My husband’s perfectly-named blog is a year old tomorrow.

He is a very good writer and I wish he would write more often. Some of my favorite posts include:

Star Wars Economics (snapshot of life with four boys and their weapons)

Breakfast (typical dialogue with our then-three-year-old)

I Walk the Line (another adventure with the three big boys—I have never looked at brown shoes the same)

The Orphan (makes my throat catch and always will)

Monday Monday (theory on how men and women differ)

Pigs in Zen (a simple lesson our kids taught him about prayer)

His blog also has an ongoing bit of fiction called “Another Worthless Night” which alarmed the heck out of me the when he posted the first entry.

My husband’s blog is written reluctantly, but always with a genuine heart.

I am participating in Julie’s Everyday Things weekly feature. The idea is to share what everyday thing adds joy, meaning, or a smile to your face. The little things matter.

When a new issue of a magazine appears in our mailbox, I let it stew for a few days.

It sits on the desk, on a table, on the piano. I consider the picture on the cover and the promises of what hides inside: Fresh Hair! Dreamy Bedroom Ideas! Summer Brunch Bonanza! Anyone Can Be Blonde! Each spine stays uncracked. I enjoy knowing a magazine is there when I am ready to devote an hour to turning the smooth pages. When I finally sit to read, it’s with great anticipation, tempered with skepticism: I can never be a blonde, but I’m willing to read why you think I could, oh Beauty Editor.

Depending on the magazine, I am treated to recipes, debates over flared or tapered pant legs, the latest in paint colors, perfume samples, ads for cat food, ads for $3,000 handbags, and exercise routines. I learn how to make a centerpiece, how to pluck eyebrows, how to plant a rose bush, how to brine a turkey, how to cure a picky eater, how to organize my time so I will be able to sit for an hour and read a magazine.

A month later my mailbox will have 200 or more bundled pages of gloss, frost, and sugar for my consideration. The ritual will repeat and repeat through the years. I’ve subscribed to magazines since I was eight years old.

Not deep, not challenging or demanding or high brow by any stretch of the imagination—the shiny ad-packed brain candy has a place in my life right alongside C.S Lewis and the slamming, convicting short stories of Flannery O’Connor (I am re-reading them all right now). I like reading “Everything That Rises Must Converge” with a plucked brow raised and a magazine-inspired frittata quietly sizzling for dinner a room away.