Saturday Serves and the Sweetness of the Sidewalk

Hello, friends. I’m writing to you from my favorite spot at the kitchen table, the sun just beginning its slow descent toward the backyard fence. Mark is out back with Biscuit, tossing a tennis ball that I’m sure will be slobbery and gray by the time they come back inside. It’s been one of those Saturdays that feels like a long, slow exhale after a week of juggling spreadsheets at Miller’s and pouring lavender soy wax in the kitchen.

The morning started early—though thankfully not as early as Mark’s 5:30 a.m. construction starts. Megan picked me up at 8:00 sharp for our usual pickleball match. There is something so incredibly grounding about hitting a plastic ball across a net while gossiping about the latest bakery drama at Sweet Magnolia. Today, though, we talked more about the Cedar Falls Harvest 5K. I told her about my run on Thursday and how my legs felt like lead. She reminded me that even lead eventually melts into something useful. We played three games, and I actually felt my lateral movement getting quicker. It’s a different kind of fitness than the trail runs, but it makes me feel capable and strong in my own skin.

After pickleball, I stopped by the salon above the bakery to see if Dani had an opening for a quick trim, but she was slammed with prom updos for the summer formal. Instead, I just caught a whiff of her hairspray and headed home to the little blue house. The driveway was a chaotic masterpiece when I pulled in. Noah had decided that the entire concrete slab needed to be a 'dino-zone,' and he was meticulously drawing a T-Rex in green chalk while wearing his favorite velociraptor pajamas, despite the humidity. Emma was right there next to him, though she had moved on from dinosaurs to drawing elaborate horses on the back of some old math worksheets I’d cleared out of her backpack.

Joanne was out in her pink bathrobe, as usual, deadheading her petunias. She waved a gloved hand at me and shouted over the fence that my 'Harvest Hearth' candles smelled like a dream coming from the open kitchen window yesterday. That little compliment did more for my self-worth than a week’s worth of sales could. Sometimes, when you’re deep in the 'messy middle' of a side hustle, you forget that the work you do actually reaches people. It’s not just about the Etsy notifications or the extra few dollars for the savings account; it’s about the light you’re sending out into the world.

I spent the afternoon working on a new batch of orders. I’m trying a new wick size for the larger jars to ensure a cleaner burn. Growth is so much like that, isn't it, ladies? It’s not always about the big, flashy changes. Often, it’s just adjusting the wick, trimming the excess, and making sure the foundation is solid so you don't burn out too fast. I’m learning to apply that to my 5K training, too. I did a light two-mile jog after lunch, and instead of pushing for a personal best, I just focused on the rhythm of my breathing and the way the air felt.

Mark came home around 5:20 p.m., looking exhausted but giving me that specific smile he only uses when he’s really happy to be off the clock. We are coming up on nine years of marriage this month, and I find myself looking at him—dusty work boots, tired eyes, and all—and feeling a deep sense of desirability that has nothing to do with being twenty-five anymore. It’s the desirability of being known. He knows I’m nervous about the race in October; he knows I worry about the bookkeeping at the hardware store; he knows I need my robin-egg-blue journal to stay sane.

We’ve been talking a lot lately about our finances and where we want to be by our tenth anniversary. It’s slow going, building a life on a foreman’s salary and part-time bookkeeping, but every candle sold and every smart choice at the grocery store feels like a tiny victory. We aren't rich by the world's standards, but standing in this kitchen, watching Emma help Noah wash the chalk off his hands, I feel incredibly wealthy in the things that matter.

My legs are a little sore from the pickleball and the run, but it’s a good sore. It’s the kind of ache that reminds you that you’re alive and moving forward. My mom, Diane, is supposed to call tomorrow afternoon, and I know she’ll ask if I’ve been 'overdoing it.' I’ll tell her no—I’m just finally doing enough. I’m finding the balance between the hustle of the hardware store and the stillness of my own backyard.

I need to go start some pasta for dinner before the kids realize they’re starving and the 'hangry' dinosaurs take over the living room. Mark promised to help Emma with her horse drawings after we eat, which gives me a few more minutes to sit with my thoughts and this beautiful, ordinary life we’ve built on Sycamore Street. It isn't perfect, and it isn't always easy, but it is ours.

Thank you for being here with me, friends. For listening to the mundane details and the small heartbreaks and the quiet triumphs. It means the world to have a place to share the texture of this journey. Keep showing up for yourselves, even when the trail is dusty and the wicks won't stay lit. You are worth the effort of every single mile.

I love you. — Lucy