June 7
Sabbath Rhythm: From Rigid Rules to Delight for Tired Families
The pancakes were burning. I could smell it from the hallway where I was trying to help my toddler find her other shoe.
Summer · June
from a small garden south of Salt Lake
Family discipleship, honest motherhood, and the slow work of making a home, written at the kitchen table by Melissa Whitaker.
Lately on the kitchen table
read more →A note from Melissa
LDS Family Life is a publication about LDS family life, motherhood, marriage, homemaking, and practical gospel living for families who want faith at home to feel lived instead of staged. I write first-person essays on family discipleship, spiritual formation in ordinary routines, and the pressures families are trying to carry with steadiness and grace.
The sink full of mixing bowls. The garden row that finally came up. The child calling for one more glass of water. The prayer I whisper while scraping plates after dinner. Those are the things that hold a family, and they feel worth writing down before they slip past.
with love, Melissa
Essays
June 7
The pancakes were burning. I could smell it from the hallway where I was trying to help my toddler find her other shoe.
June 7
He asked me at the kitchen table, right in the middle of dinner. My teenager looked up and said, 'Mom, what if I am not sure I believe in God anymore?'
June 7
I spent three hours cleaning for a play date once. I vacuumed the living room, wiped down the baseboards, and hid the pile of mail in the pantry.
June 7
The crayon was melted into the carpet. I sat back on my heels and looked at the red smear and thought about how I had just vacuumed that spot.
June 6
I was folding laundry when my second-grader asked if Heavenly Father has a body like ours. She added, 'Sometimes I pray and I do not feel anything.'
June 6
The doorbell rang at 4:47 on a Tuesday afternoon. I stood there for a second, hand on the doorknob, and I had a choice.
June 6
The bread was burning. I could smell it from the living room, that sharp edge of heat that means the smoke alarm is about to join the conversation.
June 6
The juice box had been sitting on the kitchen counter since Tuesday. I stood there holding it, thinking about how many things I mean to get to but do not.
June 5
The toast crumbs stuck to my palm as I wiped the kitchen table. My second-grader had left glitter glue uncapped and a horse drawing under a math worksheet.
June 5
The timer on the microwave read 6:42. I had eighteen minutes to leave for mutual, and there I was on the kitchen floor with an egg timer and dried beans.
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