You know how your truck likes to stall when you make a right-hand turn, but when you take it to your mechanic, he can’t find anything wrong? And it doesn’t happen again until you’re in the middle of nowhere? In 96-degree heat and pulling a camper trailer? On a weekend?

Yeah. That.

Oh, and then the power steering fails.

The first Rules of the Road is filled with images of America’s heartland. I hope it brought you joy, a smile, maybe even a memory of your hometown.

This one will not do that.

I’d skip it altogether if that option didn’t make me feel like a coward. Not every picture is meant to be beautiful. The written word is not meant to be used only to make us feel better. It’s also supposed to be truthful. Join me on a trip to another hometown in southern Illinois.

Indoors, the things I should be doing constantly loom over me as though the walls and ceiling press them against me. The goals, the unfinished projects, the daily chores. The worries of a mother and grandmother. But in my garden, the beauty of flowers and trees and sky swells in my soul, shrinking heavy thoughts into their proper weight and place.

Summertime. Road trip time. The All-American summer tradition that offers adventure, discovery, and renewal. For me, road trips are pilgrimages, because I usually come back a slightly —or more than slightly—changed person.

This time, I’m writing down some rules. You know, like the rule that says, “If the car stops everyone has to go to the bathroom and get a drink whether you need to or not.” Important stuff.

One night last week, I’d promised myself I would sleep in the next morning. It’s summer, after all. I work from home. I get to say when I work. So what did I do? Woke up at 4:43, of course. There was a time when I would have thought “Woohoo! An extra forty-five minutes until the alarm goes off!” I would have been so excited to wake early and get a head start on my day—snatching some much-appreciated solitude before everyone else woke up, and we were rushing to school and work.  But now, I just want to go back to sleep. And I found the perfect antidote to insomnia, while not adding items to my mental to-do list.

The afternoon is waning, and the sunshine is filtered by a cloudy sky. But the trail is calling, and I can’t resist. I stuff my water bottle and a water-repellent jacket into my day pack and start walking. 

If only the outdoors came with the following disclaimer: Camping with your family can have long-term effects on children (and adults). Since it doesn’t, and since I’m a life-long camp-aholic, I think it’s only fair that I share some of the reasons parents should think long and hard about camping with their kids.

I wrap the down comforter around me on this cool mountain morning and greet the day from our deck instead of the back porch. The view is different there.

Is anyone feeling the need to escape? The need to block out all the voices from social media, the news, and the neighborhood? And maybe gain a little peace of mind? I’ve got just the thing for you. If you need to be alone with your thoughts and figure something out, grab a power tool.

This Memorial Day weekend, I want to say thanks to all the men and women who stood up to defend the line our country drew in the sand. That’s what we do as people. We draw a line and say, “This is what I believe to be the limit between acceptable and unacceptable. This is the point from which I cannot agree to further progression. “

I notice a small group of willow sprouts pushing up through the asphalt on the edge of the road, heaving it upward like a highway crumpled by an earthquake. I can understand a roadway buckling from the force of an earthquake. I have no trouble accepting that as possible.

What blows my mind is the idea that a bit of plant fiber has the necessary force to push its way through a seemingly solid surface. If this phenomenon does not embody the essence of persistent effort, I can’t imagine what would.

There’s a cheesy-looking wreath hanging on my back porch—that place I go to find the sun. I consider it the most expensive sticky note I ever purchased—the wreath, not the porch. I blame it on the weather.

Of all the pathways to discover something about oneself or one’s marriage, remodeling a home while living in it has to be one of the most drastic. But at the same time, it can be nothing less than profound. Or profoundly amusing. Take your pick.

As my friend and I chatted in her sunroom overlooking the river recently, we discussed the new goals we’ve set for our lives. Her goal—find her Fabulous. With a capital F.

I think she’s onto something there…

This is the blog I ran away from. I celebrated her birthday without a cake or candles, without a card, without calling her. I’ve kept the part of my heart that holds her ever close to me, tied shut. Because her laughter is not the only thing that comes rolling out whenever I open it.

The pandemic was the perfect camouflage to mask a slide from solitude into isolation. I felt disconnected from other people, and with my new job working from home, I didn’t quite know how to reconnect. So many of us changed living and working environments in the last couple years, chances are you might be feeling the same. Here are a few ways I’ve tried to reconnect with people in my community.

If you had to choose between leaving behind only a picture or a thousand words for your grandchildren, which would you choose?

Although I know fresh green shoots are inching their way upward through newly thawing soil into the light and air, right now everything looks lifeless. It feels like my heartstrings have been stretched as tight as they can go, like a slingshot pulled back as far as it can reach, loaded with a stone so heavy I’m not really sure I can hold it in place any longer. I’m stretched past the edge of winter, trying to hold on until I can find the green stuff. And breathe again.

Just when it feels like I can’t hold this pose for another second, like there is absolutely no oxygen left, the signs of springtime begin to appear. These simple signs breathe hope and life, promise and expectation.

Have you ever had something circle through your mind but not really grasp what it’s trying to tell you? Then you encounter some kind of catalyst that ties everything together, and click, it finally makes sense? That’s what happened to me this week.

If you had to pick the most important piece of furniture in your house, what would you say it is? What is the one piece you would not want to live without? Speaking for me and my family, the one thing I would not want to do without is our table, and it really isn’t about the food. It’s about our family.

Our family gathers in the kitchen.