Splits: Church and Marriage

*Okay, so - I had planned on continuing my "Faith, Church and MORE nonsense" post, but this came out instead and I'm rolling with it.*

The great unraveling in our marriage gained speed in 2015 when our church went through a major split. Until that point, we had the sweetest community of friends we called framily (Sprint totally stole that from me by the way). We were in ministry together, had barbecues, girls nights, accountability groups, Bible studies and we would always come together if anyone was in need, donating of our time and ourselves to love on our brothers and sisters. I remember how good it felt to belong somewhere especially when I didn't feel that way in my own marriage. 

For the churchy folks reading this, the split was caused by usual church politics garbage where deacons felt like the elders and pastor weren't being leadery enough or preaching the right/relevant things. For the non-churchy folks, some people threw a fit and decided they didn't like this place anymore and used Scripture and prayer as a way of making themselves feel better about deserting the church to go to a "better" one. Many conversations were had about church problems that we were never apart of, so we were blindsided when we heard friends were literally just up and leaving. We felt led to stay while our huge group of friends at this church felt differently and moved on.  As a result, all of the friendships that were made at this church started to fizzle out and the people that we once shared countless meals and intimate details of our lives with, had basically vanished in a matter of weeks. 

Do you know how hard it is to explain a church split to a six year old? All Tommy knew was that he didn't get to see his friends anymore and he was sad and didn't understand what had happened. It broke. My. Heart.

It was devastating to me. This hurt and loss caused a major rift in my relationship with God, and without the distraction of friendships and things to do, all that felt broken with us as a couple seemed more tangible somehow. I lived with this ache in my throat, like I could fall apart at any moment in despair. I was incredibly lonely and having a large group of friends made me feel less alone. I didn't realize how much of a crutch my friends were for sustaining our marriage as long as it did. 

As it would turn out, we ended up leaving this church about a year later after I had become "too noisy." I was being much too vocal for a woman in the church, as women are supposed to be restricted only to children's ministry and other women's things, to sit and be quiet and look pretty and to absolutely not have any kind of voice of influence with the serious and spiritual men. I still have the email from the elder who when repsonding to my thoughts and concerns about the youth group and the teens I had worked with for years, told me that things were simply going to be his way. I was to remember that he was an elder and was speaking on authority of the Pastor and that as a woman and church member, I had to submit to him and his decisions. So I said no. I actually didn't have to submit to this man in any way. So, I waved good riddance and sobbed the entire way home on our last Sunday there. I deserted a couple dozen teenagers after everyone else had left them the year before and I felt like the worst person ever. It was awful. It made me want to be done with church entirely. 

Fast forward another year and a half, the same people who disappeared in the church split, were the exact same people who crawled out of the woodwork to rebuke me for wanting to divorce my husband. Mind you, I hadn't seen or spoken to these people IN A VERY LONG TIME. They had deserted us when everything was falling apart. At the time I was very angry and I told most of them in ugly, angry ways to basically leave me the hell alone and work on their own damn marriages since they had it all figured out. Not my finest hour, but I was very not okay and I pushed everyone else who gave an actual sincere damn away from me because I wanted to feel something other than sad and miserable. I was convinced that mirrors and truth-tellers would keep me in my marital misery. 

It broke me to leave there and it ended up breaking us too. Without the community of people we had grown accustomed to doing life with, there was little left for me to hang on to. I had tried to be as godly as possible and throw myself into every Bible and church activity I could be a part of hoping that I just needed a spiritual kick in the pants to keep me committed to my marriage. The things that usually worked for me didn't work. It took us ages to find another church to call home, and even then, I felt cautious and weary to get involved with anything outside of Sunday morning service. When our marriage ended, there were only a few people that knew or noticed. Our Bible study group frantically tried to keep us together but then ultimately wrote me off because I had no interest in anything other than getting a divorce. Everyone seemed shocked that I wasn't willing to "let him work on some things," and I wasn't "giving him a chance." All I have to say to people like that is: SHUSH YOUR MOUTH. You don't know what you don't know.  

Sidebar: FYI, people going through divorces aren't okay. Realize you don't know the whole story and offer them some unconditional support and encouragement. Regardless of the circumstances, what God says in Scripture about how He hates divorce, or your personal convictions - there is so much going on that you cannot, will not and don't need to understand or know about. Just love people without judgement. And if you can't, then SAY NOTHING and go about your business. 

I went about everything all wrong when it came to my divorce and social media. Shortly after I had filed, I met Travis and we went public with our relationship before my divorce was final. Again, not my finest hour or wisest choice, but there's no going back and undoing what I did. Meeting Travis though was extraordinary and I cannot convey in any amount of words how good it felt to be HAPPY. 

Was it so wrong to want to be with someone new and feel happy after a very long time of not knowing happiness in a relationship? If you ask a churchy person, their answer would be a loud and very holy-sounding, YES. That is wrong. And for good measure, this statement would also be added: "God doesn't care about your happiness Jennifer. He only cares about your holiness." I felt like I had to make a choice between God and being free from a life-less and sad marriage. So I chose freedom.

What I didn't realize then, was that I never had to choose.

Grammy

My Grammy’s house always smells like Nivea cream and sugar cookies.  No matter which house my grandparents have called home over the years, their home is calm and bright, like a Christmas carol all year long.  Even now, the inviting aroma of her home takes me back to my childhood where she would teach me the arts of pie-crust curling and gift-wrapping and convincing me I needed to learn how to sew.  “You’ll have a husband someday and what are you going to do if he needs a button sewn on to his shirt?” she would ask me.  “I would buy him a new shirt,” I would reply.  I was quite resistant to sewing lessons.  Much to her dismay, I never did learn how to sew and she’s gasped a time or two realizing I’ve put my children’s Halloween costumes together with hot glue.

 

I spent a lot of time with my Grammy as a little girl.  She would read and color with me.  She let me try on my great-grandmother’s vintage jewelry that was kept in a wooden box with a silver latch and silk lining inside.  There were colorful gems arranged in gorgeously gaudy necklaces, beaded bracelets and sparkling broaches that made me feel like royalty.  On the best of days, she would take out her old book full of paperdolls from the 30’s and 40’s and let me play with them.  She would instruct me how to handle the old paper and to turn each page of the book she kept them in with care and gentleness. 

 

Making pies with her was my favorite.   We worked the shortening into the flour, getting it to the right consistency so it would roll out just right.  “Gold medal flour and ice-cold water are the keys to a perfect pie crust.”  She explained this every time.  I would watch mesmerized as she would crimp the edges ever so perfectly, so it curled all the way around.  She showed me dozens of times how to do it, but my fingers never seemed to get whatever magic she possessed in her own fingertips.  Store bought pie crusts were never acceptable, so I learned early on that if I were going to be like my Grammy, I would someday, have to master the art of her perfect pie crust.  I am proud to say that in my 30’s, I have finally arrived in the pie department.  Not only can I make a tasty and flaky homemade crust, but a beautifully curled one as well. 

 

Recently, I sat across from a friend who asked me a question I had never been asked before. 

 

“Jenn, where did you feel loved as a child?  Who loved you?  What did that feel like?”

 

I was taken aback.  Her question was kind and invited me to reminisce and remember pieces of my childhood where it was lovely to be a little girl.  Memories quickly bubbled to the surface of my dad and how he read me a Bible story every night and how I would dance on his feet in the kitchen.  Of my mom braiding my hair and making my favorite cake for my birthday.  My Uncle Goolie and I bouncing on old bean bag chairs together and giving me a ride on his shoulders while I would pull his hair directing him where to go.  And Grammy…..she was my very first best friend.

There have been few moments where I’ve reflected on what was good and delightful about my childhood.  Over the years it has felt like I was mostly invited to re-enter scenes of trauma and sort through pieces of my past in efforts to find some kind of healing.  My friend’s question led me to ponder something new and different about my heart and about Jesus.

 

She explained to me that, if there is any goodness at all in our childhood – that if we experience any enjoyment or delight or love, that it was Jesus loving us through those people.  Jesus uses our wounded and broken mothers, fathers, grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins alike to be little gifts of His grace, kindness, gentleness and love.  My family was no exception.  Embracing this has brought a kind of healing to my heart and story that I’ve long hoped for.  My childhood, while still full of some trauma and wounds that forever pierced my heart, was suddenly rich with sparkling and beautiful moments where I was tenderly and dearly loved by those that God hand-picked to be a part of my family.  

 

I could suddenly see my younger self dancing on the nail pierced feet of Jesus and standing over me as I attempted to crimp the edges of a pie.  I saw how He let me ride on His shoulders and laughing with me as we jumped on bean bag chairs together.  He was there in my Grammy and my Dad, my Uncle Goolie and my Auntie Laura.  My mom and cousins and all of the precious faces that make up my family.  Oh how He made His love known to me as a little girl.

 

If I asked you the same questions:  Where did you feel loved as a child?  Who loved you and what did that feel like? I’m almost certain you would share a story about a special someone, and it would sound an awful lot like Jesus.

 

I like to imagine that Jesus is much like my Grammy and her home.  Calm and bright like a Christmas carol all year long.  And smelling of Nivea cream and sugar cookies.

Watercolors and Worship

Colorful threads and the wooden wheel holding the white cross-stitching fabric still laid there on the floor.  A partially stitched outline of what was supposed to be a glass mason jar holding pastel flowers, tiny scissors and a case to hold my threading needles all reminded me of my effort to care for my heart and soul.  I remember cross-stitching when I was young.  It felt easy then and I remember my mom doing several of these growing up.  I thought it could maybe be my thing.  I needed something to do with my hands that wasn't eating chips and something for my mind to stay present as I had spent most of my free time in a comatose state watching Netflix.  After walking the crafting aisles, I made my selection at Hobby Lobby for the project and decided this was going to pull me out of whatever thing I seemed to be stuck in.

I had the brilliant idea that I would stitch this beautiful design and frame it and give it to my friend Ellen who had encouraged me to spend the same amount of money on myself in the name of self-care as I was for self-harm.  I imagined her crying and opening the lovely gift knowing all of the hours I didn't spend eating or drinking and it would be lovely and good for us both.

But then it took me 20 minutes to get the stupid fabric attached to the wheel the right way.  Another 10 to thread the needle, and then I realized how much math and counting went into cross-stitching.  I stupidly read some of the instructions and tips after I had started an outline of the jar and realized I was supposed to do that last.

"F*ck this!"  I threw it on the floor that night exasperated and feeling foolish.  How could I think something like cross-stitching was ever going to be my thing?  Would anything bring me to life and vibrancy again?  I felt like I was dying a slow and miserable death in the corner of my bedroom each night with a drink and a snack, until I finally felt sleepy enough to go to bed.

 A few weeks later, I found myself at Hobby Lobby again with my boys, perusing the craft aisles waiting for something to speak to me.  I was trying to not buy porcelain pumpkins or Christmas ornaments and found myself in the painting section surrounded my acrylics and oils, pastels and brushes, and blank canvases ready for art and beauty.  Some watercolor pencils drew my attention and I remembered being in the seventh grade, sketching out designs with those pencils and watching it come to life with water and a brush.  I wondered if I might be any good at it.  What did I know about watercolors or painting or art for that matter?

I made my purchases that day of watercolors and watercolor pencils, a thick pad made for that kind of paint, and a few brushes I didn't know much about but that looked important.  Pinterest offered ideas and tips for getting started, different techniques and some basics for beginners and I sat there in awe of others created beauties doubting I could ever create anything that beautiful.  Comparison always there to steal joy and possibility and hope and it was there with me as I sat there with my unopened art supplies. I didn't get started right away.  I was afraid it was going to end in a pile on my bedroom floor like my forsaken cross-stitching project and maybe it was better not to try again.

Two weeks later I sat at the Brave On conference for Red Tent Living and listened to my friend Libby speak about the heart and soul, how poetry has been her outlet for both pain and beauty.  I was captivated at her words and remembering my untouched watercolors at home.  I knew I needed to go home and try again.  Maybe it would be a big mess and I would have no clue what I was doing, and it would like like a seventh grader's art work and I would find yet another place to speak harshly to myself rather than speak of care or kindness.

Finally, the day came when I felt brave enough to set up all my supplies and try my hand at watercolor for the first time in 24 years.  I turned on some light piano music in the background and sat for a moment at the blank paper and colors that surrounded me.  And then I began.  Using some of the pencils and some of the brushes with my palette of water colors I began drawing out trees in the four seasons.  The golds and reds of autumns, the bare branches of winter, the new life of spring and the vibrant green of summer. 

With every stroke of color, I could literally feel something inside of me both settle and come to life at the same time.  I realized how forgiving watercolor is.  The whole point of it is to be a little messy and unfinished.  There are few hard lines and little structure as the water and paints bleed and run into complete loveliness.  I felt like a girl again, creating something beautiful for no reason other than because I could.  As my trees took shape and color, I remembered that I am an artist.  I may be a bookkeeper for a living, and be a little obsessive about meal-planning and scheduling our calendars, but I am an artist.  My days might be full of work and mothering, and tending to a home that never stays tidy or clean, but I am an artist.  I may have dreams that died long ago and part of me that died with them, but I'm still here and I am an artist.


My beauty and brokenness painted all over a page and I didn't want to stop.  I called my piece Sunday Morning Worship because it felt like just that. Offering my heart up to God in both my praise and heartache, of thankfulness and longing.  Remembering how good He is in every season, even if I forget that He is.

My friend Libby said something that stayed with me and makes me smile every time I remember it:

"Take your shame and your pain, and turn it into a freaking work of art."  And I did just that.  I plan to do it again.

How could you turn your shame and pain into a work of art?

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.

Resurrection Day

As a girl, Easter Sunday was all about three things: the outfit, barbecue, and Jesus.  And probably in that order.

My Grammy sewed handmade Easter dresses for all of the grandgirls of hers.  They were the kind that came with puffy sleeves, a white apron, a dainty collar and a giant bow to tie in the back.  The whole outfit was always completed with lacy ruffled socks and mary-jane shoes, white gloves and a bonnet with the same color of ribbon to match my dress.  There was, after all, only one Sunday out of the whole year one could wear a hat to church and I looked forward to Easter Sunday every year for that very reason.  Oh, and Jesus.  Yes, Jesus too.

Growing up, Easter Sunday was called Resurrection Day in our family.  My dad was pretty intense about not letting us do egg hunts or have easter baskets so that we could keep our focus on Jesus and His resurrection.  And I was mostly okay with not having those things, except I had seen one too many Cadbury Egg commercials and I spent my childhood dreaming about having a basket full of them because they looked UH-mazing.  I remember years worth of Easters where my Poppy would walk in the front door, wearing a yellow, button-down shirt, his face all aglow and joyful declaring loudly, "He is risen!"  And we would all reply, "He is risen indeed!" We would grill fajitas or some kind of barbecue where my dad had perfected the art of charring the barbecue sauce on a link of sausage, that to this day, no one else in the world knows how to do but him.  We spent the day as a family - we would sing and worship and laugh together.  Sometimes, my Poppy would talk to us about the importance of this day and what it means to us as believers in Jesus. 

Even though I went without baskets full of candy and never dyed a single egg, the weight of the day always sat with me from an early age.  Jesus - He never sinned, but was put to death on a cross.  He knew every bad thing I would ever do and gave His life so I wouldn't have to give mine - all so He could spend eternity with me in heaven.  Every Good Friday we talked about the cross and the crown of thorns, and the beatings He endured.  How the nails were driven into His hands and feet.  He died and was laid in a tomb.  And Sunday was a joyful day of celebration.  Because Jesus is God, he conquered death and rose again.  He came back to life and still lives and I know He does, because I have seen and experienced Him first hand in my own life.

One year, I outgrew the idea of Grammy's puffy-sleeved dresses and my love for easter bonnets, and as I got older the holiday changed a bit, as did our family.  The year after my brother died, my mom gave me and my best friend Kelly small easter baskets full of candy and colorful scrunchies and CD's  which was the best surprise ever.  My dad seemed a bit grouchy about it, but I saw his eyes soften and sparkle as I excitedly went through my basket of goodies.  I think by the time I was 15, he knew what he had been trying to instill in me all those years about Jesus had already been done, and no amount of candy hidden in green, plastic grass would change that.

When Tommy was much younger, I made huge, elaborate toy-filled baskets for him, giving him everything I never had as a child, including Cadbury Eggs, which I discovered at some point, were absolutely disgusting.  But a couple of years ago when Tommy asked what he was "getting for Easter," I choked on my Robin's Eggs and realized my dad was on to something back then and maybe I had forgotten a thing or two with all that he ingrained in me from my youth.  Since then, baskets have become more of an afterthought.  I spend more time with the boys leading up to Easter Sunday, pouring over the gospel accounts in the Bible, because while I want them to have colorful and fun memories to look back on in their childhood, more than anything, I want them to know Jesus the way I have come to over the years.

As our Easter traditions evolve and grow over the year as a family, there are some things I hope always stay the same.  Like confetti eggs and Todd's barbecue ribs, and taking communion together as a family. And our annual family easter-egg nose picture.  Those are my favorite.  

It is a day of joyful celebration, because Jesus is alive.

Easter morning, Resurrection Sunday, my boys had left their small baskets on the coffee table and were sitting on the couch looking at the pages in their devotional about Jesus on the cross and His coming alive again.  I listened to them talk and ask each other questions. Tommy read and Jacob pretended that he knew how. To them, Jesus mostly exists in the form of story books and Bible study lessons.  He is but mere pictures on paper and they only know of Jesus what they are taught.  But someday, all of the stories and lessons, the church-going and song-singing, will hopefully become something more.  And as I stood in the kitchen watching my young boys touch the paper-Jesus, I prayed to the Jesus who is very much alive in my heart that He would become to them, what He is to me.

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....

The Miracle of Christmas

I read tonight that miracles happen whenever we look for shoots of Jesus' love everywhere.  Like a new branch springing forth from an old stump.  And I have to admit, it's hard to not only look for Jesus' love, but it's hard to find it even if you are looking. 

"Jesus comes as your little-yet-big miracle, who whispers to you in a noisy world: Right where you are, look for the small glimpses of my love unfurling around you like a slender leaf, like the branches of a tree, like the seeking limbs of a babe." - Ann Voskamp, excerpt from Unwrapping the Greatest Gift.

This evening, my boys fought with each other.  Jacob screamed about dinner and my insisting on his eating of green beans.  I tried to jog on my treadmill, though I had to hop off every three minutes to settle a dispute, take someone to the bathroom, and say no to a snack for the seventeenth time.  My living room floor is scattered with dirty socks and Batman toys and throw pillows that always manage to be thrown and never manage to stay on my sofa. 

Yet, I'm surrounded by the glow of our Christmas tree and the scent of vanilla and cranberry candles burning, filling the air with warmth and sweetness.  I am smiling after reading text messages from a new friend.  And I was blessed that my husband washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen after dinner tonight.

I'm somewhere between the beauty of the Christmas season and the reality of my life that is filled with it's own measure of chaos and the load I bear that often wears me out.  And when I stop to notice, there is evidence of His love shooting out. Jesus is faithful to let love grow again.

I don't know if I live like I really believe that miracles happen if we look for shoots of Jesus' love everywhere.  And I certainly don't know if I have a daily posture that not only looks for it, but exemplifies it.  But, I know that I want to.

And the miracle that happened still happens in the heart that will believe and receive the miracle of Christmas.....

Let every heart prepare Him room

They wait and look up expectantly the first time the tree is decorated, all glowing and shining, it's base barren and waiting for the promise of the good gifts to come.  They are the picture of anticipation and waiting.  Christmas is coming! Christmas is coming!

There will be festive lights, family traditions, special cookies, and colorfully wrapped packages.  Yes, Christmas is coming.  But, what does that mean?  And more importantly, what does it mean to me?

I have long enjoyed this season.  Decorating, baking, gift-giving, party-throwing - it's practically all of my favorite things rolled in to one month.  Yet, almost every season, I feel drained and spent.  The season comes and goes and there is always this nagging feeling in my heart that I've missed something.  I've come to realize that it's Him that I'm missing - Jesus, the very reason for the season I love so much.

This Christmas, my side of the family has some very special things planned: A giant family sleepover.  A White Elephant gift exchange that will be a first for us to do.  And another round of family karaoke that is sure to be epic considering we will have ALL of the family there this time.  There is the promise of so much laughter, joy and beautiful glory-filled tears that  I can feel myself ramping up with emotion, hope and excitement as we plan and prepare for our time together.

Several nights ago, I couldn't sleep.  I woke up in the middle of the night, got out of bed and began to read and journal.  I did some research on advent - some of the history and traditions that surround it and as I did, I began to hear that still, small voice.  The One that has invited me to know Him and go deeper with Him again and again.  The One who always calls me to more.

I started to be curious about how I could observe this advent season differently than I have in years past.  To start, I decided to approach it with some fasting and prayer, and to purpose a quieter and less scheduled holiday season.  One that left room for giving and serving others, for being more present with my family in ways that didn't include big things or expensive family outings and one that included plenty of real rest for my soul.  I have a book to read and I plan to write of course. 

My prayer tonight, this night before the first of December, is for a heart that has prepared room for Jesus.  I want my schedule, my body, my heart and my home to be prepared for what's to come.  And not just for our big family Christmas.  But to really meet Christ this Christmas in a way that I haven't before.

Oh, how I want my heart tonight to mimic that of my boys by the tree.  Waiting expectantly for Jesus, the greatest gift that came, the greatest gift that still comes, and the greatest gift still to come.

Christmas is coming.  What does that mean to you?

Thankful

Oh, it was so wretched.  The diverticulitis, the month long stay in the hospital, the blown IV’s, the lonely days and nights without my husband and family, the physical pain, the tears, the loneliness.  The immense hunger and thirst my body experienced for days, and weeks and then months.  The helplessness, the sitting in my recliner in a narcotic drugged haze as days and flew by without me.  It was so terribly awful and when I was alert enough to really feel what was going on, I would cry and ache for normalcy.  To be buzzing away at my job, folding laundry at home, sitting around the table with my family for a meal.   

Every once in a while, I have to stop and cry about it all.  There was so much I didn’t feel this year.  I was pumped so full of drugs to help with the pain, that so much of my experience, especially in the hospital is a blur.  I seem to remember the most traumatic moments the most, while I have vague memories of friends who stopped by to see me.  I wish it could be the other way around.

This journey has marked me.  It was a kind of undoing that I never saw coming.  But in the undoing, I was remade somehow.  There was so much of me that was like hard ground, cracked and grey with death and God came in with these sharp, jagged tools that hurt at first, but has brought up the soft, rich, life-giving soil that has been buried underneath.  Over the last several months, I’ve been humbled with gratitude for what He took me through.  How God loves me enough to take me through hard things, to deepen my understanding of His faithfulness and love.   

Perhaps He is still doing some tilling and breaking ground in me.  But I am hopeful about what is being planted and what will spring forth in a season to come.

Leaving our church was one of the most gut-wrenching decisions we were faced with all year.  Six years as a part of this church family and it was home to us and our boys.  As things began to unravel two years ago, we tried to cling to what we had and prayed it wouldn’t change or shift.   It took a toll on my husband more than I took the time to see.  I was so focused on trying to glue broken things back together that I couldn’t see how much he was hurting.  When he made the decision for us to leave, I was devastated, yet I trusted his choice for our family and followed his leading.  Since then, I have missed it and cried for it and grieved our leaving, wishing I could somehow go and apologize to those we hurt or tie something up with a bow and maybe that would make it all better.  I’m so thankful for that church – for God putting us in this place for the time He did, for the people who reached in and touched our lives and impacted our hearts.  Most of the friendships made there, I’ve learned, were for a season.  And while I’ve pouted and gotten angry and cried over the loss of the community we once had, I’m grateful for the time that we had it.  This perhaps is the hardest place to bring Him thanks.  Even though we were the ones to leave, it feels like He took something away.  And how do you thank God for isolating you?   

I may not be able to thank Him for the lonely place we’ve ended up as a result of leaving this church, but I can praise Him for the giving and the taking away He does.  He allows things to happen, allows hearts to callous and harden.  He allows people to come in and out of our lives for a purpose and a season.  He allows us to make our own choices too and He is faithful to show up in the aftermath of those consequences.  And if we’ve been paying attention, He will grow and refine us in the process.

That’s what makes walking with Jesus so wondrous.  We go through awful pain, we make bad choices, we wrestle with addictions, we struggle, grieve, rage and pout.  And He is faithful to show up.  He brings His light to every dark place in our life and somehow, He makes it good.  He always, always makes it good because He is good.   

While the year feels plagued with death and loss, I find myself thankful for the places He continues to invite me to stretch and grow because of it.  And if I could some up anything that I’m thankful for this Thanksgiving, it’s for Him, always Him.  For His love, patience, forgiveness and unending, sufficient, amazing grace that I would be so desperately lost without. 

Short Stories

YARDWORK HARDWORK.

In all of the years we have been married, I have never helped with the yard.  I'm pretty sure it's partially because I was traumatized as a child by having to pick up smelly, rotten pears in the backyard anytime my dad needed to mow.  The only thing I hated more than picking up gross pears was when I had to scrub out the cat pan.  Ew.

But, Todd and I had a pre-marriage agreement, that all yard work and grass mowing was in the husband department.  I would make sure he always had clean underwear and dinner to eat and that occasionally I would dust things.  But killing bugs, taking out the trash and anything to do with the yard was his domain.

However, with how awesome I've been feeling lately, I offered to help Todd with some front yard maintenance.  We needed to weed out our shrub area and wanted to plant some new bushes to spruce things up a bit.  Tommy even helped and we got to reinforce lessons about working hard without complaining and having a good attitude.  I heard myself say all of the things that my dad would say to me when I had to pick up those damn pears in the backyard of my childhood house.  Full circle moments.

We worked and toiled all day - taking some popsicle breaks and a nap right in the middle of our project, because it's blazing hot in June here which is probably why do what we did in a sensible month like March.

But it felt good to help.  To move my body and dig and lift things and sweat along side of my husband.  Not because I had to, and not really even because I wanted to.  But because I could.


BETTER.

Someone called me "tiny" the other day and it felt weird.  I am far from tiny.  I am still overweight.  But I am smaller and can officially buy clothes on the "normal sized" parts of the store.

For me, the most drastic thing hasn't been my waistline or weight loss.  It's been in my health - how my body feels, how I am moving it, and what I am actually desiring to eat.  I want vegetables.  Pizza has lost its appeal.  I eat fruit for dessert on purpose.  When I have a sweet tooth, I eat a handful of semi-sweet chocolate chips and it's completely satisfying.  I've been working out - walking and attempted jogging.  Light weight lifting, crunches, squats and lunges - trying to both strengthen and push my body.

I've had several compliments on my appearance.  Some of that feels good, and some of it doesn't.  i try to filter things and let them roll off of me as any mention of my size in the past whether positive or negative has been triggering for me.  I've heard things like, "Wow, I know you went through a hellish ordeal this year, but man, you look fantastic!"  And I just say thank you.  Because yes, I did go through a hellish ordeal and I do look a bit fantastic.  But, how I look isn't even the point.  It's how I feel.  It's how much healthier I am now.  It's about my changed perspective and how I'm finally caring for my body with better nutrition and exercise.

Yes, I look better.  But I feel better.  I eat better.  I move better.  I am better.


FACES IN A CROWD.

We sat in a new church on Sunday morning.  There were chairs instead of pews and they had fun flashy lights when the music played and there were silly videos for announcements.  Our boys had a great time in their classes and Tommy is already asking to attend their VBS program next month.  My skeptical eye looked over their statement of faith for any potential doctrine issues that we don't agree with.  Other than one set of familiar faces, we were surrounded by strangers.  We were greeted as visitors and met with kindness.

But I sat there feeling sad.  Wondering if this place would be or ever could be home for us.  Recently, we made the decision to leave our church body that has been home to us for nearly seven years.  Things happened as they always do, and we have chosen to keep our reasons private.

Nevertheless, we are finding ourselves in this new space of starting over again.  We keep in touch with some of the friends that moved on and left the church before we us, and some of those friendships are long and lasting.  But they have and will continue to shift and change as life does with relationships and communities.  It took us over three years at our church before we really made friends.  At our peak there, we did life with several families and it was glorious.  We felt like we were wanted, like we belonged and had a purpose.

Now, we are new again.  We feel a little lost and quite alone, hoping to meet some new friends and families to do life with again.

But for now though, we are mere faces in a crowd.


PHONE CALLS AND HOSPITAL STAYS.

"You're calling me?" Sarah said answering her phone.

"I think we should probably know by now, that if we are calling each other instead of texting, something is probably wrong or we have bad news." I said choking back tears.  Remembering my call to her last December when I was sick and new something was terribly wrong.

"Uhoh.  What's up?" she asked.

It's funny how accustomed we are in this day in age to text.  For me, it's weird for anyone to call me unless it's my Grammy or my 74 year old boss who doesn't believe in text messages. And especially with Sarah and all of the life we have known together in the last several years, phone calls usually mean big or serious news:  Engagement.  Pregnancy.  Cancer.  Death.

We had some scary news on Father's Day.  Todd's dad went to the ER having difficulty breathing. As it turned out, he had some large blood clots in his lungs and for two days straight, we really didn't know if he would even live.  We were all nervous and scared and preparing ourselves for the worst.  He is planning to retire this year, they are building a new house, and his daughter (my sister-in-law and one of my best friends) is getting married.  It's a big year for him, for our family, and we don't want to imagie any of that without him.

Thankfully, it looks like he is on the mend and blood thinners and doctors did what they do best and were able to heal the scary things that were threatening his life.  The doctors are calling him a walking miracle because a clot of that size that passed through his heart into his lungs should have been fatal.

Sarah came to sit with my boys the evening I called her so I could go up to the hospital and take dinner to my family who hadn't eaten all day.  I sat with my mother-in-law and told her some silly stories about the boys while she ate her dinner so she could have a break from her tears and worries.  Todd took the week off of work and has been up at the hospital as soon as I have gotten home from my job.  It's only Wednesday but it feels like the longest week ever.

I found myself out loud in prayer this week, pleading with God. Asking Him for another miracle, another blessing, another place for Him to please come through and make things go our way.  I don't always pray out loud - I mostly journal and talk to Him through my writing things down.  But, just like Sarah answered her phone and she knew I was calling because I probably had bad news, God was right there to pick up and listen.

THE GIVING TREE.

It is my favorite childhood book.  I can remember sitting on my Grammy's lap listening to her read with her warm, soothing voice.  I would reach up and touch her cheeks and call her skin "fluffy."  Something about the story and those quiet moments with her put me at calm and rest.  Those sweet moments of story telling are some of my favorite memories of her.

Last week, she came over with the book as a gift for me, knowing the treasured memories we had together.  And I asked her to read it to my boys because I wanted them to have the same memory of her - her fluffy skin, her easy voice, the kind of calm that settles over you when you hear the tale of The Giving Tree.

And for a moment I was five again.

I've had her apples and swung from her branches, and she's given me so much to build a life and home of my own.  Grammy was and is and always will be, The Giving Tree.