the hardest step yet

As I turn on the car and put it into gear, I feel a ball form in my stomach. I shove it to the side and take a deep breath. This is the day I have been dreading for the last two months. Just as I begin to back down the driveway my phone pings with a message. “Are you feeling nervous?” God bless the friend that remembers today is the day. I push the text out of my mind and begin the new Renegades podcast. Maybe Obama and Springsteen can take my mind off of what lies before me this morning.

It’s the day of my first mammogram appointment. I drive across the bridge and take a deep breath, soaking up the ocean view that never seems to get old. Bruce Springsteen is talking about what it’s like to be a shy artist and I find myself so immersed in the conversation that I miss the entrance to the hospital and have to turn around.

I pull into a parking spot and send a quick response to my friend’s text. “I’m trying not to think about how I feel. I’m just trying to get the thing done.”

I feel the butterflies in my stomach as I turn off the key and call the number to tell them I’ve arrived. I almost say “Oxner” when a woman answers and asks for my name. And then I remember—I’m not Oxner anymore—I’m Rowe! It must be the research I did this morning.

I spent this morning researching my father’s mother, trying to remember when she died of breast cancer. It was so long ago that there’s no internet result, but I did come across an obituary for someone I think is a second cousin. She died when she was only fifty. She had the same name as my Granny and was passionate about breast cancer awareness. Does that mean she died of breast cancer too? This family history is putting my emotions in overdrive. I finally understand this mammogram isn’t something I can check off my to-do list and be done with. This is something I need to do regularly now. For my family. And for me.

“You can come right in,” she says, “Once you get inside they’ll show you where to go.”

I put my mask on my face and get out of the car, saying a quick prayer of thanks for the warm sun shining bright overhead. I ask God to be with me as I walk through the door, and I take the hardest step yet in turning 40. 

Song for the Lonely

“Ta-daaaaaah, ta-dah ta-daaaaaaah, ta-dah, ta-dah, dah-dum-daaaaah.”

I close my eyes to the world around me so I can hear the song a little more clearly. With nothing to see, my ears pick up the patterns and sounds that I might otherwise miss.

The bassoon sings its low sad song. He’s telling the world what life is like right now. “There’s no one else around,” he says. “I’m here, singing my song, waiting for the day that I can be reunited with my orchestra.”

“I have so much to sing,” he says, with his low trills and small scales. He plays such a somber tone—slowly rising and falling again. It’s almost like a lullaby. Repetitive and calm. Slow and beautiful in its solitude. 

As he plays his song, there’s the beauty of a twinkling piano intertwined. It’s as if the piano reminds him of brighter days to come. She lets him wrestle with his sorrow, and just as it sounds as though he’s wondering if he really can go on, she lets him take a break and inserts her playful melody. The one that sounds like birds chirping in the morning air. She reminds him that spring is up ahead. “This sad time doesn’t last forever,” she sings.

He responds a little brighter this time, “I hear you, but sometimes that’s hard to believe. Especially when you’re living in a time like this.”

She continues her short proclamations. This time taking a sadder tone. She acknowledges his pain with a minor key. She agrees to sit with him for a while. She lets him mourn. She lets him grieve. She holds his hand as his sadness turns to rage and then back to sadness once again.

As he plays his final note, over and over again, first short and staccato, then longer, and another even longer, it almost sounds like a foghorn. Morse code. Perhaps it’s his SOS? 

She answers his every call with a note of her own. “I am here,” she says. “I am here.”

This reflection was written in response to Song for the Lonely, composed by William Grant Still and played by Lecolion Washington.

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a friendship of boots

“Do you like those boots?” My friend asks, as we start to walk towards the woods.

“I do,” I say, kicking my right foot up a little, dropping the heel in the snow so I can look adoringly at the tip of my toe.

“I bought them before we moved here. They were the only snow boots I could find in Georgia. Ironically, I’ve never found another pair here that I like quite as much. These are just so—” I pause, searching for the right word in my head—“Beautiful,” I sigh, “And warm too. Look at all that fur inside!”

She kicks up her boot and says “These are great boots, but they don’t really keep my feet warm. They are more for rain than snow.”

“You’ve lived in New England your entire life, and yet you don’t have a good pair of snow boots?”

“I’ve just never really found the time to go look, you know?”

“Oh, I know. Finding good snow boots is not the easiest thing to do. I kind of lucked out when I found this pair on the clearance aisle at Nordstrom Rack in Atlanta more than five years ago. Who knew I’d never see a pair like them ever again?”

We start to walk through the woods and I notice that there’s more snow on the ground than I thought there would be. Three of our four kids head back towards the house to get a sled, the other one runs up ahead to throw rocks onto a frozen pond.

In the rare quiet moment we’ve found ourselves in, my friend turns to me and says, “So what were you working on today?”

It used to be that I’d invite people over to sit around and drink tea while our kids played outside. It’s these everyday moments of friendship that I miss most in these pandemic times.

Now, we meet up for a hike as often as we can, bundled and masked, soaking up the few moments of conversation we can get. Our time together may not last for hours like it used to, but on these cold and dreary days of late winter, I’m so grateful for every single moment that we get.

embracing the dirt

I used to hate dirt. 

No, that’s not true. 

As a young child, I would go outside to make mud pies, then come in crying because I was dirty. My mom would wash off the dirt and change my clothes, and I’d go right back out to play in the mud. Not long after, I’d come back in, crying once again. 

I hated being dirty. But I loved playing in the dirt.

When we first moved to Massachusetts, playing in the dirt became my lifeline. Once winter hit, I’d dream of summer. That time of year when I could plant seeds and watch my garden grow. Come January, I’d order packets of seeds and plan my rows. I may not have had any friends, but I had dirt. I vowed to find beauty in this land I despised. To bloom where I was planted. To plant what I could grow.

Playing in the dirt gave me solace when nothing else could. It reminded me of home. Although the dirt in New England is vastly different from the red clay mud of my Georgia home, dirt is all around.

New England dirt is black—the color of ink. It sifts through my hands like grains of salt. When wet, it attaches to bare feet like wet playdough attaches to hands. When dry, it moves easily, leaving traces of black in the crevices of your toes for days to come. Not like the red clay of Georgia that feels so hard to pry up and stays in clumps when you’re finally able to dig in.

The dirt may be different, but it is still dirt. It provides us ground to walk on, to sit on, to lay back and adore the clouds. In my loneliness, I learned to embrace the dirt. I began to find joy in the dirtiest of places. 

Dirt grounded me when my world felt like a top spinning out of control. 

It’s no wonder that playing in the dirt brings us so much joy. Dirt is what we’re all made up of. God grabs a chunk of dirt, forms it, and breathes life into it. And here we are. 

Maybe it’s in the dirt that we find ourselves most true to who God created us to be. Maybe it’s dirt that cleanses our soul—even as it leaves our bodies full of dust. Maybe dirty toes are the best implication of a life well lived. A life closest to God.

Maybe the dirt that clings to us is our best reminder of God’s fingerprints all over each one of us. 

I still hate being dirty. But I’m learning to embrace it. Because in being dirty, I’m finding myself closer to who I am truly meant to be. I’m finding myself closer to God.

the late days of winter

Unless there’s some huge spring snowstorm, today was most definitely the last day of sledding in the woods. The snow melted as we walked upon it, and our favorite sledding hill is really mostly slush.

I'm feeling the late-February doldrums. It's the time of year when I just wish summer would hurry up and show her warm and sunny face. But I know even though the weather forecast shows the temps will mostly be above freezing the next 7-10 days, Old Man Winter won’t give up so easily. He blows his icy breath as late into the year as he possibly can. As the sun stays longer in the sky, he loosens his grasp just a bit, but never really, truly lets go.

If I’ve learned anything over the last year, it’s that these woods of ours are our happy place when the doldrums start to sink in. So today we grabbed our hats and coats, found the thinner snow pants tucked away for these late winter days, and headed to the woods with the sled in tow.

i found a new grey hair today

I found a new grey hair today. It seems since I turned 40 they’ve been multiplying overnight. You can only see them if I part my hair in the middle instead of on the side. I’m not sure what makes me look older—my normal side part or a center part that allows the grey to shine through. The last time I went to my hairstylist, I showed her the last one I had found. “Do you see it?” I pointed to where I knew it was hiding. “It’s right there!” 

“It’s beautiful!” she replied. “You’re getting wisdom highlights!”

Good gracious I love her.

///

I turned 40 last year. Yup, that’s right. In 2020. 

My best girlfriends had planned to take me to New York City to see things I had never seen before. That trip was going to be the first time in all of my 40 years of living that I ever took a trip just with my girlfriends. That trip was going to change my life.

Instead, I celebrated at home. 40 came and went. Like it was just any other day. 

///

I had my well-person checkup a few weeks ago. After a line of questioning to ensure I was in a safe home and not having suicidal thoughts, my doctor moved on to her next point of business—the breast exam. As she felt around my boobs she reminded me how important it is to keep an eye on them myself. “Now that you’re 40,” she said, “let’s get you scheduled for a mammogram. Early detection is key, so it’s important to have it done sooner rather than later.”

I chuckle in my head at her choice of words here. “Let’s.” Like she’s going to go with me and hold my hand as my boobs are smashed by some machine. I don’t even know what happens at a mammogram—but I know it won’t be “let’s.” It’s all up to me to get this thing done.

///

Today I finally made an appointment for my mammogram. And I found a new grey hair. Somehow it doesn’t feel fair that the fun of turning 40 never happened, but the adulting part must go on. 

Maybe next year I’ll take the trip that will change my life. For now, I’ll put on my sexy panties and embrace my wisdom highlights.

This post is written in response to prompts from 40 Days of Writing the Everyday with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs.

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a wedding and dirty dishes

My best friend stands with his arm held out, curved in the way that you’d expect an escort to stand, anticipating the entry of mine. He’s dressed in his best grey slacks, a beautiful teal sweater, and an embroidered tie that is whiter than my ivory dress. His hair is spiked up, and he looks as handsome as I’ve ever seen him before. 

Are you ready? He asks. 

Yes, I say. Absolutely, 100% yes.

Holding back my tears, I take a deep breath and interlock my arm through his, forming a circle that will be broken in just a short time. We pray silently together as we walk towards the small chapel down the hall. 

It’s only fitting that he be the one to walk me down the aisle and hand me to the groom who stands at the front, waiting patiently, with tears in his eyes. This friend is, in large part, the reason we’re here. He taught me to dream. He taught me to believe. And he told my groom that there was no woman more worth fighting for than me. 

This is no ordinary wedding. 

This is a wedding that represents second chances. This wedding represents resurrection in the most real and tangible way. This friend standing beside me is how I most clearly heard God’s voice when my world felt like it was falling apart. 

It’s okay to admit it is over. It’s okay to let go, and move forward. God wants you to be happy. And fulfilled. And loved.

And the man waiting for me at the end of the aisle—he has given me more love than I ever imagined. He accepted me in all my brokenness. He took my pain and made it his. He showed me God in a way I’ve never seen before. He showed me Love. 

He showed me what it meant to be patient. And kind. He does not envy or boast—not even when he should. He is not rude or self-seeking, and it takes a whole hell of a lot to ever really make him angry. He keeps no record of my wrongs. He always protects, always trusts, always hopes, and always…ALWAYS…perseveres.

He proposed over Oreos and milk. Our love has always been about the ordinary. About how sacred moments shine through in the midst of the mundane. Our love isn’t founded on exotic vacations or fancy adventures, but instead is founded on believing in each other, fighting for each other, living simply together.

Doing the dishes has always been a way he showed his love. It used to be that we would do the dishes together. And then once we had kids, it became his way of helping out. I was the only one that could nurse the baby, but he could wash the dishes. And now here we are, 11 years later, and he still does the dishes every single day. He does the dishes with the same amount of love that he had on that very first day.

And maybe even more.

Happy Anniversary to the one I love. You will forever be my better half.

This post is written in response to prompts from 40 Days of Writing the Everyday with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs.

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a great adventure

I sit at my desk and hear the dryer tumbling with its low and steady roar. Just a moment later, water whooshes into the machine that sits below. 

Laundry—it’s a chore that never seems to end. 

Just when you’ve put the last pair of pajamas in the drawer and hung up the last shirt in the closet, you turn your head to find the basket filled with the day’s dirty clothes. 

Despite that it is never-ending, laundry is one of my favorite chores. Well, except the necessary sorting. The stinky towels and underwear are my least favorite to touch. But the act of putting the dirt and grime into a machine that washes it all away brings me hope of a new day.

When it comes time to fold laundry, I leave the clean clothes in baskets for far too long. Sometimes we dress out of clean baskets of laundry for an entire week, alleviating the need to ever put them away. 

But on the days when I finally convince myself to fold it and put it away, it turns into a form of escape. I pop my noise-canceling earbuds in my ear and tune out the world. It is perhaps my most secret form of self-care. 

Some days I head to a faraway island, to lay on the hot sand and swim in the turquoise water.

Other days I join a writing class and learn from the very best the field has to offer.

Some days I travel to a completely different world, one with fairies, dragons, unicorns, and any other creature that only exists in my imagination.

Other days I pretend I’m having coffee with another homeschooling mama, learning all her tricks and feeling encouraged by the way she’s gone before me in this homeschooling life.

And some days I simply fold in the pure beauty of silence. Praying and listening for a still small voice to come my way.

Where will you go when you next fold laundry?

This post is written in response to prompts from 40 Days of Writing the Everyday with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs.

Like what you see here? Don’t forget to sign up for the Monthly Munchies Newsletter! Each month I collect all my favorite things from the month and send them straight to your inbox!

a breakfast of empowerment

I walk down the stairs to find a huge block city spanning the length of the living room floor. My eyes scan the room and I notice a bowl on the counter containing just a splash of milk and a few leftover O’s, the spoon resting gently on the edge. Cereal crumbs scatter the counter and floor, and an open container sits in the middle of the counter. Glimpses of the early morning breakfast that happens before I wake up.

Some people dream of breakfast in bed. I dream of someone else taking care of breakfast while I’m left alone. Under the warmth of my blankets, with a notebook and a pen.

A breakfast of words, if you will. I crave solitude first thing in the morning. A few moments to collect myself and really prepare my heart for the day to come.

Perhaps one of the best decisions I’ve made as a parent so far was rearranging the kitchen to put bowls in a waist-high drawer, and milk in a child-size pitcher on the lowest shelf in the fridge. As preschoolers they learned they could wake up and make themselves a bowl of cereal, giving me another hour or so of lazy mornings in bed.

It’s just one way I strive to give them wings—empowerment with equipping attached.

“Yes you can do this!” this small action says. But it doesn’t stop with those words of encouragement. It goes a step further. ”And we’ll change some things in our house to make it so you can be successful with very little effort.”

Empowerment alone can be crippling. Giving someone the freedom and encouragement to do something for themselves can sometimes feel like too great a responsibility to bear. But when we make small changes to really help people achieve the thing we’ve given them the freedom to do … only then does freedom have real power to grow wings and soar.

This post is written in response to prompts from 40 Days of Writing the Everyday with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs.

Like what you see here? Don’t forget to sign up for the Monthly Munchies Newsletter! Each month I collect all my favorite things from the month and send them straight to your inbox!