Finding beauty, humor, gratitude, and little reasons to smile in ordinary life.
Faith Love & Joy is becoming part of something new.
I’m bringing my love of faith, books, cozy living and ordinary life together in one place at Clean Reads & Cozy Sips.
You’ll still find the encouragement and real-life conversations you’ve come to expect from me, along with books, reading, writing and plenty of cozy moments.
Come join me for this next chapter.
I am an Autumn.
I was born in October, so technically, I have been an Autumn since birth. But I don’t just like fall. I absolutely thrive in it.
There is something that happens to me when the calendar gets closer to October. My entire personality seems to shift. I go from being a grumpy, tired, indoors-loving ogre who spends the summer with her hair thrown back into whatever is coolest, wearing sloppy shorts and a tank top, walking barefoot around the house and drinking iced lattes, to a completely different human being.
Then comes the first hint of fall, and suddenly my entire outlook on life changes.
The windows open. The sweaters come out. The blankets begin migrating into all my favorite corners of the house. I stop refilling the ice cube tray quite as often.
Hot coffee in the morning and a soothing cup of hot tea in the evening suddenly sound like exactly what I need to survive another day.
And honestly?
I love everything about it.
I love the smell of burning wood drifting through the neighborhood when people light their first fires of the season. I love watching the world outside transform as the bright blues, whites, and pinks of summer give way to deep reds, oranges, and fiery yellows.
And those colors?
Normally, they aren’t even my favorites. But when fall arrives, suddenly I’m looking at an orange tree like it personally performed a miracle.
Give me a crisp breeze, an open window, a warm blanket, a cup of coffee, and a slightly spooky book, and I am one very happy Autumn.
Maybe that’s why I feel so different when fall arrives. Summer seems to demand things from me.
Go outside.
Enjoy the sunshine.
Be productive.
Get some fresh air.
Fall doesn’t seem to care quite as much. Fall says, “Come inside. Put on a sweater. I’ll make some soup.”
Obviously, we understand each other.
My house changes with the season, too.
Suddenly, I want everything to feel warm and cozy. The blankets come out. The candles get switched up. The coffee mugs somehow become more important. My reading spots become sacred territory.
I start thinking about soups, casseroles, and baked things, even though I am perfectly capable of eating the exact same foods I ate in July.
There is just something about fall that makes me want to slow down.
Maybe it’s the cooler temperatures. Maybe it’s the shorter days. Maybe it’s the fact that summer has finally stopped yelling at me to go outside.
Whatever it is, I welcome it.
Fall feels like permission to stay home.
It feels like permission to put on a sweater, grab a book, make something warm to drink, and settle into my favorite chair without feeling like I should be doing something else.
And maybe that’s one of the reasons I love this season so much.
It makes ordinary things feel special. A mug of coffee becomes an event. A blanket becomes a necessity. Opening a window becomes one of the best parts of the day. And sitting quietly with a book suddenly feels like exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Of course, speaking of books…
Summer me wants sunshine, vacation vibes, and maybe a cute little romance.
Fall me?
Give me an old house. Give me a mysterious woman wandering around an abandoned property. Give me a creaky staircase, a family secret, and something that may or may not be haunting the attic.
Preferably with a cup of tea beside me.
I don’t know what happens to me when fall rolls around, but apparently my reading preferences suddenly develop a deep appreciation for ghosts. And honestly, I’m okay with it.
My light summer and beach reads slowly give way to haunted houses, mysterious old homes, family secrets, forgotten histories, and stories with just enough creepiness to make me want to curl up under a blanket.
Nothing too terrifying, of course.
I’m still trying to sleep at night.
But give me a slightly creepy house, a woman determined to uncover its secrets, and the possibility that something strange happened there fifty years ago?
I’m in. Preferably before dark – although if we’re being honest, that’s when the story gets interesting.
And apparently, my seasonal personality isn’t limited to my reading choices.
It has opinions about my wardrobe, too.
I go from, “What is the absolute minimum amount of clothing I can wear without getting arrested for indecent exposure?” to, “Look at me! I have layers!”
Sweaters.
Jeans.
Cozy socks.
Cardigans.
I love them all.
There is something incredibly satisfying about putting on a sweater and realizing you are actually comfortable. Even better, I can leave the house without immediately feeling like I’ve walked into a hair dryer. There is something wonderful about stepping outside on a crisp fall morning and realizing you actually need a jacket.
I will take that over sweating while standing perfectly still any day of the week.
And I love the little things that come with it.
The sound of leaves crunching under my feet. The first chilly morning. The smell of coffee drifting through the house. A blanket over my legs while I read (although, that’s me year round). The early evening darkness. A warm meal simmering in the kitchen. The anticipation of Halloween. The beautiful colors everywhere I look.
The feeling that the world itself has slowed down just a little.
Maybe that’s really what I love most.
Fall doesn’t seem to rush me.
And as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized just how much I appreciate that.
Fall makes me nostalgic, too.
Maybe that’s part of getting older. Seasons seem to carry memories with them.
I think about my girls when they were little. Halloween costumes. School activities. Chilly mornings. Pumpkin patches. Trips to pick out Halloween candy. All those ordinary little moments that didn’t seem particularly important at the time.
Now those ordinary moments are some of the ones I remember most.
That’s the funny thing about life.
When we’re living through a moment, we don’t always know we’re creating a memory.
We think we’re just making breakfast, driving them to school, picking out Halloween costumes, taking pictures, and watching our kids run around the house. We don’t realize we’re creating memories. We just think we’re living an ordinary day.
Then suddenly, years have passed, and those ordinary moments are the ones we would give almost anything to experience one more time.
Maybe that’s another reason I love fall so much. It reminds me that life doesn’t have to be loud to be beautiful. Sometimes it’s a quiet morning, a warm mug, a good book, and a blanket. Sometimes it’s opening the windows and letting cool air move through the house. Sometimes it’s watching the trees change colors and realizing that change can actually be beautiful. Which, considering I’m approaching 58, is probably a lesson I should appreciate.
Because I am changing, too.
I’m not the woman I was in my twenties or thirties.
I’m not even the woman I was ten years ago.
And you know what?
That’s okay.
There are things about getting older that I don’t particularly love. My body has opinions now that it didn’t used to have. My metabolism apparently retired without telling me. My energy doesn’t always cooperate with my plans.
But there are also things I genuinely appreciate about being this age. I know myself a whole lot better than I used to. I know what I like, what I don’t like, what I’m willing to put up with, and what I absolutely am not. I know what matters to me now, and I’m finally getting better at letting the rest go. I’m also learning that changing doesn’t mean something is wrong with me. Maybe it just means I’m not supposed to stay exactly the same forever.
Maybe fall is a good reminder of that.
The trees don’t apologize for losing their leaves.
They don’t panic and say, “Oh no! I’m not green anymore!”
They simply change. They let go of what they don’t need and, eventually, they begin again.
There is something comforting about that.
We spend so much of our lives trying to hold on to who we used to be.
The younger version of ourselves.
The version with different dreams, different responsibilities, different energy, and probably a metabolism that didn’t require a committee meeting before agreeing to burn a calorie.
But maybe we’re not supposed to stay the same.
Maybe we’re supposed to have seasons, too.
Maybe some things are meant to fall away.
Maybe some things are meant to make room for something new.
And maybe getting older isn’t about becoming less of who we were.
Maybe it’s about becoming more comfortable with who we are now.
I don’t know.
I’m still figuring that part out.
But I do know that every year, when the temperatures drop and the leaves begin to change, something in me settles down.
I breathe a little deeper.
I slow down.
I notice things.
I open the windows.
I make coffee.
I pick up a book.
I pull a blanket over my legs.
And for a little while, everything feels exactly as it should.
So yes.
I am officially declaring myself an Autumn.
Not just because I was born in October.
Not just because I love sweaters, hot coffee, cozy blankets, open windows, changing leaves, and slightly creepy books.
But because something about this season feels like home.
Summer me can keep her iced latte and her air conditioning.
Fall me is here.
She’s wearing a sweater, carrying a hot cup of coffee, opening the windows, admiring the leaves, thinking about soup, and probably looking for her next haunted house to read about.
And she is very, very happy to be here.
This past weekend was very busy. My daughter and her family came in for a visit, which meant a lot of Sophia time. My father and stepmom were here too, and that was such a joy because I love watching Sophia interact with them. She does it a little more each time.
When she slows down, that is.
When they left on Sunday, I was very, very tired, as I usually am after spending time with Sophia. I am a grandma, after all, and my energy levels are very different from when her mother was her age.
Very. Different.
Shelby and I ran some errands, did some cleaning, and started putting our home back into its pre-Sophia state. I had bought myself a snack and planned a long afternoon and evening in my chair, enjoying the peace and quiet, recharging my social battery, watching British mysteries, and crocheting.
And then the phone call came.
Like all phone calls like this, it split my life into more epochs. There is a before the call and an after the call.
My Uncle Jim had unexpectedly passed away.
Since then, my mind has been flooded with memories. I have been part of his life for as long as I can remember. He, along with my Aunt Ro (my angel-auntie who went to Heaven eight years ago) made up much of my childhood.
My earliest memory is of being sick while visiting them.
Over the years, Uncle Jim taught me what family meant and how much one person can do for the people they love, often at the expense of themselves. He also became one of the few men who set the standard by which I measure all the other men in my life.
As a child, I remember sitting in front of the living room fan, fresh from a cool bath after playing outside all day in the summer heat. Uncle Jim would sip an RC Cola while we watched M*A*S*H. He was a Vietnam veteran, so watching that show with him felt like catching a glimpse of what his life might have been like.
Uncle Jim also taught me the fine art of finding alternative vocabulary when certain words were forbidden. Specifically, when we were watching football. Football required a very specific collection of words that could not be repeated by us kids. I’ll spare you the actual vocabulary, but let’s just say he had a creative way of expressing his displeasure with a referee without technically using a swear word.
And then there were football games in person. Give Uncle Jim about ten minutes in the stands and he would somehow know everyone within a ten-foot radius. And I mean know them. First names, where they were from, probably what they had for breakfast. Every man was “Guy.” “Hey, Guy!” “How ya doing, Guy?” “Good game, Guy!” Put him anywhere, and somehow, he belonged.
He never hugged any of us kids without first hugging his wife. That was always reserved for her.
While my home life was atypical, theirs felt like stepping into The Dick Van Dyke Show. He even looked like Rob Petrie!
As a teenager, I lived with my mom a few doors down from Aunt Ro and Uncle Jim. It was where I turned sixteen.
Like most girls, I threw a party and invited all my “friends.” One by one, they offered excuses for why they couldn’t come. People have always come into and out of my life without much explanation, and honestly, it still happens today. I’ve learned to grow a thick skin and stick with the few people who have proven themselves true.
Shortly after the last girl called to say she wouldn’t make it, I retreated into my room…and into my imagination.
Then the doorbell rang.
Uncle Jim stood there in a suit and tie, holding a bouquet of flowers.
He had heard about my party.
We went to Baker’s Square, where I had dinner and a slice of birthday pie. He listened to all my silly dreams. He wiped away my tears. He made me laugh. He told me I was worth tens of thousands of all those girls who didn’t show up.
I knew that wasn’t true.
But it made me feel pretty darn good at the time.
He also took me to my high school junior father-daughter dinner dance. Unlike the other dads, who stood on the sidelines or sat at the tables, Uncle Jim never missed a dance.
We danced the slow ones, just like we used to when I was little and would stand on top of his feet. And when “The Twist” came on, he opened up a space and let those gangly arms and legs flail about quite unnaturally, I might add.
One would think an ambulance would need to be called.
Then came Good Morning, Vietnam.
When the movie came out, Uncle Jim told me he had heard Adrian Cronauer when he was in the service. I knew the movie would be important to him, and we were both Robin Williams fans, so naturally, we went together.
As we found our seats, I commented that I loved the song playing overhead but couldn’t remember who sang it.
Uncle Jim excused himself and left the auditorium.
I thought nothing of it until he came back, apologizing that the manager didn’t know the artist either.
Except that wasn’t quite what happened.
He had actually approached the manager just to find out the name of the artist for me.
That was Uncle Jim.
When I told him I was getting divorced, he offered to move Heaven and hell to bring me and my girls back home, where he believed we belonged.
He wasn’t perfect.
None of us are.
But over the years, I watched him do hard things.
He tried to heal from PTSD after serving in Vietnam and enduring the horrible welcome he received when he came home.
He held his wife together as they lost baby after baby.
He tried to maintain his dignity in the face of joblessness.
And finally, he knew when it was time to let go. He said goodbye to his wife of forty-seven years, held her hand, and told her it was okay to go to Jesus.
No, he wasn’t perfect.
But he was always there.
He always showed up.
He always opened his arms.
He never wanted to see anyone out in the cold or without a home.
He was the kind of man who, when eighteen-month-old me cried and cried because my Aunt Ro was going out on a date, turned the car around and told his soon-to-be girlfriend—and later his wife—to go back and “get Vikki.”
Yes.
I went with them on their very first date.
He was that kind of man.
And now he’s gone.
And somehow, I find myself grieving not only the man I lost this week, but the little girl I was when he showed up for her.
The teenager sitting alone in her bedroom on her Sweet Sixteen.
The young woman who needed someone to dance with her.
The divorced mom who needed someone to tell her that she and her girls belonged somewhere safe.
And the little eighteen-month-old who simply didn’t want Aunt Ro to leave without her.
Uncle Jim showed up for all of them.
He showed up for me.
And I think that may be what grief is doing to me right now – reminding me of just how many times one person can quietly become part of the foundation of your life.
I knew I loved him.
I just didn’t realize how much of my life he was holding up until now.
I’ve always thought the words house and home were interchangeable.
They’re not.
One is a building. The other is an experience.
Anyone who’s lived any sort of life knows what I’m talking about.
When I was married and living in Texas, my house was just that: a house. It was filled with people I loved, especially my daughters, but overall, it was simply a building. A shelter from storms. A roof over our heads.
Within those walls were happy moments, little sparkles of what could have been, and the saving grace I always found in my children’s laughter.
But it was also the place where I learned how to become the most insignificant version of myself.
It was where harsh words were spoken instead of loving ones. Where accusation and regret hung like cobwebs in the corners. Where I longed for a life that seemed to belong to everyone else because I couldn’t imagine it ever happening to me.
Thankfully, divorce freed me.
Yes, the divorce was painful. But it gave me freedom.
And my girls and I came home.
Our home wasn’t perfect. It was a weird little townhome with odd walls, a strange galley kitchen, and a funkily placed bathroom. It needed paint, a new furnace, a new ceiling, and a new roof.
It was a money pit.
But my mother was there.
And in the middle of all my hurt and pain, she welcomed us…home.
For all its imperfections, it was home until the day she died.
Then, quietly, it reverted back to being a house.
A very lonely one, filled with memories and grief.
My girls and I lived like nomads in two different apartments. They were houses, but somehow, we managed to turn them into homes.
We grieved there. We healed there. We grew there.
Then my sister and I bought our current house.
Turning it into a home has been a challenge. How do you merge four distinct personalities and settle them all under one roof?
Challenging?
Yes.
Worth it?
YES.
Because over these past two years, we’ve made it a home.
And I notice the shift whenever one or more of us isn’t here.
The house feels different.
Quieter.
Less alive.
Which brings me to the question you might be asking:
“Why are you telling me all this, Vikki Lynn?”
Or maybe:
“When are you going to tell me how to make my house feel like a home?”
I’m not.
That’s not what I’m here for.
Oh, I have things that make our house cozy. Candles. Crocheted blankets. Pillows. Comfy furniture. Even a fireplace.
But none of those things make this a home.
Home is when my dad and stepmom come over every Saturday night and we share a meal while telling the same stories we’ve told a hundred times before.
Home is when my daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter visit, and I get to pull out all the little things I’ve bought just for her because, well…
I’m a Grandma.
And I can.
Home is pulling out the carefully labeled holiday bins and decorating for every single season because it’s a joy to do it with someone who loves holidays as much as I do.
Home is every home-cooked meal we share, whether we’re gathered around the dining room table or sitting in front of the television watching Midsomer Murders.
Home is where my sisters plant, place, and carefully tend to all the beautiful flowers out front and in back. It’s where the birds come to eat, knowing there will always be food waiting for them.
(The squirrels come to dine, too, but we won’t talk about that.)
Home isn’t made with objects.
It’s made with memories.
With people.
With smells.
With sounds.
It’s made with laughter echoing through the halls, familiar voices filling the rooms, and the quiet comfort of knowing you belong.
That’s what turns a house into a home.
Not the furniture.
Not the paint.
Not the perfectly decorated rooms.
Not even the fireplace.
It’s the life that happens inside those four walls.
The people who fill them.
The memories that linger long after everyone has gone to bed.
The laughter.
The tears.
The ordinary Tuesday nights and the big Saturday dinners.
The holidays and the hard days.
The coming home.
Because maybe that’s the difference between a house and a home.
A house is where you live.
Home is where you belong.
Monday is never, ever my favorite day.
The weekend is over, and a long week stretches ahead, full of what I like to call “busy nothings.”
If you’re anything like me, you start dreading it on Sunday night as the Great Reset begins. Prepping lunches. Setting up the coffee pot. (I don’t do Keurig, and my Nespresso is reserved for afternoon lattes, should I desire one.) Choosing clothes for the week. Maybe putting away whatever laundry was done over the weekend.
I just don’t like Mondays.
And I don’t like feeling that way.
It makes Sunday go by far too quickly. And since it’s the Lord’s Day, I feel a certain twinge of yuck spending the latter half of it all grousy because Monday is coming.
I was thinking about this last night as I sat with a cup of tea, Percy at my side, wishing I could do anything – ANYTHING – other than work a 9-to-5.
But God has been dealing with me lately about ingratitude over things I once asked Him for. And as I sat there, He reminded me of that.
Suddenly, my mind was flooded with little snapshots from the past weekend, and I realized just how much I have to be grateful for.
Then I wondered: What if I started Monday differently?
What if, instead of beginning the week thinking about everything I don’t want to do, I began by thanking God for everything He has given me?
What if I started Monday with gratitude?
Thankful for the blessings of the weekend. Thankful for the good things that happened during the week. Thankful for the specific, ordinary things that can so easily get overlooked.
So I decided to make it a habit.
And just like that, Monday Blessings was born.
Each Monday, I’ll share at least five specific blessings I’m thanking God for. These won’t necessarily be the big, obvious blessings we enjoy every day – the blood of Jesus, our freedom, our families, our jobs, our homes.
Those are blessings worth thanking God for every single day.
But these will be the specific blessings. The little things. The things that happened this week that made me stop and say, “Thank You, Lord.”
So let’s begin.
The two ladies joining our team at work are wicked smart and absolutely amazing. I can’t wait to work with them, learn from what they know, and finally have some input into how I can grow what has, up until now, been a pretty solitary role.
I’m really looking forward to what this could become.
Once again, my sister cared for Percy while I traveled for the weekend.
He does so well with her, and I’m incredibly grateful that I don’t have to board him when I’m away. Knowing he’s home, comfortable, and being loved makes traveling so much easier.
God has given me some new inspiration concerning my overall attitude toward my blessings.
Honestly, just having an attitude change about anything at my age is pretty cool.
But this one feels especially important.
I cannot overstate this one.
Every time I see Sophia, there is something new. New growth. New abilities. New movements. New little things she can do that she couldn’t do the last time I saw her.
And I cannot get enough of her hugs.
They are life.
Again, courtesy of my sister.
But there was just something magical about coming home, sitting down to a lovely home-cooked meal, having a cup of tea, and then settling into my chair.
Nothing spectacular.
Nothing Instagram-worthy.
Just home.
And sometimes, that’s more than enough.
So here I am on Monday morning, trying something new.
Instead of looking at Monday as the end of everything good and the beginning of another long week, I’m choosing to stop and notice what God has already given me.
Because maybe Mondays aren’t the problem.
Maybe I’ve just been looking at them from the wrong direction.
What blessings are you grateful for this Monday?
