Category: Monday Musings

Why Travel Exhausts Me the Older I Get.

Posted on by Jessica Ronne

Ryan and I spent last week traveling to Oklahoma for a handful of speaking engagements, and while it was a wonderful period of respite, with no meals to prepare, laundry to fold, housecleaning, or children’s schedules to maintain, it was also exhausting because of all of the previously mentioned + work was put on hold for a week.  There’s always a price to pay when mama takes a break 😉

I’m finding that the older I become, the less I enjoy the process of travel.

I love landing in a unique place and exploring new possibilities, but the process of getting from point A to point B, I’m not really into that experience anymore; particularly when the process involves airfare.  Our travel plans went off without a hitch – no delays or surprises, but there’s something about airports and checkpoints and ears painfully popping and the complete loss of control while in the air that leaves me plumb worn out.

I’m also discovering that the older I get, the less interested I am in hotels or homes that are not my own.

Our first two nights at the Hampton Inn were uneventful, and then a slew of young high school students and their coaches checked in for the weekend.  They were in town for a state wrestling championship meet.  All 50+ high schoolers, and they practiced for their matches right above our room.

ALL NIGHT LONG. 

We called the front desk three times begging for the noise to stop, but it never did.  Finally, at around 3:00 am we drifted off to sleep for a few hours before rising the next morning to prep for our first event.

NOT FUN. 

We opted out of the couple’s skill-building exercise in the afternoon (weight lifting) and opted into a nap, but before our nap, we asked the front desk to move us to the top floor which they graciously agreed to do.

I did sleep much better the following few nights but decided that I would rather travel via truck and trailer for any future events we might schedule. And so, in pure Jessica fashion, (jump in and do it), I convinced Ryan to send a text to a friend who had been toying with the idea of selling his travel trailer to see if he was still leaning in that direction.  He was, and we set up a time to see it.

They say as you age, the neural pathways in your brain become deeply entrenched in whatever routines or rhythms you’ve adopted throughout your life and this makes it difficult to learn a new language as you get older or change a habit.  And then tack on a firstborn, black-and-white personality and that’s simply a recipe for massive amounts of OCD all day long. I am definitely stuck in my ways at 45 years old.

My nightly rhythms are so entrenched in my psyche and the key to being able to successfully manage my life!  (Magnesium, CBD, and stretch at 8:00, magnesium and CBD at 9:00, lavender cream and wild yam at 9:30, the Office from 9:30-10 and sound asleep until 6:00 am) at least that’s how it goes when everything is “normal”: my bed (softer), my special pillow (harder), my room darkening shades that cut every ounce of light, and my thermostat turned down low.  My husband is also becoming very adept at his/our rhythms, but he’s not as crabby if something goes a bit off-kilter.  In other words, he handles sleep deprivation much better than I do.

We saw the travel trailer this past weekend, and it is perfect.  We will make this purchase in the near future, and then I will always be able to take my comfortable little space and routines with me wherever I go. And I will sleep peacefully as the little old lady that I am becoming and everyone will benefit. It’s the simple things in life, right?

Just keep livin.

If you enjoyed this and want to read more, I have a new book that was recently released  Lovin with Grit & Grace and it’s ON SALE TODAY!

Monday Musings – How God Used A Desk to Change My Outlook & Life

Posted on by Jessica Ronne

I am traveling this week for speaking events & didn’t have time to write an original Monday Musings. Instead, I pulled one of my favorite excerpts for my latest book, , Lovin’ With Grit & Grace.

I glanced out the front window at the disheveled sight before me. A few years prior, we had purchased thirty acres of God’s beautiful Southern country, and how did my husband go about tending this beautiful land of ours? He littered it with “treasures” he either found or bought or were given to him, including a weather- beaten, rusted-down desk that he took from an old barn he helped demolish in exchange for the paraphernalia inside. Those treasures had to go somewhere, and that somewhere became my front yard.

The sight of this desk, not only irritated me, it grated on my very last nerve on this particular day. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t move it someplace where it wouldn’t be such an eyesore. I mean, really; did it have to be the first thing people noticed as they drove up our driveway? Or maybe that wasn’t fair. Perhaps the first think they noticed was the broken washing machine next to it. I rolled my eyes for my own satisfaction.

I said to him, louder this time, “Darling husband, that desk is so ugly, and it makes us look like we don’t care about cleanliness or order or ever patriotism! Or that we’re too lazy to bring the trash to the dump. It looks tacky, and it doesn’t reflect well on me as the wife and mother running our home because Southern women generally have their homes in order.”

He glanced my way, slightly annoyed that I was interrupting his show but said nothing.

“Honey, do you understand what I’m saying?” I continued, not at all deterred by his lack of enthusiasm regarding the conversation. “Southern women take care of their yards. Their porches are immaculate with big, beautiful pots overflowing with flowers, and the monogram their front doors, and people oohh and aahh over the beauty that these women present through their homes. The Ronnes are the opposite – people drive up to our house, and they see this ugly, old, broken desk in our front yard, and it doesn’t reflect well on my transplanted Southern homemaking abilities. I would move it if I could! I shouted.

Silence.

“It’s too heavy to move, but I can burn it!” I threatened.

“Don’t burn the desk,” he calmly replied, looking intently into the madness staring back at him.

“Fine,” I agreed. ” I won’t burn the desk, but we need to come up with a solution soon.”

I left the room and let my frustration hang thickly in the air.

I considered what was really going on in my heart. Was it truly about a desk? Or was something deeper at play?

Two days later I received a text. “We lost him.”

A good friend’s brother-in-law unexpectedly died after only a few short months of fighting cancer. He was in his forties. His wife stepped away from his sickbed, and in that instant, he left earth. I had only made two freezer meals for the family. His widow hadn’t even had the opportunity to get sick of freezer burned casseroles before she lost her husband.

More fatherless children. Children like mine had once been. Another widow with a bleeding heart as mine had once ached.

Beastly cancer always getting the best of people.

People dying; people hurting; people in hospitals; children, widows, widowers left in the wake; and old desks left in front yards. All of it broken.

God, why can’t he just move that stupid desk?!

Something I could control.

Something we could control.

Something that doesn’t really matter.

Like my own frantic actions in 2010 as I angrily attempted to rip every single weed out of a flower garden with tears streaming down my face. Every single weed representing a cancer cell. Every single weed representing a perception of control.

But only a perception.

Always a perception and nothing more.

The old hymn “My Hope Is Built on Nothing Less” was playing in the background as I gently stirred the pea soup simmering away on the stove for that evening’s dinner.

I got this, a voice whispered.

It’s not the desk.

It’s not the cancer.

It’s not even your husband’s stubborn ways.

I got this, the voice whispered again.

I’ve got cancer.

I’ve got your husband.

I’ve got your anger. 

I even have your perception of control.

I’ve got it all in the palm of my hand. 

I awake the next morning and glanced out the window. The desk had been moved into the barn and someone came to pick up the washing machine later that day, convinced they could fix it. I was thrilled that it was now another wife’s problem and no longer mine.

Lovin’ With Grit & Grace is now available & each copy comes with a FREE  7-week study guide. This book would make a fantastic resource for a marriage group or event. If you would like to review a book for consideration, please reach out to hello@thelucasproject.org. We also offer bulk discount purchase options. Additionally, I would SO appreciate a review on Amazon if you’ve already read the book! Thank you! 

Life Lessons from the Birds & the Bees

Posted on by Jessica Ronne

“LOOK AT THE ROOSTER!”  13-year-old Josh yelled to his siblings who immediately ran over to witness the rooster and his harem of 19 hens all taking shelter on our patio; our patio which is an extension of our family room that was created to provide a beautiful, peaceful oasis during the warm summer months.  A patio that was now completely covered in chicken poop because our flock had adopted it as their “beautiful” oasis during the harsh winter months.

“What?!”  asked Jada expectantly as she ran over to witness the scene “What’s going on?”

“LOOK, Josh explained, “THE ROOSTER WAS ON TOP OF THAT CHICKEN,” he pointed to a brown hen, “AND THEN HE JUMPED ON TOP OF THE CHICKEN OVER THERE!” he pointed to a black and white speckled hen.

(Yes, our rooster apparently has a high libido).

Seven-year-old Annabelle slowly looked up from the book she was reading, “So what,” she said.  “Don’t you know that the rooster ALWAYS sits on the chickens?  I think he poops on them,” she nonchalantly explained which led to her older and wiser sister Mabel piping in to truly educate the masses on what was actually occurring.

“You guys are so dumb” she sighed, as only a teenage girl can sigh (no we don’t allow that word but for the sake of the essays mom has to write it was allowed this one time).  “The rooster isn’t pooping on the chickens.  He’s making babies with them.  Or at least he’s trying to.”

“What?” asked Annabelle, seeking some sort of clarification.  “If that’s what’s happening why haven’t we ever seen any baby chicks?”  Josh and Jada suddenly became mute – having some basic understanding of sex ed but not enough to really refute or confer with their older sister’s wisdom nor wanting to engage in a conversation that might be of interest, but they certainly weren’t going to allow anyone to be aware of their interest.

“Mom!  The kids have questions!” yelled Mabel as she sauntered away rolling her eyes.  Apparently, she didn’t want to elaborate on her expansive knowledge of sex ed or perhaps her knowledge wasn’t as expansive as she led her younger siblings to believe.  We shall never know.

These moments we experience are “big family perks” and I suppose the perks that come with raising chickens as well. The awkward conversations that most parents have with younger children are often accomplished through older siblings and their vast network of experiences.  Now, these conversations are admittedly often lacking in actual facts, but they do provide a good framework for the parents to work with.

Additionally, many people think of keeping chickens as extra work, but I would argue that our flock has lent itself to many valuable life lessons such as where our food comes from (eggs and meat), caring for others, cleaning up the spaces we live in to ensure health and vitality, and of course, sex ed, which I, for one, am perfectly content with my children learning through the rooster and his harem of hens.

At least for now 😉

Just keep livin.

If you enjoyed this and want to read more, I have a new book releasing in 8 days!  Lovin with Grit & Grace which is now available and it’s ON SALE TODAY!

Monday Musings – I Miss Writing

Posted on by Jessica Ronne

I miss writing.

Over the years, a handful of worthwhile endeavors have quietly stolen time away from my true passion; endeavors like creating a nonprofit and renovating a farm for my disabled son or necessary obligations like marketing and social media, or fun “let’s stretch Jess a bit” type of activities such as hosting a podcast, speaking engagements, or creating a documentary. Good endeavors, life-giving endeavors, but not THE endeavor that makes my heart sing. Not writing.

I resigned from teaching for the same reason. Teaching was a stable, worthwhile endeavor but not my endeavor and teaching left little time for writing. Life is full of complicated choices that involve either this or that and the choice must be made because otherwise neither this nor that can be done very well.

All I ever wanted to be was an author. As a young girl, I poured over Hemingway, Faulkner, and Graham Greene while my friends competed in sports and played spin the bottle. I was always a bit of a complicated soul who resonated with the likes of Sylvia Plath or Emily Dickinson; tormented writers, although my life was far too normal and suburban to be all that tormented.

Instead of living vicariously through small squares on Instagram, I lived vicariously through characters. Books provided an education to my naïve homeschooled life; an education about the world and human behavior including intimacy, sex, and desire. Yes, mom, I read smut by the light of the moon.

I penned my first poem at age 9 entitled When God Created the World and wrote Missy May, my first work of fiction, around 11. I KNEW they were brilliant, but no one else seemed all that impressed. In fact, my younger brother, the one who would become an attorney, he received most of the accolades when it came to writing, or intelligence, for that matter.

I didn’t care. The misguided affections simply lent credence to my theory that I was a tormented writer whom no one understood.

In 1999 I excitedly enrolled in college eager to enter the world of higher education which I was sure would affirm my talent, and again, no one had much to say about what I wrote. My professors often stated something to the effect of “There is so much potential here; however, you need to slow down and develop the content.”

Slow down.

Develop the content.

The Devil, most certainly, is in the details.

I am very much a “good enough” person. Good enough has gotten me far enough in many situations, and good enough was good enough at that stage of my life. I enjoyed the free time that the Bs allotted. I enjoyed not having to work so hard for A’s, and then there came a day when I had to give a speech.

My first speech ever.

It was called “All of my Heroes have Died,” a story of courage and valor, a story that retold the Columbine tragedy which had occurred only a few months prior. I read detailed notes as I clutched the podium, and then as I read the last sentence, I exhaled to calm my racing heart. I lifted my head and nervously looked out onto the room and met the gaze of approximately 20 faces and saw that most of them were wiping away tears.

And then I understood. Storytelling just might be my sweet spot.

That’s where I did enjoy the details.

That same year I showed up at an ex-boyfriend’s house and flung a bunch of poems at him – poems sharing the agony of my broken heart, poems like a bird stuck in a cage and chewed up gum under my shoe, overly dramatic hormonal ridiculousness. There’s no other way to describe it, but I do experience a smidgin of glee when I let my imagination run wild and allow myself to become a New York Times best-selling author. I imagine that maybe he still has those poems, and I wonder what he’d do if he realized that I had become famous. Or as famous as an author can be.

Another time I shared my poetry with a skeezy older guy I met at the gym, and the next day he asked if I was ok. I said then, (as I say now) yes, I’m fine. The thing is, I’m observant. Most of what I write is not about me. Most…

After college, I married Jason, a man I met at that gym, and we built our dream house for our dream life which included a third-story attic (my dream) where I would pen the great American novel, or so I thought. I occasionally sauntered up the stairs to put pen to paper, but then the birth of babies and special needs and brain cancer took over, and my manuscript gathered dust. I did write late into the evenings as I shared personal stories on my blog while my husband labored to breathe in the next room over.

Jason died in 2010, and a year later I packed up that dream house that had been built for a dream life that was no longer viable. I stuffed a pile of notebooks with half-written stories into a crate and began a new dream with my husband Ryan and our 7 children. I resumed a graduate program that I had begun years earlier, and on the last day, I handed in my final assignment; a paper that had become intimately intertwined with my own grief. Day after day I listened as the discussion dissected the hardships that many of the characters had endured; eerily familiar hardships like mine. I whispered an opinion a time or two but slowly let my voice fade when it faltered and then resigned to simply listening. For the final assignment, I wrote The Whiteman Road, one of the most deeply personal essays I’ve ever written, and the feedback I received agreed, “this paper is easily among the best, if not the best, in the class.” This admission made my heart soar, and I realized I still had words to write.

Our crew eventually moved to rural TN where I lived many of my stories and where I was asked to write my first real book Sunlight Burning at Midnight! I almost DIED of joy – a publisher wanted my story! That book was released, and I was asked to write another on blended life which I did in the middle of a global pandemic and then a poem went viral and reached millions of people, and that’s when I understood that not everyone was going to appreciate what I had to say. In fact, my truth might trigger responses in somewhere they would wish me dead. That was a hard lesson to learn. But my skin toughened up, as most skins do with scars that eventually heal, and I was asked to write another book, a book on marriage, but a nonsugar-coated book, which was just my specialty. My philosophy is “tell the truth or don’t waste your breath.” Nobody’s life is changed by reading sugar-coated spam, and if I agreed to write a marriage book, it would expose our scars. Healed over scars but deeply forgiven wounds, nevertheless.

I wrote that book, Lovin’ with Grit & Grace, and now we wait.

Ryan and I expectedly await your reaction.

And as we wait, I return to my first joy, my passion, writing.

These shall be called my Monday Musings, and they will arrive in your inbox weekly. They will hopefully be spirit led but sometimes the ego gets in the way too – that’s how it is with these human suits of ours. Some musings might be brilliant and some might be “good enough” but I hope they inspire you to lean into life, love deeply, be present, face hard things, make changes when necessary, and pursue joy above all else.

Just keep livin.

Pre-order Lovin’ here.