A wave of melancholy washed over me, despite the beautiful summer evening, as I relaxed on the dock with my nearly grown girls on the eve of my fifty-second birthday. I hated the idea of celebrating my birthday without Mom. Many “firsts” following the death of a loved one create peaks in the ebb and flow of our grief. This one felt especially poignant. There would be no “Happy Birthday” wishes from her the following day. What would my birthday feel like without her?

Unwilling to allow the all-to-familiar blues to take hold, I meandered off the dock, leaving my girls to their fishing. I’d let writing distract me. As a new author, I was blogging weekly to improve my skills and attract new readers. Months earlier, I’d scheduled out my blog concepts, deciding the prompt for my birthday week would be “Gift of Night Waves,” the title to a pivotal chapter in my first novel. In the book, my protagonist stumbles upon a priceless gift as ocean waves lap at her feet.

Standing on the shale shores of a murky reservoir in the middle of the country might not yield the same level of inspiration, but birds were twittering their night song, and a soft breeze caressed my face, smelling of fresh-cut grass with an undercurrent of fish. I needed to open my mind to ideas for a post to match my blog title.

Stepping carefully on the shifting shale, I scanned the shoreline. Tiny bubbles popped to the surface mere inches from my toes, and the darting shadows of minnows hinted at a hidden world below. Something bobbed nearby. I paused, bending over to investigate.

At first, I thought it was a flat piece of driftwood, but the shape wasn’t quite right. Curious, I picked it up. As I turned the item over, my mind flashed back to another July evening, three years earlier.
​

​We’d just returned from our maiden voyage in new kayaks. I wasn’t yet accustomed to getting in and out of the torpedo-shaped craft, and capsizing was a legitimate concern. Two yards from shore, I plunged one flip-flop-clad foot into the water to avoid scraping my new boat along the sharp shale bottom. Slimy muck enveloped my foot and encircled my ankle. I clumsily swung my other foot over and out, placing it more carefully on the slick surface below, intent on keeping my shorts dry.

I stepped toward shore; my left foot rendered bare as I pulled it from the sucking sludge, my shoe still buried. Unconcerned, I safely stowed my kayak, then turned back to retrieve my sandal, hopeful I’d be able to wash the clinging mud off my favorite shoes.

Returning to the exact spot, or so I thought, I probed first with my toes, then with my fingers, refusing to consider what else might be trapped in the quagmire below. My actions did little more than cloud the water with sediment, rendering my eyes useless in the search.

A flip-flop couldn’t just disappear. It had to be there. But where? As the sun dipped below the horizon, I admitted to temporary defeat. Waiting until morning would allow the disturbed lake bottom to settle. Hopefully the shoe would be revealed in the bright light of day.

The following morning, clear water and sparkling sun revealed nothing. Had my buoyant little shoe floated away on the waves? I refused to believe it.

Searching for my lost shoe became a family affair, but not even the twenty-dollar reward offered to the kids would be enough to discover my shoe’s hidey-hole. Mom would shake her head over the ridiculousness of my silly reward, finding my obsession over finding my cheap, missing shoe absurd.

Too soon, autumn chased summer away. While winterizing the cabin, I considered tossing my single remaining flip-flop. But I refused to give up on my quest.

Eventually, the lone sandal fell to the bottom of the shoe basket full of castoffs. Someone would occasionally joke about searching our bay for my missing shoe when they needed spending money, but there was likely nothing left to find.

 “Mom, what’s that?”

My mind ripped back to the present. The aqua, pink and white striped straps and the cork-like bottom of the dripping shoe in my hand matched my now infamous missing flip-flop. There was only one logical explanation.

“Did you two put this in here?” I accused, rounding on my daughters, cold water trickling down my arm as I held my discovery high in the air. I could read the confusion on their faces. If they were trying to trick me by planting my one remaining flip-flop down here, they were doing a masterful job of masking their scheme. Unable to accept that I might be holding the missing flip-flop, my mind jumped instead to my husband. Or our son. Who was trying to trick me?

Spinning, I half-ran, half-slipped up the shale embankment toward our cabin with my find. The quickest way to prove my theory was to confirm the sandal I’d kept was no longer in the basket. Dropping my muck-covered discovery on the patio, I hurried inside.

I tossed the collection of shoes onto the kitchen floor in my haste to disprove what I was starting to consider, …and there it was…waiting patiently for me at the wicker bottom of the basket.

​No one had tried to trick me by stashing a flip-flop along the shoreline.
​

​I headed back to the patio with the clean shoe, struggling to comprehend the likelihood of a ten-dollar sandal staying in one piece for three years, stuck deep in the mud of a bay that freezes hard every winter, where waves pound and water levels fluctuate. Yanking out a length of garden hose, I rinsed the clinging mud from my discovery. A metal grommet bore heavy corrosion, but beyond that, the shoe still looked nearly identical to its mate.

When I skipped back down to the water’s edge with my reunited shoes, the girls' dubious expressions revealed little elation over my find. The possibility of the twenty-dollar reward had evaporated.

​Pondering what had just transpired, I reclaimed my spot on the dock and felt a sense of contentment flow through me. The night’s waves had delivered unapparelled inspiration for my blog post, although capturing the scope of the experience felt daunting. Logic defied the sequence of the evening’s events (the shoe surviving harsh elements for so long, my being in the exact right place, at the perfect time, before my miraculously freed flip-flop could float away.)

My eyes traveled over the clouds dotting the horizon above the surface of our lake, and I accepted that logic didn’t belong in this story. I believe the flip-flop was symbolic, a sign sent from my mom, giving me the most precious of gifts for my birthday: a reminder to never give up, despite how daunting things may feel, and never to forget that she’s still watching over me, celebrating life.  

It's been three years since I found my missing flip-flop. I decided to keep the reunited pair in a shadow box in my home office as a constant reminder that mystery and inspiration always surround us. And Mom is still cheering me on!

Allow yourself to be amazed by the gift of the unexplainable,     Kim

If these walls could talk…

Most of us have heard this tiny snippet many times. These five little words have been used as the title of books, movies, and television shows. But what do the words really mean? When I looked up the meaning behind the short quote, the explanation I liked best was simply:  If these walls could talk, they would tell you the story.

What stories would your walls tell if they could talk? If our walls were capable of speech, they could reveal the good, the bad, and the ugly of our daily lives. In reality, our walls can’t actually “speak”, but can’t they still tell our stories?

Today is March 31, 2020, as I write this. We all find ourselves thrust into uncertain times. Due to the pandemic, our family has been staying close to home since Friday, March 13th (this will very likely be the most bizarre Friday the 13th we will see in our lifetimes). For us, we are nineteen straight days into what is yet an unknown stretch of time that we are spending inside our house, broken up with the occasional walk and tasks in the yard. Our days are suddenly like nothing we’ve ever experienced before: a mixture of work, play, anxiety, relaxation, fear, and a search for answers where there are not yet many, all within the confines of the walls of our home.

Yesterday, as sunshine streamed through newly washed windows, I sat quietly with a cup of coffee and peered at the walls around me. No, the walls were not closing in around me, at least not yet. I was simply allowing myself time to pause and think.

When was the last time you really looked at the pictures and decorations that grace the walls of your home? When we live with something for a long time, we often stop noticing it. We start to take our surroundings for granted. But as my eyes traveled around our living room, it dawned on me how so many of the items hanging on our walls tell our stories. The stories of our family. The stories of my dreams (not because I’m the only dreamer here, but because I’m the sole decorator!)  

I thought it would be fun to take a few minutes to wander from room to room and pay attention to the types of things that have found their way onto our walls. It’s an eclectic mix to be sure, and one that makes this house a home.

A picture is worth a thousand words. What better way to decorate our walls than with things that speak to us so succinctly?

Since becoming parents twenty-six years ago, our kids’ smiling faces peek out at us from many nooks and crannies, along with reminders that parenting is our most important job:
​

The quote in the middle picture has guided me through my years of trying to be the best parent I can be, and they’ve never felt more accurate than they do today. This wisdom extends beyond the role of mother or father to that of a teacher, caregiver, healthcare provider, and so many more: “One hundred years from now…it will not matter what your bank account was, the sort of house you lived in, or the kind of car you drove…but the world may be different because you were important in the life of a child.”

I’m a firm believer that our dwellings transform into homes when we surround ourselves with unique items that speak to our hearts and our memories. It doesn’t matter if others grasp their meanings. They shouldn’t be hung to impress the occasional visitor, but rather to remind us of happy times and our interconnectedness as a family.
​

​There is an artistic gene that weaves its way through our family, and I’d much rather grace my walls with beautiful things created by those closest to me than by people I’ve never met.
​

​Beyond the walls of our homes is a world full of opportunity, challenges, heartache, and the unknown. Inside, our walls can serve to fill our minds with reminders of the good things in life, the things we need to focus on to live our best possible lives.

When I decided to start down a completely new path of weaving stories and encouragement into books, intuitive family members helped me to surround myself with wisdom to draw upon. The old printer drawer on the left includes such snippets as:

• We all have a story to tell
• I’m a writer, what’s your superpower?
• Women who write are dangerous
• Start writing no matter what. The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on
• I turn coffee into books
• Creativity is courage
• Let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences

And, of course, the timeless kickoff to every good fairy tale:

• Once upon a time

​Now, these printer drawers offer me a repository for trinkets I’m gathering along my writer’s journey, reminding me there are many more tiny boxes to fill.

​Life can be challenging, scary even, but we all have a story to tell. Right now, most of us are spending more time than ever at home. I encourage you to pour a beverage of your choice and quietly sit with your surroundings. Look around. Do the things hanging on your walls speak to you? Do they make you smile? Do they remind you of wonderful times, or people, or dreams you hold dear?

If not, now is the time to dig into your storage areas, closets, and drawers. Look at things you’ve stored with a different eye. You kept those things for a reason. I promise not all of it is junk. Maybe now is the perfect time to take down that random picture you bought from a big box store because the color matched your décor and instead hang up that picture you or a loved one painted years ago. The one that makes you smile. After all, the beauty of art is in the eye of the beholder.

And if there is something that speaks to you, put it front and center. We all need to be surrounded by the words of wise men and women who have come before us, who have braved the storm and come out of difficult situations on the other side, maybe a little beaten down but stronger for it.

One of the best examples I have of this can be found in the words of Theodore Roosevelt in another heartfelt gift from a wise sister-in-law this past Christmas:
​

​When we live full out, we open ourselves up to criticism. If it has been a while since you sat with these words of a former president, or if they are new to you, let me reiterate these words found in the quote above that grace the walls of my home office:
​

Do your walls tell your best story? When you meander from room to room, take time today to notice those reminders of your past that conjure up happy memories. Enjoy glimpses into your past, and know we will be making new memories in the future. Keep the faith.

May your walls keep you safe during these uncertain times.

​Stay home, stay safe, and stay healthy, my friends. And if you are one of the men or women fighting in the most critical arenas right now to help keep humanity alive and thriving, please know you have the gratitude of millions.   Kim

I was lucky to grow up in a small town with my grandparents close by. One set lived on a farm outside the city limits, the others lived near my grade school.  I’d often walk there after class, and enjoy Grandma’s sugar cookies and a card game while waiting for my parents to pick me up.

My grandparents were an integral part of our lives, and we never celebrated a holiday without them. I remember plenty of home-cooked meals, afternoons spent visiting on the front porch and even one disastrous rollover on a three-wheeler with my big cousin. Luckily we were climbing sand dunes at the gravel pit my grandfather operated. If we’d been on any other surface, that accident could have been life-altering!

My grandparents are all gone now, and honestly, I most often reflect on times spent with my grandmothers. They were strong, loving women, and I know I owe much of my dedication to family to the examples they set while I was growing up. But my grandfathers played important roles as well.

Dad’s father died when I was in the third grade, so my memories of him are limited. I remember the awful phone call when he passed and attending his funeral. I suspect it was my first and I’ve never forgotten it. Mom’s father was part of my life for many more years. Grandpa Les lived long enough to meet our son. I only wish they’d had more than a few years together.

Last week, I decided to set out a few fall decorations around the house, something I hadn’t bothered to do over the past few years. As I dug through the tub of decorations, my hand fell upon a frame. My breath caught as I turned it over, and my eyes read my grandfather’s poem. How could I have forgotten about this?

I’d never known Grandpa to be a writer. An avid golfer, yes, but never a writer. It wasn’t until years after he was gone and Mom gave us framed copies of a poem he’d written that I realized there were facets to the man I’d never known. I guess I’m not the only writer in the family!
​

Can you picture a crisp autumn day, feel the tease of a soft breeze on your face, and smell the leaves as you read my grandfather’s words? I wish I knew when he wrote this. Was he a young man, perhaps in school, or sitting on the very same front porch that would become the setting for so many of my memories? I’ll never know for sure.

I placed Grandpa’s poem in the front bay window, then turned to set a ceramic pumpkin on the hope chest behind me. My mind flooded with the story behind this very special piece of furniture. Here again was another reminder of Grandpa.
​ 

Grandpa Les gave this hope chest to my grandmother as a gift. I think Grandma told me he gave it to her for her high school graduation, and if I'm remembering it right, nearly one hundred years have passed since Grandma graduated. By the time I discovered this chest, it had been relegated to their basement, cast-off and nearly forgotten.

So how did it end up in my living room?

Labor Day weekend festivities for our family always include an annual golf tournament back in our hometown. One year, when I was in college, I ran over to my grandparent’s house to see Grandma. Most everyone else was at the course, either playing or watching golf, but I don’t ever remember Grandma going out there. I couldn’t find her that day when I stopped by (I think she’d gone to visit a neighbor). I checked all over the house for her, even going down to the basement. I can still picture that crumbly old basement. One had to be careful on the stairs, and it had a smell all its own.

That particular day, for some reason, I noticed an old chest in the corner. I’d never paid any attention to it in the past, although it had probably been down there since before I was born. I was living in an apartment at the time, and likely looking to furnish it. The old chest was dark in color, nearly black, and the beautiful carvings on the front were barely discernible. But I suspected it had been beautiful before age had taken its toll.

​Did I dare ask Grandma or Grandpa if I could have the chest? I was excited at the prospect of trying to refinish it but nervous to ask. I still remember Grandma’s shocked face when I asked her later that evening. She couldn’t understand why in the world I wanted that old piece of junk. But with her blessing, my then-boyfriend (now husband) helped me wrestle it out of that old basement and take it over to his mom’s house where we’d undertake our first-ever refinishing job.

This is one piece of furniture I plan to keep forever. My grandfather could never have guessed where it would end up a century after he gave it to his young girlfriend.
​
The hope chest is more than just a pretty piece, sitting in our living room. It contains countless treasures from my first fifty years on this earth. There are also items I saved while cleaning out my grandparent's things when they transitioned out of their homes. I need only to open the top to see a dizzying array of history. 

​

• the manila envelope contains a portion of our family tree, the typewritten pages fading now with age
• the threadbare blanket was mine as a child, and I distinctly remember pulling it out of the garbage more than once (Mom thought I’d outgrown it)
• a box of War Ration Books bearing names of my father’s family, the one on top listing his oldest brother, the uncle I never knew because he was killed in a military accident when my own father was still a child
• a memorial book from my great-grandmother’s funeral dated 1946 is inside the small, thin box
• high school graduation pictures of myself and my husband, along with my graduation gown
• a beautiful newborn outfit my mother splurged on when our first daughter was born, along with a bib we placed on our son at his baptism

There is no order to the jumble of precious items in my hope chest. The items listed above are only the top couple of layers. I know more treasures lie beneath, like my own wedding dress as well as my mother’s. Some day, I’ll sit down and go through it all again, perhaps with my own kids. Sometimes touching special objects gives us the power to remember things long forgotten, and remember those that have come before us, without whom we wouldn’t exist. I’m hoping the cassette tape of a grade school interview I did of my Grandpa Les is in there somewhere.

Often we look around and despair over the clutter and junk that accumulates as we live our lives. We toss, we recycle, and we donate, all in an effort to keep peace and harmony in our own homes. But I encourage you to keep the most precious of items, corral them in one special place, and give yourself the gift of memories.

We all have a history. Don’t be too quick to throw it all away. I’m so thankful Grandma’s hope chest never ended up in a pile on the curb during clean-up week. What a waste that would have been!   Kim

Is there any place in the world more important to our well-being than our own homes?

I’ve never actually considered this exact question before. Often, our homes are something we take for granted (if we are blessed enough to have a home to call our own). Perhaps we’ve lived in the same house or apartment for years. We clean our homes, maintain them to keep them safe and livable, and paint a wall or replace the flooring once in a while. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I know I should make a conscious effort more often to feel gratitude for my own home.

We’ve been in the same house for over twenty-five years. I know some things could benefit from updates: the kitchen countertops are functional but are starting to show some wear and tear (kind of like me!). One particular door handle keeps breaking, despite my husband’s ongoing efforts to fix it. The wall going down the stairs could use a fresh coat of paint. But most days, I don’t even notice those small issues. We’re too busy living life to pay much attention.

A home is so much more than the physical shell. It should be our safe haven from the outside world. It’s where we eat, sleep, share time with loved ones, and build precious memories. It doesn’t matter if the dwelling is large or small, modest or fancy. What matters is who we share it with and how we feel when we are there.

I know I speak to the topic of home in my blog quite often. I just went back to check, and this will be my second blog post titled “Gift of Home.” I’ve now written eighty-four blog posts in all (which I can hardly believe), and blog post #2 in November of 2017 was also specific to home and what it means to each of us. When I wrote that blog post, our kids were starting to leave the nest.

Now our son and his wife, married less than one year, are working hard to remodel the main living area in their new house. Extensive work is required to accomplish their vision. It’s been fun to watch as they’ve learned new skills so they can do some of the work themselves. Friends and family are helping, and they’ve hired some work out that is beyond their skill set. It’s amazing how many life lessons can be found in a home remodel project! 
​

Our two girls are also making preparations for their new “homes.” One is heading west for graduate school and will be in an apartment with three roommates. Space constraints mean she can’t take much with her, but I know she’ll make her new space feel like home. The other is prepping for dorm life and sharing a room for the first time.

Our home will definitely feel different a month from now. Same house, different vibe.

We may outgrow our homes at different stages of life. Or maybe we’ll end up with more space than we need. Relationships sometimes dissolve, leading to changes to housing needs as well. Or perhaps something as simple as aging knees and too many stairs warrants a change.

Our homes may become damaged, displacing us. Sadly, many daily news cycles include stories of natural disasters, fires, earthquakes, or floods, all raising havoc on people’s lives and homes.

Jobs or other circumstances may force us to move, giving up one home and sending us looking for another. Homes can inspire us. Maybe we long to move our family to a different neighborhood with better schools or safer communities. A desire to improve our personal situations can give us useful motivation to work harder, stretch ourselves, and hopefully contribute positively to our overall communities.

Keeping a roof over our heads is never easy, but the ramifications of doing so can have positive, far-reaching effects.

Homes can even provide inspiration of a different kind. When I was growing up, I’d visit my great aunt’s house. My aunt, Mary Nierling, was a unique woman. I often talk about how she is the inspiration behind my fiction series. My memories of her house are also incorporated into my stories. Her actual attic is the one behind the attic in Celia’s house. When I was a kid, her house was painted pink, which also happened to be my favorite color. I guess she was the reason I wanted a pink house. Aunt Mary has been gone now since 1992, and new owners of her old house changed the color, but a recent trip to my hometown had us doing a slow drive-by so I could snap a picture of it. I wish I could find an old photo of the house when it was pink, but so far, no luck with that.
​

​The meaning of home has also been on my mind lately because this is an integral theme in my new novel, Rebuilding Home. This third book in my Whispering Pines Celia’s Gifts series revolves around both homes and relationships. The book will officially launch later this month. I thought it would be fun to share the blurb from the back of the book:

It can be hard to stay focused on pursuing our dreams when things are crazy at home, but I’m happy to say I continue to make progress on my writing endeavors. If you haven’t yet had a chance to check out my books, I invite you to start with Whispering Pines (see my Book tab on my website). And if you’ve already read Whispering Pines and Tangled Beginnings, grab your copy of Rebuilding Home on July 28th, it’s official launch date (or you can pre-order a copy now)!
​
I’ll close by sharing a “goose-bump moment” I had on Friday morning. I was up early, working on things related to my book launch before heading off to my day job when our neighbor across the street sent my husband a picture that he’d taken that morning of a beautiful rainbow over the top of our house. I’ll take that as a positive sign of the importance of home, not only now but for years to come!

Home truly is where the heart is.   Kim