My name is Jerusalem Jackson Greer. That is really my name, but I cannot take any credit for it. The first part is from my mother, Tanya Beverly Jackson, her whimsical ways, and the line of oddly name women we descend from. The second part is from my father, Johnny Joe Jackson Jr, and together we come from a family full of preachers. The final bit comes from my husband Nathaniel Wayne Greer, whom I choose, and whose name I choose to throw in with all the rest for good measure. Like my name, I am made up of many different parts- some by birth, some by choice, none of which happened in a vacuum,- all part of my story.
I like to cook, craft, throw parties, sleep under heavy blankets, talk to chickens, rescue old furniture off the side of the road, hide from the world on my grandmother’s screened porch, go camping with my boys, read Anne Lamott, Phyllis Tickle, Kathleen Norris and crime novels. I am addicted to British Television, prefer singing with a twang at the top of my lungs, and have a strong affection for coffee and Cosmos (not together however.)
I adore living in the South.
I am a liturgical convert.
I love Jesus.
I trust the Holy Spirit.
I love theology and shiplap, the sacraments and Pinterest.
I believe that Love is patient. Love is kind. Love does not envy. Love does not boast. Love is not proud. Love does not dishonor others. Love is not self-seeking. Love is not easily angered. Love keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.I believe that anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is selling something.
This little online space is the ultimate catch-all of my life. Part family scrapbook, part diary, part to-do list, part recipe box, part coffee chat, part gallery, part shitty-first-drafts, part confessional, part garden journal.
It is a record of my beautimess attempts at living a sacramental life – a life that is filled with the finding, the celebrating, and the looking for all the visible outward signs of inward spiritual graces.
Dinner parties filled with redemption, garden patches planted with hope, thrifted furniture restored and loved, mothering mistakes soaked in grace.
These are the things I blog about, will keep blogging about as long as a I can – imperfectly, erratically, lovingly.