Author Archives: Shannon


About Shannon

Alaskan homeschooling mama of eight sweet kids. Loves Jesus, writing, coffee, Dickens, and snapping a kitchen towel at my husband when he's not looking.

anxious for nothing

Posted on by February 24, 2026

I love bread dough. There is something instinctively comforting about warm, rising dough that is as fluffy as toddler cheeks. I love the ppfffffff sound of punching the dough down after the first rise and then dividing it into little loaf portions and tucking them into their pans.  I love folding in mozzarella and sauteed onions and so many herbs that they fall out when you lift the dough into the big loaf pan.

I love watching it rise.

And…I really love eating it. Hello, my name is Shannon, and I love, I adore, I highly esteem, I less-than-three carbs and gluten. Don’t tell our naturopath.

Baking bread used to be so intimidating to me. Silly, hmm? It was unfamiliar territory and seemed like a big process. I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to tackle it.

Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.

– Philippians 4:6

So tackle it I did, and then got a little braver. I learned to play.

I learned to make new things, and discovered the love of stretching strips of pizza dough over calzone filling, rolling long thin triangles into crescent rolls, and layering other strips of dough together with a ridiculous amount of cinnamon sugar in between. Nothing fancy, just comfort food…but I’m harboring a longing to try homemade hotdog buns soon. We’ll see.

Recently we learned to make doughnuts, and I loved cutting out floury circles, and – the best part – little floury doughnut holes. Oh, joy! Oh, bliss!

Oh, dentist!

Just kidding. No cavities so far.

Playing is messy but so necessary. We need it from the earliest of ages. When we are little and don’t have enough play and touch and interaction, many things that should just be routine are anxiety-provoking, unfamiliar territory.

Fear comes into play. Literally.
We learned a little – just a tiny bit – about this during some adoption trainings. We’ve learned quite a bit more, as usually happens, through actual experience.
Our first experience was during our first trip to Spaghettia in March of last year. We gave Reagan some playdoh – all kids like play-doh, right? – and when she squeezed it, she cried. She was scared of it.
We thought, Hmm, that’s weird, and found different toys to play with.
We’ve been home together for almost a year now, and we’re learning more and more. It’s tricky; there don’t seem to be any hard and fast rules about sensory issues. Not all symptoms or characteristics may be present. A child can be both hypersensitive and hyposensitive. And – I just love this – “Inconsistency is a hallmark of every neurological dysfunction.”
Well. Thanks so much. That’s just great.

Anyway, we’re doing lots of play. So many things are new and intimidating, and we focus on making new things familiar so they lose their fear. Messy play, creative play, textures, temperatures, movement, sound…sensory play. Of course, we never called it that before. We just called it…play. The only difference is that we don’t take it for granted anymore.

…My object is to show that the chief function of a child – his business in the world during the first six or seven years of his life – is to find out all he can, about whatever comes under his notice, by means of his five senses; that he has an insatiable appetite for knowledge got in this way; and that, therefore, the endeavor of his parents should be to put him in the way of making acquaintance freely with Nature and natural objects.

– Charlotte Mason, Home Education

She loves playdoh now. And not just for eating.
(Kidding. She’s only eaten it twice…I think…)

Tonight after bedtime, Chamberlain came downstairs with a splinter in her fingertip that, while certainly painful, somehow magically did not become so until after we tucked her in. Vince and I took turns poking with the tweezers amid her shrieks and tears, but to no avail…we can’t pinch the splinter out, the tweezers can’t grasp it, and it’s unavoidable…the dreaded implement must be used.

You know the one.

The fearsome sewing needle. (gasp!)
Say it ain’t so!
Actually, I’m not saying it at all. I’m handing her a stuffed doggie that happens to be within arm’s reach and what I do find myself saying is, “I think Pup has a splinter, too. How about you check him with the tweezers -” putting those useless things into her right hand, “while I look at your splinter a little more?”
It was a stroke of divine genius that didn’t come from me at all. And it worked.
She is engrossed in Pup’s right paw while I am holding her left paw and poking it with the needle. She has no idea I’m even holding a needle. She hardly notices that I have exposed the end of the splinter and she is jabbering to Pup about how he must be more careful in the woods around the rosebushes…
I ask her if we can trade. She looks at me with surprise and hands me the tweezers and takes the needle that she didn’t even know I had and continues Pup’s surgery. One more pinch on her rosy fingertip and the tweezers grasp the splinter…and it’s out.We look at it together. Out in the open, it’s just a tiny little thing.

Cham toddles back to bed. I toddle back to the kitchen, thinking about what just happened…and He tells me:
You are the one holding Pup.
I almost dropped the tweezers. What?
He explains. He says that as we learn about these kids…all six of them…and we look for their owies that need healed and the things they need to learn, and we kiss them and cry over them and are engrossed in their need for restoration and growth…He is holding the needle. He is working on us.

There are owies and impurities inside me, and He is calmly, carefully, quietly pulling them out as I jabber on and on to Him about the pups that I’m holding. Things that used to intimidate me are almost normal now, and I don’t even cry over other things that used to scare me, and I’ve hardly noticed because my attention has been focused on these pups.

As we teach and comfort our kids, He is pulling fears out – these little bitty things that cause so much pain – and brings them out to the open so we can look at it together.He sends us toddling off, free, showing us new ways to play so we can be anxious for nothing…because He loves to watch us rise.

no boys allowed

Posted on by May 14, 2013


Just slip quietly into the aisle, make a quick turn behind a clothing rack, and stay cool.
The furtive glances. The reckless rifling through racks of clothing. The frantic search for just the right size, and fighting panic at the sudden sound of a man’s voice as he’s walking down the tile path, twenty feet away.

I’m not shoplifting, I promise. It’s worse than that. I’m…I’m…buying unmentionables. Get me out of here, somebody.

There is a host of other things that I’m completely rational about. I actually enjoy the dentist, and I don’t mind getting my teeth cleaned. Mondays don’t bother me at all. But there is almost nothing that I dread more than shopping for underwear.

Another woman is across from me, one rack over, and we carefully avoid eye contact. I rummage through satins and polyesters (egad), scanning tags for the perfect size, just to be met with a gibbering combination of letters and numbers that only mean something to adorable highschoolers who have never experienced childbirth.

I hear a male voice nearby, and the praise that I whisper for being barely five feet tall and hidden by the rack of hosiery is immediately followed by a muttered curse toward the young woman who brought her boyfriend in.

Well, not really. I mean, probably not. I really can’t remember, it was all so distressing.

34C. 36B. 42A, and on and on. French-cut, high-cut, bikini-cut, and brief. I’m going to need counseling after this.

There ought to be a precise algorithm just for women who have been through childbirth and breastfeeding to assist us in finding the perfect fit and style of undergarment:

Start with the size you were before your first pregnancy. Add x for every childbirth, multiply by y for every child breastfed, divide by the number of actual months nursing. Finally, subtract n times pi for how many years it’s been since weaning your youngest child and proceed to the nearest liquor store.

Lacking this perfect formula (and not in the habit of frequenting liquor stores, anyway), I skeptically grab a few items that look like they might fit a female human and then contemplate my dash to the dressing room…and suddenly realize that I can’t remember where the dressing rooms are.

Blankety blank. I should’ve checked before my arms were loaded with lacy unmentionables.

From between a rack of hideous negligees and cute pajama pants, I peek out and look for the sign. There it is, just to the right. Awesome. Yes! Except…

…under the sign, between me and the dressing room, is the Designated Waiting Area for Patient Husbands. Two men are sitting there.

Oh, expletive.

I grab several more things off the rack next to me – every possible style in four different sizes – just so the pile of garments is high enough that the men won’t see my face and recognize me from school, from work, or, God forbid, from church, and double-time it past them and duck into the hallway.

I survive the dressing room. A few things make the cut, I make the purchase, and make my way out to the car.

I realize that the herbal relaxant I took earlier was probably a really good idea.

Shopping online would have been a better one, though. 

us, concentrate

Posted on by February 24, 2026
us, concentrate: the white egg is only prologue (easter at Copperlight Wood)
This is the first year in a while that we dyed eggs for Easter. I have either forgotten to buy eggs, boil eggs, or buy dye for the last several years, and we’ve suffered through the holiday by merely binging on peanut butter and chocolate eggs for breakfast. (sigh) My beautiful grandma is in her eighties, and she told me the other night that she had dyed eggs every Easter until just a few years ago, all by herself, just because she loves to. When I grow up I hope to be like her.

We went au naturel this time and had bowls of eggs all over the counter soaking in hot water and vinegar mixed with coffee grounds, red cabbage, tomato paste, crushed blueberries, beets, turmeric, turmeric with paprika, turmeric with tea. Lots of turmeric. White eggs go in, colored eggs come out. That’s the plan.

We found that some colors dye quicker. Turmeric, for example, is so effective that it will not only dye eggs, but also the surrounding counter and anything else it touches, and beets will dye your fingers fuchsia the moment you start to peel them. Nice.
Others take a long time to soak in and make a change. And as they dry, sometimes the color changes. They go in white, come out red,and change to green as they oxidize…or come out light blue, and darken to a beautiful turquoise.
Some of the eggs we soaked in one color and re-soaked in another. The colors are deep and the patterns are intricate, unknown galaxies.

And some just don’t change at all. Apparently tomato paste won’t dye diddly, and the eggs come out for a rinse, unchanged after hours except for a nasty film that is scrubbed off, only to take another bath in a different color.

 But usually, the egg goes in and comes out changed.
We do, too. We dye, or die, often. How many times do you feel like you’ve been buried over the past year?
We go through something that changes us, and walk through pain that alters our perspective. We experience something huge – for better or worse – and are washed into something that doesn’t change who we are, but how we look at things. Our essence and identity are still the same – the egg is still an egg – but we know ourselves better because of it.

Sometimes the change is fast, and other times it is a slow process as we heal and make sense of things. Sometimes we go through a series of dunkings that leave us wishing we could hold someone else under the water for a change, just long enough to make them uncomfortable.

No? Maybe it’s just me.

Every time we go through a life-changing event, our colors deepen, we mature, and the baptism makes us more…us.
We’re us, concentrated. Stronger.
con·cen·trate (verb): 

  • to unify, converge, focus; 
  • to intensify or make more pure
  • to separate so as to improve the quality of the valuable portion
Even knowing this, it is still an awful, awe-full feeling to know that someone you love is about to walk through a pain that they have no idea is coming. You know it will make them stronger, but you also know that the strength is birthed through anguish.
To deliver an announcement that will bring pain. To bear news that will bring heartache. To know from experience the natural outcome or consequences of a choice that a loved one is just starting to step into themselves, for better or worse.

(But this calls for a warning: those who flaunt their ego with a cursing, know-it-all, just-you-wait, it-only-gets-worse attitude leave nothing but a nasty film on those who are hurting. We must lead loved ones with maturity and grace.)

 During the week leading up to His crucifixion, Jesus knew His disciples were going to misunderstand it entirely. Before this Sunday I never realized that they would also misunderstand His words, “It is finished.” He knew they would dye, and die, as they walked through pain and terror for two days, soaking in hot, vinegary water. He knew what was coming for Himself and still had deep empathy for His friends, who would not realize that the third day would bring resolution and answers. Color. They went in weak and scared, and came out fearless, bold, ready to die for truth – and the world was changed.
The eggs go in, white. Beautiful and uniform, but all pretty much the same.
They all get buried…bathed…baptized…in a new color. No one would ever describe them as “common” again.
 He knew the joy that was coming for them. He knew they would be stronger.
The white egg is only prologue. Life happens and we soak in the dye as we die to self, sometimes again and again and again. You are the valuable portion being set apart, made more pure. And suddenly, there is…revelation. Joy and life. Color and complexity.
And we are us, concentrated.
Stronger.