Sunday Solace and the Symphony of a Simple Supper

Hello, friends. The house is finally quiet for a moment, bathed in that soft, golden light that only seems to visit Cedar Falls on Sunday afternoons. Mark is out back playing a very intense game of 'dinosaur tag' with Noah—who is, of course, sporting his favorite velociraptor pajamas despite the humidity—and Emma is hunched over the kitchen table, her tongue poking out in concentration as she draws a complex stable of horses on the back of a grocery receipt. It is these moments, right before the week resets, that I feel the most grounded.

My morning started with the usual long-distance chat with Mom. Diane was in high spirits today, telling me all about her new gardening club, but she didn’t forget to check in on my training. She asked if I was still 'chasing that finish line' for the Harvest 5K in October. I told her I hit three and a half miles this morning before the sun got too high. My lungs felt clear, and my legs felt strong, though my shins are definitely reminding me that I’m thirty-four and not twenty-four anymore. Still, there is such a profound sense of self-worth in showing up for yourself when no one is watching but Biscuit.

Speaking of Biscuit, he joined me for the tail end of my run, his golden tail wagging in rhythm with my pace. We passed Joanne’s house on the way back, and there she was, as reliable as the sunrise, in her signature pink bathrobe. She was out there deadheading her petunias, looking like she hadn’t a care in the world. She waved a gloved hand at me and shouted, 'Looking lean, Lucy!' It made me blush, but it also made me stand a little taller. It’s funny how a small compliment from a neighbor can reinforce all the hard work you’re doing behind the scenes.

After my run, I spent a few hours in my 'candle corner.' I had a surge of orders for 'Lucy’s Little Light' over the weekend, which is such a blessing for our family savings goal. I poured twenty jars of 'Sycamore Sunset,' and the scent of sandalwood and citrus is still clinging to my hair. Seeing those jars lined up, ready to be shipped out to strangers who want a piece of the warmth I feel here, makes me realize how far this little side hustle has come. It’s not just about the extra grocery money; it’s about proving to myself that I can build something from scratch.

Mark came home around his usual time yesterday, but today he’s been fully present, which is the best gift he could give me. We’ve been married nine years now, and while some days feel like we’re just passing ships in the night—him leaving at 5:30 am and me juggling the kids and Miller's Hardware—Sundays are our anchor. He caught me looking at myself in the hallway mirror earlier, adjusting my workout top and frowning at a soft spot on my hip. He didn't say anything at first; he just walked up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and kissed my shoulder. He whispered that I looked beautiful exactly as I am. It’s in those quiet reassurances that I feel most desirable, not because I’m perfect, but because I am seen.

I took a few minutes this afternoon to sit with my robin-egg-blue journal, the one Megan gave me. I found myself writing about the concept of 'slow growth.' We live in a world that wants everything to be an overnight success—the perfect body, the thriving business, the effortless marriage. But my life isn't like that. My progress is measured in half-mile increments on the pavement, in the few extra dollars I tuck away from Etsy sales, and in the way Emma is slowly learning to love her math, even if she has to draw a pony next to every equation to get through it.

I’m planning a simple supper tonight—roast chicken with some herbs from the garden. There’s something therapeutic about the ritual of preparing a meal for the people you love. It’s a way of saying 'I value you' without having to find the right words. I can hear the floorboards creaking upstairs, which means Noah has likely moved his dinosaur battle to the hallway. It’s loud, it’s a bit chaotic, and it’s exactly where I’m supposed to be.

As I look toward Monday and my shift at Miller's, I’m not feeling that usual sense of dread. The smell of sawdust and the friendly chatter with Mr. Miller provide a different kind of rhythm that I’ve grown to appreciate. It’s all part of the tapestry, isn’t it, ladies? The hard work, the soft moments, and the steady pursuit of a version of ourselves that we can be proud of when we close our eyes at night.

I hope you all found a moment of peace today, whether it was in a quiet cup of coffee or a long walk under the Iowa sky. Remember that your value isn’t tied to your productivity, but to the love you pour into the world and the kindness you show yourself. We are all works in progress, and that is a beautiful thing to be.

The sun is starting to dip below the trees now, and I need to get that chicken in the oven before the 'hangry' monsters descend upon the kitchen. Mark is calling for me to come look at a 'very important' Lego tower Noah built, so I must run. Take a deep breath, tuck yourselves in tonight knowing you are enough, and I will talk to you all tomorrow.

I love you. — Lucy