A Wife First, A Mother Second
This week, I joked with my friend that babies have the ability to tear a marriage apart and put it back together all in the same day. Though “tear apart” may be too dramatic a phrase, my flippant adage would
A Peek at My Publishing Process — deadlines, teething children, kapp hunting and all!
This week, I'm honored to be hosted on Tyndale House's blog about the past eight months since I began the publishing journey with The Outcast ~ my modern retelling of The Scarlet Letter! My excerpt from their blog: The morning of my conference call with Tyndale,
Learning From Little Women
This weekend, my poor husband's been sick. Friday night, bored—and slightly bummed we weren’t out on a date—I broke my new TV rule, sat on the couch, ate yogurt, and watched Little Women while the rest of the Petersheim household slept. I have
A Simple Way of Living
Years ago, when my husband and I were dating, we went to a reenactment at Land Between the Lakes. It was a warm fall day, and I remember how the sun kindled in my boyfriend’s day-old beard, setting the short
Confessions of a Coffee Addict
After my husband and I became engaged, I knew he had a habit that I would have to break. It was not a really bad habit, as far as bad habits go. But I was unsure of its side-effects. It was rumored to
The Stranger Who Changed Me
At ten years old, I borrowed a book from the library that had mistress in the title. Granted, the cover art featured a gilded carriage reminiscent of Cinderella, with sparkles that flashed in the spokes of the wheels. My mother did
The Beauty of “Sometimes”
I'm just going to be honest. Sometimes I play opossum, so my husband will get up and rock our ten-month-old child back to sleep. Sometimes when she's crying, rather than comforting her, for a moment I want to close the bedroom door and
Vlog ~ Learning to Trust God One Step at a Time
(Sorry the vlog is slightly shaky. I talk with my hands, which jiggled the laptop on the pillow.)
Help Bind Up Their Wounds
The eight-year-old female soloist with long hair and freckles concluded the song. The children belted out, “Happy Birthday, Jesus!” in a confetti of sweetly discordant voices. A majority of the congregation rose to their feet. Tears filled my eyes. Every
Better Late Than Never
At 8:45 on Saturday morning, my husband’s Jeep lurched to a halt in our driveway. He came inside. I was seated at the counter in my terry-cloth bathrobe, feeding our nine-month-old her daily cereal and prunes. “Aren’t you supposed to—a go?” he said,