A Routine of Restoration
New habits, creative sparks, and brave happiness
Twin alarms go off at 4 AM: one on my husband’s phone, the other on mine. It’s a protective redundancy. He’s just started an 8-week-long, 12-hours-a-day 6-days-a-week stint at work, and we can’t afford for him to show up late.
Still, we fumble for our phones, hit the snooze buttons, and move close to one another. With his arms wrapped around me, we doze for 10 more minutes before the alarms go off again.
I get up then, turn on the lamp, and take my thyroid medication. My husband turns on the coffee pot. We return to bed for a bit, but now he’s praying and drinking his coffee while I read my Bible and Sarah Clarkson’s Reclaiming Quiet.
We don’t check our phones, except to see what Louisiana’s unpredictable weather will do today. (59 degrees today, 82 on Saturday, and unpleasantly frigid all next week.)
This is a new resolution of ours: No phones before 6 AM, and no social media—other than for work or Maribeth’s X account for news sources. Instagram is my social media Achilles heel, but I haven’t had a mindless scroll through my feed in 3 weeks now.
The difference it’s made in my life is astonishing.
After my husband leaves for work, I get a shower, dress, drink my own coffee, and do my makeup. It feels like war paint these days, a determined gesture that says “I’m as ready as I’ll be for whatever comes at me today.”
Then I sit down for an hour and write before our baby daughter, 14 months old and teething, wakes up at 7.
I haven’t had this kind of dedicated time to write in over 2 years. It’s so delicious, I’m seriously considering getting up at 4 AM even after my husband’s long shifts end. Last year I wrote here on Substack that I wouldn’t be working on a second novel anytime soon—but with this newfound time (and the absence of Instagram), my creativity has flamed back to life. I’ve written at least 800 words each morning for a story that’s begging to be born while I sip my cooling coffee and keep an eye on my stirring daughter with the baby monitor.
But now it’s 7 AM, and her sound machine plays its scheduled wakeup sound: Irish-sounding pipes, lilting and sweet. I close my laptop and hurry to the nursery, hopefully reinforcing her confidence that Mama will always come when the pipes start playing.
The days are long without my husband. 6 months ago he was a pastor in a tiny town in Mississippi with a population of 500, working from home on his sermons and Bible studies. Now, we’re back home in Louisiana, living in a two-bedroom apartment, and he works at the local nuclear plant. It’s a transitional situation, one we pray won’t last too long before he’s called back to the ministry.
But while it lasts, restoration is our goal—for him as well as for me. Restoration of all the months in that isolated town where the locusts ate away at our physical and mental health. Restoration of our peace, and our confidence in God’s goodness.
While my husband is at work, my own days are full of social media management for the church we’re attending, magazine production with Cultivating Oaks Press, and homemaking (laundry never ends, nor the dirty dishes). But I’m also making time for exercise and cleaner eating now, hopefully leading my postpartum body back into a happier, balanced state. While the baby watches (or learns, much to her displeasure, that I can’t give her all my attention 100% of the time), I do Zumba and yoga. I take her for long walks at our local park, giving her plenty of time to swing and crawl around the toddler-level play areas. And if we’re not at the park or visiting family, we’re playing at home, reading lots of board books and chasing each other on our hands and knees around the apartment.
While she naps, I read, often through audiobooks. A History of Wild Places by Shea Ernshaw (which wrecked me in ways I never expected). Go Tell the Bees That I Am Gone by Diana Gabaldon (because I can’t get enough of my precious Frasers, especially in their grandparent era). Aggressively Happy by Joy Clarkson (because I need her familiar reminders to live well in this beautiful, broken world).
I’ve devoured all of Emily Henry’s romance novels and eagerly await her newest one—a surprising turn of literary events for a girl who’s never read much “chick-lit” and found it a blessed relief after years of lore-heavy fantasy and science fiction. At night, I’ve been reading Once Persuaded, Twice Shy by Melodie Edwards, a modern retelling of Jane Austen’s Persuasion.
While I fold laundry, I rewatch Outlander and Victoria. I want to revisit my beloved Doctor Who soon. And again, Instagram is nowhere to be seen.
So for the first time in forever, my brain is steeped in story. I’m not overwhelmed by my work-from-home job, which gives me more time to do the more eternal work of loving my baby. I’m active, challenging myself physically, and more mindful of my eating habits (while still enjoying the pleasure of a sweet treat every single evening). I’m creative, channeling all my hurts and hopes into a brand-new novel.
And when my husband comes home, I am so, so happy to see him. We hug each other tightly and share a kiss (or two, or three), while our daughter, chubby face smeared with her dinner, yells with excited impatience from her high chair. She wants a kiss and a hug, too, and when her daddy bestows both upon her, she rewards him with a dimpled, toothy smile.
It’s a hard season, but there’s happiness to be found even here in this little apartment—a happiness, as Joy Clarkson writes, “that can stand tall, look life in the eye, and smile anyway”.
Now that the writing floodgates have finally opened, I really really hope to stay much more consistent with Letters from Crickhollow. My dear friend Lancia E. Smith encouraged me to pick it up again…so here I am, determined to plant my flag and defend my territory from the dastardly villain we all know by the name of—you guessed it—Imposter Syndrome.
I’m also going out on a limb and making a change, one that will challenge me to keep writing on a regular, predictable basis: I’ve added a “pledge your support” feature. I’m not charging for subscriptions just yet—I’d like to see how much interest there might be before I do that—but in this season of our lives, a little extra income would go a long way, even if just pays for a couple of coffee dates.
So if you’d like to support my writing, you can pledge your support now, but you won’t be charged until/unless I turn on paid subscriptions. If the Lord inclines your heart in that direction, I would be so grateful! And if not, no worries. You are welcome here no matter what!
A few things I’m loving lately…
“The World’s Shortest Wedding Sermon” by Ned Bustard in Cultivating’s Winter 2025 edition. My husband and I absolutely loved this piece and were so encouraged by it!
Peter Hollens’ cover of Christopher Tin’s magnificent “Sogno di Volare” (AKA “The Dream of Flight”) from the Civilization VI game.
My new Outlander crossbody purse, an early Valentine’s Day present from my precious husband!
And in case you missed it, I have a piece in Cultivating’s Winter 2025 edition: “Dear Fellow Tourists,” the story of how several kindly travelers restored my faith in the patience and compassion of older, wiser men and women.
I was so happy to see Letters from Crickhollow in my inbox today, Maribeth! I’ve been feeling a similar need to reign in the social media mindlessness, so this has encouraged me to make more of an effort to make room for the things that are most valued to me.
Absolutely delicious, Maribeth! How glad I am that you are writing again and from such a fierce depth of goodness. Blessings on your 4 am risings!