Category Archives: Inspired By

My Epitaph, from an 8 year old


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An 8 year old friend at our church gave this mug to me last night at Life Group. Isn’t it adorable?

Since then, I keep thinking, If that’s what it says on my tombstone someday, I’ll have done alright…”

Until recently, I have given no thought whatsoever to what I would want carved in granite over my body’s final resting place. The plan is that I’ll be hanging out in heaven (where the events of the past 7-8 years have secured me an EPIC condo with simultaneous views of the Atlantic, Pacific, and a wide swath of the Mediterranean…) So I haven’t considered how I’ll be remembered here on earth.

Then last week, my friend Sonya, in town from Hawaii to speak at our women’s retreat, invited me up to the North Shore to spend a day writing together. We had solid artistic intentions. But it turns out what we both needed was time to talk. It was as if we each had pieces to a larger puzzle of shared experiences, and this was an opportunity to see  how they fit together.

We had a long breakfast overlooking the ocean. Then out of nowhere she asked, “Do you want to see my favorite headstones?”  

Of course, my gut reaction was No. I mean, that’s weird, right? We were by the ocean, drinking coffee, with an endless supply of carbohydrates. Why would we move?

But of course I said Yes. I’ve been at this Jesus thing long enough to know that when a respected friend invites you to do something a bit peculiar, the Kingdom of God is often at hand.

So off we went.

A few winding miles from our breakfast table, Sonya introduced me to two of her heroes:  Ebenezer and Abigail Cleaveland.

They lived on Boston’s North Shore in the late 1700’s. He was a pastor. She probably was too, although that sort of thing was entirely informal in those days.  They lived long lives in a tough climate. What stood out to me most was that they believed in free grace – the idea that we don’t earn God’s love, or Jesus’ salvation, or the work of the Holy Spirit in our lives. We receive them. We respond to Jesus’ offer of love, forgiveness, freedom and help. And as we respond, we are saved. This was a radical stance in Puritan New England. And yet Ebenezer and Abigail lived long, full, intense lives…and they finished well.

Sonya said something so poignant as she showed me these headstone inscriptions: “We make public statements about who we are and what we stand for every day on social media. But back then, this was your one chance to tell the world what your life was about and what mattered to you.”

I’d never thought of it like that.

She described how, in the aftermath of a difficult season in their lives, she and her husband Jordan found comfort in this couple’s legacy, as well as faith to move forward toward their own. Sometimes when you’re in the midst of betrayal and loss, it helps to have someone to look to who has forged a path through the darkness. You need someone up ahead who is saying with their lives, The Light is real. Keep going. It matters! 

And then I got to tell her how she and Jordan have done that for us.


We had a good time, there in the cemetery. As we watched the boats fishing out in the harbor (Ebenezer & Abigail have A VIEW!) it made me wonder in a new way what it means to be from a place. Not in terms of preferred sports teams, or whether or not you own winter clothes, or if your reaction to an approaching stranger is to invite them in for dinner or pretend you don’t see them. But to be the ones who were born into God’s plan for a place. Perhaps those things matter more than we realize. Steve grew up in Cambridge. I’m from Southern Maine. In some way, we’re decedents of Ebenezer and Abigail, charged with living out the message that even in the midst of this harsh, beautiful New England climate, God is near and He has something better for us.

This morning, as I look at this mug from my sweet little friend, it gives me vision for how I want to live these days in this awesome place. I’m usually funny – it’s a genetic thing. Sometimes I’m kind because I try. But happy has been a bit of a stretch goal. Enough so that when it comes, I know for sure that it’s God. Telling stories about how that unfolds is a fun way to spend a life.

I want that to be my legacy – that we helped others make that connection, here in this place that I’m convinced really IS the best place in the world to be. It seems like something worth living…and dying… for.

The Story of Our Staycation

In an Easter miracle that feels every bit proportional to Jesus rising from the dead, we managed to pull off a school vacation that didn’t suck.

Easter 2017

I am awed and grateful. I’m not even sure how to describe it, so I’ll just post a bunch of pictures with a few words to record this moment in time.

First, we had the two year anniversary of the day we met the Cherubs. We did not celebrate this, however. I tried that last year, asking #2, “What do you remember about that night?” to which she replied, “We just cried. We didn’t want to leave where we were to go live with strangers.” Yikes. So this year, we left this one right alone. Next month, we’ll celebrate Adoption Day, and then Moving In With Us day in June. But now we leave Nice To Meet You Day out of the picture. Lesson Learned.

We DID celebrate Easter, my favorite holiday.  At church we had art by Grace & Reena, and music about the incredible things we believe.

I preached about the Boston Marathon, and how cool it is that, four years after the Marathon Bombing, no one talks about who did it or why. Instead, everyone talks about the overcoming that happened in the aftermath, and how the words Boston Strong define who we are and what we love about living here. There are Boston Strong signs and t-shirts everywhere. I love it.

Then we prayed for Gwen & J.J. our two friends who’d be running the next day.  So inspiring.

Speaking of inspiring, Steve & I had a date afterwards! The Cherubs went on an overnight with their grandparents, and we went out for long relaxing lunch, after which we came home and RIPPED UP our bedroom.

And no, I don’t mean that as a metaphor.

Remember I told you about the stairs? And how that led us to some conclusions about the gross, hazmat-y rug?

Well, the project expanded in scope almost immediately. Replacing the floor somehow led to repainting the bathroom sink cabinet, pulling up all the baseboards, and taking down a wall.

Here is my inspiration photo:


Here is what I woke up to this morning:


Really, we’re practically there.

But I’m happy to report that there are now 10 contractor bags of gross rug down in a bagster next to the driveway, and our floor is now covered in lovely maple boards on which no dog has peed. I’m taking that as a win.

Perhaps the most exciting part of the week was watching Gwen finish the Marathon. Her friend J.J. flew up from Florida to run with her, and spoke at church about how friends run all different kinds of marathons together, cheering each other on and helping through the touch stretches. A bunch of us gathered in an office space overlooking the finish line to watched them cross, and as they crossed, we all pretended to have something in our eyes. Tissues all around for the big wins.

Finish Line Gwen and JJ



Then Steve, the Cherubs & I walked back over the bridge into Cambridge. It felt like such a long distance, but our attitudes were kept in check by all the tinfoil wrapped people we passed who’d just run 26 miles, and the glorious sky over the city, and the fun of having something like this happen for people we love, in a place we love. Really, it was all the gushy feelings, accompanied by some sore legs.


Speaking of sore legs – I went to the gym. Three times. My first session was with a trainer who is Irish and seven months pregnant, which means we looked like twins. I won’t post pictures of that. I’ll just say that I’m glad I can slide in my socks across the new wood floors as a form of travel rather than having to pick up my feet for each new step.

Happy Monday, All.

He is risen, indeed.

My Fashion Woes

A couple of months ago, I went to Steve’s company holiday party dressed like an Amish


If you look closely, you can see the patch pockets! #classycocktail!

nun. I didn’t mean to.  The dress code was “classy cocktail,” which I interpreted to mean, Like you’re coming from work, only a step up. I found a cute preppy dress from Tommy Hilfiger. It was a little big, but I kind of liked that; I’m not exactly in top form right now. I paired it with a jacket & boots because it was about thirteen degrees that night. And yes, I knew that I looked a bit like I was there to serve a warrant. But Boston has a pretty wide professional dress code. I was sure it would be fine.

We walked into the venue a bit early (it’s so hard to calculate traffic across the city) and I knew instantly that I’d screwed up.

Friends, the sequins were blinding. Hair had been professionally done. Hours had been invested in mani-pedi-facials. There were GOWNS. Everyone looked elegant, upscale, and GORGEOUS.

I glanced at Steve and whispered, “Wow. I really miscalculated…”

sage party

I didn’t even realize until later when I saw this picture that we MATCHED. We look like an audition tape for The Real Housewives of Ultra Conservative County.

He looked mortified for me. We checked our winter coats, and took a picture in front of an unavoidable step & repeat that stood between us and the bar. I prayed for a camera malfunction. We walked into the mostly-empty room and I took a deep breath. I knew had a decision to make: I could ruin this night with my embarrassment, or I could figure out another way. So I decided to fight for it. I looked up at the seventeen Buddha statues decorating the restaurant and said, “Jesus, I know you’re here somewhere…I could really use some help…”

We found a place to stand with our drinks & small plates. I made it a point to talk to Steve about things OTHER THAN how underdressed I was. And when he introduced me to people, I did not say a single embarrassed word about my outfit, because nothing makes social situations worse than that.

We had a great night. Everyone I met was fantastic, and we had so many deep, good conversations about biotech, writing, faith, and adoption. Yes, I felt awkward the whole time. As much as we’re not supposed to care what we wear, and we’re supposed to appreciate each other for what’s on the inside, blah, blah, blah… my missing the cues on the dress code meant the night was way more emotional effort than I wanted it to be, at a time (right after the holidays) when I didn’t have a lot of extra fight in me. I’m so glad we went. But I’m not sure I’ll ever wear that dress again.


I thought of this the other day as I caught up on the blog of a fellow memoirist who had a baby last year at the age of 46. As she described her woes in getting dressed, and how her body feels lumpy and odd in ways it never was before, I realized: I ALSO have a one-year postpartum body. Only I never gave birth.

It’s pitiful. Don’t you think the benefit of adopting should be that I don’t look like I have kids??? But nope. I got dressed the other day and realized I looked like a big marshmallow covered in denim & 2-ply cashmere. But I think the problem is less about having too much size, and more about having lost my style: Last week when I wore a ponytail to church, one of the teens came up and said, “Miss Trish! You look so different!”

You know you’re in a rut when a ponytail is a bold move forward.

So you can imagine how my curiosity was peaked when that blog friend talked about her clothing woes and how she’d just received a box from a company called Stitchfix that mails you clothes. She was going to POST PICTURES of her in the new items (!!??!) I was horrified/captivated/in awe: wasn’t that the equivalent of taking the entire internet with you as you try on jeans at Target???

She has awesomely sarcastic humor, so I was excited to see how she’d skewer the experience of trying clothes picked out by a complete stranger on a body that shifted daily in all sorts of unplanned directions.

She kept every cute thing in that box. (They send 5 things. You pay $20 for the styling service, which is credited against anything you buy. And there’s 25% off if you decide to keep everything. Apparently, this is a whole thing that’s been happening for years. Enter Trish in her Amish ensemble, a little late to the party…)

(I’ll admit, I was a bit salty that she found a dress, because I have this secret theory that people who look good in dresses and like them have ALL THE DRESSES. It’s like the dresses know. The rest of us get a boy dress with patch pockets. But whatever.)

In a fit of I don’t even know what, I signed up for a Stitchfix delivery of my own. I think I was just excited to leave my problem at the feet of an expert (even if that expert is an algorithm supposedly named “Katelyn”). I knew my blog friend would get a $25 referral credit, and that seemed like a way to thank her for being so honest (her blog TITLE is “An Inch of Gray,” referring to her hairline. I love her!) and making me feel less alone in navigating my fashion challenged state.

I had LOW expectations when the box arrived. I liked that it was pretty, and I was prepared for disappointment. I’ll cut to the chase and tell you the miracle: They sent me jeans that fit perfectly. Length, width, everything. It was like they’d been tailored for me.


I might even wear them to next year’s company party. If I’m going to be underdressed, I might as well really go for it.

The rest of the box was a mix. There was a blue jacket that made me look like I was there to change the oil on your car, and a pair of earrings like ones I already have. Those I sent back. There was a blue floral top that was unbelievably cute once I tried it on.

And then there was the green shirt.

I haven’t owned anything green that doesn’t say “Boston Celtics” on it since about 1975. It’s just not my color, or so I thought. But this shirt was so pretty! It didn’t fit. But still, I loved it so much that I pulled it back out of the return package (they send you a postage-paid return bag you just drop off at the post office) after I’d sealed it, just to try it again. It was still a no. But now I’m on the hunt for a different top in that shade of green.

What that box did for me had almost nothing to do with the actual clothes. It was more about how it energized my thoughts about dressing in general like nothing in recent (or even distant) memory has. The the little style guide gave me ideas for other outfits from things I already have, and I even got back on Pinterest (which I’ve decided is like going to the Mall with your friends, only while lying on the couch by yourself. I’m not sure that’s a good thing, but at least now I understand the appeal.) I’m so glad I did this. It’s good for my style and my soul.

It’s good to find help when you need it, and to be reminded that more is possible in life, IMG_5282even with things that shouldn’t be such a big deal, but are. I kept the empty Stitchfix box on the floor of my bedroom for about four days after it arrived, just to remind me of how happy it had made me. That’s some pretty good return on investment.

If you’re in a style rut? Try Stitchfix here. If you use this link, I’ll get a $25 referral credit on your first go, like my blog friend received when I tried. The Cherubs thank you for making their mom slightly less embarrassing.

Let’s Celebrate National Adoption Day (even though it was last Friday)

Last Friday was National Adoption Day. To be honest, I didn’t think much about it, other than to pray for one great little boy we know who was being adopted that day. It had been a busy week and we were headed into a big weekend, so I was kind of distracted.

Then the pictures started coming in. Facebook, Instagram, Twitter. New families. Everyone smiling, slightly dazed that this was finally happening, celebrating the miracle of how God has a Plan B for each of us when we need it.  And a bunch of little kids just being little kids, running all over the place and occasionally bursting into tears or wiping food on their beautiful special day clothes.

I was extra excited to see these awesome sisters get adopted. They were featured on a Wednesday’s Child segment last winter and one of the girl’s former teachers (who hadn’t even known they were in foster care) saw the news and said to her husband, Maybe we could be their family? And look at them now! It’s just gorgeous. After years of waiting, at an age where kids usually give up on being adopted, God placed them in their new family. Love, love, love it.

Then this morning I saw this story about a couple who had already adopted one girl and was preparing to adopt two more children…then they found out their first daughter had two siblings who needed a home. So as of Friday, they’re a family of SEVEN. God. Bless. Them. I mean, how awesome? It gives me chills and tears all at the same time.

But here’s what I find most exciting about this story: at the end of the newscast, the reporter said, “There are approximately 600 children in Massachusetts waiting to be adopted.”

600?  That is TOTALLY DOABLE, you guys. Seriously, that’s not even a thing.

Well, it’s a thing at the personal level. You’ll notice when your cherub leaves toothpaste all over your bathroom sink.  The uptick in laundry will be exponential beyond all reason (unless it’s negligible because your cherub is filing his dirty laundry in the lower drawers of his dresser). You’ll have more routines and inside jokes and personal conversations over things you’d forgotten from your own childhood. And sometimes you’ll get so angry that you won’t even be able to remember the consequence you’d decided on for if this behavior happened again, and it will be all you can do not to blurt, “That’s it! You lose everything! No TV…or electronics…or protein…or socks…or…ANYTHING for the rest of the century!!!” But you won’t blurt that. You’ll pride yourself on how much you’re growing in self control :)  You’ll learn that because you’re the parent, you can calm down, give the consequence later, then sit back and enjoy while your cherub vacuums the whole house and then rakes the leaves in the back yard. You’ll realize that some things are a big deal, but most things aren’t. You’ll get awesome at perspective.

It will disrupt your flow, true. But you’ll be part of God’s Kingdom being made real here on earth. That’s in the Lord’s Prayer. The one Jesus recommended.


Bet you hadn’t thought of it that way :)

Massachusetts friends, consider adoption. Seriously. 600 kids. We can do this. It’s the best kind of effortful growth.

Spend time on the M.A.R.E. website.

Email Sarah at CFCS and inquire.

Sign up for a MAPP class. When you complete the class, it’s good for five years.

Practice saying, “I’m thinking of adopting a child from foster care.” And then don’t say that to anyone, because people will try to talk you out of it because of some horror story they read or saw on the news. Ignore those stories. You’re not thinking of adopting a horror story. You’re taking a couple of first steps to see if there might be a child for whom you’d be a great parent.

Ask God if He wants you to consider this. Then, when you totally freak out and panic, write a big check to CFCS or MARE. Seriously. Give them lots of cash. It will give you some breathing room AND a tax deduction. If God wants to put adoption back on your radar screen after that, trust me, He knows how to get your attention.

600…599…598… we can do this.

The Remaking

It’s been an interesting week for me artistically.

I’m listening to three songs from Nichole Nordeman’s long-awaited new project, The UnmakingThe basic theme is that sometimes God tears down all the things we build and leaves us standing there, wondering what to do next. Then He rebuilds in ways we never could have imagined. As she says in a promo video, “This was a song I wrote in great hopefulness, after a season of great hopelessness.”

I’m reading Jenny Simmon’s new memoir, The Road to Becoming, about how she lived this exact experience: how her years of touring with the band Addison Road literally blew up when an RV with everything they owned caught fire and burned to the ground. (There’s more to it than that, of course, but that was the straw that took out the camel).  She admits that a year of things breaking lead to her becoming the worst possible version of herself, after which a friend said, “This is the best night of your life, because Jenny, you are about to see God be God.”

I’m thinking about Ryanhood’s CD, After Night Came Sun, and how pretty much every song on that album speaks of this same agony – dashed dreams, disappointment, wondering what on earth to do next and how to keep believing in God.  And how Princess Peach loved one song on that album, the one where they shout out in the middle of the chorus, “I’m falling apart!”

Amidst all this, as I’m remembering the seemingly endless ways my own life ended between 2009-2014, all I can think is, “Holy sh*t! Did ALL the Jesus-ey artists have our lives RUINED during those 5 years? You mean it wasn’t just me?!?”

It’s incredibly comforting not to feel so alone.

Steve and I are on the other side of this season now, THANK YOU JESUS.  (I say that not in a pious, “I always knew he’d come through!” way, but rather with the grateful fatigue of someone who thought she was taking a gentle 2 mile hike but ended up wandering across some stupid mountain range until way past dark, and is sort of astounded to have finally made it back to the parking lot.) We have a new home, new jobs, new cherubs, new hope in what God can do when all that’s left is ashes and rubble and empty wine bottles and tears.

As I listen to Nichole sing, and read Jenny’s words, and remember sitting up late one night talking to the Ryanhood guys in our kitchen when they were in town on tour with their new album Start Somewhere, I’m encouraged about the second part of the story. How part of the REMAKING that follows extreme carnage is ART: Stories told through paragraphs and lyrics and pictures. Puzzles with all the pieces fit together, revealing and reminding us of how God works: that if new hope has not arrived, it’s not the end. This can be hard to believe, and even harder to live. The Remaking happens despite us, not because of us. I guess it’s like yesterday’s post on forgiveness: we can block it, but we can’t make it happen on our timeline. All we can do is stand there and wait. I don’t understand it, but I’ve lived it. And so I spend my days writing about what that looks and feels like so that maybe, like Nichole & Jenny, Ryan & Cameron, my story might be another little flashlight helping others who are struggling to believe in the possibility of our impossible faith.

The last book of the Bible, Revelation, tells us something about overcoming, how it happens “by the blood of the Lamb and the word of our testimony.” Jesus acts, we tell the story.

That I can do.

Book Review: Walk to Beautiful by Jimmy Wayne

9780849922107Oh My Gosh I love this book.

I started it YESTERDAY.  Finished it TODAY. It is 376 pages, including a center section with photos I had to keep flipping forward and back to as I got to certain parts of the story.  I gave up sleep to keep reading, and sleep is my absolute favorite thing right now since I’ve given up all good food. If all this doesn’t say Must Read Page Turner, I don’t know what does.

Walk to Beautiful is the memoir of country singer Jimmy Wayne.  He opens with a scene of him onstage at Madison Square Garden as he opens a concert for Brad Paisley. Then he returns home to Nashville after the tour and reflects back on the dark, strange path that led him there.

This is the part of the book that captured me, because Jimmy Wayne was a foster kid. He spent his childhood at the mercy of a mother who was a complete lunatic. She abandoned him time and time again–for men, for mood swings, for a chance to be free of responsibility and chase her selfish dreams. He grew up bouncing from home to home in foster care, mostly raising himself.  The word harrowing is a fitting descriptor for his story, but resilient is equally apt. As I read I was so angry at the adults in his life and what absolute selfish morons most of them were (truly, it’s astounding how awful we human beings can be). But at the same time, I was pulling for Jimmy and inspired by how he kept going.

The best part of this book was seeing how he took advantage of the few opportunities that came his way. He highlights key people who, each in their own way, gave him the pieces you need to build a life: discipline, structure, affection.  His description of how he carried around small mementos of each person who had cared for him in some small way broke my heart and made me want to cheer, both.

This is a both/and kind of book.

Read this book. It is entertaining and inspiring.  A great investment of time and money.  And who knows? Maybe it will make you wonder about how you can play a role, big or small, in helping a kid who needs a good grown up on their side.

Disclaimer: I received a copy of this book from the publisher in exchange for an honest review. I’m very glad about this.



I failed to fail (it’s not the easiest thing to do)

images-1I am on a fitness plan. It’s been two weeks. I did not undertake this on my own, you should know. This is my friend Spanish Girl’s fault. Her gym ran a promotional where members bring in a friend and you compete for 21 days as a team against other member/guest pairs. Whoever loses the highest % body weight wins a small tablet named after eyeballs & fruit. (Spanish Girl‘s husband saw my prior post about fat jeans & chickens and suggested I might be up for this sort of project.)

Now I live a life filled with tension.

On the one hand, I am veeeeeery competitive. I want to win that prize.

On the other, I MISS my sedentary lifestyle. I miss wine and carbs and being able to declare “pasta night!” when I forget to thaw a protein. I miss walking THIS DOG an extra block or two and thinking of myself as deeply devoted to health & fitness.

This was exacerbated the other day when I overheard our trainer talking about how her legs hurt after her workout. That’s when it hit me: This isn’t just for three weeks…this is forever. I’m supposed to do this exercise/eat good food thing for the REST OF MY LIFE.

You’d think I’d have enough perspective on this to appreciate that at 45, I’m at least halfway through this onerous task, whereas that poor trainer girl is in her early 20s and has no real end in sight.

You’d be wrong about that perspective thing. I had none.

Instead, I had a bit of an interior tantrum in response to this late-breaking realization.  Yesterday was a blah day of grumpiness brought on by gray weather and reading yucky things online, so I decided that I was TIRED of being healthy and I was going to binge on delicious junk food. I envisioned bags full of Snickers bars, and me chomping them down one after another with unfettered glee. I was ready to rebel, I tell you.

I was so caught up in this fantasy that I went to our cupboard looking for a bag of Snickers. Not only do we not have Snickers bars, we don’t have a single item of chocolate anywhere in our house. We have NOTHING binge worthy, it turns out. It was pitiful.

I enacted my rebellion by stirring some Pollaner All-Fruit into nonfat Greek Yogurt.


In our high school yearbook, one of the most popular quotes we wise students listed under our pictures to define ourselves was this: “We never failed to fail–it was the easiest thing to do.” It’s from this song by Crosby, Stills & Nash (which you should watch and learn and internalize, because it is just so musically and lyrically incredible).  I thought of this yesterday, and it made me laugh. I failed to fail!  Turns out it’s not as easy as it looks :)

I guess I’ll soldier on. I’ve got eyeball fruit to win.