Friday Flour and the Finest Form of Investment

Hello, friends. The sun is just starting to dip behind the maples on Sycamore Street, casting long, golden fingers across my kitchen table. It is 5:45 pm, and for the first time today, the house is actually quiet. Mark just pulled the truck into the driveway—I can hear the heavy click of his door closing—and the kids are in the backyard with Biscuit, who is currently losing a game of pretend-fetch to a very bossy prehistoric veterinarian. Noah has decided his velociraptor pajamas are suitable for outdoor play today, and who am I to argue with a four-year-old’s fashion sense?

Today was one of those 'between' days. You know the ones, ladies? No shift at Miller’s Hardware to keep my hands busy with inventory, and no candle orders to pour for Lucy’s Little Light. It was just me, my robin-egg-blue journal, and the realization that I am less than three months away from the Cedar Falls Harvest 5K. I laced up my sneakers around ten o’clock and hit the pavement. I managed three and a half miles today, which is a big jump for me. My lungs felt the humidity, but my legs felt strong. There is a certain kind of self-worth that only comes from doing the thing you told yourself you were going to do.

After my run, I stopped by Sweet Magnolia. Megan was covered in a light dusting of flour, looking like a sugar-coated whirlwind. I sat at the small bistro table in the corner while she worked, and we talked about the upcoming weekend. She’s already planning our pickleball strategy for Saturday morning. As I watched her carefully pipe frosting onto a row of cupcakes, I thought about how much of our lives is spent in this kind of quiet, repetitive labor. Whether it’s Megan decorating a cake, Mr. Miller organizing plumbing fixtures, or me tracking every penny in my ledger, we are all just trying to build something that lasts.

We talked a little bit about money today, too. Not the scary kind of talk, but the growth kind. I was telling her about how I’ve been tucking away my profits from the candle shop and my bookkeeping hours into a separate savings account. It isn’t a fortune yet, but it’s mine. It represents hours of standing over a hot stove and hours of staring at spreadsheets until the numbers stop swimming. Seeing that balance grow slowly—so slowly—makes me feel a sense of agency I didn't have five years ago. It’s not just about the dollars; it’s about the security of knowing I can contribute to our future in a tangible way.

Joanne was out on her porch when I walked home, still in her pink bathrobe even though it was nearly noon, deadheading her petunias with the precision of a surgeon. She waved her shears at me and told me my posture looked better lately. It made me laugh, but it also made me think. Maybe I am standing a little taller. When you spend years focusing on everyone else—Emma’s math worksheets, Noah’s nap schedule, Mark’s long days at the construction site—you can sometimes forget to hold yourself upright. You start to fold inward, like a book that’s been read too many times.

Training for this race and growing my little business has forced me to unfold. It’s reminded me that I am allowed to take up space. I am allowed to have goals that don't involve a grocery list or a laundry basket. Mark has been so supportive, too. When he got home yesterday, he noticed the new training schedule I pinned to the fridge and just kissed the top of my head. 'You’re going to crush it, Luce,' he said. That kind of quiet affirmation makes me feel more desirable and seen than any grand gesture ever could. It’s the daily choice to love the person I am becoming, not just the person I was when we said 'I do' nine years ago.

I took a long shower after the kids had their lunch, and I actually used the fancy pomegranate scrub Diane sent me for my birthday. I usually save it for 'special occasions,' but today I decided that being alive and healthy and capable of running three miles was occasion enough. My skin felt soft, and for a moment, looking in the steamed-up mirror, I didn't see the tired mom who survived on lukewarm coffee. I saw a woman who is working hard, investing in herself, and finding her own rhythm in the middle of a very busy life.

Emma came in while I was drying my hair, clutching a math worksheet that had more horses drawn in the margins than actual numbers written in the boxes. We sat on the bed and worked through the subtraction problems together. I tried to explain that even if we take things away, we are still left with something important. It’s a lesson I’m still learning myself, honestly. Sometimes we have to subtract the noise and the self-doubt to see the value that was there all along. She eventually finished her homework, though I suspect the horses did most of the heavy lifting.

Dinner tonight is a simple roast chicken—nothing fancy, but it smells like home. My mom, Diane, called briefly to check in and remind me that she’s coming over this Sunday. She’s already asking what kind of candles I’m working on next. It’s funny how the people who know you best are the ones who notice the shift in your energy first. She told me I sounded 'settled.' I think that’s the perfect word for it. I am settled into my skin, settled into my goals, and settled into the beautiful, messy reality of this little blue house on Sycamore Street.

As I wrap this up, the sun is nearly gone. Mark is washing his hands in the sink, telling me about a difficult pour at the site today, and the kids are finally migrating toward the door, smelling like grass and sunshine. This is the victory, friends. Not a finish line in October or a massive bank balance, but this moment right here. The feeling of being whole, being loved, and being exactly where I am supposed to be. I hope you found a small victory today, too. Whether it was a long walk or just a quiet cup of tea, remember that you are worth the investment.

I love you. — Lucy