whitney dziurawiec

November has descended upon our small town in Minnesota, and the giddiness in my soul is hard to conceal. While the instagrammers praise October and its royal majesty, something about the subtle weight of glory that befalls November; the purple-grey clouds casting a periwinkle hue to the world, the trees--half of them wrangled-out branches abandoned by their leaves while the rest retain their bright October garb, woos my heart most. Even the days when the clouds clear seem to pass as one long sunset and I realize that's the best way to describe November: a sunset, the denouement of the year where the conflict has ended and the world begins to turn in, shut down, tie together its loose ends. As if the weight of a finished narrative is hanging in the lavender clouds and the air carries the burden of the year's story like our minds carry characters long after the last page of a novel. November: let us reminisce, dance in your sunset, inhale the d...

The bedroom walls locked me into my own shame, that pit of dread in my stomach, the burning on my cheeks. It was time to confess, I knew, time to fess up to this crime I'd kept burdened in my throat for months in hopes that the shame would dissipate but alas, it had only reverberated more deeply in my soul, and I could no longer bear it. I walked out into the garage where I knew my mother was, and I cringed as I tasted the bitter truth roll past my tongue: I cheated in library class to get a piece of candy . Mom reacted graciously despite the immensity of the crime, though looking back I am imagining the subtle smile my mother likely tried to hide as she reassured me she already knew, that my 2nd grade teacher had told her, and that she'd deemed my punishment in class enough. This library incident was no doubt the apex of rebellion for me. Good Girl blood flowed in my veins; God forbid I make any waves, upset anyone, and my Christ...

It used to be that every day was this experience I felt I could have blogged about, if I had the time. College came with fiery emotions and cynicism and tears and dreams of the life I thought I wanted. But life settles after marrying and especially after a baby, and it feels like each day isn't the adventure it once was. Sometimes a whole week feels like one long day, sometimes the answers and the tidy conclusions just don't present themselves as they once did.  It doesn't help that I've been avoiding turning this space into a MomBlog because most of the things I'm currently learning are things ALL THE MOMS have already shared. They're trite and make all the non-moms roll their eyes, and I just currently have nothing new to present in that area. So, what is this space supposed to be, then? In an effort to elevate my walk with the Lord and not lose my identity in Him, my goal is to write more often, to devote this to processing my thoughts with the Lord...

I write this while my daughter sleeps in the other room. My daughter. She came nine days late, taking her sweet time while I downed sweets for every moment she wasn't here. I remember the conflicting duality of being more than freaking ready as well as not ready at all. I remember crying in the shower seeing the baby wash sitting there; feeling overwhelmed at the idea of bathing a newborn. I remember the realization that I'm not just a full-time babysitter: I am and will be the mother of a human being. I am forever part of her earliest experience. I am the first thing she saw in this world, my voice will always be one of the first sounds she's heard, apart from the whishing of my body. My smell is already woven into her senses as one of comfort and sustenance. What a horrifying honor to be someone's mother, to have the influence upon someone as immense as I'll have, to know so many of her characteristics will mirror my own. It is a sort of tragic triumph, to ha...

The world is fluttering around with snowflakes and it finally feels like winter. There is a slow Saturday ahead of us, and we are milking these last days for all they're worth. Two weeks away from adding an unpredictable, flailing, squishy member to our family who will surely disrupt all our plans and ruin every slow Saturday for the next decade. But we are ready (or as ready as you can be?) and for now we will snuggle for two hours after waking and then make cinnamon rolls and sit quietly by the window and watch the snow. There is a certain glory to these weeks that are stretching so long, where every pang in my stomach is met with anticipation. With no travel in our future (unlike the past three Christmases), we have settled into the quiet, slow, waiting where boredom is a luxury on the verge of extinction. And so boredom is not even boredom anymore: it is a calm thankfulness, a quiet breath, a watching the squirrel scutter across the street. The Christmas...

Everyone always asks me why Christmas is my favorite. I got married in December and it was one big Christmas party. My first date with Jon was to a gingerbread house festival. My daughter is due Christmas Eve. I consider it an accomplishment if I make it until November to begin listening to Christmas music. And it's true, I do love Christmas. (although a Christmas wedding was the easiest and cheapest way to do a wedding. I'm serious. We saved loads on everything from venue to decorations.) (and also it's not like we PLANNED to have a baby due on Christmas Eve?!??) (Jon and my first date was to a gingerbread house festival because it was free #iamcheap) I, like many, am drawn to the lights and the decorations. The baking in and of itself is enough to make me Christmas's biggest fan. And I know it is cliché to say that this Word made flesh, this transcendent holy baby is the root of my delight, I find myself drawing new, rich truths each Advent that keep me coming b...

Candles are lit, Jon is gone, Ella Fitzgerald's Christmas album is playing, and I'm picking at some leftover gingerbread so it's high time I wrote again. Everyone loves October, but for me November takes the cake. But literally, my birthday is in November, so that's when I get the most cake. And all of the other celebrations are looming ahead: the family birthdays, Thanksgivings, anniversary, Christmas, and then the newest celebration added to the calendar: the birth of my daughter who up until that point will have only been a kicking, prodding being in my belly that keeps me awake. But in a moment, she will no longer be a faceless baby in my head, but a real child in my arms, and if what I'm told is correct, I will never be the same. That phrase scares me and I'm grieving the life I have now that is close to ending. My wonderful, 40 hour-a-week job that feels so holy and exciting and fulfilling will become only a small part of my calling. I will trade in lo...