On a perfect summer day in northeast Georgia, clouds raced across the blue ridge mountains, wrapping us in light and then in shadow. Bees buzzed and wild flowers bobbed and the fragrance of grass baking in the sun filled me with warmth. I was just a little girl, but I breathed in this perfection and thought I was very lucky to be alive.
My dad and I had gone for a drive on winding dirt roads to look at some old horse drawn equipment for sale.
A man in overalls and a faded cap led us around the back of the barn where the equipment lay forgotten, tall grass growing up around it. He kicked fondly at the plow and his stories brought it life again. He told of plowing corn fields in this valley as a boy, following the backside of a mule for hours. He shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled wistfully over the mountains as he talked.
I listened with all my heart. I didn’t want him to stop. Did he know how fascinating his life had been? His story should be a movie. Or at least a book!
That day I discovered that everyone has a story worth telling. That’s when I began to be passionate about people’s stories—epic, mind-blowing stories or humble, homespun stories.
As I’ve grown up, it’s slowly dawned on me that my passion for people’s stories is a part of my purpose. I am meant to tell stories. The world is waiting to hear them.
It’s taken decades to peel back the layers of who I thought I was supposed to be and discover that what lit me up as a little girl was the thing all along.
I was made to pay attention and tell about it.
I am married to Marc, my first date, the boy I fell in love with in high school.
When Marc was 13, the story goes, he told his dad, “When I stop hating girls, Jordan is the first girl I’ll stop hating.”
When he was 16, he told me he wanted to have 6 kids one day. I didn’t know he was watching for my reaction, but I remember liking that about him even then—how he adored children. He always had a baby in his arms after church.
When he was 18, he told me he’d like to marry me one day.
And when he was 19, he slipped a diamond ring on my finger and gave me my first kiss (his too).
Fast forward and now I am mama to 4 boys and 2 girls.
My days overflow with teaching school, music, soccer, dance, cooking (these boys eat so much food!) and just generally mothering—there are always boo-boos to kiss and messes to clean up. Many days it feels like chaos and noise…and then out of the blur comes a moment that says, “Remember this. Pay attention.”
Over the years, my journal has been my therapy. My place to sort out my thoughts and remember what matters.
“Words crystallize the blur of existence,” I heard someone once say. That has been the gift of words to me. Even mundane life takes on meaning when we tell about it.
Most of my writing here is taken from my moleskine journal, things I scribble as the sun rises or long after it goes down.
Here is my journal—my thoughts on faith, mothering, and living a life of meaning.
Thank you for being here.