Sunday, November 30th, 2014


Today at church I was lucky enough to get to hang out with my Godbaby for the whole service. During one of the first songs she dozed off onto my shoulder, and then slept through the whole sermon. She cuddled right into my shoulder and snored for a solid half hour. I felt so lucky. It isn’t everyday that a baby will just fall asleep on you. Plus, baby snores are the best. They are so cute; it is really too much.


At one point I handed her to Nathan and he bounced her on his knee while making car noises. Her smile was contagious. And, to be honest, watching Nathan love on her just about makes my heart beat right out of my chest.  She is the kind of baby that makes me feel like having babies is something I want to do someday. Nathan and I definitely don’t have plans for babies anytime soon; but, when we do, I’d like to have one just like her.

Seeing her and her mom on Sunday is one of the brightest spots of my whole week. I am sure that we probably looked a little ridiculous sneakily snapping pictures during the service, but I think we were all sort of in a baby haze. And, honestly, a little baby haze is exactly what I needed this morning. There is just something about cuddling a baby that makes everything seem right in the world. I’d recommend it.

Molly on Monday on Tuesday

Tuesday, November 18th, 2014


Editor’s note: Hi all, sorry this is a day late! Yesterday was a busy and rough day for Nathan and me, and I didn’t get a chance to make sure that this post went up. I scheduled it to post yesterday morning, but sometimes WordPress gets a little glitchy. -Sydney 



I go to school in a small town. Smaller than small. Main Street (its actual name, by the way) is less than a mile long. There’s a coffee shop, a Chinese restaurant, a pizza place, and dozens of churches. My school sits on the outskirts. Right between broken suburbia and a town that, despite its best efforts, can’t seem to quite get its feet underneath it. Between the quant coffee shop teeming with college students getting their caffeine buzz and the churches that usher people through their wide open door every Sunday, there is a current of sadness. Of despair. A current that speaks to the fact that people are people. Sometimes it’s hard to notice. As a college student, I often forget that a world outside my own, tests, papers, friends, late-night ice cream runs, exists. People refer to it as “the bubble.” People here mean the bubble of college, but when we get right down to it, I think we all live in our own little bubble. We live in a world whose values contradict those of the gospel. Where the gospel recounts the oldest story in history, the world values all things new; new and shiny and gleaming with seemingly endless promise. Where the gospel celebrates sacrifice, the world celebrates ambition. The kind of ambition that tells you to do whatever it takes to get to the top. Where the gospel centers around community, the world says each man is in it for himself. It’s this pursuit of individuality that causes us to stumble. Where Christ is wrapping people in his loving arms, we’re pushing them away with one hand and showing them the door. In order to grow closer to the God that loves us so dearly, we must cultivate lives and habits that are driven by a deeper desire to know him. In order to get to know him and spread his word, we must get to know those around us. Christians, pagans, children, adults, people we love, people we hate… they are all created in his image and deserve an opportunity to witness Jesus’s love for them in real time.

Back in high school, I spent countless hours at one of my very best friend’s houses. Despite her being a new student, it took us virtually no time to become fast friends. Her mom’s arms seemed to always be open for a warm embrace and I smiled at the sound of dad’s southern drawl as he told stories inevitably ended with raucous laughter. I relished the times spent at their kitchen counter, balanced on a wooden stool, laughing and talking. I knew where to find the chips and dip, I knew that there would always be a jug of sweet tea in the fridge, and most of all, I knew I was always welcome. And it wasn’t only me that felt the magnetic attraction that the family had. Their reputation quickly became one of inclusiveness. It didn’t matter where you were from or what your story was, you always had a place waiting for you in that little blue clapboard house. It seemed to me, and countless others, that they never tired of welcoming people into the fold of Christ’s love.

Hospitality, as it’s called in our language, is always an easier idea in our heads than it is in our hearts. We have a grand notion that being hospitable means putting on a good face and circulating an artfully arranged platter of hours d’oeuvres. Our culture places such an emphasis on perfection that hospitality is a nearly impossible, and easily avoidable task. We’ve made it too simple to use our imperfection as an excuse to close our doors and live out our lives in quiet solitude. What we are forgetting is that our perfect God died a vicious death so that he could exist amidst our everyday messes. In fact, God wants us to invite people our less-than-perfect, disorganized, sloppy lives so we can show people how he uses imperfect beings like us to make his kingdom beautiful. So instead of worrying about what shoes we’re going to wear or what food we’re going to serve, let’s simply offer an invitation and trust that God will orchestrate the rest.


Pima! Airplanes! Nathan’s Version of Heaven!

Wednesday, November 5th, 2014

[Mi-24. A Russian attack helicopter]

For this year’s Fall break we headed to see my Grandpa, and on the way home we stopped by the Pima Air and Space Museum. This museum may be Nathan’s most favorite place anywhere. It is full of old military planes, retired civilian airliners, and a big “boneyard” of airplane parts. Nathan is plane obsessed, and it makes me happy to watch him explore the museum every time we go. I also feel like I get an education each time- Nathan can rattle off facts about planes at an alarming rate.

[CH-37 transport helicopter]

[Sikorsky Sky Crane]

[Mig 15]

[B-58 Hustler (the “sexiest bomber ever” according to Nathan)]

[B-57 Canberra]

[Navy Helicopter]

My favorite part of the museum is in the yard where they have turned about six planes into art installations. These planes are decorated in wacky and beautiful ways, and they fascinate me every time I see them.











The museum’s website: here 

More on the art installation: here 

A listing of the planes at the museum: here

Sunday Photos

Tuesday, November 4th, 2014


Sometimes we look nice for church, and on those days I like to document it. It’s not that we look really sloppy for church all the time, we just normally go a little more casual. On this particular Sunday, our God-daughter was baptized. When my friend Meredith asked us to be God-parents, I was totally overwhelmed (in a good way). It has been such a joy to know little Ioanna and to watch her grow. She gets bigger every single week.

It has also been fun to watch Nathan interact with her. He isn’t real big on babies, unless they are our nephews. But he is so great with Ioanna. He smiles at her and laughs and she gives him the biggest smiles. It is the cutest. He’ll be such a great Dad some day.









Molly on Monday: “We Get to Own It”

Monday, November 3rd, 2014

College is the foundation for any identity crisis. At least, that’s what I would argue. Here I am, in a new place, with new people, and no idea what I want to do. I mean, to be fair, I do have a vague idea of what I would like my life to look life after these four years are over, but beyond those wispy ideas knocking around my head, it’s a time characterized by a lot of uncertainty. I ask myself a lot of questions; questions about who I am and what I want to be doing and what I should be doing and did I eat enough vegetables on Tuesday. Besides creating a lot of awkward situations in which it appears I am talking to myself, all of my relentless questioning creates a lot of pressure. It’s self-made pressure, for sure. There’s no beating around it. It would certainly be easier if I could shrug the responsibility or the blame off to someone else, someone else who has got their life together and actually knows what they are doing beyond 5PM. But the truth is, we are notoriously our hardest critics.

I’ve always been extremely tightly wound. A classic type-A person. It manifests itself in different ways. In my obsession with tradition, my distinct distaste for change, and my inability to sleep in an un-made bed. It’s certainly served me well over the years to be detail-oriented and extremely organized. (I was still picked last for kickball, but hey, we can’t all be good at everything…) Most often, however, it rears its ugly head in the form of crippling stress. Stress that causes endless tears and headaches and sleepless nights. Stress that makes even the simplest of tasks seem insurmountable.

I had three tests this week and in a slightly un-characteristic turn of events, I found myself remarkably un-stressed for the first time in a long time. At first, it was marvelous. All, “Wow, look at me! Way to go! I’ve got this!” And then, of course, as was to be expected, I freaked. The kind of freak that starts with some shallow panicky breaths and ends with lots of back rubs and hiccup-y tears. I was so frustrated with myself. Frustrated that I couldn’t enjoy life in the moment. Frustrated that I had three tests. Frustrated that no matter how hard I tried, stress always seemed to win me over.

It was over breakfast with someone older, someone wiser, that I realized the real root of my problem. Here I was, sitting across from someone whose hair hadn’t been washed in a few days, who was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and who was a little behind on her reading. But what struck me was her joy. She found a profound sense of joy in being who she was and enjoying it. She didn’t spend her time comparing herself to other people or trying to measure up to the standards of the world. She was happy to be herself. I found myself, at the age of nineteen, feeling a little bit like someone had punched me in the gut. It’s okay to be yourself. It’s okay to oversleep and make mistakes and not wash your hair for three days. We are all imperfect children of a perfect king. That means we get to own it.


I’m glad you’re here!



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