I write at night. Often on the floor, usually curled up in an unexpected spot. As I type this I’m sitting almost completely under my kitchen table, adjacent to our side door. I paint and design on my kitchen counter (after first wiping everything down and piling the dirty dishes in the sink).

I kept waiting for life to become a little more glamorous, or if not glamorous, at least ordered and predictable. But it hasn’t. And in some ways, I don’t think I want it to… But it is hard to find spaces to create. So I’ve set aside my expectation of perfection for the reality of the present. What you are walking into here is an imperfect after-hours kind of obedience ad joy. I’m not a slick, polished act. I’m a mom. Who wears leggings too often and has to mentally talk herself out of a second mug of espresso every.single.day.

But here are the basic stats: I was saved by grace because God is good and I am not. I didn’t earn it. He gave it. I married a man who is much too good for me and I reluctantly followed him into full-time ministry. I’m still not convinced that I’m supposed to be a pastor’s wife, but my husband and God seem pretty confident, so I’m really not going to argue with them. They’ve both led me into a life that is far better than anything I could have planned. I live in a semi-urban environment and in my neighborhood I am an ethnic minority. Police regularly search our backyard for criminals, but if you live in my area of town your only response to that would be, “Wow! You have a backyard!?”

I’m a mom to four children and one sweet baby who got to see Jesus before the rest of us. We believe in adding children in rapid, unconventional succession. We have waded through domestic private adoption, foster care, foster-to-adopt, and biological additions. I’m not good at being pregnant, in part because I have ulcerative colitis (and my body tries to kill me during or after every child), plus I have too many food cravings even when I’m not pregnant.

We homeschool. I’m not a natural at it.

I am the women’s ministry director at our church. I’m not a natural at it. I forget about emails.

I have a big house to clean. I’m not naturally inclined to neatness. While I was growing up, my parents nicknamed my room “The Black Hole.” Things went into it. But they never came out.

I’m not naturally good at motherhood, wife-ing, or biblical womanhood. BUT. These are the things God has called me to. And when He calls, he does not merely set you adrift—He guides the entire journey.

So… welcome. I’m just an ordinary wife and mother. With an extraordinary God.

farro |ˈfärō|

NOUN a type of hulled wheat, especially spelt or emmer, typically used in salads, soups, and side dishes.

ORIGIN late 18th cent.: Italian, from Latin, ‘wheat.’