A Case for Homeschool Co-ops

Last week, we attended the Valentine’s Day party at our homeschool co-op. The kids brought their decorated boxes and their valentines to hand out to their friends. I brought our lunch and some goodies for the moms in our co-op as well.

I love our homeschool co-op. We’ve been a part of this amazing group since our oldest (who is a fourth grader) was in kindergarten, so basically all of our homeschooling time. My children have had the benefits of learning from different adults, taking interesting classes, making incredible friends and experiencing new things because of our co-op. We have parties, field trips, special events like history and science fairs, as well as 2 weekly classes per trimester, clubs, recess, and special speakers.

A while ago, while visiting a very popular homeschooling blog, I read the author’s advice to avoid participating in co-ops. Among other reasons, she stated that co-ops take too much time away from necessary at home learning and that time spent in co-ops would be better spent completing the week’s assignments or doing other family oriented activities. I could not disagree more. Our homeschool is largely focused on academics (it is a SCHOOL after all). We follow a pretty tight weekly, monthly and yearly schedule with allotments for things like sick days, playing hooky and field trips, to make sure we still stay on track with our yearly starting and ending dates which are in place to make sure we complete the curriculum we’ve chosen over the course of that year. We take our schooling seriously and our schedule and goals reflect that. But, academics are not our only focus.

Our co-op meets needs that we simply can’t within our four walls. If we are speaking strictly academically, my children take classes I couldn’t offer nearly as well from home. They take music from a certified music teacher, Spanish from a fluent, Spanish speaking teacher, art from trained teachers with passion and talent for the subject that I lack, and other classes from teachers with different life experiences, perspectives and teaching styles than me. I am so grateful for these teachers and their gifts and we would be at a loss without them. However, that is not even the best part of our co-op.

Speaking beyond academics, there is a whole world our co-op unlocks for my children that I simply do not have the keys for at home. My children are navigating the world of friendships through co-op. They each bring their own unique personalities to this navigation and for some making friends is easier than others, but all of them need the skills and benefits of making friends and having friendships. Our lives are richer for these friendships and for the sometimes bumpy experiences of navigating friendships, too.

My children are also inspired by others through our co-op. Through discussion in class, on the playground, at snack or lunch time, they interact with their peers and with adults and often leave with inspiration ranging from wanting to try skateboarding, travel to a new place, write a new story, to even joining a friend in his invention of a real working light saber. This exchange of ideas and knowledge is as old as time and is important and necessary. I am not capable of providing this for my children. Who knows what seeds will be planted and passions sparked through these exchanges?

Co-ops can also provide excellent accountability for academics and behavior. My children rarely have homework at their ages, but the upper level classes do often have homework and they have accountability to complete assignments because they are not due just at home, but also in class, to an external teacher for external benefit. My 4-year-old’s co-op behavior has improved greatly this year since he started with the preschool class. Peer modeling and accountability have been great encouragers for him, not to mention that he genuinely adores his preschool teachers and behaves very well for them.

Lastly, our co-op is enriching not just the lives of my children, but mine as well. Last week, my kids brought home their Valentine’s boxes all packed with notes and treats from their friends, but I brought home a bag, too. Our co-op does an optional mom’s Valentine exchange as well, so I brought home a bag filled with candies, trinkets and a note of appreciation written directly to me. That bag is a pretty good picture of what being is this co-op means to me:

These women, these families, are gifts, trinkets and embodiments of real time encouragement and strength. They pray for me and my family when we face hard times, they share ideas with me about curriculum and field trips and the best places to find great deals on family vacations. They teach my children well and are patient with them and with me. They are our tribe. We meet for coffee, or do crafts, hang out at our kids’ birthday parties, and this year we even met for brunch on a Saturday morning where we laughed, talked and just enjoyed each other’s company. These relationships enrich our homeschool experience and make our path so much easier to navigate. They remind me that I am not alone and that I have wise, faithful friends in my corner.

Homeschooling can be so difficult and so lonely. Our co-op has definitely added some ease to this lifestyle as well as some much valued companionship. I know that sometimes it is truly not the right season to be involved in a co-op. I also know that not everyone lives in a place where great co-ops are available. However, if you do and you can? Join one! Do the work! Make the time! My opinion is that you and your family will be better for it. And if you are currently in a co-op that is not working well for you, by all means you can find one that is, but you could also maybe be a catalyst to change. There may be other people feeling like you do and you could perhaps play a role in turning the tide. If there are people there who you have invested in and who have invested in you and your children, it may be beneficial to “fight” for those relationships rather than starting all over with new ones.

Homeschooling has been a great gift to our family. Our homeschool co-op is icing on the cake!

xoxo, Latrice

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On Guitars and Calluses and Playing through Pain

When I was 16, a good friend gave me a guitar. He had taught himself to play on this one and then gifted it to me when he bought a new one. I had a few other friends learning and I was excited to learn, too. I pictured myself sitting around campfires with my friends, strumming and singing. I couldn’t wait.

Except, learning to play guitar hurts. I was told I’d have to build up calluses on my fingers and they could even crack and bleed at times, but if I fought through, I would be playing in no time and eventually the pain would pass.

I willed myself to practice and even learned a few chords. A friend bought me a guitar chords book by one of my favorite musicians so I could play her songs right away. But, I couldn’t get past the pain. I never progressed farther than playing just a few chords because the harder I tried, the more it hurt. I didn’t want to do something that hurt even if there was a prize after the pain. I had a strong desire to play, but my fear of pain was stronger, and it won. So I gave up, and that lovely guitar sat and collected dust for many years.  Years later I gifted the same guitar to another friend, hoping she’d have better results than I.

You know what? I bought a new guitar recently and started to play, nearly 20 years after I’d been given the first one. I’m well on my way to calluses, have learned several chords and a couple of strumming patterns, and when it hurts I press harder and dig in a little deeper. I’m not afraid of the pain anymore. 20 years sure gives you some perspective, because ya’ll- I’ve experienced pain. Physical and emotional pain. Sometimes I chose it (like giving birth to 4 children). And sometimes it found me, like losses of friendships or disappointments with people or church.Sometimes it was self inflicted because of choices I’d made. And sometimes it was just a hard hand dealt by life, like losing my big sister when she was just 27.

Pain has been a companion for more years than I would have asked for and I’ve learned something: it’s not actually going away. Yes it heals or changes so it’s not a constant, debilitating, life shattering mess each day, but it stays with me. I’ve experienced hurts and heartaches that won’t be fully healed this side of heaven, so I can try to live in avoidance or denial of the pain, or I can acknowledge it and learn to play anyway. The thing is, with guitar, and with life: I want to play. I want to play well. And I’m not embarrassed to say that I want the rewards that come from the hard work. I want the calluses if it means I’m making progress and so one day I had to decide that I’m not going to let the pain stop me. I’m going to build this life anyway. I’m going to play.

A few days ago, on what would have been my sister’s 38th birthday, I posted a status in remembrance of her. As always, you all flooded me with sweet words, but I was struck by one comment in particular: “Thank you for being so open with your pain. I know my tendency is to try not to think about the family members I’ve lost, because the pain is too real. Reading your post, it amazes me how alive your sister is in your heart and in your mind. I am profoundly impressed and quite personally convicted by the way you’ve embraced your pain. I cannot imagine losing my brother or sister, but I do know loss. And I hope and pray I can be as brave as you to embrace that pain and keep their memory alive in my heart, as you so clearly have with your sister. This is such a valuable thing, thank you for sharing Latrice.”

Here’s the deal: it doesn’t feel brave to share my pain. It simply feels NECESSARY. I don’t want the people I’ve loved and lost to be forgotten. I don’t want another guitar collecting dust. I can’t exist as if my lost ones never did and since the role God has given me is of a scribe and a writer and a storyteller, I write and I tell the stories of those I’ve loved and lost so that they are remembered. I have learned to play through the pain because avoiding the pain is a far greater cost than not. I want to play. I want to share their songs and their stories with the people I care about. I want the rewards that come from the hard work- like eating cake and ice cream with my kids on their Aunt’s birthday and answering questions about her and telling them how much she would have loved them. Like sharing stories with her son who was just 7 when she died, whose memory could start to fade but who will always have her pictures and her stories because our family tells them. Like reminding myself when I feel alone and like an only child that for 25 years I had a sister who loved me and cared for me.

I want to tell these stories. I want to play. I will strum with calluses on my hands and I’ll tell these stories with calluses on my heart and I’m not going to let the pain stop me. And you? My friend, you can play, too. The pain isn’t going away*. Might as well use it to play a song we can all hear.

xoxo- Latrice

*I believe God heals ALL things, even calluses on hearts. When I say the pain isn’t going away, I mean pain is a complicated thing and “in this world we will have troubles”. Take heart that if you are facing insurmountable pain today, God is a healer. He won’t leave you where you are. He loves you. So do I. 🙂





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Is This Not Our Country Now?

We were dragged from our homeland and packed, like wares, to be sold.

Some died on the journey.  Some live hearts grew cold.

We were stripped of humanity and made a disgrace.

On our bare backs you built the wealth of this place.

Is this not our country, now?


We were granted our “freedoms” unless we wandered too far.

Then? We were beaten and hung, our naked bodies marred.

Our settlements were bombed. Our children dead in the streets.

Yet we found success in the face of heart-wrenching defeat.

Is this not our country, now?


We rose, like ash, from every fire you lit.

In stature, in wisdom, in knowledge, in wit.

We strengthened your schools, your cities, your nation.

We looked for our day of belonging with great anticipation.

Is this not our country, now?


When enemies arose, we begged to stand and fight.

We begged to be counted. We begged for the right

to defend our people, our children, our home.

We begged for the right to be seen as whole.

Is this not our country, now?


We fought and we bled and we died for this nation.

Is this not our country, NOW?


Can we not say we’re heartbroken?

Can we not take a knee?

Can we not ask for change quietly? Peacefully?

Can we not ask our nation: Why can you not see that this,

this too, is our country?


This. This America. Where we die unarmed in the streets.

This. This America. Where our peaceful protests meet critique.

This, land of the free, America, where we still aren’t free at all.

Can we not scream for aid?


Can you see us at all?


Can you see us as equals?

Do you see us as worthy?

Do you see us as humans?

Feel the pulse of our story?


Do you feel the rhythm of our daily lives?

Do you hear our despair or drown out our cries?


We fight and we bleed and we cry for this nation.

We take a knee and beg change because we believe in this nation.

We rise and we hope and we endure FOR this nation.

Is this not our country, now?

Is this not our country? Now?


By Latrice Ingram

August 25, 2018


















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A Secret Reason You May Disapprove of Homeschooling

We just recently began our 5th year of homeschooling. You don’t homeschool that long without being keenly aware of the tremendous amount of homeschool support AND opposition in the world. I’ve heard many similar arguments against homeschooling, the main one always referring to some mysterious social ineptitude apparently ALL homeschoolers fall victim to, leaving them incapable of social interaction and branding them as “weird” for the rest of their lives. Enough people have addressed this ridiculous and unfounded theory so I won’t bother with that here except to say it’s ridiculous and unfounded. 🙂 What I’d like to talk about briefly today is maybe one of the unvoiced reasons against homeschooling. Maybe you find yourself rubbed the wrong way by homeschooling but you don’t quite know why? Homeschooling, and the (homeschoolers you know) just doesn’t sit right with you? Is it perhaps, because it’s really counter cultural?

I only lasted three years as a public school teacher. I had high hopes of changing the world with my cute bulletin board displays and adorable reading corner. It took just two years in a low income school serving high needs students (whom I loved) and each of their one-on-one paras for me to learn that I was not fully equipped for my new job. Between the meetings, the Individual Education Plan writing, the schedule writing, the Progress Report writing, the actual lesson planning, the actual time with students, the very real political dramas and exhaustive hours, I had little gas in the tank to change into my pjs at night let alone change the world. But there was something else at play, too, that I didn’t realize at first. Something else nagging in the back of my mind. It wasn’t until I switched schools and went down to a part time schedule my third year of teaching that I started to realize: education didn’t have to look this way. At least, not for me. And? My life didn’t have to look this way either. I started to realize I was an unconventional educator and that I was really designed for a more unconventional life.

For over 5 years prior, some of which overlapped with my time in college while I earned my teaching degrees, I assistant taught in a Montessori classroom. It was in the Montessori classroom where I learned that education could be slow and not frenzied, child-centered not adapted for the masses, measured based on a child success in many areas instead of focused solely on reading and math scores. It could be full of nature and life skills and playing a game with a friend all afternoon and painting a picture all morning. This was closer to my true style of education and honestly it still is closer to my true personality than the hurried, stressed teacher I had become in just two years.

Having more time off during my third year and working with some incredible “old school” teachers also showed me a healthier way. These public school teachers made time each week for Friday celebrations where students could feature self-written plays and poetry or personal works of art. They read aloud to their students each day and gave opportunities for talking and sharing. They valued them as WHOLE PEOPLE and made time for their students to demonstrate their many talents! I also only worked half days so I enjoyed time off with my then only child. We would start our mornings slowly- take walks to the park or linger in our pjs before I had to get to work around 11:30. And after many years of running and busyness, first in college and then in teaching, I felt like I had discovered some secret gift. TIME! SPACE! SLOW! And when it came time to decide how we were going to live the next 18 + years with our kids, we wanted the time, we wanted the space, we wanted the slow. Not just for me, but for them, too. So we chose homeschooling for these and so many other reasons.

When you see those homeschooled neighbor kids outside at 10:00 am on a school day, does it bother you? When your homeschool friend posts pictures of her and her kids at the park at 1:30 on a school day, do you “tsk tsk”? Have you ever asked school-aged kids why they aren’t in school when you run into them and their mom at Target at 9:45 am on a Tuesday- and then when they answer they are homeschooled have you thought, “Well, shouldn’t you be DOING school then?” Have you ever asked a homeschooled student what she did all day and balked at her answer of “painted and played a game”?

Maybe homeschooling is just hard for some people because it is the opposite of so many things our culture says is the norm. If it is school time kids should be IN SCHOOL with books and tests and a white board. Not at a park or playing outdoors or shopping or lying in the grass or painting rocks. It feels, well, wrong. But really, it’s just the way some of us chose to make room for the time, for the slow, for the space. It doesn’t look the same as everyone else’s life and that’s okay.

There’s lots of ways to make time and slow and space happen, this is the just the way it worked for many of us. So maybe the next time you see a homeschool mom or dad with their kids at Target at 9:45 on a Tuesday you won’t “tsk tsk” or shake your head. You’ll just say hi and keep doing your thing, because they’re doing theirs. 


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It’s Time to Believe (Again) in the Closeness of God

I grew up in a non-religious household. We didn’t have Bibles (besides those tiny new testaments that made their way into our home one way or another) and we didn’t attend church, even on the major holidays. Still, truths (and untruths) about God wafted into my every day life with ease. One truth about God that I have known since I was a young, non-believing but curious girl is this: God is always present.

As a child of course this meant that if I were lying in bed He was lingering perhaps near my bedroom window. If my sister and I were in the back seat of our old red Omri, Jesus was invisibly smooshed into the seat with the lap belt between us. If I were home alone, God was eerily staring at me while I watched cartoons and ate Fruit Loops. It was not as much a comforting thought as it was simply what had to be true about the great big God I knew existed even if I didn’t know His Name or understand Who He was. If there was a God, then He always was. Not in one place, but everywhere, all of the time. As Alicia Brit Chole phrases it, in her book, The Sacred Slow, “God is always in the room.”

Now, all “grown up” in my thirties and a true believer, I have not only had to relearn this foundational truth that I so easily accepted as a child, I’ve also had to reconcile it with other truths that are harder to accept.

God really is always with me.

Even when I’d like to believe He isn’t.

I recently met with a Christian friend who has been enduring some challenging circumstances. Towards the end of our time together, I offered, in earnest, to pray for her. I was met with gratitude but also…hesitance. Confused, I pondered her non verbal but still obvious rejection to my offer for prayer. It is the very best thing that I could ever offer. Carrying the people I care about to God and asking Him to do what only He can do. Unless…

unless you believe that at some point God walked away and abandoned you to the things you are now facing. Unless you also believe that even when God is there, He does nothing.

What leads us to believe that the great big God who is everywhere during our childhood, is no where to be found when we are adults?

LIFE.  Mainly, all the hard things in our lives.

It’s fine believing that God is watching me while I eat my Fruit Loops, but it’s harder to accept that He is present as I hold my dying sister’s hand in the hospitable. Or my child’s or mother’s or father’s. It’s easy to believe Jesus is on the car seat next to me, but harder to believe He was in the room during abuse, or depression, or debilitating anxiety. And so we conclude, even if we never say it aloud, that God is not ALWAYS with us. He can’t be always with us because if He were the things we are facing or have faced would never have gone down the way they did. If our great big God was there surely there would have been a different outcome. It’s easier to believe He walked away than to face the reality that He stayed and seemingly did nothing. Unless..

unless we not only start believing again in the closeness of God, but we also reconcile that truth with this one: hard things happened while God was in the room.

The closeness of God was never promised as a barrier from the tough things, and yet they hurt us so deeply and tear us so effectively that we can’t believe God would ever allow us, on His watch, to be so broken, to be so injured, to be so wounded. So instead we believe the lie that He left us, that He turned His back, that He walked away because we don’t want to believe that He was there and it happened anyway. He was there?

He was there. 

Here is the reality: He never walked away. He never abandoned you. He has never abandoned you. God is always in the room, even when everything in the room is spinning and turning out of your control. Even when everything in you is spinning and turning out of your control. He promised to “never leave us or forsake us” and my friends that included when the going got tough, when the wounds cut deeply, when the tears flowed freely. The closeness of God is not a “get out of pain freely” card but a “you’ve got arms to hold you while you cry” card. No matter what room you are standing in, God.Is.In.The.Room.

He’s in the room. And He’s doing what only He can do. 

xoxo- Latrice








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On Spring and Birds and Seasons

I stepped onto my porch Saturday morning, my winter coat wrapped tightly around me, ready to face sharp winds and cold temps, but was instead pleasantly surprised by the temperature. To my left, two red breasted robins (since my youth a guaranteed sign that spring is coming) flitted in our golden front yard and from somewhere above me a song bird sang. I smiled. I exhaled. Spring is on the way.

Of course in Nebraska that one day really predicts nothing at all. We can see unseasonably high temps one day and be slammed by a winter storm the next. But it doesn’t matter to me. That one morning, that one exhale, that one song bird’s song was enough promise of spring for me to hold on to. Spring always starts in my spirit long before it manifests itself in the natural, and already in my spirit flowers are blooming.

I don’t know that I’d love spring as much if it didn’t follow winter. Indeed it is just as unpredictable as the winter it gently pulls us out of. Warm temps one day, a raging thunderstorm the next, often more clouds than blue sky and always this peculiar feeling that it can turn on you any moment and drop freezing rain or snow. (I remember two years ago when it snowed in May and I almost did.not.make it.) But the timing of spring makes it that much more endearing. We’ve just endured the longest nights and coldest days of the year, but with the drawing near of spring, the days again stretch themselves out and we get sprinkles of warmer temps. The landscape that has long been gray and black, the colors most neglected in my children’s crayon boxes, now slowly yet confidently boasts bright pinks and greens, oranges and purples. It is spring’s stark contrast from the season it follows that makes me love it so much more. It is the promise of newness and growth after so much stale stillness that aligns my hopes with spring.

Conversely, however, I’ve also learned that I appreciate winter more because of the season it precedes. Could it be that each season needs the others to be fully appreciated, and for it’s gifts to be fully realized?

My friend Janalynn is Canada born and winter loving. On winter days when snow is falling in huge clumps from the sky, I am snuggling on the couch in my pjs with a long book, and she is adding sledding or winter walk pictures to her to Instagram page, all smiles and wonder. She is is adventurous in many ways I am not and she sees the true beauty of my least favorite season. This year I’ve challenged myself to try to see winter the way she does: full of opportunity and delight. It was not as difficult as I assumed it would be. With just a little effort I was able to conjure some of the winter wonder I delighted in as a child.

A Wisconsin native, I loved the winter when I was younger. The crunch of the newly fallen snow or frost underfoot, brand new boots, catching snowflakes on my tongue, the delight of “seeing my breath!” for the first time of the season. I never saw winter as inconvenient or debilitating. It meant hot chocolate and more popcorn filled movie nights. It meant visits to Grandmas for holidays and standing near her radiators to warm my toes and hands- a different kind of heat that was comforting and cozy. Winter was snow angels and snow ball fights and winter forts. It was wonder.

Now, as an adult, if I’m not careful, I can see only the difficulties winter brings. Winter can be reduced to scraping my van’s windshields, icy roads, rushing around for the kids lost hats and mittens when we are already running late, fatigue inducing darkness at 5:00 pm and a general grumpiness towards a season that forces me to spend more time indoors than I would prefer. Though it has its challenges, winter is not only the sum of it’s challenges, it is all the fun and wonder Janalynn sees, too. I have learned to quietly respect winter, perhaps in a way close friends “agree to disagree” on important matters. I don’t like winter, I don’t think I will ever truly embrace it, but I have learned to see the value of the season. And? It makes spring so much more wonderful for me. As I set my heart to spring, I am hoping I won’t forget what winter has given me: intentional time to reflect, time to be still, and time to see delight in a challenging season- if I look for it.

Just as we live through natural seasons on earth, we grow and change through personal seasons as well. Some are more challenging than others and in some it is hard not to only see the difficulties. We’ve recently been in a challenging season regarding one of our children’s behaviors. In the past we’ve endured difficult health-related seasons, seasons of extreme grief, and sleepless seasons as we adjusted to being new parents. I have learned to quietly respect difficult personal seasons as well. I don’t like them, I don’t think I will every truly embrace them, but just I am now convinced that there is wonder in every natural season, I also believe there is something to behold in all our personal seasons, too.

If you are struggling to find redemption in a difficult season you are in, perhaps you need a Janalynn in your life to open your eyes to its wonder? Spend time with people who can offer a new (albeit godly) perspective to your same old problem. Look at it through fresh lenses.

Winter is still raging outside- but I am setting my heart to spring. It’s absolutely okay to align your hope with the promise of a new personal season, too. In fact, I encourage it. In many ways, I believe this hope is what gives us the strength to keep going. But while you’re waiting for your new season, don’t miss the wonder of the one you’re in- challenges and all.


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So THIS is Christmas

So THIS is Christmas.

I am up earlier than the kids which is the every day normal. I’m taking some time to breathe in the quiet and feel the weight of the anticipation of this day. THIS is Christmas. We made it. Christ has come. Emmanuel. Praise be to God.

Last night, at Christmas Eve service, we were given thick white glow sticks. Near the end of service, before we broke those glow sticks, so light would pour out of them, our Pastor prompted us to talk with God about something in our lives we needed broken. Maybe even a way God could break our lives for Him.

Admittedly, I am an anxious person. I have been an anxious person for as long as I can remember. I battled fear while sleeping on the lower bunk of the bunk bed my sister and I shared. I battled it in college and truly struggled with anxiety after the birth of my children. It has been a chain around my feet for many, many years. And last night, as I stood with God in a silent, darkened sanctuary I asked Him, “Break me free” and cracked a glow stick into the night. I have asked before. Many times before, but, this is Christmas.

THIS is Christmas.

Even before I knew God I feared He would let me down. I have always been cripplingly afraid for the safety and well being of the people I loved. I had seen the ugliness and scariness of the world and knew that I was at risk because I had people to lose. Around the age of 8, I started saying this private prayer at night. “God, please keep Mommy and Daddy and Meah safe and well.” Then, because that wasn’t enough protection, I added, “God, please keep Mommy and Daddy and Meah safe and ALIVE, and well.” I also gave God my full name, address and phone number each time. I knew He was there but didn’t know how He knew me or if He knew me at all. But I also somehow knew this: only He was big enough to do what I was asking, so I kept hoping He would.

Years later, in 2008, after officially knowing the Lord for nearly 10 years, I stood in a hospital room where my only sibling, my sister, lay in a bed. I held her hand as she breathed her last breath at the age of 27 and in that single moment, a chasm tore into my soul. Deep and wide.

I had prayed fervently for my sister. I had trusted. I had asked God to keep her safe and alive and well since we were kids. And even now, after all of these years, it is hard for me to admit that I still struggle with the feeling that God let me down in a big, big way. This disappointment has been an anchor for my anxiety. It has told me not to trust in God because He has failed me. It has told my that I cannot believe His promises because He did not answer my prayers. It has ripped a void inside me that only God can mend.

THIS, dear friends, is Christmas.

It is the laying out for all to see the pain and the fear the torn apart things inside of us. Jesus is the good news, but there are so many times this story doesn’t look good at all. Jesus is the good news because He came to be slaughtered for our sins.

He was good news and joy for all the people because He would die a cruel and unspeakable death for all the people so that any person would have the chance to stand before and live with a Holy God. Jesus is only the good news because He endured that punishment for all the bad things. All the ugliness and disappointment and the hate and the chasms ripped deep inside of us. 

And He can heal it all. He can mend it all. He can make us whole. In fact, the Word says He already has. It is finished. We are His.

Even after all these years, after great disappointment, I still believe, thanks be to God, that only God is big enough to do what I ask of Him. And I ask of Him a great and many wondrous things.

So I crack my glow stick and hold it against the darkness and declare today, “I believe.” THIS is Christmas. A Light come into the darkness and: “In Him was life, and the life was the light of men. And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it.”

Take time today, before the presents or after the meal, to crack your glow stick and invite His light into your deepest chasms. Ask Him to venture to the places you don’t put on display: the pains too deep to talk about. THIS is why He came. This is why He is here. THIS, dear friend, is truly Christmas and only He can do what you are asking, what you are hoping for, what you desperately need. It’s okay to be honest about the things that war inside you. It’s okay to be truthful about the ways you feel God has let you down. Then ask God to give you the faith to believe He is still who He says he is.

Go ahead, crack that glow stick and see where His light will go.

Merry Christmas,


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It’s Friday Morning

It’s Friday morning.

I’m usually in a rush this morning. We usually have places to be on Friday so I rush around and get clothes ready for the younger children and breakfast for everyone and pack snacks and pack pacifiers and usually I forget to eat in the rush of it all because we have to be on time and present and ready and available. We have to drop Daddy off at work because the transmission on his truck went out and then get to our classes that we love, we really do. But there’s not much time for sitting or thinking or looking at that interesting leaf because we just.need.to.go!

It’s Friday morning. The toddler, snoring, snuggles up to my husband in one of the queen sized beds in our hotel room. I’m squeezed in on the opposite side. The other three kids-in the other bed- are packed in like those cute little monkeys in the jumping on the bed book. The smallest (most sassy) one is sandwiched in between her two older siblings. I’m surrounded by the wiggling and breathing and tossing of all my favorite people and I just love this Friday morning.

Our first born, gentle spirited but still a little bit wild, turned 8 yesterday. Eight. And I can’t believe I’m watching her grow up so quickly. It really does sometimes feel like just a blink since we brought that little 5 pound 2 ounce girl home. She came into the world with a frown on her face. It’s her favorite detail about her birth story. And now she is mostly just smiles and optimism and flowers and unicorns. No really- she wanted a unicorn stuffed animal for her birthday, which we were happy to provide. She also wanted to swim because she is part fish and so we packed up the family on her special day and went to Omaha for an overnight trip to a small indoor water park and hotel. I watched, with my heart in my throat (we can talk some other time about this anxious Momma’s heart and how Jesus is healing it) as she went down the biggest, tallest, fastest water slide. How she squealed with delight while I prayed like someone who is always a little bit scared that she would be safe.

She was safe.

And happy.

And brave.

It’s Friday morning and it’s the day after one of the most fun days we’ve all had together and I can’t help but be tearful thankful for this day. This day unlike most of our Fridays. We are lingering in our pjs in the same space together. We are squished up tight and giggling and eating together. There is a pizza box in the corner of our room and leftover birthday cake. There are smiles on my kids faces. There is beauty in this morning.

It’s Friday morning. We are lingering this morning. Taking our time to get dressed and go to breakfast. We are looking at descriptions of the museums we want to to visit today. Taking much time to decide if the train museum or the art museum will be best today. There are many factors to consider and we have time to consider them all.

There are days we move too quickly but that’s just what needs to be done. And then there are days where everything can move quickly all around us and we can stay still. We can breathe deep. We can slow down. It’s Friday morning and we are slowing down today. We are grateful.

xoxo Latrice

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When You’re Sitting on the Floor in the Hallway Outside your Toddler’s Bedroom

I am sitting.

I am sitting on the floor in the hallway.

I am sitting on the floor in the hallway outside my toddler’s bedroom.

I am sitting on the floor in the hallway outside my toddler’s bedroom because he’s tired. He’s exhausted really. He’s eaten the food. He’s played with the toys. He’s thrown the tantrums. He’s crawled on the backs, under the tables, over the blocks and on top of the trains. He’s knocked over someone’s water and block tower and lunch plate. He’s done. I’m done. It is nap time.

But he won’t go to sleep.

Yesterday, three times I laid him down for nap and three times he climbed out his crib and found me downstairs- wide smile on his face. Two times I frowned and carried him back to his crib with a stern, “Stay in your bed” warning. The third time I sighed and laughed and accepted the new change/challenge this would bring to my life. By child number 4 I’m a lot better at accepting new changes and challenges.

I remember, early on in my motherhood, how something like this could undo me, could wreck my whole day. I like plans and schedules and routines and don’t like it when they are messed with. There’s nothing like being a mom to teach you to thrive when your plans are dashed, routines wrecked and schedules slaughtered.

So here I am, sitting on the floor in the hallway outside my toddler’s bedroom because every time he cracks open his door and smiles wide at me, I lift him up, place him back in his bed and tell him “night night”. As I’m typing this I’ve already stopped to do that 5 times. This is my important work today. Monotonous repetition of the same action again and again until I get the desired result. It will likely be my important work at bedtime tonight and then tomorrow again, and, knowing this stubborn child, for a few more days after that. It is truly important work. He needs his rest (we ALL need his rest) and I need to ensure he gets it. So I will sit on the floor in the hallway outside his bedroom, day after day to see this job get done.

We struggle sometimes with monotonous, repetitive work, don’t we? We want quick fixes and quick gratification for our efforts. Too soon I think we abandon the quiet, simple, sometimes boring but important work because we don’t see it make big enough or fast enough ripples in our waters. Sometime, yes, we need to throw a large rock in the ocean, and sometimes, yes we need to skip a few flat stones and see how far they’ll travel. I’m skipping stones outside my toddlers bedroom today. Training him in obedience. Training myself in patience.

These are good stones to skip. They make long and deep ripples.

I think our nation could use a few more skipping stones. I want to assure you that the stones you were skipping before our nation felt even more flipped upside down than it has in the past are still making ripples. The smiles at the strangers in the grocery stores, the respectful disagreements in your spheres of influence, the faithful prayers you offered for those like and not like you? Those are still important stones. The gentle answer to your spouses anger, the patient endurance of your child’s poor behaviors, the long suffering in hope while enduring that medical condition? They still go far. They are good stones to skip. They also make long and deep ripples.

I hope we haven’t abandoned these stones in fear. I hope we haven’t given up on the basic and sometimes boring work of kindness and hope spreading and Jesus teaching for fear that they aren’t effective anymore. I hope we still know the value of quiet, non-publicized, small circle, down on our knees, not for our glory, WORK. ‘Cause sitting on this floor isn’t glamorous, but it’s necessary.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but so much of the world’s inhabitants feel a little desperate to me lately. They feel a little lost and more than a little afraid. There’s a tide turning and I get the feeling we’ll need large stones more and more- but a lot of important work will be done, too, with those small skipping stones that make those deep lasting ripples.

I went through a drive through two months ago and the man working the cash register sang my total and then handed me my change with some free coupons “just because” with a huge smile on his face. I smiled all day when I thought about him. Such a small stone to skip- repetitive work, serving customer after customer- but he had a song on his lips and a smile on his face and it meant something significant to me. Those small things really do matter.

So, while I have some time, while I’m sitting on the floor in the hallway outside my toddler’s bedroom, I just wanted to remind you not to give up that good work. Don’t trade all those small stones for the big ones just because the big ones make bigger waves. We need that small, seemingly insignificant work to change the tide around here. Keep skipping.

xoxo Latrice


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When There is Christmas & Aleppo

There are presents wrapped underneath my Christmas tree. There are sparkly lights all around town. Soft, familiar music plays in the stores and on our Pandora station at home. It’s Christmas. Peace on earth. Good will toward men.

I’m planning a menu. I’m drinking warm drinks. I’m reading my children Christmas books and the Christmas Story. They’re eating chocolate from their Advent calendars. They’re counting down to Christmas. They haven’t a care in the world.

And all the while there are people, even children dying on the streets of Aleppo. 

I’m having some trouble reconciling the existence of these two worlds, tonight. This quiet, magical world with pretty lights and cozy blankets with this chaotic, deadly, dangerous world where violence and death reign.  As I type, my toddler is dancing on the couch behind my back, eating a cookie and laughing. But I just saw a video of a boy in Aleppo who looked about my toddler’s age, with bloodstained hair and face, poking out his lower lip while a bleeding woman asked him repeatedly if he was okay. He just looked at her, lip stuck out. He said nothing but looked like he would lose it any moment. He look scared and terribly sad and something inside of me broke when I saw him. I wanted to scoop him up into my arms, just as I would my own son. I wanted to kiss him and clean him and tell him I loved him. I wanted to promise him he was safe. I wanted to promise him I would never let anyone harm him.

But there are promises I can’t keep. Not even to my own children. Not even at Christmas.

And my heart is breaking for Aleppo.

Jesus knew, even before the night He arrived on earth, that two worlds could exist at the same time. He knew He would bring both unity and division.   He knew that blood would be spilled and lives would also be saved, on His account. He knew there could be tragedy and victory. He knew there could be both pain and hope.

He knew the turbulence He walked into when He traded Heaven’s glory for the lowliness of His human form on earth. He knew the state of the earth. He knew some people were wicked, angry, malicious, envious, conceited, dangerous, threatening and toxic. He knew the circumstances that would surround His own death. He knew the Earth was not a safe place- hadn’t ever been a safe place. Not even at Christmas. Not even when Christ came. God with us. God help us.

And yet? He came. For me. For you. For Aleppo. For all of us. He came for US.

He knew we were lost. Devastated. Broken. Discouraged. Afraid. Alone. Vulnerable. Defeated. He called us sheep without a shepherd- we wandered with no hope. And when He looked and saw us, He had compassion on us.  He knew He was our only Hope. He KNEW we could only hope in Him. So He came and be-came Christ in us, the hope of glory.

He came to give us true hope in a world in which He knew we would have trouble, and pain, and hardship, and heartbreaking tragedy, and mind-blowing grief. He came to give us hope because He knew …

He knew our hearts and eyes would weep for Aleppo.

He knew the latest news would make us catch our breath and hold our hearts and ask God why? Why on earth? He knew we’d wonder how to reconcile a world where God sends His only Son for us but where people also suffer and cry and die in the streets.

Some days I feel so desperate, like I can’t catch my breath. Like there is just too much hurt in the world for anything I do to matter. But Jesus? He came anyway. He knew the state of things, He knew the state of hearts, He knew the cost, He paid the price. And He came anyway.

So I pray anyway. I love anyway. I believe anyway. I trust anyway. When the grief is almost too much to bear, I try to hold on anyway. When I can’t see a way or cling to a hope…

I try to hope anyway.

And He carries me. He carries you. He carries Aleppo. He carries us all. 

And now it’s time we put some action to our prayers for Aleppo. We can’t sit cozy this Christmas, fail to acknowledge the existence of these two different worlds and ignorantly open presents when God wants to presence Himself right in the midst of the hurting. This week, the hubby and I are calling our local Lutheran Family Services to co-sponsor a refugee family. Maybe you’d like to do the same? Or read this post and take one or all of the suggestions. Spread some love? Spread some hope? I have a feeling it’s the beginning of a journey. Maybe for a lot of us.

xoxo Latrice


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