Just a few weeks ago I was writing about sacred stops, the need for quietness of soul and the blessing of a restful summer, but in a matter of weeks, I found myself stressed, burdened, noise blaring in my ears.

Life happened. Husband went back to work, the mornings I had to myself were gone, I stayed up late, the kids woke up early. It seemed to come out of nowhere, the same old feelings of hopelessness and despair, but the truth is it grew in soil fertilised by worry, media, frenzied living. These things are my “noise.”

Noise looks different for everyone. Yours might be literal: Television, cars, music, too many people talking. For me it is often the noise that isn’t making a sound: Words on a screen, thought patterns in my mind, how I use my time.

Two nights ago I went to sleep desperate for a quiet mind, a still soul, and I prayed, God, wake me up at 4am tomorrow. It’s the only way I can get even a tiny amount of time to myself. I woke at 3:40am to the sound of my two sons talking to each other. Big Boy woke up to use the potty, and Little Bear woke up in the process. By the time I helped one with the toilet and put them both back to sleep, I looked at the time: 3:58am.

So there was my answer. I made my way downstairs, and into the arms of our IKEA love seat, the pages of my journal, and the words came out. I’m tired. I’m anxious. I’m stressed. 

It doesn’t matter what the words are. It matters that they come out. That we see ourselves for who we are. That we regard our condition. That we don’t lie to ourselves, to the people in our lives. I poured my heart out to God, I read the Bible, I swished coconut oil around in my mouth. These are the ways I tell myself, I love you, I care about you, you matter. The kids were still asleep at 6am, so I kept going. I made breakfast, unloaded the dishwasher, and then in an act of extreme faith, I took a shower. I washed my hair, changed my clothes and I even dried my hair. I’m not kidding when I say that it’s the first time since our second son was born that I washed and dried my hair on a weekday.

Finally around 7am, Little Bear woke up (formerly known as our Baby). I had three blissful hours of quiet, and it was a gift to my soul. It did not come in the package of three days in a hotel. I had to fight for it. But it was sweet. And necessary.

There’s a lot of noise in the world, friends. What’s yours? How is it making day-to-day life unbearable? Isn’t it time you made it stop? 

I’m trying to keep the computer off, less time on my phone, less time social media gazing, less time running from here to there. More time encouraging. More time creating. More time playing. More time here, where I am, soaking up my now.

I suspect it might involve more wake ups at 4am.

pancake 3

I’m guest posting today at my friend Christy’s blog, Lane Letters. We met several years ago, on the same day that I met Husband, and there are lots travel memories associated with our friendship, warm drinks in Geneva, midnight train rides in Ukraine, airport pick ups in Australia and hopefully many more to come in the future. I’ve started the post here, but click over to read the rest at Christy’s blog, and then grab a drink and look around her site for some great tips on travel and perspectives on living abroad.
I bought maple syrup for pancakes on Saturday, Husband says to me with pride as he opens the first big bag of groceries from the store. He was in Stockholm the week before unpacking our things so that when the boys and I arrived on Saturday afternoon, we wouldn’t need to hunt for baby clothes in boxes or wonder where the pans were. Husband went to work on Monday, and on the weekend he filled our fridge with plenty of frozen pizzas and our pantry with all of the ingredients for pancakes.

Because Saturday morning is pancake morning in our house, and it didn’t matter that we had just moved, that we didn’t know the Swedish words for butter, flour or milk, come Saturday morning we were going to have pancakes.

Creating and maintaining traditions is one of the best ways I know to keep myself and my family stable as we go through multiple overseas moves. We are a multicultural family – I am Sri Lankan born, raised in the Philippines and the United States, but an Australian passport holder (as are our children) after moving there as an adult. My husband is German, and we’ve raised our children so far in Switzerland and Sweden. In the absence of a culture or nationality that we all have in common, there is an even greater need for us to maintain a family culture and identity.

Traditions are the markers in a day, the week, the month and year that hold us secure and remind us of our family identity, what we value, who matters most to us and what our lives are about. CLICK HERE TO READ THE REST HERE


confessions graphic FINAL


There are people who say that motherhood is a profession, worthy of your time, your life, your all. You’re sitting at their kitchen tables, they throw out words like “high calling” while spoonfeeding their babies, I make my baby food from scratch, she says, and this seed takes root in your heart.

There is only one way to be a mother.

It looks like staying at home full time, breastfeeding, giving birth with no epidural, making your own baby food, delighting in playdates, meal plans, a clean and orderly home. It was God’s plan, they said, This is what it means to be a godly woman, wife and mother. You do it, you do all of it (except for the clean home part). No epidural, check. Breastfeeding, check. Staying at home full time, check. Making your own babyfood, play dates, meal plans, check, check, check.

You drive yourself hard, you push your husband and kids to perform. Everything needs to fit into this box where we look like The Ideal Christian Family to everyone around us, except there is no audience, you live on a continent that doesn’t know about The Ideal Christian Family enough to care, your audience is two oceans away happily living their life never knowing that you were on the other end of the world needing applause.

But something inside of you is dying, and you know it when the exhaustion starts to cripple you, and not because there are children waking in the night. You are breaking down because you cannot possibly live up to your own expectations, you feel daily like you are failing, and you know when you look in their eyes: Your husband feels like he’s failing, your children feel like they are failing.

Something inside of you is struggling for air, and you know it every time you pick up a book or put your pen to paper, there is an unspeakable mystery calling your name, begging you to listen, pleading with you to take notice. But you won’t do it, you can’t do it.

You can’t give up this dream, you’re so determined to be a good mother.


They sit with you in coffee shops sipping teas, cafe au laits and chai lattes and munching on chocolate croissants, babies bouncing on your knees holding their Sophie the Giraffes, drool pouring down your hands, and you’re talking about how much your lives changed. Most of them are back at work, their babies loving creche and eating three-course meals for lunch, everyone is still exhausted – as are you – but content with the pace of their lives. Eventually you move to Sweden where less than five percent of parents stay at home with children over 1.5-years and almost all kids over two are in state-funded dagis (daycare/preschool).

I need a space for myself, the woman tells you at the Oppna Forskola one Friday morning. You’re both feeding your one-year-olds, and in between bites of waffle fries, she tells you she loves her maternity leave and her time with her son is precious, and goes on to say that she will be back at work in September. He seems too young to be left in dagis, but I need to know that I’m doing something for myself, she says.

You nod and smile mechanically, and don’t dwell too long on the thoughts scanning through your brain, How incredibly selfish. This isn’t about doing something for yourself. It’s about the children. But you can’t ignore what’s cramping inside. You wish you could give yourself the same freedom. You wish you could do something for yourself.

You’re deeply unhappy but unwilling to see it because happiness is not a virtue of godly people.


So you find another group of people, these ones are mostly online, and they are preaching a message that sounds good. You have gifts, talents, abilities, the world needs what you have to give. Figure out with your spouse how to divide labor, so that you have time to do what you’re called to do. It’s not just about the future, it’s about living your purpose and living out of your passion NOW. Yes it may be messy, it may be hard, but it can be done, and it’s worth it.

You watch a video of woman talking about how to balance motherhood, calling and family life; she stayed at home for a while until she found her passions. But now she’s written a book, speaks, and she says she and her husband share homeschooling duties and trade off on office times. They lead a non-profit together. I used to have a clean home, she says, but I didn’t have a voice. 

And you look around your messy home and wonder if you can have a messy home and still not have a voice. Do these North American dichotomies somehow apply to you, and how does it work when your husband is a businessman who loves his work and you love that he loves his work?

But you try anyway. It sounds good, you admire them, you are grateful for them and for their place in your life. You try to find the time to live out your calling, and a nap time gets interrupted. You try to start something in a new city, and you can’t figure out the culture. Your husband gets up at night with your kids, does almost everything you do at home, and is unceasingly gracious about it all, but he still works full time in middle management. And you have no desire to divide labor equally.

Because as much as there are longings in your heart, you can’t ignore one simple fact: You are loving your time with your children. Yes, the dirty work is no fun, but the relationship building, the conversations, the cuddles. You don’t want it to end. Ever. You want to soak it all up. You can’t get enough of it. The days slip by one by one, they are growing, changing, you are growing and changing, you have no desire for it to slow down even as you desire to write more, to let your voice and story be heard.

Even as the drum beats in your heart for Gaza, Ukraine, Syria and Australia, even though there are words that long to escape your fingers and fly into the world, you are intoxicated by the chubby fingers eating strawberries straight from the bushes and giggling with a toddler while wading deep into sea water still seems like the best way to spend the afternoon.


So this is where you find yourself – you’re not mom enough for the Godly Wife crowd, you’re not success-oriented enough for the Work Crowd, you’re not calling enough for the Live Out Your Calling people, but you’re trying to fit with all of them, keeping an orderly life, enjoying the kids and making pinteresting crafts while carving out time to write and read and think, exhausting yourself at both ends and coming up empty on all accounts, unable to enjoy any of it.

It’s this feeling of failure that is so deep, eating slowly away at the core of who you are because nothing it finds there is good enough.

You sit down with your kids for a meal, and what you hear is, It’s not healthy enough. You failed. You haven’t been reading to them enough. You failed. You lost your temper. You failed.

Nap time starts and you sit down to write, and what you hear is, You haven’t been writing enough. You failed. You haven’t been stewarding your words. You failed. You don’t have enough readers. You failed.

The yoke around your jaw is heavy, its eating into your mouth, disabling your ability to speak, and for a long time, you do nothing at all.


He finds you where you are, bends down and eases the yoke off your jaw and anoints your head with oil. There is a quiet whisper. Most of the time, you’re too busy to hear it, but there are a few silent evenings, moments gathered when its shocking truthfulness is there in simplicity, freedom and grace.

You belong to me.

You’re not a mother or a writer, a woman or a wife, stay at home or work at home or work outside the home.

You are mine.

Women and men will try to pull you into their way of life, their books line your shelves, the blog posts and status updates echo in your mind, offering a list of ways to become something, to be part of the group, to perform for an audience who will applaud or boo; their way always involves an audience.

I offer you something else – belonging. A green pasture and still waters, a place where you can rest your head, where I will gently lead you through dark valleys and up high mountains. There won’t be a list of right and a list of wrong, only my voice, my Word, my presence, and only a living in that place of belonging where you can hear my words. And live.

You want a prescription, I’m sorry I have none. It’s going to look different for you than it will for another woman. I offer you no opportunity to feel better about yourself than anyone else. My ways afford no time and space for you to look down on others. It’s an invitation that I offer you – to belong, to live as Mine, to lay down and rest in this green pasture, and to enjoy those who are in it with you because my pastures stretch on forever. There is room for everyone.

So come. Come, daughter. Come and rest. 

This post is part of a series called Confessions of a New Mum. To find out more including how you can contribute a guest confession, please start here.

confessions graphic FINALI wrote for 31 Days last October, the series was called “Notes to a New Mum.” When I started writing, I had no idea where each post would go or how it would turn out, but I wrote anyway and the result was easily the most fulfilling period of writing in my life. The work of writing ministered to me, helped me close a chapter in my life and allowed me to honestly and truthfully look at my life.

As the series went on, it seemed less and less like notes and more and more like confessions. Stories of the tough times, stories of growth, stories of change, stories of beauty. But each piece like a confession, me sitting down and telling the truth. I’ve decided to re-name the series and bring it back because the truth is, I am a new mum. I will always be. Every stage of motherhood will have a new learning curve, a new set of experiences, and in some ways a “new” version of my children. I will always be a new mum, and I like that.

So this is for you, too, friend. You who have had kids for decades – you are welcome here, to remember each stage of life with them and to face your adult kids as a new mum. Your experiences and memories are welcome here, too. You who cradle a newborn in your arms and rub sleep from your eyes, you are welcome here with the new ways the landscape of your heart shifts and changes. You who chase toddlers and mediate sword fights and drink tea with princesses, you’re welcome here with your bandaids and craft kitYou who catch the eye rolls of teenagers and pray for safety while driving to football practice and the mall, you’re welcome here. It’s for you, too, Dad, a chance to understand your mate better as you parent your kids together.

You are all welcome here to listen. To learn. To grow. To celebrate. To grieve. To speak truthfully. To search for beauty. To confess.

Check back in on Wednesday for the first post as I start writing again. I would also love to open this series up for guest posts. Two of my dear friends wrote for this space last year, Hannah and Amy, you can read their posts if you want to get a sense for the “tone” that this series takes. Also please read through the 31 Days posts as well. Submissions should be no longer than 1,000 words, but can be much shorter if you prefer, please send them to mydailybreadandbutter@gmail.com.
I am also so thankful for Melissa, The FauxMartha who redid my logo for this series for me.

dry rub

It’s been raining and a crisp 22 C/72 F here in Stockholm, summer is fading away from us, and it won’t be long before the leaves start changing colour, and I’m wearing rain boots every single day. What is it about the summer freedom that makes table time so much fun? Perhaps it’s lighter food, the kind you can pick up with your fingers, the way everything seems crunchier and not because it’s a potato chip out of a crackling bag. It’s the pop of a sugar snap pea bending in your hand, the splash of juice against your face when the knife slices watermelon, the corn that gets stuck between teeth as you sink into the cob for each bit.

Ribs have been our summer food this year. I can’t remember now how many racks we’ve roasted or eaten with others. Many. It helps that both the boys love it, and I love the silent chewing that ensues when loaded plates are first put down in front of them.

sunday lunch

We had ribs several weeks ago at a friend’s house, and I licked my fingers and hands and tried to keep myself from eating my Baby’s food, easily the best ribs I’ve ever eaten. Perfectly cooked, flavoured and salted, not dripping with sauce or overwhelming but sticky enough to require a napkin. I had to find out how she did it. It was a dry rub, something I’m sure many of you have already tried, but I had never done. She gave me a list of her ingredients, and I played around and found a mix that work for me. These aren’t as amazing as hers, but as always, it’s an easy recipe, makes for a great family meal, and with a few weeks left of summery weather, perhaps it would suit your weekend table as well?



Dry Rub for Ribs

Inspired by Wilma

We ate these ribs with roasted potatoes with garlic, roasted asparagus and a rocket and baked nectarine salad. The salad was sweet and sour (with a lot of balsamic vinegar), the asparagus and potatoes suitably salty and the ribs a bit sweet, spicy and savoury. A wonderful combination. 

2 TBSP dark brown sugar
1 tsp oregano
1 tsp smoked paprika
1 tsp cumin
1/2 tsp coriander
2 tsp sea salt

1. Mix all the ingredients together and store in a cool, dry place. You can use immediately or use some and store some, which is what I did. This should be enough for four baby back ribs.

2. To cook: I chopped five cloves of garlic for two baby back ribs and rubbed it into the meat and then rubbed the dry rub in.

3. Preheat oven to 140C /280F and once ready, put the ribs in (I put foil over my baking tray first for easier clean up at the end) and bake for two-and-a-half hours. You can also shorten the cooking time in the oven and put it on the barbecue for a smokier finish. My friend bastes with barbecue sauce, but I skipped that step for a bit less of the fiddle-with-the-oven time (Baby underfoot).