I am learning sometimes the dream has to wait.
Be put on hold.
Go on a bathroom break.
Clock out for ten minutes. Or maybe even ten days.
Life interrupts.
Or rather, people do. People we love.
Our tribe. Our family. Our friends.
Life is never neat. And no matter how many to-do lists I have or how many items I cross off, it's never as organized as I try to make it either.
I write.
And when I am not writing I am thinking about writing. Feelings become describable and words become life. It's all I can do to scribble them down in my notebook or record it in my iphone as a barely deciphered "note' before I forget. And let's be honest, Siri doesn't get it ya'll. All the updates in the world hasn't fixed the words lost in translation just yet.
Even as I try to write this, my computer has shut down, restarted, and begun to download Windows 10.
Mid-type. Three consonants in.
Interruptions.
(sigh)
I am inspired as much as the next person by all the affirming slogans and handmade signs reminding us to, Be You!, Follow your Happy, and Just Write.
I hang these on my walls,(a lot you guys. Instagram is taking ALL MY MONEY) and would gladly purchase all the buttons and totes and stickers in my feed, if that would make them all come true.
But can I be real here?
For just a sec?
I can't do that all the time. Even if it's penciled in. Even if it's important.
And I'll tell you why.
My husband is going gangbusters in his business. And watching him swells my heart and make me wish for a set of pom-poms. That's how stinkin' proud I am.
But guess what it means?
Long nights in the office for him.
Dinner clean up and dishes for me. (or better known as - No writing.)
I have a daughter who is moving out in ONE DAY (sob sob just kidding. I'm happy. But then I'm sobbing too so basically I'm a mess), and if she has a story to tell or if she just wants to sit on the couch and Friends it out - I'm down. Like James Brown. I'm going to sit on that couch with her and not move. Because guess what folks?
The season of Sammi is coming to an end. I know it. She knows it.
The adulting that has started knows it, and once we adult we can't kid again. Not in the same way.
So I'm soaking it up. Every sigh. Every MOM. Every scare as I walk out of the bathroom and she throws the embarrassment up on Snapchat. Every frustration with the utility company and every excitement of a room that almost sits empty.
Next week it will be Jeff's new office. A restart of something we can't even grasp.
But this week,
this week,
it is being hallowed out.
Just like me.
I sat in the middle of her floor after we sold her bed and I tried hard not to cry.
There's always something. I know. I'm pounding this out on my lunch hour instead of walking. So there's that. My writing is done but my exercise and fresh air is taking the hit.
It's ok. One thing is always going to cancel out another.
So here's what I am saying ...
Be You.
Follow your Happy.
Just Write.
But know that some days your happy is going to look different than you expected. It's not going to be written on your list or located in your calendar.
I think these can be some of the best kinds of happy though. Interruptions are God things. It's when He redirects us.
It's when he whispers, "oh no .. you think that's THE most important thing but THIS is...."
I think we can miss it though. I know I can.
I miss it in the midst of my guilt.
The constant chatter.
"You didn't work out. You didn't write. You didn't get the laundry done. You forgot stamps. You need more eggs. You didn't write the card. You didn't call your friend. You didn't spend enough time with Jacob."
and on and on and on and on.
There's a name for this radio station friends. I'll share it with you another day. Just know,
you are not alone,
AND,
turn the station off.
We are all doing the best we can.
Some days I am going to bang out twenty pages of my book.
Other days I'm going to stare at my outline for hours without writing one word. (hellooooo all last week!)
Some days,
you are going to get to each thing on your list. You'll feel accomplished and stretch hard to pat yourself on the back.
Other days,
you are going to wonder who hijacked your life.
But then you'll realize,
it's everyone you really love.
And all the things that make your Happy.
XO
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 12, 2016
Food-Pushers Unite
My kids call me The Food Pusher. It's true. It's like a drug pusher except without the drugs.
But we say the same things, in hopes of the same goal; they are going to take me up on it and they are going to like it.
"Come on, just try it."
"It's so good. You don't know what you are missing."
"This. This right here? It's a little piece of heaven."
And in desperation only the mom at her wits end of a picky eater knows, the classic, "You'll be cool. I'll think you are the coolest if you just try
one. little. bite."
It makes no difference how old they are either. My kids at home are twenty and sixteen, plenty old enough to fend for themselves if the onset of starvation happens while I am at work.
But I offer anyway. I practically get on my knees and beg them to eat.
Just like I did when they were three.
Oh you only like Circle K rotisserie hot dogs? Let's go!
Frozen burritos that basically look like bandaged diarrhea? SURE!
Frozen pizzas that taste like lost frisbees drizzled in expired tomato sauce? No problem.
Quesadillas at morning, noon. or night? It's on like donkey kong. Or Taco Bell.
Just let me see you eat.
And let's be honest. If you judge me based on the three things my son eats most,and the go-to for my daughter; I sound either sloppy and terrible or the coolest mom ever; depending on who you are asking.
And we really DO want to ask someone, sometimes, don't we?
Grab another Mom's arm like a life preserver and sputter out our need for validation and an "atta girl." Buoy me up for another day please.
I think I am a pretty good mom. On the "will-they-go-to-therapy-scale?" I'd give myself a two. Maybe a four?
I mean, I've got three of them, my oldest and second oldest (NOT middle! AVOID SAYING MIDDLE FOR THE LOVE OF PEACE AND QUIET) are in their early twenties and so far, not any visible damage. Of course, my son is still home for another year and there's still time to screw with his head pretty good but I would say most mistakes were made in the early years.
Hopefully early enough that they have forgotten. Or those memories have been replaced.
Upgraded.
Mommy version VI.
Of course there are a few that get brought up constantly. Like, "Mom remember when you used to set the timer and you told us if we didn't eat our dinner before it went off you would beat us?"
Yes. Yes I do. I'm SO glad you remember too since it is one of my BEST mommy moments.
On the upside, my grocery bill was low.
Or brought up even more recently,
"Hey MOM. Remember that time Bre did somethingsomethinsomething and you took down her Justin Timberlake poster and hung it up in YOUR room."
Um, Yes. I wish I could remember what it was she did exactly, but maybe I just had a hankering to see JT on my wall?
Possible. Plausible. Whatever.
These, of course, are small examples.
The bigger ones are so much harder to write.
Because secretly we are all hoping we do so much better than our own parents, right?
I mean, I would NEVER .... and then I do.
And everything I value and hold close and wave the white hat of I AM A BETTER MOMMY THAN YOU falls around me in prickly pieces of judgmental glass.
Like the time I called my son an asshole and watched the wound spread slowly across his face like a darkening cloud before a cold rain.
Then I burst into tears.
I started my period two days later. Obviously I was under duress from the emotional hijackers that live inside my body before they give up on anything tangible happening and bleed out.
But that's besides the point.
(ps-I recently purchased a "girl business" zippy pouch that says "oh my bloody hell". I think everyone in the house identifies with the sentiment)
What is the point?
Parenting is hard. And inconvenient.
And scary.
We are all going to make a lot of mistakes.
About fifteen years ago I fell down the stairs outside my apartment. As I skidded down the concrete steps on my knees and landed on all bloody fours, all I could think was,"Oh My GOD. Did anyone SEE that?!"
Not, maybe someone will help me.
Not, someone is going to ask if I'm ok.
But only, did anyone see me practically face plant and make a complete jackass of myself?
That's parenting.
All the time.
We're going to fall asleep on the couch with our baby in the crook of our arm and only wake up because we hear them thunk to the floor.
We're going to be so tired from the complete lack of sleep that we barricade our toddler in the living room with us and "A Whole New World" lulls us to genie land, on the cheerio sprinkled floor.
We're going to wake up late and get our kids to school with nothing more substantial than a pop-tart for breakfast. On test day.
We're going to get lost in the happy zone at Target and then hear our name reverberating over the store intercom. Hi there, mum-of-the-year. You lost your child.
Nice one.
We're going to have our kids give us a fun pop-quiz with super hard questions like, "when's my birthday?" And then watch them look at us in disappointment and horror when it takes longer than five seconds for us to remember which one is theirs.
We're going to buy store-bought cookies and brownies for the bake sale.
Enough said.
We might call our kids a bad name.
We might even enjoy it for just a teeny tiny split of a second when we do because let's face it -
we hold that shit in all the time.
We're still regular people.
We just have other people looking to us for love and acceptance all the time.
No pressure.
We're going to have other parents shake their heads and cluck their tongues and we're going to try really hard to remember we are a contributing member of society and not throat-punch them.
We're going to have strangers yank out their binky in the middle of the mall and coo "oh you sweet little puh puh puh. You don't need that thing stuck in your mouth do you?"
And you're going to remind yourself it isn't ok to push down grandmas.
We're going to overhear someone we trust, someone who's supposed to be in our tribe, talk about us and our lack of parental skills and it's going to sting. We might cry. Just for a second.
And then we might get really pissed and think of all the awful ways THEY parent instead. It's not "nice" but it will make you feel better. Better enough to not claw their eyes out.
We're going to wish for a pedicure by ourselves, for a glass of water that doesn't have floaties in it, for sex that isn't muffled in a pillow, for toilet time with our favorite magazine, for a bra that doesn't smell like breast milk. Or vomit.
We're going to try and learn common core math and feel like the biggest idiot on the planet when we don't get it and realize we can't help our second grader do their homework.
We're going to try not to hate their teacher for sending this crap home.
We're going to breathe deep and not freak out over their room that has exploded with clothes (Are they dirty? Are they clean?)and empty mountain dew cans and a floor littered with pink squiggly wrappers from their maxi-pads.
We are going to give them "space."
And then a week later we're going to say, "Screw this effing space crap!" and yell at them to clean their room before we throw away everything in it except their bed and underwear.
We are going to do our best to not seem psychotic.
We are going to tell ourselves this is normal.
We are going to hope that's true.
Moms. Mothers. Mums. Ma's. Mommy's.
It is true.
You are doing the best you can.
And if it makes you feel like you're excelling at the mom-job to offer them a mom-made sandwich, an apple and peanut butter, a slice of chocolate cake you just frosted; then go ahead and do it.
Food pushers unite.
XO
-
But we say the same things, in hopes of the same goal; they are going to take me up on it and they are going to like it.
"Come on, just try it."
"It's so good. You don't know what you are missing."
"This. This right here? It's a little piece of heaven."
And in desperation only the mom at her wits end of a picky eater knows, the classic, "You'll be cool. I'll think you are the coolest if you just try
one. little. bite."
It makes no difference how old they are either. My kids at home are twenty and sixteen, plenty old enough to fend for themselves if the onset of starvation happens while I am at work.
But I offer anyway. I practically get on my knees and beg them to eat.
Just like I did when they were three.
Oh you only like Circle K rotisserie hot dogs? Let's go!
Frozen burritos that basically look like bandaged diarrhea? SURE!
Frozen pizzas that taste like lost frisbees drizzled in expired tomato sauce? No problem.
Quesadillas at morning, noon. or night? It's on like donkey kong. Or Taco Bell.
Just let me see you eat.
And let's be honest. If you judge me based on the three things my son eats most,and the go-to for my daughter; I sound either sloppy and terrible or the coolest mom ever; depending on who you are asking.
And we really DO want to ask someone, sometimes, don't we?
Grab another Mom's arm like a life preserver and sputter out our need for validation and an "atta girl." Buoy me up for another day please.
I think I am a pretty good mom. On the "will-they-go-to-therapy-scale?" I'd give myself a two. Maybe a four?
I mean, I've got three of them, my oldest and second oldest (NOT middle! AVOID SAYING MIDDLE FOR THE LOVE OF PEACE AND QUIET) are in their early twenties and so far, not any visible damage. Of course, my son is still home for another year and there's still time to screw with his head pretty good but I would say most mistakes were made in the early years.
Hopefully early enough that they have forgotten. Or those memories have been replaced.
Upgraded.
Mommy version VI.
Of course there are a few that get brought up constantly. Like, "Mom remember when you used to set the timer and you told us if we didn't eat our dinner before it went off you would beat us?"
Yes. Yes I do. I'm SO glad you remember too since it is one of my BEST mommy moments.
On the upside, my grocery bill was low.
Or brought up even more recently,
"Hey MOM. Remember that time Bre did somethingsomethinsomething and you took down her Justin Timberlake poster and hung it up in YOUR room."
Um, Yes. I wish I could remember what it was she did exactly, but maybe I just had a hankering to see JT on my wall?
Possible. Plausible. Whatever.
These, of course, are small examples.
The bigger ones are so much harder to write.
Because secretly we are all hoping we do so much better than our own parents, right?
I mean, I would NEVER .... and then I do.
And everything I value and hold close and wave the white hat of I AM A BETTER MOMMY THAN YOU falls around me in prickly pieces of judgmental glass.
Like the time I called my son an asshole and watched the wound spread slowly across his face like a darkening cloud before a cold rain.
Then I burst into tears.
I started my period two days later. Obviously I was under duress from the emotional hijackers that live inside my body before they give up on anything tangible happening and bleed out.
But that's besides the point.
(ps-I recently purchased a "girl business" zippy pouch that says "oh my bloody hell". I think everyone in the house identifies with the sentiment)
What is the point?
Parenting is hard. And inconvenient.
And scary.
We are all going to make a lot of mistakes.
About fifteen years ago I fell down the stairs outside my apartment. As I skidded down the concrete steps on my knees and landed on all bloody fours, all I could think was,"Oh My GOD. Did anyone SEE that?!"
Not, maybe someone will help me.
Not, someone is going to ask if I'm ok.
But only, did anyone see me practically face plant and make a complete jackass of myself?
That's parenting.
All the time.
We're going to fall asleep on the couch with our baby in the crook of our arm and only wake up because we hear them thunk to the floor.
We're going to be so tired from the complete lack of sleep that we barricade our toddler in the living room with us and "A Whole New World" lulls us to genie land, on the cheerio sprinkled floor.
We're going to wake up late and get our kids to school with nothing more substantial than a pop-tart for breakfast. On test day.
We're going to get lost in the happy zone at Target and then hear our name reverberating over the store intercom. Hi there, mum-of-the-year. You lost your child.
Nice one.
We're going to have our kids give us a fun pop-quiz with super hard questions like, "when's my birthday?" And then watch them look at us in disappointment and horror when it takes longer than five seconds for us to remember which one is theirs.
We're going to buy store-bought cookies and brownies for the bake sale.
Enough said.
We might call our kids a bad name.
We might even enjoy it for just a teeny tiny split of a second when we do because let's face it -
we hold that shit in all the time.
We're still regular people.
We just have other people looking to us for love and acceptance all the time.
No pressure.
We're going to have other parents shake their heads and cluck their tongues and we're going to try really hard to remember we are a contributing member of society and not throat-punch them.
We're going to have strangers yank out their binky in the middle of the mall and coo "oh you sweet little puh puh puh. You don't need that thing stuck in your mouth do you?"
And you're going to remind yourself it isn't ok to push down grandmas.
We're going to overhear someone we trust, someone who's supposed to be in our tribe, talk about us and our lack of parental skills and it's going to sting. We might cry. Just for a second.
And then we might get really pissed and think of all the awful ways THEY parent instead. It's not "nice" but it will make you feel better. Better enough to not claw their eyes out.
We're going to wish for a pedicure by ourselves, for a glass of water that doesn't have floaties in it, for sex that isn't muffled in a pillow, for toilet time with our favorite magazine, for a bra that doesn't smell like breast milk. Or vomit.
We're going to try and learn common core math and feel like the biggest idiot on the planet when we don't get it and realize we can't help our second grader do their homework.
We're going to try not to hate their teacher for sending this crap home.
We're going to breathe deep and not freak out over their room that has exploded with clothes (Are they dirty? Are they clean?)and empty mountain dew cans and a floor littered with pink squiggly wrappers from their maxi-pads.
We are going to give them "space."
And then a week later we're going to say, "Screw this effing space crap!" and yell at them to clean their room before we throw away everything in it except their bed and underwear.
We are going to do our best to not seem psychotic.
We are going to tell ourselves this is normal.
We are going to hope that's true.
Moms. Mothers. Mums. Ma's. Mommy's.
It is true.
You are doing the best you can.
And if it makes you feel like you're excelling at the mom-job to offer them a mom-made sandwich, an apple and peanut butter, a slice of chocolate cake you just frosted; then go ahead and do it.
Food pushers unite.
XO
-
Feb 9, 2016
Day 1
I haven't written in much too long. It's crazy because there is CONSTANT flow of consonants and vowels in my head. I'm always thinking, "I should write that down for later." And I never do. Then it's lost.
If you are reading this, thank you. I will never lose sight of what a privilege it is for someone else to read my musings, my struggles, my convictions. I am sure you have 283768394 other things you could be doing right now.
Laundry. Dishes. Yelling at your kids. Grocery shopping. Meal-Prepping?
Picking up your husbands dirt-crusted socks.
Oh wait ... that's all the things I could be doing. ;)
Instead I am writing.
And this is a BIG DEAL, because I always feel torn, like I'm not doing enough, and because writing is such a pleasure, I feel guilty. As if it should be a reward that comes after everything else instead of the THING that makes my heart beat faster, the THING that makes me feel like matter.
I have challenged myself to write every. single day.
Some posts may be very, very short.
Your welcome.
I am going to write about everything. I will warn you now that there may be a lot of things you don't like or agree with.
You may even decide after reading a few posts, you don't like me much at all.
That's ok.
I have this habit of broadcasting all my faults, or unappealing habits quickly, so we can both get it out in the open if I'm not going to live up to your expectations. I learned very young that LOVE was a bargaining tool and so now, when a relationship forms, I prefer to just lay it out. Before we waste too much time or get our lives all invested. I hope you stay but if you have to go, I get it. Really.
So here we go. I am a wife, sometimes not a very good one, and every day I count myself blessed to have the man that I do. I tell people all the time he is the nice one. Sometimes I get a hearty chuckle in response as if I am being coy.
I'm not.
That's straight up truth right there.
I'm a Christian. I love Jesus with everything in me and I think the church I go to is pretty fantastic.
However,
I usually prefer the company of non-Christians.
I find them refreshingly honest and I have to tell you, a whole lot funnier.
I am drawn to the hurting, the abandoned, and the looked-over. They are my people and I remind myself on the daily to never forget that.
I am a mom! Best and hardest thing I have ever done. I wish I could tell you I have been the perfect mother.
I have not.
But what I have done is raise some pretty decent humans who aren't a-holes.
They are kind. They are funny. And they see people.
That makes my heart grow more than anything.
I have a love/hate relationship with anger and confrontation. It was so much easier before I had Jesus and wanted to be more like Him and less like me. I'll tell ya, punching someone in the face puts a situation in perspective really fast but this whole "love your neighbor as yourself" thing has pretty much put a shut-down on all things physical.
And quite a few verbal.
So there's lot of praying instead.
Which is a good thing.
I want to be a good person all the time. I really do. It only gets difficult when other people are involved.
Which says a lot about my heart.
I want it to be white.
But I think it is gray, gray as concrete, with bruises of black, and a smattering of white dots.
This is exponentially whiter than it was before (and by before, I mean a whole lot of tragic crap that I'll probably get into in future posts... I know that any bad can be used for good and there's no way I am letting all that rot go to waste).
I bet you really want to read more now, don't you?
Well, I hope so. I mean that. I hope you read. I hope you comment but more than anything I hope it shines a light in some dark places of your own.
Because we all have heart damage; bruises that go deep.
Some just have white duct tape over it.
Here's to the brave and the hopeful.
We will not be disappointed.
XO
If you are reading this, thank you. I will never lose sight of what a privilege it is for someone else to read my musings, my struggles, my convictions. I am sure you have 283768394 other things you could be doing right now.
Laundry. Dishes. Yelling at your kids. Grocery shopping. Meal-Prepping?
Picking up your husbands dirt-crusted socks.
Oh wait ... that's all the things I could be doing. ;)
Instead I am writing.
And this is a BIG DEAL, because I always feel torn, like I'm not doing enough, and because writing is such a pleasure, I feel guilty. As if it should be a reward that comes after everything else instead of the THING that makes my heart beat faster, the THING that makes me feel like matter.
I have challenged myself to write every. single day.
Some posts may be very, very short.
Your welcome.
I am going to write about everything. I will warn you now that there may be a lot of things you don't like or agree with.
You may even decide after reading a few posts, you don't like me much at all.
That's ok.
I have this habit of broadcasting all my faults, or unappealing habits quickly, so we can both get it out in the open if I'm not going to live up to your expectations. I learned very young that LOVE was a bargaining tool and so now, when a relationship forms, I prefer to just lay it out. Before we waste too much time or get our lives all invested. I hope you stay but if you have to go, I get it. Really.
So here we go. I am a wife, sometimes not a very good one, and every day I count myself blessed to have the man that I do. I tell people all the time he is the nice one. Sometimes I get a hearty chuckle in response as if I am being coy.
I'm not.
That's straight up truth right there.
I'm a Christian. I love Jesus with everything in me and I think the church I go to is pretty fantastic.
However,
I usually prefer the company of non-Christians.
I find them refreshingly honest and I have to tell you, a whole lot funnier.
I am drawn to the hurting, the abandoned, and the looked-over. They are my people and I remind myself on the daily to never forget that.
I am a mom! Best and hardest thing I have ever done. I wish I could tell you I have been the perfect mother.
I have not.
But what I have done is raise some pretty decent humans who aren't a-holes.
They are kind. They are funny. And they see people.
That makes my heart grow more than anything.
I have a love/hate relationship with anger and confrontation. It was so much easier before I had Jesus and wanted to be more like Him and less like me. I'll tell ya, punching someone in the face puts a situation in perspective really fast but this whole "love your neighbor as yourself" thing has pretty much put a shut-down on all things physical.
And quite a few verbal.
So there's lot of praying instead.
Which is a good thing.
I want to be a good person all the time. I really do. It only gets difficult when other people are involved.
Which says a lot about my heart.
I want it to be white.
But I think it is gray, gray as concrete, with bruises of black, and a smattering of white dots.
This is exponentially whiter than it was before (and by before, I mean a whole lot of tragic crap that I'll probably get into in future posts... I know that any bad can be used for good and there's no way I am letting all that rot go to waste).
I bet you really want to read more now, don't you?
Well, I hope so. I mean that. I hope you read. I hope you comment but more than anything I hope it shines a light in some dark places of your own.
Because we all have heart damage; bruises that go deep.
Some just have white duct tape over it.
Here's to the brave and the hopeful.
We will not be disappointed.
XO
Aug 29, 2015
I saw your picture today
My life has been more hectic than usual lately. I find myself constantly muttering reminders and walking into rooms with no idea why I'm there.
Everything is so busy.
I have one daughter getting married, another moving away, and my son starting his junior year of high school. I try not to worry, I do. But it comes anyway, in waves and gulps and mist. Sometimes I can breathe through it, pray, unhinge my shoulders from my ears.
But the past few weeks, my mind is a hamster wheel with a cat stuck inside.
And I'm the hamster.
running running running
glancing back occasionally to see how close that cat is to me.
A few days ago I was cleaning off my desk of the zillion little things that accumulate all week with no purpose whatsoever and yet I can't throw any of it away. Paper clips, receipts, mail, ribbon.
I had a few pictures, pictures that I needed to PUT AWAY IN THE BOX ALREADY.
I don't know why I do this but I see them and instead of putting them away, I just move them over 5 inches.
Maybe stack them neater .. and then move over 5 inches. It's so dumb and completely breaks some rule about clutter and touching one's things more than once without putting them in their proper home.
I don't know.
But this day, this day I was making progress.
Up I scooped them and to the closet I went. I keep a plastic bin in there that holds an attempt to organize all my pictures.
A very sloppy attempt.
I can't ever find what I am looking for without going through them all a thousand times. Today though, instead of dumping the handful in, I pulled the box out, sat down, scooched my back up against the wall, and took off the lid.
I smiled.
There they were. All my babies.
Small. Laughing. Safe.
I lifted a stack out and started rummaging through them; remembering what it was like to have Breann run up to me and give me a hug around my legs, laughing at the look of mischief on Sammi's face as she eyeballed her sister, smiling at the seriousness of Jacob on my wedding day when he was just five. I always get a little misty when I look at these.
Our life.
How fast it goes by.
I continued to filter through them and then, random, I found an old one of me.
Me. Kendra. Tracy.
I blinked.
This was Kelly St.
All the houses in the group home were named by the street they sat on.
Kelly St. was for newbies.
Tracy was my roommate. She stood on the far right.
Tracy.
So obviously hard in her leopard print pants and football jersey. Eyes like steel. Eyes that screamed, STAY AWAY FROM ME.
Kendra. She doesn't look loud here but I remember. Her voice carried like a mega-phone was attached to it. It was like she sucked all the oxygen in from the room and then it came roaring out every time she spoke or laughed or yelled. And she did all three. Frequently.
And then there's me. I look so ... so...
small.
A child. Face partially hidden in my hair. Hand clenched inside my shirt. A jean skirt and black high-topped converse.
It's the shoes that got me.
The shoes that grabbed a hold of my eyes and my memory and then slammed my heart against a concrete wall painted baby diarrhea green.
Leaning against the wall in my hallway while I sat on the floor. Nobody home. No one to hear me. I leaned my head back and bawled.
You ever see those car commercials where the city is dark and yet you can see lights zipping through the city, the freeway, and it's just a blur this way, a blur that way?
fasterfasterfaster
That was my brain. Zipping and blurring and skidding along, trying hard to grasp what I was supposed to see here, what I was supposed to get.
This picture.
Taken in the group home.
Which was after juvenile hall.
which was after I was arrested,
and when I was arrested I wasn't wearing any shoes.
Shoe-less
Calloused
Hard.
Exposed.
Going in barefoot. Well, that was no big deal.
Walking in toes out, in the middle of the night, doesn't compare to the humiliation of being stripped, searched, squatting, coughing, jeered at by coaches and detainees alike.
But going out, in brightness of midday, with a complete stranger, to a waiting van...
well... I kind of think it's how Adam and Eve must have felt.
Naked.
Exposed.
Seen for who they had become.
I relate to how they must have frantically searched for leaves, brush, anything anything to cover themselves, because I would have given anything for at least a pair of shower shoes.
but juvie.
They don't give anything away.
Your vulnerability is on full display.
Remember this moment, child.... and don't come back.
This picture.
I'm thirteen.
Smiling. In a group home. With shoes they bought me.
You would never guess by looking at this that just months before I had started smoking cigarettes,
and then weed,
and then snorting lines of meth,
and drinking more alcohol than I could puke out,
and giving my virginity away to a greasy boy I didn't like and didn't like me,
and then swallowing a bottle of pills the next day because I was so disgusted and wanted to float,
and then taking a car that wasn't mine,
and then putting my hands up with a gun pointed at me.
You wouldn't guess that for the first two weeks in juvie I ate with a dixie cup cut in half and couldn't have a blanket with corners and they peeked in the window every half hour to make sure I was still breathing..
You wouldn't guess that I would jump up, fists swinging at
anyone anyone anyone
who looked at me crazy or uttered a word about me being white or young or a princess.
You wouldn't guess that I had stopped caring a long time ago and
nothing nothing nothing
would make me flinch in fear.
I knew what to be afraid of and these girls and this place wasn't it.
I grew up with monsters.
This picture.
In a place that most couldn't wait to leave but I felt safe.
I could breathe and smile and go to school and close my door and refuse the phone.
I didn't have to pretend.
I didn't have to run.
I could just be.
This picture.
I held it in my hand as I cried on my floor. Thinking back to all the places I had been, the things I had done, the horrors that had been done to me.
And I'm more than just o.k. now.
I do more than just survive.
I live.
I love.
I think about all the people that have said to me,
You're so strong.
You made it.
You did it.
And I always get asked the question,
How?
And my answer, so inadequate, such a let down to what they were hoping for.
Just a shrug. A nonchalance, not because i didn't care but because I didn't know what to say.
And as I sat on the floor, it came. Something I have known but didn't really grasp until right then.
This picture.
I stared at it, blurry in my tears, heartsick in the worry that sometimes wants to drown me for my own kids, and their struggles, and the pain and disappointment they are learning to feel and walk with and grow in. All the things I can't save them from.
I could weep for the girl in this picture.
But I won't.
I've done so much of that already. A mourning for a different life that was stolen in whispers and darkened bedrooms with a person that's now dead.
I celebrate her instead.
For waking up.
For somehow choosing to keep going.
For dreaminng of something bigger.
For sacrifcing so her kids would have what she did not.
It's incredible.
The strength.
Not hers but from the one she shunned and raged against and blamed for so long.
HIM.
Giving a strength she could not muster.
There were no big girl panties to pull up. Someone had yanked those down from her long long before.
This picture.
It's a child.
And then I knew.
He was right there, in every moment I felt alone, in every tear I dropped, in each place I felt my heart crack and shudder, He was with me. His heart broke next to mine.
All that love He walked in and pursued me with ...
it is the same love He walks and pursues my kids with.
They will struggle and their hearts may break,
but they won't die.
It won't kill them.
He will carry them,
strengthen them,
and they will do more than survive.
They will live.
I get it.
And I hope you get it too.
Our kids, we want so badly to protect them from everything... and it's our job to want to do that. We should do that in all the best ways we can.
But we also have to know that is an impossible task.
We are here to love them, guide them, pray over them, support them,
and let them go.
They are not alone.
Not ever.
Breathe deep mamas. Unhinge your shoulders from your ears.
It's a big love out there.
It's a perfect peace.
Everything is so busy.
I have one daughter getting married, another moving away, and my son starting his junior year of high school. I try not to worry, I do. But it comes anyway, in waves and gulps and mist. Sometimes I can breathe through it, pray, unhinge my shoulders from my ears.
But the past few weeks, my mind is a hamster wheel with a cat stuck inside.
And I'm the hamster.
running running running
glancing back occasionally to see how close that cat is to me.
A few days ago I was cleaning off my desk of the zillion little things that accumulate all week with no purpose whatsoever and yet I can't throw any of it away. Paper clips, receipts, mail, ribbon.
I had a few pictures, pictures that I needed to PUT AWAY IN THE BOX ALREADY.
I don't know why I do this but I see them and instead of putting them away, I just move them over 5 inches.
Maybe stack them neater .. and then move over 5 inches. It's so dumb and completely breaks some rule about clutter and touching one's things more than once without putting them in their proper home.
I don't know.
But this day, this day I was making progress.
Up I scooped them and to the closet I went. I keep a plastic bin in there that holds an attempt to organize all my pictures.
A very sloppy attempt.
I can't ever find what I am looking for without going through them all a thousand times. Today though, instead of dumping the handful in, I pulled the box out, sat down, scooched my back up against the wall, and took off the lid.
I smiled.
There they were. All my babies.
Small. Laughing. Safe.
I lifted a stack out and started rummaging through them; remembering what it was like to have Breann run up to me and give me a hug around my legs, laughing at the look of mischief on Sammi's face as she eyeballed her sister, smiling at the seriousness of Jacob on my wedding day when he was just five. I always get a little misty when I look at these.
Our life.
How fast it goes by.
I continued to filter through them and then, random, I found an old one of me.
Me. Kendra. Tracy.
I blinked.
This was Kelly St.
All the houses in the group home were named by the street they sat on.
Kelly St. was for newbies.
Tracy was my roommate. She stood on the far right.
Tracy.
So obviously hard in her leopard print pants and football jersey. Eyes like steel. Eyes that screamed, STAY AWAY FROM ME.
Kendra. She doesn't look loud here but I remember. Her voice carried like a mega-phone was attached to it. It was like she sucked all the oxygen in from the room and then it came roaring out every time she spoke or laughed or yelled. And she did all three. Frequently.
And then there's me. I look so ... so...
small.
A child. Face partially hidden in my hair. Hand clenched inside my shirt. A jean skirt and black high-topped converse.
It's the shoes that got me.
The shoes that grabbed a hold of my eyes and my memory and then slammed my heart against a concrete wall painted baby diarrhea green.
Leaning against the wall in my hallway while I sat on the floor. Nobody home. No one to hear me. I leaned my head back and bawled.
You ever see those car commercials where the city is dark and yet you can see lights zipping through the city, the freeway, and it's just a blur this way, a blur that way?
fasterfasterfaster
That was my brain. Zipping and blurring and skidding along, trying hard to grasp what I was supposed to see here, what I was supposed to get.
This picture.
Taken in the group home.
Which was after juvenile hall.
which was after I was arrested,
and when I was arrested I wasn't wearing any shoes.
Shoe-less
Calloused
Hard.
Exposed.
Going in barefoot. Well, that was no big deal.
Walking in toes out, in the middle of the night, doesn't compare to the humiliation of being stripped, searched, squatting, coughing, jeered at by coaches and detainees alike.
But going out, in brightness of midday, with a complete stranger, to a waiting van...
well... I kind of think it's how Adam and Eve must have felt.
Naked.
Exposed.
Seen for who they had become.
I relate to how they must have frantically searched for leaves, brush, anything anything to cover themselves, because I would have given anything for at least a pair of shower shoes.
but juvie.
They don't give anything away.
Your vulnerability is on full display.
Remember this moment, child.... and don't come back.
This picture.
I'm thirteen.
Smiling. In a group home. With shoes they bought me.
You would never guess by looking at this that just months before I had started smoking cigarettes,
and then weed,
and then snorting lines of meth,
and drinking more alcohol than I could puke out,
and giving my virginity away to a greasy boy I didn't like and didn't like me,
and then swallowing a bottle of pills the next day because I was so disgusted and wanted to float,
and then taking a car that wasn't mine,
and then putting my hands up with a gun pointed at me.
You wouldn't guess that for the first two weeks in juvie I ate with a dixie cup cut in half and couldn't have a blanket with corners and they peeked in the window every half hour to make sure I was still breathing..
You wouldn't guess that I would jump up, fists swinging at
anyone anyone anyone
who looked at me crazy or uttered a word about me being white or young or a princess.
You wouldn't guess that I had stopped caring a long time ago and
nothing nothing nothing
would make me flinch in fear.
I knew what to be afraid of and these girls and this place wasn't it.
I grew up with monsters.
This picture.
In a place that most couldn't wait to leave but I felt safe.
I could breathe and smile and go to school and close my door and refuse the phone.
I didn't have to pretend.
I didn't have to run.
I could just be.
This picture.
I held it in my hand as I cried on my floor. Thinking back to all the places I had been, the things I had done, the horrors that had been done to me.
And I'm more than just o.k. now.
I do more than just survive.
I live.
I love.
I think about all the people that have said to me,
You're so strong.
You made it.
You did it.
And I always get asked the question,
How?
And my answer, so inadequate, such a let down to what they were hoping for.
Just a shrug. A nonchalance, not because i didn't care but because I didn't know what to say.
And as I sat on the floor, it came. Something I have known but didn't really grasp until right then.
This picture.
I stared at it, blurry in my tears, heartsick in the worry that sometimes wants to drown me for my own kids, and their struggles, and the pain and disappointment they are learning to feel and walk with and grow in. All the things I can't save them from.
I could weep for the girl in this picture.
But I won't.
I've done so much of that already. A mourning for a different life that was stolen in whispers and darkened bedrooms with a person that's now dead.
I celebrate her instead.
For waking up.
For somehow choosing to keep going.
For dreaminng of something bigger.
For sacrifcing so her kids would have what she did not.
It's incredible.
The strength.
Not hers but from the one she shunned and raged against and blamed for so long.
HIM.
Giving a strength she could not muster.
There were no big girl panties to pull up. Someone had yanked those down from her long long before.
This picture.
It's a child.
And then I knew.
He was right there, in every moment I felt alone, in every tear I dropped, in each place I felt my heart crack and shudder, He was with me. His heart broke next to mine.
All that love He walked in and pursued me with ...
it is the same love He walks and pursues my kids with.
They will struggle and their hearts may break,
but they won't die.
It won't kill them.
He will carry them,
strengthen them,
and they will do more than survive.
They will live.
I get it.
And I hope you get it too.
Our kids, we want so badly to protect them from everything... and it's our job to want to do that. We should do that in all the best ways we can.
But we also have to know that is an impossible task.
We are here to love them, guide them, pray over them, support them,
and let them go.
They are not alone.
Not ever.
Breathe deep mamas. Unhinge your shoulders from your ears.
It's a big love out there.
It's a perfect peace.
May 18, 2014
You say it's your birthday ...
A few months ago, in the too-tight back room of Starbucks, after a hectic night of slinging coffee, a co-worker guy asked me, "So, what's your secret? Like, how is it possible to stay happy all the time?"
Somehow, I have this reputation for being happy.
all. the. time.
I am not sure how I got this. I am definitely sure I don't deserve it. But somehow, some way, Jesus is shining through despite the one thousand ways I could screw it up.
I stared at him for a minute before responding, trying to decide if he was serious (he was) and if that even mattered (it didn't) because I wanted to give my answer either way.
I could have gotten all spiritual. I could have. But I know a lot of spiritual people that are stiff Crabbies, with a heart of granite, and when they give you an answer about something, you walk away feeling a little bit like you left the twilight zone. Something got missed. An interpersonal connection did not happen even though there is the distinct feeling it should have. And honestly, I think he kind of expected that answer from me. So I dug a little deeper - past all the pat answers that can be found in the Christian 101 handbook, past all the cliches that get memorized and flung across relationships more than actual Jesus words do, and I got real instead.
My answer was simple. Just three words.
A grateful heart.
He repeated it back to me but when he did, he said it a little loud and a little slow, like I was suddenly not speaking English. Like he couldn't believe that was the best I could do. A grateful heart??
Yes.
Look around. Look every day and notice all the really rad things that are happening in life because they are there, and when you see them, when you really let them capture you and you soak yourself in it, the gratefulness lifts you and there's just not any space to be anything but happy.
Pretty good stuff.
right?
I woke up this morning and turned 38.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card surrounded by nails and dust and empty spaces where sinks and drawers should be.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card surrounded by nails and dust and empty spaces where sinks and drawers should be and instead of reading the card my sweet husband gave me,
instead of smelling the roses ripe and red,
instead of smiling up at balloons that bounced,
I stood in my kitchen and did what anyone with an ungrateful heart would do.
I began to cry.
It wasn't anything dramatic. No wailing. No snot. No red face. Just a few silent tears that zigzagged around my 38 year old eye crinkles, and before I could erase them from my face, before I could take a breath and stop feeling sorry for myself,
my husband saw,
and just like my tears fell to the floor, I saw his heart drop from his face.
And I did what anyone with an ungrateful heart would do,
I walked away.
Too consumed with myself to give any grace, any kindness. And I left him in the kitchen that does not work, alone, staring at the balloons, and the roses, and the card I had not opened.
I. know.
I am definitely not the hero in this story.
Thank God we take turns at loving each other best.
Thank God it's Sunday and I was headed to church to get smothered in some Jesus.
Thank God when Jeff and I stood singing and I grabbed his hand,
ashamedashamedashamed
he grabbed mine right back and squeezed. Hard.
Thank God I was reminded of the power of a grateful heart.
I am now sitting on my couch, with my feet up on my office chair, surrounded by drawers and cabinets wrapped in plastic, my dishes piled next to the bathroom sink, pictures of all whom I love are covered in dust, and my food is somewhere in a box in the garage, along with a dustpan I cannot seem to find to scrape up all the dirt I swept but has no place to go.
Yesterday this made me angry. Two days ago - angry. Three days ago - the thought of it - angry.
But today, my windows are open and I feel the breeze on my skin. I can hear the birds, chirping and squawking and making more noise than I have ever noticed before. I see green trees in my window. A metal cross my husband made for me hangs on my wall.
And I am relaxed.
I am texting my daughter, who still calls me "Mommy", who is somewhere near Alaska, about birthday tattoos and secret Starbucks frappacino recipes. My other daughter honored me on Facebook - which is pretty much equivalent to a billboard rental over the freeway, so yeah, my kid is cooler than yours and I am officially cooler than you. For now. I ate lunch with my son who made me laugh so hard I snorted. My husband is currently making the sink work in our kitchen, but earlier he stood behind me in the bathroom and kissed my neck and whispered into my ear that has a giant, scabby, mosquito bite on it making it hideously unsexy, how much he loves me and how beautiful I am.
I am blessed. I am rich in all of this goodness, all of this life that has been so graciously given to me.
I am grateful for the reminder ...
I can see it
or
I can not see it.
My heart will beat either way. But it beats better when it beats grateful.
Somehow, I have this reputation for being happy.
all. the. time.
I am not sure how I got this. I am definitely sure I don't deserve it. But somehow, some way, Jesus is shining through despite the one thousand ways I could screw it up.
I stared at him for a minute before responding, trying to decide if he was serious (he was) and if that even mattered (it didn't) because I wanted to give my answer either way.
I could have gotten all spiritual. I could have. But I know a lot of spiritual people that are stiff Crabbies, with a heart of granite, and when they give you an answer about something, you walk away feeling a little bit like you left the twilight zone. Something got missed. An interpersonal connection did not happen even though there is the distinct feeling it should have. And honestly, I think he kind of expected that answer from me. So I dug a little deeper - past all the pat answers that can be found in the Christian 101 handbook, past all the cliches that get memorized and flung across relationships more than actual Jesus words do, and I got real instead.
My answer was simple. Just three words.
A grateful heart.
He repeated it back to me but when he did, he said it a little loud and a little slow, like I was suddenly not speaking English. Like he couldn't believe that was the best I could do. A grateful heart??
Yes.
Look around. Look every day and notice all the really rad things that are happening in life because they are there, and when you see them, when you really let them capture you and you soak yourself in it, the gratefulness lifts you and there's just not any space to be anything but happy.
Pretty good stuff.
right?
I woke up this morning and turned 38.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card surrounded by nails and dust and empty spaces where sinks and drawers should be.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card surrounded by nails and dust and empty spaces where sinks and drawers should be and instead of reading the card my sweet husband gave me,
instead of smelling the roses ripe and red,
instead of smiling up at balloons that bounced,
I stood in my kitchen and did what anyone with an ungrateful heart would do.
I began to cry.
It wasn't anything dramatic. No wailing. No snot. No red face. Just a few silent tears that zigzagged around my 38 year old eye crinkles, and before I could erase them from my face, before I could take a breath and stop feeling sorry for myself,
my husband saw,
and just like my tears fell to the floor, I saw his heart drop from his face.
And I did what anyone with an ungrateful heart would do,
I walked away.
Too consumed with myself to give any grace, any kindness. And I left him in the kitchen that does not work, alone, staring at the balloons, and the roses, and the card I had not opened.
I. know.
I am definitely not the hero in this story.
Thank God we take turns at loving each other best.
Thank God it's Sunday and I was headed to church to get smothered in some Jesus.
Thank God when Jeff and I stood singing and I grabbed his hand,
ashamedashamedashamed
he grabbed mine right back and squeezed. Hard.
Thank God I was reminded of the power of a grateful heart.
I am now sitting on my couch, with my feet up on my office chair, surrounded by drawers and cabinets wrapped in plastic, my dishes piled next to the bathroom sink, pictures of all whom I love are covered in dust, and my food is somewhere in a box in the garage, along with a dustpan I cannot seem to find to scrape up all the dirt I swept but has no place to go.
Yesterday this made me angry. Two days ago - angry. Three days ago - the thought of it - angry.
But today, my windows are open and I feel the breeze on my skin. I can hear the birds, chirping and squawking and making more noise than I have ever noticed before. I see green trees in my window. A metal cross my husband made for me hangs on my wall.
And I am relaxed.
I am texting my daughter, who still calls me "Mommy", who is somewhere near Alaska, about birthday tattoos and secret Starbucks frappacino recipes. My other daughter honored me on Facebook - which is pretty much equivalent to a billboard rental over the freeway, so yeah, my kid is cooler than yours and I am officially cooler than you. For now. I ate lunch with my son who made me laugh so hard I snorted. My husband is currently making the sink work in our kitchen, but earlier he stood behind me in the bathroom and kissed my neck and whispered into my ear that has a giant, scabby, mosquito bite on it making it hideously unsexy, how much he loves me and how beautiful I am.
I am blessed. I am rich in all of this goodness, all of this life that has been so graciously given to me.
I am grateful for the reminder ...
I can see it
or
I can not see it.
My heart will beat either way. But it beats better when it beats grateful.
Apr 14, 2014
Time heals what ?
Most of us are familiar with the expression, "Time heals all wounds." It's what we say to someone who has been incredibly hurt, someone that has been left stunned, blind-sided, and doubled over in heart pain with their guts sliding through their fingers. We know swimming with an army of hungry Great Whites and not being swallowed whole is far more likely than an apology from the person who left our friend looking like the walking dead, so we offer up a platitude on a silver tray with a pat on the head.
Neat. Clean. Sterile. Seemingly, the best we can do if we are avoiding complete honesty.
The real response, the one we feel deep in our own gut of pain and camaraderie is, "That really sucks. Let's go get some steel-toed boots and ski masks and kick the crap out of that assjack".
But we don't say this.
Even though it is by far the more empathetic approach.
The wound does suck.
Time does not heal. Time passes.
I think it is funny that we assume if we just put some space between the day of the wound and the apology that never happens, we will be ok.
It's not ok. The wound is not ok.
It just has days of band-aids piled on top of it. It can be 25 band-aids or 1,095 band-aids. (that's three years worth - a lot of freakin band-aids)
For some of us, probably all of us, we have wounds, scrapes, gashes, amputated limbs and heart gouges, inflicted upon us that the inflicter will never take responsibility for. And that really sucks. It does. I have my fair share of imaginary steel-toed boots in my closet with the names of the inflicter engraved on the toe. They are ready.
But i haven't needed them.
I have found that time does not heal the wound but,
forgiveness does.
Forgiveness.
Not letting them back in. Not giving them another boxing glove so they can knock me out on the other side of my face. Not laying down at their feet so they can jump up and down on me like a rag doll and watch the stuffing pop out of my eyes. Not handing them my duct-taped heart so they can throw it against a wall. Again.
Forgiveness.
Just letting it go. Choosing to not let them have control of my happiness. Just saying, "I am not waiting anymore for you to make it better. It's going to be better anyway."
Some people forgive and it's a one time deal. I'm not sure how that kind of forgiveness works but I am slightly envious about it. It's like their soul gets dunked once, really really deep, and they come out all shiny and forgiving. My soul takes a shower in forgiveness each day. It's not a one time dunk for me. Each day i choose, am i going to let forgiveness wash over me or not?
So one day i might be really shiny and new and other days I may have some grease spots and need a change of clothes.
But you know what? So far, this is working.
Matthew 6:11 says, "Give us this day our daily bread." (emphasis mine) He's not talking about food here. He is talking about our needs. God wants us to depend on Him each day for what we need - our physical needs, our spiritual needs, and our emotional needs.
Or in plain English - our strength, our money, our pantry, our love, our kindness towards others, our absence of road rage, and yes, our forgiveness.
Otherwise, we might get a little high and mighty and start thinking about how really great we are and how really lame everyone else is.
If you hurt, you don't have to. I'm not saying it is easy. I'm not gonna lie; some days I'd rather peel my face skin off with my fingernails than forgive some of the people that have hurt me.
But each day it gets a little easier.
Not because time is passing, but because it is becoming easier for me to trust God to meet my need and letting go of my expectation of people to.
XOXO
Neat. Clean. Sterile. Seemingly, the best we can do if we are avoiding complete honesty.
The real response, the one we feel deep in our own gut of pain and camaraderie is, "That really sucks. Let's go get some steel-toed boots and ski masks and kick the crap out of that assjack".
But we don't say this.
Even though it is by far the more empathetic approach.
The wound does suck.
Time does not heal. Time passes.
I think it is funny that we assume if we just put some space between the day of the wound and the apology that never happens, we will be ok.
It's not ok. The wound is not ok.
It just has days of band-aids piled on top of it. It can be 25 band-aids or 1,095 band-aids. (that's three years worth - a lot of freakin band-aids)
For some of us, probably all of us, we have wounds, scrapes, gashes, amputated limbs and heart gouges, inflicted upon us that the inflicter will never take responsibility for. And that really sucks. It does. I have my fair share of imaginary steel-toed boots in my closet with the names of the inflicter engraved on the toe. They are ready.
But i haven't needed them.
I have found that time does not heal the wound but,
forgiveness does.
Forgiveness.
Not letting them back in. Not giving them another boxing glove so they can knock me out on the other side of my face. Not laying down at their feet so they can jump up and down on me like a rag doll and watch the stuffing pop out of my eyes. Not handing them my duct-taped heart so they can throw it against a wall. Again.
Forgiveness.
Just letting it go. Choosing to not let them have control of my happiness. Just saying, "I am not waiting anymore for you to make it better. It's going to be better anyway."
Some people forgive and it's a one time deal. I'm not sure how that kind of forgiveness works but I am slightly envious about it. It's like their soul gets dunked once, really really deep, and they come out all shiny and forgiving. My soul takes a shower in forgiveness each day. It's not a one time dunk for me. Each day i choose, am i going to let forgiveness wash over me or not?
So one day i might be really shiny and new and other days I may have some grease spots and need a change of clothes.
But you know what? So far, this is working.
Matthew 6:11 says, "Give us this day our daily bread." (emphasis mine) He's not talking about food here. He is talking about our needs. God wants us to depend on Him each day for what we need - our physical needs, our spiritual needs, and our emotional needs.
Or in plain English - our strength, our money, our pantry, our love, our kindness towards others, our absence of road rage, and yes, our forgiveness.
Otherwise, we might get a little high and mighty and start thinking about how really great we are and how really lame everyone else is.
If you hurt, you don't have to. I'm not saying it is easy. I'm not gonna lie; some days I'd rather peel my face skin off with my fingernails than forgive some of the people that have hurt me.
But each day it gets a little easier.
Not because time is passing, but because it is becoming easier for me to trust God to meet my need and letting go of my expectation of people to.
XOXO
Apr 11, 2014
Oh Boy
Being a mother is the hardest thing i have ever done. It has left me feeling crazy euphoric and woefully inadequate. It's a roller coaster of the most extreme, between the pride and the horror. And how is it there isn't a test first to make sure anyone should even be a parent? It must be because no one would pass. We pass later. Like, after they move out. I'm not sure if it even matters what they do in life, we just all made it to the move out stage in one piece. No permanent damage. hallelujah.
It's not an easy road though, is it? Oh sure, when they are small and everything is so cute and funny and post-worthy. Have you ever noticed how often parents (ok, mothers - let's just get it out there) share pictures and stories of their kids, sometimes multiple times a day, but if you look closely, you notice this all stops at about, well, 8th grade. There is a shift, it is small at first but as it widens, you can almost feel yourself being pulled out into isolation. This is especially true if you have teenagers and all your friends have kids in the adorable stage. Not that teenagers can't be adorable.... well,ok. They can't. Adorable is not the word for a teenager. EVER.
But the island of Isolation can quickly show you the neighboring island of Fear and then look, there is also Doubt, and then a small boat ride away is Worry. Every now and then you think you can spot the island of Peace but it quickly gets blown up by a volcano and well, you know how long those take to build back up again. So there you are, amidst your islands, paddling hard to stay away from the one called Crazy.
I love my boy. Who looks like a man. Just thinking about him, i can literally feel my heart swell inside of me. It is all of those islands, thumping together inside an ocean of Love. It has been a rough two years. And by rough i mean crying outside in the dark with a cigarette clutched in my frozen fingers in the corner of the yard so no one can see me. I mean conversations with his dad that lasted longer than the movie Titanic with the repeated question, "what are we going to do?" with the same nerve stretching answer, "i don't know." I mean going into his room at night while he sleeps and standing over his bed, with tears sliding down in silence while i pray, begging God to help the both of us. I cry now just typing this because the islands are still here and my heart is raw.
It does not matter what the struggles have been. Our struggles, your struggles - we may be on different cruise ships but it's the same ocean. Sometimes calm with the sun glittering off the surface and sometimes - not.
Hurricane weather.
I cannot list them - that's another thing about having teenagers, you respect their feelings, realizing what you write about them could hurt them. But if i must be completely honest, if i must peek under the band-aid, there is also the fear someone is going to judge my kid, hold his dumb, and sometimes mortifying, decisions against him, think badly of him, whisper to their spouse at night, "i'm so glad our sweet little johnny isn't like so and so." Because hey, even though i know my kid has made some mistakes, that kind of whispering still makes me want to punch you in the throat. You just wait. Those years are coming for ya.
The other Truth though is this - we always wonder, maybe fathers do too but mothers, oh yes, we take the whole world into our heart on this one - what did i do? Or even better, what did i not do right?
Feel me?
I have to pause as i write that because it echoes inside ... wanting an answer. What did i not do right?
I have asked God that so many times. I have cried it, whispered it, yelled it to my lawn. It has pounded itself into my skull and the Enemy of course, taunts me with it. It must be my fault. I am the worst mom. Stupid.
It's because you got divorced. It's because you lost them. It's because you didn't spend enough time. It's because you didn't give enough space.
endless endless condemnation. The island Crazy is getting closer. I can see the dock.
But one night.. one night while i sat in the dark, exhausted in my Worry, numb with it all, i heard God. It sounded like me - in monotone - but it wasn't. It was much to hopeful for that.
"I love him too." Quiet. A still, small voice.
I blinked.
"I love him, just like I love you. You can give him to Me. You can trust Me. Lay him at My feet."
My eyes blurred in the fresh tears.
"I have a plan for him too. A path he must walk. He has to learn to trust me ... just like you did."
and then i sobbed. loud. with snot and weird faces. God saw me. I was Hagar. He saw my heart and how it was twisted all inside out and knotted. He saw my torment and my pain. He saw how much i love my son. He saw me. He heard me. And He met me.
And i got it.
I know the road traveled to know God and then to believe God can be SO HARD.
The Enemy does not want us on this road and so he will throw huge rocks at us to make us fall. I saw the rocks, the boulders, he throws at my son.
Insecurity. Bullying. Indifference. Acne. Self-Esteem. Girls. Peer pressure. Expectations.
But i also see my Jesus. And he is bigger than these rocks. bigger than the Enemy. And so i am choosing today, to believe Him. I am choosing today to rest on His island of Peace and i will not fear the volcanoes nor the hurricanes. I am choosing today God knew what He was doing when he gave me the privilege of being my kid's mom.
God doesn't make mistakes.
It's not an easy road though, is it? Oh sure, when they are small and everything is so cute and funny and post-worthy. Have you ever noticed how often parents (ok, mothers - let's just get it out there) share pictures and stories of their kids, sometimes multiple times a day, but if you look closely, you notice this all stops at about, well, 8th grade. There is a shift, it is small at first but as it widens, you can almost feel yourself being pulled out into isolation. This is especially true if you have teenagers and all your friends have kids in the adorable stage. Not that teenagers can't be adorable.... well,ok. They can't. Adorable is not the word for a teenager. EVER.
But the island of Isolation can quickly show you the neighboring island of Fear and then look, there is also Doubt, and then a small boat ride away is Worry. Every now and then you think you can spot the island of Peace but it quickly gets blown up by a volcano and well, you know how long those take to build back up again. So there you are, amidst your islands, paddling hard to stay away from the one called Crazy.
I love my boy. Who looks like a man. Just thinking about him, i can literally feel my heart swell inside of me. It is all of those islands, thumping together inside an ocean of Love. It has been a rough two years. And by rough i mean crying outside in the dark with a cigarette clutched in my frozen fingers in the corner of the yard so no one can see me. I mean conversations with his dad that lasted longer than the movie Titanic with the repeated question, "what are we going to do?" with the same nerve stretching answer, "i don't know." I mean going into his room at night while he sleeps and standing over his bed, with tears sliding down in silence while i pray, begging God to help the both of us. I cry now just typing this because the islands are still here and my heart is raw.
It does not matter what the struggles have been. Our struggles, your struggles - we may be on different cruise ships but it's the same ocean. Sometimes calm with the sun glittering off the surface and sometimes - not.
Hurricane weather.
I cannot list them - that's another thing about having teenagers, you respect their feelings, realizing what you write about them could hurt them. But if i must be completely honest, if i must peek under the band-aid, there is also the fear someone is going to judge my kid, hold his dumb, and sometimes mortifying, decisions against him, think badly of him, whisper to their spouse at night, "i'm so glad our sweet little johnny isn't like so and so." Because hey, even though i know my kid has made some mistakes, that kind of whispering still makes me want to punch you in the throat. You just wait. Those years are coming for ya.
The other Truth though is this - we always wonder, maybe fathers do too but mothers, oh yes, we take the whole world into our heart on this one - what did i do? Or even better, what did i not do right?
Feel me?
I have to pause as i write that because it echoes inside ... wanting an answer. What did i not do right?
I have asked God that so many times. I have cried it, whispered it, yelled it to my lawn. It has pounded itself into my skull and the Enemy of course, taunts me with it. It must be my fault. I am the worst mom. Stupid.
It's because you got divorced. It's because you lost them. It's because you didn't spend enough time. It's because you didn't give enough space.
endless endless condemnation. The island Crazy is getting closer. I can see the dock.
But one night.. one night while i sat in the dark, exhausted in my Worry, numb with it all, i heard God. It sounded like me - in monotone - but it wasn't. It was much to hopeful for that.
"I love him too." Quiet. A still, small voice.
I blinked.
"I love him, just like I love you. You can give him to Me. You can trust Me. Lay him at My feet."
My eyes blurred in the fresh tears.
"I have a plan for him too. A path he must walk. He has to learn to trust me ... just like you did."
and then i sobbed. loud. with snot and weird faces. God saw me. I was Hagar. He saw my heart and how it was twisted all inside out and knotted. He saw my torment and my pain. He saw how much i love my son. He saw me. He heard me. And He met me.
And i got it.
I know the road traveled to know God and then to believe God can be SO HARD.
The Enemy does not want us on this road and so he will throw huge rocks at us to make us fall. I saw the rocks, the boulders, he throws at my son.
Insecurity. Bullying. Indifference. Acne. Self-Esteem. Girls. Peer pressure. Expectations.
But i also see my Jesus. And he is bigger than these rocks. bigger than the Enemy. And so i am choosing today, to believe Him. I am choosing today to rest on His island of Peace and i will not fear the volcanoes nor the hurricanes. I am choosing today God knew what He was doing when he gave me the privilege of being my kid's mom.
God doesn't make mistakes.
Apr 7, 2014
hello ...
i love to write. it has been my dream to write a book. why a book? well it just seemed like the most natural thing to do. writers write books.
But here's the thing - i am not a very good book writer.
I am unorganized. I am a little scattered. And i have a tendency to get stuck. Some can write their darkest, set down their pen, and go eat a piece of cake. I write my darkest, throw my pen against a wall, and eat the entire cake. My mind can't say "see ya later" to the dark spot. It's like checking into a hotel thinking it will be a quick overnight and next thing you know, you are renting the room by the month. And we all know what those hotels look like. Say hello to sleeping with the lights on and not walking around with bare feet. You get it.
So for now, the book is out. i have to admit, this really bothered me. I thought to myself, "Why God? Why did you give me this desire but not the follow-through? I mean, i feel like LOSER is stamped on my forehead."
And then God answered me. I think he tried to answer me a long time ago but i wouldn't stop talking at him long enough to hear ... or maybe i thought i heard but dismissed the idea as not good enough. Weird right?
Real writers don't blog.
Do they?
i have no idea. i am not sure what makes a "real writer" anymore. All i know for pretty certain, certain enough that i don't feel like i need to swallow a bottle of pepto to quell the queasiness, is this, this blog thing, feels pretty alright.
So here i am. and here you are.
Can i just say thank you for reading this at all? I know there are so many options, and not a lot of time. My hope is that you find hope in this. That it makes your day a little easier, a little brighter, or at the very least, that you feel understood. If you can ever read anything i write and think, "yessss" then that would make my heart pump a little faster. Isn't that what we all want? Just to be seen.
What will this blog be about? I asked God that too.
Remember i said i am a little unorganized? a little scattered? So expect that.
It will be about life,
and stuff,
and everything.
Some will be daises and butterflies... others will look like something from Coraline - dark and creepy with the distinct impression something is not right. But that's life. At least what i have seen so far. I love the daises and butterflies ... but i will face that dark. i will take hold of the creepy. and together we will stare down the things that just are not right.
we will do this together.
I'm in.
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