It was raining without clouds. It seemed fitting somehow to drive through blue skies on the way to the cemetery, rain still managing to find us. Gray road stretched out before me, I kept wondering how tragedies and heartaches that happened over a lifetime ago could feel this new. I have lived with loss and know the darkness of death, but grief still takes me by surprise.
My boys were in the back seat in ties and black Sunday shoes. This was their first time time to go to a cemetery and they wanted to dress nice. When my Uncle died two years ago, they went to the funeral, but the family chose to wait until now to bury his ashes. He was going to be laid to rest next to my mom and brother. My feelings were so overwhelming I could feel them aching in my throat and surging through my legs that made me want to run. It felt like something was trying to come out of my body and I quickly recognized the trauma tied to those physical sensations. I closed my eyes and took breath after breath, long and deep, until I felt my core settle inside of me.
We arrived at the place. Sacred earth housing the bones of loved ones and memories never made, I got out of the truck, holding my son's hand in my own. Feelings began to swirl inside of me. My brother's ten year life, how betrayal and alcohol destroyed my mother, stealing her spark and light and heartbeat. I was feeling forgotten and missed, much like my mother's headstone in that sticker burred country cemetery. I showed my boys where they were buried. I could feel bellowing sobs forming in my gut as I saw Tommy touch my brother's grave, his eight year old fingers tracing the letters "The Greatest Blessing," that was etched into gray granite. I put my hand on my mother's stone. "Child of God, Beloved Mother of AJ," it read. I didn't remember that was what it said and the words sat heavy with me. She was my mother too, yet those words felt true. She was more his mother than mine and the ambivalence I feel about her was as tangible as the crunchy dead grass beneath my feet.
We laughed and cried and prayed together as my Uncle's ashes were put into the ground. I think we all felt the finality of something, ever aware of a unique hole his absence has created inside of each one of us. His wasn't the only hole inside of me. I thought about AJ and my mom, Aaron - my first love, the death of dreams and the unmet longings I carry on the outside and inside of me. It looks like a double-chin and a large belly, and feels like a watercolor mess of tragedy and indescribable joy, splattered and swirled together with darkness and light.
My face was wet with tears as we walked back through the cemetery, the living among the dead. You can't walk on hallowed ground and not feel the gravity of death and
how it has changed you. My heart like a headstone, chiseled and marked
with all of the pain, all the joy and the broken, beautiful pieces of my story that make up who I am.
The clouds were gray and pregnant with rain. Eyes and sky both crying as my husband reached for my hand.
Showing posts with label Awareness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Awareness. Show all posts
November 11, 2017
October 25, 2017
Setting Timers and Leaning In
Her text message came when I was sitting in the waiting room of my doctor's office. The phones were ringing and the floor was cold and I was was wondering why I had to fill out my personal information for the eighteenth time. My body was writhing with anxiety and dread and I thought a time or three about walking out the door and not going through with this appointment. All of those feelings and emotions were mounting when I saw the tiny envelope on my phone with her name on it.
I ran into so-and-so and found out we were all mutual friends and thought I'd check in say hello. How is your new job? How are you?
My heart began to ache and I pushed back tears that were begging to be cried. Wanting to be both honest and vague, I replied that I was in a hard season in many different places and that I was currently at the doctor and hopeful about getting some care. Her reply was kind and gracious, because she had always been those things. I know it seems like a lifetime since we've been close friends, but if you ever need anything I'm here.
"Jennifer?" The nurse called my name and my phone went back into my purse. It was time to get on the scale and take my blood pressure and I could feel shame enveloping me about the current state of my body and overall health. In the midst of my appointment, my thoughts went back to my friend and her words. Memories of our closeness and sweet friendship and how she had been such a steady place of encouragement and truth for me flooded my mind. The sorrowful memories of our church split, our disagreement and conflict, and our precious friendship that fell apart and faded away, was a tangible place of pain. What felt like a lifetime to her, somehow felt like only yesterday to me.
Instead of deleting the messages, I saved them on my phone knowing I needed to sit with sadness and allow for more tears in this place that is still a source of deep loss and grief for me. One quiet Sunday morning while I sipped coffee out of my favorite mug, hands holding on to comfort, I set a timer on my phone for ten minutes and opened up our text messages from that day. Tears came easily and they weren't the quiet kind that softly roll down your cheeks. They were wet and messy, accompanied by snot and sobs and a small pile of tissues. It's been over two years and I wondered if it would ever stop hurting this badly. Would I ever stop missing her? Would I ever stop regretting all of the words I wish I would have said back then about how much she had meant to me?
My phone timer went off and I breathed deeply. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose again and deleted the text messages.
Lately, I've purposed to make space to lean in to painful places and to give myself actual time to feel and cry. Setting a timer is helpful because not only is there an ending to sitting with pain and sadness, but my body is learning that it can make it through those hard feelings without the need to self-harm or emotionally check out to life. It might seem like a bizarre practice, but it is a necessary kindness for my heart.
How do you lean in to pain?
I ran into so-and-so and found out we were all mutual friends and thought I'd check in say hello. How is your new job? How are you?
My heart began to ache and I pushed back tears that were begging to be cried. Wanting to be both honest and vague, I replied that I was in a hard season in many different places and that I was currently at the doctor and hopeful about getting some care. Her reply was kind and gracious, because she had always been those things. I know it seems like a lifetime since we've been close friends, but if you ever need anything I'm here.
"Jennifer?" The nurse called my name and my phone went back into my purse. It was time to get on the scale and take my blood pressure and I could feel shame enveloping me about the current state of my body and overall health. In the midst of my appointment, my thoughts went back to my friend and her words. Memories of our closeness and sweet friendship and how she had been such a steady place of encouragement and truth for me flooded my mind. The sorrowful memories of our church split, our disagreement and conflict, and our precious friendship that fell apart and faded away, was a tangible place of pain. What felt like a lifetime to her, somehow felt like only yesterday to me.
Instead of deleting the messages, I saved them on my phone knowing I needed to sit with sadness and allow for more tears in this place that is still a source of deep loss and grief for me. One quiet Sunday morning while I sipped coffee out of my favorite mug, hands holding on to comfort, I set a timer on my phone for ten minutes and opened up our text messages from that day. Tears came easily and they weren't the quiet kind that softly roll down your cheeks. They were wet and messy, accompanied by snot and sobs and a small pile of tissues. It's been over two years and I wondered if it would ever stop hurting this badly. Would I ever stop missing her? Would I ever stop regretting all of the words I wish I would have said back then about how much she had meant to me?
My phone timer went off and I breathed deeply. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose again and deleted the text messages.
Lately, I've purposed to make space to lean in to painful places and to give myself actual time to feel and cry. Setting a timer is helpful because not only is there an ending to sitting with pain and sadness, but my body is learning that it can make it through those hard feelings without the need to self-harm or emotionally check out to life. It might seem like a bizarre practice, but it is a necessary kindness for my heart.
How do you lean in to pain?
August 30, 2017
Love is not the fence we build around our lives
As we hunkered down in our homes last weekend, bracing for the worst, Hurricane Harvey took an unexpected shift and unleashed it's fury on our neighbors in Houston. As the horrific events continued to unfold, I felt sick to my stomach. I cried real and big tears for the families caught in rising flood waters. Images of children laying on their kitchen counters, people sitting on their rooftop waving desperately for help, the elderly sitting in a pool of floodwater waiting to be rescued flooded my Facebook newsfeed.
I watched my beach home-away-from-home, Port Aransas, ripped to shreds from the hurricane. The whole little town will need rebuilding, and while I don't live there or even own property in that little port of a town, I feel like part of me got ripped apart too. Seeing the video and pictures of the wreckage was emotionally devastating. It's amazing how places become part of who you are over time.
On Monday, I sent Tommy off to his first day of third grade. As I snapped his annual first-day-of-school picture, I thought about the Houston mothers who weren't sending their kiddoes off to school. School supplies and new school clothes that will be considered one of many losses in their homes. I wondered what they might be feeling and I felt a heavy blanket of ambivalence between guilt and gratitude. Mostly though, I felt grief.
I have found myself uttering small prayers throughout every day as I feel a wave of sadness wash over me. It's so close to home, and it's Texas. They are my people. They are me. And I would need someone to think of me and pray for me because I know I would be crying on a Monday morning that I was supposed to send my child to school and instead was mourning the loss of our home and belongings and our everyday mundane normalcy.
Yesterday morning, I walked outside my door to an absolutely beautiful 75 degree morning, which simply does not ever happen in August in San Antonio. The sun was shining and the sky was nearly clear. There was an autumn-like breeze in the air that caught my breath and I stood in my driveway and closed my eyes. It was so beautiful and lovely and I was standing there outside of my home, with car keys in hand ready to head off to work on a normal day. I prayed for Houston and I prayed that some wife and mom just like me could feel some measure of comfort and peace in the same moment I was taking in the glory of my morning. I felt overwhelmingly blessed and so undeserving.
I've taken so much pride in watching my city and state come together to help one another. There has been an abundance of people showing up, taking care, ready to help and chip in. Our own Texas-based grocery store, HEB, had a disaster relief team in place the moment it was clear for them to get to the affected areas to offer food, supplies, banking services and medical attention. Friends with boats have headed there to rescue those stuck in rising waters. The very company I work for, created a donation station and our customers and employees showed up with water, food, and stuffed animals for the kids to deliver to Houston and the outlying areas.
Churches and schools, radio stations, musicians, banks, stores - everyone is in this. And while what has happened to our dear brothers and sisters is absolutely devastating, what is happening right behind it is glorious. Everywhere you go, someone is helping, volunteering, and putting something together to help everyone. All of it feels so much like the body of Christ I can hardly stand it. People helping others, loving on those in need - it doesn't get more Jesus than that and I see His light in this everywhere.
Our little family is donating, volunteering, and praying together every night. Would you join us in prayer especially for Port Aransas, Rockport, and all the small towns outside of the Houston area that have suffered greatly as well? All of us praying, giving, doing, going - it really does make a difference. Let's keep it up - we have a long road ahead of us to love on our neighbors as we help them rebuild.
Recently, I've been listening to Nichole Nordeman's new album, Every Mile Mattered. She has a beautiful and tender song called "Anywhere We Are," that feels so fitting for anyone who is going through any kind of storm. If you are in need of some comfort tonight, I hope you have a listen and that her words and melody bless your heart and soul in all the places that need a bit of tenderness in all you are facing.
I watched my beach home-away-from-home, Port Aransas, ripped to shreds from the hurricane. The whole little town will need rebuilding, and while I don't live there or even own property in that little port of a town, I feel like part of me got ripped apart too. Seeing the video and pictures of the wreckage was emotionally devastating. It's amazing how places become part of who you are over time.
On Monday, I sent Tommy off to his first day of third grade. As I snapped his annual first-day-of-school picture, I thought about the Houston mothers who weren't sending their kiddoes off to school. School supplies and new school clothes that will be considered one of many losses in their homes. I wondered what they might be feeling and I felt a heavy blanket of ambivalence between guilt and gratitude. Mostly though, I felt grief.
I have found myself uttering small prayers throughout every day as I feel a wave of sadness wash over me. It's so close to home, and it's Texas. They are my people. They are me. And I would need someone to think of me and pray for me because I know I would be crying on a Monday morning that I was supposed to send my child to school and instead was mourning the loss of our home and belongings and our everyday mundane normalcy.
Yesterday morning, I walked outside my door to an absolutely beautiful 75 degree morning, which simply does not ever happen in August in San Antonio. The sun was shining and the sky was nearly clear. There was an autumn-like breeze in the air that caught my breath and I stood in my driveway and closed my eyes. It was so beautiful and lovely and I was standing there outside of my home, with car keys in hand ready to head off to work on a normal day. I prayed for Houston and I prayed that some wife and mom just like me could feel some measure of comfort and peace in the same moment I was taking in the glory of my morning. I felt overwhelmingly blessed and so undeserving.
I've taken so much pride in watching my city and state come together to help one another. There has been an abundance of people showing up, taking care, ready to help and chip in. Our own Texas-based grocery store, HEB, had a disaster relief team in place the moment it was clear for them to get to the affected areas to offer food, supplies, banking services and medical attention. Friends with boats have headed there to rescue those stuck in rising waters. The very company I work for, created a donation station and our customers and employees showed up with water, food, and stuffed animals for the kids to deliver to Houston and the outlying areas.
Churches and schools, radio stations, musicians, banks, stores - everyone is in this. And while what has happened to our dear brothers and sisters is absolutely devastating, what is happening right behind it is glorious. Everywhere you go, someone is helping, volunteering, and putting something together to help everyone. All of it feels so much like the body of Christ I can hardly stand it. People helping others, loving on those in need - it doesn't get more Jesus than that and I see His light in this everywhere.
Our little family is donating, volunteering, and praying together every night. Would you join us in prayer especially for Port Aransas, Rockport, and all the small towns outside of the Houston area that have suffered greatly as well? All of us praying, giving, doing, going - it really does make a difference. Let's keep it up - we have a long road ahead of us to love on our neighbors as we help them rebuild.
Recently, I've been listening to Nichole Nordeman's new album, Every Mile Mattered. She has a beautiful and tender song called "Anywhere We Are," that feels so fitting for anyone who is going through any kind of storm. If you are in need of some comfort tonight, I hope you have a listen and that her words and melody bless your heart and soul in all the places that need a bit of tenderness in all you are facing.
December 8, 2016
Be near me Lord Jesus, I ask Thee to stay
I read this little nugget tonight and I've been letting it sinking in. Much like a warm cup of cocoa going down smooth and soft, touching something deep inside, these words spoke to me...
From the devotional Savor, by Shauna Niequist - The Advent Alternative
"Advent is about waiting, anticipating, yearning. Advent is the question, the pleading, and Christmas is the answer to that question, the response to the howl. There are moments in this season when I don't feel a lot like Christmas, but I do feel like Advent.
Advent gives us another option beyond false Christmas cheer or Scrooge. Advent says the baby is coming, but he isn't here yet, that hope is on its way, but the yearning is still very real. Advent allows us to tell the truth about what we're grieving, without giving up on the gorgeous and extravagant promise of Christmas, the baby on his way.
Consider Advent a less flashy but still very beautiful way of being present this season. Give up your false and failing attempts at merriment, and thank God for a season that understands longing and loneliness and long nights. Let yourself fall open to Advent, to anticipation, to the belief that what is empty will be filled, what is broken will be repaired, and what is lost can always be found, no matter how many times it's been lost."
This year has left me with gaping holes and for months I've been trying to fill them up and fix everything that has been broken. Late at night when I'm alone and my only friend seems to be Netflix, I sit here with my vodka and drink until I don't feel the holes anymore. I welcome the buzz and the numbness it brings to the pain my heart feels and the thoughts my mind wants to think. Fasting from alcohol in addition to sugar and bread this advent, I am more aware of what I've been numbing out to. I'm present with the empty places and it's wretched. It's wretched and I also feel very alive, and strangely at rest.
Hope is on the way. The baby is on the way. Jesus is coming. God will be with us. All that is broken will be mended and made new. And all that is empty will be filled.
My heart is full of longing. I'm yearning tonight. I'm grieving and lonely and waiting for things.
Are you?
Be near us Jesus and please stay close by....
From the devotional Savor, by Shauna Niequist - The Advent Alternative
"Advent is about waiting, anticipating, yearning. Advent is the question, the pleading, and Christmas is the answer to that question, the response to the howl. There are moments in this season when I don't feel a lot like Christmas, but I do feel like Advent.
Advent gives us another option beyond false Christmas cheer or Scrooge. Advent says the baby is coming, but he isn't here yet, that hope is on its way, but the yearning is still very real. Advent allows us to tell the truth about what we're grieving, without giving up on the gorgeous and extravagant promise of Christmas, the baby on his way.
Consider Advent a less flashy but still very beautiful way of being present this season. Give up your false and failing attempts at merriment, and thank God for a season that understands longing and loneliness and long nights. Let yourself fall open to Advent, to anticipation, to the belief that what is empty will be filled, what is broken will be repaired, and what is lost can always be found, no matter how many times it's been lost."
This year has left me with gaping holes and for months I've been trying to fill them up and fix everything that has been broken. Late at night when I'm alone and my only friend seems to be Netflix, I sit here with my vodka and drink until I don't feel the holes anymore. I welcome the buzz and the numbness it brings to the pain my heart feels and the thoughts my mind wants to think. Fasting from alcohol in addition to sugar and bread this advent, I am more aware of what I've been numbing out to. I'm present with the empty places and it's wretched. It's wretched and I also feel very alive, and strangely at rest.
Hope is on the way. The baby is on the way. Jesus is coming. God will be with us. All that is broken will be mended and made new. And all that is empty will be filled.
My heart is full of longing. I'm yearning tonight. I'm grieving and lonely and waiting for things.
Are you?
Be near us Jesus and please stay close by....
September 24, 2015
Kindness in September
According to calendars and Starbuck's pumpkin spice latte availability, fall has officially arrived.
September is depressing when you live here. Day after day of ninety-something degree heat, and then factoring in humidity that adds insult to injury, summer is long and fights to the death to stick around. The only sign I really have that the seasons are changing is the way the sun shines through my living room window. It happens every September and nothing is more glorious than this autumn light.
See? Glory.
When you live in the south, autumn is a season that you have to make yourself, something that must be created. The other day, I put out all of my pumpkins, fall foliage and warm colored decorations. The pillows were changed, the shelf above our TV got its seasonal face-lift and my kitchen was spruced up for the season reminding us of the themes of harvest, gratitude and thanksgiving. Even my six-year old noticed it the moment he walked in after being gone.
"Yay! It's fall! I love when you decorate for fall. It's so pretty!"
My decorations signal the things he has come to count on this time of year: Pumpkin pie. Our annual pumpkin carving party. Being tortured at the pumpkin patch so I can get cute pictures. Dressing up for Halloween. Getting in the car and possibly not getting third degree burns from sitting on black leather seats. But even he knows, autumn is something we create, something we do and make together, because it certainly does not feel like fall.
If we don't usher it in ourselves, it's almost as if the season won't come. We are in the throes of Christmas and holiday cheer before autumn truly arrives with it's quietness in December.
I was actually reluctant to decorate for fall this year, which is unlike me. Usually, I take things out before the month begins and start it off with all of my pumpkins and ritualistic September watching of You've Got Mail. But I've been in something of a funk for longer than I care to admit. And I knew if I waited to decorate until I felt like it or was in the mood or the weather finally shifted and cooled here, I wouldn't be true to myself or what makes me who I am.
So I decorated out of hope, that my heart would follow me into autumn.
Last October, I completed a half-marathon. It was one of the best and hardest and most fought for things I have ever done in my entire life. The whole experience grew my faith and love for Jesus, but after it was over I didn't know what to do with myself. I had just experienced something huge for myself and for my faith, but I felt off and empty. Two months later, Sarah's mom died. I wasn't able to go to the funeral and I felt like I should have been there. I coudn't make it work and I was lost in my grief of both losing her and that I had to be absent while those I loved honored her without me. Sandy wasn't just my best friend's mom, she was my friend and a mother to me too. A routine check up at the end of the year, left me feeling shamed and humiliated by a nurse I didn't know well as my doctor was not able to be at my appointment. Voices of accusation and lies about my identity and who I was, or rather who I wasn't, were loud that day and I believed every one of them. After the new year, my RA became aggressive and very active again. I both started and failed an intense diet where I had worked up the guts to see a doctor about it. I started out brave and ended as a coward. I'm still ashamed of myself. Two months ago, I started a heavy medication which resulted in my husband needing a vasectomy. We weren't necessarily planning on more children, but the finality of closing that door left an ache in my soul. And then our church split and God called us to stay where we were. And this world - I feel incredibly weighed down by current events, an overall darkness and sadness of the state of our world.
I can hardly breathe writing all of that out. I've been spinning in all of these places, taking horrible care of myself and having little regard for what my heart, my body and my soul are needing.
The day the light came through my window and I sat in its familiar warmth and glow, I felt like I was able to calm down. All of these things I have been living and believing and struggling with suddenly halted in a few quiet moments with the beauty my Savior gave to me. I realized how I could always count on this moment to come. This silly infatuation I have with the light and my window in September. I count on it. It always comes. And how many things can we always count on? How many things really don't ever change?
He doesn't. He never changes. Yesterday, today and forever. Jesus is the same whether I'm training for a marathon or if I'm lazy on my couch. He is same whether I choose to have a salad for lunch or a cheeseburger. He is the same if my friend lives or if she dies, whether my disease is active or in remission. Even if our world changes or grows darker or scarier - He is the same. And I forgot this. I forget His consistency. I forget that He is faithful and unchanging and unwavering in His love and presence and affection for me.
I give my feelings more room and space than they deserve. I give them so much power that they take over and dictate what I'll do, where I'll go and how I'll show up to others. And for the last ten months, I've let my feelings rule my everything, forgetting how much they deceive me.
Maybe it's a silly analogy, but if I waited to decorate and usher in fall until it felt like it outside, I would miss the whole thing. If I wait until I felt ready to pick myself back up again or when everything that felt out of place in my heart was tidied up, I might never get back up.
Sometimes you have to do things because it's time, not because it feels like it. Sometimes you have to do what is necessary and trust that your heart and feelings will follow.
That's where I've been this week as I've made my green smoothies for breakfast. Last year, it was a small and easy way to add greens and other nutrients to my diet and something I can easily do again that doesn't make me feel like I'm dieting or being punished for where I'm at right now. I'm choosing to take the boys outside and walk the block and play in the sunshine in the afternoons, even if I'm slow and my back hurts from the weight I've gained. I'm choosing water over soda and taking my vitamins. I'm saying no to the things in church that I really want to say no to. I'm being honest with my friends about where I've been and where I would like to be. I'm discovering again who my really, real friends are - the ones that stick around after changes and hurts and awful church splits. I'm accepting my husband's pursuits of me when he leans in to kiss me and invites me to intimacy. I'm choosing to write over watching TV because I can't numb out when I'm writing since it's one of the places I feel the most alive in. I'm choosing to cry and let feelings pass rather than inviting them to stay.
I often mistake violence for pleasure, and indulgence for need. I'm discovering how to choose kindness for myself all over again. It's amazing how quickly you can forget how to be kind to your own soul and body and heart.
I decided not to wait until I feel better or until I've somehow graduated out of this ten-month long funk. I'm trusting the One who doesn't change. The One who always sends magical sunshine through my windows in September. The One whose kindness is so great, it leads me to repentance even if I don't feel like repenting.
That's the thing about God. He can be found in every season. I'm grateful where He reminds me of His faithfulness in something like autumn colored leaves - even if I bought them at a store and put them in a vase to look at. I'm thankful for where He continues to invite me to Himself, using September skies lit up to remind me that He really is always there.
I am choosing kindness for myself, in hopes that my heart follows me into autumn.
September is depressing when you live here. Day after day of ninety-something degree heat, and then factoring in humidity that adds insult to injury, summer is long and fights to the death to stick around. The only sign I really have that the seasons are changing is the way the sun shines through my living room window. It happens every September and nothing is more glorious than this autumn light.
See? Glory.
When you live in the south, autumn is a season that you have to make yourself, something that must be created. The other day, I put out all of my pumpkins, fall foliage and warm colored decorations. The pillows were changed, the shelf above our TV got its seasonal face-lift and my kitchen was spruced up for the season reminding us of the themes of harvest, gratitude and thanksgiving. Even my six-year old noticed it the moment he walked in after being gone.
"Yay! It's fall! I love when you decorate for fall. It's so pretty!"
My decorations signal the things he has come to count on this time of year: Pumpkin pie. Our annual pumpkin carving party. Being tortured at the pumpkin patch so I can get cute pictures. Dressing up for Halloween. Getting in the car and possibly not getting third degree burns from sitting on black leather seats. But even he knows, autumn is something we create, something we do and make together, because it certainly does not feel like fall.
If we don't usher it in ourselves, it's almost as if the season won't come. We are in the throes of Christmas and holiday cheer before autumn truly arrives with it's quietness in December.
I was actually reluctant to decorate for fall this year, which is unlike me. Usually, I take things out before the month begins and start it off with all of my pumpkins and ritualistic September watching of You've Got Mail. But I've been in something of a funk for longer than I care to admit. And I knew if I waited to decorate until I felt like it or was in the mood or the weather finally shifted and cooled here, I wouldn't be true to myself or what makes me who I am.
So I decorated out of hope, that my heart would follow me into autumn.
Last October, I completed a half-marathon. It was one of the best and hardest and most fought for things I have ever done in my entire life. The whole experience grew my faith and love for Jesus, but after it was over I didn't know what to do with myself. I had just experienced something huge for myself and for my faith, but I felt off and empty. Two months later, Sarah's mom died. I wasn't able to go to the funeral and I felt like I should have been there. I coudn't make it work and I was lost in my grief of both losing her and that I had to be absent while those I loved honored her without me. Sandy wasn't just my best friend's mom, she was my friend and a mother to me too. A routine check up at the end of the year, left me feeling shamed and humiliated by a nurse I didn't know well as my doctor was not able to be at my appointment. Voices of accusation and lies about my identity and who I was, or rather who I wasn't, were loud that day and I believed every one of them. After the new year, my RA became aggressive and very active again. I both started and failed an intense diet where I had worked up the guts to see a doctor about it. I started out brave and ended as a coward. I'm still ashamed of myself. Two months ago, I started a heavy medication which resulted in my husband needing a vasectomy. We weren't necessarily planning on more children, but the finality of closing that door left an ache in my soul. And then our church split and God called us to stay where we were. And this world - I feel incredibly weighed down by current events, an overall darkness and sadness of the state of our world.
I can hardly breathe writing all of that out. I've been spinning in all of these places, taking horrible care of myself and having little regard for what my heart, my body and my soul are needing.
The day the light came through my window and I sat in its familiar warmth and glow, I felt like I was able to calm down. All of these things I have been living and believing and struggling with suddenly halted in a few quiet moments with the beauty my Savior gave to me. I realized how I could always count on this moment to come. This silly infatuation I have with the light and my window in September. I count on it. It always comes. And how many things can we always count on? How many things really don't ever change?
He doesn't. He never changes. Yesterday, today and forever. Jesus is the same whether I'm training for a marathon or if I'm lazy on my couch. He is same whether I choose to have a salad for lunch or a cheeseburger. He is the same if my friend lives or if she dies, whether my disease is active or in remission. Even if our world changes or grows darker or scarier - He is the same. And I forgot this. I forget His consistency. I forget that He is faithful and unchanging and unwavering in His love and presence and affection for me.
I give my feelings more room and space than they deserve. I give them so much power that they take over and dictate what I'll do, where I'll go and how I'll show up to others. And for the last ten months, I've let my feelings rule my everything, forgetting how much they deceive me.
Maybe it's a silly analogy, but if I waited to decorate and usher in fall until it felt like it outside, I would miss the whole thing. If I wait until I felt ready to pick myself back up again or when everything that felt out of place in my heart was tidied up, I might never get back up.
Sometimes you have to do things because it's time, not because it feels like it. Sometimes you have to do what is necessary and trust that your heart and feelings will follow.
That's where I've been this week as I've made my green smoothies for breakfast. Last year, it was a small and easy way to add greens and other nutrients to my diet and something I can easily do again that doesn't make me feel like I'm dieting or being punished for where I'm at right now. I'm choosing to take the boys outside and walk the block and play in the sunshine in the afternoons, even if I'm slow and my back hurts from the weight I've gained. I'm choosing water over soda and taking my vitamins. I'm saying no to the things in church that I really want to say no to. I'm being honest with my friends about where I've been and where I would like to be. I'm discovering again who my really, real friends are - the ones that stick around after changes and hurts and awful church splits. I'm accepting my husband's pursuits of me when he leans in to kiss me and invites me to intimacy. I'm choosing to write over watching TV because I can't numb out when I'm writing since it's one of the places I feel the most alive in. I'm choosing to cry and let feelings pass rather than inviting them to stay.
I often mistake violence for pleasure, and indulgence for need. I'm discovering how to choose kindness for myself all over again. It's amazing how quickly you can forget how to be kind to your own soul and body and heart.
I decided not to wait until I feel better or until I've somehow graduated out of this ten-month long funk. I'm trusting the One who doesn't change. The One who always sends magical sunshine through my windows in September. The One whose kindness is so great, it leads me to repentance even if I don't feel like repenting.
That's the thing about God. He can be found in every season. I'm grateful where He reminds me of His faithfulness in something like autumn colored leaves - even if I bought them at a store and put them in a vase to look at. I'm thankful for where He continues to invite me to Himself, using September skies lit up to remind me that He really is always there.
I am choosing kindness for myself, in hopes that my heart follows me into autumn.
February 4, 2014
A Cup of Kindness
It's rare that I have extra time in the morning. I usually can get ready, pack my lunch and head off to work all in the nick of time. This morning though, I had a few extra minutes and decided to treat myself to some Starbucks seeing as I still had some money on a gift card.
When I got to the window, I was handed my coffee and the barista informed me that the woman in front of me had paid for my order.
I've heard of this happening before, especially lately. It seems to be the latest trend in random acts of kindness and paying it forward as these events at Starbucks have even made the news.
I smiled and gave him my card and paid for the order behind me. Feeling giddy as I did and hoping the woman behind me would feel just as delighted when she was handed her prepaid latte. As I drove to work I smiled, and pondered how else we could think of showing kindness to one another outside of a Starbucks drive-thru.
Later in the afternoon, I spoke with an angry customer on the phone. She accused me of lying about not having previously called her about a balance due on an order and proceeded to jab me with rude and condescending words. She hung up on me and I slammed the phone down and began to cry. I know people tell you not to take things like that personally or not to let them get to you, but I do. It wouldn't be in my nature to react any other way. I'm sensitive and tender-hearted, and when my integrity is challenged, I get emotional because I want to be heard and understood. I tried my hardest to be both kind and professional on the phone even after her rudeness to me, I was still undone when the conversation had ended.
Moments after I let the tears come and pass, I thought about the kind gesture given to me this morning. Perhaps the woman I spoke to was in need of some kindness. Maybe she needed a cup of coffee or a kind word or a smile or an embrace because this world can be so cold and cruel and warmth and kindness are almost rare to stumble upon. I began to wonder what she had going on that could make her angry enough to speak to me the way that she did. I know at the times I've been that kind of bristly or ugly towards perfect strangers, there is a reason behind it. And the reason is usually hurt.
Maybe it sounds cheesy or cliche, but I prayed for her. I asked God that she could experience some comfort today. That if she doesn't know Him that she might come to, and if she does that He would meet her in her hurt and anger and give her peace.
We have a responsibility, an obligation, and calling to care for others. To remember that we are all fighting fierce battles - sometimes just against ourselves. Today I was reminded to look away from myself. To look up. To look around and remember that a little kindness goes a very long way.
That a spoken word, a warm smile, a sincere "How are you?", or a cup of coffee could have an impact on someones day. Even more so, it could have an impact on their life.
When I got to the window, I was handed my coffee and the barista informed me that the woman in front of me had paid for my order.
I've heard of this happening before, especially lately. It seems to be the latest trend in random acts of kindness and paying it forward as these events at Starbucks have even made the news.
I smiled and gave him my card and paid for the order behind me. Feeling giddy as I did and hoping the woman behind me would feel just as delighted when she was handed her prepaid latte. As I drove to work I smiled, and pondered how else we could think of showing kindness to one another outside of a Starbucks drive-thru.
Later in the afternoon, I spoke with an angry customer on the phone. She accused me of lying about not having previously called her about a balance due on an order and proceeded to jab me with rude and condescending words. She hung up on me and I slammed the phone down and began to cry. I know people tell you not to take things like that personally or not to let them get to you, but I do. It wouldn't be in my nature to react any other way. I'm sensitive and tender-hearted, and when my integrity is challenged, I get emotional because I want to be heard and understood. I tried my hardest to be both kind and professional on the phone even after her rudeness to me, I was still undone when the conversation had ended.
Moments after I let the tears come and pass, I thought about the kind gesture given to me this morning. Perhaps the woman I spoke to was in need of some kindness. Maybe she needed a cup of coffee or a kind word or a smile or an embrace because this world can be so cold and cruel and warmth and kindness are almost rare to stumble upon. I began to wonder what she had going on that could make her angry enough to speak to me the way that she did. I know at the times I've been that kind of bristly or ugly towards perfect strangers, there is a reason behind it. And the reason is usually hurt.
Maybe it sounds cheesy or cliche, but I prayed for her. I asked God that she could experience some comfort today. That if she doesn't know Him that she might come to, and if she does that He would meet her in her hurt and anger and give her peace.
We have a responsibility, an obligation, and calling to care for others. To remember that we are all fighting fierce battles - sometimes just against ourselves. Today I was reminded to look away from myself. To look up. To look around and remember that a little kindness goes a very long way.
That a spoken word, a warm smile, a sincere "How are you?", or a cup of coffee could have an impact on someones day. Even more so, it could have an impact on their life.
August 23, 2013
Heavy-Hearted
Todd's grandfather passed away yesterday at the beautiful, long-lived age of 92.
Yesterday morning he told his children he was going to be seeing Doris that day, his wife who preceded him in death 20 years earlier when cancer took her life. And by evening, he had taken his last breath here and went to see her just as he said he would.
I only met him once. He flew down for our wedding in June of 2006 and celebrated our big day with us. Todd knew him well though. He was the grandfather he remembered spending summer vacations and holidays with. They spent time on the lake fishing and doing those special things only grandpas and grandsons know how to do together. As I've watched my own boys with their grandfathers, you can see the unique connection that is built there. The same was true for Todd and his grandpa.
Since yesterday, I've felt lost. It's been many years since death has touched me and it's almost as if I haven't known what to do, how to react, how to be, what to say and what not to. I realized this morning that Todd and I have not known this kind of loss together since we've been married. I've never had to hold my husband in a grief like this before and watch him endure a kind of sorrow and loss I have yet to know myself.
Anytime I catch myself holding back tears, changing the subject, or showing emotions disproportionate to my situation, it's as if a red flag goes up in my brain. What's going on for me? What am I not not wanting to feel here?
I don't really know the answers to those questions yet. I only know that when death comes for someone we love and know, there are whisperings it brings with it. Questions about our mortality, our relationships, our health, the life we are living. Thoughts of what we believe and curiosities about God and heaven and eternity. Maybe because it's been so many years since I've heard those whispers come, it's taken my heart by an overwhelming surprise.
Thank you for thinking of us as we are heavy-hearted today. I'm looking forward to the weekend ahead and the rest and quiet it will bring with it as I love on my husband in his sorrow and loss.
May you all feel blanketed in comfort and peace this weekend. The kind that comes from and is Jesus.
Yesterday morning he told his children he was going to be seeing Doris that day, his wife who preceded him in death 20 years earlier when cancer took her life. And by evening, he had taken his last breath here and went to see her just as he said he would.
I only met him once. He flew down for our wedding in June of 2006 and celebrated our big day with us. Todd knew him well though. He was the grandfather he remembered spending summer vacations and holidays with. They spent time on the lake fishing and doing those special things only grandpas and grandsons know how to do together. As I've watched my own boys with their grandfathers, you can see the unique connection that is built there. The same was true for Todd and his grandpa.
Since yesterday, I've felt lost. It's been many years since death has touched me and it's almost as if I haven't known what to do, how to react, how to be, what to say and what not to. I realized this morning that Todd and I have not known this kind of loss together since we've been married. I've never had to hold my husband in a grief like this before and watch him endure a kind of sorrow and loss I have yet to know myself.
I don't really know the answers to those questions yet. I only know that when death comes for someone we love and know, there are whisperings it brings with it. Questions about our mortality, our relationships, our health, the life we are living. Thoughts of what we believe and curiosities about God and heaven and eternity. Maybe because it's been so many years since I've heard those whispers come, it's taken my heart by an overwhelming surprise.
Thank you for thinking of us as we are heavy-hearted today. I'm looking forward to the weekend ahead and the rest and quiet it will bring with it as I love on my husband in his sorrow and loss.
May you all feel blanketed in comfort and peace this weekend. The kind that comes from and is Jesus.
July 30, 2013
Trust.....again
It seems as though walking with Jesus isn't always this big, wild adventure. It isn't always huge stories with a big show-offy miraculous turn of events like our North Dakota saga from this year. More often than not, it's like any other relationship. A series of quiet events and conversations and the everyday regularness.
I am finding myself in familiar places. Feeling tired, weary and discouraged and seeing myself back in the places where I'm trying to control and manage and figure things out because it's what I do and how I make my life work. It's in these moments I wonder why He's just not done with me. Why He doesn't shake His head in frustration wondering why I haven't gotten it and shame me for still not trusting His heart fully and completely.
Perhaps I will always be a fighter and I love that He lets me fight Him. He lets me wrestle and toil and spin even though He knows His way is best and eventually I will be in agreement with that. I wonder if maybe I will always be the kind of person who has to try everything my own way before going His. Maybe I will always be pushing back until the point of exhaustion and I finally surrender to what He has for me.
And I thought I was trusting. Maybe even resting in something.
But it hit me like a ton of bricks today that trust is far from my heart. And the trusting Him - the things He wants me to trust Him with - they get bigger and bigger every single time. I guess I'm left wondering what will come from all of this stretching. I'm always afraid of what I could lose in the process rather than what could be expanded in my heart.
Here I am. Different day, different year, different set of circumstances - same invitation.
Will you trust me? And can you trust me if you don't see?
I am finding myself in familiar places. Feeling tired, weary and discouraged and seeing myself back in the places where I'm trying to control and manage and figure things out because it's what I do and how I make my life work. It's in these moments I wonder why He's just not done with me. Why He doesn't shake His head in frustration wondering why I haven't gotten it and shame me for still not trusting His heart fully and completely.
Perhaps I will always be a fighter and I love that He lets me fight Him. He lets me wrestle and toil and spin even though He knows His way is best and eventually I will be in agreement with that. I wonder if maybe I will always be the kind of person who has to try everything my own way before going His. Maybe I will always be pushing back until the point of exhaustion and I finally surrender to what He has for me.
And I thought I was trusting. Maybe even resting in something.
But it hit me like a ton of bricks today that trust is far from my heart. And the trusting Him - the things He wants me to trust Him with - they get bigger and bigger every single time. I guess I'm left wondering what will come from all of this stretching. I'm always afraid of what I could lose in the process rather than what could be expanded in my heart.
Here I am. Different day, different year, different set of circumstances - same invitation.
Will you trust me? And can you trust me if you don't see?
May 9, 2013
Day 9: A Moment
Today's prompt: A moment in your day.
Tonight at dinner the table, we talked about Jesus. Tommy concluded that dying on the cross was much like receiving a spanking when you've been naughty. Except this wasn't fair, because Jesus wasn't naughty at all.
His understanding of the gospel at the age of three is a beautiful thing. He told Todd the other day that Jesus was family, that He died on the cross and that He loves Bass Pro Shops. Clearly, we are getting through on the most important things.
At some point though, Tommy changed the subject and started talking about robo-tools. (Wha?) And there was some laughter, and much less struggle to eat his dinner since we've cracked down on the whole "you're eating what we're eating for dinner" rule.
Tonight's family dinner left my heart full of hope. A hope that our table will always be full of togetherness and laughter. A safe place where good food is served and eaten and enjoyed. That it's a table that will welcome others with love, acceptance and compassion. A hope that we always value the importance of sitting down together as a family and eating a meal, talking about our day and enjoying the company of each person present. A hope that we never get too busy, too self-centered, too anything, to make the time and create the space for family meals together at that very table.
And my greatest hope - that Jesus and His great love for us, the source of all hope - is the topic of many, many more family night dinners.
Tonight at dinner the table, we talked about Jesus. Tommy concluded that dying on the cross was much like receiving a spanking when you've been naughty. Except this wasn't fair, because Jesus wasn't naughty at all.
His understanding of the gospel at the age of three is a beautiful thing. He told Todd the other day that Jesus was family, that He died on the cross and that He loves Bass Pro Shops. Clearly, we are getting through on the most important things.
At some point though, Tommy changed the subject and started talking about robo-tools. (Wha?) And there was some laughter, and much less struggle to eat his dinner since we've cracked down on the whole "you're eating what we're eating for dinner" rule.
Tonight's family dinner left my heart full of hope. A hope that our table will always be full of togetherness and laughter. A safe place where good food is served and eaten and enjoyed. That it's a table that will welcome others with love, acceptance and compassion. A hope that we always value the importance of sitting down together as a family and eating a meal, talking about our day and enjoying the company of each person present. A hope that we never get too busy, too self-centered, too anything, to make the time and create the space for family meals together at that very table.
And my greatest hope - that Jesus and His great love for us, the source of all hope - is the topic of many, many more family night dinners.
April 29, 2013
On the edge
This still feels weird. To be in my pajamas at 9:00am and not sitting in an office after an hour's drive in traffic. Sipping my coffee in a mug and planning tonight's dinner instead of replying to e-mails and checking bank balances. Already this morning, I've fed a baby and put him back to sleep, tripped over trucks and asked Tommy to play his guitar just a little softer until the caffeine kicks in and almost missed the feeling of the usual daunting Monday morning meeting.
All of this is wonderful, and all of it is weird too. I'm not used to it - even though I've been at this for weeks now. Even though this was going to be the game-plan and my role should we have moved away to North Dakota like we had planned.
I have a job interview this afternoon. I confess that every fiber in my being is aching to return to work, and it's easy to recognize where I've grown antsy in my job search. Living in this in-between space has me a bit restless. Knowing that I need a job and it taking much longer than I had anticipated to find one, has me a bit on edge. Not worried necessarily, just anxious to get there and get started - wherever there is.
I'm not sleeping well and I'm longing for days to fly by so I can get through this middle place of life I'm living in right now. And I don't want to live this way where I'm wishing away time and my life because that's not really living. The in-between places have always done that to me - made me and my thoughts a bit chaotic and had me trying to speed up time somehow. And it's funny, because I feel mostly at peace. I'm not freaking out about money like I ordinarily might be (at least not yet). But I guess I just want to know what the routine will be. What's next? When will I be out of the middle, in-between stage?
Perhaps it's normal to long for predictability and consistency. I think we need a healthy measure of it and creating those things is good for our children. But maybe I make it an idol too. It's in predictability and consistency that I often try and control every aspect of my life. Right down to the penny or the minute or the finest detail. It's the place I most often refuse to trust God and instead put all of my trust in me and making things work to the best of my own ability.
The last few months though, life has been lived on the edge. It has been anything but predictable or consistent. And honestly, I have enjoyed this wild ride. It brought me to life and changed something in my heart. It seems as though God has used all of the unknown places to change me and to draw me closer to Him. He has taken my faith to deeper places. Places that we couldn't have gone together had life not been so up in the air. If there weren't so many huge things to trust Him with.
I don't believe He will have me living in this specific in-between place forever. A job will come, a routine will happen again and our family will be in its own unique groove. We will make life work and function well for us just as you do with yours.
But I want to remain on the edge somewhat too. I want to remember that these middle places we find ourselves in life when things are unsettled, unanswered, and left up in the air - they are a gift. Life is full of adventure and intrigue. Walking by faith becomes more of a literal thing you do on a daily basis rather than some fluffy thing Christians say.
I want to remember that being on the edge, finding myself stuck in this middle place, living in the tension - it's here that He invites us to know Him. And to live.
All of this is wonderful, and all of it is weird too. I'm not used to it - even though I've been at this for weeks now. Even though this was going to be the game-plan and my role should we have moved away to North Dakota like we had planned.
I have a job interview this afternoon. I confess that every fiber in my being is aching to return to work, and it's easy to recognize where I've grown antsy in my job search. Living in this in-between space has me a bit restless. Knowing that I need a job and it taking much longer than I had anticipated to find one, has me a bit on edge. Not worried necessarily, just anxious to get there and get started - wherever there is.
I'm not sleeping well and I'm longing for days to fly by so I can get through this middle place of life I'm living in right now. And I don't want to live this way where I'm wishing away time and my life because that's not really living. The in-between places have always done that to me - made me and my thoughts a bit chaotic and had me trying to speed up time somehow. And it's funny, because I feel mostly at peace. I'm not freaking out about money like I ordinarily might be (at least not yet). But I guess I just want to know what the routine will be. What's next? When will I be out of the middle, in-between stage?
Perhaps it's normal to long for predictability and consistency. I think we need a healthy measure of it and creating those things is good for our children. But maybe I make it an idol too. It's in predictability and consistency that I often try and control every aspect of my life. Right down to the penny or the minute or the finest detail. It's the place I most often refuse to trust God and instead put all of my trust in me and making things work to the best of my own ability.
The last few months though, life has been lived on the edge. It has been anything but predictable or consistent. And honestly, I have enjoyed this wild ride. It brought me to life and changed something in my heart. It seems as though God has used all of the unknown places to change me and to draw me closer to Him. He has taken my faith to deeper places. Places that we couldn't have gone together had life not been so up in the air. If there weren't so many huge things to trust Him with.
I don't believe He will have me living in this specific in-between place forever. A job will come, a routine will happen again and our family will be in its own unique groove. We will make life work and function well for us just as you do with yours.
But I want to remain on the edge somewhat too. I want to remember that these middle places we find ourselves in life when things are unsettled, unanswered, and left up in the air - they are a gift. Life is full of adventure and intrigue. Walking by faith becomes more of a literal thing you do on a daily basis rather than some fluffy thing Christians say.
I want to remember that being on the edge, finding myself stuck in this middle place, living in the tension - it's here that He invites us to know Him. And to live.
April 21, 2013
Weeds and compact cars
Basically, I've felt like I've been on a honeymoon of sorts this last week. And I don't just mean enjoying marital bliss with my returned husband. Though, hallelujah he is home!
I'm a bit sickening to be around right now because I'm rather mushy about things like weeds and compact cars and low checking account balances. Even sunburns in April make me a bit swoony.
With everything that came together and then fell apart and came together again, I've felt so grateful. I don't claim to have mastered some perfected state of contentedness, but I do believe that my heart is more at peace than it's ever been before.
For years, we have been hoping for change. We've been wanting more and something new and have hoped that God would bring something about and radically alter our lives. And He did that. North Dakota and the job and the whole story I told last week - He did indeed radically alter something. It just ended up being our hearts that came away radically altered instead.
For me, I have wanted to see my husband in a new job, not just so we could have more money and nicer things - but so he could be happy and enjoy what he's doing and take pride in his work. But if I were honest, I would admit that the financial perks would have been nice. I would have enjoyed a nicer vehicle and a bigger house and a thicker checkbook and more shoes. Who wouldn't?
It became easy to be disgruntled over everything in our lives. Like the pesky weeds in the front yard that won't go away with any amount of weed killer and lawn treatments or yanking out. And our teeny compact cars, that since having Jacob means, that whoever rides in the front passenger seat has to have their knees mashed up against the dashboard for the entire car ride so the car seat fits in the back. My house - how it felt small whenever I would have a huge crowd over for a party. I was so self concious about the lack of space and seating and I would worry people were uncomfortable and badmouthing my home and how small it felt when over 30 people come over.
But with the last week and all of the devastation and glory that came with it, my cup has runneth over. My heart has been so full, so happy. It's almost as if God took us through this to give us a new set of eyes to see with. How glorious and messy and wonderful it all really is.
Even though the car can be 100 degrees inside when the sun is beating down outside and a three year old can make a mess faster than you can even spell the word and you do nothing but step on crumbs and toy cars all day long. All of it - every weed, every jammed car ride, every crumb stuck to my foot - all of it just remarkably beautiful.
Maybe because we could have lost it all. If we wouldn't have listened to God's voice either time - taking the risk to begin with and taking the risk for Todd to come back home when he did. We would have missed all of this. Watching an epic story unfold before our eyes where every need was met, and every prayer was answered with twists and turns we never saw coming. And now, seeing what we have and knowing that it is absolutely enough.
Even if God doesn't bring a new job Todd's way, he has a place of steady employment with solid health insurance and vacation time.
I'm still job hunting and though my tendency is to worry about how this is all going to work and how bills will get paid and if we will have to live on boxed mac n' cheese, I had to laugh when we received an anonymous card in the mail over the weekend. Someone who knew our story and wanted to encourage us gave us a generous gift. It reminded me that God sees us and He will take care of us one way or another. I love that God used this person to bless us in a time of need. And that He used our story to touch their hearts. Just wow - all of it is humbling.
But gratitude...gratitude is the word of the week. The word of the month. I want it to be the word that spills into my every day, all year long. Our life may be full of imperfections and weeds and struggles like anyone else - but, this life is ours.
I once read a quote about gratitude that said: "Gratitude turns what we have into enough."
And it's true. Every little thing feels like enough for me right now. My home, our cars, our weeds, our doing nothing together on a Saturday night. All of it is enough. Really, it's even more.
I'm a bit sickening to be around right now because I'm rather mushy about things like weeds and compact cars and low checking account balances. Even sunburns in April make me a bit swoony.
With everything that came together and then fell apart and came together again, I've felt so grateful. I don't claim to have mastered some perfected state of contentedness, but I do believe that my heart is more at peace than it's ever been before.
For years, we have been hoping for change. We've been wanting more and something new and have hoped that God would bring something about and radically alter our lives. And He did that. North Dakota and the job and the whole story I told last week - He did indeed radically alter something. It just ended up being our hearts that came away radically altered instead.
For me, I have wanted to see my husband in a new job, not just so we could have more money and nicer things - but so he could be happy and enjoy what he's doing and take pride in his work. But if I were honest, I would admit that the financial perks would have been nice. I would have enjoyed a nicer vehicle and a bigger house and a thicker checkbook and more shoes. Who wouldn't?
It became easy to be disgruntled over everything in our lives. Like the pesky weeds in the front yard that won't go away with any amount of weed killer and lawn treatments or yanking out. And our teeny compact cars, that since having Jacob means, that whoever rides in the front passenger seat has to have their knees mashed up against the dashboard for the entire car ride so the car seat fits in the back. My house - how it felt small whenever I would have a huge crowd over for a party. I was so self concious about the lack of space and seating and I would worry people were uncomfortable and badmouthing my home and how small it felt when over 30 people come over.
But with the last week and all of the devastation and glory that came with it, my cup has runneth over. My heart has been so full, so happy. It's almost as if God took us through this to give us a new set of eyes to see with. How glorious and messy and wonderful it all really is.
Even though the car can be 100 degrees inside when the sun is beating down outside and a three year old can make a mess faster than you can even spell the word and you do nothing but step on crumbs and toy cars all day long. All of it - every weed, every jammed car ride, every crumb stuck to my foot - all of it just remarkably beautiful.
Maybe because we could have lost it all. If we wouldn't have listened to God's voice either time - taking the risk to begin with and taking the risk for Todd to come back home when he did. We would have missed all of this. Watching an epic story unfold before our eyes where every need was met, and every prayer was answered with twists and turns we never saw coming. And now, seeing what we have and knowing that it is absolutely enough.
Even if God doesn't bring a new job Todd's way, he has a place of steady employment with solid health insurance and vacation time.
I'm still job hunting and though my tendency is to worry about how this is all going to work and how bills will get paid and if we will have to live on boxed mac n' cheese, I had to laugh when we received an anonymous card in the mail over the weekend. Someone who knew our story and wanted to encourage us gave us a generous gift. It reminded me that God sees us and He will take care of us one way or another. I love that God used this person to bless us in a time of need. And that He used our story to touch their hearts. Just wow - all of it is humbling.
But gratitude...gratitude is the word of the week. The word of the month. I want it to be the word that spills into my every day, all year long. Our life may be full of imperfections and weeds and struggles like anyone else - but, this life is ours.
I once read a quote about gratitude that said: "Gratitude turns what we have into enough."
And it's true. Every little thing feels like enough for me right now. My home, our cars, our weeds, our doing nothing together on a Saturday night. All of it is enough. Really, it's even more.
January 23, 2013
The lasts
Todd headed off to work this morning much like he has in the six and a half years I've known him. His alarm set, and unlike me, able to get right out of bed when it goes off. He puts on his socks and his watch and then brushes his teeth, gets dressed and he's ready and out the door within fifteen minutes.
As I watched him walk out the door this morning, Tommy's little hand in his own, I was aware that it would be the very last time I would see this. Todd taking Tommy to his home daycare, and heading off to this job that has drained him, frustrated him and sucked the life out of him for so many years. While we have been grateful for employment and amazing health insurance and paid vacation time - things that so many don't have or must live without - my heart leapt a little inside as I thought about how much was changing for him. How his longings are becoming a reality. And what he is giving up and risking for all of us.
I'm a deep feeler. So it may come as no surprise to know that I sat with this image, my husband walking out the door of our home and heading off to his last day of this old job probably FOREVER - and let myself feel the weight of it. How wonderful and sad and amazing and scary it all is. When I posted our big news yesterday, the consensus on my Facebook wall seemed to be for the most part, "How exciting and scary!" If it feels both scary and exciting for others, you can imagine how deep I am feeling both of those emotions.
I am in my weeks of lasts as well - and not just with my pregnancy. I gave my notice at my job yesterday and plan to have my last day of work be February 22nd. At this time, I have no plans of working full time again, though of course, things could change or fall through and if it's needed, I'll put on my working hat and go back somewhere - whether here or in North Dakota. While I'm looking forward to the rest and not driving in traffic or being elbow deep in paperwork anymore, I also wonder if I have the SAHM gene in me. If I can do this well and not go crazy being home with two young children every day. Perhaps like everything else, I'll have to take that one day at a time too.
So it's Wednesday and I'm soaking in more of the lasts. Feeling all of this as it comes, day by day and moment by moment. It's been hard not to let my mind wander to life a week from now, or three weeks from now, or a few months from now. All of the little details that have yet to fall into place as we are taking this process one wobbly step at a time.
It's a bit scary not to have a complete plan, yet we've been invited to trust and that's what we're doing. I guess that's why they call it faith.
As I watched him walk out the door this morning, Tommy's little hand in his own, I was aware that it would be the very last time I would see this. Todd taking Tommy to his home daycare, and heading off to this job that has drained him, frustrated him and sucked the life out of him for so many years. While we have been grateful for employment and amazing health insurance and paid vacation time - things that so many don't have or must live without - my heart leapt a little inside as I thought about how much was changing for him. How his longings are becoming a reality. And what he is giving up and risking for all of us.
I'm a deep feeler. So it may come as no surprise to know that I sat with this image, my husband walking out the door of our home and heading off to his last day of this old job probably FOREVER - and let myself feel the weight of it. How wonderful and sad and amazing and scary it all is. When I posted our big news yesterday, the consensus on my Facebook wall seemed to be for the most part, "How exciting and scary!" If it feels both scary and exciting for others, you can imagine how deep I am feeling both of those emotions.
I am in my weeks of lasts as well - and not just with my pregnancy. I gave my notice at my job yesterday and plan to have my last day of work be February 22nd. At this time, I have no plans of working full time again, though of course, things could change or fall through and if it's needed, I'll put on my working hat and go back somewhere - whether here or in North Dakota. While I'm looking forward to the rest and not driving in traffic or being elbow deep in paperwork anymore, I also wonder if I have the SAHM gene in me. If I can do this well and not go crazy being home with two young children every day. Perhaps like everything else, I'll have to take that one day at a time too.
So it's Wednesday and I'm soaking in more of the lasts. Feeling all of this as it comes, day by day and moment by moment. It's been hard not to let my mind wander to life a week from now, or three weeks from now, or a few months from now. All of the little details that have yet to fall into place as we are taking this process one wobbly step at a time.
It's a bit scary not to have a complete plan, yet we've been invited to trust and that's what we're doing. I guess that's why they call it faith.
January 4, 2013
Love Does
"Being engaged is a way of doing life, a way of living and loving. It's about going to extremes and expressing the bright hope that life offers us, a hope that makes us brave and expels darkness with light. That's what I want my life to be all about - full of abandon, whimsy, and in love. I want to be engaged to life and with life."
"And when each of us looks back at all the turns and folds God has allowed in our lives, I don't think it looks like a series of folded-over mistakes and do-overs that have shaped our lives. Instead, I think we'll conclude in the end that maybe we're all a little like human origami and the more creases we have, the better."
"There is only one invitation it would kill me to refuse, yet I'm tempted to turn it down all the time. I get the invitation every morning when I wake up to actually live a life of complete engagement, a life of whimsy, a life where love does. It doesn't come in an envelope. It's ushered in by a sunrise, the sound of a bird, or the smell of coffee drifting lazily from the kitchen. It's the invitation to actually live, to fully participate in this amazing life for one more day. Nobody turns down an invitation to the White House, but I've seen plenty of people turn down an invitation to fully live."
Excerpts from Love Does - by Bog Goff.
It's a great, great January read.
I had heard a bit about it from a few people and treated myself to a copy for Christmas. I'm not finished yet, but I keep thinking, "Is this guy for real? Did he really do that?" There are stories about farting and getting shot in the belly with a pellet gun and being invited to the homes of world leaders and sneaking on to the set of a movie. All of it is extraordinary and crazy - but the good kind of crazy.
And I'm curious about the word whimsy and where it has and hasn't shown up in my life.
I'm thinking about love and the doing part of it. I feel both convicted and inspired.
This book. Just wow.
"And when each of us looks back at all the turns and folds God has allowed in our lives, I don't think it looks like a series of folded-over mistakes and do-overs that have shaped our lives. Instead, I think we'll conclude in the end that maybe we're all a little like human origami and the more creases we have, the better."
"There is only one invitation it would kill me to refuse, yet I'm tempted to turn it down all the time. I get the invitation every morning when I wake up to actually live a life of complete engagement, a life of whimsy, a life where love does. It doesn't come in an envelope. It's ushered in by a sunrise, the sound of a bird, or the smell of coffee drifting lazily from the kitchen. It's the invitation to actually live, to fully participate in this amazing life for one more day. Nobody turns down an invitation to the White House, but I've seen plenty of people turn down an invitation to fully live."
Excerpts from Love Does - by Bog Goff.
I had heard a bit about it from a few people and treated myself to a copy for Christmas. I'm not finished yet, but I keep thinking, "Is this guy for real? Did he really do that?" There are stories about farting and getting shot in the belly with a pellet gun and being invited to the homes of world leaders and sneaking on to the set of a movie. All of it is extraordinary and crazy - but the good kind of crazy.
And I'm curious about the word whimsy and where it has and hasn't shown up in my life.
I'm thinking about love and the doing part of it. I feel both convicted and inspired.
This book. Just wow.
December 21, 2012
When Christmas found me
Some of the things that were on my mind and heart and plate have passed. The doctor's appointment (where I had to do a three hour blood glucose test) I was dreading is done and over. We have an official "plan" for Christmas now. And I cancelled the cookie decorating event with my family last night because I was wiped out after my appointment and decided there was no way I could roll out cookies and put them in and take them out of the oven all day long. It was disappointing to cancel, yet it was kind for my body and my heart too.
After a lengthy nap yesterday, our little family of three headed out to have dinner together and went to look at Christmas lights in a neighborhood that is famous for doing it BIG every year.
See what I mean?
I haven't gone looking at Christmas lights since I was young. I was quite little the last time I went to this very neighborhood. I may have even said something to Todd last night starting with the phrase, "Well, twenty-something years ago...." Wow, I'm old.
Tommy was absolutely in awe of how much there was to see. Some things were animated, some yards played music. Some things were handcrafted and homemade and were quite unique. I loved hearing him in the backseat squeal with excitement and wonder. It made my mother's heart full and left me with much to treasure.
I felt like a kid again. When life felt simple and magical and was full of twinkle lights in December. When you feel safe and loved and it feels like ages before Christmas day will finally arrive and you can finally tear into that one big present under the tree that has your name on it.
My heart feels changed this Christmas. It's been changed because of circumstances, both financial and physical, and how I've been forced to see things differently and do things differently than I'm used to. It's been changed because of tragedy and horrific stories of the evil in this world. But mostly it's been changed because I've allowed my heart to journey with Jesus in new ways. I haven't shut him out. He's been invited and wanted - maybe more than I've ever invited Him in or wanted Him with me before. I never realized how much I left him out of my heart at Christmastime.
I woke up early this morning - 5am to be exact - but I was feeling like me. The me that loves baking cookies and watching Christmas movies and can't wait for the excitement that Christmas morning brings.
Maybe it was the lights. The magic and wonder of what we saw last night that made me feel childlike and innocent.
And maybe it's been everything. The tragedies that have made me ache and weep and have caused such tenderness in my spirit. The gratitude I've found for what I have, especially in my little growing family. In the relationships that have been renewed and restored to me and are evident in text messages and warm smiles and conversations. Maybe it's been seeing where it's become easier to be kind to myself - to make kind choices for my body, for my heart and soul. Maybe it's been the early mornings I've spent with my Savior.
Somehow all of it - every twinkle light, every tear shed, every moment spent with those that I've loved has changed me. I do believe that the Christmas I feared was lost has been found. I didn't find it though.
Christmas found me.
After a lengthy nap yesterday, our little family of three headed out to have dinner together and went to look at Christmas lights in a neighborhood that is famous for doing it BIG every year.
See what I mean?
Maybe it was the lights. The magic and wonder of what we saw last night that made me feel childlike and innocent.
Somehow all of it - every twinkle light, every tear shed, every moment spent with those that I've loved has changed me. I do believe that the Christmas I feared was lost has been found. I didn't find it though.
Christmas found me.
Merry Christmas to you all!
December 14, 2012
The time I took a picture of my pregnant-belly....on purpose
When I was pregnant with Tommy, I took absolutely ZERO pregnant pictures of myself. I was so incredibly ashamed of my size that I didn't want any pictures to show record of how "huge" I was. Being very overweight and with child, I almost felt like some freak of nature and I felt like hiding most of the time, especially toward the end of my pregnancy. I had a very hard time accepting myself and being kind to myself where I was at.
This time around, I have faced some of those familiar demons. I've had those mornings where all of my clothes end up on the floor of my closet and I'm in tears and collapse on my bed in frustration because I'm convinced that everything looks horrible on me. That would be quite true. Though I think that almost every pregnant woman goes through this, overweight or not.
The food thing has been different for quite some time. I don't eat in secret or binge anymore and over-eating is a rare occurrence. My eating feels more normal and is slowly becoming more balanced. I'm hopeful that things will continue as they have this year as I've been becoming a less disordered eater.
But what feels the most different for me is that I haven't carried the same shame this time around. In some ways, it's been easier to find kindness for myself. For my heart, for my body, and for where I am at in recovery from a nearly life-long binge eating disorder. Really, I owe all of that to the grace of God. He has brought healing and peace and restoration to places in my heart and my story that haven't been there before. It's changed me inside and out.
Evidence? I took a picture of myself on purpose this morning. Not only for me to have, but publicly for the whole world to view. It's on Instagram and Facebook and everyone will see it - there's no hiding pregnant Jenn this time. And actually, I don't want to hide her.
This picture makes me smile. Because I took it and because I want to share it. Because I know who that woman is.
She's a woman who is life-giving. She is a woman learning to live fully in the present. She doesn't check out of her pain. She names truth for herself and for others. She is fierce and she's a fighter. She is brave. She's a woman who will be celebrating a monumental anniversary on the 27th of December - going an entire year without having a binge. (THIS IS A BIG FRICKIN' DEAL PEOPLE! WHO-HOO!) She's a woman who is closer to Jesus than she's ever been. She is closer to her husband and allows him to enjoy her instead of pushing him away. She's a woman that I have more kindness and acceptance and grace for. I don't hate on her as much as I used to. She is a mom - to one, soon to be two, beautiful boys. She's learning to trust and rest and hope and wait because it's where God has asked her to go and how He wants her to live.
She is a woman, free from the chains of self-contempt and self-loathing. Free to laugh loudly and dance and take pictures of her growing tummy full of life. Growing, struggling, wrestling, and living daily in the abundant grace of God.
This is not just a picture of a pregnant belly. It's a picture of repentance and beauty and triumph. And a glorious page in my story that God continues to beautifully author.
This time around, I have faced some of those familiar demons. I've had those mornings where all of my clothes end up on the floor of my closet and I'm in tears and collapse on my bed in frustration because I'm convinced that everything looks horrible on me. That would be quite true. Though I think that almost every pregnant woman goes through this, overweight or not.
The food thing has been different for quite some time. I don't eat in secret or binge anymore and over-eating is a rare occurrence. My eating feels more normal and is slowly becoming more balanced. I'm hopeful that things will continue as they have this year as I've been becoming a less disordered eater.
But what feels the most different for me is that I haven't carried the same shame this time around. In some ways, it's been easier to find kindness for myself. For my heart, for my body, and for where I am at in recovery from a nearly life-long binge eating disorder. Really, I owe all of that to the grace of God. He has brought healing and peace and restoration to places in my heart and my story that haven't been there before. It's changed me inside and out.
Evidence? I took a picture of myself on purpose this morning. Not only for me to have, but publicly for the whole world to view. It's on Instagram and Facebook and everyone will see it - there's no hiding pregnant Jenn this time. And actually, I don't want to hide her.
She's a woman who is life-giving. She is a woman learning to live fully in the present. She doesn't check out of her pain. She names truth for herself and for others. She is fierce and she's a fighter. She is brave. She's a woman who will be celebrating a monumental anniversary on the 27th of December - going an entire year without having a binge. (THIS IS A BIG FRICKIN' DEAL PEOPLE! WHO-HOO!) She's a woman who is closer to Jesus than she's ever been. She is closer to her husband and allows him to enjoy her instead of pushing him away. She's a woman that I have more kindness and acceptance and grace for. I don't hate on her as much as I used to. She is a mom - to one, soon to be two, beautiful boys. She's learning to trust and rest and hope and wait because it's where God has asked her to go and how He wants her to live.
She is a woman, free from the chains of self-contempt and self-loathing. Free to laugh loudly and dance and take pictures of her growing tummy full of life. Growing, struggling, wrestling, and living daily in the abundant grace of God.
This is not just a picture of a pregnant belly. It's a picture of repentance and beauty and triumph. And a glorious page in my story that God continues to beautifully author.
December 13, 2012
Finding Christmas
Christmas was in our back seat last night singing carols in the most charming three year old voice that I've ever heard. My heart melted a little bit and Todd and I looked at each other and smiled and laughed quietly because those are the moments of parenthood that I wish I could bottle up and save and somehow be able to relive again later.
Christmas was in the faces of five teenage girls that were delighted to see me at youth group last night. Whose warmth and conversation and life reminded me that pouring my time into their lives is so worth it. That giving, especially of myself, has a way of feeling like you're getting something back in return.
Christmas was in the air this morning in our chilly house. I surrendered to the heater and my home filled with that familiar smell that comes when you turn it on for the very first time in a very long time. It smelled like cookies and laughter and holly and merry-making.
Christmas was in the text message that I received from my sister. Which was nothing extraordinary, but it was that she was including me in her life and updating me on her world and in that, asking for more closeness. Relationship, real-ationship, especially with her, feels like this big humbling gift. Probably because it has involved great cost and many years of tears and of sitting back and waiting and waiting and waiting.
Christmas was in my husband's embrace. How I've learned to rest in his touch and have stopped pulling away when he comes to grace with me his affection and tenderness.
I'm starting to look. Starting to notice pieces of Christmas in places I may not have seen them before. They've been under and over and underneath and between - small and quiet and could have gone by unseen had I not been trying to find them.
Christmas was in the air this morning in our chilly house. I surrendered to the heater and my home filled with that familiar smell that comes when you turn it on for the very first time in a very long time. It smelled like cookies and laughter and holly and merry-making.
Christmas was in the text message that I received from my sister. Which was nothing extraordinary, but it was that she was including me in her life and updating me on her world and in that, asking for more closeness. Relationship, real-ationship, especially with her, feels like this big humbling gift. Probably because it has involved great cost and many years of tears and of sitting back and waiting and waiting and waiting.
Christmas was in my husband's embrace. How I've learned to rest in his touch and have stopped pulling away when he comes to grace with me his affection and tenderness.
I'm starting to look. Starting to notice pieces of Christmas in places I may not have seen them before. They've been under and over and underneath and between - small and quiet and could have gone by unseen had I not been trying to find them.
July 13, 2012
Share your story
I have a dear friend named Gary. He has the kindest eyes I've ever known and his hugs are some of my favorite to receive. Being in his presence feels safe and I have trusted him with many deep places of my own heart. Some years separate us in age, but his friendship is one that I have come to treasure.
Over the last few years I've learned quite a bit of Gary and his story. What his life was like as a boy, where evil came for him, and where he was wounded. Where God met him in darkness and what repentance, redemption and freedom has looked like for him.
(I have asked his permission to share the following from his story publicly.)
There has always been an unforgettable scene in his story for me. It's where he is a small boy and his dad is working in the yard. He's tagging along, being his young and childlike self. And there is this moment where his dad walks right past him, brushing against his arm, but not acknowledging that he was even there. I've heard him say that maybe if his father had just tousled his hair, it would have made him feel like he was wanted or cared for or loved. But instead he just felt rejected, like a nobody. That was just one scene of many for Gary where his father was distant and cold.
For some reason, this scene has always stayed with me. I think of it often, especially in the moments where Tommy feels under foot or close to me when I'm busy doing something other than playing with him.
To this day when I walk by my little boy, or find him close while I'm busy doing housework, I often find myself touseling his hair. Sending this physical reminder of, "I know you're there, and even though I'm occupied and busy, you matter to me and I love you."
In those brief moments, my mind always, always goes to Gary as a little boy. I ache and smile at the same time. Because his story, his longings and needs as a child, and his bravery in telling of those things - all of that has had an impact on me. Gary's story has shaped how I mother my son.
This is why I'm passionate about telling stories and just as passionate about listening to them. Because when we share our stories, these scenes - small and seemingly insignificant or huge and life-altering - not only can we shed God's light and perspective on them, but they have the ability to change us. They have impact on how we live and love others. And ultimately, how we see God.
I suppose I will always think of Gary any time I tousle Tommy's hair. I hope I always remember the pieces and scenes of other's stories that have left a mark on my heart and changed the way I want to show up and love others.
Over the last few years I've learned quite a bit of Gary and his story. What his life was like as a boy, where evil came for him, and where he was wounded. Where God met him in darkness and what repentance, redemption and freedom has looked like for him.
(I have asked his permission to share the following from his story publicly.)
There has always been an unforgettable scene in his story for me. It's where he is a small boy and his dad is working in the yard. He's tagging along, being his young and childlike self. And there is this moment where his dad walks right past him, brushing against his arm, but not acknowledging that he was even there. I've heard him say that maybe if his father had just tousled his hair, it would have made him feel like he was wanted or cared for or loved. But instead he just felt rejected, like a nobody. That was just one scene of many for Gary where his father was distant and cold.
For some reason, this scene has always stayed with me. I think of it often, especially in the moments where Tommy feels under foot or close to me when I'm busy doing something other than playing with him.
To this day when I walk by my little boy, or find him close while I'm busy doing housework, I often find myself touseling his hair. Sending this physical reminder of, "I know you're there, and even though I'm occupied and busy, you matter to me and I love you."
In those brief moments, my mind always, always goes to Gary as a little boy. I ache and smile at the same time. Because his story, his longings and needs as a child, and his bravery in telling of those things - all of that has had an impact on me. Gary's story has shaped how I mother my son.
This is why I'm passionate about telling stories and just as passionate about listening to them. Because when we share our stories, these scenes - small and seemingly insignificant or huge and life-altering - not only can we shed God's light and perspective on them, but they have the ability to change us. They have impact on how we live and love others. And ultimately, how we see God.
I suppose I will always think of Gary any time I tousle Tommy's hair. I hope I always remember the pieces and scenes of other's stories that have left a mark on my heart and changed the way I want to show up and love others.
June 14, 2012
Jump
It looked easy. Grab a hold of the rope, climb to the rock, swing off and jump into the water.
The water full of fish and turtles. And maybe snakes and large catfish that could swallow me whole because I've heard of that happening before.
It was scarier than I thought it would be. Both Todd and I were a bit fearful about how we would land. If we would get hurt and what risking the jump could possibly mean.
"It doesn't matter how you land. It just matters that you jump." I said encouragingly to my husband.
Todd made the jump first. His arm hurt a bit and his hand got torn by the rope and bled. But he jumped. He did what mattered.
And then there I was. Terrified. Standing on the edge of this rock and looking out onto the river. It wasn't the swinging part that had me uneasy. It was what I was jumping into.
If you know me, you know that I'm not really a fan of swimming in water with other living things. I prefer pools. Predictable, safe, non-fish inhabited pools. More than anything, I was afraid I wouldn't swing far enough and land in those lily pads and a water moccasin or some other terrifying creature would either eat me or cause some kind of horrifying bodily harm. I'm a bit dramatic, I know.
After a few minutes of deciding whether or not I was going to go through with this crazy rope-jumping business, I took off and began my swing. And when I let go, I landed right in those damn lily pads, just as I had feared that I would.
I may or may not have cried. Which really just means that I totally did.
Thankfully there were no creatures that came after me and I survived the entire experience, tears and all. I was mostly disappointed that my landing sucked. That I planted myself right where I hadn't wanted to. Part of me wanted to feel like a failure. And as soon as I began to go there, my own words that I had only spoken moments before to my husband echoed in my heart.
"It doesn't matter how you land. It just matters that you jump."
Tubing-on-the-river-day, became risk-taking, fear-overcoming day for the both of us. A day we can point to and remind each other of our guts and bravery next time life comes with something big and terrifying that requires a big jump and a huge river of uncertainty.
We may not always have the best landing. Things in life can happen as we fear it might. We will probably get hurt. Risk is always a gamble. But only those truly alive, are the ones who are willing to make the jump regardless of the outcome.
Knowing that both Todd and I had it in us to make the jump in the first place, made the blood and tears worth it in the end.
It was scarier than I thought it would be. Both Todd and I were a bit fearful about how we would land. If we would get hurt and what risking the jump could possibly mean.
"It doesn't matter how you land. It just matters that you jump." I said encouragingly to my husband.
Todd made the jump first. His arm hurt a bit and his hand got torn by the rope and bled. But he jumped. He did what mattered.
And then there I was. Terrified. Standing on the edge of this rock and looking out onto the river. It wasn't the swinging part that had me uneasy. It was what I was jumping into.
If you know me, you know that I'm not really a fan of swimming in water with other living things. I prefer pools. Predictable, safe, non-fish inhabited pools. More than anything, I was afraid I wouldn't swing far enough and land in those lily pads and a water moccasin or some other terrifying creature would either eat me or cause some kind of horrifying bodily harm. I'm a bit dramatic, I know.
After a few minutes of deciding whether or not I was going to go through with this crazy rope-jumping business, I took off and began my swing. And when I let go, I landed right in those damn lily pads, just as I had feared that I would.
I may or may not have cried. Which really just means that I totally did.
Thankfully there were no creatures that came after me and I survived the entire experience, tears and all. I was mostly disappointed that my landing sucked. That I planted myself right where I hadn't wanted to. Part of me wanted to feel like a failure. And as soon as I began to go there, my own words that I had only spoken moments before to my husband echoed in my heart.
"It doesn't matter how you land. It just matters that you jump."
Tubing-on-the-river-day, became risk-taking, fear-overcoming day for the both of us. A day we can point to and remind each other of our guts and bravery next time life comes with something big and terrifying that requires a big jump and a huge river of uncertainty.
We may not always have the best landing. Things in life can happen as we fear it might. We will probably get hurt. Risk is always a gamble. But only those truly alive, are the ones who are willing to make the jump regardless of the outcome.
Knowing that both Todd and I had it in us to make the jump in the first place, made the blood and tears worth it in the end.
May 15, 2012
Worth it
For eight days I served on a jury.
For eight days I couldn't watch the news, see a newspaper, or look at our local news online.
For eight days I had to keep secrets.
For eight days I had to contain a vast amount of information and facts and evidence.
For eight days I felt full, overwhelmed and weighed down.
For eight days I carried around a heavy burden with me. That in my hands was the life of someone else - and what I decided as being part of a jury, was going to have a forever impact on that person.
For eight days I contemplated punishment and grace and mercy.
For eight days I had questions for God about His goodness, His plans, the things that He allows that I just don't understand.
For eight days I had little left in me - to write, to cook, to get things done around the house, to exercise. I was spent in every way.
For eight days I felt a lot of feelings - many things triggered for me in my own story.
For eight days I cried at some point - every single day.
For eight days I went to bed exhausted and drained both physically and mentally.
For eight days I was forced to see things from different perspectives.
For eight days I did my duty to my country and to society as a whole as being a citizen of the United States of America.
Someone sent me a message today and asked me if it was worth my time. Did I feel like my precious time had been wasted or was I glad that I could be part of it? And if that person would have asked me eight days ago, I would have said no. It wasn't going to be worth my time. How could I give up an unknown amount of days from life to step away from work - where I make my income and help to provide for my family - to go unpaid (except for the small amount the county pays to you) ? My time was indeed precious, and I was convinced that the week or weeks this was going to take would indeed be a complete waste.
But eight days later, I don't feel that way anymore. As hard as it was - on me, my family, our pocketbook, and my heart - it was worth it. It was an honor to be chosen. It was a privilege to play a part in the way that I was chosen to do so. And I served alongside fellow jurors who were full of integrity and character and conviction.
It would be unkind to write about the case or what it involved, and I simply won't out of respect to everyone involved in it. But I will say that my heart is forever touched and moved by this experience, by the stories shared, by the facts and evidence that were put before me.
All of it left me broken-hearted, humbled, moved and changed. And more than any other thing, I am left feeling overwhelmingly full of gratitude.
I am grateful for my freedoms in this country - one of them being that I have the right - we all do - to a fair trial. I am grateful for my story - how my life experiences and how God has shaped my heart, plays a factor in how I make decisions and think of others. I am grateful that I have this firm assurance deep in my soul, that ultimately my hope is in the cross of Jesus and what He did for me. I am grateful for where Love has seen me.
Gratitude. Eight days ago, that's the last thing I would have expected to feel on the other end of this.
March 5, 2012
Sore Spots
The weather this weekend was divinely gorgeous so I spent a good chunk of it outside walking and going up and down steep inclines. As a result - MY. LEGS. ARE. SORE. My soreness is one of those pains that almost feels good though - because I'm making progress and living well and being kind to my body. It feels like a reminder of where it feels good to change and where sometimes pain, while still painful, means that something good is happening inside of you.
All of this reminded me of something my dad said that has stayed with me since I wrote about my brother a couple of weeks ago.
"I too have sore spots in my memories; almost as fresh as they were back then. But I am thankful for those sore spots and I hope that I can live the rest of my life feeling the same 'pain' because I know that A.J.'s life had and still has an impact on who I am today, and I never want to lose that."
I'm thankful for the sore spots.
I'm thankful for the pain.
I'm thankful for where pain has had an impact on me.
I see where pain has made me who I am today.
I don't want to lose the reminders of where pain changes me.
Those words came from my father. A man who has both loved me and hurt me in my story; who has walked through some of my pain and been the source of some of it too. Those words have been soul-soaking for me. There was a time that I might not have heard words like this from my dad because of where my heart was hard and angry. It feels good to see where I am soft enough to really hear them. He spoke these words from his heart and it has invited me to be curious about my own "sore spots."
The pain I feel in my legs today remind me of where I can be thankful for the sore spots in my story. Some places feel easier to feel thankful for than others, but I am recognizing where gratitude has sprung from the places that was the home for all of my hurt.
Pain has changed me and made me more than I was. I hope it continues to. I hope to always be thankful for the sore spots.
All of this reminded me of something my dad said that has stayed with me since I wrote about my brother a couple of weeks ago.
"I too have sore spots in my memories; almost as fresh as they were back then. But I am thankful for those sore spots and I hope that I can live the rest of my life feeling the same 'pain' because I know that A.J.'s life had and still has an impact on who I am today, and I never want to lose that."
I'm thankful for the sore spots.
I'm thankful for the pain.
I'm thankful for where pain has had an impact on me.
I see where pain has made me who I am today.
I don't want to lose the reminders of where pain changes me.
Those words came from my father. A man who has both loved me and hurt me in my story; who has walked through some of my pain and been the source of some of it too. Those words have been soul-soaking for me. There was a time that I might not have heard words like this from my dad because of where my heart was hard and angry. It feels good to see where I am soft enough to really hear them. He spoke these words from his heart and it has invited me to be curious about my own "sore spots."
The pain I feel in my legs today remind me of where I can be thankful for the sore spots in my story. Some places feel easier to feel thankful for than others, but I am recognizing where gratitude has sprung from the places that was the home for all of my hurt.
Pain has changed me and made me more than I was. I hope it continues to. I hope to always be thankful for the sore spots.
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