A World Where There Are Octobers

I'm not sure what October has been like in your neck of the woods, but October 2026 in central Pennsylvania has been 10/10 — no notes. Mornings have been crisp, afternoons have been mild, skies have been blue, leaves have been vibrant. I've comfortably sat outside many afternoons to each lunch. After I'm warmed up when raking leaves, I can strip off my outer sweatshirt over my tee and enjoy the breeze on my bare forearms. 

One early Saturday morning, I visited a local park and veered off their standard trails to explore surrounding fields, feeling like Elizabeth Bennet stomping through the English countryside or Anne Shirley reveling in the cozy falls at Green Gables, profoundly grateful to live in a world where there are Octobers.

This month has been busy in my new position at work. I'm learning new rhythms: which weeks will be teaching-heavy, which weeks will be grading-heavy, which weeks will be both. I'm creating a mental map of this new academic pattern, allowing myself to not know the things I can't yet know, and also taking comfort that I'll carry this knowledge with me into each subsequent fall.

As we close, enjoy some of the scenes from my October wanderings. I hope you've enjoyed this month as much as I have.

Finding the Best and Worst of Humanity at One Home College Football Game

Fall comes with college football, and college football comes with a whole lot of things: historic rivalries, weekly rankings, massive tailgates, hyped stadiums, and Dr Pepper Fansville ads. Last Saturday, Penn State lost at its own Homecoming game against an unranked Wisconsin team. Over the course of watching that game with my sixteen-year-old from our seats in row 71 of the EEU section in Beaver Stadium, college football also offered a glimpse of the best and worst of humanity.

Let me explain, starting with a snapshot of the worst: a man, somewhat inebriated, screaming obscenities at the 18-23-year-old players and the Penn State coaching staff when the tides of the game turned in Wisconsin's favor. Granted, given that those obscenities were coming from his seat in row 69 in the upper section, none of the players or staff heard them. But given that my daughter and I were seated two rows behind him, we heard them pretty clearly.

You can try not to hear them. You can try not to listen. You can try not to reflect that these obscenities are coming from a grown man who is raging over a game. A game! A game that's being played by young men who are 30 years younger than him. For a while I did try, but when the screaming continued and intensified, I couldn't block it out. 

Everything about the scene rankled: the intensity of his nastiness, the smugness of how superior his own judgments were to the coaching staff's, the cruelty of his critique, the crass targeting of specific players, some of whom have shared meals at our family's kitchen table due to my husband's role as the team chaplain. It was more than ugly raging — it was ugly raging at people we know and care for. 

When I thought that he might have worn himself out with his yelling, he brought God into it. More precisely, he brought God's name into it. And after his third utterance of Jesus Christ, to the utter shock of my 16-year old, I stood from my seat, walked behind him, firmly placed my hand on his shoulder, leaned forward, lowered my voice to its deepest register, and spoke clearly into his ear:

Enough. You have taken this far enough. You will stop your behavior, and you will stop taking the Lord's name in vain.

Then I lifted my hand from his shoulder and returned to my seat. My actions had been so sudden that I hadn't even imagined how he might respond. He glanced back briefly, clearly irritated as if I was a gnat in his ear, pointed his hand in my direction, dropped it back to his side, then continued to angrily mutter to himself.

To be clear, this didn't feel like a victory. I was shockingly livid as I sat on my bleacher seat, adrenaline coursing through my veins, and a stream of angry dialogue running through my mind toward this angry man: So, you're saying you're so great that you could go out there and do better? I'd like to see it. I'd like to see you out on that field for one play. Let's see how that goes for you, buddy.

You've never made a mistake in your life before either, right? How would you like it when you screw up something up at work and a person lets you know. Oh, they let you know about your mistake loud and clear. They curse you. They tell you how stupid you are. They don't relent — louder, angrier, nastier, they shred you with their words. More people join, and they're all screaming at you, and everyone near and far can hear what an absolute screw-up you are. Nobody cares that you might have been trying your best, or working hard, or just having an off-day. Nobody cares about you at all — they just want you to know how terrible you are. How'd you like to experience THAT, buddy? How'd you like to be treated exactly how you're treating these players right now?

In this moment, sitting in row 71 of Beaver Stadium with Penn State losing to Wisconsin, I realize that I kind of hated this guy.

Then a new thought dawned: although I was sober, quiet, and using more refined language in the scathing talking-to I was conducting in my head, I was just as consumed with anger as he was. Him, with Penn State football. Me, with him for acting badly in his anger.

Granted, I reigned in my anger better. No doubt there. But it stuck me that the human condition, including my condition as a human, is pretty darn broken.

So, if that was a momentary snapshot of the worst of humanity, what moment captured the best?

Well, this takes us to another man in the stands. A man who sat several seats to the left in row 70, who kept recording the field on his phone's camera. It caught my eye because he clearly wasn't following the game's action. Each time Penn State punted down the field, he lifted his phone and started filming from midfield then toward the sideline.

Two things eventually hit me: One, he was filming the person retrieving the kicking tee. Two, that person had to be his son.

When I asked him, my assumptions were confirmed. His 18-year-old son, a freshman at Penn State, was a new equipment assistant for the team, and this man, this father, was so proud of his son running onto the field, snagging the tee, and running back to the sideline, that he filmed it happening each and every time.

"I'm sure it's pretty obvious that I'm his dad," he said with a smile to me, then a nod to his phone. "It's such a dad thing to do, right?"

And it was.

It was a dad thing to do. It was exactly the type of thing that a dad does, that a good dad does. The type of dad who watches for his son, even when the crowd is looking in the opposite direction, even when the son's actions might not be as exciting or impressive as what others around him are doing. The type of dad who records his son doing his job, just because that son is doing what he's supposed to be doing, and just because he's so darn proud of his son for doing it.

It wasn't a good evening for Penn State football, but it gave me a lot to think about. About the angry man who acted so badly, so cruelly, in his anger. About myself, as I confronted my own anger, which felt justified at first before it fizzled into awareness that I'm just as prone, just as susceptible, to judgement and rage. And certainly, about the father who filmed his tee-grabbing son, serving as an unexpected reminder of the ultimate Good Father, a father who rejoices over his kids, even when his kids might not be doing anything spectacular.

Even when a certain kid in row 71 is angry at someone in row 69, the Good Father sees her and loves her. He also sees the man in row 69, too, loving him despite his bad behavior, yet wanting so much more, so much better — not just from him, but also for him. And he, as the ultimate Good Father, knew all along that none of us could just "be better" on our own, which was why He provided the one and only way back to Him through his own son, Jesus.

Because that's what a Good Father does. He sees the best and worst of humanity, not just at a Penn State football game, but across all the world, across all time, across all ages past and present and still to come. He has seen it all, and he made a way for our worst to be covered and forgiven and redeemed. Not because of our own goodness, but because of His.

Because that's what a Good Father does.

Hello, September, My Old Friend

Today is September 1. Today is also a sultry 88 degrees. In my mind these two statements don't align, even though they're true. I expect September to arrive with a hint of crispness, like biting into a fresh Honeycrisp apple, but this September has arrived like we're opening the door to a hot oven. It's a humid, sticky, in-your-face type of a heat, the kind of heat you know won't last forever, and you're glad for that.

It's been a long time since I've last written here, and in that time, a great deal has changed. Two of our children have graduated — one from college, one from high school — and now that the fall semester has begun, only our youngest daughter, a high school junior, lives at home. This feels significant, yet I haven't had much time to process this nudge toward empty nesting.

On the personal front, I also made a significant pivot:

After teaching communications for 21 years at Penn State in the Liberal Arts, I accepted a new job to teach communications for the professional graduate program at Penn State's Business College. The application and interview process took several months, as most job searches in academia do. When I heard that I had been awarded the position, my reaction ran the gamut: excitement, gratitude, and relief intermingled with a trace of exhaustion, and add a scoop of disbelief, then cycle right back to excitement and profound gratitude.

I had interviewed for my original job at Penn State when our oldest daughter was three weeks old. She turned 21 this spring and graduated, then a few weeks later, our middle daughter finished her senior year of high school and prepared to enter college. Closing my own professional chapter in lockstep with these graduations felt poetic, perhaps, like it was time for certain doors to be closing and other doors to be opening. 

I'm proud of myself. I'm doing something new after two decades of doing something familiar. I'm meeting new people, teaching new classes, and understanding new policies in a new college and department. I'm stretching and learning and growing. 

This September arrives not just with 88-degree heat, but with a feeling of fresh opportunity, new challenges, and room for growth. And, of course, it also arrives with a first-day-of-class photo taken in my new office, even if I'm 48.

Here's to new open doors. Here's to a new position, a new school year, to September, and to God's faithfulness in all and through all.

Beach Blanket Thoughts

 

I've heard that it takes roughly three days to switch out of "work mode" and let go of stressors when you go on vacation. This seems true. At least, it felt true for me when my family traveled to Florida during our spring break last week.

Sometimes you don't know how tightly wound you are until you unwind. The weeks leading up to spring break moved too quickly and had been too full. All work and no play. Deadlines and commitments, plus a double wallop of bronchitis and pneumonia, plus poor sleep, plus general end-of-winter fatigue all added up to one spectacularly lackluster version of me. I felt colorless. Bland. Dull. Flat.

But something changed around the third or fourth day in Florida. At this point, my meds had kicked in — my cough receded, my lungs expanded more easily, my body felt less tired. More than that, my spark kicked in. There I was, lying on a beach towel, pleasantly warm and mostly properly sunscreened. My brain finally had churned its way through a tangled cluster of work-related-thoughts, freeing up the space to think more freely, more creatively.

To the soundtrack of gentle waves, seagull cries, lazy conversations, and aerosol sunscreen sprays up and down the beach, my body molded into the sand and I let myself breathe deeply. In that comfortably warm and hazy space, drifting between partial sleep and happy disassociation, my thoughts wandered.

Beside us were young parents with a baby. As I overheard them instruct her to not eat sand, I thought about parents and children. How do generations keep doing this? This process of being children, then having children, and raising children? How have Joel and I, specifically, done this three times over, this raising of little humans into bigger humans who intuitively know that when they see sand, it's not for eating? 

My thoughts flitted to how the sunshine makes the tips of waves glitter like diamonds, then back to whether I had applied enough sunscreen. Somehow it's never enough sunscreen, even if I'm continually re-applying. Inevitably, one rogue strip or section of my body will end the day as if it's never encountered sunscreen, turning a shocking tomato-red.

Without thoughts of work crowding every nook and cranny of my consciousness, and with the freedom that comes from being shaken loose from a routine and dropped into an entirely different setting, other thoughts appeared in stream-of-conscious wisps, random and shaken loose, rising to the surface then evaporating almost as soon as I think them: 

I think I'll become a person who does pushups. Like, regularly. I'm going to start doing pushups each morning. Maybe even each evening. I wonder what's the most common color for painting a front door? I look good in baseball caps. What makes a person classy? Why is it easier to dress nicely in the fall than it is in the summer? I should apply to give a TED talk. Yes, I'm going to give a TED talk. Add that to the list of life goals. Could I be a person who shuffle dances?

And the seagulls cried, and the waves lapped at the shore, and the sprays of sunscreen sounded in the distance, and the baby ate the sand despite her parents' warnings, and I lay there, having the best random beach blanket thoughts, and then, with a happy contented sigh, I had one more:

This is it. I've done it. I've finally unwound.

Ode to the End of February

Multiple times this past month, I've asked myself the same question: "What is wrong with you?"

I've come up with the answer. February. February is what's been wrong with me. 

There have been good moments in February. For instance, my six-year-old neighbor brought me a handmade Valentine, and that ranks pretty high. Beyond that, the month has blurred. I've taught classes (so many classes), and graded things (so many things), and been asked "what's for dinner?" roughly 300 times, which makes no mathematical sense because February only has 28 days, but somehow I'm convinced I've cooked dinner 300 times. The repetition and grayness has worn me down despite my best efforts at optimism 

I'm ready for it not to be February.

And, in very good news, this desire will be fulfilled tomorrow. Tomorrow is March, and March feels more hopeful than February. Days will grow longer. Temperatures, slowly, will start to rise. March isn't out of the tunnel, but March at least hints toward the light.

So long, February, you short, yet long, little month.

On Headphones, Shop Vacs, Acorns, and Twenty Years of Service

We're nearly through the first two weeks of the spring semester at Penn State. I'm teaching four classes this term. We've gone over the syllabi. I've learned nearly 100 names. We're establishing classroom rhythms. Students will be submitting real assignments, real soon. It's happening. We're doing this.

This year is my 21st year teaching at Penn State. I know this because I received a small acrylic plaque in the shape of the number 20 to commemorate 20 years of service this past summer. The university also sent me an email with an online catalog of prizes so I could choose a reward. I selected a set of headphones. They're decidedly mid in terms of quality.

As a side note: I've always loved my job. What I mean by "always" is that I've loved my job 90-95% of the time. This feels like an extremely high approval rating after two decades. However, when I received an acrylic 20 and headphones as the acknowledgement of 20 years of service, I wanted to quit. The reaction was swift and visceral. I put the plaque in a drawer. I don't use my headphones. True story.

Incidentally, one of the prize options from the online catalog was a shop vac. We already own an old shop vac, but retrospectively, I now wish that I would have selected this option so I could say, "This prize system for years-of-service sucks," and mean it both literally and figuratively.

I digress. This was not meant to be the point of this post.

The real point of this post is that — despite the lame acrylic plaque and janky headphones that demoralized me to the point of wanting to abandon hope (and employment) at the year 20 marker — I'm now in the midst of year 21 and I still love teaching. I still consider ways to grow, ways to explain content vividly, ways to engage students in tangible ways.

This past weekend, I thought of a way to do this. It involved making an analogy about acorns and oak trees. Acorns are amazing. The DNA of an entire oak tree is housed in an acorn, and if planted in proper conditions, that one tiny seed produces mighty growth. (If you're wondering, my analogy compared the acorn to a strong residual message statement, which, in public speaking, is the singular message that an audience remembers after everything else about a speech has been forgotten. All the content developed during a speech — every example, explanation, and argument that a speaker develops and conveys — germinates from that tiny "acorn" of a clear, focused residual message. You don't plant an acorn and grow a tomato, after all. The growth needs to match the seed. Content needs to back the point.)

That's an extremely long way of saying that I was thinking about acorns last weekend. And, in passing, I stated to my husband that it would be nice if I had acorns to pass out to one particular class of students as a tangible way for them to remember this lesson.

I didn't venture into the woods to find an oak tree and gather acorns that day, though. Then overnight and into the next morning, we were blanketed by a light dusting of snow, which further solidified why I didn't give another thought to acorn harvesting. The analogy would stand without using actual acorns as props, I figured.

But the next evening when my husband returned from work and found me sitting at my laptop, he approached me with a smile and his hands clenched together. "As I was walking back to my car, I noticed that my feet were crunching on the sidewalk. Look, acorns!"

He poured two dozen acorns from his hands onto the table.

I said all that to say this:

It's year 21, and I still love my job. At least 90-95% of the time. But better yet entirely, I love my husband even more.

Today and Every Day After

This admittance might make me sound old, but we didn't stay up to midnight last night to welcome the start of 2026. Instead, we watched college football (Miami upset Ohio State!), then headed to bed. Even if you don't see the ball in Times Square drop, it's still a new year when you wake up.

I already like when I get to flip a calendar page to a new month, so starting a whole new calendar scratches a deep itch. It's a clean slate. A reboot. A fresh start. I'm ready to organize my pantry, clean my closet, toss expired spices, and throw out old socks. 

At the same time, I've lived plenty long enough to know that I'm still me. I don't subscribe to the near-year-new-you premise, as if somehow we reach January 1 and become our true authentic selves, just 100% better in every possible way. 

What is new, though, is a promise that I rely on daily: God's mercies are new every morning. Daily mercies. Daily bread. The daily promise that I don't need to fear because the Lord never will leave me nor forsake me.

God with us — Emmanuel — isn't just a concept to sing about in Christmas songs, though I deeply appreciate those reminders. Emmanuel means that God is with us on December 25, and God is with us today, and God is with us every day after.

God is with me when I'm ugly crying, when I'm irritable, when I'm a disappointment, when I'm ashamed. God is with me when tears sting my eyes, when I feel overlooked, when I don't know the next best step to take. God is with me when I'm teaching a class, speaking on a stage, and writing a blog post. God is with me when I'm so full of joy my heart can't contain it, when I'm light with laughter, when all is well.

Emmanuel, God who became flesh, the God who has redeemed me, this Jesus who is the King of Kings — He is called Emmanuel, God with us. 

God with us today when the calendar is bright and fresh with the promise of a new year ahead, and He's with us every day after.

Spinning New Life on a Magnavox Record Console

Day 12 of the Twelve DIYs of Christmas 2025

There are many reasons why I know that my husband loves me. One of those reasons is that when I ask him something like, "I was just on Facebook Marketplace and found a free piece of furniture that weighs 300 pounds, so will you please go with me to some random stranger's shed to pick it up and let me store it in our garage for four months?" he answers with "yes."

At least, this is what happened this past year when I found a vintage 1970's Magnavox Record Console. It was a frigidly cold day we picked it up, and let me tell you, it was a beast carrying and lifting it into our van. True to form, it also stayed in our garage, untouched, for several months until it warmed up enough for me to work on it.

The first steps, essentially, involved demolition. None of the electronics worked, so I pulled out the record player, eight track, radio, speakers, and all wires. After this initial gutting, I removed the external panels so I could strip away the old fabric that had covered the speaker openings. While dirty, this process felt productive.

The next leg of restoration involved giving every inch of the frame a thorough cleaning, which set a good foundation for the new finish.

I used Iron Ore, a deep charcoal paint, and covered the entire piece with two good coats before carefully sealing it with a protective coat of polycrylic for durability.

The next step was to replace the old fabric with new fabric, which I cut from a set of gray curtains that I picked up at Goodwill for $3 to fit each panel, using a staple gun to secure tightly to prevent any wrinkles. After this, I reassembled the console by reattaching the panels and securing the sliding top cover.

With the restoration complete, the final step was staging. We carried the console inside (lighter after the electronics were removed, but still a beast!), and I took a series of photos to show off various angles and the updated finish. I posted it on Facebook Marketplace, and within one hour I sold it for $150. Later that evening, a dad and his teenage son picked it up so the son could add his own sound equipment and store his growing vinyl collections.

This was such a fun project with a great before-after transformation! I especially love that the console has a new life in a brand new home.

Thanks so much for joining me through the Twelve DIYs of Christmas! I had a great time revisiting projects, and I hope you did, too. Here's an archive of all this year's projects — drop me a comment if you have a favorite!

May your DIYs be merry and bright!
Twelve DIYs of Christmas 2025

Day 1: Corner Cabinet Revisited

Day 2: When you Really Love a Book

Day 3: Fresh Finish for a Faded Slat Table

Day 4: Branching Out with DIY Flowering Branch Decor
Day 5: Elevate Standard Doors with Iron Ore
Day 6: Easy Solar Lights from Old Lamps
Day 7: Barn Quilt Wooden Artwork
Day 8: Restoring a 100-Year-Old Castlewood Folding Table
Day 9: From Trash to Treasure: Roadside Benches

Day 10: New Life for a Vintage Tombstone Radio
Day 11: A Gallery Wall that's Going Places

Day 12: You are Here: Spinning New Life on a Magnavox Record Console

A Gallery Wall That's Going Places

Day 11 of the Twelve DIYs of Christmas 2025

I like maps. For the past several years, I had a simple print of a United States map hanging in a thrifted frame in our finished basement. This fall I decided to upgrade the wall into more of a gallery by adding photos of places we've visited.

In the upper right, I hung a framed lobster post card and a nautical picture I took while boating in the Penobscot Bay during my visit to Maine this past summer.

The upper left showcases artwork and a photo from our hiking trip to Utah's Big Five national parks during summer 2024.

Our Pennsylvanian roots are well represented with this cleverly designed map of the state:

And, of course, Penn State gets a "WE ARE" shoutout with a metal laser-cut sign which I found at a garage sale.

While the layout certainly isn't to scale, the goal was to have some directional sense -- west locations being more more west, east locations being more east. (That's as good as I can get.)  I plan to add pictures from a few southern locations, too, like Naples, Florida where my parents live and Jekyll Island, Georgia, which is one of my favorite places ever. Once I thrift a few more picture frames, I'll add a lower tier to the wall.

It's a gallery wall that's going places, one that happily showcases the places we've gone.

May your DIYs be merry and bright!

Visit again tomorrow for final installation of the Twelve DIYs of Christmas 2025!

New Life for a Vintage Tombstone Radio

Day 10 of the Twelve DIYs of Christmas 2025

I have to admit something: a lot of antiques are ugly. But they've often got something really good going for them: they're build to last with quality craftsmanship. This past summer, I found something that fit this bill: an old wooden antique radio, which I purchased at a garage sale for $5. Much like the images above, the radio frame was solid wood. The electrical mechanisms already had been removed, but the nubby brown and orange fabric that covered the speaker remained. 

I loved the radio's arched shape, interesting grate, and quality wood, though. To restore it back to display-worthiness, I removed and disposed the fabric. I also carefully removed the wooden grate, patched where it was broken with wood glue and filler, and then gave it a coat of inky black chalk paint. For the arched radio frame, I gave it a careful sanding, then painted the circular border with the same inky chalk paint before reattaching the wooden grate with glue.

 

I love the contrast between the rich wood and the black decorative grill, and the arched shape echoes some other arched decorations that we have in nearby rooms, like an arched cabinet and an arched mirror. Repetition of elements, whether colors or shapes, makes spaces look cohesive and intentional, I'm finding.

It's a simple, unique tabletop decoration that would look equally nice by itself, or with either a faux plant or candle inside.

May your DIYs be merry and bright!

We're nearing the end, but visit again to see the remaining twelve DIYs of Christmas 2025!

From Trash to Treasure: Roadside Benches

Day 9 of the Twelve DIYs of Christmas 2025

In the span of one week last summer, I found not one, not two, but three awesome pieces of roadside "trash" that came home with me as treasure. First, while driving through a neighboring town, I saw these two stone benches, disassembled and lying flat in a pile of trash on the berm of a road. (A herculean task of lifting them into my car, but worth it!)

A few days later I took a 10-hour road trip to visit my dear friend in Bangor, Maine. The day I left, which happened to be the Monday after a Bangor community yard sale took place, I found this bench on the side of the road, too.  

Apparently, people in Pennsylvania and Maine alike were going wild throwing away perfectly good benches. And who am I to question their decisions when I'm the person who found them?

For the wooden bench, the restoration was simple. I sanded the seat, which is a beautiful thick plank of wood. Then, after removing the basic original legs, I added sleek metal legs that I ordered from Amazon. The restoration for the stone benches even more simple. All they needed was a thorough power-washing, which happens to be a bizarrely therapeutic activity. I sold the shorter stone bench, which earned more than enough profit to fund the metal leg purchase for the wooden bench.

We placed the remaining stone bench in our backyard, which feels like owning our own park bench. It's worn, but it's perfect.

The wooden bench now resides in our bedroom, adding a touch of warmth against the gray walls and drawing out the natural wicker in the salvaged basket I placed on top.

Like I said, it pays to be observant! And a sincere thank you to the bench-thrower-outers. Your trash became my treasure. 

May your DIYs be merry and bright!

Visit again to see the remaining twelve DIYs of Christmas 2025!

Restoring a 100-year-old Castlewood Folding Card Table

Day 8 of the Twelve DIYs of Christmas 2025

When I saw this square folding table at a garage sale, I didn't think much of it. It was propped against a wall and looked worse for the wear — scratches in the finish and whitened circles where hot plates must have damaged the original stain. Still, the wood grain created an interesting diamond pattern, and I said so to the elderly woman in charge of the garage sale.

She stated that she always had enjoyed the table's pattern, too. Then she added, "That table was my grandmother's, you know. She used to sit there to make braided rugs. When I was a little girl, I used to watch her spin the rugs on top braiding them into a circle." 

Now my interest was piqued. If this woman was older and the table belonged to her grandmother, then how old was this table?

I asked how much she wanted. She said, "Eight dollars." I said, "Sold."

And that's the story of how I came in possession of a Castlewood art deco folding card table from the 1920's. Given its history and memories, I aimed to treat it especially well. To start, I carefully sanded the surface, taking great care to sand in the direction of the grain for each section.

Once the surface-level scratches were sanded out, I brought the table inside to paint the edges and legs a deep charcoal color (Iron Ore). While I typically aim to preserve original wood in a piece like this, the waved table edges and the grooved legs would have made restoration difficult. Paint was a good alternative.

After one final sanding with a fine sandpaper to ensure the smoothest finish and a careful wipe-down, I focused on the final stage: adding three coats of Minwax polycrylic (with light sanding in between each coat) to ensure that the tabletop would be properly sealed and preserved. 

I love the finished product. The table's unexpected backstory and the time I invested in the restoration efforts make me love it even more.

For being a hundred years old, I think this table is looking mighty fine. I hope the original owners would be pleased!

May your DIYs be merry and bright!

Visit again to see the remaining twelve DIYs of Christmas 2025!