I’ll be back at school tomorrow and with Step Sing starting Sunday and going every evening until the 16th, this will likely be my last #fmfparty for a little while – and tonight there was writer’s block but I’m pretending that makes it even more fun. An extra challenge and always a weird feeling to arrive at ‘stop” and look back over what came out. I pray you’ll feel at home here tonight and every night.


The walls are pale yellow on top with a sage green beneath and in between are two thin hunter green lines that define the white line that runs around the room. There’s dark wood furniture, favorite printables displayed, and in the corner sits a dining room chair dragged up the stairs two weeks ago. One of the closet doors doesn’t shut completely and the blinds only open at an angle. I can’t remember the last time the fan was dusted and the empty wall with nails hurts my heart, but new art will adorn the walls soon.

It’s home to me, but I’m only there for a visit.

Twelve hours away there’s a room with beige walls and a million pieces of bright art around the room, hung with command strips and the hopes that they will peel off come May without the paint peeling, too. There are two jars stuffed with pens and sharpies on the desk, pictures of loved ones hanging everywhere, and a piece of chevron fabric covering up the mirror so awkwardly nailed into the wall where a headboard belongs. The desk chair has a cushion to cover up the hole that was made by previous residents, and the light buzzes above if the flip is ever switched.

It’s changed each year but a visit to Alabama turned into a new place to call home.

There’s a blue rolling chair with a baby seat on top, a small bookshelf, and a closet full of old prom dresses. The bedspread is white, my computer atop the pale pink duvet cover at the end of the bed. There are pink roses and pink stems and pink leaves and even though I don’t like pink, it’s pretty to me because I recognize it. The room has welcomed me season after season, often for just one night at a time as I travel between homes.

It’s a visit, yet it’s also a home.

The colors haven’t been updated in years and the numbers stay about the same. Things are added to the sidebar and new faces come along for the journey. I learn a little html mojo here and there and listen to the stories of strangers I’ll likely never meet, but am sure I’ll recognize in heaven, no name tag needed. I write like I talk and I read every word left here by strangers, because you matter. You take the time to read mine, and so I will always take the time to read yours. It’s over five years old, this place. With hundreds of posts and thousands of words, dreams built and hopes pursued, my heart is laid bare, vulnerable and beating on the table.

It’s just me, no pretense, no pretending I ever have it all together, and always doing my best to point only to Him. It’s my story and you’re welcome to it, even the messy parts – maybe especially the messy parts. Because it’s not about me, it’s about the One who wrote out my Story, and therefore has authored what you read right now.

In some crazy way, every time you land on this page, I thank Him and hope that you open the page for a visit… and find that it feels like home.