Evil Eyes

I've always known my eyes were pretty. It's a compliment that I've heard my entire life. Along with being musically inclined, crazy beautiful eyes run in the genes too. Seriously, you should see my cousins and my dad and my Poppy. My eyes are the one thing I've always received compliments on. And other than my nose that I somewhat admire, it's one of the few physical features I really do like about myself. Because as women, isn't it harder to find things we really enjoy or love about our physical bodies rather than our inner selves and who we are at our core?

Yesterday was a day though where my eyes caught a man's attention - a stranger, and a slightly vulgar one at that. This man ended up telling me that I had "evil eyes." And he followed that up by saying "I was all kinds of trouble."Now I've heard a lot of things over the years about my eyes, but someone referring to them as being "evil" was a first. His comment sent me reeling and I felt myself spin there for the remainder of the day. It dug up places inside of me where I feel dangerous and where I've created trouble in the past. And places where the darker parts of me feel fear.

It's interesting how a single comment can get your mind racing and cause so much unsettledness. The words that man gave to me yesterday weren't true of me and I know that in my head. Yet I hate where it felt disrupting in my heart and the things it left me having to look at for myself yet again. Maybe there will always be pieces of my story and my heart that need examining on a regular basis.

Feeler

I'm a feeler. I always have been. When I was younger though, it was labeled as being "over-sensitive" or even "dramatic." But over time I've learned to accept that maybe I am just the kind of person who feels things deeply. I was created this way - with a heart of tenderness and a deep capacity to feel.

I have this theory that it's because I am a creative and musical individual and maybe we are just wired a certain way. Musicians, poets, writers, sculptors, painters, singers - all artists of any art - we feel things on a deeper level. And from what I've observed, the best form of creativity springs from a feeling. The greatest works of art or moving pieces of music or the loveliest of poems are based off of someones experience and feelings.

One of my favorite pieces of music in the history of the world is from the Opera Turandot. I'm sure you've heard the song Nessun Dorma in a movie if you've never seen the opera. Luciano Pavarotti made it famous.

There is something about the way the strings in the orchestra seems to shake and the tympani rumbles and it ends with the resounding notes declaring, "I will win! I will win!" There is no way that piece of music wasn't composed without deep feeling behind it. And I know it because of what it physically does to me anytime I listen to it. How it makes my breath short and my heart beat fast and want to shout and rejoice and cry all at the same time.

It seems as the more my heart has experienced healing and redemption, the more I feel and the richer those feelings are. I feel more of God's presence in my life. I feel more compassion and tenderness for others. I feel more anger and long for more justice. I feel losses as they come. I feel joy and excitement with bold exuberance and elation. I guess if I was always a feeler, I've become a mega-feeler now.

Not all of knowing God is about doctrine or belief or study. Though that is vitally important to one's faith and should be a continual part of any relationship with Jesus, the places I have really experienced God have been in moments of feeling. In sorrow or joy and in desperation or celebration. I don't just believe in Jesus because of what the Bible says or because it was how I was raised or what I've been taught to memorize.

I believe in Jesus because I have encountered Him, because I have felt His pursuit of my heart, because I have seen Him move in my life and my heart. Because I have been transformed and because I continue to be. The most tangible proof I have that God is real is based off of my own experience. Others may refute the legitimacy of the Bible or the existence of God, but no one can tell me what I have experienced hasn't been real. My story is something that can never be taken away from me.

What kind of Love is writing my story till the end with Mercy’s pen?
Only You.

All this to say, I heard THIS song yesterday and it touched the parts in me that deeply feel. The parts that have been touched by the healing hand of God. It's called "Alive" and Natalie Grant sings it. I find myself curious about the writers of this song and what they felt as they wrote these words.

The author of all history, the answer to all mysteries
The Lamb of God who rolled away, the stone in front of every grave
Alive! Alive! Look what mercy's overcome
Death has lost and love has won!

I am so glad God created me to be a feeler. I would be missing out on so much of life and so much of Him if I wasn't.

Owning it

I saw a quote on Pinterest the other day from Lord Byron. It said, "If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad."

That feels true for me. Especially on the days where I want to just sit in front of my computer screen and type whatever it is that comes to mind. To release something, to get something out, to empty myself. And also, to create and do something that feels natural to me. To do something that maybe I was created to do.

A friend, whose writing I have deep respect and admiration for, left me a comment a couple of weeks ago that said, "You are a writer Jenn. I know it when I see it. Own it." Those words caused an earthquake in my soul and left me overflowing with hope.

So maybe that's what I've been doing. Trying to "own it."

Writing has felt more familiar and easy to me as of late. I have found that in my spare time, I've used more of it to just sit down and write than anything else. I started carrying a journal around with me to jot down thoughts or memories that come to mind. Or some blurb that just comes to me in the middle of the day that I want to remember. It feels somewhat silly to be sitting in the middle of a restaurant or the parking lot of a grocery store just to pause and write something down, but it also feels like a starting point. Because right now I don't know what I want to write, just that simply, I want to.

Grabbing coffee with a friend last weekend, I also heard about a "writer's forum" that meets at a non-Starbucksy coffee house on Monday nights. My friend said to me, "You're a writer. You should go to this." She said it fluidly. As if to say, "You're a mom," or "You're a bookkeeper." It was so matter-of-fact. My friend thinks I'm a writer. It felt weird and right at the same time.

The bookmark I snagged for the writer's forum is still in my wallet. And though my current excuse for not attending is that I have Journey Groups on Monday nights, I'm also glad that I have something else occupying my time that night until May, in hopes that I can work up the guts to go and sit with other writers. What they do there - I don't know. I just know it sounds like something I want to be a part of.

And I'm already wondering if I'll stand out or if I belong in that setting because, what makes me a writer? Should I even go? And then I hear the words, "Own it" in my head again, and I know that I probably do belong there and I probably should go.

Days like today though, I feel like Lord Byron's quote. If I don't write to empty my mind, I might go mad. Writing helps me bring order to the chaos of the things I try to contain inside of myself. It grounds me. It's a healthy outlet - like working out is for the physical body.

So here I am. Writing about writing. And maybe in doing so, I'm owning it just a little bit more.

The Last Friday

For two weeks now, I've referred to this very Friday as my last Friday of freedom. Next week I will start working until 1. Even though it's not a full day, I'm still not home with Tommy and today especially I'm finding myself sad and weepy over what feels like a loss for me.

Because today is the last Friday I can sleep in my bed until Tommy is awake rather than to the sound of my alarm.

Because today is the last Friday I can enjoy my coffee in a mug rather than my travel cup.

Because today is the last Friday I can watch Sesame Street and make waffles for Tommy.

Because today is the last Friday we can show up to Todd's work just to say hi and surprise him with lunch.

Because today is the last Friday I can spend the day running errands and doing laundry and reading a book while Tommy naps.

Because today is the last Friday I will get to see Sarah and her boys for our usual every-other-week visits.

Because today is the last Friday....for an indeterminable amount of time.

Another season of change is upon me.

Change is like that. It doesn't ask our permission or wait for us to be ready - it just comes.

I'll be working more and at home less and there will be more on my plate than I might choose. Inevitably, I'll be missing out on pieces of Tommy's childhood and pieces of being a mom.

And still, I feel torn between enjoyment and guilt. The enjoyment of being a working mom - something that surprised me to know about myself. That I want it this way. That I'm happier and more balanced. And the guilt which is mostly about not being like everyone else. Not being the stay-at-home-mommy that other bloggers and church friends seem to be so content in. Most of my guilt comes from wondering what's wrong with me that I wouldn't want to stay home 24/7 and be a mom even if our finances allowed for that. Why am I different?

I'm aware too of where my son is so independent of me now. He needs less and less of my nurturing and kissing away of boo-boos. Though I am still invited to play, it's a rare event when he wants to snuggle on my lap unless he's sick or is being read to. He's potty trained and can get his own juice box out of the fridge and he can sit at the table and paint with watercolors without knocking over the glass of water.

Though he doesn't need less of my love, he does need me to do less for him. He's learning how to hold his own already - which that in itself is a weird experience. To watch this baby I had, morph into a little boy with a mind of his own.

This little boy who won't look at the camera to smile and take a picture for anything in the world.
It's been over two years since I've had to go to work on a Friday. Perhaps, next week will be the adjustment of the century for me. I'm off to do my usual Friday things, but this time, accompanied by a few tears.

Misc.

I have many a love affair with shoes, yet I prefer to be barefoot most of the time.

I got a new keyboard for our computer at home because I didn't like the way the other one sounded when I typed.

I considered participating in the Lenten season just because everyone else was doing it.

I don't know what to do with the feeling I feel when the words I have spoken to someone else has had impact. It feels good and then it feels bad that it feels good.

I sometimes go through the McDonald's drive-thru by my office for an Egg McMuffin just to hear the man at the window tell me,"You look lovely today."

I am totally wearing things from my spring wardrobe already because we have had no winter and it is officially too warm to be sporting a scarf or any kind of closed-in shoe. Also, I am using the term spring wardrobe very lightly.

I believe that most hot fudge sundaes are not proportionate. At the very least they should be equal parts of hot fudge to ice-cream.

I realized I had a "Smart Phone" almost two months after I got it. I thought it had to be an i-something-or-other to be considered smart.

I have had a nearly life-long crush on Bruce Willis.

I am impeccably organized at work. Rarely so at home.

I am a bookkeeper and handle company finances on a daily basis - yet Todd is the one to file our taxes every year. I won't touch them.

I love writing with red pens and mechanical pencils the most. And I hate anything "fine point."

I would like to thank my Superfantastic friend Lori for inspiring this list of semi-revealing things about myself.

Also...it sometimes drives me crazy to let my blog go for a day during the week and write absolutely nothing. And this is why I sometimes write nonsense and randomness. Because I can appreciate a good measure of nonsense now and again.

You're welcome.

A.J.

Twenty-seven years ago, my life was changed by the birth of my brother, A.J. With his entrance into the world came ten years of hospital stays and doctor visits. Ten years of confusion, chaos, laughter, typical sibling rivalry and my own share of pain.I have written little about my brother since the time I started keeping a blog. There is still much of me that looks at his short life with a great measure of contempt for what his childhood meant to my own. Maybe because our stories are so intertwined and because of much of my wounding occurred during those ten years as he received all of the affections and attentions of my mother while I was left with none.

And because after his death, the things that I had hoped for, completely fell apart.

I associate the memory of A.J. with pain and sadness and I'm afraid that if I dig into my heart, I will discover that I not only didn't love my brother, but that even now, I am still incapable of finding any real love for him. And I question too, am I supposed to love him? Does it even matter? I've recently discovered that some of the greatest shame in my childhood is tied to the relief and even gladness I felt when he died. And where I beat myself up and did violence to myself because those feelings were true for me and I was too scared to utter them out loud to anyone.

Much of me feels afraid of the anger I feel inside about him, about those years, about the things I was robbed of. It's a place I am still reluctant to sit in and allow myself to feel. And now, almost seventeen years after his death, I am feeling the tug on my heart to be more curious about the things I have stuffed deep down in my heart.

It's almost as if I've been experiencing healing in layers. And the story of my brother is and was underneath some of the other pieces of my story that I have more peace about than I once did. Perhaps it's time to peel back this layer too.

Today would have been A.J.'s 27th birthday. I can't even imagine my brother as a man - and I don't think I'm supposed to. He is forever ten and obnoxious and wearing cowboy boots with shorts and playing drums on Lego buckets. He is forever barging into my room begging me to play and heard crying through hospital walls as doctors try to draw blood or find a vein for him to get the treatments he needs through an IV.

I remember my story beginning with the birth of a sibling born with life-threatening defects. This brother I never really got to enjoy or know the way that other brothers and sisters might know each other. My hope is to keep telling my story, to keep writing it out. And to go back and look at the things that need revisiting with the perspective as a now grown woman, more redeemed and whole with each passing day.

Gratefulness

I am grateful that today is President's Day - and even though I'm working, I didn't have to drive in traffic. And that just flat out makes me happy.

I'm grateful that Tommy has somehow learned to "hold it" during both nap-time and bedtime which means we are not only done with diapers, but pull-ups too.

I'm grateful for coffee. Hot, fresh and welcoming.

I'm grateful for friends who still take time to connect with you even though they've moved thousands of miles away.

I'm grateful for my awesome friend Mal who will be filling in the gap and caring well for Tommy while I work more.

I'm grateful for music and how I feel it move the deepest parts of me. For being created to experience and enjoy it the way that I do.

I am grateful for the kinds of friends who meet you for coffee and you can be frank and honest and open. The friends that when you leave their presence, you feel like you're less alone and less crazy just because they are walking the hard places in your journey with you.

I am grateful for long Sunday naps followed by long Sunday walks.

I am grateful for the new places I am experiencing God where I haven't before.

I am grateful for sore muscles and the evidence seen from hard work and consistency.

I am grateful for honesty and openness in marriage.

I am grateful for the days I wake up with gratitude pouring out of my heart.