What if you had an itch and you couldn’t scratch it? Not because you couldn’t reach… but because you didn’t have arms. Don’t laugh. It happens.
Why would I even think of this? Because I’ve stumbled upon the sweetest toddler on social media who was born without limbs. He is the cutest, most determined little human I’ve ever seen. He has prosthetic legs now, and with the tiny bit of limb he does have for arms, he’s learned how to pick things up. It’s incredible. Inspiring. And today, right after my own personal itch emergency – it hit me:
What happens when he gets one of those itches?
You know the kind. The middle of your back itch . The one no human assistant can ever quite reach, no matter how many times you bark:
“Lower. No, lower. To the right. Up a little. A little more. Now to the left. Oh, just forget it!” By the time the assistant hits the right spot, the itch has packed its bags and left. Lost opportunity for a moment of bliss.
So what do you do if you don’t have anybody around to help? That’s when the corners of your house become your best friends. We’ve all done the shimmy-shake against a wall like a desperate bear in mating season.
Cattle do it too – they find a post and lean into it with the commitment of someone who finally found the exact right spot. Dogs? They just roll onto their backs and wiggle like they’re summoning spirits. Animals just find a way.
We’ve all experienced the itch you can’t scratch politely. I’m talking about the thigh itch or the butt cheek itch. The one that hits while wearing jeans, so you grab the denim and try to rub the itch through the fabric as if that’s going to do anything. It never works. It just keeps coming back like a toddler asking for snacks.
This kind of itch demands immediate skin-to-skin contact. The kind where you do that subtle-but-not-subtle maneuver where you pretend to adjust your waistband while actually sneaking your hand down your leg like a racoon looking for treasure.
Come on – admit it.
We’ve all done it.
I did it just the other day playing pickleball with 3 other women. No matter how many times I tried to scratch it through my athletic pants, it wouldn’t stop. And because it was just women present, I called a timeout, set my paddle down, excused myself, and slipped my hand down my pants to tackle it.
Deep sigh… Mission accomplished.
And then there’s the itch you can’t find. I know that sounds unhinged, but here we are. I’ll go to scratch an itch and… nothing. No relief. It just keeps itching like, “Warmer… colder… nope, not there either.” How does an itch you swear is on the inside of your thigh end up being on your head? Are my nerve ways playing hopscotch? It feels like my body is running a practical joke on me: “Guess where the itch is! Wrong again!”
Then there’s the bottom of the foot itch. The one that hits when you’re in public and can’t take your shoe off, so you start stomping your foot like you’re trying to squash a ghost spider only you can see.
If I’m driving and get a bottom of the foot itch? Cruise control on. Shoe off. Game on.
Yes, I noticed the two right feet and the car seat that’s basically on the floor. After 30 attempts, AI tapped out and declared, “Close enough.” So we’re all just going to deal with it.
But scratching the bottom of a foot never quite works – the skin is too thick, too calloused, or too ticklish. Last time it happened at home, I grabbed the cat brush and went to town like a woman possessed.
Then there’s the nighttime itch. I don’t know why, but a few minutes after I get into bed, my arms suddenly remember they exist and start itching like they’re auditioning for a rash commercial. Don’t tell me it’s bed bugs. Don’t suggest fragrance free detergent. That’s not it.
The more I scratch, the more they itch. Then my legs join the party. I lie there debating whether lotion is worth getting out of bed for. It always is. But I resent getting up.
Have you ever had a cold, and the roof of your mouth itches? And you actually stick your finger in there and scratch it? That’s a whole different level of weirdly satisfying.
Honestly, I’ve never given itching this much thought until today. Itches just happen. We scratch them without thinking. Every exterior part of the human body eventually itches – eyes, ears, nose, everything.
We appreciate a lot of things. We thank God for a lot of things. We try to be grateful. But have you ever stopped and thought about what it would be like to have that kind of unbearable itch… and no arms?
The next time I get one of those sudden, urgent, drop-everything-it’s-an-emergency itches, I’m going to stop and thank the good Lord that I have the means to scratch it.
I have arms.
I have hands.
I have fingers.
Most of us do. But some don’t. Some are born without them. Some have paralysis that steals the ability to reach.
For them, something as small as an itch might be its own little hell. I know it would be for me.
So here’s to the everyday miracles we forget we’re living inside of. Here’s to the tiny miracles we don’t notice until they’re gone. Here’s to the ability to scratch the itch – literal or otherwise.
And here’s the toast:
May we never take for granted the simple gifts – the reach of our own arms, the relief of a good scratch, and the grace to remember those who live without what we assume is guaranteed.
To gratitude, to empathy, and to every itch we’re lucky enough to scratch. And may that sweet toddler with no limbs be spared the misery of a full-body itchy rash – that would just be cruel.
THEN: He used to think her “just rolled out of bed” look was adorable.
NOW: He’s stopped asking if she slept well – the answer is obvious.
THEN: She used to think his messy hair was sexy.
NOW: She wants to hand him a comb and a warning.
THEN: He used to think her long stories were charming.
NOW: He silently prays for an intermission.
THEN: She used to think his presence made her heart race.
NOW: It just raises her blood pressure.
You’re getting the picture here.
I wrote a blog once about the fact that humans acclimate to anything – the hard stuff, the heartbreaking stuff, the “how is this my life” stuff. Illness. Long commutes to a job you hate. A child moving across the country. A broken bone. We adapt. We adjust. We survive.
But we also acclimate to the good stuff all too easily, and often we see that as unfortunate – forgetting that the good doesn’t lose its value just because we’ve grown accustomed to it.
And in relationships, we feel this shift the most.
Remember those butterflies? The heartthrobs? The goosebumps? The chemistry so intense you could barely swallow your water at dinner because you were too busy staring into each other’s eyes like two dehydrated Labradors?
It makes you wonder how something that electric can dim so quietly.
Back then the ceiling could’ve collapsed around you and you wouldn’t have noticed. You were too busy grinning, playing with your hair, playing footsie, batting your eyes, and trying not to pass out from the ridiculous level of chemistry happening at that table.
The simple answer: We got used to it. Love didn’t go away – it evolved.
And yes, that’s a little sad.
Every human being should be so fortunate as to experience falling in love at least once. Most have. Some have been lucky enough to experience it again after divorce or death. And then there are those who make falling in love their career – serial romantics who treat relationships like Costco samples. “Ooh, that one looks good. I’ll take a taste and decide if it’s worth stocking up on.”
Think back – way back for some of you.
You had a crush. You prayed he’d call. Then one day your phone rang, and there it was: his name on the screen. And for those whose memories stretch back a little further, you answered the phone on the wall silently begging it to be him. The uncertainty was its own kind of electricity.
You let it ring a few times so you wouldn’t seem desperate but then panicked, because what if he gave up and hung up? So you answered on the third ring with that naïve, breathy, “Hiii,” trying to sound like a Disney princess who just woke from a nap.
He knew it was you, of course, but still asked, “Hi, is this Katie?” As if your phone had a rotating cast of women answering it.
And then the real fun began. You had to get ready for your big date.
You had one week to find the perfect outfit. Sexy but not too sexy. Cute but not childish. You tried on fifteen different outfits, staring at yourself in the mirror and wondering, “Does this make my butt look big? While also adjusting your neckline twelve times, aiming for that sweet spot between “tasteful” and “I have assets.”
You got your nails done, your hair done, and picked a perfume that would draw him in like a moth to a flame. You chose a neutral/pinkish color lipstick because red would make you look like a floozy.
It was a lot of work- so much attention given to every detail – but so worth the effort. When you looked good, you felt good. And you felt good.
Your hard work paid off. He fell for you completely – hook, line and sinker. All that effort, all that anticipation, all that sparkle you put into getting ready… it worked. And now fast-forward to today…
The sexy blouse with the low-cut V neck, has been replaced with an oversized sweatshirt. Your hair hasn’t been “done” since the kids were in diapers. Your nails are now “natural,” which is code for “I gave up.” Your perfume is now called, “Eau de Who Are We Kidding.”
Why does that euphoric, magnetic, all-encompassing, intoxicating feeling fade?
People – especially women – wish it would last forever. They want romance, the attention, the doting, the feeling of being someone’s absolute priority. We want to hear the “Oh baby, you look incredible,” the “Damn, I’m one lucky man.” And the “You look absolutely stunning in that dress,” said with a look that lets you know his mind was wandering into territory he wasn’t about to verbalize.
And once upon a time, I did hear versions of those things… maybe not quite that poetic, but the feeling behind them was close enough to make me believe it.
But here’s the real question: Would we actually want to go back to all that?
Some of you are screaming YES, but let’s be honest – it was a full-time job. There is comfort in being content. There is peace is not contouring your face like a Kardashian every time you leave the house.
It’s sad that things we once found cute now annoy the heck out of us. The ranch dressing you used to dab off his mustache while giggling? Now, you stare at him thinking, “When did he become such a slob?” Now if he hints at anything remotely bedroom-adjacent, you’re suddenly very invested in folding fitted sheets.
In the beginning, nothing the other person did was offensive. And even if it was, you excused it because you thought, “He can be trained.”
What exactly is happening when two people fall in love? Because inquiring minds want to know, I did what I always do – Dr. Google to the rescue.
Science says falling in love is a full-body, full-brain event. Your reward system lights up like fireworks. Stress hormones spike. Judgement dims. Bonding hormones rise. Your body reacts like you’re on a thrilling, slightly terrifying roller coaster.
It’s chemistry, biology, psychology, and evolution all working together to glue two humans together.
But I have another theory – and mine is way more fun. I believe there’s a spiritual component at play.
Years ago, I read a book on past-life regression. A woman under hypnosis wasn’t just taken into a past life – she was guided into the space between lives, what many would call the heavenly realm. There, she and her guides discussed her next incarnation and the planning that goes into it. The hypnotist asked how she would recognize the person she was meant to fall in love with, in her next life. How would their souls find each other?
Her answer gave me goosebumps.
She said souls leave breadcrumbs. The human might not recognize them, but the soul always does. She explained that in her next life, she and her future husband planned that when they met, they’d be dancing. He’d joke that he had two left feet – that’s how I’ll know. That will be our sign. The soul will recognize it instantly. The human might just think, wow, this guy really can’t dance, and moves on. Meanwhile, the soul will be doing cartwheels whispering, It’s you! It’s really you!
While the dopamine high is magical and we often wish it could last forever, would we really want to trade the comfort of not having to worry about looking our best all the time for the comfort of just being ourselves?
Frankly, not wearing makeup, hair in a messy bun, oversized sweatshirt with elastic waist comfy pants – and having that be A-OK with my partner is what love looks like on an ordinary day.
Occasionally, it’d be nice to hear, “Damn, you look sexy” come out of my husband’s mouth – but who am I kidding? Those lips currently have ranch dressing on them, and I’m far beyond dabbing it off with a napkin. Wipe your own mouth, for Pete’s sake.
A toast: Here’s to the early days when we shaved, plucked, painted, and perfumed, and to the later days when we’re just proud we remembered to shower. May our partners still see the spark in us even when we look like we’ve given up on society.
And here’s to the deeper magic beneath all of that: the breadcrumbs we left for ourselves when planning this life, the signs we follow without knowing why, and the moment we lock eyes with someone and feel the unmistakable pull of a story we’ve already lived together.
Here’s to the beautiful irony that the soul you’ve known for centuries still needs a napkin reminder.
I cannot for the life of me take vitamins on a regular basis. I don’t know what part of my personality rebels at the idea. Maybe it’s the pill swallowing. Maybe it’s the commitment. Maybe it’s the fact that the bottles sit there like tiny nutritional overlords, staring at me, judging me. But I simply cannot do it.
People who take vitamins daily for years, who go to the gym faithfully, who work out religiously – I use to say they “annoyed” me. That’s not the truth. The truth is I’m in awe of them. I admire their discipline. I admire their consistency. I admire that they can do things I have never once managed to do without losing interest halfway through.
The other day my husband walked into the house with the mail and tossed a small package onto my lap. I looked at him questionably.
“It’s got your name is on it,” he said.
I opened it. The label simply said JOINT.
I looked up at him again. “Really?”
He blinked. “Really what? I didn’t order it.”
“Well, neither did I,” I said – and then the devil on my shoulder whispered in my ear… Liar.
Not remember ordering that JOINT supplement is concerning, because I already have Glucosamine/Chondroitin, Turmeric (with Bio Perine – for better absorption), Magnesium, Calcium, Vit. D, Omega-3, a multivitamin, Collagen, and probably 3 or 4 more I can’t recall – sitting on my kitchen counter like a tiny pharmacy I refuse to patronize.
They stare at me every morning, afternoon and evening. And I stare right back. Not today, Satan.
My pattern is predictable: I take them for a week or two – maybe a month if I’m feeling virtuous, and then I stop as abruptly as I started. If I miss a day or two, I feel they aren’t going to work now, so what’s the point? It’s like my body says, “We tried. We hated it. We’re done.”
Apparently I saw no mountain-moving benefits. No hair suddenly thick enough to star in a shampoo commercial. No joints that felt “lubricated.” No burst of energy that made me want to reorganize the pantry. Nothing. Not even a placebo sparkle.
Since I’ve spent all this money on these little bottles of broken promises, I thought maybe I just needed to make it fun somehow.
Enter: the colorful pillbox. A rainbow of tiny compartments. A cheerful little grid of responsibility.
I filled it with my morning, afternoon, and nighttime pills, and honestly? It was delightful. I felt organized. I felt adult. I felt like the kind of woman who has a seasonal pantry, a signature scent and a junk drawer that actually closes without a struggle.
That lasted exactly one week.
And I know it was exactly one week because then the pillbox was empty. Suddenly, the fun was over. Filling those little cubbies again felt like punishment. A chore. I looked at that empty pillbox like, How dare you require maintenance.
Taking pills three times a day, made me feel like I was always reaching for something. There was always a little voice whispering, You’re forgetting something.
So much for my ingenious idea to bring joy to pill-popping.
Let’s move on from what we put into our bodies, to what we put on our bodies.
If you really want to feel unhinged, count how many products you use just on your hair. I did. Seven total. Shampoo, conditioner, hydrator, a serum that promises shine, less breakage and possibly immortality, styling gel and a heat protectant. And those are all before we even dry our hair.
Then we take our freshly moisturized, carefully nourished strands and blast them with a blow dryer, hot enough to melt plastic. And because that’s not enough, we clamp them in a curling iron heated to over 300 degrees like we’re searing steak. But don’t worry – we spritz on a heat protectant, so obviously everything is fine. The bottle says so.
Once the hair is curled, we shellac it with hairspray because after all that work, we’re not letting wind or humidity win.
And that’s just the head.
In the shower: body wash infused with eucalyptus, bergamot, and 26 ingredients that sound like they were mixed in a wizard’s cauldron. Out of the shower: lotions, oils, creams, balms, potions and the newest craze: beef tallow. If it promises “radiance,” we’re buying it.
Then we notice thinning hair. Oh no. Time for research. And now, for the rest of my days, or until I’m on to the next beauty product, Facebook will show me nothing but thinning hair products. And so, I order a hair serum and a supplement. But one dare not stop these products, because your hair will go right back to where it all started. Now, that’s marketing. And while there may be some truth to it, don’t tell me marketing doesn’t play a huge role.
Then there’s the skincare industry. Built on promises of reversing time, lifting jowls, erasing wrinkles, and firming turkey necks. We are a society of hopeful, determined consumers who refuse to go down without at least trying a peptide.
It would be so much easier to accept thinning hair and aging skin. But where’s the challenge in that?
We are undoubtedly a society that puts youth at the forefront, and the beauty industry knows it. Anything that promises to fight aging, shrink something, plump something, or prevent our brains from turning into mashed potatoes shows up on our doorstep courtesy of Amazon Prime.
At some point, you realize the only thing truly getting younger is the delivery truck driver.
Time for a toast: To aging with humor, to beauty with boundaries, and to the supplements we’ll remember to take eventually. To the lotions, potions, pills and promises. And may whatever we’re doing be just enough to keep everything from falling off, falling out, or falling apart.
Author’s Note: If you read Wednesday’s post, this will make perfect sense. If not, good luck.
After sharing my blog about recurring dreams, I realized I’m in good company, because apparently half of you are also wandering the halls of high school at 3 am. Honestly, high schools should hand out a warning with the freshman curriculum: just so you are aware – there is a high probability that the combined chaos of whatever happens within these walls over the next four years will haunt your dream state for the rest of your natural life.
The comments from my faithful readers were great: lost lockers, forgotten combinations, missing classes, someone barefoot, and yes, one of you was fully naked, and somehow it was “just another day.” Now that’s dream confidence.
I found it fascinating how many of us are having the same dream. It makes sense – high school was the perfect storm of pressure – trying to fit in, trying to figure out who we were, trying to keep up, trying not to embarrass ourselves, trying to remember where the hell our locker even was. It was a place where you were constantly being evaluated, watched, compared, and expected to know things you didn’t know. No wonder our brains drag us back there whenever adult life gets overwhelming.
Your brain is basically saying, this stress feels like school, so let’s stage the dream here. Plus, you spent thousands of hours in school hallways, classrooms, and cafeterias over 12 – 16 years of your life. Your brain was trained to worry about things like tests, grades, being prepared, being late, and being judged by teachers and classmates.
So it makes perfect sense that when life gets chaotic, our brain uses that setting like a stage set it already owns. Those environments are easy for your brain to recreate while dreaming.
I did a little research. These dreams aren’t really about lockers or classes or missing shoes. They’re about that old familiar feeling of being unprepared, unsure, or stretched too thin – and our subconscious just loves to recycle the most dramatic backdrop it can find.
The missing lockers or combination dream – feeling overwhelmed, unprepared, feeling like you can’t access what you need. It’s about the feeling of not being ready.
The can’t find your class dream – reflects moments in life when you’re unsure of your next step.
The barefoot in high school dream – new job? Big decision to make? Life transition?
The naked in high school dream – research says this is a classic dream symbol for feeling exposed, judged, or afraid of being seen too clearly – but also realizing people aren’t paying as much attention as you fear.
Thank you for your comments and sharing your dream experiences. I appreciate you taking the time to write in, and I especially love knowing you’re out there reading what I take the time to write. It means more than you know.
Happy dreaming, and the next time you’re lost in that high school hallway again, remember we’re all wandering it together – but let’s try to keep our pants on, okay?
Have you ever tried telling someone about a dream you just had? Or, even worse, have you ever had to sit there and politely listen while someone else tells you theirs?
Let’s admit it: nobody cares. At best, we care enough to hear the gist – one sentence, maybe two – but please, for the love of all that is holy, spare us the vivid, minute-by-minute retelling that’s still swirling around in your half-awake brain.
If my husband has a dream, he’ll come downstairs, pour his coffee, and for the next ten minutes I’ll get the full cinematic retelling. I listen. I nod. I act interested. I even look at him while he’s talking and add a chuckle during his storytelling. It’s the polite thing to do. But if I try to tell him about one of my dreams, he’ll be scrolling through his phone before I finish the first sentence, announcing what the high temperature is supposed to be that day. I might as well talk to a houseplant.
The truth is, listening to someone describe a dream is to put it bluntly – boring. We don’t put much stock into it, because after all, it’s only a dream. So, guess what this blog is about?
A dream – mine. And you’re all going to pay attention!
It’s not just any dream – but a recurring dream I’ve had for more years than I can count. And you’re going to hear about it because I had a brand-new sequel this morning. It’s still weighing me down, and I need to unload it somewhere. Maybe one of you can shed some light on what it means. Maybe adding humor will help me look at it differently and chase it away. Or maybe – I just want to see who actually reads my blogs to the very end.
Gracie woke me at 4:30 this morning, which, thanks to daylight savings time, was a gift. Only thirty minutes until I could feed her and administer her insulin at 5 am. Soon after she ate and went out to do her thing, I laid back down on the couch… and straight into dreamland I went.
Throughout my adult life, I’ve had these recurring dreams where one of several things happens – all of them centered around high school:
I can’t find my locker because I can’t remember the number.
If I do find it, I can’t remember the combination to open the lock.
I can’t remember what class I have next.
Or, because I’ve been skipping out on that class (because I can’t remember what it is), I’m terrified that when graduation time comes, I won’t have enough credits to graduate.
The not knowing what my next class is dream, is the worst. The hallway is full of students scurrying about – books in hand, knowing exactly where they are going. The bell rings and the hall is suddenly empty. I’m standing there in the middle of the hallway in full internal meltdown mode thinking, Okay, it’s 6th hour. What class do I have 6th hour? Why don’t I know this? The trimester hadn’t changed. Why is no one helping me?
There have even been a few occasions when Dream-Me does the logical thing and goes to the office to ask. Of course, there’s a line of students at the counter and by the time my turn comes, class will have been a good 10 minutes in already.
When I finally find the classroom, I freeze in the doorway, looking through the glass. Class is well underway. I can’t walk in late. Even in my sleep apparently, I don’t want all eyes on me.
This morning’s dream added a new chapter to the saga. After drifting off on the couch, my dream picked up its pen and said, “Let’s add something new.”
I was back in high school again. But this time I wasn’t inside the building – I was outside, in the cold, trudging through snow searching frantically for my car. I couldn’t remember where I had parked. I even checked the back parking lot, which is funny, because the high school didn’t have a back parking lot. But dreams love to give us the general idea of a place while completely rearranging the floor plan.
Here’s the part I find odd now that I’m awake: it was dark. Why? High school gets out around 3:30-ish in the afternoon. It wouldn’t be dark unless the sun had given up early that day. Just another layer of loneliness and frustration added to the plot, I suppose.
The car I was searching for? My daughter’s first car. A pinkish/champagne colored Toyota Corolla. My brain apparently enjoys nostalgia. At some point in the dream, it dawned on me that I had the key fob in my pocket. But when I pulled it out, it was so dark I couldn’t see the buttons.
As I’m typing this, it occurred to me that the Corolla didn’t have a key fob. It was way before fobs came into existence. It had a huge Toyota key. But anyway – back to the dream.
I now understand the darkness. There had to be a villain in the plot. I squinted at the fob, searching for the horn button, pressing what I thought was the right one, but saw no headlights flickering anywhere. Naturally, I had to go check the imaginary back lot too. Same result. Nothing.
I’ve also had the dreams where my teeth or hair are falling out. I think that’s a pretty common one. But they all leave one wondering what exactly is behind these kinds of dreams. Do they correlate to what we are feeling/experiencing in our real lives?
The awful feeling of not finding my locker, not knowing the combination, not knowing what class to go to next – all have me feeling scared, frustrated and panicky in the dream. Is that how I feel in real life? I’d say no. But on a subconscious level – maybe?
I believe we remember dreams more vividly when we’re in that light, fragile sleep and we wake soon after. These dreams cling to you. They set the tone for the day before the day even begins. All I want to do is go back to bed, but I’m afraid if I do, I’ll end up right back in that damn high school. No thank you.
My assumption when pondering the meaning behind these dreams is simple: I’m either lousy with numbers, or it’s a predicter of impending dementia.
After doing some Google research, the experts said these are very common dreams among adults, as high school is a universal symbol of: expectations, pressure, performance, judgement and responsibility. Dream experts say returning to high school often reflects current worries or insecurities, not past ones.
The good news is that people who have these dreams tend to be responsible, reliable, thoughtful and concerned about not letting others down. I guess that’s not all bad.
All I know is that if I end up back in that high school tonight, my locker better be clearly marked with a giant neon sign, the lock completely missing, my own personal guidance counselor waiting to escort me to my next class and somebody better hand me a diploma before I forget why I’m there in the first place.
A toast:
To those still reading – all 3 of you – my loyal fans who would’ve been right there in my dream with a bolt cutter in one hand, flashlight in the other, ready to bust open my locker and wander that dark parking lot with me, looking for a car that probably didn’t exist… you truly are the friends every dreamer needs. Cheers!
I was standing in Menards the other day, in the aisle. You know the one. The lightbulb aisle. An entire aisle – both sides – dedicated just to lightbulbs.
When did buying a lightbulb become a major life decision? For Pete’s sake, I had only one goal: illumination. Make the dark become light. I just want to be able to see. That’s it. That’s the whole assignment.
As I stood there staring at the endless wall of glowing options, another woman wandered down the same aisle. She soon had the same defeated posture I did – the posture of someone who came in for a simple errand and is now questioning her place in the universe. We stood there long enough to qualify for squatters’ rights, so I finally broke the silence. To be honest, I was looking for reassurance that I wasn’t the only one confused.
I said, “Do you remember when buying a lightbulb was an easy task?
Her sigh told me everything. She remembered. And she hated this as much as I did.
Back in the day, the only thing we had to worry about was wattage. Maybe shape, if you were feeling fancy – regular bulb or the little candelabra flame. That was it. You certainly never had to worry about getting home, realizing you brought the wrong kind, and having to exchange it. Exchanging a lightbulb? Absurd. That was like returning a banana. It just wasn’t done.
But now? Now I’m standing there trying to decode the wording on the packaging like I’m being punked by the lighting industry.
Do I want LED?
If LED, do I want the corkscrew looking one that resembles a science fair project?
Do I have the right base size?
Do I want soft white, bright white, daylight, warm glow, cool glow, or my personal favorite – whatever “relax” light is supposed to be.
How about light light? That’s the kind I’m looking for. The kind where, when I flip the switch, it lights up. I smile. It’s that simple. Life goes on.
And then there are the words – incandescent, iridescent, candescent. I had to pull out my phone and Google them like I was studying for the SAT. At this point, I’m convinced lightbulb buying is becoming a “man of the house” job. Not because men know more, mind you, just because I’m tapping out and have better things to do with my time.
I thought I finally found what I needed: candelabra shape, correct wattage, correct base size. Victory! But when I got home, I realized my existing bulbs were that milky white glass, and the new one was clear. It wasn’t going to match. In addition, my exiting bulbs had a textured pattern on them.
Before I made the return, I decided to try Amazon. Surely Amazon would have it. After all, Amazon has everything – just ask my husband. Except… they didn’t. And if Amazon doesn’t have it, that’s the universe telling me to get my mind out of the old days and into the modern world.
Apparently, the combination I was looking for had been discontinued, outlawed, or is sitting in the Smithsonian.
For half a second, I did consider checking eBay. But then, common sense told me that even if I found one, it probably wouldn’t work anymore.
Back to Menards I go. As the lady is unloading my cart, I glance over at the battery display. Batteries – now there’s another “simple” item that has gone off the rails.
You’d think it would be as easy: AA, AAA, maybe a 9-volt if you’re feeling nostalgic. But no. Now we have alkaline, lithium, rechargeable, super-charged, ultra-long life, and something called “industrial,” which I’m convinced is just savvy marketing for “costs more.” I wonder if with all these options, even the Energizer bunny wants to throw his drum sticks in the air and walk off the set.
I stood there thinking, why? Why do we need these many options? I nearly failed chemistry class. I don’t want to compare voltage charts. I don’t want to read packaging that sounds like it was written by NASA. I just want to pop my AA battery in my clock and have it work.
Oh boy. Did I mention the word clock?
My husband loves clocks. LOVES them. There are clocks in nearly every room of this house. Which I think is overkill, but what do I know? With clocks comes cords. So many of them. Which means we need those giant adaptors that can accommodate eight plug-ins, all humming like a small power plant. My husband says, “It’s either this or a power strip. Pick your poison.”
Next Sunday it’s Daylight-Saving Time. We get to put our clocks ahead. Yippee! The day we all look forward to. But it also means turning our clocks ahead manually, which is where the real fun begins – especially in this house.
Remember the days when you set a clock by turning the little round dial on the back? You couldn’t screw that up if you tried.
Digital clocks should be that easy too. They used to be. A set button, an hour button, a minute button. Simply hold set + hour. Then set + minute. DONE! Yeh, you might have to change the pm to am or vice versa, but a toddler can figure that out.
But that is NOT the system with the majority of clocks in this house. Heck no – my husband has to buy the fancy ones.
These clocks have buttons that look like they were designed by someone who hates people. Mode. Adjust. Reset. Sync. Wave. Program. Snooze/Dim/Alarm/Time/Zone/12-24 hr. And none of them do what you think they do. Do you know how dumb I feel that I can’t change the time on a clock? I’ll just remember to add an hour every time I look at it until my husband gets home.
I can’t help but laugh when it takes him 20 minutes to set one clock, and then I finally hear him mutter the universal truth: “Geez Louise, why can’t they just put a Time/Hour/Minute button on it? Now he’s talking my language.
Some things in life are simply better left uncomplicated.
Lightbulbs. Batteries. Clocks. We don’t need 47 options. We don’t need a user manual. We don’t need a YouTube tutorial in order to use them.
We just want things to work.
And now… a toast…
To the simple things: just plain light… as in the opposite of dark. Not “daylight-soft-warm-glow-relax-mode-eco-friendly-full-spectrum-mood-endancing-therapy-grade illumination”.
To AA batteries that don’t require a minor in chemistry.
To clocks that don’t need a 47–button sequence and a prayer circle to set them.
And to all of us who refuse to be defeated by household items that used to cost $1.29 and zero brain cells.
May our homes stay illuminated, our batteries stay charged, our clocks be on time, and may manufacturers everywhere remember that we are not trying to launch a rocket – we’re just trying to live our lives.
Cheers to keeping it simple… and to the day when “easy” makes a comeback.
I’m convinced Netflix created Love is Blind specifically to steal my free time and my dignity. Lately, I’ve found myself wasting hours I’ll never get back on this series. It’s the ultimate chick-flick binge spiral. I know it’s ridiculous and a waste of my time, and yet there I am, sucked back in like a moth to a very dumb, very sparkly flame.
The whole premise of the show is that men and women “date” behind a wall so they can fall in love based solely on conversation – no looks, no distractions, just hopes, dreams, and whatever version of themselves they can sell in ten-minute increments.
One of those ten-min. increments had my full attention. I was scrolling my phone while the show was playing in the background, when suddenly my ears perked up. I heard the woman seductively say to the stranger behind the wall, “Oh, baby, I can’t wait to jump on top of you. I’m so hot for you right now. There’s nothing and I mean nothing, I wouldn’t do for you.”
Holy mama! Are we approaching soft-porn territory?
The poor guy on the other side of the wall, fully aware he’s on camera, is trying to hide the obvious predicament he’s suddenly dealing with. Chances are this is the first time in his life a disembodied voice has said such things to him. He’s sold. He doesn’t know her middle name, but she’s clearly the woman he’s been searching for his whole life.
The funny thing? When they finally saw each other, he ran to her like he’d won the jackpot, but you could see the utter disappointment on her face – desperately trying to hide it, not wanting to hurt his feelings. They didn’t just fail to last; they didn’t even make it to Mexico. I’m pretty sure they never saw each other after that first encounter.
Supposedly this social love experience proves whether love is truly blind. Can two people fall for each other without ever seeing each other?
I’m now on Season 5 and when I finish with all the US seasons, there’s always Love is Blind: Brazil, Love is Blind: France, Love is Blind: Australia, etc. Apparently love is blind on every continent.
I’m amazed that often, at least half of the couples stick it out, get married, and are still together at the reunion a year later, appearing happier than ever. Apparently, this social love experiment can and does work.
But I have to admit, I find the “getting to know you” parts of the show are painfully boring – the giddiness, the forced sexy talk, the ridiculous questions they come up with. Do you fart in bed? Have you ever been told you have bad breath? As if anyone on national TV – or off it, for that matter, is going to admit the truth. Can you imagine someone chirping, “Oh yes, absolutely – both my morning breath and gas could peel paint.” Not a chance. They lie through their teeth, trying to spin some romantic nonsense, as if there’s a sexy way to say, “Any fumes you encounter, babe, are really just a compliment to your exquisite home cooking.”
And calling each other, Babe? These people throw it around like it’s a magic spell guaranteed to get them laid. They use it so often, I’m shocked Netflix hasn’t added a drinking game warning.
My thumb is permanently hovering over the fast-forward button. I’m not here for the speed-dating, the “tell me your deepest trauma” parts, or the faux-soul-searching. I’m here for the moment – usually around Episode 3, when the guy gets down on one knee through the wall and proposes to a woman whose last name he probably had to write on a Post-it note.
Then comes my favorite part: the big reveal. They stand on either side of a door that opens like an elevator door and I’m perched on the couch waiting to see their faces. Most of the time they run to each other and look genuinely pleased. But every season there’s at least one couple where you can practically hear the internal screaming. They can barely hide their disappointment as they force a smile. One person is hugging and kissing like they’ve found their soulmate, while the other has both hands on the others’ chest trying to keep them at arm’s length. We can all see the disappointment. Why can’t they?
And then – because Netflix is Netflix – they are shipped straight off to Mexico to live together as an engaged couple. No pressure.
I’m cringing for the couples who are utterly disappointed. I feel especially sorry for the guy whose fiancée says to him just after they get under the covers, “I hope you understand, but I don’t believe in sex before marriage. “ This was followed by telling him he’s “kind of the nerdy type.” Where’s that woman who just days before, wanted to jump his bones and please him in every imaginable way? Sorry buddy. No beautiful music for you tonight. Tomorrow’s not looking too great either.
After Mexico, we follow them through apartment life, family introductions, and finally wedding dress shopping. Then it’s off to the altar where they decide if love really is blind – or if they’ve simply been drunk on free margaritas for three weeks.
And now… my pet peeve. This show shouts it at me in almost every episode. It makes me squirm. It makes me want to yell at the TV. It’s when someone says:
“I’m 1000% sure.”
“I’m 110% committed.”
“I’m a million percent in.”
No. No you’re not. You cannot go more than 100%. One hundred percent is it. It’s all of it. That’s the whole pie. There is no bonus pie.
But there she is, standing in her tight little, short-knit dress, squealing, “YES, I’ll marry you! I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life! I’m 1000% certain you’re my person!”
Girl… you have never seen this man. He could walk out looking like your ex, your cousin, or your tax auditor. Unless you have your notes in front of you, I’m sure you don’t remember his last name. And yet, you’re 1,000% sure he’s your soulmate?
Maybe it’s my age. Maybe it’s common sense. But every time I hear it, I’m shaking my head thinking, “Oh, you sweet little dummy.” And then, because I’m apparently no better – I keep watching.
Somewhere between the proposals, the awkward reveals, and the tequila-fueled meltdowns, the show taps into something universal: people desperately want to love and be loved. Apparently, these contestants haven’t had much luck in the real dating world, so they’re willing to speed-date behind a wall on national television.
And Netflix? They’re footing the bill for apartments, rings, wedding dresses, tuxedos, endless cocktails, Mexican resorts and full wedding receptions just in case someone says yes. How do they afford all this?
People like me.
People like us.
Hopeless romantics with remotes in hand and popcorn in lap, tuning in for the 47th time because we remember what it felt like to fall in love – and because watching other people do it is strangely comforting.
I have no doubt part of the draw is watching these men unload every romantic line they can possibly string together and have most likely googled and memorized before going on the show. All while the women fall for it – hook, line and sinker. Face it – very few of us ever hear that kind of romanticism from our actual partners, if we ever did. We know it’s all blarney, but it’s the kind of blarney women will happily marinate in, because for a few hours (or several), the fantasy feels a whole lot better than reality.
Humans want to love. Humans want to be loved. It’s what keeps the world spinning and the babies coming. Without it, we’d eventually become extinct.
I’ll end here with a toast: To the universal, undeniable, slightly embarrassing truth: we all want to love and be loved.
To the couples who try it on TV, to the romantics who watch from their couches, and to the math teachers everywhere cringing at 110%.
May we all keep laughing, keep loving, and keep believing – just enough to keep the world spinning.
Have you ever felt that strange ache – the one that isn’t quite sadness, isn’t quite longing, but sits somewhere deep in your chest whispering, I want to go home? I’ve felt that throughout my life. It hits me out of nowhere, and every time I think, I’m homesick…but for where?
I’m literally standing in my own house, so where exactly am I trying to go? Target? Heaven? A past life? Hard to say.
I once heard someone say, “If people would lose the fear of dying, they’d really start living.” I sat with that for a while, and honestly, I think they’re right. A huge percentage of humanity walks around terrified of the one thing that is absolutely guaranteed. We fear losing loved ones. We fear losing ourselves. We fear the doctor’s office because what if they find something… and what if that something leads to the big, unspoken D-word.
Why are we so afraid of death? I believe it’s because we can’t remember how beautiful it is.
Last evening I was watching a reel from Hospice Nurse Julie, as she shared one of her favorite end-of-life experiences. She had cared for a gentleman for months, and on her last shift with him, she knew he was close. She said her goodbyes, walked to her car, sat in the quiet… and suddenly heard his voice.
“Julie… Julie… it’s so beautiful! If only I had known. The peace, the love… it’s magnificent.”
They had a full telepathic conversation until her phone rang. It was the hospice worker who had taken over her shift calling to say he had just passed. Julie wasn’t surprised. He had already told her where he was – and how breathtaking it felt.
Stories like that don’t just resonate with me. They chime with something ancient inside me. They match what I’ve always believed: when someone is close to death, they have one foot on the other side. That’s why people who’ve been unresponsive for days suddenly open their eyes, look upward, and reach out.
My father did that. The night before he passed, he hadn’t opened his eyes in days. My mom was alone with him when suddenly his eyes opened, he looked up toward the ceiling and lifted his arm. She said she had no doubt he saw someone she couldn’t see – and he was ready to take their hand. He passed the next morning.
It happened again in our family three years ago, when my ex-husband – the father of my children lay dying. His heart was still beating, but there had been no sign of life for days. After each of us said our private goodbyes, my daughter and I went back one last time. We stood there holding hands and to our shock, his arm lifted off the bed. He was reaching for someone. Jill and I hugged and cried tears of joy. It was the most beautiful gift he could have given us at that moment.
The nurse in the room turned around and uttered something about the body’s nerves sometimes can do that. Bless her heart – she knew the medical side, but spiritually? She had a lot to learn.
I don’t fear death. What I fear is the pain it would bring to my children. But even then, I believe they would be okay. I believe this is all part of a larger plan and life carries on and we’ll be together again in the “blink of an eye.”
If I had to describe the afterlife in one word, home comes to mind.
Earth isn’t our home – not really. It’s our temporary address. We come here, we play our roles, we love our people, we learn our lessons and then we go back to where we came from. Back to our soul family. Back to the place we’ve been a thousand times before.
There’s a moment right before sleep – the hypnagogic stage – where you’re still conscious but drifting. If you can stay in that space, even for a few seconds, it’s incredible what you can experience. I’ve felt my arms float upward like they’re levitating. I’ve felt my whole body vibrate, teeth chattering, like I’m about to blast off. Apparently, that’s the first stage of an out-of-body experience. It hasn’t happened now for several years, but when it did I’d say to myself, Relax Lisa, this could be your big moment.
And every time, I failed spectacularly.
Apparently during an out-of-body experience, the soul slips out of the physical body and begins to astral travel. People describe looking down at the body they just left – the same body that moments earlier felt so essential – and feeling absolutely no attachment to it. Then off the soul goes, gliding through walls, drifting through doors, soaring through the air like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Most people hear that and think, No, thank you, that sounds terrifying. Not me. I say bring it on. I have no doubt it would feel strangely familiar.
I did have one experience where I felt what I would interpret as my soul being pulled out of my body. A suction – a swoosh – and I remember thinking, Well, that was intense. It was almost uncomfortable, and yet at the same time – it was so familiar. Like something I’ve done millions of times. And I think we all have. I believe every time we sleep, our soul goes home for a bit. It’s part of the deal we made before coming here: Fine, I’ll be trapped in a body, but I want visitation rights.
I believe that’s why babies sleep so much. They just left home. They’re adjusting to being squeezed into a body – a body that feels heavy, limiting and brand-new. They’re still half in heaven, half here, holding onto the connection for as long as they can.
Sometimes I think we have it all backwards. We mourn when a soul leaves this world, and we celebrate when a baby arrives. But what if the one who lived a long life is finally going home…and the newborn is the one who just signed up for the hard part? The lessons. The limitations. The forgetting. The struggles. The work of being human. No wonder babies come into this world crying. Sure, it’s to fill their lungs with air, but I think there’s more to it.
The Life Review
And one day, when we finally go home, there will be a life review.
Not a highlight reel. Not a list of our mistakes. Not a cosmic PowerPoint presentation.
It goes deeper than that.
We won’t just see what we did – we will feel it. We will feel, from the other person’s perspective, exactly how our words landed. How our actions shaped them. How our presence mattered – or didn’t.
That is the real lesson. Not what we said… but how we made others feel.
So until that day comes, we live, we love, we learn, we laugh, we cry, we lose people, we find ourselves, and we keep going. And every once in a while, when that homesick feeling hits, maybe it’s just heaven texting us:
“Don’t worry. When you’re done down there… the porch light is always on.”
I think while we’re still down here – we could all stand to lighten up a little bit. Everywhere you look, especially on social media, people are snapping at each other like toddlers who missed their nap. Someone posts an opinion, and suddenly the entire comment section is acting like the fate of the free world hinges on a meme.
But, in the big scheme of things? It’s so unbelievably unimportant.
As Maya Angelou said, it’s not what people said or did that we remember – it’s how they made us feel. And if that’s what we’re going to review someday, then maybe we should be a whole lot more concerned with how we treat each other than with whatever those “awful people on the other side of the aisle” supposedly said this week.
Because when all is said and done – when we finally go home – nobody’s going to ask us which political team we voted for. They’re going to ask how we loved. How we lifted. How we made people feel.
And if we can remember that, even just a little, maybe this place will feel a bit more like home while we’re still here.
A toast: to the mystery of where we came from and the comfort of knowing we’ll return there again.
Here’s to the people we’ve loved, the lessons we’ve learned, and the moments that shaped us in ways we didn’t always understand at the time.
Here’s to treating each other a little softer, speaking a little kinder, and remembering that every soul we meet is just trying to find their way home too.
And here’s to the day – far, far down the road – when we finally step across that threshhold, kick off these earthly shoes, and hear a familiar voice say, “Welcome home!”
Cheers!
Author’s note: If that AI rendering is a glimpse of what’s ahead, I’d say heaven is looking pretty darn good, wouldn’t you?
When something traumatic happens – a fire, a loss, a heartbreak – our minds cling to it like velcro. Those moments feel like they leave scars, so of course they’re the ones that replay in our heads. It’s easy to understand why Joey and Briana feel like it’s been one bad thing after another on the farm.
When you’re hurting, it can feel like the universe is piling on.
Since writing last week’s blog regarding the fire that took the century old barn on the family farm, I’ve heard from several who could relate to that kind of trauma and the pain felt in the aftermath. Farmers who too, knew the pain of losing a barn. A family who watched a tornado tear through their land, to later find their animals crushed under the weight of the rubble.
These stories remind me that pain is universal – and that old saying, “It could always be worse,” is painfully, humbly true.
Just this morning playing pickleball, a gentleman I’ve only come to know, started talking about losing his daughter in a car accident a little over a year ago. Later, through a mutual friend, I learned she burned in the wreck. That stopped me in my tracks.
This is not to diminish the pain Joey and Briana are feeling – not at all. They suffered a great loss. Their pain is justified. It’s simply to offer a new lens to look through, a reminder that perspective can soften the edges of our own hurt.
I’ve always believed that manifesting isn’t just thinking, hoping or praying for something better. The real power comes from feeling it. Picture yourself in the life you want. See the space around you. Smell it. Hear it. Feel it. When you’re busy imaging the good, you’re not feeding the bad. And when we stop feeding the bad, it stops sticking to us like that heavy, gray energy that follows us around.
I’ve seen this in my own life. When you’re going through a divorce, all you can think about is heartache and anger. But when that person dies – even if you were divorced – something shifts. The weight of the negative memories’ lifts, and the good ones float back to the surface. Isn’t that something? Two people who once loved each other fiercely get to remember that love again. It’s like grief wipes the fog off the glass.
That brings me back to Joey and Briana.
That long list of what’s gone wrong since you’ve moved to the farm has taken enough of your time. Stop replaying that list. Let it go. Release those heavy weights. Dig a big hole and bury them – every last one.
Picture yourselves building your new home. Picture yourselves having dinner around your dining room table. Picture being able to sleep at night because the new house has all new wiring, a roof that doesn’t leak, an attached garage, no snakes hiding under the basement floor and a view to new sunrises. And when you see the next sunrise, say to yourselves, “Wow, the sunrise sure is bigger without that big ole barn in the way.” Humor helps. Perspective helps. And sometimes, reframing is the only way through.
Sunsets are pretty wonderful too. And you still have those.
You’ve lost a lot of farm cats over the years. Farm life is unpredictable for outside cats– predators, cold winters, warm engines, busy roads. Losing Berkley in the last 6 months has been especially heavy, and it makes sense that your hearts feel tender and guarded. Berkley lived fourteen years wrapped in your love, and that kind of bond leaves an imprint that doesn’t fade – it simply becomes part of you.
Nothing replaces the one you lost, but something new can fill an open space, if you allow it.
Briana – you, of all people, have learned that cats aren’t so bad after all. In fact, they’re pretty darn loveable. I’m still amused that the lifelong dog person (you) ended up letting a cat into her home… while the lifelong cat lady (me) somehow ended up with a dog. Life certainly has a sense of humor.
Indoor cats are safe. They’re easy to leave when you travel. And they give back so much love with so little chaos. Well… unless you count knocking things off counters at 3 am, but that’s part of their charm.
But before we even talk about a new pet, I want to offer you something gentler. Something that doesn’t ask you to “move on,” but instead lets you imagine a continuation of the love you already had.
Briana, I know the image of those beloved cats in the barn fire has been almost too much to bear. Any mother, any animal lover, any human with a heart would struggle with that. But that picture you conjure in your mind – that’s a story we created because we didn’t see what happened. We don’t know if it’s true. And sometimes the stories we tell ourselves hurt far worse than the truth ever would.
It’s just as possible – and definitely more comforting to believe – that they passed from smoke inhalation long before the flames ever reached them. They didn’t suffer. And Berkley was right there to pull them from the fire, guiding them out of fear and straight into peace.
Although controversial, this is something I believe and people from all over the world tell stories about.. pets that come back to them – not in the same body, but with the same soul. And they know it to be true because of the same quirks they had in the prior life. They may sleep in the same funny position. They choose the same spot in the house to sleep. They have the same habits only their family would recognize. And when it happens, the family just knows.
So maybe, before another animal enters your life, you offer a little prayer. Talk to Bella. Tell her:
“You wanted so badly to come inside the house the night of the fire. I’m so sorry I couldn’t give you that. But if you come back to us – you’ll be a house kitty. I promise you’ll never spend another cold night outside. You won’t have to defend yourself. You’ll be safe. You’ll be warm. And you’ll be with Parker and Paxton, whom you adored and adore you.
That’s not replacing Bella. That’s inviting her home again.
And who knows… maybe it won’t even be Bella. For all we know, it could be Berkley, deciding he wants another round with the family – and the thought of coming back as a cat might be appealing to him. I mean, he did have it pretty good. Fourteen years of snacks, sunbeams, and being worshipped like a tiny, furry king. Not a bad gig.
The point is: souls find their way back to the people they love. Sometimes they just choose a different coat of fur.
So I’m going to say something here that I never expected to write in my blog, but then again, I never know what these posts will become until I sit down and let them speak.
I would love nothing more than to gift your family with a ragdoll kitten. I’ll take care of the vaccinations, the spay, and any vet bills within the first year. Let the boys pick it out. Let them name it. Let them fall in love again, and let’s start by giving them something to look forward to.
Yes, Briana, that means cat hair in the house. But so what? You’ve always been an immaculate housekeeper and this will ensure you keep your skills honed in. You’ll be kept busy doing what you’re good at. And every time you see a fuzz ball gently gliding across the floor, or your black pants have kitty love on them, I want you to smile and remember the love that kitten gives you. Don’t concentrate on the bad – focus on the good!
The reason I want it to be a Ragdoll, is because I’ve now had four of them, and every one of them had a wonderful temperament and make great lap kitties. That’s exactly the kind of kitten I want those boys to have.
I’ve been in contact with the lady who gave us Teddy and Tilly. She’s expecting a litter due this month. Imagine the joy it would bring Parker and Paxton to pick out a kitten from the litter – to get pictures as it grows, to watch its little personality unfold, and start dreaming up names and claiming “their” kitten long before it ever comes home.
And here’s where the timing couldn’t be more perfect. Since we had to delay Christmas this year because of all the sickness… well, isn’t it funny how life works out? Now, when we have our late Christmas this Saturday, I can hand Parker and Paxton (with your blessing, of course), a card with pictures of kittens inside.
Honestly, you wouldn’t dare deprive them of a Christmas present like that after they’ve seen the pictures, would you? I mean, that would just be cruel. What parent could look into those little faces and say, “Sorry boys, Grandma was just kidding”? No one wants to be the villain in their own children’s Christmas story.
So go ahead – start thinking about a name, start buying toys, and make that all important decision of where the litter box is going to go.
Yes, I can already hear Joey: “Mom, we’re just getting over the loss of the barn. It’s too soon.”
But no, sweetheart – it’s the perfect time. You first thought building this spring was too soon also and yet it just may be unfolding exactly the way it was meant to. Funny how that happens.
Would it not make your heart lighter to see those boys laughing again, chasing a fluffy kitten down the hallway? Wouldn’t that be the best medicine for all of you?
This isn’t about replacing what was lost. It’s about opening the door to what’s next. Picture the boys curled up on the couch with a kitten sleeping on top of them. Picture peace settling in again.
Love it hard for all the time you have with it. That’s all any of us can do.
A toast: Here’s to timing that works out better than we planned, to late Christmas miracles, and to the kind of gift no one in their right mind would dare take back once the boys have seen those kitten pictures. Here’s to new love, new laughter, and the healing that sneaks in on tiny whiskered feet.
Author’s Note: This piece was written in the hours and days following a heartbreaking loss on our family farm – the burning of a barn that held decades of memories, hard work, and new life. What began as a message to comfort my son and his family grew into a reflection on legacy, resilience and the hope of new beginnings.
I hope these words bring comfort to Joey, Briana, Parker and Paxton, and to anyone who has ever lost something that meant more than others could understand.
This writing is a mother’s prayer, a family’s story, and a reminder that even when the barn falls, the future still waits – steady, patient, and full of possibility.
Yesterday morning, I received a text message from my oldest son, Joey, addressed to his siblings and myself. The heaviness of the text hit before I even read its entirety, from the photos attached. They had just watched their barn burn to the ground.
They had been sleeping in a little, the kind of slow Sunday morning you ease into, until a pounding on the front door jolted them awake. Their Ring camera showed two people standing outside, urgently knocking. But what they saw behind them rocked them to their core – the big old barn, the icon of that family farm, was in flames.
By the time the fire department arrived, there was no saving it. Years and years of memories were gone in minutes. Their chickens perished in the fire, and 5 of their beloved cats are still unaccounted for. Joey asked that nobody call – they weren’t in the mood for conversation. They were crushed.
When your child hurts, you hurt. And this wasn’t just their loss. That barn was part of my early life too. The farm is where my married life began and our kids were born. I have memories of when Jay and I were still dating, when he was raising feeder pigs. I loved going into the barn, seeing the sows in their stalls, watching them give birth. And of course, I learned quickly that farm life isn’t always cheerful – like when a runt pig had to be put down, or when a sow rolled over on a litter, ending their lives as quickly as they began. Life on a farm means life everywhere, but it also means witnessing what happens when neighboring tomcats discover a new litter of kittens. As hard as we try to protect them, nature has its own plans.
Joey grew up knowing these things. So, when the family decided to get farm cats, his instructions were simple: “Don’t fall in love with them.” That’s like telling the boys not to breathe. Sorry, Dad – they’re all going to have names, and if we fall in love… oh well. To their surprise, it wasn’t just the boys who fell in love with the cats.
A favorite barn-related memory of my years on the farm, was putting hay up into the loft. I can still see the hay wagon parked under the open loft door. It was my job to hold the long, thick rope attached to the hay fork. Jay would place the fork into the fresh, new bales. Stomp on it to make sure all 8 forks were in there good and tight, then he’d go back up into the loft.
Now it was my turn. I’d wait until he was ready, and on cue, I’d pull on the rope hard enough to engage the motor, thus pulling the bales up to the peak of the loft. Once it hit the peak of the roof, we’d always hold our breath, as the motor jerked the bales, swinging them back and forth, sometimes spinning them and once in a while, a bale would barely be hanging on. We’d watch as the bales then made their way into the part of the barn where Jay wanted them to drop.
I’d wait for him to yell “Trip it,” and it was then that I held the all-important job – yanking on that rope hard enough that the forks released the bales – all at the same time. If I didn’t do it hard enough, it’d leave them hanging and let’s just say a few choice words were heard coming out of the hay loft. If I heard a nice solid thud, I knew I was successful – landing them safely intact and not falling apart. Of course, those days were always 110 degrees in the shade kind of days, and everyone’s patience was a little short. And yet the sight, the sounds and the smell of fresh baled hay are etched in my mind.
That barn was home to pigs, cows, cats, Persian kittens that I raised for a while – you know, one of the many jobs Lisa had, a few horses, and in recent years, chickens. Joey had spent the last couple of years pouring his heart into that barn. Structurally it was still sound – it just needed a little TLC, which he was happy to give.
Joey and his family had just taken over the farm after his father’s passing. The entire family was thrilled that a Knudtson would carry on the legacy. My grandsons were over the moon. In the 3 years they’ve lived there, they’ve worked tirelessly to clean it up and make it a place they were proud to call home.
Joey built new barn doors, sectioned off part of it for a chicken coop, cleaned it up and made ready for whatever animals might come next. It was going to have a good life again. He was so, so proud. His hope was that one of his boys would one day carry on the legacy and that barn would naturally be part of the landscape.
Life doesn’t always work out the way we want it to.
That barn gave Joey his first taste of chores when he was young. Jay purposely got a few bottle calves because these kids had to know what chores were all about. We’d wake Jill and Joey up early enough so they could mix powdered milk in the basement, fill the bottles, and trek out to the barn to feed them before the school bus came. I’m sure those calves had names too – because that’s what we do. You don’t have animals without loving them.
Unfortunately, in the short three years they’ve lived there, it’s been one heartache after another. And that’s the part they struggle with. It’s only smooth sailing for so long until the next crisis happens.
Their adventure began with a snake infestation – in the house. That alone would’ve sent most people packing. But they found the root of the problem and fixed it. Then came a leaky roof, which meant mold in the attic. But Joey and Briana were determined. With Briana’s decorating and grit, the house slowly became home. It wasn’t their dream house, but they loved the feel of the farm – the solitude it provided, the boys exploring in the woods, the freedom that comes with country living.
And Briana, bless her heart, accepted that farm life meant never having a clean car again, longer drives to town, and a whole lot more grass to mow. But it was worth it. Joey was living on the land he grew up on, and now he got to share that with Briana and the boys. They’d found their forever home.
Even though Joey in his text message had requested nobody call, I needed to. I needed someone to cry with myself. If I was this heartbroken, how must they feel watching the embers, wondering if their sweet cats had perished too?
They didn’t answer then, but they called later that evening. It was hard for all of us to talk through the tears. Joey felt it happened on his watch – felt it was somehow his fault. Briana was riddled with guilt because she saw her favorite cat, Bella, greet her as she usually did when she got home late after working a second shift. After giving her a little love, she told Bella she needed to go to the barn for the night.
The kids had just been making plans to build their dream home this spring. The farm was home to two houses but they had taken down the small vacant house a few years ago. They hoped they could build a new home in that general area one day and that day came sooner than expected. How fun it was going to be to watch the new house go up, while residing in their current one. No moving vans – just walk next door when it’s time for the big move.
So why do things like this happen? I struggle with that myself. It’s normal. What I do know is when your child hurts, you hurt. I was searching for the perfect words, thinking there must be some hidden wisdom deep inside I could muster up to make them feel a little bit better.
Hearing Joey say he’s not sure he wants to stay on the farm anymore, broke my heart. The barn made the farm for him. It greeted you when you pulled in. It stood tall and majestic. And the blood, sweat and tears he poured into fixing it up, vanished in minutes. The fire could have taken any other building, and it wouldn’t have been the end of the world. But the barn? It was the heartbeat of the farm.
When Joey said he wasn’t even sure he wanted to stay on the farm anymore, I understood those words came from a place of hurt, not from clarity nor his heart. Because he’s not a quitter. Truly, can he picture anyone else living there? Can he imagine driving past that acreage and seeing another family’s lights glowing in the windows? Would he not miss the wide-open space, the quiet, the room to breathe? The shop where he tinkers and builds and fixes, the place where his ideas turn into something real? This land is his canvas, his workshop, his playground – his peace. Heartache can cloud all of that, but once the smoke clears, I hope he remembers that piece of land is woven into who he is.
As a mom, I can’t help but see something they can’t quite see right now through the smoke – that they need that new house they were making plans for, now more than they ever did. Not because the old one wasn’t enough, but because a fresh beginning is sometimes the only thing that can hold a hurting heart. When they look out the windows of their new home someday, they won’t miss the barn from that view because they never saw it from there to begin with. That house will face a slightly new direction, a new sunrise, a new chapter that belongs to them. They’re not just taking over generations before them anymore – they’re creating their own story, their own legacy, their own place where joy can settle in again.
Joey commented he’ll never rebuild the barn because it’s irreplaceable. And he’s right. But maybe it doesn’t need to be replaced. Maybe that space now holds the possibility of something new.
And here’s where Joey’s own wisdom came back to me – the words he’s said to me many times: “Mom, it’s time to turn the page. New chapter.”
Maybe this is one of those moments for him. Not because the last chapter wasn’t beautiful, but because the next one is waiting.
When the embers burn out and the smoke clears, so will the mind – making room for new dreams and new possibilities.
I can already picture it: Joey and the boys building a chicken coop together. And when they turn to walk back to the house, it’s the new house – built on a new foundation, ready to hold a million new memories. Afterall, home is being together – wherever you are.
Don’t give up on your dreams, kids. Your hearts are heavy today, but this too shall pass. Keep dreaming. Keep teaching the boys that life is often hard, but that only makes the good times even sweeter.
Parker and Paxon – I know it feels as though every animal you’ve grown to love has been taken from you. But we never get guarantees with any living thing. All we can do is love them with everything we have for as long as we’re lucky enough to have them. That’s how love works. We’ll just keep on loving them until we no longer can, and when the time comes, we’ll love the next ones too. Our capacity to love never runs out.
Joey and Briana – your boys have seen plenty of sadness in their young lives, but they’ve also experienced the best of times: kittens being born, exploring the woods hunting for treasures, fixing up the old Pioneer Seed office into a cozy Sunday morning church space, going on hayrides in the Fall with the neighbors, helping their dad build a wood shed to house all the firewood they chopped, and watching sunrises that took their breath away. Yes, the sunrise will look different now without the barn in the frame. But maybe – just maybe the view will open up in a new way.
What you’ve given those boys is priceless: the example of a father who builds, repairs, creates, and keeps going despite the setbacks. A mother who makes a home out of anything. Parents who cry when life hurts and stand back up anyway.
That is the legacy you leave.
That is the real inheritance you’ll leave them.
That is the new chapter already beginning.
And because I always like to end in a toast…
To Joey and Briana, to the boys who can’t wait to slip on their boots to go searching for new treasures, to the memories that survived the fire, to the love that flames cannot touch, to the dreams that are already rebuilding themselves quietly inside you, although in your grief, you can’t hear the whispers. May this loss carve out space for something unexpected and beautiful.
May the land you love rise to meet you again.
May the next sunrise – unobstructed now – remind you that light always returns.
May your new home, built board by board, become the place where healing settles in and joy finds you again.
Here’s to strength, to hope, to family, and to the barn that lived a very full life – and made room for what comes next.
