First Kiss

Below is a small excerpt from my memoirs (not published - yet). The boy's name has been changed to protect his identity because I feel like this story is equally embarassing for the both of us. To this day he is still my Facebook friend and we occasionally comment about our children and reminisce about the good ol' days of the 1990's.

~~~~~~~

In the 7^th grade I had a huge crush on a boy named Brandon who went to church youth group with me.  He was a "bad boy" and I was drawn to the rebellious edge he had going on. He had spent weeks leading me on, talking to me on the phone, telling me I was pretty, and I was full of all the pre-teen hope that he would ask me to be his girlfriend.  One spring night at youth group, I pulled him outside and asked if I could tell him my birthday wish.  I confessed that the only thing I wanted for my 13th birthday was for him to kiss me.  I had never been kissed and I wanted him to be the one. Somewhere in my adolescent brain, I believed that 13 years old was the time I should start my kissing journey because that's simply what teenagers did at that age according to Party of Five and 90210.  Even D.J. Tanner was kissed at her 13th birthday party.

“Well, I have like potato chip stuff in my mouth, so I dunno.”  This was his thoughtful 13 year old reply to my kissing request.  

“Not right now.  Just soon, sometime.  My birthday is next week and I want to be kissed.”  He smiled and said okay and I went home that night and wrote everywhere in my journal “I love Brandon” and how excited I was that he was going to kiss me. 

Now, it's important to note here that I practiced tongue kissing.  A lot.  

I usually practiced on my hand in bed at night when I was dreaming for some amazing boy to fall for me like Steve from Full House.  I gave up practicing on my pillow because it just got wet and that was absolutely disgusting.  The bathroom mirror was my favorite place because then I could practice as if another person was getting close to my face. Essentially I was kissing my own reflection and I've never brought this up in therapy about what that could possibly mean but I'm wondering now if it's worth delving into. *face palm*

Mirror kissing was working out well until my mom noticed a giant open mouth print on the mirror and asked me what the hell I was doing.  I tried to pin it on my brother at first, but she quickly realized he wouldn’t have been able to reach that spot on the mirror.  Once she figured out I was attempting to practice french kissing, she laughed (and boy, did she laugh) and told me to at least clean the mirror after I was done.  Of course I never did that again because how embarrassing for your mother to comment on your giant open mouth print on the bathroom mirror.  My kissing practice after that was restricted exclusively to the outside of my hand and sometimes a wall where no mouth print could be detected. Bless my heart.

Exactly one week later was the night of my big first kiss. My birthday was in three days and the youth pastor’s wife had made cupcakes for me.  I was styled to perfection in my tapered hunter green jeans, a white button down blouse and these cute floral tennis shoes I got at the Payless.  My mother had started allowing me to wear lip gloss AND mascara when I started school that year, so I was all the 13-year version of hot I could be.  

With butterflies in my stomach, I attempted to be nonchalant all night, borderline ignoring him. But then, it finally happened.  A group of us had been outside and everyone was starting to head in. He was hanging back waiting for me and I knew that this was finally my time.  I was about to know what being kissed actually felt like.  

He grabbed me by the waist and pulled me close to him. For some reason I was looking down which was probably because I was 13 years old and was slightly terrified of losing my kissing virginity.  He put his hand on my chin and brought my face up to his and we kissed, just like I had wished for him to.  It was all kinds of wonderful, except for the fact that he did this really weird thing with his tongue and it didn’t feel anything like I thought it would or how I had practiced it on my hand every night. He moved his tongue around in this rapid, quick motion and it was weird. I only wished that it had felt slower and lasted much, much longer like in Little Women when Laurie kissed Jo.  Before I knew it, the kiss was over and sadly, so was his interest in me.  Perhaps I was an awful kisser because Brandon didn’t acknowledge me much after that until he was a senior in high school. By then, I completely ignored his interests in me as I was now 16 and had my eyes set on the youth group's golden boy Derek, who was crushed on by EVERY other girl at church.

Somewhere in a box in my garage is a cassette tape of my 13 year old self reading all the letters I wrote to Brandon about how much I loved him and wished he was mine.  I wrote dozens of letters that I never gave him which are nothing short of mortifying to read today. The tape is also accompanied by several mementos I collected during my Brandon obsessed era: a soda tab, a silly picture of him, a gum wrapper from a piece he gave me and a conversation heart from 1994 that reads "KISS ME." It was probably for the best that he lost interest in me and moved on because I was the boy-craziest crazy that ever crazied.  

As my life would turn out, I wouldn't kiss another guy until I was 18 and in college.  And that kiss, was life-changing.

Eighteen and Thirty-Seven

Eighteen years old and at my mother's funeral, I refused to go into the sanctuary until they had closed the casket.  After watching my vibrant mother self-destruct to drugs, alcohol and depression, I had watcher her morph into another person and couldn't imagine seeing her dead body dressed up inside  a box.  I had to concentrate to muster up tears that day.  I couldn't cry.  Everyone came up to me tearful and full of sorrow, saying how sorry they were for me.  Yet, I remained stoic and numb.  Tears that ordinarily come easily for me did not come that day.

I had already mourned my mother's death in the two years prior to her passing.  Watching her change and succumb to addictions and several asshole men was a devastating thing to watch as a teenager.  I knew she was dying a little bit more with every passing day.  All of my tears had already been cried, so the day she died I almost felt relieved.  Some of my pain would stop because now my mother was dead and gone, not just avoiding me and cutting me out of her life because it was too hard to see me.

My marriage was like that.

The day I went down to the courthouse and filed for divorce, I pressed inward to search my feelings but I couldn't find sadness.  There was peace and then guilt for feeling peace.

According to some of my family and most of my friends, I should definitely not be feeling peace when I am stepping out of God's will and ending the covenant I made to my husband before God.  I was afraid to ask Him why I felt that way.  Had it come from Him or had He left me now that I had committed what some believe to be an unforgivable sin?  Does God allow us to feel His peace when we've committed the magnanimous sin of divorce?  I was scared to hear those answers.

Thirty-seven years old, no tears fell on the day I went to finalize the divorce.  Seeing the words "decree of divorce" with our names written in black and white brought more peace.  I breathed deeply and that familiar feeling of relief set in as I knew some of my pain would stop because our marriage was officially and legally over.  All that I had been holding and living with was no longer a burden I had to bear.  It felt good to let it go.

Now I hold the tension of relief and sorrow.  My ambivalent feelings of abundant happiness and dark sorrow have been difficult to navigate through.  Daily, I feel the weight of the pain and hurt I have caused my ex-husband, the boys and our family and friends.  Those are the places I easily find my tears again.  I've held both of my boys in my arms weeping with them saying I'm sorry, over and over again; giving them permission to feel whatever it is they do, even if it's anger or hurt towards me. I imagine that is something I will always carry as this was a decision that I did not come to quickly or easily.  And it was costly - just as costly as I imagined it would be.

Maybe we're all given a certain amount of tears meant to be cried over one thing or one person.  Or maybe the lack of them, or the running out of tears means our grief has moved into the phase of acceptance and something inside us moves forward with surprising ease.  Because during the really, really hard times, we felt our feelings and cried our tears and screamed our screams.  We didn't stuff or suppress them or numb them away with too much pizza or tumblers full of vodka.  We gave those feelings words and paintings, tattoos and photographs because we learned to turn pain into beauty.

Remaining present in the sad, gray moments and feeling my longings collide with reality was a daily fight for me, especially in my marriage.  But I fought, and I felt it and I know in the depth of my heart that I gave my all, my whole heart and whole effort to my marriage.

The shift came and the hard decision I wrestled with for so long was made, my soul was finally at rest.  And regardless of what anyone else thinks or believes or assumes - there is peace.

December Fifteenth

"God's reputation is on the line when it comes to your marriage."

My Grandfather spoke these words as he performed the wedding ceremony of my cousin and his beautiful bride.  Her elegant ivory dress fluttered in the mild December breeze.  I tried to focus on it and emotionally check out of hearing their wedding vows, but the heavy words he spoke managed to hit my chest like a sharp arrow.

I imagined the word G-O-D spelled out in beautiful sparkling letters on a plaque that you might find at a Home Goods store, lying in the mud, broken and damaged because I had put it there.  I was going to "drag his name through the mud" and ruin His good name because I was wanting to end my marriage.  Swallowing the ball in my throat, I heard a whisper of truth.  My reputation and goodness doesn't depend on yours.  I am still God and I am still good and I am still reputable.  Even if I mar the sanctity of marriage by choosing to divorce my husband?  Yes, even then.

Vivid memories of the same vows I made to my husband years before echoed in my mind.  I had promised my love and fidelity for better or worse, in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer.  All of that until death.  We hadn't physically died, but something had.  It felt like I was married to a corpse.  I had told him that before, but being an emotional leper, it never motivated him enough to change or seek the care and counsel he needed on his own.

When my cousin and his new wife joyously walked back down the aisle, I felt the tension I was holding release a little.  I made it through the hardest part of the wedding as I consciously separated my heart from my body so I didn't sob and cause a scene.  I had wanted to break down and let everyone see how wrecked I was.  Someone in my family needed to know, but I knew it would break everyone's hearts.  My parents had divorced and I swore that I never would.  Telling my family was going to be the hardest part of the choice I was making.  It would come with devastatingly great cost and I knew which relationships would shift and look like silence and "disfellowship" because I was in sin.

As the night went on and margaritas flowed, I skipped around the wedding grounds like the social butterfly I was.  Mingling, drinking, dancing, laughing; taking the silly photo op pictures with ugly hats and large glasses.  I felt as sparkly as my sequined dress and felt aware of my beauty and magnetism of others to me.

That evening, when the tequila had settled in enough to make me bluntly honest, I found myself outside with my Robin for a smoke.  A habit that had been sneaking back in over the last few months when I felt the need to calm and de-stress.  I admitted all I was holding; that I was going to ask him for a divorce and couldn't be married to him anymore.  That I wanted my life to look different and I felt like staying married was killing my soul. I had done Bible studies and accountability groups.  I prayed the prayers and sought counsel and therapy.  I was honest and open with him how I was feeling and what I needed from him to make it work.  Nothing changed and nothing happened and I was just done.

She spoke words to me that night I'll never forget.  "When you're the outcast Jennifer, I'll be here for you.  I'll love you.  I'll understand.  When others have walked away, you'll have me."

The woman I once had contempt for because she started off as "the other woman," was now the only person with enough understanding and grace to truly love me in the midst of this.  God really does work all things together for our good.  He took what happened with my parents and my Robin and used it to care for me when I was in desperate need of unconditional love in the exact same place I swore I'd never find myself in.

Later that night, I danced my ass off.  My husband stood there and watched me and didn't cut in when another man asked to dance with me.

And that was my marriage.  Me out on the dance floor, vibrant and living.  And him standing by the wall, gray and watching me live.

December twenty-third

Two days before Christmas and twelve years to the day he had asked me to marry him, I sat across a table from my husband with my future aching thick in my throat.  It was time to give words to the tension that had been palpable between us for months, maybe years.  I didn't believe that it was a mere coincidence that this was the day I was also going to ask him for a divorce.  It was a tragic full circle moment and I felt acutely aware of our beginning and ending. I was trying to make it through the holidays before saying a word like DIVORCE.  After all, Christmastime isn't the time for marriages to end right?  The illusion of what wasn't there between us anymore felt like death to my soul and I couldn't go on any longer without speaking my truth.

The words came easily and without tears.  I reached deep for them because I felt guilty that I didn't have any to cry.  I had given him thousands of them over the years, most of which fell to the ground lonely and lost.  He cried more than I expected him to.  He wailed and sobbed and I had only ever heard him cry like that one other time when we had to give our dog away a few years back. I wasn't sure what to do or say.  Sorry didn't feel appropriate and I knew I couldn't fix whatever he was feeling.  He could tell I was firm and settled in my decision; that I was already gone and had been for a while.  He walked away from the table that night visibly rejected and wounded.  My emotions were all running one in to the other - relief and hope. Deep sorrow and heartache, especially for all I knew I would cause.

We went separate ways that night.  My phone started blowing up with text messages and phone calls from concerned friends he had already spoken to, shocked by the news.  It wasn't the time to talk or answer questions.  Desperate to feel something else that night, I put the conversation and my marriage on an emotional shelf to be looked at later.

I walked into a bar without my diamonds sparkling on my left ring finger.  I drank until I was warm and head fuzzy, and until someone elses's lips had touched my own.  And it was sad.

A Hallowed Heart

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.

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.

A pre-internet Prom

I have come to the conclusion that I was fortunate to be in high school during the dark ages.  You know, before the internet and texting.  And memes.  If my teenage self had a Facebook my freshman year, I'm fairly certain it would have sounded a bit like this:

"OMG.  Ryan walked me to my locker today!  He is so cute.  He totally likes me."  

"OMG.  Ryan gave me his pager number!  He is soooooo cute!" 

"So, the pager number Ryan gave me was fake.  I can't believe he did that to me.  Oh well, I can't stay mad, because he is SO cute!"

"Ryan starting going out with some other girl today named Courtney.  I already hate her.  My heart is broken!"  #butheissocute

Lawd.  I'm so glad I can keep all of that to the confines of my journals and the handwritten folded up paper notes that my friends and I traded between classes.  Also, as a side-note, Courtney and Ryan broke up by the end of sophomore year and she and I ended up being best friends, so it all worked out in the end. 

I never did have any boyfriends in high school.  I had plenty of guy friends, but dating and romantic relationships came later for me.  I almost had a boyfriend once named Goober but he didn't know I liked him and he ended up going steady with a girl named Krissy who was a total brat that bullied me in gym class every day.  I was probably spared though, because who really wants their first boyfriend's name to be Goober?

Before I knew it, I was over both Ryan and Goober, and was suddenly a senior in high school.  And PROM was imminent.  

It seemed like prom was a couple's only kind of event, but I didn't let my lack of boyfriend discourage me.  I optimistically purchased two tickets and asked a buddy of mine at church to go with me.  A date, a dress and a dinner reservation at Spaghetti Warehouse (because that was my idea of a fancy restaurant in 1999) and I was all set.  The night before prom, I phoned my date (because texting wasn't invented yet) to make sure he had his tux and was good to go, but when I finally got an answer at his house, his mom answered in tears.  Through her sobs, she managed to tell me that there had been some family drama and he left the house.

Ya'll.  My prom date ran away from home.  Like, for serious.

I sobbed to my dad and told him I didn't know what I was going to do.  This was the very worst thing that could have happened and I was devastated.  He got me calmed down and told me to move forward with getting ready for prom and it would all be okay.  And because he was my daddy, I totally believed him.

My hair was done up in it's perfect curly up do that I had envisioned, with just the right amount of ringlets around my face and neck.  My nails were done for the first time in my entire life and my dress was beautiful.  It was all great, except for the slight little hiccup of not having a date and everything.  Also, I had 437 bobby pins holding my hair together, and I could feel 432 of them.

By the time I was dressed and ready to go, my dad told me he found me a prom date.  I remember feeling both excitement and sheer panic hearing this news, but because my dad was (and sometimes, still is) pretty awesome, I knew he wouldn't have chosen anyone lame or awful.  When we drove up to a friend's house to pick up my mystery date, I breathed a sigh of relief.  His name was Teddy and we were friends from church as well.  After hearing from my dad, Teddy ran out to buy me a corsage and dusted off his school issued orchestra tuxedo.

All of it was the sweetest:  My dad was totally the hero coming to my rescue so that I didn't have to go alone.  And Teddy being a stellar guy and not only escorting me, but being a complete gentleman all night.

And I won't lie.  It was a bit a lot awkward too. 

Up until that night, Teddy and I had most of our encounters with one another at church youth group where we played crazy games, like mattress surfing and chubby bunny.  And suddenly, we were in formal wear and had to practice acting like real grown-ups.

 I dug these out of my old scrapbook from my attic.  You're welcome.

When we finally arrived at prom, I had this realization that prom is essentially a dance, and I guess I kind of forgot about that part in between dress shopping and my ex-date running away from home.  Teddy and I found ourselves on the dance floor, swaying to the tunes of Boys II Men's, "I'll Make Love to You," and that's when one or both of us decided we were done with the dancing.

We decided to ditch the dance and meet up with friends for post-dancing snacks, but only after we took our super awkward prom picture.  Our prom theme was "Imperial Dreams" which translated to some kind of oriental-paper-lantern-nod-to-China type of theme where they actually put origami and packets of chopsticks on the table for decorations.  (Clearly, I was not in charge of planning this thing).

I present to you: 
Jennifer and Teddy

"Imperial Dreams"
 Prom 1999 

Prom is a totally different thing all together now than it was then.  It's totally cool to go with a group of friends and not just a date, and prom dress trends are so much more fun than they were in the 90's.  Not to mention the internet!  The Black Tux is making prom even easier with their awesome suit and tuxedo rentals.  Did you know that online tux rentals were even a thing?  Fellow friends of the dark ages, can you just imagine what prom planning would have been like had we had the interwebs at our fingertips?!  Just look at how much has changed between then and now?  (Holy smokes, when did I get old?)

Both my dad and Teddy are forever my heroes for going out of their way to make sure my senior prom actually got to happen.  Looking back, it was a bit of a bummer that my prom didn't turn out like I had originally planned. But you know what?  It was prom, and I get to say that I went.  My senior prom is a sweet, quirky and slightly pathetic memory.  And it's all mine.

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.

Made to Sing

After high school, I decided what I wanted to do most was perfect my craft and sing classically - specifically opera.  This decision came after an unforgettable experience singing with the All Region Choir my senior year of high school.  Our choral director was the most musically-passionate man I had ever met, and still to this day, have not forgotten.  His name was Charles Bruffy.  He had curly hair and dreamy blue eyes and he was incredibly charming.  His passion and zeal for music and instructing us invited me to more.

Before our big performance that night, he told us this lovely story about his gold cuff-link,s of all things, that had "1-2-3" imprinted on them.  How someone he knew invited him to take a risk and how all you can do in life is to say 1-2-3 and jump out into the unknown.  I remember how he asked us to be curious about our call to music. How we were all there because of our talent and hard work and maybe a life spent in music was something worth risking.  As we took the stage and our choir prepared to sing the first movement of the Chichester Psalms, he raised up his baton and quietly whispered "1-2-3" to us.  I nearly melted in the awe of that moment.  I can still remember the chills I had, and the power that music moving through my entire body gave me.  How I teared up at the end of this triumphant song (also, sung in Hebrew) by one of my favorite composers, Leonard Bernstein.  That very night, the conductor, that piece of music, those silly cuff-links - all of it planted a desire in my heart to pursue a career in singing.

At the time, I knew that I knew, I was meant to sing.

With my music major decided on, I ended up at a small university where I made several friends who shared the same dreams and aspirations as me.  We were both friends and competitors, but all of our comparison and training and performing in front of one another at various voice recitals only motivated us to do better.  I was one of the best freshman vocals that came to the university that year, and told so by my choir director.  And though it was a small school, I was oozing with a kind of confidence I never had before.

I remember that feeling of being 18 and feeling like I could really go somewhere or be somebody.  My whole life was right in front of me, the world was at my fingertips - and all those other cliche things you say when you are young and on your own and could literally pick one of a thousand different directions and they would all be the right one.

My story took a different turn though after my third semester into studying music.  I was in love, consumed by it even.  It felt so good to be loved and wanted to by a guy - the first ever who really showed any interest in me.  He made me feel beautiful and sexy and significant and valuable - all of those things that any young woman wants to feel.  And being so distracted with my boyfriend whom I was convinced I would spend the rest of my life with, I slowly gave up going to classes.  It felt better to stay in bed and be held and kissed and adored.  All of those feelings took over any kind of logic I possessed, which was probably not much to begin with if I'm honest, and completely disappeared.

If there was anything I wanted more than to sing, it was to be loved.

On top of that, I found myself reeling from a very disappointing vocal competition where the judges ripped me apart - especially on my diction and pronunciation.  I couldn't sing German to save my life - something rather important if you are studying to make a career in vocal performance.  Others, who I had deemed lesser than me, did better than I did at the same competition and I was left feeling humiliated.

But even had I kept going on to study music, life took a different turn for me.  My boyfriend was murdered at the end of the year and it undid me.  Part of my soul felt like it had died and my world that was once so full of possibility and bright futures vanished.

By January of 2001, I was working at Sonic as a carhop and "fountain engineer," which only meant I could make a mean banana split and deliver it to your car.  I was living at home with my parents, had no car, no community, a pile of debt from school and credit cards and shattered dreams.

All of that feels like a lifetime ago.  Yet, when I remember that season of my life, when loneliness reigned supreme and I had nothing to do but sit in my disappointments and failures and heartbreak, those memories feel very tangible and close.

Before I turned 21, a small business owner took a chance on me and my lack of any office experience, and hired me as his secretary.  I taught myself how to keep books and several accounting principals and from there I have built the career I have today where I make a fairly decent living.  Also, let's use the word career loosely, shall we?  However, bookkeeping is far from where I ever thought I would end up.  It wasn't in my plan, it wasn't a dream.  It's far from singing opera and all things musical or even creative.  And as an adult, it has been hard for me to dream beyond the familiar borders of where life has me now.

The last few years, I have seen my opera-singing friends travel the world and fulfill their musical dreams thanks to Facebook.  Those who I went to school with and who literally made music their life are in my face on a pretty regular basis.  I am reminded often of my past and my old dreams and how small my life feels sometimes.  I have one friend specifically who travels the world singing with various opera companies.  This summer she is in England and Italy, and when she's not traveling the globe, she directs an up and coming opera opera company in Tennessee.  Those are the moments it's hard not to feel jealous or wonder "what-if" about my own life and choices.

All of this invites me to think that perhaps I wasn't meant to sing like I thought I was.

Just last night, I was peeling potatoes and preparing dinner while my boys played in the living room for a few quiet and conflict-free moments.  Todd was on his way home from work and we had plans to attend a new small group.  As I was putting dirty dishes in the sink, I was overwhelmed with gratitude.  I lead a relatively small life where I am a part-time bookkeeper and I cook dinner for my family and we live in a humble cracker-box house in the suburbs.  I am a mother of two and a wife to one wonderful and handsome man.  Family is nearby and we have all we need or could ever ask for.  I am blessed beyond measure and have more than I could ever begin to deserve.

And I am loved.  Deeply, truly loved.

I felt thankful and content.  Happy even.  I hummed and sang as I worked, like I often do.  I am still singing.  But, it's a much different song.

Every so often, you might catch me walking around my house singing an old aria or taking an everyday tune in my best out of practice operatic voice and busting it out at the top of my lungs.  And my only audience is my children who think I am silly and make hilarious attempts at imitating me.  But a singer isn't defined by her audience or how many opera houses she has sung in or how many degrees she has in vocal performance.  She is a singer because she sings.

My story turned out differently than my 18 year old self imagined that it would.  Some days I am overwhelmed with gratitude.  Sometimes I travel down the what-if road even though I know I shouldn't.  But one that remains true and always will be.

I was most definitely made to sing.

Goodbye House

A house is never just a house.

It's the place where we make memories, live our childhoods in and they mark chapters of life lived.  Home is where our stories begin.  It is in the homes of our friends and our families that we form the deepest relationships, where we share meals around the dining room table.  It's where we do life, where we cry and wipe out exhausted on the couch from a long day of work or parenthood or both.  It's our resting place, our haven.  Home - having a home, making a home, building a home - has always been important to me.  And perhaps it is for that reason I get so attached to them.

There have been a few houses I've had to let go of in the past.  My own childhood home after my parent's divorce. My Grammy's most favorite house with huge front and back yards that I had dreamed of having my wedding at.  And I almost said goodbye to my own when we thought we were moving to North Dakota - and I'm sure there will come a day when we leave here and I will weep like a baby.

But these homes, these places I don't want to let go of, are the homes that contained life and laughter and sweet times that my childlike heart will never forget. It's the memories I am always so desperate to cling to.  I want to remember the good.

Sunday, I said goodbye to my Gramma's house.  She has lived there for 41 years.  Longer than I've been alive, it's the only home I've ever known her to be in.  I can remember 30 years worth of Christmas Eve's, bubbling pots of spaghetti cooking on her stove and the distinct way Great Grandma would answer the old rotary dial phone on the wall.  I can remember sliding down her hallway in my socks and admiring her collection of porcelain glass dolls.  The trees in her front yard had some of the biggest leaves I've ever seen and made the best piles for jumping.  I have childhood memories of picking up pecans and cracking them around her kitchen table.  Of making molasses cookies and covered in flour while we listened to Gramma tell stories.

I lived an entire season of my own life there too.  My early twenties when I was single, struggling with depression, with secrets, with addictions.  It was a hard season of my life for me, yet a necessary one too.  I grew up in that house - no so much as a child, but my woman started to grow there.  I went through a difficult journey of my faith with God.  I still remember the words spoken to Him in darkness out of anger.  And later out of my desperate need for Him.

I moved out of Gramma's house when I got married.

But of course, her house, her home, my home, my Gramma - they are all precious to me.

Gramma is entering her own new season of life where it means she lives with her son and his family since her body and health require more dependence and need for others.  They found a lovely home and I couldn't be more thrilled.  Yet saying goodbye to the house, to the place she lived for so long is bittersweet.

My Great-Grandmother died there.  It was the last place I saw my mother alive.  I suppose in some ways leaving the house behind feels like losing parts of them all over again.

But I suppose that's how it is with any season.  A death and a new life experienced at every turn.

I am left only holding memories of the past.  Pieces of my story.  Pieces of my heart.

Day 18: The Ant Hill story

Today's prompt:  Share a story from your childhood.  Dig deep....

(This is from the old archives of Simply Jenn-Sational written from October of 2007.  I have edited the story some and thought it fitting for today's "deep" post.)

~~~~

I guess when I admit openly that I once tried to kill my brother, it sounds dreadfully awful. But it's true.  I had a murderous heart and did in fact wish my brother’s death.  Sadly, I had my reasons....

It was a crisp fall evening.  Even now, I can remember that night as if it were yesterday.  It was at the odd house on Greenthumb with the funny-looking fireplace that sat in the middle of the living room  - jet black, with a large pipe that hung from the ceiling.  Quite possibly the ugliest "fireplace" ever imagined. But, I also remember that this house didn’t have a connecting fence with the neighbors to the left of us. Which was fine by me since I made friends with the other Jennifer who lived next door.

There was a nice sized hill on the side of her house that rolled into ours and on this particular night, my cousin Chris and I were playing on this hill. We were having a great time rolling down the hill, laughing and carrying on as most 8 year-olds do, and there was my brother, tagging along in the games I was playing with my cousin. I suppose he just wanted someone to play with him too, but I was angry that I could never escape him. He was always around, always needing something.

My brother was born with severe birth defects that affected his digestive and reproductive systems. He was sown up from the back side to the belly button, had no genitalia, and had colostomies that emptied his waste on his side. His diagnosis was something called short-gut syndrome. Very rare, and very complicated. Because of his special needs, my brother required much attention - especially of my mother. I was jealous of him - he got all of the attention....all of her attention. And I wanted some of it.

And so, at the age of eight years old, I devised a way to eliminate him so I could get the attention I was so starved for.

While we were playing and rolling down this hill, I noticed a very large ant pile a little further down the way. I knew that if we were to roll down in that area, I would probably get stuck in this ant hill and be covered in them. I also knew if my brother were to get a number of ant bites, that he would probably get very sick and could possibly die from them. He was in the hospital even if he got a cold because his immune system was so poor. I was his big sister and he always listened to what I said or told him to do. So, I instructed him to roll further away from me so I wouldn’t tumble over him and then we could all roll down the hill at the same time.

But, I knew very well what I was asking him to do. I wanted him to land in the ant pile, get enough ant bites to make him sick....and then die.

I waited to see what would happen.

He went tumbling down the hill and landed in the ant pile. I still remember seeing the fire ants swarming his overalls. Immediately I was flooded with guilt after I saw hundreds of ants crawling all over him and wanted to come to his rescue.

I sent my cousin in to get my mom as I started ripping off all of his clothes.  In that moment, I was desperate to save his life and hoped that he would be okay. By the grace of God, my brother made it out of this incident without a single ant bite on his entire body - a huge miracle. I believe I had a few ant bites on my arms, but thankfully I was able to undress him and got them off of him before they did damage to his body.  He was fully undressed by the time my mom came outside and I was still brushing off his body to make sure he was ant-free.

The most wretched part of the story is that I was named the hero. I can still remember her getting on her knees, level with me.  Eye-to-eye she sobbed and held me in her arms and told me how much she loved me and was so thankful for me. That she was proud of me.  That I was the best big sister in the whole wide world....that I had saved his life.  Feeling her arms around me.  Seeing her look me in the eye with her tears - tears that were for me, tears that meant she loved me - that....that was everything I had wanted.  My mother's desperate, aching love for me.

When I look at the depravity of this situation, it makes me want to weep. I tried to kill my brother so my mother would show me that she loved me.

For a long time, I felt ashamed that I had wanted my brother dead and went to such devious means to see that it could happen. It was pre-mediated, thought out and planned. I wanted my brother dead so I could have attention from my mother - attention that I should have received regardless of how many health problems he had.  For years, I believed that I was simply a bad girl and bad sister, and if anyone knew what I really had done and intentioned, I would be disowned and then truly be alone.  It took years to see the truth in that wretched place.  A little girl desperate for love, affection and attention by her mother.  That very day led me down a long road - years worth of self-contempt, self-loathing.


I’m thankful that story didn't end with his death caused by my ant hill plot. I’m thankful the Lord intervened that day - especially in my little heart - and that the ants didn’t harm my brother. What saddens me now, is knowing that my hate and envy drove me to want to commit such a crime.  If I could go back and talk to my eight-year-old-self, I would tell her that I understand.  That I should have some of mommy's love too.

Mostly, I hold this great sorrow.  Knowing that the lack of love and affection in my home, especially by my mother, drove me to such a despicable thing.

What we all would do, just to experience love....

Me? Clearly, I would have killed for it.

Day 17: The magical picture

Today's prompt:  A favorite photo of yourself and why

There is already something magical about the air on November nights.  Crisp cool, wind full of change and excitement as the holidays approach.  But on this particular night, the magic surrounded me in abundance. I could feel it dancing around me like leaves blowing up from the street on their way to announce autumn's arrival.

It was a dressy affair - an engagement party for some new friends, Darin and Bethany.   I was getting ready and taking extra care curling my hair and applying my make-up.  There was to be wine and hors' doevers and high heels and all of it felt classy and glamorous and I remember wanting to look perfect.  Bethany had gone out of her way to include me.  When the invitations went out for the party, Todd was single, and after I entered the picture she wanted to make sure I knew I was welcome to come. 

That would have been the first of many kind, lovely gestures from a woman who would grow to be a dear, dear friend.

Stepping out of Todd's truck, taking his hand as he looked adoringly into my eyes - I had never felt more beautiful.  The night, the magic, the spark between he and I - made me feel more lovely than I had felt in my entire life.  My heart, my soul, my gut knew that I was looking into the eyes of my forever man.

There was a buzz in the room that night.  And though we were there to celebrate our friends, I didn't know many people there.  Most people were asking about who was with Todd - who was I?  Where did I come from?  Everytime we were approached by someone new asking about the young woman on Todd's arm, I felt myself beam.  I belonged there with this handsome man.  I was special and wanted and he thought I was beautiful.


Everytime I see the picture that someone took of us from that party, it makes me smile.  Our love was so young, so fresh, so exciting then.  It was just the beginning of us.  Only the start to our life together.  Anytime a crisp November wind blows around me, I can still look into my husband's face and feel just as beautiful as that young girl did back then.

It's been seven and a half years since that night.  We may have already lived through some of life's biggest roller coasters, but one thing is for sure.....the magic is most definitely still there.

Day 7: Afraid

Today's prompt:  What are you afraid of?

Ever since she died, there has been this quiet, gnawing fear that I would be like her.  That somehow we would have the exact same story and I would share her fate.  I've always been afraid that life would knock me down and I would never be able to get back up again.  That depression or alcohol, some big affair - something....something would come for me and take me out. 

Sometimes I feel myself waiting for it.  This big thing.  A piece of bad news or some awful life-altering tragedy.  It feels less scary if I'm anticipating the next heartache to come my way.  It's torture though to live in that kind of expectancy.

Maybe when your mother dies suddenly in her sleep, it's normal to be afraid of those things.  Maybe it's common to think and live that way.  When you watch someone drink themselves to death and self-destruct before your very eyes and then suddenly they're gone - no goodbyes, no last words.  Could it be me too that would leave my children to live without a mother, to live with questions, to live with their own fears that they too could end up like me?

The thing is though, I don't think she would want me to be afraid.  I think she would want me to learn from her - from all the right, all the wrong, all the tragedy and heartache.  I think she would be proud of me, especially in the places I don't want to emulate her.  Where I'm careful about alcohol - how I'll never drink it on a bad day or in a bad mood.  Where I fight hard for my marriage and my feelings and my heart because I won't settle and because I believe in more.  How I don't try and pretend to have everything together because I believe real strength is in our weakness and neediness.

I think she would be proud - I think she is proud - of the places where I have had the strength to do the things she couldn't.  There have been times when I have imagined her face for me, cheering me on, saying "Go baby, go!  You can do this!" 

Nothing else can bring me to the kind of tears I have when I imagine what it will be like to reunite with her.  When heaven is home and we're both there together.  I've always imagined seeing her face from a distance - as if she's been waiting for me.  And we don't need to speak a single word about anything - the hurt, the past, all the years I lived without her.  We'll just somehow know it all.  That it was all okay.  Somehow it was all part of some plan that never made sense until that moment.  It's that moment - that first instant of seeing her face there - my heart could burst with the pain and the hope I feel for how badly I want to have that. 

It comes and goes, this fear.  There have been times where the fear has been crippling.  Where I have felt completely terrified.  And maybe it has felt that scary to think I could end up like her, because of how painful it was to have gone through it. 

But, most days I live in confidence and security - that while I am so much like her, I'm not her.  That what is true is that her story was her own and I'll have mine.  That how we live life is a series of choices.  I think she would want me to know that I get to choose.

Maybe I'm starting to learn that to honor her life and story is to not be afraid of it.  To acknowledge how it impacted me.  And to love others from those wounded places.

May 4: Quotable Quotes

Today's prompt: Your favorite quote and why you love it

"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk to bloom."

There was a time, not that long ago, where I lived every moment of every day half-alive.  I made most of my decisions based on what others would think about me and more often than not I could be found curled up on my sofa feeling sorry for myself on any given weekend.  I sat on the sidelines of life, watching it pass by.  Seeing others enjoy it and live it and wishing I was braver, or thinner, or happier - or just more of anything else than who I was. 

I used to hate myself.  And in that self-hatred I would often invite my husband to join me in my self-contempt as if I was trying to convince him how ugly, or fat, or hopeless I was.  It wounded him and our marriage and as I sit here and reflect on those years we spent together where he was the only one who saw anything lovable about me, I'm sad for all of the life and happiness that was missed in sharing together.  Sometimes those years feel wasted, but I'm also reminded how we've learned from them too.

But things changed two years ago.  The self-contempt, the constant pity-party throwing, the half-alive me....somehow, all of it came to an abrupt and dramatic end.  After years of healing and counseling and therapy, pieces of my story collided in a quiet room in Muskegone, Michigan and a battle that had been raging over me and inside of me for years was fought.  And I came out the victor. 

I was surrounded by a safe group of of people who gave me the courage to walk bravely into the darkest pieces of my story, and in doing so, I finally broke free from these chains that had held me down for the majority of my life. 

Maybe all of that sounds weird, and it might if you don't know the whole story.  And I can't tell it all here because it's not safe and it wouldn't be kind to my heart and how I treasure the experience I had that day.  But just know that I came out of that room that night forever a changed woman.  I literally have not lived the same way since.

A man named Ted gave me a name that I will claim as my own for the rest of my life.  He called me a dragon slayer.  It represented the itensity of the battle that was fought, how hard I fought and how big this thing was that needed to be defeated.  I still remember his booming voice, how his tears cracked through his throat as he handed me over my identity with his thoughtful words.  It was a day I'll never forget. 

That was the day I no longer wanted to remain tightly in that bud. 

It was time to bloom.  And I did.

That was the year I danced for the very first time.  I bought a swimsuit and I went swimming - even in front of people.  I wore a dress for the first time in years.  That was the year I came alive to my longings - that I wanted another baby and that I wanted to write and so many other things I discovered buried in my heart after all of the sludgy self-contempt had been cleaned out.  It was the year I really, really lived.  I no longer sat on the sidelines.  I was in the game.

This picture of me - the one in the dress - it's a picture of the realest real me.  The one who finally learned to love who God had created her to be.  She learned what it felt like to be really alive and she knew she was really living.  And she's not perfect and she has much she is still growing into and learning and healing from - but really, that's all part of living anyway.

This quote - I remember seeing it before that life changing night.  Wanting it to be about me.  Wishing that I could risk blooming. 

I did.  I bloomed.  And I never want to live tight in a bud, ever again.

May 1: Life Story

Today's prompt:  Tell us the story of your life in 250 words or less

Born.  First grandchild.  Happy memories. 

 

Sick baby brother.  Birth defects.  Hospital stays.  Daddy's girl.  Distant mommy. 

 

Church.  Sundayshool.  Jesus. 

 

Teased.  Bullied. 

 

Family gatherings.  Laughter.  Games.  Cousins. 

 

"Shamu."  Food.  Secrets.  Body image. 

 

Baby sister.  Disneyworld.

 

Brother dies.  Mom depressed. 

 

Dad's affair.  Parents separate.  Devastated.  Chaos. 

 

Dad moves out.  Dad moves back in.  Mom moves out.  House sells.  Heart crushed. 

 

Food.  Weight gain.  Struggle. 

 

Music.  Singing.  Choir.  Success.  Failures.  Disappointments. 

 

Church.  Faith.  Bob. Youth group.  Good friends. 

 

Mom drinks.  Alcoholism.  Custody battle.  Dad remarries. 

 

Graduation.  College.  Vocal performance.  Happy.  New friends.  Fun times. 

 

Mom dies.  Numb.  No tears. 

 

Aaron.  First boyfriend.  Love.  Passion.  Sex.  Drama.  Break ups.  Heartbreak. 

 

Back together again.  More love.  More passion. 

 

Vocal failures.  Leave school. 

 

Aaron murdered.  Devastation. 

 

Sonic carhop.  Debt.  Lonely. 

 

New job.  New boyfriend.  Jerk boyfriend.  Steals everything. 

 

More debt.  More loneliness.  Live with Gramma.

 

Depressed.  Weight gain.  Super obese. 

 

Faith. God.  Trip to Israel.  Ducks-in-a-row.  Weight loss. 

 

Online dating.  Darren.  Heartbreak. 

 

Anger.  Rebellion.  Hating God.  Darkness.  Bulimia.  Excessive drinking.  Violence.  Strange men.  Agony.  Bleach blonde hair.  Car dies. 

 

God's grace.  God's love. New car.  Returning. 

 

New church.  Retreat.  Todd.  Whirlwind romance.  Engaged.  Married. 

 

Dark depression.  Weight gain again.  Confusion. 

 

Help.  Counseling.  Healing begins.  Marriage comes to life.  More help.  More counseling.  More healing. 

 

Infertility.  Happier marriage.  Montana vacation.  Hope. 

 

Pregnancy. 

 

Buy home.  Tommy born.  Motherhood.

 

Step of faith.  Change in jobs.  Family tensions.  Grace Goups.  Community.  Friendships. 

 

Dragon slaying.  Living.  Dancing.  Celebrating.  30. 

 

Community lost.  Family.  Relationships mending. 

 

Marriage on the rocks.  Contemplating divorce.  God's rescue.  Softened heart.  Grieving. 

 

Grace.  Healing.  Understanding.  Forgiveness.  Humbled.  Healed marriage. 

 

Pregnancy. 

 

Trusting God.  New community. 

 

North Dakota.  Bedrest.  Jacob born.  Prepare to leave Texas. 

 

Disappointments.  Miracles.  Faith. Grace. 

 

Content.  Joy. Gratitude. 

 

Texas!  Working mom.  Real marriage.  Full of hope.  Full of longings.  Genuine love for Jesus.  Laughing.  Singing.  Writing.  Enjoying.  Loving.  Living. 

"A lick and a promise"

It was one Sunday afternoon that I had finished my usual chore of dishes and cleaning up the kitchen after our family lunch that my dad cornered me about the quality of work I had done.  There were still crumbs left on the counters, there was still grease on the stove, and the sink still contained remnants of leftover food from our meal.

But instead of chewing me out or yelling at me about my poor job, he used it as a teaching moment.

"Sure, you've washed the dishes and gotten the job done.  But have you done it well?  Look at this stove - it looks like it was cleaned with a lick and a promise."

"What's a lick and a promise?" I asked.

"It means doing something in haste, not caring about how well it's been done.  It means you've done what you were asked, but it shows that you really didn't care."

He went on to explain to me that day that someday I would have a job and an employer.  I would be getting paid more than just an allowance for my work and if I did my job like I had cleaned up the kitchen, I wouldn't make it far.  That my employer would notice how I worked and not only if I got the job done, but how well I did it and what my attitude was like. 

I remember him telling me to go the extra mile.  If I was asked to do the dishes and clean the counters, than I should sweep the floors and take out the trash too.  If my job was to dust the living room, then I should dust all of the other rooms in the house as well.  Not because I was asked or told to, but because working hard means going above and beyond what we are asked.  It means taking initiative and showing someone that you pride yourself in what you do.  That you care about your work and your name.  If I could work like that, an employer would not only want to hire me, but would want to keep me as their employee.

He also said that more often than not it would seem like my employer wouldn't notice my hard work.  That I wouldn't be thanked or commended or recognized for going the extra mile, for doing things right or quickly.  I've experienced that to be true over the years.  I have felt missed or jipped or taken advantage of quite a bit.  But at the end of the day, it really doesn't matter what goes unseen or not. 

I remember him saying that when we work, we don't just work for others like our parents, our elders, or our employers.  We work and should work as if we were working unto God.  As if He was watching our every move.  Would we skip corners and do our duties with a lick and a promise if God was standing right there?  Well, to an eleven year old that sounded pretty intimidating.  It was an image I pictured in my mind that stuck with me for years. 

Maybe I perceive God differently than my eleven year old self used to.  I don't see Him as a "boss" sternly observing my actions and judging my every move deciding if I'm worthy of a raise or promotion.  But I still would want Him to be pleased with what I've done.  Mostly though, I want to do a good job with a good attitude because it's a way others may know of Him because of how I live.

I've never worked perfectly.  I've never always gone the extra mile or had a perfect attitude, but I've striven for that.  It's always been my father's face and the memory of those talks that would convict my heart if I knew I had not done my job with excellence.

Those conversations happened quite a few times as I was growing up though.  They often revolved around the cleaning of the cat-pan which was one of my most un-favorite chores in the entire universe.  That was one task I almost always cut corners and did quickly because it was the smelliest job ever.

Though it wouldn't be my last.  Try emptying the trash at a fast food joint where you serve ice-cream in the summer time.  That rotten, sour smell still haunts me.....trash juice dripping down my arms after a trip to the dumpster.  *shudders*

But I do remember that I was the only employee at that fast food chain that didn't complain about taking the trash out.  In fact, I volunteered for the job.  I wanted my boss to know that I wouldn't shy away from the dirty work and that I could be counted on to do those things with a good attitude. 

Over the years, no matter where I've worked, my dad's wise words have always been with me.  I do my work well.  I don't cut corners.  I go the extra mile.   I take initiative and volunteer for things.  I go above and beyond my job description.  And I don't say any of that to brag on myself.  I say all of that to honor him and how he raised me.  Because of my dad and what he taught me about working and how to work, I have gotten as far as I have today, even without finishing a college degree. 

I got hired for the job I went on an interview for yesterday.  I'm stoked about the position and the place and the location and the people and the everything.  And one of the reasons I was hired on was because of my character and integrity.  Things my dad passed along to me. Lessons that were taught over crumbs on kitchen counters and outside on the porch where I would scrub out that nasty cat-pan.  All those years, he was instilling that hard working character in me.  Even if I didn't like it very much.  And I didn't.

As I head off to my new job this morning, I'm thankful for the impact he had on me.  How it has not only had value in the workplace over the years, but in my heart.

He giveth and He taketh away....

From the very beginning, we saw God in this entire plan.  From the timing, to the job, even in our separation while we made this transition from Texas to North Dakota.  We felt complete peace about Todd taking this job even at the end of my pregnancy. 

To say that the last couple of months have been hard would be the understatement of the century.  I've had to heal from a c-section, take care of a newborn and a three year old, prepare a house to sell, and if I wanted to go anywhere, I had to ready myself plus two, all on my own.  I've been weary, exhausted, emotional, tired, angry, and overwhelmed.  But in all of it - in my weaknesses and weariness and aching for my husband - I've carried on.  For the first time in my life, I really stayed near to God while I was going through something hard rather than distancing myself from Him. 

I lost count of how many nights I sat up late crying out to God about how lonely I was.  How hard this felt and how I wanted to be done.  Could He even speed up time a little so the move would come faster and we could be a family again?  I needed and longed for my Savior in ways that I never have before - maybe because I've never had to.  I've started to wonder if God needed my heart to be this vulnerable and weak and needy so I could not only see Him, but to clearly see that His heart for me was good. 

Will you trust Me?

He asked me this months and months before the call for the job came.  And I only answered yes two days before.  I will trust you God.  You are able...

Since Todd left the very first time there has been one truth that God continued to remind me of.  I am with you!  Through every day - the messy ones where I've lost it with Tommy or never made it out of my pajamas or found myself ugly-crying to a dear friend - somehow, I was reminded of that truth.  That I wasn't alone.  He was with me in all of it.  I gave up control, I chose to trust, and I knew that I knew, He was with me in every grimy detail.

Could I still trust God if Todd didn't make it home in time for Jacob's birth?  I decided that I could.  I could because He knew my heart and knew what was best for me.  I was at peace knowing that Robin would be there if Todd couldn't make it in time - I wouldn't be alone and she would be there to hold my hand and witness the moment my son came in to the world.  But God.....He brought my man to me THIRTY minutes before Jacob came.  THIRTY minutes.  Only God could do that.  Todd was right on time.  And God was with me.

Could I still trust God if our house sat on the market for weeks?  Meaning that it would be even longer until we could be reunited in North Dakota and be a family again.  Our home sold in two days.  And the issues the buyers had with our soil (?!) was put to rest and everything was ready to go.

But then the story shifted unexpectedly.

Friday afternoon, our carefully planned out world began to unravel.  The last few months have been full of preparations to move away, uproot our lives and start anew in North Dakota.  I've been grieving all that I would lose, but I've also seen my husband come to life with the hope of a new job and career.  Even in all of my emotions, I was ready to do this.

Todd received some disappointing news that day, and we were faced with a monumental decision:  take some chances that could prove to be foolish, proceed with our plans to move away and uproot our lives under present conditions - or leave.  Come home knowing that he tried.   

By the end of the day, we both knew the answer was to leave and come home.  Yet, the decision didn't feel good or easy.  The only comfort we had was that we felt God was in Todd's going up there and we could most definitely felt Him in his leaving too.  Todd told me that maybe this job was only supposed to be a for a time and not forever like we thought.  After all, it allowed me to be on the bedrest I needed before Jacob was born and recover as well - things that we wouldn't have been able to figure out realistically with both of us working where we were.

God totally made that happen.

And now He was leading us out of North Dakota.  It was clear we needed to stay and not move away.  The invitation to trust God was there yet again.

Could I still trust God if He brought Todd home?  If he had to return to his old job that he hates?  If I had to find work again too?  And what would happen with our house?  Could I trust him if we lost that too?

Todd left North Dakota immediately after making the decision.  I got on the phone with our realtor finding out what we could do to save our house.  Was that even an option?  Were we bound to the agreement? 

Basically what I found out was that we were at the mercy of the buyers.  They would have to agree to terminate the contract, but it could cost us greatly.  If we terminated the contract on our own, we could face a potential lawsuit.  Todd and I made the decision to do what was right.  If we had to go through with the sale, then we would go through with the sale.  And according to our realtor, the buyers  really wanted our house.  In fact, the house hadn't even appraised for what we were selling it for and they still wanted to go through with it - paying for the overage out of their own pocket!  When I found out that news, I knew it would be a miracle if we could stay here.

Saturday morning as Todd was making the long trek home, I was sitting in my living room wondering if I was going to lose this house on top of everything else.  I sat there sobbing thinking of leaving here and having to find a place to rent, my mind reeling with possibilities and fears and disappointments. 

Can you trust Me if you lose the house?

I wanted to say yes.  But, this house.  My home....

I was on the phone with our realtor half a dozen times.  She was doing what she could to negotiate a deal with the buyers to let us out of the contract so we could keep our home.  As I sat there waiting for the phone to ring that last time, I surrendered in prayer, "Lord, this isn't our house.  It's Yours.  It's never really belonged to us.  I would love to stay here, God.  I love this place that You provided.  But if you take this house away, just like the job, I will still trust You.  I will be okay.  I trust that You have something better in mind.  It's just a house and I can make another place home if that's what You have for us."

And then the phone rang with the news.

The buyers agreed to terminate the contract.  They were very understanding about our situation and even agreed to accept only half of what they had put into the house in regards to fees and inspections - a sum that we were not expecting at all.  They had the right to ask for every penny, yet they didn't.  They didn't have to terminate the contract, but they did. They didn't have to be gracious, but they were.  Needless to say, I was blown away.

Later that morning I was in the shower sobbing with emotion.  We lost this job and we got to keep our house.  All of it felt amazing.  A song came to mind and I began singing the bridge to a worship song called "Blessed be Your Name."

Blessed be Your name in the land that is plentiful.....

Blessed be Your name when I'm found in the desert place.....

 

You give and take away, You give and take away

Still my heart will choose to say, Lord Blessed be Your Name!

It was in the shower, tears streaming down my face that I sang my heart out in worship and meant every word.  I praised Him for giving us the job.  And I praised Him for taking it away.  I praised Him for letting us keep our house and should we have lost it, I would have praised Him for that too.  He is the Giver, the Taker, the Knower of our needs, the Great Provider.  He is trustworthy.  He is the Great I AM.

I don't think I've ever been able to praise or thank God for a loss before.  That's never come easy for me.  Yet as I have journeyed with Him these last few months, He has strengthened and deepened my faith in ways I never could have imagined.  I knew that I was able to praise Him for taking this job away because of the work He has done in my heart. 

Losing this job means I'll need to find work again.  Even though I had wanted to stay home with my boys, I'm okay heading back to the workplace.  I feel grateful that God enabled me to have skills that I do so that I can work.  And to be honest, I'm not worried about finding employment because He knows what we need.

After all - God provided a job for Todd so I could be on bedrest and have a real maternity leave and a much needed break from working full time.  He brought my husband home thirty minutes before my son was born.  He has paid every bill and met every need.  He sold our house in two days and gave it back to us just as quickly.  I'm pretty sure He has the perfect job lined up for me soon too.

Needless to say, life has been a bit of a whirlwind.  None of this was expected or planned, yet we know we are right on time, right where we are supposed to be.  Planted and rooted right here.  Deep in the heart of Texas.  Home.

 

The prayer of my heart is that as a married couple and as a family, that we may always need for God.  It's in our neediness where we come to love and to trust Him.  And it's there where we find peace, contentment, joy and life abundant.

 

By the look on the face of my oldest son, I'd have to say we are experiencing life abundant indeed.  

A lost job.  A lost dream.  And a deep faith, a deep trust, and a wild ride with the God of the universe has our hearts, our home and our smiles filled with complete and utter joy.  To know God is to truly know what LIVING really is.

Amen.