In which there is a free knitting pattern…

Perfect Match Blanket


For the story behind the Perfect Match Blanket, please read this post.

Size: One Size

Yarn: 5 skeins Berroco Vintage Chunky, Azure colorway (MC) and 5 skeins Berroco Vintage Chunky, Charcoal colorway (CC)

Needles: 6 mm straight needles or circular needles at least a 24″ cable

Gauge: Variable

Other Notions: Darning Needle

Loosely CO 140 stitches in MC. Work 12 rows in garter stitch. **Work 20 rows in stockinette stitch (k one row, p one row), knitting the first and last 6 sts of each row for the entire blanket to create a garter stitch border.

Switch to CC and work 4 rows in stockinette stitch, then switch back to MC for 4 rows.  Repeat twice, ending after the third CC stripe.  Work 20 rows in stockinette in your MC.

Repeat from **, replacing your MC with your CC and your CC with your MC.  The second half of your blanket will be the mirror image of the first.

Work 12 rows in garter stitch in your new MC.

Bind off loosely and weave in loose ends.



In which there is a blanket…

“To love another person is to see the face of God.” –Victor Hugo

“As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.” –Proverbs 27:17

“The next best thing to being wise oneself is to live in a circle of those who are.” –CS Lewis


I spent a lot of time over the past 8 weeks reflecting on each of these quotes.  I know exactly how many weeks it was because that’s how long it took me to knit a blanket.  It wasn’t just any blanket–it was “the” perfect blanket.  I designed and knit it for a family so special to me that I honestly don’t even know how I am going to write this blog post without crying.  So sit back and wait for it, because this post is going to be a doozy (which spell check tells me isn’t a real word…I call foul).

I have been blessed in my life with the opportunity to travel and live overseas with Marcus’ job.  It has brought us so much closer together as a couple and we’ve come together as a more cohesive family unit. It has also meant that we’ve had the chance to meet people that might not have otherwise crossed our paths.  I think there was a time where I would have called that “coincidence.”  Now, though, I know it was God’s hand in my life.

I know that God put Jody and Rachel and each of their children in my life to fill a void that I didn’t even know existed.  Like I wasn’t complete until I met Marcus and he and I were joined together, I feel like I can also say that we weren’t complete until we met them.  Marcus and Jody are able to work together and play together, each bringing out the best in one another on personal and professional levels.  Rachel and I do the same, each bringing something to the table that the other is lacking.  Like in my marriage, and in theirs, the extrovert and the introvert have paired up as a perfect match.  And so when the four of us are together, it’s more than friendship.  It’s like family.  It’s like home.

It’s not only Jody and Rachel as individuals (though that’s a huge part of it), but it’s also the connection we have felt and shared with them on a religious and spiritual level.  We’ve grown closer to God through our friendship with them.  It has, and they have, changed my life.  I’m prayerful about what will happen to that change when they leave, in stages, over the next several months.

 I am struggling so much with their impending departure.  The curse of living overseas and working with the military is that people don’t stay.  I absolutely despise that part of this experience.

To pass the time, and as part of my Lenten experience, I decided to knit Jody and Rachel a blanket.  They had longingly admired the blanket I was making for Marcus, and I thought that a blanket would be a nice gesture.  I would knit prayerfully and focus on the good, and not the sad.  When I couldn’t find a blanket pattern that I liked after scrolling through patterns on Ravelry, I knew that I should design one myself.


The “Perfect Match” blanket was born out of love.  Out of necessity.  Out of prayer and peace and loss and happiness.  Every stitch was considered and deliberate.

There are very few projects that I have worked on in my life that I have been sad to finish.  This was one of them.  I cried as I weaved in the loose ends and folded it up.


I don’t want them to go.

Rachel is my practical, calm, prayerful friend.  She’s the logical one.  Our friendship isn’t ending because they are leaving.  We’ll see each other again.  The internet, Facebook, email, they’ve all made the world smaller and distances relative.  So true.

And still.

I don’t want them to go.



In which life is too short for crappy books…

I have been a reader for my entire life.  I have devoured books as readily as some might scarf down a pizza or memorize the words the their favorite song.  I could spend hours perusing the shelves of book stores, never ceasing to find something (often more than one something) that interests me.  Reading is a massive part of my identity.

So imagine my surprise to discover in the past year that not all books are worthy of my time.  I know.  I was as shocked as you are.

If I’m honest with myself, it started years ago.  I’d start a book that had all the right criterion for something I’d love.  Historical fiction.  Trashy beach read.  Bestseller.  Young adult fiction.  Dystopia.  The list is endless, really.  I see it, it grabs my attention, I buy it.

And for a variety of reasons, I wouldn’t get drawn in.  I’d get distracted (I tend to do that sometimes).  I’d get bored.  Another book would become more appealing.  I’m fickle, I suppose.

But I have always had guilt.  I am a reader.  Readers read books.  I can’t leave one unfinished!  I have forced myself to trudge through books I don’t love simply to be able to say that I finished them.

It stops now.  Life is too short for crappy books!  My reading time is limited.  If I don’t want to finish a book, it’s time to stop reading.  Put it away.  Donate it.  Loan it to a friend.  But finish a book I’m not interested in?  Why torture myself?

Life’s too short to read books that are crappy.

It’s too short for friends who aren’t real.

Too short for movies that I don’t enjoy.

Too short to spend a sunny day inside cleaning.

Too short to choose TV over playtime with the girls.

Too short for my iPhone instead of real people.

Life is too short.

Be selective.


In which we eat cake…

Today is Marcus’ birthday.  I wish I could say that I’m this amazing wife and mother who makes every birthday better than the last, but the truth is, I’m usually coming down from my own birthday week, and when Marcus’ birthday comes I’m like, “oh crap”  and I’m scrambling to put together an awesome birthday, but I usually fall short.  Not to mention that after all these years together, I still find myself putting together a birthday for Marcus that I would enjoy, forgetting that though were a perfect match, he’s my polar opposite in many ways.  A big party?  Table full of friends?  Concert tickets?  They simply aren’t him.  

But this year I had myself organised and prepared. Presents were ordered.  I had a plan for the birthday day he would want, not the one I would want. I knew what he wanted for dinner.  I was going to be “a good wife.”

The birthday cake almost stumped me. Marcus loves my carrot cake, but as the kids have been home on term break, I’m behind on just about everything related the cooking and cleaning. I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to whip out.

And that’s when Erica asked if she could make Marcus’ cake.  

Now, I am not a perfectionist control-freak.  


I don’t mind messes…if they’re my messes.  It makes parenting young children…heck, it makes living with others…a difficult task.  And I’ve had to work daily on it.

So when I cook or bake with the girls, once in a blue moon, it doesn’t end well.  I let them maybe pour one ingredient in.  I let them stir but get frustrated  when batter ends up on the counter.  I sigh at the bowls on the counter and micromanage every second.  The agenda is clear–I am in charge and they are allowed to do a tiny bit, just enough so they can feel like they helped.

But this year, this time, I thought, “no.” The girls are getting bigger.  In some ways I give then plenty of opportunities to grow and be Independent, but in many ways I keep then young.  So I let them make and decorate the cake. 

It was extremely hard.  I still helped stir. I poured the batter into the tin.  But I made a very conscious effort to let Erica lead.  It was not easy, but I did it with intention.

When the cake was done and cooled, she and Samantha wanted to ice and decorate it.  Alone.  I was worried about Erica’s reaction if the frosting didn’t spread easily and began to rip the top of the cake.  I had the entire scenario in my mind before anything had even happened.  It would be awful.  She’d kick off and get frustrated and I’d end up with chaos.  I should frost the cake.

But I didn’t.  “Ok,” I said.  I helped them find the decorations and utensils.  I opened the store-bought frosting.  And I left the room.

You heard me right.  I LEFT THE ROOM.

It was so hard.  When I heard the girls rummaging through the cabinets, I almost went back in.  When I heard, “Mom, do not come in here yet,” I *really* almost went back in.  But I didn’t.

And when it was all said and done, we had this:



This is a game changer, people. For me, and for them.

They probably won’t remember today, when they are older and reflecting back on their childhoods.  But I will.  I’m going to try to remember this day a lot more often.  I will fall short some days.  But, I hope, I’ll fall short less often.

For what it’s worth, it was the best cake I’ve ever eaten.  


In which I swallow my pride…

“Pride goes before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.”-Proverbs 16:18

photo(57) - Copy

This bible verse has been weighing on my mind for the past week or so.  After being so poorly for so long, and having to swallow my pride and ask for and accept help from others along the way, it seems only natural.

But it wasn’t the help that caused me to reflect on this verse.  Instead, it was the fact that I was set to run my third half-marathon last weekend.  Before I got sick, I’d been training well.  I was working out 4 days a week, adding yoga in to improve my flexibility, and keeping my long runs at a slow steady pace.  I was going to cut three minutes off of my personal best time for the distance.

And it was going to help prepare me for my first marathon, coming at the end of May.

It wasn’t just a race.  It was a much needed weekend away with some girlfriends.  An opportunity to relax and recharge and shop and sleep.  It was a much needed break before my birthday and after Marcus had been traveling for two weeks.

So getting sick sort of sucked.  I’d only gotten up to 8 miles in training (and that 8 miles was done when I first fell ill, and shouldn’t have done it).  And then I had to stop everything cold turkey.  No running.  Heck, hardly any walking.  No yoga.  I was a lazy sloth.  I was certain that I would not only not be able to run the half, but I wouldn’t be able to run a mile.

I proved myself right, or so I thought, when I started to run again 10 days before the race.  I had a disastrous 5K race.  I tried the 8 mile distance again, on a treadmill, and thought I was going to die.  I had a good 5 miler one day, but couldn’t be convinced that it was anything more than a fluke.  I was a mess.  I was fatigued and tired and still coughing.

Everyone (EVERYONE) told me not to run the Vitality Reading Half Marathon.

And that’s when pride crept in.

No. I can do it.

With every person who told me that I couldn’t, or shouldn’t, do it, I felt frustrated.  I could do it.  I wanted to prove them all wrong.  I wasn’t a quitter.  I wasn’t a failure.  I was smart.  I could do it.  I needed to do it.

All they wanted, really, was to keep me healthy.  One friend constantly reminded me to keep my eye on the real goal, the May marathon.  Let the half marathon go–it wasn’t my focus.  Everyone cared.

But I was prideful.

I couldn’t see their words as words of wisdom.  I saw them as discouraging.  I let my pride drive me.

When we got to Reading, the girls and I did the sightseeing and the shopping and the drinking and the relaxing.  It was wonderful.  I tried to put my pride to the side.  I could balance my desire to run the race and my desire to stay healthy, for everyone that cared about me and wanted to keep me safe.

God put my friends there with me that weekend for a reason.  Specifically, my friend Julie.  She woke up feeling a bit blah on race day.  “We’ll run it together,” she said. “We’ll take it slow.  Steady.  Easy.  We’ll plan to walk the water stations.”


It wasn’t my plan.  My plan was to run and take it easy and to stop when I felt fatigued.  But with Julie by my side, I never got fatigued.  In fact, I probably ran the smartest race I’ve ever run.  And I was able to do it, thanks to her.  I know that I wouldn’t have been anywhere near as successful without her.  She saved me from my pride.

My time was a very respectable 10 min slower than my personal best.  I felt great at the finish and even now, two days later, I still feel good.  I didn’t overtax my body.  I played it safe. And honestly, it was probably the best race to have as I train for the marathon.  It was practical, safe training for a woman whose goal is to make it across the finish line at 26.2, not to meet a time goal.

I struggled to swallow my pride.  God sent me a blessing to help.  I am so thankful.



In which I see the face of God…

The very first year that I taught religious education, the program director introduced a theme for the year.  She called it, “The Face of God,” and though we followed our regularly curriculum for the year, this was the overarching theme that we tried to weave throughout our lessons.  We discussed the Victor Hugo quote, “To love another person is to see the face of God.”  Specifically, Erin encouraged the children, and us as catechists, to think about who has been the face of God in our lives.  

At the time, I thought briefly of others I’ve encountered through the years who’ve shown me the face of God.  People that have encouraged me to be a better Catholic.  Inspired me to become more involved in our church and our community.  People who’ve brought out the best in me.

But if I’m honest, I couldn’t think of any one person, or any one experience, when I truly saw or felt God’s presence in my life in a strong way.  There were times I felt very blessed.  Times I was grateful.  Times I was inspired.  But they were perhaps more fleeting moments, instead of life changing experiences.

Until now.  Over the past month, I’ve been sick.  What started as something flu-like grew and changed and hurt and I’ve got a chest infection that is only slowly starting to resolve after several setbacks.  Honestly, I don’t know if I’ve ever been this poorly (and certainly not for this long) in my life.  I’m only just barely on the mend.  And Marcus is traveling for work.

In the past two weeks, the love and compassion I’ve been shown by my friends has been so overwhelming.  I have had meals brought in every day.  I’ve had people pop round for lunch to check on me.  Friends have offered to do my shopping and my washing.  And most importantly, people have helped with the girls.  They’ve taken them to their gymnastics and diving lessons.  Taken them to school.  Picked them up from school.  Kept them for a few hours so that I can rest.  Taking them to and from play dates.  Changed their work and home schedules so that they can help, often without me even having to ask.  

And the girls have managed all the chaos so well.  They’ve been juggled and flitted from friend to friend with ease.  They’ve been well-behaved and gotten great reports from every parent and friend who’s helped with them.  They’ve made their own lunches and sorted their own uniforms when I’ve asked.  They’ve helped each other and me.  

So now, in this time of my deepest need, I can honestly say that I have been blessed to see the face of God.  It is every single person who has called or texted, cooked or helped, drove or hosted the girls.  It’s everyone who thought of me when they had their own busy lives and their own full diaries.  

I feel incredibly humbled by this experience.  I spent a lot of time feeling unworthy, and feeling that I couldn’t accept the help people were offering.  It was my friend Rachel who reminded me that when I don’t let someone help, I rob them of the opportunity to serve.  That has been on my mind constantly, as so many of you have served by helping me and my family.

So thank you, to everyone who has been the face of God for me over the past month.  I cannot begin to thank you enough.  

I am blessed beyond measure. 


In which I forget…

I feel overwhelmed. The house is utter chaos. There are toys and clothes and lego (oh the lego) everywhere. The bathrooms are messy and there are cake tins cluttering up the kitchen counters that I work hard to keep clutter-free. The rug in the lounge has needed two (sometimes three) vacuums every day. My bedroom has no less than four loads of laundry folded on the floor waiting to be put away. There are four loads awaiting the washing machine. Every bed in the house is unmade. I did the dishes an hour ago…but they still aren’t done.

But in the midst of it all, I can sometimes, for a fleeting second, remind myself that none of it matters, not really. No one cares what my house looks like. And if they do, it doesn’t matter anyway.

When the girls are grown and gone I can have a clean house. If I want. And maybe I won’t even want one then. And that’s ok too. It’s ok to have priorities that aren’t a clean house.

I forget. Sometimes I get caught up in all the things I’m not, and forget all the things that I am. I am more than the state of my bedroom and the dishes in my sink.

And so are you.