Saturday Serves and the Strength of Six

Hello, friends. I am sitting here at the kitchen table with my robin-egg-blue journal, watching the golden September light stretch across Sycamore Street. The house is momentarily quiet, though I can hear Mark out in the driveway helping Emma adjust the seat on her bike while Noah 'helps' by lining up his plastic triceratops along the garage door. It is one of those Saturday afternoons where everything feels both perfectly ordinary and deeply significant.

My morning started early, even for a Saturday. I met Megan at the park for our usual pickleball match. You know, ladies, there is something so cathartic about hitting a ball as hard as you can while venting about the week. We talked about the bakery and my candle orders—I actually had to restock my 'Cedar Balsam' jars this morning because they’re flying off the Etsy shelf—but mostly we just played. I felt strong. Not just 'good for my age' strong, but genuinely capable. My feet are getting quicker, and I’m finding that I don’t run out of breath the way I did back in June.

After the match, Megan treated me to a lemon scone, and we sat on the bench for a bit. She told me she’s noticed a change in me lately, a sort of brightness. It made me blush, but it also made me think about self-worth. For so long, I defined myself by the numbers on the ledger at Miller's Hardware or how many loads of laundry I could fold before Mark got home from the construction site. But standing on that court, sweaty and laughing, I felt like Lucy—not just a bookkeeper or a mom, but a woman who is taking up her own space in the world.

I carried that energy into my run this afternoon. If you’ve been following along, you know the Cedar Falls Harvest 5K is just around the corner in October. Yesterday I hit five miles, which felt like a mountain conquered, but today I decided to push just a little further. I laced up my sneakers, waved to Joanne—who was, as always, in her pink bathrobe deadheading her petunias—and I just went. I didn’t set a timer. I didn't worry about my pace. I just moved.

I hit six miles today, friends. Six! When I started this journey, I could barely make it to the end of the block without my lungs burning. Today, as I rounded the corner past the bakery and headed toward the trail, I felt like I could have gone forever. There is a specific kind of magic in realizing your body is an ally, not an enemy. I’m learning to love the muscle I’m building, the way my legs feel solid beneath me, and the way the Iowa air clears out all the cobwebs in my head.

When I got back, Mark was already home. He’d finished his shift early for a Saturday and was covered in that familiar scent of dust and hard work. He caught me as I was stretching on the porch and gave me that look—the one that makes me feel like I’m twenty-five again and we’re still just two kids dreaming about a little blue house. He told me he was proud of me. It wasn’t just about the mileage; he said he could see how much happier I am. It’s funny how working on yourself makes you a better partner, isn't it? Our nine years of marriage haven't always been easy, but lately, the foundation feels sturdier than ever.

I spent the rest of the afternoon pouring a new batch of 'Autumn Orchard' candles. The kitchen smells like apples and spice, a sharp contrast to the sawdust scent that usually clings to my clothes after a shift at Miller's. I’m trying to be disciplined with the finances, putting a portion of every Etsy sale into a separate savings account for our anniversary dinner next month. It’s not a fortune, but it’s mine, and there is a quiet power in that growing balance.

Emma came in earlier to show me her math worksheet. Instead of subtraction, the back was covered in elaborate sketches of horses with flowing manes. I should probably tell her to focus on the numbers, but I just hugged her instead. I want her to know that there is room for both the logic of the hardware store and the beauty of the bakery in this life. Noah, meanwhile, has decided that Biscuit the retriever is actually a long-lost brontosaurus, and the two of them have been 'grazing' on the backyard grass for twenty minutes.

As I look at the clock, it’s nearing 6:00 pm. Mark is starting the grill, and I can hear the distant sound of a neighbor’s lawnmower. These Saturdays used to feel like a countdown to Monday, a frantic rush to get the chores done before the work week began. Now, they feel like a gift. I am learning that I don't have to be perfect to be worthy. I don't have to have a clean house to be desirable. I just have to show up, breathe the air, and keep moving forward, one mile at a time.

I’m going to put my journal away now and go help Mark with dinner. We’re having grilled chicken and some of the corn Mom sent over when she called last Sunday. I feel tired in the best possible way—the kind of tired that comes from a day well-lived and a heart well-tended. I hope you all found a small victory today, whether it was a six-mile run or just remembering to take a deep breath in the middle of the chaos.

I am so grateful to have you all to share this with. It makes the miles feel shorter and the victories feel sweeter. I’ll be back on Monday after the Sunday rest. Until then, take care of yourselves and remember that you are doing better than you think you are.

I love you. — Lucy