WORTHY HOME

Sometimes Growth Looks Like a Chicken Coop

If you had told my younger self that one day I would be the proud owner of a chicken coop and ten hens… I might have laughed… or cried. Birds have never really been my thing!

But here we are.
Two kids. Two dogs. Ten chickens. In Texas.

Growing up, my parents (God bless ’em) – two adventurous executives from Silicon Valley – made the wild decision to move our family to a 35-acre property in a small town on the Oregon Coast. Their dream was to give my older brother and I a better life — more freedom, more friends, and more fun.

Even now, I still have dreams about that house.
Not only was it on 35 acres, but it was an incredible former Monastery, complete with a 9,000 square-foot barn and a little hen house nestled across from it.
It was a magical place for us to grow up, and my friends and I made some of our best memories there.

Shortly after we moved, my parents decided it would be a good idea to order thirty chickens.
I remember flipping through little catalogs, my brother and I picking out our favorite breeds.

And yes, you read that right. Not three, not thirteen. THIRTY chickens.

It was total chaos — in the best and worst ways.
The mess. The early morning chores. The evil rooster named Elvis (Elvis stood almost three feet tall and scared the CRAP out of me.)
I still remember dragging my feet as a pre-teen having to clean that creepy coop; I always kept one eye peeled for Elvis.

It was wild. It was stressful. It was hilarious.
And it taught me some of the most valuable lessons I still carry with me today – about responsibility, hard work, and doing things even when they make you uncomfortable.

Fast forward 22 years: I’m now a wife to a wonderful man, a stay-at-home mom of two, living on our own 3-acre property in Texas. And we recently brought home ten chickens of our own. Funny how life has a way of circling back to us, isn’t it? (Thankfully, no three-foot-tall roosters yet.)

When we stepped into this little dream of land and animals, it felt exciting… and a little terrifying, if I’m being honest.

Fears that have crossed my mind once, or twice:

  • What if this wasn’t the right thing for our kids?
  • What if I mess this up?
  • What if a donkey kicks me in the face? (When we visit this local farm, we always coach Jack: “NO butts, JUST faces!” nothing like a little parental confidence to stop your fears in their tracks.)

Here’s what I’m learning in all of this:
Growth is on the other side of our comfort zone.
It’s messy. It’s scary. It’s humbling.
You might cry. You might get kicked in the face.
And it’s also where some of the sweetest, most worthy memories are made.

As we near the finish line of our chicken coop build, I found myself up on a ladder yesterday, painting – picturing my kids gathering fresh eggs in the morning…experiencing the wonder of growing up on this little piece of land that we our so blessed to call ours.

It hit me in that moment…Sometimes the very things we fear the most end up becoming the most life-giving parts of our story.

If you need a reminder today, here it is:

  • It’s okay to do things scared.
  • It’s okay to try something you’re not perfect at.
  • It’s okay to build a life that looks a little different than you expected.

That’s often where God does some of His best work.

Here’s to these darn chickens, fresh starts, and doing the things that scare us.

Because life?
It’s worthy of being lived — and lived to the full. 🤍

WORTHY MAMA

When the Tantrums Turn Up, The Screen Turns Off: Our Honest Journey with Screen Time

Not long ago, we took a family trip to the DoSeum in San Antonio. It had been weeks of the kids and I being homebodies. Lots of time spent out on the property, playing in the pond, new chickens, new scrapes, and toddler bruises for Jack. I thought it would be great to go into the city and have a little change in scenery.

I loved going to the children’s museum growing up. Nothing like the memories of the fake grocery store flooding through my mind as I see Jack pushing his little cart through the sea of other kids. Did I mention it was field trip Friday at the DoSeum? Mental note for next time: Tuesday mornings are probably where it’s at. But I digress.

We were all having the best time. I exhaled and felt like maybe, just maybe, the terrible twos were behind us. Jack was listening so well – migrating from exhibit to exhibit with his hand in mine. We were killing the DoSeum game together while his Dad and Ev were enjoying the little cafe.

“Alright, Jack. You’ve got five more minutes.”

“Say yes, mom?” I reassured that he heard me.

“Yes, mom,” He expressed back.

(Through multiple tantrums when leaving the park, I learned that timing cues really helped when it was time to go.)

Alright cool – we’ve got this. We are going to knock this little field trip Friday out of the freaking park!

“Alright bud, it’s time to go.”

….

Somewhere between the pretend H-E-B grocery store and the excavator, we had a full-blown meltdown. I’m talking red-faced, tears flowing, arched-back, screaming-on-the-floor kind of melty.

The reason?
He didn’t want to leave.
He didn’t want a transition.
He wanted control.

NOT TODAY.

I worked to maintain my control, by taking him into the perfectly placed family restroom to calm him down – which led to discipline, and it just got worse. At this point, I was trying to manage the both of us. What does Daniel Tiger say? “Take a deep breath, and count to four.” Well, I felt like needed to count to forty.

If only I could have handled it as well as Mom Tiger – but this was not our best moment, okay?!

I side-packed Jack out of the museum and called my mom on the way home sobbing. In all my emotion I literally thought there had to be something wrong with him. Out of the 200 kids at the DoSeum why was mine the only one melting down? After a bit of discussion, she suggested we take a look at his screen time volume. In the moment, I wanted to cuss at her, but I knew she was right.

That melt down at the museum was a mirror for me.
Not of failure, but of serious reflection.
Something in our house needed to change.

I grew up watching a lot of TV. Like, a lot. A little Cory and Topanga could fix anything. TV was pretty much always on in the background. Now as an adult in my own home, it sort of became the same. A show here, a show there, something to give me a break to reset the house. Or a little YouTube at the restaurant so Wayne and I could connect.

But I started noticing something…
The more screen time Jackson had, the harder everything else became.
Getting dressed. Leaving the house. Going to bed. Being told “no.”

His ability to regulate his emotions was lower.
His tolerance for “real world” stimulation was shorter.
His tantrums were way bigger.

And honestly? So were mine.

Let me be clear: By no means am I all of a sudden anti-screens. I’m a mom, not a magician. The Lion King has 100% saved my sanity on multiple occasions.

But after the big melty at the museum (I’m referring to mine too.) we started making some changes. Small, intentional changes.

We decided to turn the TV off for longer stretches.
Our mornings began with worship music and playing. We got outside more.
And we talked — a lot. Honestly, the time away from the screen made me realize I was missing out on some pretty entertaining conversations with my almost three year old.

Has there still been hard moments? Uh, yes.
Has the shift in our home been worth it? Absolutely.

Because when the screen went off…our imaginations started waking up again.
The tantrums didn’t completely disappear — but our ability to handle them has improved.

And maybe most importantly, I showed up better for Jack and Ev.
Less in my head. More aware of our family unit and ready to tackle the day.

We’re still navigating the crazy world of screen time. I know there’s so much noise surrounding this topic. Whether you’re a screen free family, or still letting Hakuna Matata roll when you need it. Figuring out the best route for your family is always the right thing.

If you’re in the messy middle of this too — I see you.
You’re not alone. And you’re absolutely not failing.
We’re all just learning how to show up as the best moms we can be.

WORTHY MAMA

Easter in Pajamas: A Perfectly Imperfect Reminder of His Love

Yesterday was Easter Sunday – my favorite holiday (besides Christmas) and a day I look forward to every year. A day meant for celebration, reflection, au Gratin potatoes, and pastel everything. This year felt especially meaningful for me as it was my first Easter celebrating with both of my kids. And your girl had it all planned out: all of us in our Sunday best, the floral prints, the picture-perfect family of four frolicking into church like a springtime dream.

Or so I hoped.

Except… when I went to get dressed, I realized those pants I thought were a six (or maybe an eight?) were actually a size four. And they no longer fit this postpartum body of mine. It wasn’t even about the fit – it was the fact that my outfit was a three-piece set and piece three wouldn’t button. Not even close.
So jeans it was for me this year.

Strike one — jeans for Easter, here we go.

Everyone was dressed and ready to head out the door (more or less). I had my coffee waiting patiently for me on the counter (God bless it, my half-full, two-hour-old coffee), and then—splat. Jackson, in true Jackson form, yanked it down from the counter, instantly baptizing his little Old Navy carrot polo in my vanilla latte. Outfit number one, done.

Strike two — latte’d before liturgy.

We did a quick change and rallied. I was determined to make it to church on time. It’s Easter Sunday for crying out loud, and we will not be late. And we weren’t; at 10:28 we pulled into the parking lot, and just as I reached for Everly’s car seat, I caught a whiff. A blowout. And not just any blowout—one that would put any diaper commercial to shame. Her pink velour Easter outfit? History. So into service she went in pajamas, because that’s what we had, and honestly, that’s what worked.

Then came Sunday school. They handed out chocolate donuts as a sweet (and sticky) visual for the stone that rolled away from Jesus’ tomb. Jackson loved the object lesson. His outfit? Not so much. Outfit number two—chocolate-smeared and barely holding on.

Strike three — and we’re outta clean outfits.

After church, the Jensens rallied once again and headed to Easter brunch. I had made a reservation at a nicer restaurant—the kind with linen napkins and a prix fixe menu. And despite the state of our motley crew, the staff decided to seat us smack dab in the center of the dining room. Front and center. Right where every. single. patron. could see us. Literally my worst nightmare, and yet—somehow—here we were, waving our syrup-covered linen napkins with pride.

To top it all off? We got one-star service at a five-star spot. I looked across the table at Wayne and just laughed. Because at that point, what else can you do? (I didn’t even get my au Gratins.)

And then — just as we were preparing to run as fast as we could from the restaurant — a couple seated across from us stopped by our table. They smiled warmly and told us how well-behaved our kids were. How lovely it was to see a family like ours. They had raised four themselves and knew what it was like bringing kids to fancy restaurants.

I nearly burst into tears.

Because what they saw wasn’t the blowouts, or the multiple outfit changes, or the chaos of our morning.
They saw love.
And that—that is the grace of God showing up exactly when you need it.

Because Easter isn’t about perfect families in coordinated pastels. It’s about a perfect Savior who entered into the chaos of our world and made a way through it. Through the greatest trial came the greatest triumph the world has ever known. Through suffering came salvation. Through death came life—eternal, unshakable, grace-filled life.

He is worthy—worthy of our worship, our surrender, our laughter through the madness, our tired hallelujahs. And because He is worthy, we are made worthy in Him. Not by our polished appearances, but by His powerful resurrection.

Jesus rose because of His perfect love for us. And it’s that love that covers our mess. Our coffee spills. Our pajama-wearing babies. Our parenting fails. Our brokenness.

So here’s to the holiday mornings that don’t go as planned.
To the pajama-clad babies, the donut-smeared shirts, the kind words from strangers, and the grace of God poured out in the middle of it all.

Because He is risen.
And He is Worthy of it all.

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