Merry Christmas: 30th Anniversary Edition

When Jeremy and I got married 30 years ago, we had plans. I wanted 4 kids, he wanted 2, so we compromised on 3. We have 7. We said we'd never move to Houston. We've lived here since 1999. We'd be empty nesters by 50. Our youngest launched when Jeremy turned 52—and another moved back home two months later. (It was fun while it lasted.) When we first married, Jeremy and I thought we would always have Labrador Retrievers, but we were undeniably smitten with Boxers about 14 years ago.

Although things have not gone exactly as planned, we can’t imagine our lives differently. We have been through some deep valleys over the past 30 years (which I share more about in an upcoming book), that make the mountaintops much more magnificent. We celebrated our 30^th Anniversary throughout the year – choosing to take some time for us. A weekend away that included Steven Curtis Chapman serenading us with our wedding song. A week spent in Michigan, another weekend touring Chicago, and a week in Jamaica! Michigan, Chicago and Jamaica included time with dear friends that made it that much more enjoyable.

This season, we celebrate the holidays at home in our own living room with all our kids and their spouses—the first time since 2021. A lot has changed since 2021 - they are not kids anymore. And now as young adults, we can genuinely have fun together without someone sabotaging it! For many years, we didn’t think that would ever be possible. I am truly grateful!

And for those of you interested in a quick update on all our crew…

Katerin is completing her 3^rd year at Heartlight Ministries – her love for the girls in her care, as well as traveling with friends throughout the year, keep her steady in the challenging days.

Emily and Zach moved to Tomball this past year, and Zach is working for Evermon Homes. Emily works at our favorite local restaurant, Rib Tickler, and is the 4^th Evermon to be employed by them!

Marian is enjoying life in College Station, especially with a wonderful young man, Nic. BIG NEWS: He proposed and she said yes! We feel incredibly blessed to have Nic join our family!

Wesley and Sarah entered puppy parenting this year just days after moving into their Richardson rent house. Wes officially added some new initials to his signature in November: CPA! With his new CPA status, we hope to convince him to do everyone’s taxes for free.

Omar and Savannah (daughter-in-law) got married in May, added a puppy their first week of wedded bliss, and are expecting a baby girl in April! We are SO EXCITED to become grandparents!

Saimon moved back home in November after 2 ½ years away. We are grateful to have some time with him before his next big move.

Savannah (youngest daughter) is in her freshman year at UT Austin—a dream come true on so many levels!

If things haven't gone according to plan for you, if you're carrying grief through the holidays, if it feels like things will never get better, I get it. I write about a lot of that pain in my book. I pray you can see God's hand at work and experience sweet treasures in the midst of it. May the news of His birth truly bring you comfort and joy this season.

We wish you a blessed Christmas and Happy New Year!

The Evermons

Our 30th Anniversary: An Unexpected Serenade

The conference registration email sat in my inbox for three days before I finally clicked it open. Heartlight Ministries, where our oldest daughter worked, was hosting a conference, "Parenting Adopted Teens: A Weekend of Hope and Healing." My cursor hovered over the register button. Most of our teens were adults now, scattered across different cities, building their own lives. Did we really need this?

Then I scrolled down and saw it: Special Guest: Steven Curtis Chapman - Q&A and Private Concert.

My heart did a little flip—the kind you're supposed to outgrow after your twenties but apparently never quite do. I registered us before I could overthink it.

When I casually mentioned it to Jeremy later, I tried to sound educational and growth-minded. "It could be really good for us, you know, to process some of the harder years. And we would get to see Katerin working that weekend."

He looked up from his phone, one eyebrow raised. "Uh huh. We’ve been to a lot of parent workshops the past year. So basically you just want to go to see Steven Curtis Chapman?"

I felt my face flush. "That's... that's just a bonus."

---

I asked the kids if they knew who Steven Curtis Chapman was. Blank stares all around. One of them said, "Is he that guy from the worship songs?" Close enough, I guess.

But when I was their age? Oh, we lived for those songs. Youth group trips where we'd belt out "Saddle Up Your Horses" with the windows down! Diving into swimming pools at church camp while "I'm Divin' In" blasted through cheap speakers. Those songs were the soundtrack to our becoming.

And weddings. So many weddings. If you got married in a church in the 90s, someone was singing "I Will Be Here." You could set your watch by it.

---

Despite the chilly weather, the conference center felt warm and inviting. We checked in, grabbed our name tags, and I felt that flutter again. He was here. Somewhere in this building, Steven Curtis Chapman was actually here.

The Q&A was scheduled for 4 PM. At 3:55, I slipped into the conference room, and my breath caught.

There was Jeremy. And there, standing not three feet from him, gesturing with his hands as he talked, was Steven Curtis Chapman.

They were having a conversation. An actual conversation. Like two regular humans.

Every instinct screamed at me to rush over, to be part of this moment. But I could already imagine how that would look—me, gushing and giddy, probably saying something embarrassing about youth group or crying or both. Instead, I forced my feet to carry me to a seat in the middle of the room, trying to look casual, composed, like I hadn't just registered for an entire conference primarily to be in the same room as this man.

I pulled out my phone and pretended to check messages while sneaking photos. The lighting was terrible. My hands were shaking slightly. I didn't care. I took seven pictures.

---

Later, as we walked to dinner, Jeremy was grinning.

"So," I said, trying to sound nonchalant, "you two seemed to be having quite the chat."

"I told him we had one of his songs at our wedding. Almost thirty years ago now."

"You did?" My voice came out higher than intended. "What did he say?"

"He assumed it was 'I Will Be Here.' Everyone does."

"And?"

Jeremy's grin widened. "I said, 'Actually, we went with When You Are a Soldier.'"

I matched Jeremy’s grin, "What did he say?"

"He kind of froze for a second, like he was searching his mental catalog. Then he goes, 'Wow. I haven't sung that in years. I might have to dust that one off for tonight.'"

My heart was pounding now. "What if he sang it tonight? That would be cool.” Answering my own question.

---

Jeremy got to the concert room early—not because I asked him to, but because after twenty-nine years of marriage, he knew. He saved our seats, front row, slightly left of center.

The room filled quickly. Donors and extra friends were invited to this private concert plus the twenty-five conference couples, most of them our age, many wearing the same expression I probably wore—a mix of nostalgia and anticipation and barely contained excitement. These were people who had chosen the hard road of loving teenagers who came to them through trauma and loss. These were people who knew about battle scars.

When Steven walked out with just his guitar, the room erupted. And when he started playing, something unexpected happened. Everyone sang. Not polite church singing, but full-voiced, unself-conscious, singing-in-your-car-with-the-windows-up singing. We were all teenagers again, all young adults again, all sitting in youth group rooms and wedding receptions and church camps.

I spotted his setlist on the floor near the mic stand—just a torn piece of paper with song titles scribbled in black ink. I squinted, trying to make out the words, trying to see if our song was there.

Halfway through, he played "I Will Be Here." The room swayed. Several women cried. I thought about all those weddings, all those couples making promises they hoped they could keep.

Then he paused. Set his guitar down. Looked right at us.

"I met Jeremy today," he said, and my stomach flipped. "And Jeremy and Vanessa had one of my songs sung at their wedding."

Time seemed to slow. I reached over and grabbed Jeremy's hand.

"Now, it wasn't the song you might expect," Steven continued, a smile in his voice. "And I'll be honest, I had to go back in the archives for this one."

He sat down at the keyboard, adjusted the mic, and began to play.

The first notes hit me like a wave. Our song. The one we'd chosen because it wasn't about romance or butterflies or easy promises. It was about showing up, about staying in the trenches, about being a soldier for the person you loved.

He was singing it to us. 

For us. 

Steven Curtis Chapman was serenading us with our wedding song, 

nearly thirty years later.

I felt tears streaming down my face and didn't care. Jeremy stood up and pulled me up for a hug…or slow dance…but then we retreated to our seats. Around us, the room had gone quiet—everyone understanding they were witnessing something sacred, something unrepeatable.

When he finished, the room exploded in applause. Steven looked at us and smiled—not a performance smile, but a real one, warm and knowing.

"That's a good one," he said. "Thanks for reminding me."

---

Later that night, lying in our hotel room, I kept replaying it in my mind.

"That was the most unexpected gift," I whispered to Jeremy in the dark.

"Yeah," he said. "It really was."

I thought about gifts like that—the ones you never see coming, the ones that reach into your chest and rearrange something fundamental. Have you ever received something like that? Not expensive, but expensive—the kind of gift that costs someone their time, their attention, their willingness to step outside the script and say, "I see you"?

That's what it felt like. Being seen. Being honored. Being loved by someone who didn't have to love us, who could have just performed his set and called it a night.

And those lyrics—about being a soldier, about the battlefield of loving people through their hardest moments. If you've raised teens, especially teens who came to you carrying wounds you didn't inflict but are trying to help heal, you know about minefields. You know about never quite knowing when something might explode. You know about the trenches.

Maybe that's why that song hit differently all those years ago. And maybe that's why it hits differently now. Because we're still in it. Still showing up. Still choosing to be soldiers for the people we love most.

Still being here. Thirty years later.

December 16, 1995

 

The Bread Bandit

Hiccup loves bread with a devotion that borders on obsession. Now and then I catch him on patrol—his nails clicking purposefully against the tile as he makes his rounds through the kitchen and pantry. His head cranes upward, neck stretched taut, nose twitching as he inventories the countertops and island with the focused intensity of a jewel thief casing a mansion. Those dark, intelligent eyes sweep across every surface, cataloging what prizes might wait unattended.

He's memorized the arsenal. He knows exactly what the orange and clear packaging looks like for King's Hawaiian Original Sweet Rolls—that bright, unmistakable beacon of golden, pillowy sweetness. He knows that Sister Schubert's Rolls come in a metal tin and clear package with green print, and he can identify the metallic glint from across the room. He can spot any loaf of bread in any packaging if it's left out on a countertop or even placed in the pantry but not high enough in the breadbasket. White bread. Wheat. Sourdough. It doesn't matter. If it contains carbohydrates and yeast, Hiccup has logged it in his mental database. 

Last summer he stole the last of Salty Bee's Cookie Cake while we were at church. The white box centered on the kitchen table, with the kitchen chairs placed like guards, was not enough to keep him out. 

Last night he discovered what’s inside the square cardboard box with black print….pizza.

The last time Savannah took him to the vet for his checkup, she texted me asking what food Hiccup eats, as Dr. Cate always asks what his current dog food is. I answered, "bread" because the boy is naughty. He loves bread with a kind of passion that makes him willing to risk it all.

When someone forgets to put the bread up high enough where he can't get to it—or if in a hurry we leave it out on the island, still warm from the grocery store—Hiccup capitalizes on the opportunity with the efficiency of a seasoned operative. I am sure if he knew how to dispose of the evidence he would try to hide it, maybe bury the packaging in the backyard or slide it behind the couch. But because he is a dog and he doesn't possess opposable thumbs or understand the concept of garbage disposal, we always find the evidence. We find shredded plastic bags torn into ribbons, cardboard mutilated beyond recognition, or metal tins scattered across the kennel floor like the aftermath of a minor explosion. Sometimes there are teeth marks punctured through the packaging. Other times, the bags look like they've been through a paper shredder, reduced to confetti-sized pieces that cling to the blankets with static.

We know Hiccup is not the only guilty one. He is the one to pull it nonchalantly from the countertop—standing on his hind legs, stretching every vertebra in his spine, hooking the package with one careful paw and dragging it toward the edge until gravity does the rest. But once it gets to the kennel, once the prize has been secured and the plastic ripped open to reveal the soft, fragrant treasures inside, Cocoa enjoys the winnings along with him. How do we know? She looks just as guilty when we arrive home. She may hide in the back corner of the kennel, pressed against the metal bars as if trying to phase through them, or perched on the couch with her body coiled so tight she's practically vibrating. She won't move from her curled up position, won't uncurl even slightly. Her gaze will be set on some other place in the room—the wall, the window, anywhere but our faces—with a quick side-eye glance toward us to gauge the look on our faces, to measure the magnitude of the disappointment. Her nose is always tilted downward, tucked almost between her paws, and she will continue to look away and glance back and forth until it becomes unbearable for her to sit through the guilt. Her ears flatten against her skull. Sometimes she trembles slightly, not from cold but from the sheer weight of her conscience.

Hiccup shows some guilt but not an ounce of remorse. His response is often one of making sure we still love him even though he is naughty, as if his charm and affection might somehow rewind time or erase the crime scene in the kennel.

He approaches with the knob of his tail wagging low and hesitant, head dipped but eyes bright, and seeks to give and receive affection. He leans his warm body against my legs, pressing his weight into me, pretending the shredded bread packaging is completely invisible in his kennel, as if by ignoring it he can will it out of existence. He'll lick my hand, nuzzle under my palm, his fur soft and his breath—predictably—smelling like Hawaiian rolls.

They are supposed to be on a diet. I carefully portion out their daily scoops of dog food with the precision of a pharmacist, measuring exact amounts, and monitor who eats what and at what time of the day. I keep schedules. But the whole plan crumbles into uselessness when bread gets left out. All my careful calculations dissolve the moment Hiccup spots that orange package on the counter, and I'm left standing in the kitchen, holding empty plastic shreds in my hands, wondering how a dog can look so innocent while being so thoroughly, unrepentantly guilty.

Happy Homecoming 9.17.25

 

It felt much like Christmas morning, although the Texas heat in mid-September certainly confirmed otherwise. The air conditioning blasted in Big Blue as we pulled into our driveway, our new family of 9 finally arriving home after 5 weeks in Colombia completing our adoption. Jeremy excitedly fumbled with the keys, finding the house key as he’d done countless times before, yet now they would unlock a completely different life.

The anticipation had been building during the entire car ride home. Nervous energy filled the van as excited chatter mixed with moments of quiet disbelief. After weeks of paperwork, emotional intensity, and short nights, we were somehow more awake than we'd ever been.

Welcome signs and décor had been thoughtfully placed by dear friends while we were gone—balloons tied to kitchen chairs, handwritten notes taped to the refrigerator, and we would later discover favorite snacks mysteriously stocked in our pantry and cold drinks waiting in the frig.

We opened the door to the house, and a whole new world of possibilities. The sound of feet on tiled floors filled rooms that had been silent for weeks as the kids ran from room to room with cheerful exclamations. Each child's personality emerged in how they claimed their space—one methodical and careful, another impulsive and joyful, someone else hesitant but hopeful. They opened drawers to find new clothes, pulled out toys and bikes and balls in the yard.

Despite the September heat promising that our actual Christmas was still months away, this moment held all the magic of any December morning—the wonder, the gifts, the sense that everything had changed overnight.

We had not yet entered public school, and the kids were not quite in high school yet, but this was Homecoming. No mum exchanges or homecoming proposals yet. Just a new family, new beginning, where each of us would be presented the question daily, hanging unspoken in the air over breakfast tables and during bedtime routines, whispered in quiet car rides and shouted in moments of joy: "Will you be mine?"

"Will you be my daughter, my son?" "Will you be my mom, my dad?" "Will you be my sister, my brother?"

Each answer would be "Yes.” Sometimes whispered tentatively, sometimes declared with confidence, sometimes offered wordlessly through a shared laugh or comfort during tears. But the Yes would take time to settle, evolving from daily uncertainty to assumed belonging. We would take time to build, to trust, to grow, learning each other's rhythms and creating traditions that would stick.

And that growth would not always be linear and lovely. Some of it would be hard fought—navigating language barriers, cultural adjustments, and simply the beautiful exhaustion of nine people learning to move as one family. There would be moments when the question felt too heavy, when vulnerability showed in everyone's eyes, when the Texas storms outside matched the ones we weathered within these walls.

But every small victory built our foundation stronger—every shared meal, every crisis weathered together, every morning we chose each other again. On this different Texas Homecoming, we were laying groundwork that could withstand whatever storms would come.

Every bit of it was worth it. Every single bit.

What you can do for DMD

 

A Mother's Journey: Why Your Gift Matters This Labor Day

Three of my friends are navigating life with their sons diagnosed with Duchenne muscular dystrophy (DMD). THREE OF MY FRIENDS. Duchenne is a devastating muscle disease that causes loss of mobility, feeding oneself, breathing independently and eventually heart failure. As someone who has watched from the sidelines, I thought I understood their journeys. I was wrong.

In an attempt to honor what they carry daily—the weight that others rarely see—I wrote what I believed captured the experience of a mother navigating this diagnosis. When I shared those 600 words with one of them, asking for her thoughts, she returned them transformed into nearly 1,600 words. What she gave back wasn't just an edit; it was a window into a reality I could never have imagined on my own.

The Power of Research, The Need for Hope

If you grew up watching television, you likely remember Jerry Lewis and the MDA Labor Day Telethon—a tradition that spanned four decades and raised millions for muscular dystrophy research. But as the telethon faded from our screens over the past 15 years, so did much of the public awareness and funding that fueled critical research.

One mom didn't accept this decline quietly. In 2018, she began something powerful: she started praying specifically for researchers. Not just for a cure, not just for her son, but for the brilliant minds working tirelessly in laboratories, seeking breakthroughs that could change everything.

Today, her prayers are being answered in ways that seemed impossible just a few years ago. Her son is now participating in a drug trial that is making a noticeable positive impact. This isn't just hope—it's tangible progress happening right now.

Your Role in This Story

This Labor Day, I'm asking you to invest in the important work happening today: research that transforms lives. Behind every research grant, every clinical trial, every late night in a lab, there are real children and families whose futures hang in the balance.

My friend's prayers are for researchers, who need your support. The momentum building in Duchenne research needs your investment. You must partner with us to make hope a reality. CureDuchenne.org supports new research, early detection, and access to treatment.

Donate today at CureDuchenne.org

Learning to Water Ski

 

Bobbing in the water with the shoulders of my orange life jacket pushed up against the orange glow of my sun burnt cheeks, my dad’s voice came over my freckled shoulder as he told me to get the ski rope. I stretched out my hand as far as I could to try and grab the rope before it was out of reach, and my fingers clasped around the rubber handle just in time. I felt the tension of the rope tugging me sideways, and the tightly slotted rubber bindings on the skis nearly coming off my feet as the resistance of the water pushed against the top of the skis. At age 9, I was developing some new strength as I tried to circle my legs in front of me with one hand on the ski rope. Tucking my knees up to my chest, I finally could hold the rubber handle with both hands while my dad helped me keep the ski tips pointed to the sky.

“Take out the slack!” he hollered from behind me, but this message was not meant for me. My mom was at the wheel of the boat. We didn’t have a speed boat made for water sports. Just a bass fishing boat with an Evinrude 85 horsepower motor to draw us kids out of the water on youth size wooden water skis.

That motor had enough power to pull my mom or dad up when they would take a turn to ski. Dad would even slalom occasionally, inspiring us youngsters with his feat. We thought he was pretty amazing to get up on one ski and he may have thought so too.

Some say I take after my dad

Mom pushed the gear forward gently to pull the slack out of the rope between the boat and my rubber handle. I could feel myself moving forward, skis beginning to point any direction other than up to the sky, and my dad holding on to me. He somehow continued to help hold the skis steady pointed upward and mom called out from the boat, “Ready?” 

Dad calmly repeated the question in my ear, “You ready?” And I nervously nodded and answered, “Uh huh.” 

Dad yelled “Ready!” back at mom and she quickly pushed the gear full throttle. My arms stayed straight in front of me, clutching the rubber handle as water splashed in my face for what seemed like a full minute. I tightened my grip and bossed my legs and back to gain balance as the boat lifted me upward. I fumbled with more pressure on my left ski and feeling as if I was about to take a nosedive, I quickly and clumsily corrected and put more pressure on my right. There was a battle for balance going on between my left leg, right leg, back and arms as I fought to keep my skis in front of me and hold my breath amidst the unending splash. 

At last, I slipped, and my feet ripped out of the rubber bindings, sending my skis one direction and my body another. As soon as my head popped out of the water, I blew water out of my nose. I looked around for signs of the wooden skis as mom circled the boat and headed back to me. She could easily spot me as the orange life jacket was more shoulders than my head on the top of the water.

Dad captured one ski trying to escape and I managed to grab the tip of the other one just as my mom called from the boat, “Grab the rope!” I swung my head around to look for the camouflaged rope gliding across the water like a long, thin snake and took a few one-armed strokes to get a hold of it before the rubber handle passed me by.

“You want to try again?” my dad asked as he got close enough to help me manage the rope and skis. He floated near me ready to insert each foot in the bindings again. 

I answered, “Uh huh” and he tightened the slotted bindings around my heels. We worked to get in position again, struggling to balance the ski tips and rope and life jacket pushed up to my ears by this time. Mom took out the slack and dad helped hold the ski tips skyward as he hugged me from behind.

“Ready?” mom asked as she held her hand over her brow to try and see us with the sun behind us illuminating the water around us. 

This time I bravely called out, “Ready!” and within a second, I was battling for balance again, eyes sealed shut and breath held in the spray of water on my face. Holding on with all my strength, I felt like I was sitting on an imaginary chair that would collapse at any second. I finally started to straighten my back and keep my skis straight too. I was up. I was skiing. 

Cheers from my dad and cheers from the boat filled my senses as my life jacket slowly worked itself downward, resting on my shoulders and around my waist. We headed away from the sun and I could feel the warmth of it on my skin. I don’t know what was stronger in that moment…the rush of the wind or the rush of my accomplishment.

Dad and my brother behind the Evinrude

Like that day in the lake, my dad has been a steady force in my life many times since then. When I was nearly 16 my great grandfather died and the funeral was a two-day drive from home. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to deal with the pressure of assignments, missing instruction, and I didn’t know how to deal with loss. Dad came to my room and told me I needed to go. His instruction was direct, yet he showed understanding in how I was feeling. He taught me in that moment the importance of being present for others who are grieving and honoring a loved one.

My great grandfather, Papa Amis

A couple of years later it was time for college. “You ready?” Dad asked as he put the last of my bags in the car. We started the 14-hour drive, full of excitement for all that was ahead. Mom and dad helped get my dorm room unpacked, which didn’t take long with the little space I had in the 3-person room. Like that day in the water, when dad tightened the rubber bindings on my heels and helped hold the ski tips skyward, dad gave me what I needed and pointed my hopes and dreams to the sky.

Sitting at my desk in my dorm

In front of the dorm

Nearly 20 years into my marriage and 7 kids later, I had felt the cheers of my family many times over. There was a lot to celebrate between the day we unpacked my freshman dorm and the day we unpacked from our adoption trip to Colombia, adding 4 kids to the 3 that already called me mom. The warmth of my family's support has been like the warmth of the sun on my skin as I glided across the lake on those wooden skis that day I learned to ski.

Coming home from Colombia

As a parent, I sometimes felt like that little 9-year-old girl learning to water ski. Some days, caring for the ones God entrusted to me were much like clumsily battling for balance on those small wooden skis. I tried one thing and then overcorrected only to find myself underwater ripped from the tight rubber bindings. As the size of our family increased, the needs increased overwhelmingly. Like reaching for that ski rope, I often stretched out my hand, desperately grasping for the support we needed before it was too late. 

Now in my 50s, I have developed new strength with the help of a lot of people in the water with us throughout the years, but I can’t help thinking about that day my dad was in the lake with me. Sometimes during our darkest moments, dad has been nearby helping us manage the skis and rope of our lives. When I have felt hopeless or helpless, his presence speaks, “You want to try again?” Whether I feel like I am holding on with all my strength or holding my breath, he is there behind me, keeping my ski tips pointed to the sky.

A day on the lake wore me out

Dad and my older brother

Dad and my little brother

Dad and my sister and brother skiing

Boat upgrade

Dad and his first grandson

My dad

Last Year at Pine Cove

At camp, while kids were in their programming with their counselors, parents had some free time. Oftentimes, we would find ourselves on a cabin porch just talking with other parents. These spontaneous porch conversations were a highlight of the week every year. We didn't schedule them or need a notification to remind us, they just happened as we were unplugged from work, phones, and other tasks that would normally steal our time if at home. In 2021, I remember one porch talk about how we only had 3 more years of Pine Cove and I already felt sad about it. Interestingly by the time we entered camp for the last time in 2024, I had gone through much harder things to be sad about that I wasn’t sad about camp at all. 

I thought I would shed more tears with this goodbye, and sink into a depressed, "Now what?" But surprisingly I feel more joy and gratitude than any sadness.

One of the best decisions we made the last 3 years we went to camp was to invite our adult kids to join for at least part of the week. Our oldest son was working at camp already and the other kids that could make it, joined in the fun when they could - we included Wesley's soon-to-be fiance in 2023. She didn't know she rode in the same vehicle as her engagement ring on the way to camp! 

Our last year at camp, our two high schoolers were not able to be there. That was something we never anticipated and the things that prevented them from being at camp were the source of my deepest pain. Instead of canceling our registration, we decided to go even if it was just the two of us. We wanted to enjoy it one last time and say goodbye to friends and counselors we had grown up with the past 13 years.

Have I mentioned that getting to know the counselors was one of my favorite parts of camp? Many counselors would work at Pine Cove several summers while in college, so we would get to hear updates about their lives, relationships, and dreams when we reconnected each summer. We have had the opportunity to welcome some of these college students for dinner or an overnight stay, or even an internship with our company.

My favorite Pine Cove Counselor was our son, "Sledge of Allegiance." 

From our first year at Pine Cove, Wesley set his sights on becoming a Pine Cove counselor. Right after he graduated high school, he worked at camp as a Counselor in Training (CIT), and he went back to camp every summer until he graduated college. Sledge was a leader before he was on the leadership team. The last summer before he graduated college, he felt the pressure to do an internship instead of working at Pine Cove. He consulted with several people before making his decision and asked what we thought. We told him he has the rest of his life to work a real job. The families he served 10 weeks each summer would provide him more than enough recommendations as they witnessed his work ethic, passion and charisma. He had no problem securing a job after graduation, and he didn't even have to rely on his Pine Cove network.

He's the funniest accountant I know

Last time at Pine Cove 

2024 - drive to Pine Cove never looked like this before

Our 24-year-old daughter, Marian, came for the whole week. We had Katerin, Wes and his wife, Sarah, for part of the week too. Experiencing camp with our adult kids didn't take away the grief of missing our two youngest, but it was comforting to do family favorites again together -- Sundaes on Sunday, Banana boating, Sunset Cruise, Adult Pool Party, Banquet Night, games in the Summit, Breakfast Trail Ride, Water Aerobics, Impact Dance, and Family Devo. If you go to Pine Cove and have adult kids, I highly recommend inviting them back before your last time at camp!

Banana Boating

The Final Act

Favorite Holiday

Impact Dance

Breakfast Trailride

Water Aerobics

Games in the Summit

       

What was so fun about having our adult kids come back was that they appreciated our time together more and didn’t have the attitudes they once had as teenagers. We got to do all the fun things without the attitude! Speaking of attitude, one of the most awkward times at camp was that first year during Rite Night. 

Rite Night

Pine Cove has an evening where they set aside time for parents and their teens to connect. It alternates every three years between dad with daughters and mom with sons, mom with daughters and dad with sons, and then both parents with all the teens. Our first year, Rite Night was with dad and daughters so Jeremy had all three teenage girls for the activity. And they were not having it…well at least not our Colombian daughters. Part of their time together was a Dad and Daughter Dance. Marian and Katerin were like, “No.” You didn’t have to speak Spanish to understand that! Meanwhile, Emily was eating it up. She was 14 and had just experienced the past 10 months of sharing mom and dad with her new siblings and not getting as much attention that she was accustomed to. She took her dance with dad and Katerin’s and Marian’s dance too. They were happy to pass!

2016 went much better than 2013

Although we didn't participate in Rite Night our last year at camp, Marian and Katerin had lots of time with just mom and dad. No awkwardness. No attitude. Just enjoying our time and creating new memories. One thing I am learning as my kids are all young adults is that if we messed up or missed opportunities before they turned 18 and were living at home, it's not too late to offer connection and build better relationships now. We have the rest of our lives to work on attachment - it isn't constrained to only the first 18 years of their lives. 

 

I don’t know of any other place that welcomes you with jumping and cheering like opening day at Pine Cove. Maybe when the kids were little and you came home from work to excited little toddlers greeting you at the door could be a close second. The difference is that when the jumping stops, the Pine Cove counselors serve you all week and toddlers don’t.  Pine Cove Family Camp will always be one of my favorite places in the world and I will miss it. 

I got to take a break from many of my mom roles while at camp - meal planner, cook, activities director, referee - the load these roles brought was shared with other counselors pouring into my kids and me. I felt cared for. I felt loved. I got a little rest from carrying it alone. A lot of years, camp felt like a safe landing place, and sometimes it felt like we glided into the week with both wings on fire. The nourishment I received at camp helped sustain me the other 51 weeks of the year.

Family Devo 2017

I don’t think we would have ever gone if it had not been gifted to us and to that family, I am forever grateful. Pine Cove was not just a highlight of our summer, but a place where our family could connect and enjoy each other. It helped shape our family time. It showed my kids what is most important - we belong to a God who is loving, kind, good, and so much fun.

2016