dear younger me, stop stressing out your marriage

Dear Younger Me,

You pulled off that dream wedding! Just wanted you to know the next 22 years will be an adventure like nothing you can imagine from those church steps. Yes, you’re going to learn some things the hard way, but oh, they are going to make the later years of marriage so much better. Hang in there, and hang onto one another! XXOO, Older Me

Yep, this weekend was my 22nd wedding anniversary. On a crisp January day, I became Mrs. G. McLeod Glass, Jr. at a charming 100-year-old chapel. With Mom’s help, I had meticulously planned the event and then joined the Sisterhood of 90’s Brides, relishing my puffed sleeves, sweetheart neckline, and full skirts. McLeod, in his suitable-for-daytime-festivities morning suit, wasn’t looking too shabby himself.

Especially since the man wore a cravat for me.

He could have gone straight from the wedding to Royal Ascot.

It was the beginning of a series of concessions he’s made for the last 22 years. Thank you, honey! Read More

dear younger me, someday you get to pay it forward

Happy New Year! I’m glad to be back and hope 2018 finds you well. Did you know you helped me reach over 2000 visitors since Cassia’s Place launched? WaHoo and Thank You!

Did you find something here that fired you up about pursuing your purpose, encouraged you to walk tall with God, or ignited your creativity? I’d love to hear from you via info@cassiaglass.com and also learn what you’d like to read about this year.

What’s NEXT: What advice would YOU give your younger self? Comment below, or come add your #dearyoungerme thoughts on Instagram and Facebook . There might be a pic of me with an 80’s Home Perm floating around out there, or so I’ve heard. I’m starting a new series called “Dear Younger Me,” and I’ll feature some of your answers this month.

Speaking of sharing what you’ve learned, did you know January is National Mentoring Month? Who showed up for you when you were young? One of the best ways to pay it forward is to show up this year in one kid’s life as a champion and friend. I recently guest-blogged on Full of Joy, a site by fellow Write Brilliant Academy classmate Abigail Joy Dubbe, to give readers a behind-the-scenes look at mentoring. The truth about what it takes to help a kid might just surprise you — it’s not nearly as hard as you think! Read more here.

that time I had a baby five days before Christmas

Easter weekend 2001, we discovered to our utter amazement that we were expecting a baby. From a due date calculator, we also discovered our child would be born right around Christmas. Though our son’s birth was 9 months away, a Christmas dream was born in that instant.

In it I would be sitting beside the tree, the soft glow of colored lights washing over me as I held my newborn child, perhaps humming a lullaby. All would be calm. All would be bright.

Yeah right. Read More

uncommon snow and average joe

We had SNOW on Friday. At the end of a hard, sorrowful week following my mother-in-law’s death, we awoke to Houston blanketed in white-velvet gorgeousness. We squealed. We hit each other with snowballs. We built hideous last-minute snowmen before heading to school once the district sent out the world’s saddest tweet: Roads are passable so buses are rolling. See you soon for a great day of learning.  Read More

tidings of comfort and joy

We knew, and yet we didn’t know.

We’ve been preparing ourselves since early fall for the passing of my husband’s mom.

We knew she was likely in her final months, and yet, when the end came on Monday night, we still felt the shock of disbelief.

It’s still too tender a thing to write about much except to say that grief and joy co-mingle in a thousand moments. That it’s nearly Christmas adds both sweetness and pain. Read More

one thing to add to your Christmas list

Show of hands: who’s feeling the push and panic of the holidays? That would be both hands up for me. I have purchased exactly one present so far. One.

And yes, the stockings are hung by the chimney with care, but we kind of lost steam with the tree after an initial burst of decorating. It’s still angel-less and surrounded by hideous brown bins of ornaments from the attic. If I wrap the bins, they could stand in for the absent presents. Read More

the stories that make us

The blaze began at the cookstove. Sparks whooshed up the chimney igniting dry-as-tinder wood shingles. The father, an Alabama farmer, was away working the fields, but a hero was waiting in the wings: a fifteen-year-old who refused to let her house burn down. Read More