Everyday Life

Categories Everyday Life

Different Definitions of “Custom”

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Custom: adj Made to fit the needs or requirements of a particular person. (Definition from Merriam-Webster.)

When I think of the term “custom” (as an adjective), I think of something with a unique pattern created after a person’s needs. For example, if I were to say I created a custom outfit, I would mean that I had drafted a pattern for myself and created an outfit to my own specifications. If I were to adjust a pre-existing pattern to fit my body dimensions (by using one size bodice and another size skirt, for example), I would call it a “customized” dress.

I am beginning to believe that I may be the only one that makes this distinction between “custom” and “customized”.

The reason I think so is because my husband and I have started interviewing builders.

We’ve explored the floor plans builders have online, have walked through dozens of homes in the Parade of Homes (both last October and this month). And we’ve discovered that the current popular house plans are not our forte.

We have pretty specific ideas about flow (no traffic through the work triangle in the kitchen please!), lighting (get those living areas on the south side by all means!), placement of garages (we have an acreage – we don’t want the first thing you see to be a garage.) And pretty much every plan people are building in Wichita defies our specifications.

So we want a custom home.

We walk into the home of yet another builder and ask (usually the realtor, but sometimes we’re lucky and the builder himself is hanging around) a couple of quick questions: Does the builder build custom homes and does he build homes in our price range?

The response to the question of whether a builder builds custom homes is telling. One builder assured us that he did, turning to a plan he’d made (and could show off) that could be customized for a larger lot. Another talked of walking homebuilders through a half-built home and letting them choose where they wanted electrical outlets. One showed us how he’d done pillars instead of a solid wall in one of his stock plans.

Now, I’ve looked at thousands of houseplans (I’m not exagerating, people), and messed with quite a few. And while I’ve used some other plans as a jumping off point for my own plans, I’ve only once ended up with a finished product close enough to the original for me to consider it “customized” rather than “custom”. And I’ve found maybe three plans out of the thousands that comes anywhere close to meeting our specifications. Which means the chances that any builder in town has a spec that can be customized to meet our needs is virtually nil.

We’re looking for a builder who’ll build a custom home – and I’m discovering that one of the difficulties is sorting out which builders understand “custom” as I do.

Categories Everyday Life

The incredible, mutant eyebrow hair

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“You have pretty eyebrows,” she told me. I carried that compliment around with me for years. She was an older girl, one of the cool girls. I was surprised that she even deigned to talk to me, much less to compliment me on the eyebrows I worked so hard to obtain.

That was when I was much younger, when I read beauty books. When I balanced pencils at just the right angle against my nose so I could arch my eyebrows just so.

Even as I plucked my eyebrows, I kept in mind the injunction that sometimes eyebrows don’t grow back after plucking. I needed to be judicious, to only pluck what I was willing to have never regrow.

I left the perfect arch behind with my teenage years (probably before), but plucking is still a part of my life.

This time, it’s trying to get rid of that ONE WHITE HAIR.

I can feel it when I smooth my eyebrows. It feels different from all the rest – coarse where the others are smooth.

I can see it when I look in the mirror, a blank spot amidst the otherwise dark hair, a disproportionately long hair amongst the normal-length hairs.

When I see it, I pull it, hoping that the books would be right, that continued plucking would cause that hair follicle to give up. But it never does. A new mutant hair springs up overnight, twice as long as the others.

I don’t remember what got us talking about it when my brother and his wife were in Lincoln at the same time as I, but we got to chatting about our eyebrows and my brother confessed that he too has the mutant hair. His hairdresser clips his every time he gets his hair cut – and it regrows to double length with surprising speed.

I seem to recall that my sister and I have commiserated over the hair as well.

One case, two does not a trend make. But three in the same family? Maybe there’s something in the genes. Within our otherwise perfect* genetic code lies a gene for that incredible mutant eyebrow hair.

*Okay, maybe our genetic code isn’t perfect. It seems that to perfect the mind, one must sacrifice somewhere. Our family’s genetic defects include not only a mutant eyebrow hair but persistently crooked (non-squishy) noses. :-)

Categories Everyday Life

Like me, not like me

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There are a couple of families of my ilk at the ALDI I frequent.

Frugal women with long hair, wearing skirts and with children in tow.

I silently appraise them, count their children (oh, yes I do!), and note all the daughters also in skirts. I sort through the possible categories in my mind. Gothardite/ATI. Biblical patriarchy. Quiverful. Every category I try to place them in has negative connotations in my mind – but every time I see them, I smile. These are people like me.

I see them silently appraising me. Mentally calculating. Am I one of them? I have the hair, the skirts, the frugality. But only one child at my age? And the skirts that show my knees? Occasionally, a bra strap peeking out? I am a woman not like them.

When I see these women, I assume that they love children and family. I assume that they haven’t bought into our culture’s maxim that children are too expensive. I assume that they love their husbands and submit to them. I assume that they think there are differences between men and women and that femininity is something to be appreciated. I assume that they are like me.

When I see these women, I assume that they don’t use birth control, that they went straight from their fathers’ homes to their husbands’. I assume that they think that femininity means always wearing skirts and modesty means making those skirts long. I assume that they’re not like me.

Every time I see them, I rejoice to find women like me. Every time I see them, I sorrow that even in this I have found women not like me.

I very clearly don’t belong to mainstream mommy culture – my values, beliefs, opinions, and practices are frequently in opposition to theirs. I feel a great kinship with these women I see in the grocery store, these women who are so counterculture.

I wish I could be a part of them. Not because I want to take up the things they believe and do that I do not – but because I want to be a part of their group. I want to have friends, even just A friend who feels like I do or acts like I do.

I’ve probably seen her before, the woman who was in front of me in line with her two little girls. We’ve probably appraised each other before. But this time, after the appraisal, she turned to me and struck up a little conversation – the small talk we have in stores, about leaving our reusable shopping bags at home in a neat pile. It was ordinary and extraordinary.

And it made my heart yearn, like running into these women so like me and not like me often does. It made me yearn for a friend.

Categories Everyday Life

Spring Break 2015

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Spring Break in high school and college almost always fell over my birthday (before the official start of spring!) – and I enjoyed it, but I didn’t realize how much I took it for granted until I moved off the academic calendar.

Then summer break became a week-long vacation or a 5 day weekend, a day instead of a week for Christmas the norm, and Spring Break nonexistent.

Except that this year, Tirzah Mae and I took a spring break.

My brother and sister-in-law and nieces were taking one of their biannual trips to Lincoln – and we’d promised to work on our parent’s basement as a Christmas gift.

So we spent a packed week in Lincoln – driving up Friday March 27 and coming back just yesterday, April 5.

Between there, we painted two rooms, moved some furniture, played with cousins, went to our favorite only-in-Nebraska restaurants, were completely spoiled by aunts, uncles, grandmas, grandpas, and cousins, and ate way too many jelly beans.

Also, we put on a Seder meal for twenty and visited with Tirzah Mae’s great-grandparents.

Cousins going on a walk

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Aunt Gracie takes three of her nieces for a walk.

(Click on the photo to comment on individual photos.)

 

Categories Marriage, Wedding

I don’t want to forget

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Two years ago today was a momentous day – one I’ll never forget.

I say that, but the truth is, I’ve already started to forget so much about my wedding day. The sermon, the toasts, the greetings of friends. If I don’t have written record or pictorial proof, chances are I’ve already started to forget – with no way to reclaim those moments.

Which is why, here, on our second anniversary, I want to record the details I most don’t want to forget.

I don’t want to forget…

…the people

Our families

My girlfriends helping me dress, bustling on the other side of the hall to prepare a luncheon for the party. The surprising arrival of my brother and his pregnant wife and daughter. Skyping with my other brother, halfway around the world, before the day began. My family, doing what my family does best – making things happen. Extended family arriving in great swaths. People from church in Columbus, from church in Lincoln, from my childhood church. My teammates from the Jacksonville Summer Training Program. Charlotte, who knew us both when, telling me in the receiving line: “You and Daniel – if only I’d have thought of it sooner.”

Group hug

All of them expressing their support, rejoicing in God’s provision, rooting for our marriage.

…the promises
I lightly adapted the text from The Book of Common Prayer for our order of service. I answered “I will” when our pastor asked me if I would “take Daniel to be your husband, to live with him in holy marriage according to the Word of God? Will you love him, comfort him, honor him, obey him, and keep him in sickness and in health and, forsaking all others, be wife to him as long as you both shall live?”

I promised God that day that I would be wife to Daniel. I promised to live with him in holy marriage, not a secular union. To love him, to comfort him, to honor him, to obey him.

With this ring...

I made a solemn vow before God and the congregation:

“I, Rebekah, take you, Daniel, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do us part. To this, I pledge you my faithfulness.”

I want to remember those promises. I want to keep those promises.

…the Preeminence
It’s normal to have Scripture readings and songs at a wedding. It’s normal for these readings and songs to elevate love, to proclaim love’s worth, to delight in love.

And believe me, Daniel and I enjoy love.

Our program

But we wanted our wedding to elevate something else. But that’s not quite right either. We wanted our wedding to elevate someone else.

We chose Colossians 1:15-23 for a reading:

“He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through him and for him. And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together. And he is the head of the body, the church. He is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, that in everything he might be preeminent. For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross.

And you, who once were alienated and hostile in mind, doing evil deeds, he has now reconciled in his body of flesh by his death, in order to present you holy and blameless and above reproach before him, if indeed you continue in the faith, stable and steadfast, not shifting from the hope of the gospel that you heard, which has been proclaimed in all creation under heaven, and of which I, Paul, became a minister.”

We sang two congregational hymns – one looking backward at the faithfulness of God (“Great is Thy Faithfulness”), one looking forward, petitioning God to be before us (Be Thou My Vision).

Be Thou My Vision

Because we didn’t want our wedding prayer to be all about us. We didn’t want our marriage to be all about us. We wanted our marriage to be all about Christ.

I never want to forget that. I always want to live that. I want that day’s passion for Christ’s preeminence to be every day’s passion.

Categories Pregnancy

Don’t reassure me, root for me

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My eight days of hospitalization prior to having Tirzah Mae were some of the longest days of my life.

So much of what I’d dreamed for in a birth experience was no longer an option. I couldn’t have a home birth. Couldn’t deliver at term. Couldn’t avoid monitors. Couldn’t labor with only my husband and my midwife to observe.

But I could still have a vaginal birth. I could still breastfeed.

I knew that I wanted those things. I made sure my caregivers knew I wanted those things.

Dr. Jensen knew that from the outset – I was one of the moms who seeks him out because he’s the rare type who is willing to care for women who make unconventional birth choices (choices like homebirth). He knew that I wanted normal birth – and only wanted to deviate from normal as absolutely necessary.

But the nurses and residents and even Dr. Wolfe (our excellent maternal-fetal specialist) needed me to tell them what I wanted. And so I did.

I don’t remember most of the reactions, most of the conversations I had with various health professionals regarding our desires – but I do remember two in particular.

One nurse, on hearing that I still wanted a vaginal birth, recounted the story of a young mom with preeclampsia who’d wanted the same thing.

“[The laboring woman’s] mom was really into the Bradley method – and, to be honest, I wasn’t sure at the beginning how into it the girl really was. I doubted she’d make it. But she labored hard and was a real trouper. She had to have the monitors and such but she was squatting and working at it – and she had her baby vaginally. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

A second nurse, when I told of my intentions to breastfeed, encouraged me that breastfeeding was wonderful for me and for baby. She told me that it could be hard work but that it was worth it. And she reassured me:

“And if you don’t make enough, it’s okay to supplement too.” She told her own story of struggling and needing to supplement.

As it turned out, I didn’t have a beautiful Bradley pre-eclamptic vaginal delivery. I was given a spinal block and covered in drapes, my abdomen and uterus were cut and my baby lifted out of my womb by gloved hands. It was far from the delivery I’d desired or the beautiful picture my nurse had painted. But I was so glad that nurse had told me her story. It gave me hope for a vaginal delivery, sure – for the vaginal delivery that didn’t happen. But more than that, it told me that she was rooting for me. She wanted me to achieve my desires. She wanted a beautiful delivery for me – and believed it was possible. And for that I am thankful.

Also as it turned out, I never had problems with breastmilk supply. Due in part to genetics and in part to supply-promoting practices, I had what one NICU nurse called “enough milk to feed Wichita”. So the second nurse’s reassurances ended up not being needed. Maybe that’s why I look on her reassurances with such distaste.

I knew then (and know now) what her intent was in providing that reassurance. Many mothers of preemies do have difficulties with supply – and it’s not the end of the world when a baby receives formula. Mothers who have done all they can and still can’t produce enough needn’t feel guilty that their child receives formula. This is true. But I didn’t want reassurances in case yet another something went wrong with my experience – I wanted someone to say that they were on my side, that they wanted for me and my baby what I wanted for me and my baby AND that they believed it was possible.

I didn’t want reassurances. I wanted someone to root for me.

I realize that when I recount stories like this, I might give you the impression that some of the nurses were bad nurses. The nurse who reassured me, the nurse who gave me a nipple shield (and yes, I recognize that cursing her is a sin – and have repented of that sin). Both were excellent nurses in many respects. I recount the difficult parts because those are the parts that I’ve had to struggle through – but these women also did and said many things that kept me from having to struggle through countless other difficulties. I am immensely thankful for these devoted nurses.

Categories Parenting

Learning to sit still

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To look at my blog, you’d think I go from bedrest to vacations and back…

…but I know you understand how life with a newborn can be, even if I don’t blog the nasty little details (We cloth diaper. ‘Nuff said.)

To tell the truth, I didn’t realize having a newborn would be this difficult.

I knew there wouldn’t be much sleep, that the baby would cry, that there’d be nasty messes to clean up. That part I expected – and I think I’ve coped with it relatively well.

The part I didn’t plan on was how hard it’d be to get anything done.

I expected to be able to at least keep up with the house, maybe start blogging regularly again, do a few craft projects here and there. But my time is fractured, breastfeeding takes more time than I anticipated and there are times Tirzah Mae will not be content anywhere except on me (and not in a sling, either.)

There was a week (okay, maybe a month) there where I cried every evening around 6, frustrated at how little I’d gotten done. Then I started keeping a list. Every day I keep a running tally of what I’ve done – diapers changed, breastfeeding sessions completed, laundry washed and put away, meals made, chapters read. It and my husband’s encouragement (I think he thinks I get even more done than I actually do, but don’t tell him – it’s kinda nice that he thinks I’m superwoman) has mostly alleviated the six pm crying jag.

But now there’s the one o’clock blues.

I’ve learned to not be on too strict a schedule in the mornings, to let it be okay if I’m just emerging from my bath around eleven. I’ve mostly come to a peace about that – sneaking in productivity here and there. But, inevitably, I will sit down with lunch and start thinking through what I’ve still got to accomplish with the day (most notably, dinner) – and then the one o’clock blues will hit.

Tirzah Mae is absolutely unpredictable in most respects – she has no predictable sleep or wake cycles, feeding schedule, or even preferred activities. One moment she’ll love a certain activity and calm down right away, another day she’ll act like it’s torture. We’ll think we’ve figured something out because she slept for three hours in her own bassinet – but the next day we’ll be unable to replicate it. The only consistent pattern I’ve figured out so far is that Tirzah Mae WILL get fussy at one pm.

And NOTHING will satisfy her unless she is laying across my chest with me being absolutely still.

Can mama read a book? Maybe. Once Tirzah Mae is asleep, as long as mom doesn’t move.

Can mama write a blog post? Probably not. That generally implies that mama is sitting up, usually a no-no for Tirzah Mae at one o’clock.

Can mama plan a menu, make a grocery list, fold laundry, or do Bible study?

Take a wild guess.

But here I do her an injustice. I usually can do something – it’s just that I have no idea what it’ll be until I’ve tried and failed at several. Which means that I can’t plan ahead that at one I’ll do [blank].

I can’t plan ahead to be productive during that time. I just have to acknowledge that it’s no-man’s time. I have to set it apart as rest time. And if I get something done? That’s a special unexpected bonus.

I haven’t learned it yet – how to be okay with just sitting still. But I’ve acknowledged that I need to learn it – that’s a step in the right direction, right?

Categories Parenting, Tirzah Mae

Sanity Saving Stuff: Preemie and Newborn

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Don’t you just love those lists of baby “must haves”? My favorite of all is Pop Sugar’s list of 100 (yes, you heard me right, 100) Must Have Baby Products. It was like the car crash you can’t help but watch. Tirzah Mae probably doesn’t have 100 items total, much less 100 separate items.

That said, I have found a few products that have absolutely saved my sanity during these preemie and newborn months (months we’re now leaving behind!)

Hospital Grade Electric Breastpump

Tirzah Mae received expressed breastmilk almost exclusively in the hospital and during the first month at home (we breastfed one to two times a day “straight from the tap.”) This meant that I was pumping a minimum of eight times a day. The Medela symphony the hospital loaned me during Tirzah Mae’s NICU stay saved me. It was fast, quiet, and comfortable.

Once Tirzah Mae was home, I used the Medela Pump-in-Style my insurance provided – and let me tell you, it’s a world of difference. I did everything I could to avoid pumping. I’d pump a couple times a day, hand express a couple more, and empty myself as best I could in the shower. Thankfully, I had plenty of breastmilk in the freezer, so the fact that I let my supply dwindle didn’t hurt Tirzah Mae (I worked intensively over a week to get it back up after I realized what I was doing). But if I’d have had less of a supply initially and was trying to exclusively pump after I returned, I’d have ended up quitting. The Pump-in-Style took longer, was noisy, and gave me blood blisters on my breasts (probably because I was increasing the pressure too much in an attempt to make it as efficient as the Symphony.)

By the grace of God, we were able to switch to exclusively breastfeeding (at the breast) around Christmas-time, meaning an end to my pumping days. I know many mothers of preemies are not so fortunate. I’ve got one word of advice for those mothers – RENT A HOSPITAL GRADE PUMP. It’s totally worth it.

Hands Free Pumping Bra

Despite Tirzah Mae being born early, I had an abundant milk supply – which meant that I only pumped 15 minutes at a time (with the hospital grade pump). But even pumping for a shorter time than many women, I still spent at least 2-3 hours a day pumping (and much more than that cleaning parts and labeling and storing the breastmilk). That’s a fair bit of time to spend doing nothing with your hands. Being able to pump hands-free meant a lot to me. (Initially, it allowed me to massage my breasts while pumping – relieving the clogged ducts I had from the beginning and helping to increase my supply to prodigous amounts. After my supply was established and clogged ducts were less of an issue, it let me email my family updates on Tirzah Mae, read a book, or browse blogs.)

Now some of you may wonder about the best hands-free pumping bras. I can’t help you with that one. I just had my husband buy cheapo sports bras, which I cut slits into to allow the flanges through. I wore them alone at night and over my nursing bra during the day. It worked great for me (although if I were to have needed to continue pumping exclusively, I would have done a buttonhole stitch around the slits and possibly used a tube top for the same purpose during the day for increased wardrobe flexibility.

Supportive Nursing Bra

At first, I thought maybe the backache I had almost immediately after delivery was from the c-section weakening my abdominals. And undoubtedly that contributed. But the biggest contributor was swollen milk breasts and insufficient support. Having delivered two months before expected, I didn’t have any nursing bras already ready – and there was no way my mom-breasts would fit into my second trimester bra (I hadn’t yet gone shopping for a third trimester one despite the fact that it was becoming clearly necessary.)

Since no one carries nursing bras my size (actually, very few stores carry bras, period, my size), I had to create my own nursing bras. I went to my local Dillards to get fitted and was delighted when the salesclerk announced that they’d just increased the size range of my favorite bra up to the size I was currently at. I took them home and used this tutorial to make myself some well-fitting nursing bras (I used the hooks and eyes off of several old bras, how’s that for being a frugal genius – or a packrat who can now justify herself?)

My back felt better almost immediately.

Get a good bra. Your back will thank you.

MOBY wrap

I’ve known for years that I wanted to be a baby-wearer. But I was plenty willing to admit that babywearing is just one of many legitimate ways to carry and care for a baby. Now I’m convinced that the MOBY has absolutely saved my sanity.

Tirzah Mae in the MOBY

You see, when we were in the hospital and when I was reading books about preemies, I kept hearing one thing: preemies must NOT be exposed to crowds. No shopping malls. No movies. No church. For a year.

Now I don’t have any problem with leaving movies and shopping malls behind. But church? I can’t just not go to church for a year.

I talked with Tirzah Mae’s neonatal nurse practitioner about it and she agreed with my proposed solution. Tirzah Mae would go to church with us in the MOBY. The MOBY holds her close, covers her up and sticks her face in my chest – meaning that no one else can get very close to touch her or cough on her (they’d have to get pretty close to my chest even to just breathe on her.)

We took her to church the Sunday after she came home and she’s been to church with us every week since then (except the week where none of us attended because I had mastitis).

Yes, the MOBY saved my sanity by letting me worship with the body weekly.

One-piece sleepers

When it comes to clothing, babies aren’t picky – which is a very nice thing. They don’t care how stylish clothing is or whether it’s matched or anything like that. What they do care about is getting in and out quickly without too much pulling and tugging. Moms care a little more about matching and cuteness and all that.

I love these one piece sleepers
One-piece sleepers answer both. Mom doesn’t have to worry about matching clothes bleary-eyed after baby has a blow-out at 1 am (after mom has gotten exactly 7 minutes of sleep, none of them consecutive, in the past 24 hours.) Baby doesn’t have to worry about something going over her head. And, if you choose the sleepers that snap all the way up the legs, you can avoid uncovering that little chest during non-blow-out diaper changes (which is a nice plus.)

I put Tirzah Mae in the adorable little onesie, pant, and sock combos often enough – but when things got crazy and I was at the end of my rope, the one-piece sleepers were sanity savers.

Looking back on your kids’ infancies, what baby products did you find absolutely essential? What were your sanity-savers? Pray tell.

Categories Parenting

The Soundtrack of our Childhood

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I’m not a music person like some people are music people.

I’m not musically skilled – I don’t play an instrument or read music. I can’t harmonize unless I’m trying to sing melody while my sisters are singing harmony beside me (in which case I start singing their harmonies – completely ruining the intended effect.)

I’m not a music connoisseur – I never really spent time just listening to music. While my older sister and just-younger-brother would sit on the living room floor under the stereo system reading through the CD inserts or record covers as they listened, I preferred to be dancing around or reading a book or otherwise doing something while music was playing.

Not that I needed (or currently need) music playing. Unlike some, I don’t need music on while I’m studying to help me concentrate. I don’t need music on while I’m working out (oh – that might be because I don’t work out :-P). I don’t need music while I’m driving or doing mundane tasks. I’m content to just be in my own mind (or to be making my own noise.)

Nevertheless, I love music.

I am not musically skilled, but all my siblings play the piano and both my sisters have worked to train their voices. While my mom didn’t play apart from picking out melody lines, she reads music and attempted to teach us some of the rudiments of music theory.

I am not a music connoisseur – but, as I mentioned, some of my siblings are.

I don’t need to have music playing to conduct my daily life – but I spent my growing up years surrounded by music. And I’m so grateful I did.

My parents got a CD player when they were still new and we had a complete collection of the Hosanna worship albums and a large collection of classical music. Music was always playing in our house. We sang and danced and washed dishes and did our schoolwork immersed in music.

And I’m so glad we did.

Today, I have a song for every situation. Singing truth to myself (or hearing truth sung in my head) is oodles more effective as a “relaxer” than any of the fancy relaxation exercises we practiced in our Bradley class. I don’t need to have music playing while I walk because I’ve got a soundtrack playing in my head, spurring me to worship and to pray as I walk. And when I do turn on the music? I am suddenly amongst my faith community – my family worshipping together as we stemmed beans, the church I grew up in singing “Ah Lord God”, the church we went to after that, my church in Columbus.

Music is important – and I’m so glad it was a part of my family’s life while I was growing up.

I’ve long known that I wanted music to be a part of my children’s life. But as an adult, I’ve often been content to let the music in my head be my only soundtrack.

When we were expecting Tirzah Mae, I knew it was time to make a change in my habits. I got a Spotify account, made some playlists of those Hosanna albums and of other songs I love, and started playing them while I went about my daily tasks.

I realized though, that something was missing. One of the most wonderful aspects of music, for me, is the connection it gives me with other worshippers – and I want my children to be connected to the church through music as well. I added another playlist to Spotify, one that I add to weekly. Every week, our church bulletin publishes the titles of the songs we’ll be singing as a congregation. And every week, I save my bulletin until I have a chance to search for each song on Spotify and add it to the “First Free” playlist.

Because music is important.

I have the honor of designing the soundtrack of my children’s childhood – and I want that soundtrack to be for them what mine was to me. I want their soundtrack to inspire them to worship the One True God. I want it to encourage them to plant truth within their hearts. I want it to draw them into fellowship with the body of Christ.

Is music important to you? How have you incorporated music into your life?