Author: sparklingescapadesabroad

Oh, the joys of being a farmer’s wife! You never know what the day is going to bring.

One day you might be running to the vet for bird medicine. Another day you might be hauling both dead and living birds 2¾ hours to a veterinary lab to figure out what’s wrong. You might be delivering a batch of fluffy little pheasant chicks to the hatchery… or taking someone to the ER to get their head stitched up.

And then there are the days when you just might have to pull the lawn mower out of the ditch!

I absolutely hate mowing the ditch—especially the waterway. It’s an awfully long walk through tall grass if something goes wrong. So when Sean asked me to mow it in preparation for the next big rain, I had one condition.

“You mow two passes first,” I told him. “One on the west side and one on the east side. Then I’ll do the rest.”

The first hint that things weren’t going according to plan came when he walked into the house and casually said, “I might need your help.”

Hmm… what happened?

“Let me get a drink of water first,” he said.

Then came the words I wasn’t expecting.

“Get in the van.”

So off we went. We drove down the road, turned into the flight pen driveway, over the berm, and bumped our way down into the ditch between the berm and the road. There sat the zero-turn mower… very, very stuck.

Sean hooked a bright yellow tow strap from the hitch on the back of the van to the front of the mower and told me to ease forward.

The van wanted to do nothing but spin on the wet green grass, but eventually it lurched ahead. Suddenly the mower broke free, and Sean came flying forward! Thankfully, he yanked back on the control bars just in time to avoid plowing into the back of the van.

“Go back to the house,” he said. “I’ll call if I need you again.”

I tried to relax…

Then my phone rang.

“Meet me at the van.”

Oh no…

This time he had managed to get stuck on the other side of the waterway. The flood a few weeks ago had carved two deep channels. One drive wheel had dropped into a hole while the other was hanging partly over about a three-foot drop-off.

Yikes!

So once again we bounced across the pasture, over molehills and through grass so tall I could barely see over it.

Meanwhile, my imagination was in overdrive.

I’ve heard too many stories about tow straps or chains coming loose and crashing through back windows… or hitting someone standing nearby. What if he told me to back up and I accidentally ran over him? What if the mower tipped over? What if…

Thankfully, everything went just fine. We got it pulled out safely.

Then he smiled and said, “I’ll make one more pass and then you can finish mowing.”

Wait… ONE MORE PASS??

Would this really be the end of it, or was I about to get another phone call?

My heart was still racing. I do not enjoy pulling—or being pulled—by another vehicle.

Maybe that’s because I’ve had a couple of memorable towing experiences before.

When I was a teenager, my dad’s brand-new Impala started acting up on the way to a youth event. I managed to get there, but when someone asked me to move forward, the car refused. It would only go backward! By the time the event was over, it wouldn’t go forward or backward.

Dad came to tow it home—but guess who had to sit in the car and steer while it was being towed?

Yep… me.

I didn’t enjoy that one bit.

Then, about 22 years into our marriage, Sean put us in the ditch for the very first time.

We were driving on a snowy, icy road around a curve. You couldn’t even see the yellow center line. A vehicle came toward us, so Sean moved over a little to the right. One tire slipped off the edge of the pavement onto the shoulder. When he tried to ease back onto the road, the van started sliding. Before we knew it, we were down in the ditch, stuck in the snow.

A kind passerby stopped to help. The plan was simple: they would push, and I would drive.

That worked…

Until they wanted me to back up a snowy hill, onto the highway, around a curve, in the middle of a snowstorm.

Nope.

That was where I drew the line!

On the drive home, I asked Sean, “Were you scared?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he quietly reached into the center console and handed me a folded piece of paper.

I opened it and discovered he had bought us a brand-new chest freezer—something we’d needed for a long time.

I just smiled and told him, “You can put me in the ditch anytime you want if you’re going to buy me new appliances… just don’t get me hurt!”

So yes… life as a farmer’s wife definitely keeps things interesting.

You never know what tomorrow will bring. One thing is certain, though—you learn to be flexible, expect the unexpected, and trust that, somehow, it’ll all turn into another story worth telling.

The other day Sean and I were talking about how differently people experience the world. He asked me how I think about a project that needs to be done. For him, he can actually picture it clearly in his mind first—and then bring that picture to life.

For me… it’s completely different.

I don’t really “see” projects in my mind. I feel them. Sometimes those feelings can make a task seem overwhelming before I even begin. Even my dreams usually aren’t visual—they’re more about the emotions of the moment than actual images.

But here’s the fascinating part: when I’m learning something new, I do need to see it. I need to watch someone do it and follow along step by step. So in some ways, I can see—it just works differently for me.

I’ll admit, I’ve sometimes felt a little envious watching artists create something they first “saw” in their imagination. That kind of mental clarity is amazing to me.

It really made me stop and think about how beautifully unique we all are in the way we process, learn, and experience the world.

How about you? When you think, dream, or create… do you see pictures in your mind, feel emotions, hear thoughts, or something completely different?

In the warmth of Jamaica,
with the ocean breathing steady beside me,
I felt it…
that quiet whisper—
connect to your power source.

Not perfection—
never perfection.
Because perfection lives softly
in the middle of imperfections,
in the messy, beautiful becoming
of a woman choosing herself.

Nobody is perfect.
And honestly…
who made you the judge anyway?

So I let it go.
The weight of opinions,
the noise of “what will they think?”
because it doesn’t matter.
It never really did.

LOVE CONQUERS ALL—
not the loud kind,
but the steady kind…
the kind that says,
be strong for yourself.

Awareness came gently,
like waves brushing the shore—
the first step to change,
the doorway to clarity.
Leading myself there,
not with force…
but with grace.

If they ghost you?
They aren’t your peeps.
And that’s okay.
Because you don’t need to feel ready
to decide.
You don’t need to remove fear
to move forward.
You just… move.

With a playlist in your pocket
and courage in your chest,
we moved—
learning the gentle rhythm
of the lymphatic flow,
that soft “hoola hoola” motion
with Nurse Jackie—
healing from the inside out.

We panted through chair exercises with Rob,
opened our feet—and our lives—
with Dawn.

We learned.
Oh, how we learned.
From Cindy—
that even tools like ChatGPT
can open new doors.
From Rob—
that what we eat
and what we think
becomes who we are.

We wandered to the treehouse,
listening to a Rasta
share the wisdom of castor oil—
old truths,
rooted deep.

We learned that healing
can be simple too—
limes, baking soda,
blackstrap molasses—
small things
that care for the body.

We watched the sunset—
held our breath,
like maybe time would pause for us—
and squealed when cars passed too close,
half thrill, half laughter.

We played in the water,
walked the beach,
let the salt air soften us.
Massage time…
because yes—
we needed that too.

Awards were given.
Queens were crowned.
And in between it all—
we laughed…
and we cried.

Stories from our mentors
cracked something open—
raw, honest,
uncomfortable…
and healing.

Hugs all around—
the kind you don’t rush,
the kind that say
“I see you.”

We remembered—
we can’t waste time.
We never get it back.

So we choose:
self-care is health care.
Rest matters.
Affirmations matter.
Awareness is health.

And maybe the biggest truth of all—
surround yourself with big people,
the kind who lift you higher
just by standing near.

Live in your authority.
Create your rituals.
Ask yourself,
Who am I going to serve today?
Who can I bless today?

Because this life—
this one, wild, beautiful life—
isn’t about waiting for next steps.
It’s about this step.
Right now.

And now… tomorrow—
it’s goodbye.
Back to the “real world.”
But will we manage
with all these tools in our hands?

Yes.
Because this is just the beginning—
the year of change ahead…
and 2027 waiting for us,
calling us back.

And somewhere between the healing,
the effort,
the laughter,
and the letting go…

I remembered—
I already have everything I need.


Written by Sonya

The sky had been restless all week,
three watches in seven days—
and I have never been one
to trust a storm.

Not since I was ten in Mississippi,
watching a tornado in our yard,
spinning straight toward home—
until my mother prayed
and it bent its path,
taking only our shed
and leaving our lives.

Not since Texas at fifteen,
when a mile-wide monster
cut a scar through town.
Or the night in that trailer house,
when the wind pressed so hard
the curtains breathed in and out
like lungs against the windows,
rain slipping through the seams,
and afterward—
fabric trapped where it didn’t belong,
like the storm had reached inside.

This week I had been braver,
or maybe just tired—
until the watch turned warning
and something deep in me whispered,
not this one.
A weight settled in my chest,
quiet but certain.

And then—
a knock of fate in the driveway.
The hatchery driver,
there with eggs and routine,
caught in something far from ordinary.

Warnings lit up—Osage, then Riceville—
and I remember thinking
about him heading back out,
hoping he’d outrun what was coming.

The road grew busy, uneasy,
like the world knew before we did.

We thought about leaving,
but where do you go
when the sky is the danger?

So we rode instead.
And the story unfolded—
a tornado touching down
just miles away,
tearing tin from a building,
crossing fields like it had purpose,
sliding over Jade Avenue
while watchers stood witness.

They saw it—
the spinning, the violence,
the truck caught in its grip,
flipping and flipping
like it weighed nothing at all.
He remembers only gray—
the world erased in an instant—
and then silence in a ditch.
Somehow,
the truck righted itself,
mud everywhere—
inside, outside,
on him, around him—
as if the earth itself
had tried to claim him
and then let go.

And I keep thinking—
about prayers that bend storms,
about breath against glass,
about how quickly everything
can turn.

Can you imagine that ride?

I’ve been hinting for a while that something medical was going on, but I didn’t want to share details until I had either good news or bad news to report.

At the end of July, I went to my primary care doctor because I thought I had a UTI. It wasn’t a UTI. They suspected kidney stones and sent me for a CT scan. No stones were found — but they did see a small mass in my right lung. It measured 5 mm. I was told not to worry about it, so I truly didn’t. I went home and carried on with life.

Then, at the beginning of September, I was suddenly hit with severe burning during urination — so bad I could barely go. After setting up most of my booth, I ended up in the ER. Again, no infection showed up, but there was a lot of blood in my urine. Another CT scan was done. Still no kidney stones — maybe I had passed one, they said. But the lung mass showed up again… and this time it had grown to 9 mm.

That’s when I started getting scared.

I made another appointment with my PCP, and he ordered a follow-up CT for mid-October. The day before my pre-op appointment, a nurse called and told me the scan was stable and hadn’t changed. But when we reviewed the actual report at the appointment, it showed the largest spot had grown to 1.2 cm — and now there were 3–4 additional measurable spots.

Around mid-August, I had also started experiencing shortness of breath and coughing.

Some of my other doctors were concerned and recommended I see a pulmonologist. We requested the CT images be sent over, but after a month of hearing nothing, I called. They still hadn’t received them. We followed up again. Finally, around Christmas, they called to schedule the first available appointment in January.

We arrived nervous… only to find out they still didn’t have the images.

So the pulmonologist ordered a new CT scan for mid-February, along with pulmonary function tests (PFTs), and scheduled a follow-up for the following week.

Last week I had the CT. Today I had the PFTs and the follow-up appointment. I was worried — but trying very hard not to be.
The PFTs were essentially normal, both with and without Albuterol. Then we met with the doctor — interestingly, he’s a traveling pulmonologist (I’d heard of traveling nurses, but not traveling doctors!). He was kind, knowledgeable, and originally from Florida.

And here is the good news…

All of the masses had shrunk considerably. The largest one is now about 4 mm.

He told us there is nothing to worry about. Because I’ve never smoked and there’s no family history of lung cancer, the overall risk is very low. He recommended a follow-up CT scan in one year — February 2027 — just to monitor.

We asked lots of questions, and he answered them thoroughly. We left feeling incredibly relieved.

I finally feel like I can breathe again — in more ways than one.

Thank you for the hugs, the prayers, and the quiet support. It means more than you know. 💛

Okay… this was a strange one. A dream? A fever dream? Maybe even a little hallucination? I’m not sure. It didn’t feel like an ordinary dream—especially because it came in two very similar waves while I was half-asleep.

I’ve been running a temperature for a couple nights, drifting in and out of sleep, partly aware but not fully awake. Along with that came this heavy fear—heights, and also that tight, enclosed feeling.

In the first sequence, we were at Uncle Virgil’s place in Kansas. For some reason, I decided I was going to conquer my fear by climbing a ladder. I made it to the top, but then came the hard part: pulling myself onto the platform, standing up with no railing, and then stepping backward over the edge to climb down. I couldn’t do it. Everything felt too shaky.

In the dream, I tried again. I made it to the top once more, but I still couldn’t continue. This time there were people watching and commenting. Sean was there, gently trying to coax me down, but I couldn’t let go. Then my aunt stepped in and asked if I wanted her to put a support stick under one side. I managed a tiny yes. Once that piece was in place, I could trust it. I could trust the process. I started down.

About halfway down the ladder, my mom’s Bible was sitting on the steps.

Then I slipped into sleep—or whatever it was—again. The second time, I was much, much higher. So high that everything below looked like ants. As I came out of that dream, the thought came clearly: maybe that’s how I’m supposed to see my troubles—from far enough away that they look small, like ants. One or two ants are easy to handle. A whole mound is harder. But it’s okay if a few ants disappear along the way. Not every worry has to survive.

As I woke and thought more about it, something else settled in. Even though everything below me looked so much smaller from that height, when I looked up… things looked exactly the same as they did on the ground. I had never thought of that before. The sky didn’t change. The direction I was going didn’t change. Only my view of what was beneath me shifted.

So maybe that’s the part I’m still sitting with.

Maybe the climb doesn’t change what’s ahead of me as much as it changes how I see what’s behind and below.

Maybe distance doesn’t erase the hard things—it just helps me hold them differently.

Maybe support shows up when I finally whisper yes.

Maybe faith sits quietly on the steps, waiting halfway down.
I’m not sure exactly how to finish this thought yet.

But I do know this: I climbed. I was helped. I saw differently.

And I woke up carrying the sense that not everything that feels enormous will stay that way forever.

The other day I shared a piece called If You Love Me.
Did you realize it was a prayer?

A prayer of desperation.

My soul and my mind were so burdened and bogged down that even though I tried to pray—over and over—nothing would come out. I was in deep anguish. I didn’t know how to ask. I was so tired of feeling this way. Tired of the fear. Tired of the uncertainty.
I was just plain exhausted.

A friend had gently told me that maybe I should just tell God exactly how I felt—and ask Him to show me, very clearly, that He loves me. That night, sleep wouldn’t come. Panic had settled in again, the kind that makes your body restless and your thoughts loud. I was awake until nearly four in the morning, and instead of forcing myself into silence, I let the words come.

I don’t feel like I wrote that piece.

It felt more like I was a channel. The words didn’t come polished or planned—they came poured. Honest. Unfiltered. Exhausted.

If this kind of prayer feels uncomfortable to read, I want to say this gently: it wasn’t written to disturb or confuse. It was written from a place many of us visit but don’t know how to name.

Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is stop pretending we are okay.

Afterward, many people reached out. Most told me they were praying for me, or that I must be walking through a valley. A few expressed concern. When I explained that it was a prayer, that softened any worry. A trusted friend reflected on how boldly the prayer was framed and worried it could invite misunderstanding. That concern was not echoed by anyone else.

I’ve been thinking about that.
And what came to mind was Scripture.

Hebrews 4:16 (KJV) says:
“Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.”

Coming boldly doesn’t mean coming perfectly.
It means coming honestly. Without pretending. Without dressing up our pain so it sounds acceptable.

The Psalms say it this way:
Psalm 62:8 (KJV):
“Trust in him at all times; ye people, pour out your heart before him: God is a refuge for us.”

Pour out your heart.
Not edit it.
Not soften it.
Not make it easier for others to hear.

Because if we can’t tell God how we really feel… who can we tell?

Jesus Himself said:
Matthew 7:7 (KJV):
“Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”

Ask.

Seek.

Knock.

Those aren’t quiet words. They imply persistence. Showing up again. Speaking even when it’s uncomfortable.

I don’t believe God is offended by truth. I don’t believe He recoils from raw prayers. I don’t believe He asks us to hide our fear, our anger, or our confusion before approaching Him.

I also believe God has a sense of humor.

I think:

He smiles at our quirks

He laughs with us, not at us

He grieves when we grieve

He sits quietly when we’re overwhelmed

And yes—I think He does that gentle, knowing head-shake parents do when their kids are human and messy and trying.

Not in disappointment—but in love.

And I’ve been wondering something else, too.

Why do you think God made such a beautiful world—
with flowers that have thorns?

Sunrises and sunsets that take our breath away, yet can burn if we aren’t careful?

Snakes and spiders that are intricate and fascinating, yet carry venom that can maim or kill?

Beauty and danger living side by side.

Maybe the world was never meant to be simple.

Maybe love—real love—was never meant to be painless.

And maybe honest prayer is what keeps us connected when beauty and pain exist at the same time.

That prayer wasn’t a list of demands.

It was a tired heart asking not to be made to decode love through suffering anymore.

It was someone who needed love shown plainly. Gently. Without riddles.

And I still believe this:
God can handle our honesty.
He already knows what’s in our hearts.

Prayer isn’t about informing Him—it’s about trusting Him enough to include Him.

That night, at four in the morning, I did exactly that.

And even now, I hold this hope: that a God who invites us to come boldly is already leaning close, ready to meet us with mercy, grace, and love—

right where we are.

They said to ask You
to show me Your love.
Like that’s easy.
Like I haven’t been asking my whole life
without knowing I was.
So here it is—
not pretty,
not faithful-sounding,
not wrapped in church words.
If You love me,
I need more than silence.
More than lessons.
More than “one day you’ll understand.”
I’m tired of being strong.
Tired of surviving things
I never signed up for.
Tired of wondering
if I’m the problem You keep correcting.
I want to believe You love me,
but love that always hurts
starts to feel like punishment.
And the truth is—
I don’t even know what it looks like.
I don’t know what to expect
or how You’d show me.
I just know I need something, Lord.
I’m too tired
and too crushed
to go looking for anything anymore.
I don’t know if You’ll show me
in an hour,
or a day,
a week,
a month,
a year,
or several years—
but here I am.
Waiting.
If You answer,
don’t make me decode it.
Don’t hide it in suffering
and call it growth.
Show me in a way
that doesn’t require faith
I don’t have left.
Meet me where I am—
frayed,
angry,
aching,
still breathing but barely.
I’m not closing the door.
I’m just sitting on the floor
with my back against it,
too tired to knock.
If love is still for someone like me,
prove it.
Not loudly.
Not perfectly.
Just real enough
that I can’t explain it away.

My thoughts have been sitting with a question asked in a book I’m reading.
A small person asked his great uncle, “If I wasn’t me… who would I be?”

That question hasn’t let me go.

If I weren’t the me I am today, I think I would be hard.
Unforgiving. Sharp-edged with anyone who hurt me or didn’t do what I wanted. I would protect myself by never letting anyone close enough to matter.

I’d be made up—flashy hair, probably hot pink. Heavy makeup. Bold lipstick. Long pink fingernails I couldn’t bite off even if I tried. Everything on the outside loud enough to distract from what lived underneath.

I’d be slim and trim, working relentlessly to keep my body in shape.

Pain-free. A body untouched by more than twenty-five surgeries. A body that never betrayed me.

I would have had six children—three boys and three girls—because in that version of life, everything would be balanced and orderly.

I’d wear clothing that isn’t modest. Flashy colors. After all, I’d have the body for it.

Or maybe I would have been a “good” Mennonite mom.
Doing everything exactly like the other women. A big garden. Flowerbeds overflowing. Canning and freezing every harvest. A house always clean, neat, and picked up. Doing it all myself—no hired help, no visible cracks, no room for weakness.

I definitely wouldn’t be a working mom.
I never would have learned how to fit glasses, type medical reports, or fit bras.
Or maybe—knowing me—I would have been excellent at all of it anyway.

I would be sweet. Submissive. Easy to love.

No one would question why I am the way I am. No one would need explanations or backstory. I would simply fit.

I would have grown up in my biological parents’ home—and that, I believe, would have been a disaster. I would have turned to alcohol or drugs. I might not have survived myself at all.

And when I sit with all of that long enough, this is where I land:
If I weren’t me, I might look stronger, prettier, easier, or more acceptable.
But I don’t think I would be kinder.

I don’t think I would be safer for others to rest with.

And I don’t think I would know how to love with the depth that comes only from having been broken and still choosing tenderness.

So maybe the question isn’t who would I be if I wasn’t me…

Maybe the quieter answer is this:
I am who I am because I survived what I didn’t choose.

And even on the days I wish I were someone else,
this version of me is the one who knows how to stay.

They say the biggest waves
don’t come alone—
they come in sevens.

One after another,
building quietly,
as if the ocean is asking,
Are you still watching?

Trouble feels like that.
Not one thing.
Not one hard day.

But seasons that arrive in sets,
each wave a little heavier than the last,
until you’re counting just to stay upright.

I learned this from the sea.
In Cabo, I stood where it felt safe—
ankle-deep water,
cool and curious,
watching ghost crabs vanish
into holes too small to believe.

I was looking down,
at beauty,
at detail,
at the sand.

And I turned my back.

The water rose without asking,
knees swallowed,
feet tugged forward,
the pull relentless.
What had felt playful
almost took me down.

Another season.
Another shore.

Punta Cana—
water no deeper than my waist,
because I don’t swim,
because I know my limits.

We were walking in
when the people on the beach began to shout.
Pointing.
Warning.

We turned—
just slightly.
That was enough.

A wave struck hard,
chest-high,
knocking laughter right out of us.

She fell back.
I fell forward.
And suddenly the ocean had us—
rolling,
dragging,
refusing to let go.

At first it was funny.
Then it wasn’t.
I couldn’t get my footing.
Couldn’t stand.
Couldn’t breathe the way I wanted to.

So I pushed—
face down,
arms burning,
heart racing—
and somehow,
I rose.

Scraped.

Sandy.

Shaken.

Still alive.

Sand followed me longer than I liked.
Some of it took days to wash away.

Life does that too.
Some seasons barely touch your feet.

Others come in sevens—
grief, doubt, blame, responsibility, fear—
each one saying,

Stay alert.

Stay standing.

The ocean was never cruel.
It wasn’t personal.
It was powerful.
And I forgot to face it.

So now I watch the waves.
I count them.
I respect their rhythm.

I don’t try to conquer the sea.
I don’t pretend the water won’t rise.
I stand where I can.
I face what’s coming.

And when the last wave passes—
because it always does—
I rise again.
Scraped.
Sandy.
Breathing.
Still here.