with a tough of sesame vinaigrette dressing.

Plate the cooked rice for each serving, and place the shredded cabbage salad on the side.

When the chicken patties are done, cut each patty into strips that are about 1.5 cm wide.  Place the strips of chicken side by side on the rice so that they resemble the original patty, only cut into strips. Drizzle with tonkatsu sauce. Garnish with pickled ginger.

Japanese Chicken Katsu Curry

• Frozen chicken patties
• S&B Hot Curry Golden Sauce Mix (comes in cubes)
• Vegetables for the curry (see curry package directions – usually variations of onions, bell peppers, carrots, potatoes)
• Curry pickles aka Fukujinzuke (optional – find them at the Asian grocery store)
• Mozzarella cheese (optional)
• Rice

Start the rice. Bake or fry the patties to package directions.  In a sauce pan, make the curry sauce to package directions.  (This usually involves sauteing vegetables, adding water and the curry roux, and then cooking until the sauce thickens.)  Plate the cooked rice into servings. When the chicken patties are done, cut each patty into strips that are about 1.5 cm wide.  Place the strips of chicken side by side on the rice so that they resemble the original patty, only cut into strips. Top with curry and vegetable sauce.  Sprinkle mozzarella cheese on top. Garnish with fukujinzuke.

Chicken Cordon Bleu (Sandwiches…if you want!)

• Frozen chicken patties
• Thinly sliced cooked ham
• Swiss cheese
• Dijon mustard
• Sandwich Rolls (OR, omit the rolls and serve with buttered noodles and salad)
• Dill pickle
• Potato chips

Place the chicken in a baking dish.  Spread Dijon mustard on the patties. Place slices of ham on top of the patties. Top with swiss cheese. Bake according to the chicken patty package directions, so that the patties are cooked through and the cheese is melted and golden brown.  Place the Cordon Patties on rolls and serve sandwiches with a pickle and chips.

Hello everyone!

Here is a worksheet I made to be used by members of my family for this year.  It is loosely based on the Art of Manliness article, “How to Create a Life Plan” .

I tried to make it friendly to my teens, but, as an adult I plan to use it as well. As I said to my family, it isn’t meant to stress people out! In fact, it is fun and personally rewarding to see your circles of influence and the things that matter to you most. This worksheet is simply a tool to help think about who you are, the roles you play, and ways that you can grow and be purposeful in each role.

Please feel free to share this document and to customize it to meet your needs…. and leave a comment to let me know the tweaks you made!

Much love to you and yours! May the Lord bless you in 2018!

2018 Roles and Goals Worksheet (PDF)

Here’s my review, also found on Amazon.

At just 142 pages, this book may not take long to get through – but it can hardly be dubbed a “light read”. Face to Face: Meditations on Friendship and Hospitality by Steve Wilkins is a convicting, no-nonsense look at the significance of human interaction to Christian living.

Part one, “Friendship”, examines the fallacy of the Lone Ranger Christian and necessity of biblical friendships for growth in wisdom and in holiness. Wilkins does not expect the reader to be best friends with every Christian they encounter, but does show the need to practice friendliness to all. He describes various types of friendships that should be sought out and differentiates the characteristics of a true friendship versus that of the dangerous fair-weather sycophantic variety. He realistically acknowledges the difficulty in having intimate friendships, such as the time they demand to maintain and the pains of resolving conflicts along the way – but also shows how sanctifying such a relationship can be.

“Hospitality”, the second part of the book, details the practice of biblical friendliness not only to believers but to strangers as well. Wilkins examines the concepts of hospitality in the lives of individuals and in the congregation.

“In everything a faithful church does,” writes Wilkins. “It must set its face against all forms of self-worship, warning of its destructiveness and eventual condemnation. The faithful church may proclaim this through the direct preaching of the gospel or by simply living the gracious and holy life which God has called us to live – a life of peace, true and principled love, real loyalty and communion together. When God’s people care for one another, it is a powerful testimony against the manifest selfishness and idolatry of the world and it is necessary in order to give credibility to the preached word.”

Face-to-Face is sobering because it cuts to the heart of the reader and charges them to examine their own behavior in how they relate to others. Sometimes, this can be uncomfortable because of how accurately the author describes even the most subtle of sinful behavior detrimental to friendships and the ability to practice hospitality.

Yet, Wilkins balances this conviction with biblical encouragement and guidance for building and repairing relationships, and gives direction for making changes in ones’ lifestyle to become more sensitive and accommodating to the needs of others.

Hello.

Life happened.

Some things changed.

My husband stopped traveling so much for work. It took a lot of adjustment and grace to get use to this, but our family relationships are healthier with him consistently home.

Our children grew. They are 16, 15, 14, 12, and 10.5  The needs of teenagers and tweens are much different than babies and toddlers.  While we still homeschool, three of my children will be attending a community college part-time this fall.

In the past, I had major issues with adenomyosis, endometriosis, ovarian cysts and fibroid tumors. Last winter, I chose to have a hysterectomy and removal of the endometriosis and cysts. During that surgery, I also had an appendectomy because my appendix was covered in endometriosis. The following month, I had a tumor removed from my arm. It has taken a while to feel more normal after all of that, but my quality of life and overall health improved significantly. I am more than the summation of my health problems, and I get tired of talking about them, but I also know that there are so many women who are plagued by these things and I just want to say that there is hope.  Dr. Harkins in Hershey, PA, is probably the best women’s health specialist I have ever met. If you’re suffering in these ways and are at the point where you are considering surgery, go see him.

A friend took her own life. It’s still pretty fresh and I am processing it. Our family is helping to watch her children and be a safe place for them this summer while their dad works. I don’t want to say much about this situation directly for privacy reasons, but I certainly can say that I will forever be affected by this loss. Anyone who thinks that suicide ends hurt is delusional and is ignoring the amount of hurt it causes. That hurt is immeasurable, and it ruins the lives of everyone in their wake.  Suicide is never the answer.

Some things stayed the same.

While I took time off of from birth work,  I have a few doula clients and plan to be teaching The Bradley Method again soon.

I still love to read, shoot (just became a certified NRA RSO), garden, and cook.

I absolutely still love the Lord and I am in awe of the way He works things out for our good and His glory.  We have been members at All Saints Church for ten years now, and we love the people there like family.

This isn’t the most exciting first post in a while, but it’s a start!

In a nutshell, I’m doing well and looking forward to writing here again.

Please bear with me while I find my voice.

Much love,

Sarah

“GIVE ME ALL YOUR MONEY, LADY!” he said to me quietly, but firmly. He was about 5′ 11″ and had his head down slightly. I noticed he was wearing a navy blue jacket and a clean black Philadelphia Eagles cap. There was a Nittany Lions paw-print pinned next to the Eagle.

I stepped back so I wasn’t cornered against the marble-topped desk containing bank forms and tethered pens. Instinctively, I moved my right hand closer to my hip.

I looked to see if he had a weapon.

Both of his hands were empty.

My pistol stayed hidden.

He had leaned in close,  his face was about a foot from mine. After the initial shock of hearing something that’s probably not a good idea to joke about in a bank, I focused on his face. Behind thick gold-framed glasses, his eyes were blueish gray. His skin was comprised exclusively of wrinkles and scars – perhaps from cancer surgeries. Part of his right ear was missing.

He was ancient looking, but he was spry.

Showing him my handful of checks, I said, “Ha! Nice one, sir. I could give you these, but you’re going to have a tough time convincing the teller your name is SARAH.”

He laughed.

“Checks,” he growled. “I like cash better. Who pays with checks, anyway?!”

He stepped into the teller line ahead of me, in a way that let me know that he was going first and there was nothing I could do about it.

“Oh, these are from my students,” I said, ruffling him by not reacting. “I teach a childbirth education class.”

“Well, I can help with that!” he said. “I’ll send all the broads I knock up your way!!”

“I see,” I said, smiling. “So, having you around is good for my business?”

“Very good for your business.” He paused and looked at me again. “I’m just kidding,” he went on. “I’m 89. No one’s interested in f—— me anymore. I can still get it up, though!”

By this point, I couldn’t keep myself from chuckling. “You were pretty scary back there. I would have never guessed your age!!”

A male teller said, “Sir, I can help you.”

Then, the female teller at the next window called me over.

There we were,  standing next to each other again, separated by a jar of complimentary lollipops.

“I need to move some money from my PRIVATE account to my JOINT checking account to KEEP MY OLD BALL AND CHAIN HAPPY!!” He was loudly talking to the teller, but looking at me.

He handed the teller a CoinStar receipt for deposit.

My teller was mortified, and she looked at me apologetically.

I looked at his teller. “Don’t believe him for a second! He LOVES his ‘old ball and chain’!!”

The old man feigned a scowl, but I could see that he did love his wife very much.

My teller was fast.

“Oh look! I finished first!” I said to him,  flipping him off with my voice as I walked away. “You know, fathers are required to attend to my birth classes!”

“Sticking around is my not my style — and you’d better not tell that to my wife!” he replied, still stuck at the window.

I looked back as I passed the signature desk. “Well, then maybe you should stay out of trouble!”

“Never!”

His teller, whom I then realized had been purposefully slow, was professionally stifling a hysterical laugh. I nodded at him, and he gave me a discreet nod back.

I didn’t turn around and hug the old man, but I wanted to.

He doesn’t know how much he made my day.