All is calm at the Taylor's. It is nap time. The kids are asleep and all is quiet. I sit serenely, coffee in hand. I feel unruffled and at ease. Why? Because the housekeeper just left.
Yes, you heard that right. My amazing, awesome, loving husband has put it in the budget for me to have help 8 hours a month! It's only 8 hours, so it's not like I'm going to take up soaps and bon bon eating or anything, (not that I would anyway), but it does mean that when I'm frazzled and fried, and I just can't do it all, for this season of my life when the kids are so small, I have somewhere to turn. I love it! I feel less chaotic when I know she's coming, and so peaceful when she leaves.
I love my home as much as it is possible to love a physical location this side of heaven, but, it's one third bigger than our old house, and it's a lot to clean, especially with three little helpers. Sometimes, (gasp!) I need help.
There I said it, I need help....I do OK for the most part, as long as no one gets sick, there are no expected errands, and I have no friends, but then, like a house of cards in the wind, order crumbles. It seems my house can go from homey and lovely to call the health department in 5.6.
Having someone to turn to, to help me dig out of the rubble seems wonderful beyond my wildest housewife dreams, but, it also makes me wonder if I've failed.....Does needing help make me less than the wife I should be? Does admitting I can't do it all make me weak? Does spending that money make me selfish? On and on. I have my moments when I let these worries carry me, but then I realize: if I have more time and less stress, and I can achieve more presence with my husband and kids, it's worth every penny, and every ounce of set aside pride.
It doesn't make me weak, it makes me sane, and realistic, and lucky. When I concede that I can't always be super mom/wife/homemaker, ironically I become better at all of those things. Take a deep breath and say it with me: Sometimes, I need help.
And then next time your MIL offers to take the kids, or your small group offers to help you move, or your husband offers to pay for a sitter or a cleaning lady, TAKE IT, knowing it doesn't make you less; it allows you to be more.
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
Saturday, December 13, 2014
Mommy blogger
I don't consistently read many blogs, but they're always there, on my news feed, "6 ways to serve your husband today!", or "How to create more peace in your home in 5 easy steps!". Sometimes I click on them; they always contain sound biblical advice, but in the midst of , "Steve and I had a little tiff. I was angry, hey, I'm not perfect, haha, so I went to my room and had a little sit down with the Holy Spirit, and He told me, Marsha, you're just not edifying your husband when you act this way. If you kissed him passionately when he walked in the door and met his needs first, and forgave him when you squabble, you wouldn't have this unwholesome sinful attitude, and I said, you know what HS, you're totally right, I'm going to go out there right now with a big smile, and apologize, and seduce my man in proper Christian housewife fashion, by golly. Thanks for the chat." I get weary. That's an exaggeration, I know, and I do learn good stuff from those girls, but apparently, they are miles ahead of me on the quick repentance and turnaround scale.
Sometimes, I just want to hear one of these women say, "'After 10 years, for the love, you'd think that man could walk in the door, and see that look in my eye that indicates impending madness, and just say, 'Okay, mommy's going to retreat to the bathtub for a little timeout, daddy's got this', but due to the male inability to read subtle facial cues, said interception failed to occur, and mommy lost her um, composure, during dinner time and screamed disproportionately to the present transgression, like a lunatic." I mean, I am I alone???? I just want someone else to get real, and say, just because you love Jesus doesn't mean you never break open at the seams, and fail to properly excuse yourself for a little chat with HS before things get ugly. Sometimes it gets ugly and raw, even when you do love Jesus.
I want to serve my husband today! and create peace in my home as much as the next person, but there aren't five easy steps. The steps are hard, and I get tired, and I just want to hear someone acknowledge that. Jesus gets me back on track. He holds my marriage together when I'm so tired I could throw in the towel. He brings me back when I think that I'm such a terrible mother that my children would be better of without me, but the hard days are still real. They remind me of my need. They bring me low before Jesus. They make me so thankful that I have him to mend me and know my heart. So from this mommy blogger to you: You're not alone, your ugly isn't worse than everyone else's. It isn't too much for Jesus. You aren't the only one who gets tired, who doubts yourself, who just wants a break, or a sound proof room to scream in. We're in this together, and we've got Jesus, and bath tubs, and wine...we're gonna be ok.
Sometimes, I just want to hear one of these women say, "'After 10 years, for the love, you'd think that man could walk in the door, and see that look in my eye that indicates impending madness, and just say, 'Okay, mommy's going to retreat to the bathtub for a little timeout, daddy's got this', but due to the male inability to read subtle facial cues, said interception failed to occur, and mommy lost her um, composure, during dinner time and screamed disproportionately to the present transgression, like a lunatic." I mean, I am I alone???? I just want someone else to get real, and say, just because you love Jesus doesn't mean you never break open at the seams, and fail to properly excuse yourself for a little chat with HS before things get ugly. Sometimes it gets ugly and raw, even when you do love Jesus.
I want to serve my husband today! and create peace in my home as much as the next person, but there aren't five easy steps. The steps are hard, and I get tired, and I just want to hear someone acknowledge that. Jesus gets me back on track. He holds my marriage together when I'm so tired I could throw in the towel. He brings me back when I think that I'm such a terrible mother that my children would be better of without me, but the hard days are still real. They remind me of my need. They bring me low before Jesus. They make me so thankful that I have him to mend me and know my heart. So from this mommy blogger to you: You're not alone, your ugly isn't worse than everyone else's. It isn't too much for Jesus. You aren't the only one who gets tired, who doubts yourself, who just wants a break, or a sound proof room to scream in. We're in this together, and we've got Jesus, and bath tubs, and wine...we're gonna be ok.
Friday, November 28, 2014
Too Legit to Quit: How I know my God is the real deal
I have a secret, a secret that all believers know. God does offer proof; only he offers it AFTER we offer him our faith. Many times, I thought I would believe in Him, if only he offered me a sign, but He doesn't work that way....during His time on earth, he didn't even do miracles in his own home town. Why? Because, the people who knew him since he was a wee lad already had their minds made up about who he was.....you can't convince somebody who needs a sign. Jesus could have slapped me right up side the head (I believe he may have done that, actually), but I wasn't ready to listen, and I wouldn't have know his sign from a hole in the wall. People who are not ready to receive the Holy Spirit will not respond to a persuasive logical argument, a miracle, a sign, a slap upside the head; it is only people in whom the Holy Spirit is at work that can see and accept miracles.
I began as a zombie Christian. I knew who Jesus was, I knew what He'd done, at times in my life I think I believed it was true, but I didn't get it, not really. I did not understand or accept the intimacy of what Christ had done for ME. I felt nothing. A zombie Christian is an intellectual believer...I can't know, but I suspect I am not the only one. A true believer responds to belief.....it's the difference between seeing the gift under the tree and unwrapping it....I don't really know what's in there until I hold it in my hand, open it up, accept it.
For many years, God pursued me. Invited me to know him, instead of just know of him. Everywhere I went, he sent me Christians who witnessed to me. They saw no progress, but they were seed people. I stored up the seeds the Spirit had given me in my heart, until He had prepared the soil. Here it is, the proof....I was in the dark. I am a selfish creature. I had made such a mess, that there was no way it could be made good again. On the inside, I could feel poison and despair, and I knew, there was no way I could be any different. This is who I was, deep down.
Some days I lose hope; I feel I'm not going forward, I feel stuck in sin, but then I look at where I was, and remember who I was, and I know beyond doubt, that I could not be where I am, without Jesus. I was in a pit that I could not crawl out of with my own power. I am not capable of being who I am now on my own. It simply was not doable. Only the power that He has in my life has given me the life I have today. I know it was Him, it couldn't have been me. He offered me this proof, after, friends, only after I opened the gift. He redeemed my mess and made something beautiful. Because of his work in me, I know, He is the real deal. And when I forget, he has a way of giving me little reminders, small proofs, like inside jokes, only He and I would recognize, because I whispered them to Him in secret. In His love, He proves himself to me again and again, because I already have faith, the same way he does many times throughout the bible.
Likewise, this post will not convince anyone who is unwilling to take a step in faith. If however, you are an unbeliever, take it as a seed, hang on to it for a rainy day, ponder it in your heart. "Evangelism is simply a beggar telling another beggar where he found bread." And if you are a believer, share one another's testimonies for a day when your own is so familiar and comfortable that you forget its power. Give Him your trust and tell Him your secrets; and see if He does not give them back to you in splendid and mysterious fruits.
I began as a zombie Christian. I knew who Jesus was, I knew what He'd done, at times in my life I think I believed it was true, but I didn't get it, not really. I did not understand or accept the intimacy of what Christ had done for ME. I felt nothing. A zombie Christian is an intellectual believer...I can't know, but I suspect I am not the only one. A true believer responds to belief.....it's the difference between seeing the gift under the tree and unwrapping it....I don't really know what's in there until I hold it in my hand, open it up, accept it.
For many years, God pursued me. Invited me to know him, instead of just know of him. Everywhere I went, he sent me Christians who witnessed to me. They saw no progress, but they were seed people. I stored up the seeds the Spirit had given me in my heart, until He had prepared the soil. Here it is, the proof....I was in the dark. I am a selfish creature. I had made such a mess, that there was no way it could be made good again. On the inside, I could feel poison and despair, and I knew, there was no way I could be any different. This is who I was, deep down.
Some days I lose hope; I feel I'm not going forward, I feel stuck in sin, but then I look at where I was, and remember who I was, and I know beyond doubt, that I could not be where I am, without Jesus. I was in a pit that I could not crawl out of with my own power. I am not capable of being who I am now on my own. It simply was not doable. Only the power that He has in my life has given me the life I have today. I know it was Him, it couldn't have been me. He offered me this proof, after, friends, only after I opened the gift. He redeemed my mess and made something beautiful. Because of his work in me, I know, He is the real deal. And when I forget, he has a way of giving me little reminders, small proofs, like inside jokes, only He and I would recognize, because I whispered them to Him in secret. In His love, He proves himself to me again and again, because I already have faith, the same way he does many times throughout the bible.
Likewise, this post will not convince anyone who is unwilling to take a step in faith. If however, you are an unbeliever, take it as a seed, hang on to it for a rainy day, ponder it in your heart. "Evangelism is simply a beggar telling another beggar where he found bread." And if you are a believer, share one another's testimonies for a day when your own is so familiar and comfortable that you forget its power. Give Him your trust and tell Him your secrets; and see if He does not give them back to you in splendid and mysterious fruits.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Good gifts part 2: soul sisters
When I first became a mother, I had no friends. No one I knew had kids. The people I was close to in my youth had faded away, and the friends I had made in Washington I severed myself from with my divorce. After that, I got involved in MOPs and made a few friends, but they had mostly left Montana, so here I was second time around, a stay at home mom with a new baby (and an older one), and few close friends. I was praying for God to give me the kind of friend who knew me the way my childhood best friend had, but one who loved Jesus, and understood what life as a mom was like, someone who would recognize my weird and love me because of it.
One day, after I had been blogging for a little while, a stranger started following my tiny blog. I noticed we had a few mutual facebook friends, so I figured she must have seen it through them. I asked my friend Jamie about this girl, because I am insatiably curious, or nosey, whatever, and she exclaimed, "That's the girl who brought me to Christ!" Cool. She lives in Billings, maybe this is the friend I prayed for.
Or maybe not. Just a few weeks later, she moved to North Dakota, the friendship wasteland, the one that also ate my friend Lisa. ( You North Dakota, are a greedy, friend stealing, dirty word.) I almost thought, I shall not bother investing in getting to know someone with whom I can not drink coffee, but Jenn, she has a way of butting all up in your business, you know, when you need it. She ended up meeting Lisa, and becoming friends with a girl I used to work with, and I ended up meeting people here that she knew to the point of, this is getting weird...She understands things about me that no one else does , because we both sing, and put it aside for a time, because we both write, because we both like to say things strait up, and take things that way too, because we both did things before Jesus that felt irredeemable, and received redemption anyway, and a thousand other tiny similarities. And girlfriend has five, FIVE! kids, so my mama woes ain't (I just said ain't in my writing :/) got nothing (double negative!!) on this girl.
Because the only way we knew each other was by following each others blogs, (which by the way, she just "stumbled" upon, no mutual friends involved), and facebook, and an uncanny number of mutual friends, and a couple of extremely awkward phone conversations, we basically skipped the small talk phase of friendship....like, I know almost nothing about her at all, except for intimate details, and visa versa. It's like friendship backwards. I love it. I hate that blind date phase anyway; this is more like arranged marriage or something, God's like, you guys are going to be soul friends, you can figure that other stuff out later, or in heaven, no hurry really. She senses things, like when I need prayer, or what I might be leaving out of a conversation, or how something in my life felt, and I don't have to bother with how often we have to get together to maintain a friendship or not hurt her feelings (because I'm kind of a hermit) . It's lovely.
And I don't have to be sad when she moves, which she recently did, to Florida, where she is buying a yellow house with a porch to settle down in, so we can sit on our yellow porches, half a world away and pray for each other and smile. God has given me other great friends in that time, but Jenn is unique to me. A gift given not how I wanted it, but in the best, best possible way, just how God likes to give gifts, unexpected, and better that you would have picked yourself.
One day, after I had been blogging for a little while, a stranger started following my tiny blog. I noticed we had a few mutual facebook friends, so I figured she must have seen it through them. I asked my friend Jamie about this girl, because I am insatiably curious, or nosey, whatever, and she exclaimed, "That's the girl who brought me to Christ!" Cool. She lives in Billings, maybe this is the friend I prayed for.
Or maybe not. Just a few weeks later, she moved to North Dakota, the friendship wasteland, the one that also ate my friend Lisa. ( You North Dakota, are a greedy, friend stealing, dirty word.) I almost thought, I shall not bother investing in getting to know someone with whom I can not drink coffee, but Jenn, she has a way of butting all up in your business, you know, when you need it. She ended up meeting Lisa, and becoming friends with a girl I used to work with, and I ended up meeting people here that she knew to the point of, this is getting weird...She understands things about me that no one else does , because we both sing, and put it aside for a time, because we both write, because we both like to say things strait up, and take things that way too, because we both did things before Jesus that felt irredeemable, and received redemption anyway, and a thousand other tiny similarities. And girlfriend has five, FIVE! kids, so my mama woes ain't (I just said ain't in my writing :/) got nothing (double negative!!) on this girl.
Because the only way we knew each other was by following each others blogs, (which by the way, she just "stumbled" upon, no mutual friends involved), and facebook, and an uncanny number of mutual friends, and a couple of extremely awkward phone conversations, we basically skipped the small talk phase of friendship....like, I know almost nothing about her at all, except for intimate details, and visa versa. It's like friendship backwards. I love it. I hate that blind date phase anyway; this is more like arranged marriage or something, God's like, you guys are going to be soul friends, you can figure that other stuff out later, or in heaven, no hurry really. She senses things, like when I need prayer, or what I might be leaving out of a conversation, or how something in my life felt, and I don't have to bother with how often we have to get together to maintain a friendship or not hurt her feelings (because I'm kind of a hermit) . It's lovely.
And I don't have to be sad when she moves, which she recently did, to Florida, where she is buying a yellow house with a porch to settle down in, so we can sit on our yellow porches, half a world away and pray for each other and smile. God has given me other great friends in that time, but Jenn is unique to me. A gift given not how I wanted it, but in the best, best possible way, just how God likes to give gifts, unexpected, and better that you would have picked yourself.
Monday, November 10, 2014
Good gifts
Every single year, I ask my kids what Christmas is really about, and they give me the correct answer, so we go on, saying we know what Christmas is all about, but doing what Christmas is only about in a way that has been twisted from its purpose so drastically that it's barley recognizable. (if you happen to be reading this blog and you are not a Christian, Welcome!, yes, I do know the pagan origins of the holiday, for the purposes of this post, I am talking about it's significance as relates to Jesus Christ, and what gives it true meaning for those of us who are followers of Jesus). Yeah, we usually do a little donating, but by and large this goes unnoticed by our children except as maybe a fun side shopping trip for our "adopted family" or whatever, but for the most part, sacrifice plays a much smaller roll than pretty dresses, toy catalogs, and a fancy tree. So this year we had a family meeting wherein I told the girls that we are going to be brainstorming some ways to show Jesus' love to people, since this is after all, what Christmas is all about. We came up with a few, and a prayer that God would show us needs that we could meet. All in all, the girls went away with a feeling that they would be making some fun crafts for the elderly, and mom and dad would be donating as usual.
Fast forward to a few nights later when we were discussing gift ideas. Morgan informed me that what she wanted for Christmas was the Frozen karaoke machine, you know, so that she can amplify her "Let it Go" vocals, so that no matter where in the house you may be, you can be sure to be able to enjoy them. Now truly, I want to hear "Let it Go" belted in 6 year old glory a few more million times, I do, but as I told my wee Elsa, this year, we are doing one book, one clothing item, and one toy (a toy with about half the budget of the Karaoke machine), so that we have the money left over to fund our list. Maybe we could pick out coats and donate them to the kids at the shelter or somewhere. Less plastic junk cluttering up my house, and more Jesus, Win, win! If it would have been possible, I would have received a lethal ice shard to the vital organs. I told her that a six year old with a generous spirit would be likely to receive said karaoke machine for their birthday in January, whereas a 6 ear old who wanted someone else to freeze their buns so they could have karaoke machine, probably wouldn't. Two and a half weeks delayed gratification, oh the pain! (So you see, happy endings abound, we will, after all be able to enjoy "let it Go!" in it's amplified version, with backup music, I can't wait.)
6 year old dramatics ensued, but so did a really great conversation with my daughter about real people who are not warm and who are hungry, so that we can have another trinket that won't even be important to us in the long run. (Insert more whining). It doesn't seem real to her, she has always had everything she needed. After a while though, big girl questions started to emerge, following Jesus is hard, how do I even hear him, how do I have a relationship with someone I can't even see, giving up what I want is so hard! It left me aching for her. I don't have simple answers to those questions. I did the best I could; I told her that the more we seek Him and His will, the more we talk to Him and read His word, the better we get at recognizing the voice of the spirit. But, the truth is, I still struggle with those same things sometimes. Alone, I prayed that my daughter would do those things, and I prayed that He would Please, please speak to her in a way that she could hear.
A couple days went by and I noticed a post on a buy/sell site for coat donations. The school that the lady's children attended had great need. I contacted her and told her about the coats. I asked if we could meet up once I had them, and guess what Y'all. It was Morgan's school! We wanted to bless kids who needed coats, but it was us who received the blessing of knowing that we have a God who listens, God who hears the prayers of kids who need coats, and those who need to know that God hears them, and that their prayers matter, that when you seek him, He will reveal himself. What a journey to be on with a child, to see them see the mysterious ways of Jesus for the first time, and what a God we have that works in ways unseen and bends down to listen to the prayers of each of his children.
Fast forward to a few nights later when we were discussing gift ideas. Morgan informed me that what she wanted for Christmas was the Frozen karaoke machine, you know, so that she can amplify her "Let it Go" vocals, so that no matter where in the house you may be, you can be sure to be able to enjoy them. Now truly, I want to hear "Let it Go" belted in 6 year old glory a few more million times, I do, but as I told my wee Elsa, this year, we are doing one book, one clothing item, and one toy (a toy with about half the budget of the Karaoke machine), so that we have the money left over to fund our list. Maybe we could pick out coats and donate them to the kids at the shelter or somewhere. Less plastic junk cluttering up my house, and more Jesus, Win, win! If it would have been possible, I would have received a lethal ice shard to the vital organs. I told her that a six year old with a generous spirit would be likely to receive said karaoke machine for their birthday in January, whereas a 6 ear old who wanted someone else to freeze their buns so they could have karaoke machine, probably wouldn't. Two and a half weeks delayed gratification, oh the pain! (So you see, happy endings abound, we will, after all be able to enjoy "let it Go!" in it's amplified version, with backup music, I can't wait.)
6 year old dramatics ensued, but so did a really great conversation with my daughter about real people who are not warm and who are hungry, so that we can have another trinket that won't even be important to us in the long run. (Insert more whining). It doesn't seem real to her, she has always had everything she needed. After a while though, big girl questions started to emerge, following Jesus is hard, how do I even hear him, how do I have a relationship with someone I can't even see, giving up what I want is so hard! It left me aching for her. I don't have simple answers to those questions. I did the best I could; I told her that the more we seek Him and His will, the more we talk to Him and read His word, the better we get at recognizing the voice of the spirit. But, the truth is, I still struggle with those same things sometimes. Alone, I prayed that my daughter would do those things, and I prayed that He would Please, please speak to her in a way that she could hear.
A couple days went by and I noticed a post on a buy/sell site for coat donations. The school that the lady's children attended had great need. I contacted her and told her about the coats. I asked if we could meet up once I had them, and guess what Y'all. It was Morgan's school! We wanted to bless kids who needed coats, but it was us who received the blessing of knowing that we have a God who listens, God who hears the prayers of kids who need coats, and those who need to know that God hears them, and that their prayers matter, that when you seek him, He will reveal himself. What a journey to be on with a child, to see them see the mysterious ways of Jesus for the first time, and what a God we have that works in ways unseen and bends down to listen to the prayers of each of his children.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
Doritos
The other morning something happened that got me to thinking about the evolution of mothering.
I was washing dishes, up to elbows in suds, when Levi dumped out the remnants of a bag of Doritos all over the floor. As I scrubbed, he sat there happily in his pile of Doritos, munching. Not clinging to my legs, not hollering "up", not crying, and dear friend, I did nothing. Not only did I do nothing, but as I moved on from the dishes and on to the other demands of the day, I must confess, I left the pile of Doritos on the floor...most.all.day.
Yep, I did. My little son happily rediscovered his pile of booty many times, and as many times, it rescued me from the ankle swarming whine dance as he occupied himself amid the detritus. Baylie Rose kept saying, "Mama, Levi's eating off the floor!!!" She knows this is most definitely not allowed, and I kept saying, "I know, sweetie, I'm getting to it." "No, you can't have any!"
Ugh. When did I become this mother?
Ok. Most of the time I'm not this mother, but something has changed in me, that is certain. A 16 month old Morgan would surely have been confined to her playpen while I cleaned it up immediately, whilst administering a lecture on germs, wasted food, and the Dangers of junk food. Those lectures have served mightily to enhance the vocabulary, but have alas, made no headway in any of the afore mentioned arenas.
It got me thinking about the frantic mother I was, and the way that the expansion of my brood has changed me....One child, berserk Nazi mom, two children, I honestly don't remember, but I like to think of this as the sane middle ground period, 3 children, call the health department!
I think I'll always be a helicopter mom at heart, but I'm learning, not to swoop in and rescue so much, not everything is an emergency. I had a bit of a zen moment there, with my dirty floor and my son's gleeful Dorito powdered grin. There is a balance that could be achieved here, if I could step back from the small stuff, a new sanity amid the chaos....either that, or that a kid will quit whining if you give it a Dorito. No, no that can't be it, my inner gym girl would never allow me to be that zen.
I was washing dishes, up to elbows in suds, when Levi dumped out the remnants of a bag of Doritos all over the floor. As I scrubbed, he sat there happily in his pile of Doritos, munching. Not clinging to my legs, not hollering "up", not crying, and dear friend, I did nothing. Not only did I do nothing, but as I moved on from the dishes and on to the other demands of the day, I must confess, I left the pile of Doritos on the floor...most.all.day.
Yep, I did. My little son happily rediscovered his pile of booty many times, and as many times, it rescued me from the ankle swarming whine dance as he occupied himself amid the detritus. Baylie Rose kept saying, "Mama, Levi's eating off the floor!!!" She knows this is most definitely not allowed, and I kept saying, "I know, sweetie, I'm getting to it." "No, you can't have any!"
Ugh. When did I become this mother?
Ok. Most of the time I'm not this mother, but something has changed in me, that is certain. A 16 month old Morgan would surely have been confined to her playpen while I cleaned it up immediately, whilst administering a lecture on germs, wasted food, and the Dangers of junk food. Those lectures have served mightily to enhance the vocabulary, but have alas, made no headway in any of the afore mentioned arenas.
It got me thinking about the frantic mother I was, and the way that the expansion of my brood has changed me....One child, berserk Nazi mom, two children, I honestly don't remember, but I like to think of this as the sane middle ground period, 3 children, call the health department!
I think I'll always be a helicopter mom at heart, but I'm learning, not to swoop in and rescue so much, not everything is an emergency. I had a bit of a zen moment there, with my dirty floor and my son's gleeful Dorito powdered grin. There is a balance that could be achieved here, if I could step back from the small stuff, a new sanity amid the chaos....either that, or that a kid will quit whining if you give it a Dorito. No, no that can't be it, my inner gym girl would never allow me to be that zen.
Monday, August 11, 2014
Walk the Line
I started out this morning reading a blog post on keeping perspective about what we have verses what we are made to feel we have to have. In the post the blogger gives us a tour of her kitchen and all of the overwhelming blessings it possess, even while not being the Better Homes kitchen of the year. It is absolutely true that the field of advertising is driven by the force of feminine dissatisfaction. Media creates and breeds it; it is rampant among us. We compare ourselves to each other via social media, we compare our menus, workout routines and homes via pinterest, and many of us compare our lives to those in magazines and television....to people and homes that aren't even real! It plants the seed of keeping up with the Jones, but there are no Jonse's, the Jone's are an advertising ploy invented to give us a standard to which we feel obligated to strive.
Having recently built a home, while simultaneously enduring an uncomfortable third pregnancy, I have spent more than my fair share of time on pinterest. It was an invaluable tool in keeping track of my ideas in a cohesive way, but I realized, the line is fine. Country Living and Pinterest should exist to inspire us, not to drive us toward guilt and discontent. They should encourage us to take positive action in our lives, not to while away time and resources wishing for something that we will never have, use, or be.
I had a bit of guilt after reading the afore mentioned blog post, because I do have subway tile back splash, the supposedly "it" thing that the blogger was made to feel less than for not having. Am I overly materialistic because I have an esthetically pleasing kitchen? But I didn't choose subway tile back splash because it was the "it" thing, I didn't even know that. I chose it because it was simple and clean and easy to wipe down, and that will still be true 20 years from not when there is a new "it" thing, and I will not want to remodel my kitchen. My home is beautiful, but it isn't beautiful because it's fancy or expensive, it's beautiful because I know my family deep down, and I chose things that were going to work for us in the long term, where we would be comfortable, and not feel pressured to change every time a new "it" rolls around, because we know who we are, and our space reflects that. I will love my home even when it's out of style, because I used media as a tool to inspire, rather than allowing it to become an agent of dissatisfaction. The bible talks about guarding our hearts, and there is so much more to guard from today than there ever has been before: fictional Jones's lurk around every corner sending the message, "You are not enough. You are not lovely, your home is lacking, if you just have this, you will be happy." We think we don't heed the message, but we hear it so often, bombarding us from every avenue. We are not invulnerable; we start to wonder, do I need that? Is happiness lurking just around the bend, behind the kitchen aid mixer and the kurig?
It's a fine line between inspiration and doubt. Surround yourself with things that inspire, ingest media that fills you with the truth, seek people who don't judge your worth by the trappings of your existence, those that motivate you toward greater perspective. Use facebook to connect, not compare. Allow yourself to be encouraged and inspired, but don't buy into discontent. Media is a great tool of empathy, connection, and learning, but it's a slippery slope. Guard your heart; walk the line.
Having recently built a home, while simultaneously enduring an uncomfortable third pregnancy, I have spent more than my fair share of time on pinterest. It was an invaluable tool in keeping track of my ideas in a cohesive way, but I realized, the line is fine. Country Living and Pinterest should exist to inspire us, not to drive us toward guilt and discontent. They should encourage us to take positive action in our lives, not to while away time and resources wishing for something that we will never have, use, or be.
I had a bit of guilt after reading the afore mentioned blog post, because I do have subway tile back splash, the supposedly "it" thing that the blogger was made to feel less than for not having. Am I overly materialistic because I have an esthetically pleasing kitchen? But I didn't choose subway tile back splash because it was the "it" thing, I didn't even know that. I chose it because it was simple and clean and easy to wipe down, and that will still be true 20 years from not when there is a new "it" thing, and I will not want to remodel my kitchen. My home is beautiful, but it isn't beautiful because it's fancy or expensive, it's beautiful because I know my family deep down, and I chose things that were going to work for us in the long term, where we would be comfortable, and not feel pressured to change every time a new "it" rolls around, because we know who we are, and our space reflects that. I will love my home even when it's out of style, because I used media as a tool to inspire, rather than allowing it to become an agent of dissatisfaction. The bible talks about guarding our hearts, and there is so much more to guard from today than there ever has been before: fictional Jones's lurk around every corner sending the message, "You are not enough. You are not lovely, your home is lacking, if you just have this, you will be happy." We think we don't heed the message, but we hear it so often, bombarding us from every avenue. We are not invulnerable; we start to wonder, do I need that? Is happiness lurking just around the bend, behind the kitchen aid mixer and the kurig?
It's a fine line between inspiration and doubt. Surround yourself with things that inspire, ingest media that fills you with the truth, seek people who don't judge your worth by the trappings of your existence, those that motivate you toward greater perspective. Use facebook to connect, not compare. Allow yourself to be encouraged and inspired, but don't buy into discontent. Media is a great tool of empathy, connection, and learning, but it's a slippery slope. Guard your heart; walk the line.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
For believers
I look around and I see it: the world becoming more and more hateful of Christ-like things. The Dugger's are the butt of jokes, we are the object of ridicule...stay at home mom's who submit to our husband's, work in our homes, and pour into our families: those women are brainwashed! Because who could ever make such a choice deliberately? Even women's lib has swung to the other side of the pendulum, abandoning woman who would choose domesticity, but being able to choose, wasn't that the point?
The bible spells it out, clear as living water, family will turn against family, hate for the truth will reign in this world. As people follow subjective morality, sin will lie down among us, and be seen as benign, " for there is a way which seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death." (Proverbs 14:12). Gone even is the pretense of a Christian nation.
You Christian friend are rowing upstream. In a sound boat, traveling away from disaster, but never the less, it gets hard sometimes, teaching kids to paddle against the current; not capsizing the boat and drifting downstream. I think this is why Paul spends the majority of the new testament encouraging his friends, extending them an oar. So often, I feel like I can go it alone, here in my Hobbit hole, with a husband who loves me for who I am, I can put my nose down to the mess out there. But Christ doesn't call us to let one another gasp for breath. We must extend, encourage, receive encouragement.
I have a card in my top drawer, I cried when I read it. Your a good mom, she said....a life buoy. These are hard times, invite a mom to coffee, write a note of thanks or encouragement, pray for one another, be a conduit of grace. Do not let any who belong to Christ paddle alone, least of all yourself.
The bible spells it out, clear as living water, family will turn against family, hate for the truth will reign in this world. As people follow subjective morality, sin will lie down among us, and be seen as benign, " for there is a way which seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death." (Proverbs 14:12). Gone even is the pretense of a Christian nation.
You Christian friend are rowing upstream. In a sound boat, traveling away from disaster, but never the less, it gets hard sometimes, teaching kids to paddle against the current; not capsizing the boat and drifting downstream. I think this is why Paul spends the majority of the new testament encouraging his friends, extending them an oar. So often, I feel like I can go it alone, here in my Hobbit hole, with a husband who loves me for who I am, I can put my nose down to the mess out there. But Christ doesn't call us to let one another gasp for breath. We must extend, encourage, receive encouragement.
I have a card in my top drawer, I cried when I read it. Your a good mom, she said....a life buoy. These are hard times, invite a mom to coffee, write a note of thanks or encouragement, pray for one another, be a conduit of grace. Do not let any who belong to Christ paddle alone, least of all yourself.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Implode, return, repeat
I must get out. If I don't, I will implode. My children have put me on the run. I retreat to the porch with cheese and wine. I very seldom have more than a glass, but this day feels like it could justify a vat. It's time to cook dinner. Levi has been up since noon. He's crying in his bed, but I know once he's this worked up the odds of him falling asleep are very bad. Like me, once I get like this I can't go to God; when I'm already hoarse from yelling at the big but not as big as she thinks she is girl. I am desperate ....facebook, wine, food, maybe I'll buy something online. I am an empty hole, screaming for any kind of relief, and I can't look where deep relief lies. Maybe I am ashamed, or maybe anger can't stand before God.
They would be better off without me, I sometimes think when it's ugly; without all my sins that rear and buck again and again. I just can't get it right, and I can't even look where I know I'll find it. I push away, like the 6 year old, until my blood cools, and the only thing left fierce is guilt. I burn out. I stretch thin; my bible study girl cracks and bleeds.
My God receives me like the parent I wish I was. Why is this so hard? Why did you give me children to damage? I return, but I don't know how to do better tomorrow- when the inevitable happens and attitudes flair, shoes get tripped over, reminded to pick up and tripped over again, naptime comes without rest, oh I am manic during the screaming naps, girls fight, and tattle, and demand. I do not know how to grow up and become the parent who can parent herself, but as I know, the absent parent is worse.
I try again. Returning is all I have, and the miracle of littles is that they know something I have forgotten: every day is new.
They would be better off without me, I sometimes think when it's ugly; without all my sins that rear and buck again and again. I just can't get it right, and I can't even look where I know I'll find it. I push away, like the 6 year old, until my blood cools, and the only thing left fierce is guilt. I burn out. I stretch thin; my bible study girl cracks and bleeds.
My God receives me like the parent I wish I was. Why is this so hard? Why did you give me children to damage? I return, but I don't know how to do better tomorrow- when the inevitable happens and attitudes flair, shoes get tripped over, reminded to pick up and tripped over again, naptime comes without rest, oh I am manic during the screaming naps, girls fight, and tattle, and demand. I do not know how to grow up and become the parent who can parent herself, but as I know, the absent parent is worse.
I try again. Returning is all I have, and the miracle of littles is that they know something I have forgotten: every day is new.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
I am a judgmental hag
So I had some questions about a blog post that I feel I need to write, one that is kind of harsh and may put me in front of the firing squad. I don't mind being in front of the firing squad, but if I'm going to be there, I want it to be because of something the Holy Spirit lead me to say, and not just my own wanton criticisms, so I called another blogger whom I like and respect to ask for her wisdom. We are discussing one thing and another, when all of the sudden I am spewing ugly all over this innocent bystander, who now can clearly see how ugly I am, and probably doesn't want to be my friend anymore....
There is this person, whom I believe to be a genuinely nice person, but is so opposite of me in every respect that everything they do rubs me backwards. Some of the stuff bothers me because I think it's unbiblical, but here's the thing, you know what I'm absolutely sure is unbiblical, judgment coming from someone other than the judge. Being under contention with another Christian is clearly spelled out in the bible, so that's where I am, firmly entrenched in the wrong. Whether this person's actions, thoughts, beliefs are in line with scripture, I am not rebuking them out of love, I am wanting to call them out because they annoy me. So not cool, and saying it out loud to someone I know, but don't know just made it sound horrid, which of course, it was.
So now what? Now that you all know what a judgmental hag I am? Not sure; I know that I'm not going to be taking communion while I spend some time with God on this one, and I know that this person has some strengths in places where I have weaknesses and visa versa, so every time I think about them I am going to name something good. I am going to add them to my prayer list for the biblical issues.
I have not walked this person's road, so I don't know their struggles, but I do know that our savior not only loves, but likes this person, and it is not okay for me to be unkind, so I'll be working on that. maybe a part of this person's journey, even if they don't know it is to teach me a thing or two about extending grace, because when it comes back around, I need some too.
There is this person, whom I believe to be a genuinely nice person, but is so opposite of me in every respect that everything they do rubs me backwards. Some of the stuff bothers me because I think it's unbiblical, but here's the thing, you know what I'm absolutely sure is unbiblical, judgment coming from someone other than the judge. Being under contention with another Christian is clearly spelled out in the bible, so that's where I am, firmly entrenched in the wrong. Whether this person's actions, thoughts, beliefs are in line with scripture, I am not rebuking them out of love, I am wanting to call them out because they annoy me. So not cool, and saying it out loud to someone I know, but don't know just made it sound horrid, which of course, it was.
So now what? Now that you all know what a judgmental hag I am? Not sure; I know that I'm not going to be taking communion while I spend some time with God on this one, and I know that this person has some strengths in places where I have weaknesses and visa versa, so every time I think about them I am going to name something good. I am going to add them to my prayer list for the biblical issues.
I have not walked this person's road, so I don't know their struggles, but I do know that our savior not only loves, but likes this person, and it is not okay for me to be unkind, so I'll be working on that. maybe a part of this person's journey, even if they don't know it is to teach me a thing or two about extending grace, because when it comes back around, I need some too.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
If you were the only one
Whenever I read the bible, I always see God speaking to David, to Abraham, to the Israelites, but I have the hardest time in my heart of hearts believing that he is speaking to ME. I believe that Christ died for our sins, I do, but you have to admit, it's a pretty efficient arrangement: by sending his son, ALL would have the opportunity to be saved. One sacrifice, many souls, but here is the thing my friend, the glorious beautiful truth: God didn't die for our sins, he died for each of our sins....If he knew that you and you alone ( I and I alone!!!) would accept his grace, he would have still endured suffering and death. He loves YOU that much. Let it settle into your soul; He sees you, your struggles, and his hand of grace is extended to you. In your mothers womb, he knew you, and on the cross, he thought of you, in the small hours of your suffering he sees your tears, sheds them with you. He took your burden that you may be free of it. He gave you the word so that you might accept the truth of what he has done for you. He died so that you may have life, and on this glorious day, HE IS RISEN!
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
To married men
This letter is for the good ones; shmuck husbands need a whole 'nother letter.
Dear Married men,
First of all I want to say Thanks; a lot of women complain, you know, about the whole submission bit, but most of us know that you have the much harder part of the verse. Giving himself up for his bride as Christ sacrificed himself for the church. You are the part of the covenant that represents Jesus; that's big time, and it can't be easy. It seems small really, to submit to someone who is out there sacrificing himself daily for your needs, not that it's easy, but really in comparison, you guys have the more legitimate temptation to complain.
It could be different I suppose for other wives, but I think a lot is universal, and we tend to expect a lot of mind reading, and it would appear that that just isn't in your arsenal of capabilities, so I just wanted to lay a few things out for the edification of your marriage.
First, we all want to be noticed. There is no age at which women out grow wanting to be swept off our feet, hence the market for chick flicks. We may learn, as we mature spiritually to not wear our need like a flag of desperation, but it's still in there. When your wife tells you that she needs you to notice her, to speak lovingly to her, to touch her in a non sexual way, please don't respond with any kind of buts, particularly if she is communicating her needs to you in a non accusatory manner, just listen, and validate. If she is coming to you with honest needs of her heart, just listen, you will get a turn, but now is not the time to let her know your needs. In fact, she probably already knows them, and I'd wager, being the God fearing woman that she undoubtedly is, that she is truly telling you how she would be able to meet your needs better. I would wager, that she has been trying to meet your needs, and that what you need is for her not to have to try so hard, for it to be a bit more effortless. That, men, is where you come in. It takes only small things to sweep your wife off her feet, find out what those things are for your wife and do them. Please don't give up on trying to be attractive to your wife. You wouldn't like it if she gave up shaving, or making any effort to please you. We love you unconditionally, but you are still more attractive to us if you act like you care whether or not you are attractive to us. Let her know she is the only one for you.
Next, it's hard being the wife of your youth with all these kids, so if when you come home after a hard day, and the greeting you receive is less like. "Welcome to your sanctuary, man I can't wait to get alone with later.", and more like, "Take this kid." Please don't let that set the tone. We don't want to be that way, really, but they are like bandits, uniquely equipped to wear you down, steal your sanity, and syphon your energy....first, the little one wears you down by requiring constant vigilance just to keep the little bugger alive until the end of the day, then the middle one cracks your amour with 49,000 questions, half of which they already know the answer to, but enjoy the security of hearing the same answer for the bazillionth time, and then, the school age ones take you down, with snotty attitude and complaining. Then they bind your ankles with a little sibling bickering. I know you had a hard day too, but by the time you get here, we feel like the pecked chicken, so a little grace, 5 minutes to recover our wits, and a do over would be much appreciated.
Last,(okay not really, but it isn't a book you know). My husband has particular difficultly with this one, probably because it makes no logical sense, but the more you think your wife wishes you would take a job in Siberia and just send money, the more she really probably just wants you to hold her. Seriously counter intuitive, I know, but when we get overwhelmed or hormonal, or we really need a break and can't seem to get one,we might look like we could spit daggers and may seem dangerous to approach, but take a risk, and try holding your wife, maybe even gently asking her what she needs. She make break down and cry, don't worry, in this case that's a good thing. You did the right thing, you made her feel safe enough to cry. When we get to this point, we don't know how to say what we need. We feel guilty for asking for help. If you do not take this step toward us, we feel isolated and misunderstood, particularly under the influence of hormones, that other colony of bandits.
We know being married to us is sometimes confusing and difficult. We hope it is rewarding and beautiful. Thank you for loving us at our most unlovable. That is a picture of Jesus for us. One we need. Thank you for your leadership, even when we're cantankerous. Thank you for your hard work, and your provision. Thank you for stepping up and being men in a world of boys.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Brain fog
It's hard to blog when my son is screaming. Shrill wail piercing my thoughts. We are sleep training, which basically makes us walking zombies. In some ways I suppose I am more fun like this, after all, I have abandoned my normal routine pursuits, because If I tried to maintain normally during this process my head would explode, so I have more free time, but feel oddly untethered. The normal gravitational forces of my day are absent, no workout, none but the most basic cleaning. I am also more likely to give in, my resolve worn thin. Yes, by all means, watch a movie, or go upstairs alone with your sister, never mind the highlighter than will inevitably add to the wall decor when I check on you later....
How did I get like this, I wonder. A few short years ago I was reveling in the ignorance of my ignorance, otherwise known as youth. I'm sure I was "that girl" as the song says, carefree and singing at the top of my lungs, barefoot. I wonder if there is a way to get anything done in your adult life and still hold on to vestiges of that person....after all I'm sure it was she my husband was attracted to, not this perpetually stressed housewife who looks like she needs three days of sleep and some eyeliner, and possibly a real bra, because you know, I feel like I've been wearing a nursing bra for as long as I can remember. But then, I wouldn't want to be one of those sad cases of thirty something mothers who still try to dress and act like they're 22, so I guess if that's the alternative, old is better than tacky.
Yesterday, my husband watched the kids for a couple of hours in the evening so I could go out with a friend. You know where we went? The fabric store. And I liked it. I vaguely feel there must be something wrong with this, but I can't put my finger on it. My mind has been consumed by my children, like parasitic syphons whom you love. Strange thing, this mothering. To tell you the truth, if any of you cost me this much sleep, we would no longer be friends, and if any of you gave me this much fat, well....
In any case, I dimly remember surviving this phase with my other children, (although that may be why my hair is turning grey now), so I'm sure (almost) that I will live this time, though with an increased understanding of how it comes to pass that older couples get Harley's. It isn't so much that I want to go back to who I was, because she was actually not as cool as me in several ways, but I want to teach this new mama person how to sing barefoot and laugh with abandon. I wonder if that is even possible? Someone please tell me it is before I start considering a Harley....
How did I get like this, I wonder. A few short years ago I was reveling in the ignorance of my ignorance, otherwise known as youth. I'm sure I was "that girl" as the song says, carefree and singing at the top of my lungs, barefoot. I wonder if there is a way to get anything done in your adult life and still hold on to vestiges of that person....after all I'm sure it was she my husband was attracted to, not this perpetually stressed housewife who looks like she needs three days of sleep and some eyeliner, and possibly a real bra, because you know, I feel like I've been wearing a nursing bra for as long as I can remember. But then, I wouldn't want to be one of those sad cases of thirty something mothers who still try to dress and act like they're 22, so I guess if that's the alternative, old is better than tacky.
Yesterday, my husband watched the kids for a couple of hours in the evening so I could go out with a friend. You know where we went? The fabric store. And I liked it. I vaguely feel there must be something wrong with this, but I can't put my finger on it. My mind has been consumed by my children, like parasitic syphons whom you love. Strange thing, this mothering. To tell you the truth, if any of you cost me this much sleep, we would no longer be friends, and if any of you gave me this much fat, well....
In any case, I dimly remember surviving this phase with my other children, (although that may be why my hair is turning grey now), so I'm sure (almost) that I will live this time, though with an increased understanding of how it comes to pass that older couples get Harley's. It isn't so much that I want to go back to who I was, because she was actually not as cool as me in several ways, but I want to teach this new mama person how to sing barefoot and laugh with abandon. I wonder if that is even possible? Someone please tell me it is before I start considering a Harley....
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Who's coming to dinner?
The time of year has come to begin planting seeds. I love growing things, the smell of the peat and earth, nurturing seeds into plants into something beautiful and nourishing. The work of our hands and the great work of the creator waking the earth and us from dormancy; unfurling my spirit like new leaves; it is my favorite time of year. While I was chopping cilantro yesterday, it's strong aromatic scent filling my kitchen, I was thinking about those plants, how I will use them to feed the people I love. I have been reading a lot of Shauna Neiquist lately, so while I have always shared her "feeding people thing", I have been thinking about food a lot lately.
Unlike Shauna, I don't host fancy dinner parties, but I am the queen of your every day week night dinner. When I met Lance, I barely knew how to cook at all. I had a few recipes that I inherited from my mother, but on the whole, she didn't like to cook with me, because I am MESSY, and I wasn't really interested in cooking or hanging out with my mom at when I lived at home. But having oft enough heard the adage that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, I began my quest to hang on to my man. It turned out that my husband could have alternated between steak and potatoes, burgers, and tacos, and been perfectly happy, but in my early ignorance, I taught myself to cook, and to garden.
It has been a long cold winter, and finally the urge for growth has begun to tug at my soul. Shauna Neiquist says that our lives are really lived in the in between moments, you know the ones, the cracks in the routine, when we throw open the doors and welcome friends, when we slow down and see our children. These are the moments we allow are selves to see God's grace, ever present, often overlooked. I am a creature of routine; I have a hard time making space for moments like these, but after all, the only reason for a clean house is the peaceful feeling in the after, and the ability it gives to throw open the gates. In this winter I have been dormant in my spirit, renewing and growing, but nestled tight into my family and home. This lent has been for me about creating space, a space I so often fill with routine minutia and trivial pursuits, but God has called me to open up that space for Him, for meaning, for joy. With spring is awakening a desire to connect with the people who matter, to open heart and home, to laugh, to listen, to feed people simply with the work of my hands. No show off meals, just good home cooking, starting with our small group Easter celebration, I am going to have people around my table once a month. I am going to hunt down those in between moments in which our lives our lived, and in them, and in the growth of the earth, I will meet God, and I will remember his glory. Come Friends, and eat with us.
Unlike Shauna, I don't host fancy dinner parties, but I am the queen of your every day week night dinner. When I met Lance, I barely knew how to cook at all. I had a few recipes that I inherited from my mother, but on the whole, she didn't like to cook with me, because I am MESSY, and I wasn't really interested in cooking or hanging out with my mom at when I lived at home. But having oft enough heard the adage that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, I began my quest to hang on to my man. It turned out that my husband could have alternated between steak and potatoes, burgers, and tacos, and been perfectly happy, but in my early ignorance, I taught myself to cook, and to garden.
It has been a long cold winter, and finally the urge for growth has begun to tug at my soul. Shauna Neiquist says that our lives are really lived in the in between moments, you know the ones, the cracks in the routine, when we throw open the doors and welcome friends, when we slow down and see our children. These are the moments we allow are selves to see God's grace, ever present, often overlooked. I am a creature of routine; I have a hard time making space for moments like these, but after all, the only reason for a clean house is the peaceful feeling in the after, and the ability it gives to throw open the gates. In this winter I have been dormant in my spirit, renewing and growing, but nestled tight into my family and home. This lent has been for me about creating space, a space I so often fill with routine minutia and trivial pursuits, but God has called me to open up that space for Him, for meaning, for joy. With spring is awakening a desire to connect with the people who matter, to open heart and home, to laugh, to listen, to feed people simply with the work of my hands. No show off meals, just good home cooking, starting with our small group Easter celebration, I am going to have people around my table once a month. I am going to hunt down those in between moments in which our lives our lived, and in them, and in the growth of the earth, I will meet God, and I will remember his glory. Come Friends, and eat with us.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Family dynamics
In my family, as in many families I suppose, there are no secrets....tell one person, and soon everyone knows. The only secret is from you about exactly who knows your secret and who told them. Before it gets back around to you it has been passed around, discussed, and conclusions drawn. Everyone knows exactly how you should parent, is an expert on your marriage and home management, and ironically, the people who should be the most loving and encouraging are the biggest source of criticism and judgment. In my family I feel constantly 9 years old, when they look at me they see that selfish drama queen, messy room and all. In my own family y'all, I've never been allowed to grow up. They have no idea who I am today, because they see that girl, not who I have become.
It's hard with family, because unlike with friends, you can't just decide it's too big of a pain and cut your losses. Family is sometimes a tough lesson in love and forgiveness. It's continual, over and over, you hurt one another, but you can't walk away, you have to learn how to deal. And I'll admit, nothing brings out the tantrum throwing kid in me than the frustration of being misunderstood and judged by people who are supposed to give you the most grace, your life pandered around like fodder for gossip. I want to lash back, the tongue my defensive fortress, but then, aren't I becoming exactly who they convict me of being, as though their perceptions are enough to make me regress. It's like with family God gives you the same trial again and again, until you finally learn to handle it like a grown up. Are you giving them the grace you are wishing they would give you? Are you allowing them to grow? Are you lashing back with the wicked tongue you inherited, or learning, slowly, to breath, to be slow to anger and quick to forgive. Perhaps this is why we are birthed into such a mix of personalities; people we can't divorce.
In fairness, I have been on the opposing side. It's familiar. It's how we grew up operating. My own sweet sister said to me one day. "You still see me like when I stole mom's camera and denied it, like the five year old who hid vitamins in the couch." My comment about her had been off hand, but it was true, I had boxed her in, forbidden her to reinvent herself, to grow up. I was blind to the introspective young woman she was becoming, like a butterfly, right before my eyes.
The people who know our weak spots, our back stories, shouldn't use them like weapons. We know theirs in return, like shields of justification. It is a slow process, learning to offer the other cheek, and it's family that makes us vested enough to try, try again. I release their expectations for me, for my life. I am free to become. I am free to be redeemed, whether they see it or no. I release my expectations of them, they are free to transform. I pray for a breath of pause, and fresh eyes. I am forgiven; I am free to forgive.
It's hard with family, because unlike with friends, you can't just decide it's too big of a pain and cut your losses. Family is sometimes a tough lesson in love and forgiveness. It's continual, over and over, you hurt one another, but you can't walk away, you have to learn how to deal. And I'll admit, nothing brings out the tantrum throwing kid in me than the frustration of being misunderstood and judged by people who are supposed to give you the most grace, your life pandered around like fodder for gossip. I want to lash back, the tongue my defensive fortress, but then, aren't I becoming exactly who they convict me of being, as though their perceptions are enough to make me regress. It's like with family God gives you the same trial again and again, until you finally learn to handle it like a grown up. Are you giving them the grace you are wishing they would give you? Are you allowing them to grow? Are you lashing back with the wicked tongue you inherited, or learning, slowly, to breath, to be slow to anger and quick to forgive. Perhaps this is why we are birthed into such a mix of personalities; people we can't divorce.
In fairness, I have been on the opposing side. It's familiar. It's how we grew up operating. My own sweet sister said to me one day. "You still see me like when I stole mom's camera and denied it, like the five year old who hid vitamins in the couch." My comment about her had been off hand, but it was true, I had boxed her in, forbidden her to reinvent herself, to grow up. I was blind to the introspective young woman she was becoming, like a butterfly, right before my eyes.
The people who know our weak spots, our back stories, shouldn't use them like weapons. We know theirs in return, like shields of justification. It is a slow process, learning to offer the other cheek, and it's family that makes us vested enough to try, try again. I release their expectations for me, for my life. I am free to become. I am free to be redeemed, whether they see it or no. I release my expectations of them, they are free to transform. I pray for a breath of pause, and fresh eyes. I am forgiven; I am free to forgive.
Monday, March 17, 2014
The balance Leprechaun
You always hear people, moms in particular, talking about finding balance. It is ever illusive; we are always seeking it. Like my daughter creating traps at school for the St. Patrick's day leprechaun, which cruelly, she does not know isn't real. Likewise, I don't really think balance is an achievable thing, or at least it is a slippery slope; if it is found, it is impossible to maintain. Life's constant is change, so just when we figure out a system that works for our life, our children enter a new stage, jobs, finances, or something changes. A facebook friend was asking a few weeks ago, how to find balance between spending precious time with littles, and managing all of our other responsibilities, and that really got me thinking about this. I very rarely offer practical advice here, and I have in no way figured this out, so the practical advice I am about to offer is worth very little, and for working mothers, I can only offer you enormous admiration, and very little else. Yes, you, take one third of the time the rest of us have, and go ahead and work a miracle, you can do it! Seriously, I stay home all day, and I can't get everything done with the time I have, so working moms blow my mind.
In any case, here are a few things that I have learned along the way that work for me. Concerning house keeping, I think the key is to discern how clean your house really needs to be and let the rest go. For me, this level is "clean enough not to be embarrassed if a friend stops by unannounced". I don't always get there, but at least I know what I'm working toward, otherwise, I think you can drive yourself crazy. There really is no way to achieve perfection all of the time, and most of us, unless you or your spouse are OCD, probably don't need that. After that, you can set aside time for specific projects or extras if you have the time, but you don't stress yourself out with unrealistic expectations. I used to think my husband wanted a perfectly clean house, but have learned over the years that given the choice between this and a wife who is on the verge of emotional collapse, he will take the less clean house, and more stable wife.
This brings me to the next point on house keeping: priorities. For my husband, it's the kitchen, so if I know I have finite time or energy, I try to focus where it counts. I also divide up the tasks so I never have to spend a whole day cleaning, such as bathrooms Monday, mopping Tuesday, etc, but I have done it the other way too, and each has it's advantages. As far as meals, I find menu planning enormously helpful, and on extra busy days, freezer prep and the crock pot is my best friend.
On kids: I probably err on the side of not playing enough with my kids, because honestly, I hate to play. I enjoy reading to them, and I don't mind the occasional craft, puzzle, coloring, or board game, but imaginary play, I suck at. So possibly for that reason, but definitely for reasons of fostering creativity and independence, I am going to suggest that it is actually good for them to play on their own, besides, this is what they have siblings for. (Just kidding, the real reason for that is because for all the effect birth control has on me, I might as well take skittles) I like to set them up with crafts to the degree that they are trustworthy, but frankly, this is why my walls are colored on and cut with scissors, so this goes in waves, depending on my current degree of amnesia regarding the last bout of destruction. I also only allow one show or movie per kid per week, so I try to use this judiciously, in the time of upmost need. I find that small amounts of time make a great deal of difference to kids, since their attention span is short anyway, so try setting a timer for yourself allotting so much work time, and then so much focused time on your kids. Again, I suggest doing what you don't hate, so the time will be more pleasant for all involved. If I try forcing myself to play, it usually ends badly, and your presence is generally more important than the content of the activity anyway. Sometimes, of course, you will have to do things you'd rather not, but on the daily, there aren't bonus points for self torture.
Next I am going to suggest that you know who you are, so that you know what to say no to. None of us can do it all, so it's best to do what you can sanely. My kids will not favorably remember that I baked 5 things for the bake sale, sewed all of their Halloween costumes, and kept a spotless house, if I am subsequently institutionalized, so I do what Shauna Neiquist does in her book Cold Tangerines, and keep a list of things I do, and things I don't do, so I keep within the grid of what I really want my life to be about, and don't harbor guilt for things which fall outside of that. I, for instance do garden, and don't homeschool.
Lastly, I am going to repeat the oft repeated time for yourself thing. Impossible I know, but for the well being of all around you, you really must carve out space for yourself, not just space in which you do nothing, though sometimes we need that, but space to do something that refreshes you and gives you life. If I am behaving badly, sometimes removing myself to pray for even 5 minutes outside will do if that's all the time I can steal.
You may have noticed that I have said nothing about spending quality time with ones husband; this is because I am nursing a baby, and have no clue how to accomplish this! So, if you have additional suggestions, or have caught the elusive balance leprechaun, I would love to hear your tips and tricks!
In any case, here are a few things that I have learned along the way that work for me. Concerning house keeping, I think the key is to discern how clean your house really needs to be and let the rest go. For me, this level is "clean enough not to be embarrassed if a friend stops by unannounced". I don't always get there, but at least I know what I'm working toward, otherwise, I think you can drive yourself crazy. There really is no way to achieve perfection all of the time, and most of us, unless you or your spouse are OCD, probably don't need that. After that, you can set aside time for specific projects or extras if you have the time, but you don't stress yourself out with unrealistic expectations. I used to think my husband wanted a perfectly clean house, but have learned over the years that given the choice between this and a wife who is on the verge of emotional collapse, he will take the less clean house, and more stable wife.
This brings me to the next point on house keeping: priorities. For my husband, it's the kitchen, so if I know I have finite time or energy, I try to focus where it counts. I also divide up the tasks so I never have to spend a whole day cleaning, such as bathrooms Monday, mopping Tuesday, etc, but I have done it the other way too, and each has it's advantages. As far as meals, I find menu planning enormously helpful, and on extra busy days, freezer prep and the crock pot is my best friend.
On kids: I probably err on the side of not playing enough with my kids, because honestly, I hate to play. I enjoy reading to them, and I don't mind the occasional craft, puzzle, coloring, or board game, but imaginary play, I suck at. So possibly for that reason, but definitely for reasons of fostering creativity and independence, I am going to suggest that it is actually good for them to play on their own, besides, this is what they have siblings for. (Just kidding, the real reason for that is because for all the effect birth control has on me, I might as well take skittles) I like to set them up with crafts to the degree that they are trustworthy, but frankly, this is why my walls are colored on and cut with scissors, so this goes in waves, depending on my current degree of amnesia regarding the last bout of destruction. I also only allow one show or movie per kid per week, so I try to use this judiciously, in the time of upmost need. I find that small amounts of time make a great deal of difference to kids, since their attention span is short anyway, so try setting a timer for yourself allotting so much work time, and then so much focused time on your kids. Again, I suggest doing what you don't hate, so the time will be more pleasant for all involved. If I try forcing myself to play, it usually ends badly, and your presence is generally more important than the content of the activity anyway. Sometimes, of course, you will have to do things you'd rather not, but on the daily, there aren't bonus points for self torture.
Next I am going to suggest that you know who you are, so that you know what to say no to. None of us can do it all, so it's best to do what you can sanely. My kids will not favorably remember that I baked 5 things for the bake sale, sewed all of their Halloween costumes, and kept a spotless house, if I am subsequently institutionalized, so I do what Shauna Neiquist does in her book Cold Tangerines, and keep a list of things I do, and things I don't do, so I keep within the grid of what I really want my life to be about, and don't harbor guilt for things which fall outside of that. I, for instance do garden, and don't homeschool.
Lastly, I am going to repeat the oft repeated time for yourself thing. Impossible I know, but for the well being of all around you, you really must carve out space for yourself, not just space in which you do nothing, though sometimes we need that, but space to do something that refreshes you and gives you life. If I am behaving badly, sometimes removing myself to pray for even 5 minutes outside will do if that's all the time I can steal.
You may have noticed that I have said nothing about spending quality time with ones husband; this is because I am nursing a baby, and have no clue how to accomplish this! So, if you have additional suggestions, or have caught the elusive balance leprechaun, I would love to hear your tips and tricks!
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Awake!
It is my belief that a person is largely the sum of his or her habits. In Charles Duhig's book The Power of Habit, we learn that approximately 40% of what we do is a product of habit rather than conscious choice. A habit can either be nourishing and sustaining, like physical exercise or cultivating quiet time with God, or it can be destructive. I am relatively aware and diligent about my physical habits, but have largely overlooked the impact of my mental ones.
I am a firm believer in the adage that pain is 3/4 the anticipation of pain. Our fear creates 3/4 of our experience of pain! I am finding that this principle holds for not only pain, but stress as well. I create 3/4 of the stress in my life with my own anxiety about hypothetical stress. What a detrimental habit! God says, "Do not worry about tomorrow's troubles, for tomorrow will have enough trouble of it's own." Do not heap imaginary burdens on top of the real ones! When we do this, we rob ourselves of much of God's peace and joy. We effectively choose to distrust His ability to care for us, and deny His nature as a good God.
In her blog, A Holy Experience, Ann Voskamp explains that goodness and mercy (Psalm 23) don't just follow us all the days of our lives, they "Radah", hunt us down! I choose the familiarly of my anxiety because his blessing and plan for my life are unknown and outside of my control.
When Morgan was in preschool, I enrolled her in dance, because I knew she would love it, and thought it would benefit her. For weeks, every time I dropped her off she clung to my leg and wailed, until one day, I pried her off me, deposited her in the studio and left (ok, so I was outside in my car, but she didn't know that). And wouldn't you know, she danced that day, and she loved it.
This is what we do to God all the time; throw his gifts in his face because" I HATE dance!!"( or whatever), when really, what I hate is having to get over myself, leave my comfort zone, and trust God.
For the longest time I have failed to realize that my mental habits were attitudes that I allow to persist. I have harbored excuses about why these attributes are a part of who I am, but the truth is, I have allowed unhealthy mental habits to take root, and with God's help and with conscious choice, I can weed them out.
Last March, when I was reading The Power of Habit, I committed to make my bed every day of that month. And guess what, I make my bed every day now. In Ann Voskamp's amazing book 1000 gifts, she discovers that we can develop the discipline of gratitude and joy, by focusing our attention on the hand of God in our lives, by recognizing and being thankful for his abundant gifts. It is time that I take God at his word. He promises that he will meet my needs, hear my prayers, hunt me down with his blessings. It is time I choose to let him be my daily bread, and live a life of faith, not a life of anxiety and fear. If we become complacent about our mental habits, we can unwittingly stumble into the path of the enemy. God's grace reveals itself to us daily, if only we have the perspective to see it. Let us develop habits that glorify God, and wake to joy!
I am a firm believer in the adage that pain is 3/4 the anticipation of pain. Our fear creates 3/4 of our experience of pain! I am finding that this principle holds for not only pain, but stress as well. I create 3/4 of the stress in my life with my own anxiety about hypothetical stress. What a detrimental habit! God says, "Do not worry about tomorrow's troubles, for tomorrow will have enough trouble of it's own." Do not heap imaginary burdens on top of the real ones! When we do this, we rob ourselves of much of God's peace and joy. We effectively choose to distrust His ability to care for us, and deny His nature as a good God.
In her blog, A Holy Experience, Ann Voskamp explains that goodness and mercy (Psalm 23) don't just follow us all the days of our lives, they "Radah", hunt us down! I choose the familiarly of my anxiety because his blessing and plan for my life are unknown and outside of my control.
When Morgan was in preschool, I enrolled her in dance, because I knew she would love it, and thought it would benefit her. For weeks, every time I dropped her off she clung to my leg and wailed, until one day, I pried her off me, deposited her in the studio and left (ok, so I was outside in my car, but she didn't know that). And wouldn't you know, she danced that day, and she loved it.
This is what we do to God all the time; throw his gifts in his face because" I HATE dance!!"( or whatever), when really, what I hate is having to get over myself, leave my comfort zone, and trust God.
For the longest time I have failed to realize that my mental habits were attitudes that I allow to persist. I have harbored excuses about why these attributes are a part of who I am, but the truth is, I have allowed unhealthy mental habits to take root, and with God's help and with conscious choice, I can weed them out.
Last March, when I was reading The Power of Habit, I committed to make my bed every day of that month. And guess what, I make my bed every day now. In Ann Voskamp's amazing book 1000 gifts, she discovers that we can develop the discipline of gratitude and joy, by focusing our attention on the hand of God in our lives, by recognizing and being thankful for his abundant gifts. It is time that I take God at his word. He promises that he will meet my needs, hear my prayers, hunt me down with his blessings. It is time I choose to let him be my daily bread, and live a life of faith, not a life of anxiety and fear. If we become complacent about our mental habits, we can unwittingly stumble into the path of the enemy. God's grace reveals itself to us daily, if only we have the perspective to see it. Let us develop habits that glorify God, and wake to joy!
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Check your rugs
I am a creature of routine, so every Tuesday, I sweep and mop the wood floors. Every single week it amazes me that even though I don't intentionally sweep things under the rugs, icky stuff finds it's way there every time. Today as I was doing this it reminded me of how sometimes the same things happen in our hearts. I like to think that I am a person who deals with my stuff, but recently, while reading some very insightful works (check out One Thousand Gifts and The Shack), I have been called out on how much is under my rug and stuffed in my closet when it comes to my relationship with God. I am a fantastic hypothetical Christian, but when it comes down to trusting God, as a verb, rather than an intellectual concept; when it comes to going His way, I choose anxiety and anger way more than I choose gratitude and patience. Am I trusting that God's way is best and that I believe he is good. No. And you know who I hurt when I choose that path? Mostly myself, because God's way is His way because it's best, not because He likes arbitrary rules.
A lot of people advocate against organized religion. It has issues, so they prefer to go it on their own. I get that, but sometimes we need our churches, good writing, and close friends to help us get a new perspectives. We need to check our rugs more often, and sometimes, we just can't see what's under there with out someone else holding up the rug so we can get a look. I really believe this is one huge reason why God calls us to do life in fellowship, and also partly why He gives us marriage, because it's harder to leave your nasties under the rug when someone else might see them, and it's easier to get them out with help. We just grow better together. It's hard sometimes to look at yourself that closely, and not like what you see. I think that's another function of marriage, by the way, as a picture of God's love for us....someone has seen all that junk and loves me anyway.
So there it is folks, nothing fancy or lovely today, just a friendly reminder to check your rugs, and surround yourself with wise caring people who aren't afraid help you tackle any lurking dust bunnies.
A lot of people advocate against organized religion. It has issues, so they prefer to go it on their own. I get that, but sometimes we need our churches, good writing, and close friends to help us get a new perspectives. We need to check our rugs more often, and sometimes, we just can't see what's under there with out someone else holding up the rug so we can get a look. I really believe this is one huge reason why God calls us to do life in fellowship, and also partly why He gives us marriage, because it's harder to leave your nasties under the rug when someone else might see them, and it's easier to get them out with help. We just grow better together. It's hard sometimes to look at yourself that closely, and not like what you see. I think that's another function of marriage, by the way, as a picture of God's love for us....someone has seen all that junk and loves me anyway.
So there it is folks, nothing fancy or lovely today, just a friendly reminder to check your rugs, and surround yourself with wise caring people who aren't afraid help you tackle any lurking dust bunnies.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
No thank you God, I would not like to be a writer
I have been reading a lot of beautiful stories lately of redemption. Stories where God takes the blackest night of the soul, the most unthinkable tragedies, and turns them into something beautiful and life giving. The brave women who have recorded their stories have sifted through ashes and growth and greater intimacy with God, and gone on to gift us with their stories.
I have recently been praying that God would allow my writing to expand to the degree that it would serve His kingdom and glorify his name, but truth be told, if I have to give up my whole and healthy family, if I really have to go through the fire to have anything worthwhile to write about, I'll keep my peaceful life, thanks.
It's sort of like that with us and God a lot, isn't it? Grateful though I am for my mediocre run of the mill hardships that have refined my character, if I were authoring my own story, I wouldn't write in any more of them. Thy will be done, I can say, but if God were to have a sit down with me and say, listen, it will glorify my kingdom and contribute to your personal growth if you get a debilitating disease, loose your husband, and your house burns down. Are you in? I know you are, because my will be done, right?" Am I really the sort of Christian I say I am? The one who would say yes? I have known a few amazing people who I'm sure would answer him yes, resoundingly, people who have been his hands and feet even at great personal cost, as we are all called to do, but I'm not there. Maybe I don't know God well enough, or maybe my heart is too weak and selfish. In an Abraham moment, I don't have what it takes.
Intellectually, I know of course that God sees the much broader picture, and that He has my best interest in mind, but it still feels some times like playing junior high trust games with an invisible participant. While I know in my mind that he knows best, I find I am often much like my children, who generally know I love them and am wiser than they, but still feel rather put out when I discourage them from putting bobby pins in the outlets.
It's a good thing that I don't have a choice, and can't see what I'm actually praying for when I pray that prayer. I want to pray for His will, I want to mean it, but I'm glad I don't get to see what I'm asking for. It's a good thing really that I'm not on the decision making comity, since I'm clearly biased and untrustworthy. I'm glad, for the most part, that it's a step by step journey. Of course that means I have to trust in the destination when I'm in the pesky uncertain middle, and I don't know what the end looks like. This trust is one of those things that's a lifetime journey; no shortcuts.
Maybe if we see his redemption enough, his hand working in enough little ways, in our own lives and each other's stories, it will slowly take hold. I'm thankful that along the way I get plenty of grace and do overs; that he meets me right where I am, even in my doubt, for his grace is sufficient for me. Today my prayer must remain, "Lord I believe, please help me with my unbelief."
I have recently been praying that God would allow my writing to expand to the degree that it would serve His kingdom and glorify his name, but truth be told, if I have to give up my whole and healthy family, if I really have to go through the fire to have anything worthwhile to write about, I'll keep my peaceful life, thanks.
It's sort of like that with us and God a lot, isn't it? Grateful though I am for my mediocre run of the mill hardships that have refined my character, if I were authoring my own story, I wouldn't write in any more of them. Thy will be done, I can say, but if God were to have a sit down with me and say, listen, it will glorify my kingdom and contribute to your personal growth if you get a debilitating disease, loose your husband, and your house burns down. Are you in? I know you are, because my will be done, right?" Am I really the sort of Christian I say I am? The one who would say yes? I have known a few amazing people who I'm sure would answer him yes, resoundingly, people who have been his hands and feet even at great personal cost, as we are all called to do, but I'm not there. Maybe I don't know God well enough, or maybe my heart is too weak and selfish. In an Abraham moment, I don't have what it takes.
Intellectually, I know of course that God sees the much broader picture, and that He has my best interest in mind, but it still feels some times like playing junior high trust games with an invisible participant. While I know in my mind that he knows best, I find I am often much like my children, who generally know I love them and am wiser than they, but still feel rather put out when I discourage them from putting bobby pins in the outlets.
It's a good thing that I don't have a choice, and can't see what I'm actually praying for when I pray that prayer. I want to pray for His will, I want to mean it, but I'm glad I don't get to see what I'm asking for. It's a good thing really that I'm not on the decision making comity, since I'm clearly biased and untrustworthy. I'm glad, for the most part, that it's a step by step journey. Of course that means I have to trust in the destination when I'm in the pesky uncertain middle, and I don't know what the end looks like. This trust is one of those things that's a lifetime journey; no shortcuts.
Maybe if we see his redemption enough, his hand working in enough little ways, in our own lives and each other's stories, it will slowly take hold. I'm thankful that along the way I get plenty of grace and do overs; that he meets me right where I am, even in my doubt, for his grace is sufficient for me. Today my prayer must remain, "Lord I believe, please help me with my unbelief."
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Seasons
It is nearly the end of February, and it's snowing outside. Fat Harry Potter snowflakes. Usually this time of year I am so itchy for spring to arrive that I am coaxing seeds to life in jiffy greenhouses by now, in anxious anticipation. I am not a winter person.
This year though, perhaps because of my cheerful fireplace, or all the work to be done inside, or being out of town so that the snow stays fresh and crisp instead of becoming filthy black city snow, I am finding the pause restful. I am still looking forward to cotton soft skies, unfurling leaves, and the waking of the land, but for once, I don't have that cooped up restlessness. I can wait for it. I can enjoy the season of now.
As I rock my son, swaddled in his blanket, with his chubby pink cheeks and soft baby hair, and listen to him tell me baby secrets, I have a rare moment of peace with the season of my life too. I am excited for the season of mobile kids: no nursing and naps tethering us to home, times of camping, and bonfires, and first wobbly steps, but I can wait for that. I can rest here, drinking in baby skin and a son who doesn't wriggle away from kisses.
I wish I was like this more often; better at sucking every ounce of joy from each day, like a kid licking Popsicle sticky fingers. I wish a held the secret to unhurried joy. But I have it now, like a February snowflake on my tongue. I will taste it while it lasts, and smile at the memory when it goes.
This year though, perhaps because of my cheerful fireplace, or all the work to be done inside, or being out of town so that the snow stays fresh and crisp instead of becoming filthy black city snow, I am finding the pause restful. I am still looking forward to cotton soft skies, unfurling leaves, and the waking of the land, but for once, I don't have that cooped up restlessness. I can wait for it. I can enjoy the season of now.
As I rock my son, swaddled in his blanket, with his chubby pink cheeks and soft baby hair, and listen to him tell me baby secrets, I have a rare moment of peace with the season of my life too. I am excited for the season of mobile kids: no nursing and naps tethering us to home, times of camping, and bonfires, and first wobbly steps, but I can wait for that. I can rest here, drinking in baby skin and a son who doesn't wriggle away from kisses.
I wish I was like this more often; better at sucking every ounce of joy from each day, like a kid licking Popsicle sticky fingers. I wish a held the secret to unhurried joy. But I have it now, like a February snowflake on my tongue. I will taste it while it lasts, and smile at the memory when it goes.
Friday, February 21, 2014
How I came to blog
The fire was lit almost two years before it began, back in the dark days. I started weaning Morgan when she was one, and finished a couple months later. Since we knew we didn't want more children right away, my practitioner suggested a more effective birth control. At this time, Lance was working long hours, not getting home until 8 or 10 at night, I had exactly one real friend with kids (and even that was in the developing stages), and though I was investigating Jesus, I hadn't given him the reigns. So I was alone.
It was in this period, against a grey winter backdrop, that I became angry. I mean soul searing, put your kid in the bedroom and go outside before you do something you regret angry. It was as though an outside force had taken possession of my body, and I was powerless to control it.
Mostly, we battled over sleep. The sleep neither of us were getting. Hours followed hours of frustrating rocking, but when I would lay her down, she would wake, and scream, and we would begin again. I felt so bone crushingly tired, like I had been scraped out hollow and shriveled up, and left to wither away, in a world where my sole companion's only communication was limited to raspberry blowing.
Lance knew I was struggling, but I don't think I wanted him to see how deep it ran; how bleak my inner landscape had really become. After all, nothing was wrong. We had a good relationship and a good life. I wasn't unhappy with anything, I was just unhappy.
It was this desperation that drove me to google. "Depressed housewife" I typed, and there she was, "The World's Worst Housewife" (in which our formerly competent heroine struggles with nearly every aspect of child rearing and home making). She was dark, funny, and most of all she said the things I was thinking, all the furtive little secrets motherhood, right there, out loud (figuratively of course.) I was no longer alone.
I checked for new posts every day. I clung to her words like a bobbing life buoy, adrift in a sea of put together MOPs moms. After a while though, she started talking about marital trouble, and soon she slipped beneath the waves and quit blogging all together. Again, I was treading water alone.
In the void where her blog had been, I began to journal, and though I never published those entries, an ember had ignited inside of me that refused to go out.
Finally, Lance said to me, "I know this isn't you. We need to figure it out, and I think it's your pill." This was a revelation to me, a small glimmer of possibility that I wasn't just totally unfit for mothering. And sure enough, all over google, validation: story after story of women just like me, on this pill, seething with unidentified rage.
After I stopped taking it, color seeped back into my world. I started to recognize myself again, but an idea had taken hold in those dark days, a hope that I could one day be that hand in the dark, dragging a gasping mother up for a breath of fresh air when she most needed it. My blog was born, and on it's best day, that is my hope for it.
It was in this period, against a grey winter backdrop, that I became angry. I mean soul searing, put your kid in the bedroom and go outside before you do something you regret angry. It was as though an outside force had taken possession of my body, and I was powerless to control it.
Mostly, we battled over sleep. The sleep neither of us were getting. Hours followed hours of frustrating rocking, but when I would lay her down, she would wake, and scream, and we would begin again. I felt so bone crushingly tired, like I had been scraped out hollow and shriveled up, and left to wither away, in a world where my sole companion's only communication was limited to raspberry blowing.
Lance knew I was struggling, but I don't think I wanted him to see how deep it ran; how bleak my inner landscape had really become. After all, nothing was wrong. We had a good relationship and a good life. I wasn't unhappy with anything, I was just unhappy.
It was this desperation that drove me to google. "Depressed housewife" I typed, and there she was, "The World's Worst Housewife" (in which our formerly competent heroine struggles with nearly every aspect of child rearing and home making). She was dark, funny, and most of all she said the things I was thinking, all the furtive little secrets motherhood, right there, out loud (figuratively of course.) I was no longer alone.
I checked for new posts every day. I clung to her words like a bobbing life buoy, adrift in a sea of put together MOPs moms. After a while though, she started talking about marital trouble, and soon she slipped beneath the waves and quit blogging all together. Again, I was treading water alone.
In the void where her blog had been, I began to journal, and though I never published those entries, an ember had ignited inside of me that refused to go out.
Finally, Lance said to me, "I know this isn't you. We need to figure it out, and I think it's your pill." This was a revelation to me, a small glimmer of possibility that I wasn't just totally unfit for mothering. And sure enough, all over google, validation: story after story of women just like me, on this pill, seething with unidentified rage.
After I stopped taking it, color seeped back into my world. I started to recognize myself again, but an idea had taken hold in those dark days, a hope that I could one day be that hand in the dark, dragging a gasping mother up for a breath of fresh air when she most needed it. My blog was born, and on it's best day, that is my hope for it.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Home
My parent's home is filled with things; solid things filled with history and memory. My mother has spent a lifetime gathering them to her; an act of holding on in a world bent on speeding forward, as if through them she can bring back loved ones and simpler times. Perhaps it is from my mother that I have come by the notion that our homes matter: that the things we chose to fill them with reflect deeper parts of ourselves and our values.
Lance and I are in a time of home transition. We recently built a home, and are preparing to put our former home on the market. It is a bittersweet season for me, closing this chapter of our life together, and opening the next. Though that house never quite fit me, like wearing clothing that just isn't "you", it captures a part of my heart as the first home we shared, the place we decorated our first nursery and brought all of our babies home to. I did so much becoming in that house. I became a wife, a mother, a Christian, someone who feeds people. One day after another passed, and somehow I became a real grown up woman within those walls....walls that are now bare and small feeling, since the life within has moved forward.
It is a beautiful gift though, to be able to forge a life with the one you love; to breath life into a house and fill it with beautiful meaningful things. Our home now doesn't feel like a building at all. Every knob, light, color, and texture was chosen to reflect who we are. They are mingled with our hopes for our family, so that the house feels like a physical manifestation of our love.
A part of my heart will always long for the farm that formed me as a girl, but Lance belongs here, so we had to create our own space and tradition. I imagine with great anticipation long cricket filled summer evenings on the porch, long sweat filled days making our land a place of beauty and productivity; a rich space filled place where my children can grow, a placed pieced together like a mosaic of scavenged treasures, a place of deep nourishing roots, a place to come home to.
Lance and I are in a time of home transition. We recently built a home, and are preparing to put our former home on the market. It is a bittersweet season for me, closing this chapter of our life together, and opening the next. Though that house never quite fit me, like wearing clothing that just isn't "you", it captures a part of my heart as the first home we shared, the place we decorated our first nursery and brought all of our babies home to. I did so much becoming in that house. I became a wife, a mother, a Christian, someone who feeds people. One day after another passed, and somehow I became a real grown up woman within those walls....walls that are now bare and small feeling, since the life within has moved forward.
It is a beautiful gift though, to be able to forge a life with the one you love; to breath life into a house and fill it with beautiful meaningful things. Our home now doesn't feel like a building at all. Every knob, light, color, and texture was chosen to reflect who we are. They are mingled with our hopes for our family, so that the house feels like a physical manifestation of our love.
A part of my heart will always long for the farm that formed me as a girl, but Lance belongs here, so we had to create our own space and tradition. I imagine with great anticipation long cricket filled summer evenings on the porch, long sweat filled days making our land a place of beauty and productivity; a rich space filled place where my children can grow, a placed pieced together like a mosaic of scavenged treasures, a place of deep nourishing roots, a place to come home to.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Chronic over sharing is my spiritual gift
One thing about giving up singing was that I just didn't feel good at anything anymore. I am functionally proficient at a lot of things, but not outstanding. I am plain; mediocre. And once I was swallowed by the uncertain vortex of early motherhood, my equilibrium was dashed against the rocks. I am no one, I have longing, but no purpose.
6 years later I want to be a writer (what my mom always thought I should be by the way), and I am scared. I am scared because I am not a great writer; I suck at the revision process, I am prone to run on sentences, I use tired cliches. I am scared because it is so vulnerable to truly want something. I am scared because I do not want to charge blindly into my own ambition again, without being sure that this is what God really wants for me.
The bible says when you become a Christian, God gives you spiritual gifts, but for so long I just felt sort of skipped over in the spiritual gift department, but then I'm left with this nagging feeling that God doesn't give you longing to be cruel. I think He wants me to be a writer, even though I'm not fantastically witty and eloquent. I think he wants me to be a writer because spiritual gifts are meant to bless others, and what I most want from writing is to rummage through the every day experiences of life and motherhood and tell the truth about it in a way that says we are in this mess together, in a way that exposes His strange and marvelous hand at work in our everyday experiences as women and mothers. It turns out I didn't get passed over in the spiritual gift department after all, as it happens, chronic over sharing is my spiritual gift (lucky you, right?)
I don't want this to be a pretty church girl blog with neatly wrapped advice about things I know about God, and good thing, because I don't know anything about that. I want this to be a place where you nod your head when you're reading, because you've been there; where maybe you laugh a little, and cry a little, because it is so healing not to be alone, because it is so refreshing to be real with one another and ourselves. I want this to be a place where we strip away the veneer and are exposed as real and honest women, flawed and unruly, but learning to live in His grace.
6 years later I want to be a writer (what my mom always thought I should be by the way), and I am scared. I am scared because I am not a great writer; I suck at the revision process, I am prone to run on sentences, I use tired cliches. I am scared because it is so vulnerable to truly want something. I am scared because I do not want to charge blindly into my own ambition again, without being sure that this is what God really wants for me.
The bible says when you become a Christian, God gives you spiritual gifts, but for so long I just felt sort of skipped over in the spiritual gift department, but then I'm left with this nagging feeling that God doesn't give you longing to be cruel. I think He wants me to be a writer, even though I'm not fantastically witty and eloquent. I think he wants me to be a writer because spiritual gifts are meant to bless others, and what I most want from writing is to rummage through the every day experiences of life and motherhood and tell the truth about it in a way that says we are in this mess together, in a way that exposes His strange and marvelous hand at work in our everyday experiences as women and mothers. It turns out I didn't get passed over in the spiritual gift department after all, as it happens, chronic over sharing is my spiritual gift (lucky you, right?)
I don't want this to be a pretty church girl blog with neatly wrapped advice about things I know about God, and good thing, because I don't know anything about that. I want this to be a place where you nod your head when you're reading, because you've been there; where maybe you laugh a little, and cry a little, because it is so healing not to be alone, because it is so refreshing to be real with one another and ourselves. I want this to be a place where we strip away the veneer and are exposed as real and honest women, flawed and unruly, but learning to live in His grace.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Say Anything
So these days I have been reading Shauna Niequist. I love Shauna Niequist; she is like reading a wiser more eloquent version of me (perhaps I flatter myself). Anyway, today's chapter was about how when she has gone through really difficult times in her life, what hurt her the most was not the people who said awkward unintentionally hurtful things, but the people who didn't say anything at all. Then, I went on to my bible study, which was about Esther, and when to keep silent and when to speak up. God calling me out much?
So it got me to thinking about when I haven't said things I have felt called to say, for fear of saying the wrong thing, and I realized that when we hold our tongues because we don't want to be uncomfortable, it's really about us, our potential rejection, protecting our own vulnerabilities, than it is about loving each other. I really don't want to be called out by Jesus for being a chicken, when I had the opportunity to poor His love out on somebody, and I chose to play it safe instead.
Years ago, I had a dear friend who was expecting a baby on the same day as I was expecting Baylie. I was so excited to share my pregnancy with her, and walk through the early baby haze and mamahood with her, but almost half way through, she miscarried. Throughout the horrific ordeal, I tried to be the best friend I could, but I didn't know how. I don't remember much of what I said, but I remember doing what I do best, which is loading people down with casseroles, in hopes to cover over the cumbersomeness of conversation. Soon, she stopped returning my calls, and politely declined my invitations. I was never sure that the pregnancy was the reason, since she assured me that she was happy for me, but when I was in the hospital with Levi, one of my caregivers that happened to also be a friend of hers and pregnant at the time told me that she had a similar experience. Maybe I had no choice, but I let my friend drift away, uncertain how to say, "I don't know why this happened to you and not me. I know it must hurt to see me pregnant and having a healthy baby when your baby should be here too. It's okay if you sometimes feel mad at me. You don't have to tell me it's okay. You don't have to be happy for me, or pretend. I know it isn't fair, but if it's okay with you, I'm just going to love you anyway, and when you're ready to be friends, I'll be right here." So I said nothing.
So anyway, I have had some things ping ponging around in my heart that needed to be said, and maybe I will say them in the wrong words, and maybe I will sound foolish, but I do not want to be a veneer person, smooth on the outside, and something else entirely within, so I will try to say something, something sincere and honest, and probably terribly awkward, but it will not pretend that things are fine, and it will not be nothing.
I wrote my friend a card today, just to say she is in my prayers often. If she doesn't respond, I will feel sad about our friendship, just like I already do, and that's okay. I think I'm learning, it's not about me, or how I feel.....Now, if I could just master that pesky part about when to keep silent....
So it got me to thinking about when I haven't said things I have felt called to say, for fear of saying the wrong thing, and I realized that when we hold our tongues because we don't want to be uncomfortable, it's really about us, our potential rejection, protecting our own vulnerabilities, than it is about loving each other. I really don't want to be called out by Jesus for being a chicken, when I had the opportunity to poor His love out on somebody, and I chose to play it safe instead.
Years ago, I had a dear friend who was expecting a baby on the same day as I was expecting Baylie. I was so excited to share my pregnancy with her, and walk through the early baby haze and mamahood with her, but almost half way through, she miscarried. Throughout the horrific ordeal, I tried to be the best friend I could, but I didn't know how. I don't remember much of what I said, but I remember doing what I do best, which is loading people down with casseroles, in hopes to cover over the cumbersomeness of conversation. Soon, she stopped returning my calls, and politely declined my invitations. I was never sure that the pregnancy was the reason, since she assured me that she was happy for me, but when I was in the hospital with Levi, one of my caregivers that happened to also be a friend of hers and pregnant at the time told me that she had a similar experience. Maybe I had no choice, but I let my friend drift away, uncertain how to say, "I don't know why this happened to you and not me. I know it must hurt to see me pregnant and having a healthy baby when your baby should be here too. It's okay if you sometimes feel mad at me. You don't have to tell me it's okay. You don't have to be happy for me, or pretend. I know it isn't fair, but if it's okay with you, I'm just going to love you anyway, and when you're ready to be friends, I'll be right here." So I said nothing.
So anyway, I have had some things ping ponging around in my heart that needed to be said, and maybe I will say them in the wrong words, and maybe I will sound foolish, but I do not want to be a veneer person, smooth on the outside, and something else entirely within, so I will try to say something, something sincere and honest, and probably terribly awkward, but it will not pretend that things are fine, and it will not be nothing.
I wrote my friend a card today, just to say she is in my prayers often. If she doesn't respond, I will feel sad about our friendship, just like I already do, and that's okay. I think I'm learning, it's not about me, or how I feel.....Now, if I could just master that pesky part about when to keep silent....
Friday, February 7, 2014
Landslide
In 2006 I was working as a CNA at St. Vincent Health Care when my cousin Shane and his young family were in a terrible car wreck. Shane and his 6 month old baby Elllie did not survive. His wife Casey was brought to us at St. V's. Shane was a pastor, and a man of great faith and passion for Jesus, and the strength of Casey's faith is and was awe inspiring. Through her terrible journey to recovery and healing, I witnessed daily as God's provision literally gave her her daily bread, minute by minute He gave her what she needed to survive her loss and endure the grueling physical therapy required for her healing. Each day through gritted teeth she patiently did all that was asked of her with praise for her savior on her lips. She was a light of Christ in the darkness, singing praises to her Lord even in the blackest nights of the soul, through which I began to glimpse His awesome power, and began to crawl my way toward Him. Casey recently submitted a book proposal for her story, and I cried tears of joy at the redemptive power of our God, and how many people will draw near to Him because of her bravery in sharing her loss.
It got me to thinking about His pursuit of me. The way he sent me what I needed at different times in my life. The way he protected me even before I came to Him, because I was His. Often, his presence came in the form of Christians. Even long before I was ready, He sent them to me. First, when I was 6 my mom had a friend name Dean Quam who introduced me to Jesus, and took me to Sunday school, then, He gave me my real dad and his family the Ewens, who gave me a foundation, then in college on a anthropology rafting trip a girl named Lilly Huth who read her bible every day, who wore her passion for God openly, answered my questions and ministered to me, then my friend Nicole when I lived in Washington, and then Chelsea Czeczel, who invited me to Harvest. Most of them have drifted from my life, but I never forgot them. They became (to quote the Lord of the Rings) "the small stones that cause a great avalanche." Casey was the beginning of the land slide in my heart.
These Christians didn't try to convert me, they reflected the love of God, like the moon reflects the light of the sun. It is a grey rock, but illuminated, it becomes an unforgettable beauty. Evangelism isn't one moment or conversation. It is evidence of God's relentless pursuit throughout a life time. It isn't one persons push, but many people's openness, availability, and love that you remember in the hopeless moments. It is these who lead you to Him in His own time. Many of us are shy about proclaiming Jesus. We are afraid to be pushy or awkward.
The story is being written, and only the author sees it's completeness. Though your part in someone's life may be large or small, never underestimate the impact you may have. You may be holding the last stone that can cause an avalanche of redemption.
It got me to thinking about His pursuit of me. The way he sent me what I needed at different times in my life. The way he protected me even before I came to Him, because I was His. Often, his presence came in the form of Christians. Even long before I was ready, He sent them to me. First, when I was 6 my mom had a friend name Dean Quam who introduced me to Jesus, and took me to Sunday school, then, He gave me my real dad and his family the Ewens, who gave me a foundation, then in college on a anthropology rafting trip a girl named Lilly Huth who read her bible every day, who wore her passion for God openly, answered my questions and ministered to me, then my friend Nicole when I lived in Washington, and then Chelsea Czeczel, who invited me to Harvest. Most of them have drifted from my life, but I never forgot them. They became (to quote the Lord of the Rings) "the small stones that cause a great avalanche." Casey was the beginning of the land slide in my heart.
These Christians didn't try to convert me, they reflected the love of God, like the moon reflects the light of the sun. It is a grey rock, but illuminated, it becomes an unforgettable beauty. Evangelism isn't one moment or conversation. It is evidence of God's relentless pursuit throughout a life time. It isn't one persons push, but many people's openness, availability, and love that you remember in the hopeless moments. It is these who lead you to Him in His own time. Many of us are shy about proclaiming Jesus. We are afraid to be pushy or awkward.
The story is being written, and only the author sees it's completeness. Though your part in someone's life may be large or small, never underestimate the impact you may have. You may be holding the last stone that can cause an avalanche of redemption.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Where oh where have my big girl panties gone?
After much trepidation and dread, the day has finally arrived for my husband to leave on his annual ice fishing trip. I hate this trip every year, because in the 7th grade, my best friend's dad died during an ice fishing trip, and I can not seem to shake the sense of foreboding associated with it. (Read: I am scared out of my wits). This year, it is even worse than normal, and compounded by the fact that the baby is teething and has had some rough nights. There is nothing I hate worse that being tired. Excursions such as these always sharpen my appreciation for military wives, single mom's, and women with useless husbands.
My husband, being the wonderful specimen that he is, has made it as easy as possible for me, by doing things like: making sure I have enough pellets for the stove and gas in my car, filling up the water softener, changing batteries in nearly everything, and making sure the gun is readily accessible in case I need to shoot an intruder. So, I really have nothing to complain about, and besides, when my husband and I got married, though we said the traditional wedding vows, I silently and secretly vowed never to resent hunting and fishing, because these are who he was before we met. Though I have not been entirely successful with this, as it gets exponentially more difficult with each child, I was pleased with the more grown up way I seemed to handle it this year. Maybe I have finally learned what I have trying to teach my six year old: Tantrums are simply unbecoming; they never change anything.
My mom and sister are coming for part of it, and I have lots of projects planned for us, so that will help some, but not with the nights. I also plan on reading a novel.
I always do this to myself; try to trick my brain into thinking of it as some sort of relaxing retreat, which I know is totally bogus, because who in there right mind would consider taking care of three kids with no husband a relaxing retreat? But it's all I've got, so I go for it.
It's strange for me to feel this way, I used to love living alone. Maybe having someone to depend on weakens a person somehow....
The time comes, and he kisses us goodbye. I try to put on my figurative big girl panties, but I've got a lump in my throat. It's going to be a long four days if I can't summon a stronger version of myself, but I've momentarily forgotten how. He is gone, and Baylie needs breakfast, and Colt needs to go potty, and I remember: the key is to keep moving, to try to immerse myself in the task at hand, so I do that. It will get me through until bedtime, where I will be alone with my anxiety, in my carvernous bed. It's nice though, being with someone you miss so much it hurts, and I know it's good for him to go. He deserves it. (Never mind that I could never say to him "I'll be gone 4 days around the 25th, have fun with the kids, see you when I get back." says the other part of my brain.....) Sigh.
Anyway, I have no sparkling wit to offer today, just a prayer request for safe travels and that I find my big girl panties ( maybe they are in washing machine oblivion, with the baby socks?)....In the meanwhile, I think I'll go put on some lipstick ;).
My husband, being the wonderful specimen that he is, has made it as easy as possible for me, by doing things like: making sure I have enough pellets for the stove and gas in my car, filling up the water softener, changing batteries in nearly everything, and making sure the gun is readily accessible in case I need to shoot an intruder. So, I really have nothing to complain about, and besides, when my husband and I got married, though we said the traditional wedding vows, I silently and secretly vowed never to resent hunting and fishing, because these are who he was before we met. Though I have not been entirely successful with this, as it gets exponentially more difficult with each child, I was pleased with the more grown up way I seemed to handle it this year. Maybe I have finally learned what I have trying to teach my six year old: Tantrums are simply unbecoming; they never change anything.
My mom and sister are coming for part of it, and I have lots of projects planned for us, so that will help some, but not with the nights. I also plan on reading a novel.
I always do this to myself; try to trick my brain into thinking of it as some sort of relaxing retreat, which I know is totally bogus, because who in there right mind would consider taking care of three kids with no husband a relaxing retreat? But it's all I've got, so I go for it.
It's strange for me to feel this way, I used to love living alone. Maybe having someone to depend on weakens a person somehow....
The time comes, and he kisses us goodbye. I try to put on my figurative big girl panties, but I've got a lump in my throat. It's going to be a long four days if I can't summon a stronger version of myself, but I've momentarily forgotten how. He is gone, and Baylie needs breakfast, and Colt needs to go potty, and I remember: the key is to keep moving, to try to immerse myself in the task at hand, so I do that. It will get me through until bedtime, where I will be alone with my anxiety, in my carvernous bed. It's nice though, being with someone you miss so much it hurts, and I know it's good for him to go. He deserves it. (Never mind that I could never say to him "I'll be gone 4 days around the 25th, have fun with the kids, see you when I get back." says the other part of my brain.....) Sigh.
Anyway, I have no sparkling wit to offer today, just a prayer request for safe travels and that I find my big girl panties ( maybe they are in washing machine oblivion, with the baby socks?)....In the meanwhile, I think I'll go put on some lipstick ;).
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Jesus loves me, even in my sweats
Sometimes, the worse I feel, the more it seems I am barely holding it together by a thread, the more important it is to me to look put together. A little lipstick goes a long way sometimes in plucking up my courage to face the world. Maybe I'm tired, but if you can't see it, it's easier to get through some how. Even if no one sees me, it pulls me up and in, gives me back some sense of strength.
I don't think this phenomenon is unique to me either, maybe it's a female thing, or just control freaks. When I was in college, I had International Political Economy first thing in the morning. I am not a morning person, but I never showed up with out full makeup and my hair fixed. Why show up in your sweat pants and betray weakness? With three kids and a husband who prefers me without makeup, I am not as rigid about this as I used to be, but some days, I still find it makes me feel better, less frayed some how. I look in the mirror and I say to my self, ugh you look like a dishrag, stand up strait, curl your hair, and put on some lipstick.
I suppose this comes from being such a performance based person. I judge myself, and probably you too a little if I'm honest, by what I can get done. People who sit around just rub me the wrong way; part of my upbringing I guess. I find that I just don't feel worthy if I haven't accomplished anything.
I want to be able to Do something. Guilt is a constant companion of my to do list.
So it happens that I go rounds with the fact that God is not a performance based God. I don't have to Do anything, and I can't anyway. He doesn't care if I mop today or not, he'd rather have me love on my kids. The things he probably does want me to do, like get real with him about why I snap at my kids, or put loving my neighbor above my own schedule are not the things I have in mind either. The deeply Lutheran part of me wants to bring you a casserole, and then, seeing progress, mind my own business. I have put you on my schedule, checked you off my list, our relationship is tidy, but shallow. It is a realization that I have to come to over and over, that my worth is not about what I got done today. If I got short with my kids because they were interfering with my battle against the mini dogs that are spawning from the hair under my couch, then I have missed the point somehow. God's grace goes over my head like this about a million times a day. The balance between the day to day tasks and the big picture priorities of what my kids are seeing about God in me is an ongoing see saw on which I never seem to gain equilibrium.
Life is messy. God sees under my lipstick, and he knows that I'm a mess, and I'm starting to see that friendship and love is more about getting up in each other's mess than I thought. And while I'm not going to swear off productivity and become a couch potato, I need to let go sometimes; ease up, and try to see me the way God does, and to let others see me that way too. I used to have a deep belief that it is weak to let people see all that stuff, but I am learning slowly, that people who are too afraid of vulnerability to let people in, those people are scared, and that is the weaker thing.
Most often, my arms are too full of that neat little heavy package of put together, to receive unexpected moments of grace that only come when we are bare and honest and flawed, when I set down my casserole dish and my armor, and we talk, when I see the small things with my kids, when I align my priorities with God's.
Alas, this is a lesson I know I will have to learn many times over, but I hope today that I will make space for a little less perfection, and a little more love, I will dance in my kitchen, and cover my baby with lipstick kisses, and if you come on over to Soggy Bottom sometime, and I'm in my sweats, I promise I'll still let you in.
I don't think this phenomenon is unique to me either, maybe it's a female thing, or just control freaks. When I was in college, I had International Political Economy first thing in the morning. I am not a morning person, but I never showed up with out full makeup and my hair fixed. Why show up in your sweat pants and betray weakness? With three kids and a husband who prefers me without makeup, I am not as rigid about this as I used to be, but some days, I still find it makes me feel better, less frayed some how. I look in the mirror and I say to my self, ugh you look like a dishrag, stand up strait, curl your hair, and put on some lipstick.
I suppose this comes from being such a performance based person. I judge myself, and probably you too a little if I'm honest, by what I can get done. People who sit around just rub me the wrong way; part of my upbringing I guess. I find that I just don't feel worthy if I haven't accomplished anything.
I want to be able to Do something. Guilt is a constant companion of my to do list.
So it happens that I go rounds with the fact that God is not a performance based God. I don't have to Do anything, and I can't anyway. He doesn't care if I mop today or not, he'd rather have me love on my kids. The things he probably does want me to do, like get real with him about why I snap at my kids, or put loving my neighbor above my own schedule are not the things I have in mind either. The deeply Lutheran part of me wants to bring you a casserole, and then, seeing progress, mind my own business. I have put you on my schedule, checked you off my list, our relationship is tidy, but shallow. It is a realization that I have to come to over and over, that my worth is not about what I got done today. If I got short with my kids because they were interfering with my battle against the mini dogs that are spawning from the hair under my couch, then I have missed the point somehow. God's grace goes over my head like this about a million times a day. The balance between the day to day tasks and the big picture priorities of what my kids are seeing about God in me is an ongoing see saw on which I never seem to gain equilibrium.
Life is messy. God sees under my lipstick, and he knows that I'm a mess, and I'm starting to see that friendship and love is more about getting up in each other's mess than I thought. And while I'm not going to swear off productivity and become a couch potato, I need to let go sometimes; ease up, and try to see me the way God does, and to let others see me that way too. I used to have a deep belief that it is weak to let people see all that stuff, but I am learning slowly, that people who are too afraid of vulnerability to let people in, those people are scared, and that is the weaker thing.
Most often, my arms are too full of that neat little heavy package of put together, to receive unexpected moments of grace that only come when we are bare and honest and flawed, when I set down my casserole dish and my armor, and we talk, when I see the small things with my kids, when I align my priorities with God's.
Alas, this is a lesson I know I will have to learn many times over, but I hope today that I will make space for a little less perfection, and a little more love, I will dance in my kitchen, and cover my baby with lipstick kisses, and if you come on over to Soggy Bottom sometime, and I'm in my sweats, I promise I'll still let you in.
Sunday, January 19, 2014
The soul's winter
I know I have a blessed life. I have to preface this post this way because I don't want to be a whiner. I am blessed to have a love with a man who knocks the wind out of me with it's intensity, I have healthy children who color my world (sometimes a bit too literally), and we have had the enormous blessing of building our dream house together, in a peaceful quiet neighborhood where my children can have space to roam. But I have to write this any way, because I hope it will be a gift to those who know what I mean. In all the blessing, something is missing. The surety of knowing what I was made for has gone.
When I met Lance I was passionate and intense with creative purpose, but amid my days of motherhood, I feel my self shrinking to fit into the tiniest nooks and crannies of my life. I long to do something meaningful, but my reality is such that if I have gotten to clip my toenails without interruption, it's a good day. How do you fit in meaning? And the longer time goes on, the less sure I am that I have anything worth while to offer. The once contemplative parts of my brain are filling with the minutia of menu plans, to do lists, and school schedules. I long for deep friendships, but fear I have nothing to contribute, no ideas of substance, no vibrant energy, just a wrung out mom self who would just as often as not choose a nap over an adventure.
I want to write books like this, because when I read them, I cling to them like a shred of hope, a bright blue feather falling through a bleak sky, and it keeps that part of me from extinguishing. I want to do that for someone. To tell another mother, you are not alone, you are worthwhile, you are in there somewhere.
Levi was so crabby today. He screamed and screamed as we took turns trying to sooth him. The girls were fighting, and whining, and begging for something to do. Finally, to escape, if only momentarily from the cacophony of noise outside and inside my brain, I stole away to my front porch, where the only sounds were geese and distant cars. The sunset was ablaze, making an ebony silhouette of my neighbor's trees, but all I could see out there was myself, in the way the trees were planted too close together, stretching upward into the glowing sky, just to find some room to be; in the way the blue was pressing down upon the fiery sunset, pressing it into submission, until it was only a sliver on the horizon, fighting a loosing battle against the dome of indigo above. And then I heard my son screaming through the window, and I went back to join the fray.
God made me to be with this man, as though it is his very rib I was made from in heaven. These children were given to me to mother, but these things are not all that I am, and if that longing in me were to die, I would not be whole to be their mother and wife. I will clutch my feather like a secret, like a seed in winter, until the season comes when I can plant it, and it will bloom fearlessly.
When I met Lance I was passionate and intense with creative purpose, but amid my days of motherhood, I feel my self shrinking to fit into the tiniest nooks and crannies of my life. I long to do something meaningful, but my reality is such that if I have gotten to clip my toenails without interruption, it's a good day. How do you fit in meaning? And the longer time goes on, the less sure I am that I have anything worth while to offer. The once contemplative parts of my brain are filling with the minutia of menu plans, to do lists, and school schedules. I long for deep friendships, but fear I have nothing to contribute, no ideas of substance, no vibrant energy, just a wrung out mom self who would just as often as not choose a nap over an adventure.
I want to write books like this, because when I read them, I cling to them like a shred of hope, a bright blue feather falling through a bleak sky, and it keeps that part of me from extinguishing. I want to do that for someone. To tell another mother, you are not alone, you are worthwhile, you are in there somewhere.
Levi was so crabby today. He screamed and screamed as we took turns trying to sooth him. The girls were fighting, and whining, and begging for something to do. Finally, to escape, if only momentarily from the cacophony of noise outside and inside my brain, I stole away to my front porch, where the only sounds were geese and distant cars. The sunset was ablaze, making an ebony silhouette of my neighbor's trees, but all I could see out there was myself, in the way the trees were planted too close together, stretching upward into the glowing sky, just to find some room to be; in the way the blue was pressing down upon the fiery sunset, pressing it into submission, until it was only a sliver on the horizon, fighting a loosing battle against the dome of indigo above. And then I heard my son screaming through the window, and I went back to join the fray.
God made me to be with this man, as though it is his very rib I was made from in heaven. These children were given to me to mother, but these things are not all that I am, and if that longing in me were to die, I would not be whole to be their mother and wife. I will clutch my feather like a secret, like a seed in winter, until the season comes when I can plant it, and it will bloom fearlessly.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Can't we all just get along
Today a childhood friend of mine and son of my former pastor, who is now a pastor himself shared an article to facebook entitled "Friends don't let friends read Beth Moore" in which the author took it as his charge to publicly rebuke Beth Moore and Joyce Meyer for their approach to the scripture.
Now many of you know that I was raised in the Lutheran Church Missouri synod, and have, after period of waywardness, returned to Christ as an Evangelical Christian. I see these type of posts frequently among my friends...evangelicals have the wrong hymns and liturgy, the wrong approach to children's ministry, you name it, we Evangelicals have got it wrong. As a long time Lutheran, I get it, making God about you, and church about entertainment, misses the mark. And let me say as a disclaimer of sorts that my childhood friend is to the best of my knowledge a sincere and well intentioned Christian man, and that protecting one's flock and family from false teaching is indeed no trifling charge. That being said, as I went about my housewifely duties today, I could not stop being disturbed by what this post and it's fellows represent.
As I mentioned, and as you well know if you have ever stumbled before upon this blog, I have been as far off the path as you can go, and were it not for the extension of grace shown to me by the Evangelical church, I would not be a Christian today, nor would my family. I have a fondness for the way Lutherans do things, but I also enjoy the worship style of my current church, and you know what, I think God does too, because he created us all as unique individuals with different gifts for expressing our gratitude in worship, and because he is the one who authored our creativity. The bible commands us to teach our children, not whether it should be in a Sunday school room or church service, it commands us to worship, not how it should sound, it commands us to love one another, it commands us to cling to the word. So what if the form it takes is different for different folks. Most of the stuff that begets interdenominational squabbling is petty, trivial stuff. If a church is biblical, and people are coming to and remaining in Christ as a result of it, then I celebrate and thank God for that church, no matter its name.
Christian friends, we have a real and common enemy, and when we get distracted from that by finger pointing within the church, that is a device of that enemy. God never said, I don't want my worship to have electric guitars, but he definitely did say that we are One body, and that we are to work in harmony within that body for the Glory of God.
Of course it's a different matter if a church or ministry is teaching against Gods word, that's downright wrong, but if my take on accepting Jesus' salvation looks a little more warm fuzzy than fire and brimstone, or if I put my kids in a separate class to learn, or if I dunk instead of sprinkle, or if I sing my praises with a little bit of bass, so what, we're still on the same side, and we have a lot of work to do, it's getting ugly out there. We need to stand together as Christ intended, and be a working, living body, and if we let trivial issues stand in the way of that, then we give power to the enemy. If we allow details and judgement to overshadow love, then we are being more unbiblical that those we are condemning, and that's a victory for the wrong team, so let's get it together, church.
Now many of you know that I was raised in the Lutheran Church Missouri synod, and have, after period of waywardness, returned to Christ as an Evangelical Christian. I see these type of posts frequently among my friends...evangelicals have the wrong hymns and liturgy, the wrong approach to children's ministry, you name it, we Evangelicals have got it wrong. As a long time Lutheran, I get it, making God about you, and church about entertainment, misses the mark. And let me say as a disclaimer of sorts that my childhood friend is to the best of my knowledge a sincere and well intentioned Christian man, and that protecting one's flock and family from false teaching is indeed no trifling charge. That being said, as I went about my housewifely duties today, I could not stop being disturbed by what this post and it's fellows represent.
As I mentioned, and as you well know if you have ever stumbled before upon this blog, I have been as far off the path as you can go, and were it not for the extension of grace shown to me by the Evangelical church, I would not be a Christian today, nor would my family. I have a fondness for the way Lutherans do things, but I also enjoy the worship style of my current church, and you know what, I think God does too, because he created us all as unique individuals with different gifts for expressing our gratitude in worship, and because he is the one who authored our creativity. The bible commands us to teach our children, not whether it should be in a Sunday school room or church service, it commands us to worship, not how it should sound, it commands us to love one another, it commands us to cling to the word. So what if the form it takes is different for different folks. Most of the stuff that begets interdenominational squabbling is petty, trivial stuff. If a church is biblical, and people are coming to and remaining in Christ as a result of it, then I celebrate and thank God for that church, no matter its name.
Christian friends, we have a real and common enemy, and when we get distracted from that by finger pointing within the church, that is a device of that enemy. God never said, I don't want my worship to have electric guitars, but he definitely did say that we are One body, and that we are to work in harmony within that body for the Glory of God.
Of course it's a different matter if a church or ministry is teaching against Gods word, that's downright wrong, but if my take on accepting Jesus' salvation looks a little more warm fuzzy than fire and brimstone, or if I put my kids in a separate class to learn, or if I dunk instead of sprinkle, or if I sing my praises with a little bit of bass, so what, we're still on the same side, and we have a lot of work to do, it's getting ugly out there. We need to stand together as Christ intended, and be a working, living body, and if we let trivial issues stand in the way of that, then we give power to the enemy. If we allow details and judgement to overshadow love, then we are being more unbiblical that those we are condemning, and that's a victory for the wrong team, so let's get it together, church.
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