Every year I can remember (while living in Vermont anyway) my mom hung wreaths in the windows at Christmas time. My parents house boasted about a million windows, so naturally, you could see that baby from space. At least that’s what we teased her about every year.

When the Hubby and I moved back to Vermont I finally had some windows of my own to decorate, and without hesitation I went and got myself two little wreaths and hung them proudly.

Just like my mom.

And for the past nine years every December (ok ok, late early November…) I pull out and hang my wreaths in the windows.
Just like my mom.

I have always felt a little pride seeing those wreaths, hanging cheerily in the windows. Shining brightly against the cold Vermont weather that we are forced to able to enjoy every year.

I have always felt a little pride in any area I could model my mom.

From little things like wreaths smiling in the windows to what I wore (because let’s face it, without her input I’d be living in sweatpants and Keith’s sweatshirts 🤷🏻‍♀️), to how I try and portray my faith and serve my family.

My mom, she was (is?) my biggest hero.

And although pulling out my wreaths last Christmas and this Christmas bring pain now as well, I still hang them with pride,

just like my mom used to.

I know I will spend the rest of my life trying to be half the mom and wife and friend and daughter of the King that she was.

But at the very least,

I’ll start with the wreaths.

Two years and counting – we miss you Mom.

Merry Christmas.