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Visit the shop to browse new arrivals!

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Our Long—Awaited Time Has Come

Brain Cancer Journey | Grief and Loss | Widowhood | Writing

Our Long—Awaited Time Has Come

To the Moon and Back

Faith | Home | Hope | Memories | Widowhood

To the Moon and Back

Full Circle and Saying Yes, When You Can’t See

Faith | Home | Mary | Parenting

Full Circle and Saying Yes, When You Can’t See

What Looks Like Less, Makes Room for Growth

Faith | Garden | Grief and Loss | Healing | Widowhood

What Looks Like Less, Makes Room for Growth

Here’s to 56—May We Honor the Gift of Life

Healing | Life | Memories | Widowhood

Here’s to 56—May We Honor the Gift of Life

Nunc Coepi, An Email, Now I Begin

Grief and Loss | Healing | Hope | Widowhood

Nunc Coepi, An Email, Now I Begin

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houseofloveandlaughterblog

Catholic Writer | Shop Owner & Creative
Navigating Sorrow and Joy, Clinging to Hope, Creating Beauty, Seeking Truth, Trusting God…a Soft Place to Land

Not today. Not today, snake. If you knew the batt

Not today.
Not today, snake.

If you knew the battles I’ve been fighting…
and if you knew the prayers I’ve been begging to be answered this week or so—especially today…

You would not be surprised this was how my morning went. It was not part of my plan. Are distractions ever part of our plan?

And I was supposed to be praying some big prayers for someone at that specific moment. Some big things happening.

I was preparing to publish something that was burning on my heart about Mary, widows, and James 1:27.

First I quickly took out the flowers I brought in last night so they wouldn’t freeze. I wanted to drench them with sun and water.

Along comes a snake…distractions.

When we do the work of God and surrendering it all to Him, there is no doubt—the distractions will come, the battles become more intense.

Keep our eyes fixed.
No fear. Only faith.

So it makes sense and is quite comical that I’d have an encounter with a real snake today.

I wasn’t trying to harm it, but trying to protect my pup, who was standing next to it. I calmly said: “Rue, look at me.”

Still, with eyes locked, she waited until I gave the command to safely step away. Then I moved the slithering thing off her path.

I honestly cannot make this up.

A snake!!
After worry kept me up all night.

When I got up, I did not think I had another ounce left in me to do battle with another thing today.

The snake was my 2nd distraction.

Maybe it affirms that when we are doing something big for God attacks will come.
Maybe it’s to disturb our peace, to distract us from His plan, to take us off His path.

Look at Him.

“I am the way, and the truth, and the life,” He said.

What a way to start the first day of the month of Mary, the feast of St. Joseph the Worker, and a very big day.

God wins.
May we keep our eyes fixed on Him.

May He guide us in His will and light the path before us.

Between the wasps, falling tree limbs, tpoison ivy this week, and the snake—I may never go outside again.

Truth is, I’m not afraid. Besides, I just brought home a new Mary, so I think I’m covered.

Maybe there is something the Lord is showing me.

Maybe I need to get to writing that piece and sharing truth.

Months ago, I found a card among things I was sort

Months ago, I found a card among things I was sorting.
It came with the flowers Jon sent to me on our wedding day. I always loved his thoughtfulness.

I tucked the card and Jon’s prayer card into a little brass frame I thrifted long ago with him. The left side had been blank for a long time—like my life 💔.

The photo of us was from the first wedding we attended after we married. I’d chopped my hair, cut my bangs. I regretted it. He told me he loved them. He loved me anyway, in every way. He saw the worst and best of me and best in me. He’d say he loved me best in sweats, with my morning crazy curly locks that disappeared after babies.

Today I noticed the juxtaposition the frame represents. A card from our wedding: This is Our Day. Beside the prayer card from his funeral. 25 short years, and a very full life.

Every day was our day. It’s how we lived.

It wasn’t perfect—grace. Loss reveals why that never mattered, because the small, imperfect stuff is where the most beautiful part of life is lived.

The three years I stood beside him, knelt below, pushed behind, lifted up, cleansed, dressed, and advocated for and unconditionally loved my dying husband were undoubtedly the most excruciatingly beautiful time of our marriage.

Our faith carried us. God came first.

Jon taught me much about how to live while dying. He taught the kids even more. He loved well.

3 years since he took his last breath. Since I saw my husband’s face. Felt his breath on mine. Watched him smile at me. Heard him say my name. Heard “I love you”—the last words he uttered just hours before he passed, still takes my breath away.

36 months.
1,095 days.
Countless hours learning to live without him.

I still say his name.
Carry his love.
Notice his winks.
Hear his voice.
See him in our kids.
Miss him so much.

In 3 years of life with cancer, 33 together we chose to live our best life, we clung to life.

The epitome of a life fully lived.
We planted seeds, went for walks, danced in the kitchen, built a life. Laughed a lot.

We clung to faith, hope, & love and gave the kids wings to fly and a soft place to land.

This isn’t the life I planned.
It’s the one I get to live and love for him.

Three years ago, a friend of my oldest two kids—wh

Three years ago, a friend of my oldest two kids—who has since become family not just to them, but to me too—came home with my son that first September after Jon died.

It was Jon’s first birthday in Heaven.

He came to help us set up our big shop event that took place that day and to support the kids and me. Huge help.

When I gave him a tour of the house and showed him where he’d sleep, I also took him outside to show him our favorite space. it was a gorgeous day like today.

With an enormous grin, he joyfully sang the words,
“You have a living room outside?”

I remember loving how much he loved this space and how much those words meant to me. He said it was cozy. Welcoming.

It is.

He came back that June for my daughter’s graduation, settling onto the couch with his guitar after the party we all sang, and again last fall to help repair the worn deck boards—returning, as if this space had already become part of him, too.

But there are so many memories held here.

We have spent countless hours on this deck that shows wear and witness over the last twenty years.

We have prayed for, celebrated, honored life here.
Triumphs, joy, sorrow, loss.

A week before Jon died, we rolled his hospital bed through the French doors of our family room. It was the first time he had been outside in weeks.

As mobility faded, the bed became the safest place.

That day, our oldest pulled out the pizza oven, made homemade dough, and served her dad with the same kind of hospitality he had always offered to others. The kind he and I had taught our kids.

Our deck became Jon’s outside living room.

He looked up at the sky, closed his eyes under a blanket, and breathed in the fresh air.

As I held his hand I knew we’d never sit outside together again.

This space looks different now than it did in April 2023.

There are splintered boards and mismatched wood.

This glorious morning, standing here with a new outdoor carpet beneath my feet, I couldn’t help but smile.

Without a doubt, it still feels like a living room outside.

All I could think about was the love and laughter and life that has been lived here
with Jon, and with those who continue to gather and be loved in this space.

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