Good Enough for Me.

“Good enough is better than perfect.” 

—my architecture prof of yesteryear

 When it comes to housework, part of me has always wanted to be that type-A, get it done, everything in its place, perfection is close by type of soul. But, I often butt up against a mix of waning desire and “good enough” mantra. My good enough—a pile of laundry building in a contained spot, a sink of dishes, a makeup-less outing—taunts me because I fail that newest article, that guru’s how-to’s, that person declaring I should be the Proverbs 31 housekeeper. I have even heard the disheartening theory that your outside mess reflects what’s going on on the inside.

 I will call out that lie.

Sounds like disguised materialism to me (hehe).

That’s all out wrong thinking. For me, it only leaves me defeated because I am never going to measure up...I'll clean and organize, but I stink at maintaining. And then listening to all the "advice" out there, only makes me flounder in failure...it steals my chances for joy in what matters. For me, making home, good appearances, fitness goals—🥺—is weighted only in the good enoughs to get to the better stuff.

 I finally figured out why my good enough leaves me with gentle chaos poo-poo’d by HGTV and homemaking professionals...

 I’d rather write.

         I’d rather go to lunch with a friend.

                        I’d rather cozy up on the couch with my husband and laugh at a good show.

(um...my love language is a mixture of creativity and quality time...50/50 of both, I'd say).

 The contained mess sits because of my “good enough” to get to the “very best” of what I love. If it’s good enough for me, then I don’t need perfection. I think everyone’s good enough is different. Finally, I am realizing this. Another’s good enough is not the same as mine. I need to celebrate others’ good enoughs more, and not try and imitate them so much. I’ve caught myself thinking I am not doing life right when I compare myself.

But, I look around—and life is pretty good. Even in my messy house, my unorganized purse, my crumb-ridden car. Life is still good.

Good enough for me. 💕

Is Kindness a buzz word?

Today, this mama held her baby girl as she spoke through her tears, sharing with me the meanness someone threw at her. If I gave into my initial reaction, I'd tell her to fight back, to say the next mean thing. And then I'd start playing in my head what I would complain about to the appropriate adults-in-charge.

Let's just thank God that I demanded the mama bear back in the cave before taking hold of THAT mentality.

What I told my girl, though, was to stand up for herself in a different way. What I told her was to stand firm in kindness. Show the mean kid something different. Be kind, even to them. Kindness is the only way.

Doubt always creeps in at these moments while mama bear is forced away, and I wondered what was the downfall of teaching my daughter to be completely counter human-instinctual? Maybe not in this situation, but what about bigger situations? Am I teaching her to be passive to a fault? Would her being kind come at the risk of ignoring strength? Do I run the chance of making her soft, sensitive, easily broken by meanness? Am I teaching her to forgo being tough and resilient?

Is kindness really the holy space I've come to learn as a Christ follower, or is it a cowering, a cop out?

Even after tears and heartbreak, the daughter smiled and readied for school knowing she is loved, she is kind, and who she IS, counts more than what people tell her.

I see the daughter whose favorite word is "LOVE", who craves friendship and people and love. Who is ever happy to be beside her old friends, and who is always willing to make a new friend. I see her kindness as her greatest strength, and I know her spirit is strong in love.

No, kindness is not a buzzword. Kindness IS tough. Kindness is bold. It's passing up the fleshy garbage of broken people, and pouring out love regardless. It's a fine shield for a strong spirit.

Kindness is Love.

And I guess, after all my struggles and fails as a mom, I will once again, cast off the mama-bear instinct and step into a surprising posture of victory. Because, whatever the world says, whatever the hatred shows, I know one thing I'll get right as a mother--my kids will know that kindness wins. Can't wait to see the paths they'll pave ahead.

For the Back to School Mamas

"Courage is contagious. When a brave man takes a stand, the spines of others are often stiffened." 

Same with mamas.

I see you mamas out there, sending your babies off to school...to classrooms...to playgrounds... with tears, with hesitation, or even leaps of joy at the re-established routine. I see you letting go of their hands and sending them off to a place without you. 

You are just a week ahead of me. I will walk in your shoes in less than seven days.

Besides the excitement of new schedules after a long summer of sleeping in and chaos, my breath hitches on remembering the hovering fear of school days while I go about my child-free hours. So many fearful thoughts: Who will influence them? What person will stand up for them? Who might walk into their school at any moment...???

You might read my blog posts of a heart tormented by some possible answers to these questions. You, as a mama, might have the very same thoughts swirling about your conflicted heart. Conflicted. That's how it feels, isn't it? You know what supple ground awaits them, yet you also know the risk of letting go.

But, in my core, I know the truth.

And there is nothing in my spirit, in my heart--from my God--telling me that fear is bigger than the truth.

The truth is, I am willing to let go of the reigns of my children's daily encounters and pressures and opportunities, knowing that life lessons are to be learned, that I am to trust something bigger--not the system, or the administration, or the security officers, but I am to trust God with my children when they are apart from me.

It's something I've struggled with all my motherhood life--Trusting God with my babies whom I love more than any other living thing. Perhaps my nurture instinct is overdriven more than others...but I doubt it. I see the love on the faces of other mamas. Just as I see the courage. Just as I am infected by their courageous contagion. And while not every mom I know or see is trusting their kids to my God, I realize that, for me, their actions are challenging me to step away from my over-nurturing tendency, and to look to the One who is molding me and shaping me...and caring for my children even more than me.

The truth is, that I am bolstered by the courage of those mamas around me, the ones who trust their kids to others, who still believe in a system grounded in good, who make my spine stiffen with bravery that just as they are, I am willing to let go even amidst fear and anxiety.

So, when you see a mama slipping their fingers from their babe at the door of a school, know that they are walking a fine trust tightrope. Their spines are stiffened, their courage abounds. And I am a keen observer, watching and praying and hoping. Their courage abounds and I gather it up, pocket it, and pray that I'll find my confident stride next week when I let my own children go.

Everyday Stories

We tend to seek out the extraordinary, the glamorous, the miraculous to discover a greater meaning to this life we're living. Personally, I find myself slipping into the blues when I think about how my life in the present is leaning toward the mundane-twenty-first century-task oriented-daily ritual of running kids around, cleaning floors, washing another load, and trying to consider exercising when my body is just too tired from my late night Netflix binge.

Yeah, everyday life is nothing to post about on social media. Hmph. And yet, I do...and everyone cheers me on, and I think we've all relented to the fact that this is it, and we may as well celebrate the likeness we all share--even if it's about hacks for getting that dirt stain out of our kid's baseball pants. 

This morning, I sat and read Philip Yancey unpack the facades history and people have piled upon the first century Savior in his book, The Jesus I Never Knew, and I came across this:

"...I doubt I would have left any encounter with Jesus feeling smug or self-satisfied. I would have marveled at Jesus' parables, a form that became his trademark. Writers ever since have admired his skill in communicating profound truth through such everyday stories. A scolding woman wears down the patience of a judge. A king plunges into an ill-planned war. A group of children quarrel in the street...There are no fanciful creatures and sinuous plots in Jesus' parables; he simply describes the life around him."

I wonder what parables Jesus would use if He chose this century to share the love of God to the world? How great it would be to have Him come into each encounter and mold it into a truth-bearing lesson. What if I took my everyday and made it extraordinary--not by forcing extravagance or manipulating success--but by simply living it with a keen eye for deeper truth? Maybe deeper truth as simple as this--I am living and breathing by the grace of God.

As a fiction author, I often brainstorm how to hook the reader, and how to create the next unique plot twist. But, as my writing friends and I often lament, there really is nothing new under the sun (pardon the cliche). While it's all been done before, as authors we can only share the same stories with a fresh perspective, thus imprinting our story as unique in the eye of the reader. One Great Storyteller, far greater than anyone before or after Him, told stories that have lasted through wars, cultures, eras, and billions, and they were just ordinary stories with an extraordinary perspective.

Yancey goes on to say, "The parables served Jesus' purposes perfectly. Everyone likes a good story, and Jesus' knack for storytelling held the interest of a mostly illiterate society of farmers and fishermen...years later, as people reflected on what Jesus had taught, his parables came to mind in vivid detail."

Vivid detail.

To have a reader remember a story told with vivid detail is a great feat. It's what any author strives for. But to have a story of everyday life be so impressive and heart-changing that centuries later we can apply them to our modern lives, is something only an annointed Savior could possibly do.

But in Yancey's point about the tool of parables, I also find a lesson for me as a person sitting here, blogging for satisfaction of getting my words out, for hope that I am not just writing for myself, but for a like audience who understands me. The lesson isn't just for my faith or my own storytelling. But it's for my living too.

What details will I remember of this everyday life? Will I look back and see a striving, thrill-seeking, bored, wishy washy gal who grumbled about housework because she just wanted to be entertained?

I want to remember this time of my life with vivid detail--even in the daily routine. I am glad we celebrate the mundane together in Facebook statuses and happy tweets. I want to go one step further and discover what God could be telling me in those moments. What would Jesus say to elevate the simple to profound? 

 If I keep my eye focus on seeking out the extraordinary and successes, I'll miss the life that I've been given...the whole life, not just the shiny moments. But, if I allow my presence to be the gift, the simple place where deeper truth might be found, life might be a little more extraordinary with each step, and I might find God among the everyday stories.

Borrowed Heartbits: Roald Dahl

I may not have written a novel that quotes Mr. Dahl for today's borrowed heartbit, but I have a heart filled with his stories since I was a child. The BFG was a beloved book in my childhood, and I've revisited it time and again through the years.

Perhaps my own abundant bookshelves growing up have shaped my mama heart to fill our kids' lives with books...and this sentiment by Roald Dahl is an obvious one to me:

"If you are going to get anywhere in life you have to read a lot of books."

Around here, I struggle with screen time with my kids...um, if you follow me on social media, I am sure that is just as obvious as this quote. It seems, my children's time is divided between what they need to get done--school, schoolwork, and meals, and then screen time.

No slender pieces of the pie showing a slew of hobbies, pastimes. Just obligation and screen time.

The practical me knows that it is not entirely true. Thank you, Youth Sports, for squeezing as many minutes out of my overcrowded schedule as you can. But, THANK YOU, Youth Sports, for giving my kids time away from their screens.

Seriously, my heart shudders at the thought of what life will look like from these blue-faced sessions of cyber-living a decade from now.

And that is why, my children will tell you,

"My mom is all crazy 'bout reading. Like, real paper books. Like, away from my screen. Wha'???"

When I get fed up with their mental drainage into the world of Minecraft and Fortnite and whatever

else...they get two suggestions when the dreaded question, "What else can I do?" comes out of their whine.

"Here's a chore..."
or
"Get a book..."

And while they will declare their chores are done, there is always a book unread around here.

Lots of books.

Everywhere.

The picture above shows a glimpse at the shelves in my daughter's room, only because it is the neatest display at the moment...we have books coming out our ears. And, fortunately, my children READ.

A long time ago, when chapter book assignments came home, my kids were allowed to independent read at bedtime. And now, it's a deeply rooted habit--an AMAZING excuse to prolong sleep for them...but to soothe my anxiety away that they are going nowhere with a screen attached to their palm.

And, they are my children--forever night owls...forever bucking the idea that sleep is a good thing. And while I will reprimand them at 10 pm...11 pm...for staying up with a book glued to their face, my mama heart leaps.

Books. The doorways to great ideas, imagination, and knowledge. There might be fabricated digital lands that maneuver them to someone else's imagination by day, but at night, they get to plunge into a story and come up with their own thoughts and ideas.

I rest in those moments when I know, my children are going somewhere.

Borrowed Heartbits: Doctor Marigold

Doctor Marigold had lost his young daughter, and renewed his joy in adopting
another daughter. The story is short, but the emotions are big if you get a chance
to read it! This quote appears in my newest manuscript.

I sit and watch my son light up with stories of fondness and joy, and my  heart nearly bursts. Even more so than if he were always caught up in happy things. His journey before gives these happy moments so much more shine, so much more understanding of the borrowed heartbit from Dickens' for today. 

It was not too long ago that my son and I had sat in the very same spot while loneliness consumed his little body. Heartache is the most hurtful of things, and while I wish it away when it creeps upon my children in those treacherous moments, when the present becomes the past and the future opens onto a new season against the backdrop of heartache, newfound joy appears that much sweeter.

My written stories have shown me the depth of Doctor Marigold's proclamation above, and my life stories have felt this deeply. No fictional character can truly appreciate conclusion, joy, love, without journeying through a place bankrupt of it all. And, while I want to protect my babies and keep them free from any harm, it is in the endurance of messy life that the greatest heart-training takes place.

I think upon solid wisdom, when I think on this:

He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
To proclaim liberty to captives
And freedom to prisoners;
2 To proclaim the favorable year of the Lord
And the day of vengeance of our God;
To comfort all who mourn,
3 To grant those who mourn in Zion,
Giving them a garland instead of ashes,
The oil of gladness instead of mourning,
The mantle of praise instead of a spirit of fainting.
So they will be called oaks of righteousness,
The planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified.

Isaiah 61:1-3

I pray that my children's journeys will prove fruitful and solid like oaks planted for God's splendor, no matter the muck and mire they wade through--how much more their joy will abound.

That went so fast, Lord

“That went so fast, Lord,” I exclaim as I go through papers and drawings and knick knacks of a 4th grader turned Freshman in high school. 

“In.a.blink.” 

I hated that saying when I was in the throes of toddler chaos and colicky newborns. Looking back, it is all a blur, all a mode of survival. But now, the truth of it is so devastating, so painful, when I discover how i had been so tempted to blink away the moments and get to the easier part. Too many blinks, and now it’s all being packed up in plastic bins to be gone through by daughter-in-laws and grand children. 

Ugh, my mama heart hurts. 

Packing up handwriting exercises and art projects, I realize how much of that little boy I have forgotten...and how too many moments slipped by without savoring, without being fully present. Life is short. 

And it’s all about the people. 

My people. 

My babies they will always be.

What I Never Thought

What I never thought about several years ago-- telling my son to "just take my car" to basketball practice when the roads are covered in snow.


What I never thought about when babies were sleeping soundly in their bassinet next to my bed-- falling into bedtimes without a goodnight, just a quick "time for bed", hollered up the stairs.

What I never thought about when I was up to my elbows in toys and clothes and packs of diapers-- packing up the last of the baby clothes for good--or at least, for a long season of growing kids up until their kids need them.

What I never thought about when I was thirty, that when I was forty, my heart would hurt at the faint memories of baby curls and squeals of glee and jibber jabber with Disney Junior playing in the background.

What I never thought about...I wish I had--because then maybe, I wouldn't have wanted it to go by so quickly.

And maybe it wouldn't have.

And maybe I'd handle all this growing up a little better.

Who am I, that I should..?

Moses asked this very question, "Who am I, that I should go to Pharaoh, and that I should bring the
sons of Israel out of Egypt?"

He asked it to the Maker of the Universe. How inadequate he must have felt to do such a task. And while his task seems greater than any that I might ever be asked...I understand his sense of inadequacy.

I understand it from the side of my daughter's bed at night, admiring her freckled nose, and watching her bright eyes gently closing, and grasping the potential of so much greatness that I can hardly catch my breath...and I am her mom. I am the one who will guide her, model the woman she might become.  Who am I, that I should be trusted to be that person in her life?

I understand it when I sit in the living room and my high schooler excitedly rambles on and on about his fitness routine, his aspirations for the next season of ball, his hopes and dreams and...sometimes his own insecurities. Who am I, to pour goodness and encouragement in such a motivated creature as my son?

I understand it when my youngest son begins to share his opinions on great big world things, and his intelligence casts shadows over mine, and his passion for change is the same as mine once was as a young adult...and he's eleven. Who am I, to have the words to give room for his opinions, to allow him to think uniquely, to not impose my own point-of-view that would shape a bias in his life?

And I especially understand it when my child is sick, and I lose patience with the whining, and I give him all the comforts in my limited knowledge, then walk away from his misery, saying "this is all we can do" and I don't affirm him when I should, nor take him seriously...until it's serious. Who am I, to be trusted with nurturing and caring for these little people?

I am so human, it's debilitating. I am so flawed, mistakes are inevitable. I am so selfish that sometimes my nose is usually the only point I see clearly.

I am so...

...exactly like the men and women who God used to carry out His plan. I am nothing, and He is everything. In spite of that, He chose me for purposes that I consider treasures above any thing or desire. I am a mother, and a writer. I am a wife, and a friend.

Who am I? I am called. And I can only live out my calling trusting that it really is up to Him why I should.

My Difference Makers

Life has been gearing up in super speed. Two teens in sports, one guy in Cub Scouts, and a little lady dancing and tumbling away. Not to mention school activities on top of that. And in between all the running around, we have these pockets of time where we must parent, where ugly comes out and we are facing the same battles of emotional management, bad choices vs. good choices, and anger issues...just like when they hit the terrible twos--only so much more significant in their older ages.

If I allow myself to sit here and try and find the bright side of last night's tug-o-war with brothers fighting, or last week's slew of missing assignments, or consequence-dishing for bad language, I would be sorely disappointed.

This part of parenting stinks. 

It's the part of parenting that not only has me wade in turbulent waters of conflict, but also chips away at my confidence that I am doing my best as a parent. It makes me stare at my child and say, "Where did you come from?" (In my head...I hated being told that as a kid, so I promised myself I would never say it out loud. LOL).

This morning, I was on Facebook and an old memory popped up in my newsfeed. It was a status I had in 2012 about my son (7 years old at the time) giving the rest of his birthday money to a  family who wanted to adopt a baby girl in Africa. And then it brought to mind all the times my kids have poured out generously to others, have shown compassion without being asked to, have given a glimpse of the difference makers they will become.

I suddenly found myself looking from a heart view of each of my children, and remembering the good that was beneath all the necessary growing pains of becoming an adult. And it's so much more important than any drama we have today.  The bright side is there, amidst the mess, and I am just now realizing it. No matter their mistakes or disobedience, I know their hearts are compassionate. From the same naughty lips that speak foul language, come the heart language of a boy who wants to help the less fortunate. From the same brotherly discord, comes a defender of his brother's honor in face of a bully.

While I have been yanking my hair trying to direct these children into adulthood, there's something that I would argue is even more important going on in their rearing.

We've been growing hearts. 

And while there is lots of practical--sometimes excruciating--parenting to do, there are future adults here who will at least remember, and hopefully live out, one of the most important values we could teach them amidst the chaos, one that otherwise gets pushed aside in this culture of success and status. No matter how much my children accomplish on paper or on the field, I hope they remember the words and actions in those pockets of time where we parented beyond the reprimands, but impress upon them the need for compassion.

And, occasionally, my kids are displaying their roots in love and compassion, and I can forget the mess for a moment, knowing that it is truly fleeting. We are only wading through it to get to the good stuff--adults who will indeed make a difference in this world.

A Love Letter to My Children

Dear Children,

It's winter. A time when we pull out over a decade worth of tiny handprints on Christmas ornaments. A season when we focus on a baby, and a mama, and a family. A chance to reflect and remember all the Christmases before, holding tight to the good, and forgetting any bad...or trying to.

I have always said, "I hope my babies remember the best, and forget the worst."

And now, I wonder, will you?

I love you so much that my heart can hardly take the pride attack when you all achieve your goals, give us a glimpse at the people you are becoming, take the initiatives to step toward greatness.

My smile can’t be contained when I watch you all triumph in the face of adversity, even after we argue, even after words have stabbed like daggers, even after temper tantrums, and insecure parenting judgement calls.

Even though you roll your eyes, say heartbreaking things, choose everything else over me—I can’t help but love you.

I love you so much that I sit and watch each of you from a distance, allowing the worries to slip away, and admiring the differences I see between your childhoods and my own, and the similarities. 

You are the babies in my arms even when some of you don’t welcome hugs anymore. You are the little buddies who joined me at every grocery trip, every gas station stop, every morning breakfast table, and every evening snuggle time. One of you takes most of those trips to the gas station on his own now, and a couple of you just eat on the go. Snuggle time? Only half of you need that now...and sometimes, we are all too exhausted to even say goodnight.

My mama heart squeezes tight, and I want to forget for just a moment the fact that one of you is spreading his wings to take flight in a few short years. But, then, I struggle with a longing to speed through these days where every word seems to be a battle, and the angry looks are searing, and so many decisions shatter like glass.

I love you so much that even still, I wake up each morning to see what the day holds for each of you. You are my babies. And no matter what you think about me, I will be here for you until my last breath. You are my children. 

I pray only good things for you. Can you remember only the good things around here? Forget the bad? I can't help but wonder if you will. I can't help but worry. And most of all, I can't help but love you. 

Mom

A Mama Can Only Wonder

In my current work-in-progress, my characters have deep loss woven into their back stories, and they
must move forward regardless of the pain.

I think I just described every journey in the human experience. Hopefully, I can write the story in such a way that it's unique enough, yet familiar enough to find its way to shelves one day.

Lately, I've been good. After my enlightening walk through October (you can read it here), and a focus on my family this November, the first day of December promises a continued sprouting joy, and a promise of peace regardless of what's going on around me.

That's me. That's my condition.

But of course, I am not an island, and my heart's threads are strung up like Christmas lights upon the hearts of my children. Today, I can't shake knowing the loss in my children's life because of wrong words and painful rejection--at no fault of their own--and the curiosity is killing me to know how it's affecting them.
As an author, I dissect my characters' strife and hold it up to the light, looking for chances of redemption, but as a mama, I can't peek inside my children's souls and do the same. I can only pray for them. Sure, I can talk to them and rip off the bandaids of silence and try and doctor the wounds myself, but, as we all know, who wants someone digging up the garbage of their pain?

I just sit. And pray. And mourn the crap that they've found along this journey of human experience. Words hurt. Assumptions hurt. When I suffer from such things, I am forever licking my wounds trying to make sense of the why. Do our children do the same? Do they have the insight into pondering the why? In a selfish, ridiculous sense, I hope not. I hope that they just shrug it off, and let it roll away like  raindrops on a window pane--not caring deep enough yet for the crazy mistakes people make. My daughter seems to take life that way. At her young age of six, she is quick to change the topic when it's about a mean kid or a sad instance. But, I know the hurt's not completely gone. I know she's just pushing it aside because it's too much to feel for her little soul.

When will those grievances finally build up enough to push on her heart in such a way she can no longer ignore them?

Life is messy. It hurts to be on the outside looking in, and knowing you are out of control. Actually, that's one thing I learned in October. I try too hard to control others. I apologize because I want to control the peace. I talk waaaay too much and overanalyze so I can find compromise and common ground and be liked and like back. I pick and prod at my children's feelings so I can counsel them and lead them to joy and peace.

But it's not my job.

I am only effective if they are willing to listen. If they are ready to peek beneath the bandages and begin to investigate their hurts--with me guiding them.

My perspective on life has shifted in a good way, but my heart will always feel more than it probably should, and my mind will always travel the roads of others' human experiences--especially my children--aching to inspect how to find redemption for their losses.

Thank God for the calling to write. At least there, I can dive deep, and create alongside the only Redeemer who remembers no grief and wants to throw the bandaids away.

What's a mama writer to do with the non-fiction silence though? Right now, I know I just pray. Love my kids big, and pray that their character arcs are bathed in redemption that only One can bring in full.

Becoming October

About twenty-one Octobers ago, my husband, then-boyfriend, and I became exclusive--we said we were "together" and we said, "I love you," all in the same month. It was the month of hope, and love, and dreaming.

Now? Sitting in this October and looking back after seventeen years of marriage, and fifteen years of motherhood, I can say that hope has slipped into disappointment more often than not, and love has become entangled with expectation more often than it should. Yet, in this October, while the leaves are falling, something different is budding within me, and I can't hope or love the way I used to anymore.

Forty has been a rough age so far. When you reach these soul-shaking milestone birthdays, people often tell you to shrug it off and age doesn't mean anything. And whether it is just our imagination or the [old] mind playing tricks on us, these kinds of birthdays do change you--even if it's in some weird self-fulfilling mental lapse kind of way.

Needless to say, I've not enjoyed forty-year-old Angie at all.

On the outside looking in, you see a newly published author, a proud mama of four kids, a wife of a super-hero kinda dad, and a woman who really shouldn't complain.

But on the inside...

It's been pretty void. I feel like my insides are a vacuum, and everything in my brain has been screaming, "ME", and everything in my heart has been shouting, "Get OUT".

It's like that commercial where the person unzips their current body and a whole different person is inside. You know what I'm talking about?

Well, if forty year old Angie had a choice, she'd unzip this person and escape the mess inside. How many times have I told my husband that I just want to crawl out of my skin? How many times have I said I just want to run away? How many times have I absorbed my children's bickering and melted into despair? How many times have I taken that sock lying on the floor so personally, that it makes me send the kids to bed without a kiss goodnight? How many times have I fought for something stupid like a clean kitchen and ruined the chance to have family time because Mama ain't happy?

Somewhere along the way, I've fallen for the lie that it's all about me and what I control. Somewhere along the way, I've become a consumer of my family, and my church, and my world.

And the vacuum inside me just sucks up the justification, the proven points, and the reprimands, and I realize that I have nothing but the crappy broken threads that wrap around the vacuum roller and eventually stop the whole thing from working.

Those broken threads are heartstrings that I've shunned, shamed, shut out from tangling with my own. It's all about me, and I'm just too busy trying to clean up messes without stopping and trying to mend what's going to break.

Well, I was the broken one. And I had wanted change for so long, but I just couldn't unwind those stupid messy strings from the roller. I was stuck.

I was the one who was sitting in a dark pit of despair, feeling hopeless and alone in this whole thing we call life.

So, one day at the beginning of October, I started to listen. I thought, "Maybe I should look for something different." When life feels completely stale and not worth trying for anymore, something different seems like a good change. And I took this tiny little step.

And something amazing happened.

That step took me outside of myself. SERIOUSLY. Like, the little step had me sit in a church I'd hardly ever been and listen to a speaker I'd hardly ever heard. And even though the sermon was hardly something to blow me away, a whisper within the sermon knocked the wind out of me.

And that's the beginning.

Over the next few weeks, EVERYWHERE I turn--whether it be my church services, my Bible study, a conference call for work, a parents' gathering for my son's youth group...EVERYWHERE that I am expectant for God's wisdom...about SEVEN DIFFERENT PEOPLE so far...some who are connected, some who don't even know each other...EVERYWHERE I TURNED GOD SAID THE SAME THING TO ME.

For someone who WAS hopeless, and self-centered, and trying to take control to a point of destruction, I was slowly aroused from my darkest slumber by these three concepts that each of the seven encounters have mentioned and centered their messages on:

Humility

Hope

Living Sacrifice

Coincidence? Go ahead, call it that. There's no special liturgical calendar the seven encounters were using to guide their messages to me. But, I am here to tell you, that the mess deep down inside me is so ministered by the resonance of each encounter speaking the SAME wisdom to me, in such a personal way--meeting me where I'm at--that I can't even begin to deconstruct my experiences and find a way to attribute it to my [old] mind playing tricks on me.

Something inside me woke up...and it wasn't a noisy vacuum. It was a flood of sweet repentance for my inward focus, and a swishing revival of faith--smaller than a mustard seed--but a faith that promises hope again.

This October, I am becoming again. I am not finished in this growing up business...forty really is just a number. I am still figuring this all out. And I am seeing myself outside myself again...but I'm not trying to run away. I'm outside looking further outside--at those I love, at this chance I get to commune with a God who put up with me in the mess, and still sits with me there when I inevitably stumble back again. I can actually see hope in the next step, when before, all I could see was the tangled mess.

October. A month I once fell in love--for the final time. And a month I once gave birth to a son. October. A month filled with changing color. And a month of changing me.

***

Here are a few of the people who've spoken God's words to me. By no doing of my own, except saying yes to the environment they met me at. Completely organic. But completely ordained:

James MacDonald (study, Think Differently)
Greg Hawkins (actually heard him on a conference call, then was led to this book--More)
Andy Stanley (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMpj0cXldnk&feature=youtu.be)

(and....sermons on Hope at Lutheran Church of Hope, and on Solitude and Servitude at Meredith Drive Reformed Church...um...and I just realized, I named this post, "Becoming"...and that's the name of the sermon series at my church...BUT IT'S TRUE FOR ME TOO).

A Mama's Pre-Reflection

What I will miss most when they're all grown up...

(I know that grandparents will tell me to just wait...but these babies are the only babies I am guaranteed)

The rummaging of legos in the basement

The surprise of waking up next to a child who crawled in my bed in the middle of the night without waking me.

The hundreds of papers with drawings of stick figures, L-I-B-B-Y, trees, flowers, scribbles...strewn all over the table tops, living room floor, dining room floor, bookshelves...oh my.

The sound of sweet children's t.v. while I cook.

Two brothers playing catch in the front yard.

Two brothers giggling in the late hours of the night.

The clipity-clop of my high heels being worn by little feet, and the swish of my knee high dress brushing the floor as it's modeled by the little mama holding her American Girl.

And I am sure there is more...but lastly for now...

I'll miss giggle boxes turned upside down, when all four of my children get along...for those brief moments...everything is right in our home.

That's what I'm going to miss. 

Finding Contentment

Life is an easy distraction from a deeper purpose, isn't it? I can quickly slip into complaining and wishing for something better, instead of accepting my lot and realizing the great blessing--even in hardship.
My roles as a wife and mother often seem like crosses...but truly, they are my greatest gifts. Why do I criticize my gifts so? Why do I find myself inadequate in the journey? I have a sneaking suspicion it's because I am focusing on me, instead of on Him who gives me Life in the first place.

"We grow up when we see our life and our role from God's perspective; when we thank God for the role He has assigned us and begin to see our cup as a GIFT instead of a cross; when each morning we ask, "God, how can I glorify You today in my given role?"

Calm My Anxious Heart by Linda Dillow is pointing my inward perspective to an upward one. And the freedom is begin to ripple inside me.

Happy Sunday!

A Word on Summer

I am sitting on my couch, still in my p.j.s at 10:30 am. I can hear the clock tick and the dog whine and the morning dove cooing. Peace is pulsing.

But, my stomach churns and my head aches.

Peace is about me, but I am not a vessel of the stuff. I am a tangled mess.

WHAT THE HECK WAS I THINKING WHEN I SAID 'I JUST WISH IT WERE SUMMER'?????

The last day of school is creeping toward me like a great destroyer of my fragile balance beam that holds me up as a decent mother. And it's not going to snap because of my inability to maintain a household full of children. No, it's not about that. That's not the threat. I can do it. I tell myself I can, anyway. I mean, four kids over fourteen years? I've had practice.

If it's about ability to be home with my children, I am sure any homeschool mom would shoo me away as unworthy.

No, it has nothing to do with my ability to live each second with the little gems.

I love 'em. Honestly, I do. I love 'em more than myself...which might be a problem...perhaps.

But, they've peeled back the cute, joy-filled layers and handsome smiles, and shown me their uglies. And the uglies bring out my uglies. And that's just between the few hours after school.

WHAT THE HECK AM I GOING TO DO DAY IN AND DAY OUT?

I want control. I want kindness. I want order. I want a maid.

 I want perfectly content, self-entertaining, cordial, happy, non-complaining children. I'll get a maid before that'll ever happen. And you know what? The only way I can come to grips with it is by reminding myself...

IT'S NORMAL.

Please tell me it's so! Please remind me that this is all part of the growing, refining, messiness of motherhood and children-becoming-decent-human-beings process. This long, drawn out science experiment of ripping away routine and school for a hot season of suntan lotion and sticky popsicle sticks is necessary, right?

Thing is, as we go about our summerly business, sometimes with teeth clenched and hair in fists, my kids just always appear to be extraordinary "somethin'" when I play the comparison game. Luckily, I haven't met the woman who has the number and ages of kids that I do, and tells me her children are perfectly content, self-entertaining, cordial, happy, and non-complaining...

Have you?

Well, good for her. While she sips her tea and eats her bonbons, smiling and daunting over her joyful pets, I'll schedule my next girls' night and leave my own rascals to fend for themselves for an hour or two. And when I get home, I'll love them just as big as I can, even though, there are times, they just don't seem to deserve it.

That's what'll keep me sane.

Loving them in the chaos...even if they don't deserve it.

Yeah, "I want" has never satisfied. So I just need to lean back, play an oldie but goodie, reminding myself, "I will survive".

Happy Summer! There will be sweet moments, but let's face it, the days are going to be long.

This Mess.

Every day, I pick up a pair of socks. They aren't neatly balled up together, keeping their pair status. Usually, I find one hanging on the cabinet below our t.v., and the other one across the room, tucked beneath the recliner.

Every day, I find legos on the carpet...most of the time I spy them before I yelp in pain. And along with the legos, I usually find loose change, a candy wrapper, and a broken pencil scattered about our main level. Thank goodness we don't have babies anymore.

I wish I could say that every day I just pick all the items up and put them where they belong, then gently remind my children to clean up after themselves. Or, that I leave them, and wait until the kids are around to use their mess as a chance for them to practice cleaning up...once again.

But in all honesty, I usually grab the socks and stomp across the room to bottom of the stairs and yell, "You left your socks all over the living room! How many times do I have to tell you..."

Unfortunately, a daily ritual.

There are many more messes about our house. I look around right now, and see the sink filled with dishes. I picture our upstairs balcony area, covered with laundry, and I cringe at the thought of the crowded-with-junk and books with broken bindings in each of my children's rooms. If I fling my thoughts outside our walls, I can easily roll my eyes at the untidy garage, and the Izzy cans strewn across our second garage. Oh, and the chalk and dead leaves, and the chewed up baseballs from our crazy "retired" hunting dog.

Besides our messy schedules, I am trying to cope with our messy house. And, until today, I've done a poor job of it. I've let it become emotional, I've enslaved my thoughts into this only-get-out-of-jail-free card-if-everything-is-spic-and-span reality, and only THEN can I relax.

Until today.

As I washed the first round of dishes (yes, I did that this morning, and still have more this afternoon), I chose to pray gratitude for my kiddos. Everyone had left for school, and it was just me and the mess. The creatures that made the mess were gone.

And I realized something.

This mess is proof of the life. 

And this is the life I've wanted all along. I've wasted so much breath and worry on the messiness and the possibility of someone showing up at any moment to judge my mess. Seriously. That's how bad it is. I've set up these expectations in my mind of what would make me a "good" mom, a "good" homeowner, a "good" wife, and I've caught myself striving more toward the expectations than toward the life that has been given me--the joy of sitting with my kids after school, ignoring the mess, and just being part of the life. Their life.

Gratitude for the life is so much more freeing than scrutiny for the mess. After all, one day, there will be no little lives around to love on. And the absent mess will be proof in my memory that so much life is behind me.

I want to keep that life right here, right now.

Time is running at lightening speed. And I've wasted enough of my energy fighting the clock, instead of enjoying the seconds of life within these walls.

So much life is around me. So much more life than I could have ever imagined twenty years ago. And as I look about me, I know this is my reality. This is life.

And this mess is proof of that.

To The Mom I Don't Know

I don't know you, but I can't imagine I'll ever forget you. There's the buzz in the air, the ripples of grief making there way to strangers. I am a stranger.

I don't know you, but I've wept and wondered and prayed over you and your family and your loss.

Even from a distance.

I don't know you, but I can't drive anywhere without sensing a pulse of where you might be right now, what you are doing, how you are coping, what craze you might toe the edge of.

I don't know you, but I've gone there in my mind, and I've stared in the horror of your circumstance adopting it as my own. And I can't know what it feels like, not really. I can't know the pain, the despair, the shoes that you now walk in. I can't.

I can only imagine. And many might say they can't imagine. But, I've gone there and imagined, and I've shaken and cried to God. My dread courses through me as if I'm the one looking at the grief face on. My babies, my life I've poured into those children. And the abrupt end that could occur at any moment, at any unforeseen deed. Without a chance to say that next thing, to guide that next step, to hold that hand one more time.

And yet. I don't even know the depth of it. I can't even go there. I said I could. But I cannot really know your pain. Not all of it.

I am just at a distance.

I don't know you, and I weep for you and pray for you and hope for you. There's no judgement here. I see myself, day in and out, messing up, struggling, fighting, falling short of all the expectations I thought motherhood could be.

Even still. I pray that eyes of judgement never fall on me in such a time as your moment right now. I pray that you sense no judgement from anyone now. That God protects your heart and your sanity and reminds you He's there. Even when it is so absurd to think He's there. Where was He? Where, Lord? How can this happen...and I cry these things, and I curse this, and I don't even know you.

But I'm a mom too, and I have a mom's heart, and I weep with you at such a time as this.

Even from a distance.

Even if I'm a stranger.

The Shame Game: 3 Temptations to Play

I am coming off my promise to only look at FB when I have a notification. I put a "no scroll" rule on myself for my own sanity...and discernment.

I'll be the first to admit, I have A LOT of opinions. I make snap judgements, I raise an eyebrow at THAT, I roll my eyes at THAT, I shake my head at THAT. And if you don't, I truly want to affirm you for being a free-er, more stable person than me. But according to my thousand plus friends out there, I'd say there are a number of people who are just as opinionated as me. I think it's called being human?

As I've been on a scrolling frenzy over the past couple of weeks, and I've seen a pretty significant decline in my attitude and self-talk, I realized that I've bought into The Shame Game of Twenty-First-Century Culture. I'm munching on the Lotus and unable to get myself out of the pool of self-doubt and self-criticism. Ever been there?

Three things are threatened when I am playing in the shame game, and I need to self-protect and change my approach when I get on social media...

1. Motherhood. I am going to start off by giving all of us mamas a pat on the back for caring enough for our kids. When it comes to our kids, most of us are just trying to do the best we can.

That goes for:

sleep schedules
schooling
activities
meals
care providers
wellness
life...

You name it, I've found myself questioning my sense as a mother in all aspects due to the strongly weighted posts out there. The temptation to feel judged or scrutinized or lesser of a mom is one of the BIGGEST threats to me on social media.

 I know I've posted things that are probably stumbling blocks for other moms. Who hasn't? If we think our way is best for our family, and someone else is doing it differently, then of course we are going to question ourselves. If we think a certain way is WRONG, then we have this strange urge to announce it and feed shame to our people. Meh.

God put each of us in charge of these little people we raise, and I have to remember that the criticism, pride, and my-way-is-better attitude is just not worth playing with. We're doing the best we can. Whether it be different thoughts on schooling, eating, wellness, or what technology we buy, MY HEART IS FOR MY CHILDREN over the latest method or school of thought. And I know, YOUR HEART IS FOR YOUR CHILDREN, and we cannot play the shame game when we are all on equal ground.

2. Successes. If you follow me on social media, you'll know that I am an author. And I often post stuff about my writing journey and my highs, lows, and in-betweens. I have other friends who are:

authors
artists
coaches
health specialists
exercise professionals
chefs
business owners
And a whole bunch of crazy talented you-name-its.

I often find myself editing and rewriting a post--or deleting one--because:
A. I am not as good as that next person in my shamed mind's eye,  OR
B. I know what it feels like to journey three steps behind someone else on my "dream" walk and I don't want to appear like a braggart or insensitive.

Often, I wonder if I should just get off of social media altogether because it's so easy to retaliate to the inferiority brought on by scrolling with my own puffed-up post. ACK. Yeah, I just admitted that. Be tempted to judge me? Hmmm, please say I'm not the only one.

What I have to remind myself is, first, just because I sense a certain tone in a post as something unnerving, doesn't mean that was the intent of the poster. Let's think about that for a moment.

A post's tone can be read differently than it was meant to be received. 

Maybe I shouldn't take things so seriously? Hmmm...

I've begun to look at how beautiful humanity is in our different passions and talents and journeys regardless of a silly social media post. I've found so much joy on my path to publication, and I KNOW I am not the only one who has found it, or been inspired to use a talent.

I must look through the lens of understanding, finding excitement at the unique ways God directs the talents of others. When I stop striving to show off my own successes and cheer on those who are also using their gifts and interests and talents in this life, then my temptation dies and the game is over.

3. My Relationships. There are opinions on just about everything. And even more. Yeah,

it's gotten ridiculous, hasn't it? EVERY.SINGLE.ISSUE has a pro or con post by someone. And I've written plenty of my own, believe me... (didn't we just have a virtual civil war last November? Just sayin').

The risk I run during a scroll session, is falling for the bait and forming an opinion on the spot--without research or reason, (or prayer...hmm), and then shaming others in my comment...bleh!

My favorite way to have a friendly exchange of opinions, besides face to face, has been in Messenger. That way, it's one-on-one, with respect and knowledge of previous and present relationship with that person. The shame game is over when you are two individuals sharing (usually...depending on the relationship, I guess).

HOWEVER, some things just need to be said on our walls, in our circles, whenever we can have a voice--especially when injustice is gaining momentum and the general opinion is in an uproar. We need to speak up for TRUTH when the world is clambering around in LIES and darkness. It's our job as the Salt and Light of the world...if that's our intention. A lot of times, I just want to get my opinion heard in the masses...and that's when I get wet with shame and regret, and most of all, broken relationship.

So now, I need to ask myself this...

What's my motive? 

And I MUST NOT assume the motives of others as they post.

The criticism is destructive, the temptation is thick, and if there is one thing in Twenty-First Century Culture that I could do away with, it's the Shame Game. 

How about you?