happy birthday.

Today is Found and Cherished’s 1st birthday. In honor of that, I’ve done something slightly crazy. Like, oh I don’t know, switching over to Blogger. (I told you it was crazy–well, at least unexpected.) If you’d like to check it out, you can, and in the process find out allll about my family’s spring tradition. So, go on over to the new Found and Cherished and say hi.
Please? : )
(And the posts from this past year will stay here, just to let you know.)


A Quote

Seek the LORD while he may be found;
call upon him while he is near;
let the wicked forsake his way,
and the unrighteous man his thoughts;
let him return to the LORD, that he may have compassion on him,
and to our God, for he will abundantly pardon.
(Isaiah 55:6-7 ESV)
I love this. It was read on Sunday at my church. The last part spoke to me and reminded me of God’s amazing grace. It’s beautiful and gives me hope.




click on the picture to see where i got it from (etsy).

Artists* posses a neat talent. We have the ability to create, form, shape, make—whatever word you want to use—amazing things with whatever we’re given. We take what we have and make it into something wild or beautiful or touching.

Writers have a lot. We have our minds, words, a pen, and some paper (or a computer, depending on the person). But we have so much more than that. We can take absolutely anything we see and use it in a story (yeah, even that piece of garbage blowing across the street). We take some boring things, mix it up with the whirlwind of chaos in our heads, and come up with something like a book or a piece of poetry or a short story or whatever. Just look at all of the amazing works that have been created: Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, The Chronicles of Narnia, Percy Jackson, and ______ (insert your own favorite series). And those are only book series! I haven’t even mentioned all of the individual books or the short stories or the poetry and everything else (yes, even non-fiction).

When painters start out, they have some colorful liquid, a blank canvas, and whatever they want to paint. Yet somehow (I don’t know how they do it—it’s amazing) they manage to make some of the most beautiful images in the world.

Dancers have their bodies and their minds. Yeah, they have some training too, but that won’t help them one bit if they don’t want it to. I’ve seen dancers who have amazing potential toss it all away because they don’t care about dance. They have better things to do. And while there’s nothing wrong with that (as long as they really do have better things to do), it proves my point. If you want to be a beautiful dancer, you have to try.

Art is special and precious. It shows that this world has beauty in it. Artists have a way of accentuating that. They have that talent, and I’m ever so grateful that they exist. Because the “earth” without “art” is just “eh.”


*An artist can be defined as many things, and just about every person has their own opinion of what a real artist is. But I think of artists as writers, photographers, painters, sculptors, dancers, sketchers, singer-songwriters, yes—even you, Miss Stay-At-Home-Mom Who Likes to Create Her Own Little Pieces of Beauty, etc.



Favorite books (for the moment):
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain
Perfect Scoundrels by Ally Carter
The Mark of Athena by Rick Riordan
The Giver by Lois Lowry

Favorite songs:
Runaway by Mat Kearney
Circle by Flyleaf
Arms that Hold the Universe by 33Miles
Don’t Give up the Fight by Revive
The Violet Hour by The Civil Wars

Favorite Writers:
Merlin Spielen
Joe Bunting
Gabrielle Ben-Ezra
J.K. Rowling

Favorite Foods:
-Tomato soup
-Cheesy pretzels


Through the Fields


She walks through the fields,
The wind blowing through her dark hair.
As she drifts, she sails on the wind.

With pale arms outstretched, she sings.
Her songs are of new love,
Intertwined hearts, and lovely days.

Bare feet waltz through the grass,
Dancing with the breeze
That carries aromas of daisies and roses.

Flowers braided in her hair,
Freckles turned up to the sun,
She leaps and twirls through her peaceful haven.

She cries, she laughs, she ponders.
She basks in the sun,
Which is her constant friend.

She is the Wanderer,
The Queen of Nature,
The Dancer.

She is the Singer.
She sings in the refreshing rain,
And she sings under the rays of her friend.

And through all, she dances,
Skipping softly around
Her sea of weeds.

Her true home,
Her make-believe garden,
Her blissful sanctuary.

This poem is posted on TeenInk over here. (Please, please, PLEASE rate it!)