One of my great friends is a father to three beautiful girls, and he documents the more poignant and hilarious moments of his parenting life with a hashtag about dad things; kind of like his musings on what it means and how it affects him to be a dad.
So, I’ve just been sitting here musing on what it means to be a Sara. You know, just Sara things.
It means an “I’m sorry salad” of cucumber, carrot and broccoli presented with a bow to my Guinea pig, OliverElizabeth after being gone for a few days to St. Simon’s Island – FOR WORK, Oliver- and living with his displeasure for a bit.
It means starting whole30, failing after three days, shaming myself for all of like 5 minutes and then happily drinking a Diet Coke. Worth it.
It means helping my AJ write final papers by rationing pug and cat videos – one video for every three pages.
It means being struck every now and then with life – my life – and the fact that I created a program. Me, Sara, the shy weirdo missionary kid. What in the world. And it means watching said program become more than I can handle without more human power, and letting that be a wonderful feeling.
It means vestments, a chalice and paten, wafers, juice and anointing balm; and gratitude for all the wonderful things that make up my life, little by little.
Thanks be to God for just Sara things.