Thursday Triumphs and the Timeless Task of Tending

Hello, friends. The late afternoon sun is stretching across the kitchen floor in long, amber slats, and for a moment, the little blue house on Sycamore Street feels perfectly still. It is just me and Biscuit, who is currently snoring softly on the rug, his paws twitching as he chases imaginary squirrels. Mark won’t be through the front door for another twenty minutes, and the kids are busy with their own little worlds, leaving me a quiet pocket of time to talk to you. I hope your Thursday has been as gentle as mine turned out to be.

Today was a shift day at Miller’s Hardware. I walked in at eleven and the scent of sawdust and motor oil hit me like a familiar hug. There is something so grounding about that shop. Mr. Miller was in the back sorting through a new shipment of cabinet pulls, and I spent my four hours balanced over the ledgers. Seeing the numbers line up, watching the slow but steady growth of a local business, always makes me feel like I am contributing to something solid. It’s a good reminder that even when the world feels chaotic, there is order to be found if you’re willing to look for it in the columns of a balance sheet.

After I clocked out at three, I headed home to check on my Etsy shop, 'Lucy's Little Light.' I had three orders waiting for me—two 'Cedar Morning' scents and one 'Sycamore Sunset.' Getting these hand-poured candles ready for their new homes is my favorite kind of side hustle. As I melted the soy wax and carefully added the fragrance oils, I found myself thinking about personal growth and finances. It isn’t a fortune, but those small victories add up. Every candle sold is a step toward that extra bit of freedom I’ve been craving, a way to prove to myself that I can build something of my very own from the ground up.

I also managed to squeeze in my 5K training run before the kids got home from their afternoon activities. I hit the three-mile mark today, and ladies, I won’t lie—my lungs were burning by the end of it. The Cedar Falls Harvest 5K is looming in October, and sometimes I wonder if I’m really cut out for this. But as I rounded the corner past Joanne’s house, I saw her out there in her signature pink bathrobe, deadheading her petunias with the focus of a surgeon. She looked up and gave me a little wave with her shears, and that tiny bit of encouragement was enough to get me through the final stretch.

Staying in shape at thirty-four feels different than it did at twenty-four. It’s less about how I look in a pair of jeans—though I’ll admit, the toning in my legs is a nice perk—and more about the self-worth that comes from keeping a promise to myself. When I hit the pavement, I’m not just running toward a finish line; I’m running away from the version of myself that used to give up when things got uncomfortable. It makes me feel strong, and that strength carries over into everything else, especially how I see myself as a woman and a wife.

Speaking of being a wife, Mark and I are coming up on nine years of marriage. Nine years. Some days it feels like a lifetime, and other days it feels like we just met yesterday at that diner back in Des Moines. He left at 5:30 this morning, his work boots thudding softly on the stairs so he wouldn't wake me, though I’m always at least half-awake when he goes. Being a construction foreman takes so much out of him, and when he gets home around 5:20, he’s usually covered in a fine layer of dust and exhaustion. Yet, he always has a smile for me and a rough-handed hug that makes me feel completely desired and safe.

The kids came home in a whirlwind of energy. Noah was practically vibrating with excitement because he found a rock he’s convinced is a fossilized velociraptor tooth. He spent the last hour in his pajamas—the ones with the raptors on them, naturally—explaining the biology of the Cretaceous period to a very patient Biscuit. Emma, on the other hand, was tucked away in the corner of the dining room with her horse sketches. I noticed she’d started drawing little gallop patterns on the margins of her math worksheets again. I should probably tell her to stop, but there’s so much joy in her art that I can never quite bring myself to scold her for it.

I took a moment to write in my robin-egg-blue journal, the one Megan gave me. I wrote about the way the light looks this time of year and how grateful I am for her friendship. We’ve got pickleball this Saturday, and I’m looking forward to the laughter and the sweat and the inevitable post-game treats at Sweet Magnolia. Megan has this way of making me see the best version of myself even when I feel like a frazzled mess of flour and candle wax. We all need a friend like that, don't we? Someone to remind us that we are doing enough, and that we are enough.

My mom, Diane, texted me a little while ago to ask about the 5K progress. She’s only forty minutes away, but she worries like I’m across the ocean. I told her I’m doing fine and that I’ll tell her all about it during our usual Sunday call. It’s funny how the roles shift as we get older. I’m the one taking care of the little blue house and the two little humans inside it, but I still find myself reaching for her approval and her wisdom when the laundry piles up too high or the self-doubt starts to creep in.

Now, the clock is ticking toward six. I can hear the rumble of Mark’s truck turning onto Sycamore Street. The house is about to get loud and chaotic and wonderful. We’re having simple pasta tonight, nothing fancy, just a chance to sit together and talk about the day. I’m going to put my phone away and be fully present for these moments, because these are the tangled threads that make up the beautiful tapestry of our lives. Small victories, dear friends. That’s what it’s all about.

Remember to be kind to yourselves tonight. You are working hard, you are growing, and you are loved more than you know. Whether you’re running a mile or just making it through a shift at work, you are doing a great job. I’m proud of us. I’ll be back here tomorrow to share more of this messy, lovely journey with you all.

I love you. — Lucy