field guide – Small Pond Graphics

Recklessness and The Barbarian Way

haley montgomery — Sat, 27 Dec 2025 19:17:03 +0000

Am I running away from myself? That’s the question I started to ask when I finished The Barbarian Way, a short read from Erwin McManus. I have read a couple of other books by the founder of Mosaic Church, and I picked this one up somewhere along the way. It’s been sitting on my shelf, and I finally decided to check it out during our Christmas break.

The holiday break was sixteen days, and now, the day after Christmas, I’m down to ten. I know this because I’ve been marking time. I set aside the break to ask questions of God, to search for His truth after a particularly hard season. A hard year. Sixteen days. Just over two weeks. Amid holiday festivities and traditions, I asked myself… Is two weeks enough time to hear, to understand, to make a change? Because my heart is ready for change. I want peace. A deep and abiding peace that transcends fear and the specter of loss. I want purpose. A clear and present purpose that brings order to my steps and infuses my days with hope and joy.

And so, as most divine interventions are, The Barbarian Way seemed to come at an appointed time.

In just 141 pages, McManus makes the case for a life lived in radical faith, in radical allegiance to a Jesus who defies the staid and sanitized religious life. His words are a clarion for a relentless love paired with sacrifice that is prepared to invade dark corners in spite of uncertainty. They are a call to embrace risk and courage. And I guess my heart needed to hear the cry.

As I put the book down, I realized I have been looking for safety — safety where I’ll never find it. For the first time in my life, perhaps satisfied with safety.

I don’t know if safety is an admirable pursuit. For certain, it is an understandable pursuit, particularly when you’ve encountered seasons of trauma. When places that should be safe, places you trusted to be safe, are not, the brain learns things. It becomes wired to anticipate crisis, to anticipate hardship and loss. To expect them and constantly be in a state of preparation to deal with them. Self protection becomes the default — a way of thinking that was foreign to me until it wasn’t.

I kind of remember the moment when I consciously shifted to self protection. It was a moment — or the culmination of many moments when I finally decided I had to choose myself over another. Choose to protect myself and my health and my safety at the expense of another. At the expense of someone I loved. Now, more than a decade later, I see that moment as the trap door that closed my heart. It partitioned my emotions so that I could accept the life and death consequences of a decision. It not only closed my heart to one person, but almost every person — including myself. I lost touch with myself and with the me that I was always familiar with. I lost confidence that I could know myself or even hear God.

In that process, protecting myself and my heart became a habit, a little understood priority that I didn’t even consciously realize was happening. Yes, I learned empathy — through a deep connection with my own trauma and loss. I think I learned to see people more clearly, to listen for their truths, even to identify with their stories. I learned, but from a safe and guarded distance I barely even recognized.

Over the last few years, I’ve seen God begin to crack open my heart again, to breathe life into a purpose beyond the trauma and experience of loss. But, through that process, I found myself engulfed with fear. Almost frozen with fear. A fear rooted in self protection that seemed to separate me from things and people I most wanted to connect with.

The end of The Barbarian Way imparted an admonition that made me catch my breath.

“Do not dishonor Him by claiming that a life of faith is a life without risk.”

With the “Him” being Jesus, that statement was an indictment of my heart. I have a life of faith. I have always lived as an outlier in that tradition, willing to step outside the lines of organized religiosity to embrace the types of people and situations I felt Jesus embraced. I’ve lived with the notion that there is nothing God cannot use. I’ve committed myself from a very young age to try to follow the authentic Jesus in as much honesty as possible — even in the face of uncomfortable truths. After all, an untested faith or unquestioned faith is a weak faith.

Enter safety. And grappling with the head space and heart space I accidentally learned.

Don’t get me wrong. The right kind of safety is necessary. Friendships and relationships that offer a safe and honest place for authenticity, conflict and redemption are true and often rare gifts. But, I have found myself in a pursuit of staying safe and unharmed that has made me question even the most obviously safe places and people. A pursuit of staying safe and insulated from loss or the risk of loss has also insulated me from my own purpose and my own heart’s truest desires.

As I began to think through and process some of McManus’ writing, I returned to the question… Am I running away from myself? In a search for safety and the absence of loss, am I really running away from who I am and who I want to be? To give yourself in service to someone else, to love with sacrifice as Jesus did is never safe. There is no love, no act of service, no courage without risk. Even hope is an act of courage. A willingness to open our hearts to others, to devote ourselves to knowing them with unflinching presence is to be willing to risk, to accept the inherent danger in knowing and being known.

I don’t know any more about my purpose for this season. With ten days more of holiday break, I’m still looking to God to share his truth. But, for sure, I know that the pursuit of love and service are indelibly entwined with that purpose. And a safer, less radicalized faith cannot co-exist effectively with those pursuits.

McManus called it an untamed faith, shepherding an untamed love for people, the goal of which is to impart God’s freedom relentlessly to even the most unlikely of people. “The driving purpose of this barbarian revolt,” he called it, “is to liberate every person who longs to find freedom in God.” And, he describes the “revolt” as an onslaught battle for light in our world, a battle that is impeded by safety and safe encounters. After all, even the glimmer of hope in this world requires courage.

The Barbarian Way challenged me to allow space for the dangerous, for courageous hope, for a reckless love patterned after Christ himself.

Mama

haley montgomery — Fri, 21 Nov 2025 15:28:28 +0000

Several weeks ago as I began to sense that my Mom’s time here was coming nearer to an end, I started to think about how I would describe her after she died. In moments between pushing the thoughts aside and embracing the inevitability of the situation, I began to try and settle my heart on the things that were important about her life.

In the last several years of Mama’s life, she became more isolated as she cared for Dad, and then began to lose the ability to get out and interact with people as she once did. So as I thought about honoring her memory, I knew that perhaps the most meaningful accounting of her life would come from me. I didn’t know if I could find the words, and I didn’t know if I could share them with the appropriate clarity and composure. But, here I am. And here you are. And she is not here.

She is in a more vibrant place than I have ever known, beyond the constraints of this world. And I come to this moment with the stories of what she has meant to us. Stories of love and faithfulness and saying goodbye.

Gary Lois Higginbotham.

My mom answered to many things over the years. “GAY-ree” in my grandmother’s distinctive drawl or Miss “Gay-ree” to folks who knew her mainly from growing up on the farm. She was Mrs. Higginbotham to many teachers and 3rd graders who grew up in West Point. Simply Gary Lois to most people. Mom was named for her grandfather, and Gary is not your typical girl name, which obviously never daunted my grandmother in making her a namesake. I think her name probably set her on a path to correct people or set the record straight. I always said about Mom that if something needed to be said, she didn’t mind being the one to say it.

When I think about our home growing up and on the farm, I hear this familiar “Gary LOis” with an emphasis on Lois. That was my dad. He always called her by both names, never just Gary. And the Lois got louder when he was urgent, like the time I heard he set the truck on fire at the farm. Or when impatience took over, like the times Mom was pressed into helping herd the cows. Somehow she never stood in the right place during those times.

She most quickly and lavishly answered to the name G-Mo, what my children call her. A consistent and faithful voice and spirit in my home, G-Mo was woven into the fiber of how my children were raised and into their whole idea of home and family. My own grandmothers were part of my life in a similar way, but for my kids having me as their only parent for most of their lives, I guess G-Mo probably carried a little more weight than usual.

Mom was devoted to my Dad, and though some of the 59 years they were married were marked by struggles and change and caregiving, I still mostly remember them having fun. And my dad indulging my mom’s desire to make our home a place of celebration and joy. I remember laughter and snoring. I remember them working together to do things. I remember their shared love of the farm and its simplicity. I remember my mom fussing and my dad listening and being stubborn. And I remember them never allowing their stubbornness or frustration to overshadow the joy and commitment to each other, to me, to my grandparents and family, and eventually my own children. They served us all. They shared a remarkable love of family, but also a devotion to other people’s children – the ones they both served in their life’s work in education.

My mom was a teacher for most of her work life and I have vivid memories of those legal sized, mimeographed pages with purple ink strewn across our kitchen table. Her very neat handwriting – the kind elementary teachers have – with written out questions and blanks. I remember her creating little packages of craft projects for her class and the making of classroom bulletin boards on our living room floor with giant acorns and snowmen and all the letters she cut out with messages for each season. My mom wrote plays for her classes to perform. She made her 3rd graders Uncle Sam costumes and turkeys. She helped them make a Bicentennial quilt to celebrate America and countless other projects to give them memorable experiences in school. She had a shirt or dress or earrings for every holiday to wear to school. Elementary teachers are extra, as they say, and my mom definitely qualified.

I remember her having a wipeout at 2nd base during field day, much to the enjoyment of her students, and all the mementos she kept through the years that students gave her as gifts — christmas ornaments, bells, soaps and hand towels. And the comical moments she shared many years later — like Seery Dickerson, the child who held his breath until he passed out every time he didn’t like an assignment. Or walking a child down the hallway to the principal’s office and hearing them ask… “Mrs. Higginbotham, can we talk about this?”

Since she was the wife of a high school principal, my Mom and I enjoyed practically every football stadium in North Mississippi over the years — rain or shine or cold Friday night — and a few down south, given the Green Wave tradition of playing for championships. But there was also chaperoning the cheerleader van and the occasional trip to the emergency room with a student. My mom was back-up support and behind the scenes for Christmas parties, fundraisers, gifts for teachers and so many things I’m sure I never saw.

When my Dad started thinking about retiring, they decided to move back to Macon. My grandmother was beginning to need more care and my Mom was determined to do it. They moved her into the little house next to theirs and for many years, my mom trekked over there, sometimes multiple times during the night to attend to her needs. She was a confidant and help to my Aunt Betty, her younger sister, through her move from Meridian back to Macon, and cared for her too before her death. They were acts of faithfulness my mom lived out.

She’s been a daughter, a sister, a grandmother, a teacher, a church friend, a principal’s wife… “Gay-ree”, Gary Lois, Mrs. Higginbotham.

But to me, she was Mama.

I didn’t always call her that name. I started out calling her Mother, the same as what she called her own mom, my grandmother. I am an only child and so time spent with Mother was never short. We did many things together and my mom relished that. I don’t remember her ever even once needing “me” time or a break. I’m sure she took that time, but I never knew it. The closest she came was telling me she was just “resting her eyes” when I asked for another book or an answer to a question. She always welcomed me close and created experiences that formed the basis of so many of what we now hold as family traditions.

Calling her Mother shortened up to Mom as I got older and moved into the teenage years. I guess that’s what I heard from friends and college roommates. Names sometimes reflect the changes of our lives. I’ve called her Mom for a lot of years, but in my adult life, that has softened to Mama very often as she walked with me through so many challenging experiences. And I walked with her.

From my mom, I learned to rest in God’s hand. His providence in all things. His timing. His undeniable goodness and wisdom in our lives. I can remember her telling me on more than one occasion that her greatest prayer was “Lord, don’t let me be a slow learner.” She saw situations as God stretching and teaching us. My mom was always looking for solutions and figuring out how to get things done. But, even in her own confidence, there were times when she would step back and say to me, “We just have to let God handle that.” Even as her own mind began to betray her, she never lost that trust and faith. She had a resolve to watch for His purpose — a resolve I’m still learning to grasp.

From her, I also learned the art of celebration. Traditions were important to Mama. She had this way of viewing everyday things as moments worth celebrating. Of going the extra mile. Of insisting that something could be done and figuring out a way to do it — sometimes to the frustration of those around her. My mom allowed celebration to trump practicality every time. Whether that was building a balance beam in the barn for Santa to bring me one year or figuring out a way to get my Dad’s wheel chair down to the beach during our last trips to Gulf Shores together. She gave me the gift of celebration — through so many little things, elevated to important and repeated. She gave my children that gift in her home and by her example we’ve tried to give it a presence in ours.

Mama’s birthday was on Christmas Day and anyone who knew her knew of her love for the holiday. Her tendency to celebrate really kicked in, and every square inch of her home was covered in Christmas during the holiday season. One of the first things she told me about Mrs. Pleasant’s house when they decided to move back to Macon and buy it was that the big bay window on the front would be the perfect place for a giant Christmas tree. The practicalities of 1950s wiring were lost on my Mom as long as there was a proper place for a Christmas tree. I got that impractical tendency from her. I remember a few years when she invited a few families from church to come by during December with their children to see the big tree up close, and she baked cookies to give them a fun holiday experience.

When my dad moved to a care facility, my Mom was lost for a while. She didn’t know what to do with herself without him to care for. As I began to notice her forgetting things around the house, I started coming to Macon on Fridays to bring casseroles, go to the grocery store, fix her medicines for the week and remind her of things. She wanted to make sure she knew how to use the microwave. But, there came a point in the year when she most often asked me about how we would handle Christmas. How would we get the pajamas? And handle the tree? And who would make the dressing?

Every year that I can remember, she bought me Christmas pjs for a Christmas Eve gift and expanded that to whoever might be in the house at Christmas — whether that was friends who came to visit, or my family — and pets — when they came along. She didn’t know how she would get the tree up. And having no tree was unacceptable to Mom. So she hatched a plan for Mr. Clarence to come and pull the boxes down from the attic and sort them. She spent weeks putting up decorations, because that was her way. And when she didn’t know how she would get the pajamas. I told her I would get them.

G-Mo’s house lives in our hearts as the seat of some of our most special memories. Maggie I think remembers Mama in the most practical ways. Sounds from the kitchen very early in the morning during Christmas holidays as my mom began to cook. Instructions on how to throw the “snowballs” into the Christmas tree — a tradition my grandmother started when Mama was a child. Sitting on the counter with G-Mo learning to make pancakes. Playing in her jewelry box. She says Mama’s house on Washington Street is the place she learned about giving to people — and from Mama, how to properly take care of people. Love through action and giving, regardless of personal inconvenience. She says G-Mo never missed an opportunity to make us feel loved, and she’s right.

When I decided to sell my parents’ home here in town, Maggie and I began to clean things out. My boys helped with the heavy lifting and whatever we asked, but it was Maggie and I who took on the emotional tasks of deciding what to save. We started with the Christmas decorations.

We took our time with cleaning out over the course of several months. When I got to her desk and the brown basket with the red checkered lining, I found her notes. I realized that as she began to notice for herself that she was losing her ability to remember, she started writing things down. Things she wanted to remember. Haley – October 28. Travis – May 2. Elisha – November 21. Maggie – August 30. Our birthdays. I found a sticky note with the words… Joy Boy, Smile Child, Angel Girl. Those were the nicknames she assigned my children after they were born and she began to know their personalities and bring identity to the places they had in her heart. She didn’t want to forget. There were notes with passwords, Mr. Clarence’s number, the folks who put gas in the tank at the farm. But it was important to her to remember her people and not forget the ways she had come to celebrate them.

When my dad had his stroke, Maggie was only a baby. Travis and Elisha were barely old enough to remember him before his physical limitations. But my mom insisted that he, both of them, be a part of our lives. She saw to it that Paw-T, as my children called him, was embedded in their lives. Because of my mom’s sheer will, my dad visited almost every elementary school in our district, until Covid started restricting their travel. They went to grandparents day and Thanksgiving lunch and whatever program came along, and they visited our home most weekends.

During some of my darkest days after losing Mike and adjusting to being the only parent to my sweet children, Mama called me every night before bed. Partly for her own peace of mind and partly to let me talk about my day. To give me that touchpoint with a grown-up. To stand in small talk and silent allegiance to my process of grief and coping and parenting and moving forward. When she found herself alone and no longer able to care for my dad, I tried to do the same for her. To call at night. To ask what she had been doing, what she ate. To finish her sentences when needed.

In my life, there has been no greater testimony of God’s faithfulness than the example Mama showed. And it has been one of the highest honors of my life to have her in our home and care for her during her last months of this life. When I moved her to Starkville, she had lost the ability to walk and to get out of bed. She had lost her ability to have a conversation and gradually spoke less and less. But that was ok, because in word and deed, she had left nothing unsaid in our lives.

I am filled with gratitude that my mom is now at peace from the struggles of this life and reunited with people whose love we shared. I can only hope to live out her stories of faithfulness with the same love and consistency she did. In God’s perfect timing, it’s fitting that we celebrate Mama as we turn our hearts to thanksgiving and then the holiday she so loved. The time to recognize “God with Us” as he has been through every twist and turn. Through every lesson and season of sorrow.

Every Good and Perfect Gift

haley montgomery — Sun, 12 Jan 2025 20:44:14 +0000

“Every good and perfect gift”

Sometimes I don’t believe good things.

People often encourage me to write about my experiences, and this is a thing I’ve noticed. Sometimes I don’t believe good things.

It is a trauma response, or so I read. A tendency or response when you’ve lived trauma — moments strung together in a hyper-sensitive fight, flight or freeze response to circumstances when you can’t see beyond survival.

No cause for alarm. I’m not living in those moments now. But sometimes it feels like I still am. Because our hearts and minds form habits. Tendencies. So sometimes I don’t believe good things or good people. Even when they’re staring me in the face, in all their faithfulness and trustworthiness. And goodness. Sometimes I still can’t believe. Through no fault of their own, the gifts stumble into the spiral of my history. And the habits I’m trying to break. Desperately.

I read that the trauma response often masks every other response and hijacks every natural emotion. A filter through which I often view and process my experiences long past any moments in the thick of hardship. Even in the midst of uncommon blessing. It’s my involuntary and default response to things. And I wish it wasn’t.

When there is good in my life, sometimes I don’t believe it. I can’t rest with it. Because I’m constantly worried and watching for when I will lose it. And so I question. And question and question it to death. I analyze every word and every action. I second guess. And ask what if. I overthink my own responses, afraid that I will cause someone to leave. Or a situation to fall apart. Or worse, that something I do will cause pain or hurt to someone I love. That I will somehow cause a hurt that can’t be redeemed. That I will be to blame for the loss of something good. That all of my responses will inevitably be too much. Or too little.

My default is that I will experience loss. So when someone or something stays, there’s a part of me that simply can’t believe it. Can’t trust it. I’m surprised and unsure.

In the absence of information, I often believe the worst. I fear the worst. In the absence of information, I’m afraid. I look for reminders. Often. I’ve learned to ask for what I need. Silly things. “Are you here?” “Is everything ok?” “If there is bad news tell me.” Or even just to say “I’m afraid.” For no good reason. For what seems like baffling reasons from the outside. I ask, “Have I done anything wrong?” For fear that somehow, I will accidentally do something that will cause someone to leave, or something to be destroyed. If I make a mistake, I assume it’s the last straw. Faithfulness or steadfastness in another person is hard for me to believe. It feels too good to be true. So forgiveness given freely with no repercussions is often downright astonishing.

These are the tendencies that I sometimes feel will destroy anything good that comes into my life. As if the past is continually creeping and stealing from today. And stealing from the future. But still I hope.

That’s the crux. The plot twist, if you will. Still I hope.

“Every good and perfect gift is from above.”

The source of all good and light is there. And it’s not me. Thank God. It’s not me. And my learned responses. It’s not me.

“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, who never changes or casts a shifting shadow.” (James 1:17)

Good things come from God. The Father of lights, it says. I read the words and it disrupts all those tendencies. Because I know God. I know His faithfulness. I know His provision. I know His comfort. I know the consistency of His truth. And when I say I know. I KNOW. Through tears and hard-fought faith. I know through trauma.

Good things come from God. And when my tendencies raise their head with doubts and questions and disbelief, I’m learning to hold. To hold fast to the One who never changes or casts a shifting shadow. The One in whom there is no deceit or misdirection. No gotcha moment, no lie. No false hope, no exhaustion of purpose. No loss.

Only grace. And mercy. And goodness. And the ability to change and grow. Where I find those things, there He is.

And so I’m learning to retool my thinking. Not to be satisfied and complacent with those learned tendencies. But to make room for hope. For growth. When I think of love and friendship and trust and faithfulness, as frightening as those words are sometimes, rest is possible. Goodness is possible — maybe even sometimes probable. I can find that place of rest. A place to step in, however tentatively and think differently. Experience differently. Love and give and receive differently. A place where He is in the midst. A good place.

Sometimes I Wake

haley montgomery — Sun, 10 Nov 2024 09:00:00 +0000

Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night. Very often, actually. For a few minutes or longer. Old habits and tendencies from being the only adult in my house. Restlessness and thinking. I sometimes listen to music or watch videos or reels. Sometimes I write my thoughts to get them out of my head – like tonight. Occasionally I even work, to check the thing off that is troubling me. Often times I pray. Out loud in a whisper so the words are more solid – not just a thought. The prayers that we only pray at night. When the tender places in our hearts are revealed. The memories. The worries. The words spoken over us. And to us. The fears. The questions. The plans. Even the joys. Sometimes. It is not as often the joys that keep us up at night.

Tonight I ask the whys, The what next. The how do I fit everything in. The where are you. The what are we doing. The which one. The staying. The leaving. The coming. The going. The how. The when. The are you here?

And I saw something in a reel. “Just keep looking for Jesus.”

Just keep looking for Jesus. And I remember. Words hidden in my heart. Pushed down and distracted and often forgotten, still unearthed in the tender moments. “For I am gentle and humble in heart. And you will find rest for your souls.” Just keep looking for Jesus.

Wherever He is. Whatever I see Him doing. The things only He can do. In and through human hearts. Where hope resides and patience. Wisdom. Where honesty and kindness coexist. Where there is faithfulness. An act of peace. Bridges built. Wherever there is redemption. Forgiveness. Long-suffering. Where there is newness. Light that baffles darkness. And joy. Wherever there is love. Just keep looking for Jesus.

In the places I can see Him inhabit. Go there. And stay. Where I can hear Him speak. Listen. And trust. Where I can watch Him at work. Witness. And know. Just keep looking for Jesus.

Just keep looking for Jesus.

farm tales . “I can’t wait for that to happen”

haley montgomery — Tue, 12 Mar 2024 03:36:42 +0000

“I can’t wait for that to happen. It’s going to be so fun.”

Baby Girl has always been an old soul. Deeper than oceans, that one. We were sitting on the farmhouse back deck in rocking chairs eating lunch, and she was talking about picnic tables. Where we might put one in the pasture behind the house. And how we could build bunk beds in the middle bedroom. For when she and Travis and Elisha bring their children out here. “We can ‘kid-ify’ everything again like you did for us. And they’ll grow up together, all the cousins.”

“I can’t wait for that to happen. It’s going to be so fun.”

Baby Girl’s dream for the future is so clear. And filled with hope and energy and excitement. It’s a sight to see. And to hear, deep in my spirit, the faith in which that dream lives in her heart. Alive. Vibrant. Unfettered. A reminder for my own heart to embrace it again.

I woke up this morning to walk one of the pastures and look at that pond. The newest and smallest. And wonder about how long I could keep this piece of my life and land in Noxubee County. Letting my heart entertain what I thought I never would — whether I could let it go. This property. I never thought I would find myself managing it on my own. Figuring out what to do and when. How to care for it. I never let myself think about whether or not I could.

I’ve been grappling with a lot of nevers these days. I never thought life would unfold as it has. I never thought about loss and the deep work needed to move on from it. I never thought I would come this far. Never thought I could give them what they needed on my own. Bring them to these teenage years and baby adulthood as the brilliant, caring and resilient souls they are. With God’s grace. And His overwhelming and lavish and never-ending mercy.

I always hoped with what was left in my ever-spinning brain that He would bring us here, but like Thomas, I’m not sure I truly believed with my whole heart. I never thought. Until I’ve seen it. In all our imperfect natures and mis-shapen hearts. We are here. In an ok place. A joyful place. A peaceful place. A good place.

“I can’t wait for that to happen.”

Baby Girl in her precious way reminded me. We’ve seen God be strong. We’ve seen Him bless and protect and provide and act. And heal. In all my doubting and wandering and wondering, I’ve touched the scars.

Today, this place is ours. The land. It’s special. It shapes us. It tends to sort through the struggles and bring clarity. It knits us together with our history. Our loves. Our losses. Ourselves. And as long as God’s grace and mercy allow me to, I will keep it.

pockets of wonder . Pumpkins

haley montgomery — Fri, 30 Sep 2022 17:00:00 +0000

With the arrival of another October tomorrow, I’ve been thinking about pumpkins. Naturally. Their funky shapes. Their rainbow of colors from signature orange to yellows, browns, creams and even blues and greens. The odd “noses” their stems make when cut from the vine. Their unmatched association with fall, my favorite season. And in this case, their reminder of field trips with little ones gone by! These goofy vegetables (or is it a fruit?) are giving me autumn vibes and a wee bit of inspiration today. I hope this mini gallery will give you some fall feels to start the season, too…

Before we get to that… I’ve been sorting photographs lately in a dreaded attempt to gain control of some of my digital files and terabytes, and was reminded how much I love capturing images — little tokens of wonder and enchantment that pop up through ordinary wanderings. And looking back through my photo archives usually offers a trove of memories and pulls my thoughts back to unexpected views and inspiring moments, like the pumpkin patch visits captured in the images here. The archives have become small pockets of wonder as I delve into old files and past delights.

I decided to resurrect an old post series from a few years ago and share some of that wonder in small capsule collections of photos — probably no more than five — curated to provide a moment of inspiration. The series is called pockets of wonder. Some of the photos I’ve never shared before. Some I may have, but each pocket of wonder is centered around a single word, curated to tie the images together. Though the images may be from different times and places, I hope it’s an opportunity for a little mind wandering. Hope you enjoy!

Each POCKETS OF WONDER post is a small capsule collection of photographs curated to provide a moment of inspiration.

The First Cool Mornings

haley montgomery — Mon, 26 Sep 2022 17:36:40 +0000

Wait, what was that? I was walking back inside the door near my studio this morning after a search for a few Fall-ish photos to share today, and I thought I saw a glimpse of pink. I stepped back out and nearly squealed with delight. Sure enough, the first bloom on our giant sasanqua camellia was unfurling and reaching toward the sun just at eye level. I’d already walked by it on two carpool runs this morning, and somehow it escaped my notice. One of my personal signs of fall, and just like the season, it sneaked up on me!

Spider lilies are blooming out front. So is the goldenrod. The sasanqua is bending with so many buds and fruit. Female cardinals and squirrels are scurrying through the back yard with new fervor. Our nemesis poison oak is even turning its “leaves of three” to signature fall colors. Despite temperatures in the upper 90s last week, we’ve felt the first cool mornings of autumn when the early hours offer a small promise of more pleasant things to come. I even commented to my children on the way to school that “nature knows” in spite of what the thermometer might say.

Fall is my favorite time of year, and since October is my birth month, I often see the coming season as my own personal “new year.” It represents the ending (and beginning) of another year around the sun, and hopes of coolness and coziness tend to turn my attention inward. Both in our home and in my heart.

I’ve been reading recently about harvest festivals in the Celtic wheel of the year — Lughnasad on August 1, Mabon at the Autumnal Equinox, and Samhain on November 1. While I certainly don’t understand all the mythology and traditions associated with these pagan rites, I admire the values centering life around the cycles of nature and the unending movement through time and growth they embody. These particular festivals highlight the ongoing nature of harvesting as it allows us to balance reaping and sowing as a continual process.

In the weeks and months leading up to the Celtic celebration of Samhain and each year’s final harvest, the August and September celebrations embrace pivot points and times of reflection as we experience fruit during the midst of the hardships of continuing to tend the earth. The first and second harvests seem to hold all at once the joy of now and the promise of final harvests to come.

So often our thinking on reaping and sowing takes on the warning tone of hard things coming to roost from misdeeds. But, I think sometimes we overlook the blessed reaping that comes from hard-fought diligence in our lives. In the thick of toiling, it can be hard to let our thoughts rise to that — to embrace the grace of first or second fruits, knowing the harvest isn’t complete.

As I’ve started to reflect on the past year, we are in the center of so many changes. It takes my heart a beat (or more) to catch up sometimes. During this year, I’ve moved both of my parents into care facilities to ensure their health and well-being as we face health needs, loss of memory and aging together. Decisions on how to handle their properties and possessions are daunting. Plus, the emotional toll of sorting and reflecting on the change to my parents abilities brings a particular kind of living grief.

As I wrote in my last post, we’ve marked a milestone of 10 years as a single-parent family this month and reflected again on how we’ve changed and grown in our experience of my husband’s death. We’re also thinking more acutely about “lasts” this school year as my oldest attends his senior year of high school and prepares for all the excitement and uncertainty of next steps.

Changing seasons bring such a bittersweet melding of beautiful waning, the call to continued diligence and the anticipation of new things. I’m taking some queues from the Wheel of the Year this fall season as I prepare for my personal “new year.” With change comes the opportunity to reflect on early harvests with gratitude, the fruits we’ve experienced and the joys we’ve embraced. It’s an opportunity to ask, “What serves us well?” And what are we serving? What seeds have been fruitful and which ones are left fallow? How are we spending our time and energy? Is it in fruitful pursuits? How are we tending our soil to ensure it can be adequately prepared for the next season of growth?

Though this year has been one of challenges and changes, I’m looking forward to a new season of reflection, of continued tending to our hearts and home. I’m eager to look more deeply at my choices of how I spend my time and energy and resources. I’m excited to give myself permission to celebrate the early fruits of wisdom in the midst of some of our sorrows and the blessings of how God has lead us with grace and mercy through those sorrows. I’m longing to take time to simply be this season, to fully experience our moments together. Autumn is coming. I can already see the signs, and the renewed spirit it brings is welcome here.

Reflecting on 10 Years

haley montgomery — Wed, 21 Sep 2022 01:17:00 +0000

Today marks 10 years since my husband Mike’s death. This is one of my favorite pictures. I like to think of him with this smile and the children climbing on him, not sure if he might break out in an Elvis voice or John Wayne. For years he wasn’t able to find this smile or anything carefree. It’s taken a lot of ups and downs for my heart to move past his troubled soul and settle on this picture of him in my memories.

Today is a day that largely lives in my memory as last conversations and fears and numbness. As a conversation with my children that I know overpowered their innocence with uncertainty and grief.

I feel like I had one golden moment of wisdom before that conversation. It came from God, I guess, because I sure didn’t know how to do anything in such an overwhelming moment. Except to love, and I committed my heart to being honest with my children in all things, right from the very start. I committed to being sure our story was rooted in truth, as hard as the truth was for all of us to understand.

Our conversations about death, suicide, and our own story would be as honest as our hearts could comprehend as each of us have grown. So we started with small truths told and retold in ever increasing understanding as questions arose. Anger, sorrow, laughter, losing memories, shoring them up. Years of ongoing conversations that I hope continually move their precious souls to more and more understanding and acceptance of an absence. An absence that feels perfectly “normal” to them, but one they know makes us different.

I’m so very very proud of the resilient and compassionate hearts that have grown in Travis, Elisha and Maggie as they understand and live their own story. I’m amazed at them sometimes and how comfortable they are in being who they are. How they pull me along in so many areas I should be leading. To shepherd their journey is the greatest challenge but greatest honor of my life. I could not be more proud of the young men and young woman they are becoming.

For my own journey through grief and growing as a single mother, mine is a story of God’s utterly relentless mercy. A mercy so full we can hardly know and describe it. Day after day. Through mistakes and sorrows and uncertainty, and anger and disappointment, financial and practical needs, victories large and small, and joys. And peace. All of it. His mercy is sure. This decade is my testament of His GREAT compassion and mercy.

I’m thankful. For Mike and the place he held in my life. His humor and servanthood. His love of the outdoors and baseball. For the peace he found, if only through death.

I’m thankful for the stereotypes our experience has challenged in me. And the compassion that’s grown for other single mothers and families in crisis who don’t have the same resources and support that I’ve been privileged to have. We truly don’t know the realities of others. Despair and hopelessness are often hard to recognize. Our calling is to love mercy. To be as lavish with it as God has been with us.

To love mercy. More and more.

*****

In 2012, approximately 40,000 people in the United States died by suicide. Mike was one of them. In 2020, that number was 45,979. Each of those deaths represents a family like ours, desperately learning to heal from a lifelong wound.

In July 2022, the FCC expanded “988” nationwide as a toll-free suicide prevention hotline through all US phone and text services to connect individuals to the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline for 24/7 access to trained counselors and mental health resources. For more information about the Lifeline and 988, visit 988lifeline.org.

If you are thinking about suicide, call or text 988.

favorite flânerie . Killing Time in Memphis with Street Art

haley montgomery — Fri, 26 Aug 2022 18:01:23 +0000

Street art. My favorite kind of city wandering, and it always seems to offer endless inspiration. I consider it a parenting win that my children have no qualms about stopping on the side of the street and getting out to take photos. In fact, they often suggest it now! I guess it seems perfectly normal after years of my traipsing around various alleys and byways in cities and small towns on the hunt for hand painted signs and graffiti art.

Last weekend, we did our traipsing in nice shoes, which is not usually the norm. We were in Memphis to see the Broadway series production of To Kill A Mockingbird at The Orpheum (which I HIGHLY recommend) and had a little time to kill between brunch and curtain time.

We claim to be pretty familiar with the mural and street art offerings in Downtown Memphis. We consider it to be one of “our places,” and I’ve spent many fun hours walking the greater Downtown area with camera in hand, capturing the colors and sights and the creativity of amazing artists. Still, there is always more to see in the ever-changing streetscape as pieces get painted over or refreshed and new graffiti pops up.

The last time we were in the area, we were on the hunt for a parking space more than murals, but happened upon a row of art we hadn’t see before in the area south of South Main. At the time we were too hungry to stop, but last weekend we decided to search it out again.

If you’re in Downtown Memphis looking for a free “gallery” showing, drive down 2nd Street as it dead-ends into East Carolina to see these works up close! From Elvis and Frida Kahlo to angels and moon phases, a pretty cool skeleton holy family and my favorite magic door, the street is a flood of inspiration!

FAVORITE FLANERIE offers ideas and inspiration worth dawdling over.

favorite flânerie . Happy President’s Day in Stamps

haley montgomery — Mon, 15 Feb 2021 17:37:57 +0000

I love stamps. Their glimpse of history and what nations choose to honor. Their mini artwork masterpieces. Their throwback to times when receiving correspondence from someone was more precious. From portraits to places to historic artifacts, stamps display so many versions of what we see as important. In honor of President’s Day, I decided to take a look through my stamp collection to see how many presidents I could find.

Here’s the list of eleven presidents I found in my stamp collection. Of course, some of our national favorites have been honored several times. Happy President’s Day in stamps!

George Washington (1789-1797)
John Adams (1797-1801)
Thomas Jefferson (1801-1809)
James Monroe (1817-1825)
Martin Van Buren (1837-1841)
James Buchanan(1857-1861)
Abraham Lincoln (1861-1865)
Woodrow Wilson (1913-1921)
Franklin D. Roosevelt (1933-1945)
Dwight D. Eisenhower (1953-1961)
John. F. Kennedy (1961-1963)

FAVORITE FLANERIE offers ideas and inspiration worth dawdling over.