I come from a long line of interrupters, one-uppers, and joke-tellers.  The competition for air time in my family is FIERCE, so your story better be damn good or we are moving on to your way funnier uncle.  From this lineage, a storyteller is born.  There isn’t much I love more than when unexpected, funny, and (occasionally) poignant things happen to me.  I feel like I might burst waiting to get to my people and tell them all about it.

I am Sarah, a messy and optimistic mom of four, wife of one.  I am frequently giggling, but I can also be found smacking my forehead as I raise kids and chickens in a funky Atlanta neighborhood.

I am a high school teacher turned homeschool mom.  Living and schooling with the kids is pretty rad, but my favorite gig is being married to Riley, my middle school sweetheart.  Pull up a chair and I can tell you all about how awesome he is.  We have been laughing our butts off for decades now.

I am a recovering envelope collector (ask my mom).  I love paper. I just can’t help it.  And paper that my kids have drawn on? I have a problem.

I am not an expert anything. I dabble but never perfect; this tendency is unequal parts character flaw and endearing eccentricity.

I delight in thrift stores, long books with short chapters, and cheap beer.

Despite knowing and loving Jesus, I have a grace leak.  I need a refill all the time.

Obviously, there is more to this story, but this gets you on the right track.  Here’s to living and telling stories.

What the critics are saying:

Atlanta Native, age 4: “My mommy is sweet, lovable, cute, awesome, the best mom ever.  She doesn’t like crocodilians (this isn’t true, Levi). She doesn’t like when I won’t stop telling her what I want her to do.”

I was going to ask my other 3 kids some questions and put their cute answers here, but they are in very foul spirits today.  Maybe another time.