through this lens

new post on new blog!

2011-11-27T23:19:00.000-05:00

Hey friends!

If you haven't visited my new blog yet, I'd love for you to stop by...Just posted some ministry/relationship-with-God reflections (with maybe ~~four~~ five pics of my kids). You can subscribe to the new blog by entering your email address on the side margin (and don't forget to respond to the confirmation email from feedburner later!).

http://aprilmccullohs.com/first-frost

Thanks for reading and for being part of my community...

Love,

April

new blog!

2011-11-08T19:17:00.000-05:00

Hello friends,

First, thanks so much for reading and sharing this journey with me. What started out as mere accountability for myself to write more has become something very important to me, and it's all because of the surprising warmth of community I've stumbled into, out here in the blogosphere. So, thanks again for the support.

I'm super excited to share with you my new blog, one that's been under construction for some time now. It's simply: www.aprilmccullohs.com

If you're subscribed to this blog, your subscription will not transfer. You'll have to re-enter your email address and click on the confirmation link that feedburner sends you to set it up again.

Thanks for the love and support!

Warmly,

April

halloween pics and a little controversy

2011-11-01T14:06:00.000-04:00

We had fun last night.

Little One was a tiger, which my mother reminded me was my costume at one year old as well. Carter was a pirate, although he insisted on being last year's dinosaur, undeterred by the snug fit. A bribe of Mommy dressing up with him sealed the deal, and we were out the door.

Have you discovered A Deeper Story yet? It's a freeing place, a safe place where regular Christians like you and me can ask the tough questions, and then discuss them, respectfully, and with passion. You should visit sometime soon, really. The comments are soul-stirring and the conversation is, well, deep. And who doesn't care for a little Christian controversy every now and then?

Here's a snippet of today's post:

One year I was Raggedy Ann and another year I was a bunny. Mama put a set of pointy ears on my black-headed little brother, and he got to be Spock. She could whip up a costume for any of the four of us with a role of aluminum foil, a skein of yarn, and her makeup caboodle. We’re from the country and went to very few parties, but I remember Halloween parties when the adults showed that they did indeed have imaginations. I remember everybody laughing so hard, letting their kid-selves out.

Then suddenly at church they started showing videos about the dangers of secular music, and people were talking often about Devil worshipers. A visiting preacher may have done the final trick, but one day Mama and Daddy sat us all down and broke the news. No more Trick or Treating.

Continue reading at A Deeper Story

What We Made Wednesdays

2011-10-26T14:20:00.003-04:00

We get a little crafty around here at times, and it's mostly so I can have some structure to the mornings Carter's not in preschool. It's good times, these quiet mornings. Baby naps and we sit outside, creating, spilling, wiping up, just generally making messes.

But they're good messes.

And so begins my new posting series, every Wednesday. Whether in the kitchen, or on the patio, it's what we made.

Today we made thank you cards.

Carter thought this one was hilarious--he painted a pink sun, green branches, a blue tree trunk and brown flowers--his version of silly!

the stamp I used for the text

so proud!

I know family members will cherish these cards, and prefer them over store-bought. And, it reinforces the principle of gratitude and the importance of saying thank you!

What you'll need:

-any kind of paint, we used both acrylic and children's paint
-paper plates, for dollops of paint
-paper towels
-cup of water (for cleaning fingers between color changes)
-white note cards (found mine at Joann's, and used a coupon for 30% off)
-thank you stamp

happy birthday, my baby

2011-10-22T23:06:00.003-04:00

It was someone's first birthday yesterday.

And I may have gotten a bit all Sandra Lee up in this place. For the first time this calendar year, I didn't care about what guests ate [we ordered pizza], and concern for tablescapes [there's a squiggly red line under that word right now--modern English doesn't even recognize it] drove me to JoAnns for ~~three~~ four consecutive days. And while I will shamelessly confess, right here, right now, that, yes, I will be pinning my own crafty pictures up on Pinterest and I that I just might be hoping that they get the heck repinned out of them, this party really was about my precious son, Walker.

don't let the smile fool you, he was crying .01 seconds later

just a little swipe

grandparents and uncles

grandma

It was a good thing, to pause and to celebrate.

A week ago, I was swimming in angst, wondering how it could be that Walker was turning one, wondering if I had been truly present with this one, if I had been enough. With Carter, I felt like every morning was Christmas. I'd wake up, run into his room and excitedly scoop him up, flooded with the most amazing feelings. With Walker, well, it's been a bit more rocky. It's taken me longer to find my footing, to get my sea legs. After he was born, all I wanted to do was to crawl into a dark cave with him, to sleep and to nurse and to sleep some more, oblivious to the outside world and not needed by anyone.

But there was no cave for baby and me.

Another little one needed me this time and I had to be a Mommy to him too.

My marriage needed me also, and apparently, God thought my story of healing needed me as well. Unexpected issues cropped up this past year, real things that demanded focused and intentional work. But I didn't want to be needed by those things. I didn't want to be needed by anyone else. I wanted the honeymoon back, the honeymoon I got with my firstborn. Back then, my world revolved around Carter, my days and nights and naps and outings, and I felt entitled to have that with Walker. And when I realized it would be different this time, resentment lighted on my soul and stayed for a while.

My world, my landscape, had changed and so would have to my expectations.

When the demands of motherhood quickly revealed to me that the days would not belong solely to the baby, I determined that the nights would. Baby Wise stayed in the garage, unmarked and unreferenced this time around. I didn't care about sleep scheduling--he'd sleep through the night soon enough and I decided that when he cried, I'd answer him. I rocked this one to sleep some nights and held him longer, maybe even spoiling him, as the threat goes, but I needed to be close. The nights were ours and he slept in my bed those first several weeks, against the AAP's recommendations, where I could see him, hear him, nurse him and hold him.

I found ways to steal back the wonder.

It went too fast this time, too. With Carter, I was anticipating every benchmark, every milestone. I knew exactly what he should be doing at exactly what point in his development. With Walker, I just let him be a baby and when he rolled over at ~~two~~ three months, I thought,

Well, that was early...Wait, was that early?

Baby Wise was still in the garage.

So he rolled over, and then he scooted at five months and then he crawled and stood and signed "more" and said mama [only when he cries] and dada [always when he hears the door chime] and started sleeping through the night at ten months and learned to pull his diaper off last week, all the while endearing a three year old and almost-thirty year old to him, awakening the Mama Bear in me like no other with every, "isn't he a bit small for his age?" comment at the grocery store.

And then he turned one.

Just like that.

There's no stopping this trajectory of life and no stopping this force of time that keeps rolling forward, with or without our permission, unaffected by our readiness or lack of it.

And so I stop and wonder, God, was I truly present?

And for the moments I was not enough, can you, will you be, please?

I don't expect perfection of myself, as a mom. Just as I aim to love my children with a pure and selfless love, fully aware of how far I fall short, I also rest in the comfort that God can, and will, use my failures to show himself to these boys.

I aim for love, and not perfection, and pray that God fills in the gaps.

But every now and then, something will get under my skin and I'll stay up four nights in a row till college-late hours painting white pom poms because they weren't sold in green, hot gluing brown pipe cleaners to caterpillar heads, gluing, cutting, scrapping, baking, piping,

because sometimes, you need tangible proof that you do enough for the second kid. Sometimes, love stops everything and puts life on hold for several days so that your son's first birthday can be called special by you, by your camera, by the memory you'll forever hold.

I love you, Walker.

Happy First Birthday.

jeans and jean ladies

2011-10-15T14:40:00.000-04:00

This whole childbearing thing does a number on your wardrobe. There are entire bins in my garage of I've-Put-On-A-Little-But-We-Haven't-Announced-Yet clothes, the Yes-I'm-Pregnant clothes, and then there are the I-Swear-It's-Not-Twins clothes, which are really just two pairs of sweats because you're hibernating at this point, praying to not be another day overdue. By the time you can fit back into your pre-preggo clothes, it's been a while, entire seasons have passed, and styles have changed.

And the re-entrance to the world of fashion can be a bit shocking to the system.

Apparently, while I was focused on getting enough DHA for two, waddling after a rambunctious toddler, having a baby without drugs, googling "symptoms of post-partum depression," diving into an obsession with hippie food, and transitioning to motherhood of two children,

some things

out there

have changed.

Like socks, for instance.

They can be fluorescent now. And they can conspicuously peek through sandals, over boots, or over shoes that are not called shoes, they're called shooties. Target told me so.

And nothing is supposed to match, which really throws me off because how do I know if it works, or not? Are the colors in my outfits mismatching enough? How do we measure these things now?

I finally got on board with skinny jeans, right before Little One implanted himself in my uterus. Two years later, I'm back in the jeans market and

flares are back.

Flares? That's so 1995, which was a throwback then to 1975.

[Is that the point?]

It's a brave new world out there, and the water's cold.

Two days ago, I ventured out to the mall, determined that the Two Reasons I had detoured from the fun of dressing up would hold me back no longer, plus I had a new jogging stroller to try out.

A double jogging stroller.

I could only get so far back into Baby Gap before I started knocking down hot pink backpacks, which was a clear sign that I needed to go to Mommy Gap to find new jeans. I was a bit optimistic and should have held my guard up, at least a bit longer. Shopping for jeans, especially when hips have been stretched and shrunk and re-stretched should be regarded with trepidation.

Eight no's later, I tried to sneak through the men's section to avoid the overeager sales associate that could speak GapJeans as if it were a second language. She found me, cut me off between cardigans and hoodies.

"So, nothing worked?"

"Well," I stammered, "I wasn't really a fan of the fit."

"The fit of all of them?"

"They were just...really skinny. Like, really tight. Too tight for me."

[Could I play off some conservative card here? Surely, she wouldn't counter that.]

"Well, you know, they stretch throughout the day. "

And then she went into her morning routine, the shower, the jeans fresh from the dryer waiting for her on the stool, the hair regimen, the necessary calisthenics to get the jeans on, and then

"by the time I walk out the door, they're perfect.

After all, you don't want saggy bottom jeans, do you? Next thing you know, Stacy and Clinton will be sitting you down and you'll be on What Not to Wear."

And that's what she did, friends. She pulled the trump card, the consummate fashion nightmare--

she threatened me with What Not To Wear.

What she should have known, though, is that I've had two kids. And that while this transition to motherhood of two, along with this dabbling in PPD, this obsessive compulsion I have with organic food, this mad crazy husband I'm addicted to, this Jesus-life I have deep inside my belly, this stretching and shrinking of an every-changing, childbearing body--while these are the very reasons I have just one pair of decent jeans to my name,

they are also are the very reasons someone who speaks, and threatens, in GapJeans for a living can no longer intimidate me.

I smiled, no-thanked-you, and awkwardly wheeled my monstrosity of a stroller around the scarfed mannequins and I was onto the next store, will resolute, new-jeans-mission still standing.

It was the first attempt in a long time, treading these unfamiliar waters of What to Wear, and while the perfect pair of jeans may still allude me, I was happy to come home with the discovery of something even better:

those Store Ladies don't scare me anymore.

just perfect

2011-10-02T22:44:00.000-04:00

Some weekends,you get up early and everyone's ready to go and you spend an hour at the Home Depot buying stuff for your dream veggie garden.

Some weekends, you come back home and babies nap real long and you get dirty with your little buddy outside, digging up sod.

Some weekends, Auburn plays better than expected and pulls out a win for the husband.

Some weekends, everything you're in charge of at church goes well and you're not stressed, friends are hugged, new friends are made, and God gets the attention he deserves.

Some weekends, you walk outside and decide it's too nice to be cooking at home and you pack up the boys, walk to a nearby restaurant, practice juggling invisible things,

watch your boys entertain each other,

and just generally enjoy life and the ones you love.

Some weekends are just perfect.

the here and now

2011-09-30T15:58:00.001-04:00

sun streams through disheveled blinds and i really should be cleaning now, not writing.

but the quiet, the quiet beckons and whispers that this moment belongs to words and not to dishes or counters or even bills. little lizard scampers across the screen, sun illuminating opaque body, and he pauses, barely long enough to cast his silhouette over the crumbles that rest on the obliging floors.

these floors, whose grout needs scrubbing and spots need rubbing. these floors, so pious from regular baptisms of cheerios, of kefir smoothies, of sticky banana and what's-left-of-our-art-projects. these floors, whose sweeping delays so much and i swear that twice a day is never enough. they only hold us up, these floors, and yet their state of cleanliness can manipulate my peace like no other. i fight the inward cursing when bare feet detect a foreign substance and the questions begin. what was that--the milk i only wiped up, but didn't yet mop? did baby spit up and i didn't notice?

instead of letting these floors hold us up, and nothing more than that, i let them indicate how well, or how poorly and i am in control of my life.

i can submit to the rhythm and routine, and realize that these floors will require extra attention for as long as they are hosting little ones. but wouldn't it be lovely if they were relegated to a more realistic status?

wouldn't it be freeing if these floors were just that--floors. nothing more than tiles and wood upon which we walk,

nothing more than a prop against the backdrop of the real living that goes on around here?

promises I can keep

2011-09-26T00:13:00.000-04:00

Maybe it was that only 24 hours earlier he had broken his collar bone.

Maybe it was that we were both tired, our hearts drained from bearing the pain, one physical burden and the other, emotional.

Whatever the reason, tonight our spirits were raw, less entertained by our usual banter, slough scraped clear. Exposed.

It was late and I was driving Carter home. At an intersection we stopped and he pierced my thought-wanderings with this one:

Mommy, if you were here and you were lost and crying for me, I would come and find you.

I looked around, black soup of night surrounding, anonymous, strange cars circling, and I absorbed the fear a little one might have of this place, of this time.

How brave, my little boy, promises of rescue to his mother.

I thought I should reciprocate, try and channel his imagination away from fear and towards the security he deserves.

Carter, if you were here and you were lost, Daddy and I would come and find you and bring you home, too.

The promise did not redirect his emotions. Instead, he kept going, and I listened as the conditional turned to preterite, as the hypothetical ballooned into a vision of something that happened, that was happening even then.

Yeah, I was lost and I was crying and yelling your name and you were looking for me, and I was crying and calling for you, Mommy.

And all the Mommy in me wanted to squelch this thing, these exhausted words slipping out from a wounded body that needed nothing more than a warm bed. But there was a caution in my spirit, a holy pause that said I should speak nothing more than the truth, even in my comfort,

that I should not make promises I cannot keep.

So I did not tell him he would never get lost, that we would never be apart.

Carter, if you were lost, Daddy and I would search and search and search until we found you. We would not stop until we had you, baby.

But, Carter, even if I am not with you, God is with you. Always, Carter. And he cares for you and will never leave you.

It was a tough thing, stopping to sit down in the middle of his terrible fantasy, long enough to feel the presence of every mother's nightmare. My stomach churns even as I write this. But it was important to me, establishing this difference. It was important to distinguish between the stuff of prayers and the stuff of promise.

My prayer is that my sons will never get lost in a mall or a dark place, will never rebel, will never lose faith. My prayer is that they never feel the cold winds of loneliness, the harsh stings of rejection, that they never feel insecure or unsafe.

But I know this world. And I know what's not guaranteed.

So I will declare the promises, and I will plead the prayers.

I can promise that I will never stop searching, that I will always be on my way. My legs, my words, my heart, every spiritual and physical resource I have will always be running in the direction of my sons.

And I can promise that God is always with them. That he is the Immovable Constant, the Almighty Eagle under whose wings we are sheltered.

I know, too well, which protections we are not guaranteed. And I know, even better, what resurrection life looks like, deep inside the heart of a ransomed child, in the soul of one finally come home, rescued from her own lost wanderings, to the heart of Father God.

It was probably too deep, and most likely a result of ragged nerves, but we spoke truth tonight.

I pray he won't remember this conversation, that it'll be water under the bridge and we'll continue on our blissful journey of discovering the beauty and wonder of life.

But if ever a night draws near, if years pass and his heart loses his way, I pray he will hear the promise, that it will lead him back to Truth.

God is with you, Carter, and we are coming for you.

Always in pursuit,

just as Love has never stopped his pursuit of us.

at day's end

2011-09-11T21:51:00.000-04:00

You've busied yourself with your work,

it's important stuff, these tasks you carry,

and I see you, doing your best to balance relationships and responsibilities,

and you hide your face when attempts fall short.

Sometimes you feel you've succeeded with it all,

and sometimes, you just want to quit.

I see you, there, oh busy one.

But at the end of the day, come home to Me. Find your way back to My presence, rest your head against my chest, and breathe deep the rest I alone can give.

Psalm 131

¹ My heart is not proud, LORD,
   my eyes are not haughty;
I do not concern myself with great matters
   or things too wonderful for me.
² But I have calmed and quieted myself,
   I am like a weaned child with its mother;
   like a weaned child I am content.

³ Israel, put your hope in the LORD
both now and forevermore.

braver and bolder than this

2011-09-09T20:50:00.000-04:00

Driving home yesterday, I thought about something that got me a little miffed.

And the more I thought about it, with the passing through each toll, the more I became comfortable in my discontent towards my husband. Strike after strike added up against him, until I had worked myself into an angry state.

By the time I got home, bless his heart, I had had an entire argument with him, in my head, and

he had no idea what was going on.

"Are you mad at me?"

He caught on to the not-so-subtle attitude that followed every action, every inflection of my voice.

"Yep."

I replied.

"Care to let me in on it?"

And I knew, right there, that I had no real case to present. The minor infraction that had originally set me off was inconsequential. But by the time Neal confronted me, I had settled into the negative churning in my soul. There was no traction here--I didn't search for my anger's source to find the truth of the matter; I had simply stalled out.

And can I just be honest?

It felt good to be angry.

I can see how people stay this way--anger slips around the senses, creating a buffer between conscience and action, between self-evaluation and speech, fortified by pride in its agenda to keep you in the right, no matter what.

I felt empowered, I felt in control, and I stayed this way for longer than I'd care to admit.

The thing about settling into anger instead of working through it is that it doesn't make for a good night's sleep, it doesn't make for a good morning before work, and it sure doesn't set you up for good conversations at dinner.

Yes.

Dinner.

Tonight.

I had settled that long.

Finally, I repented, only after being prompted by a patient husband. And even then, I was only half sincere. I found myself still grasping for some illusive reason, something floating out there that might, at the last second, justify my piggish state. It was a bare-bones apology, skeletal in words, with no real conviction to bulk it up. But by the time I had put the boys down and had time to relinquish my pride, I had figured out what my true apology was all about.

"Neal,

what I did was cheap.

If I had had a real complaint, or something genuinely wrong to bring up with you,

then I should have been braver and bolder than the tantrum I just threw.

I'm sorry."

Because that's what real marriage requires.

Two partners, braver and bolder than selfish retreats to anger, fighting hard to draw closer,

leaving behind lines drawn in the sand.

the blessing and the response

2011-08-17T15:42:00.000-04:00

We sit together, he, not quite reaching the table and I, with our bowls full of lunch before us. The three year old reaches for a piece of curly pasta and my hand stops it before it enters his mouth.

"Carter, we always have to pray before we eat."

"Why?"

"Because..."

I feel my theology start to wobble.

"Because God has given us this food. Because not everyone has food like this and we need to tell God we're thankful for it."

It was simple enough for him. He can accept things because-I-say-so, most of the time. My words don't have to earn their authority or be tested for accuracy.

But not so with me, with this wrestling spirit of mine.

(Sometimes) I don't know why we are to thank God for our food.

(Sometimes) I wander along the trail a three year old's questioning might follow. If God has given us this food, and there are hungry children in Africa, then does that mean that God is not giving them food?

I don't stay there for long, though. I've worked through that one before, and phrases like "free will" and "fallen world" have helped me to land in a place I feel is theologically accurate, and simultaneously heartbreaking.

We have food, but that doesn't mean that God favors us over them.

They don't have food, but that doesn't mean God loves them any less.

I wrestle with the word blessed because, too often, it's used as a justification to do nothing.

"We are just so blessed"

grates on my over-analytical, hypersensitive, prone-to-guilt nerves

because I can't help but hear, over the cadence of those words,

we are favored,

we are chosen, and

[we'll never say this aloud]

we just might deserve this, this food, these blessings.

Carter and I thank God for our food. And I do believe He is the Giver of all things good.

But when thoughts turn to South Africa and her devastating drought, or to Somolia and her outbreak of cholera,

I refuse to quiet the discomfort with pithy phrases of passivity. My status of plenty and the African mother's status of destitution are merely starting points, one could argue, assigned to us by God. But that's all they are--starting points--and nothing in scripture affirms that I am to use my status of

blessed

to justify doing nothing.

We thank God for our food.

And then we pray for Hawi, in Nigeria, that his health improves. Carter prays for Toussant, in Haiti, that God would help her to find her parents. We send them money. And we look at globes and talk of hungry bellies and sharing and the stuff of empathy.

I am humbled when I look at my bowl of pasta.

And I don't feel as much blessed as I do responsible.

What will I do with my plenty? What will I do with my blessings? Can I break away long enough from my love-affair with stuff to hear the quiet whispers of the Spirit,

calling me,

beckoning me,

to gaze into the eyes of my invisible sisters,

to extend my hand, across the wide divide between my plenty and their nothing,

to have faith, to believe that

my pursuit of fashion and materialistic trappings is nothing more than a fleeting mirage

and that these women,

I may never meet them,

are more real than I know.

Our starting points may be worlds apart indeed,

but before each meal, with the utterance of each simple child's prayer, with each pause between impulse and purchase, and with every effort to not become calloused by the overwhelming need,

may our ending points become closer and closer

until one woman's plenty

and another woman's nothing

meet

and the Giver of good things is praised.

if I were anonymous

2011-08-04T14:39:00.000-04:00

I've struggled with this blogging deal lately {if two or three months can be considered "lately"}

and the best way I can describe my feelings towards blogging is

soured.

There's risk, I know, when one decides to write about her past, about secrets most hold tight to their chests. And there's risk when you share your deep-seated convictions about God or motherhood.

But I surprised myself a few months ago when a well-intentioned email made its way to my inbox in response to one of my posts, winning the prize for being the most {to date} off-based judgment of me, and it hurt. I thought, by now, I was impervious to that kind of pain.

But I'm not.

I'm still very much human.

That wound has put a {pause} between thought and typescript, between what's deep inside and what shows up on screen.

It's made me wonder what I would write about if I were anonymous, without the risk of rejection from

sharing too much,

getting too deep,

taking the stance too controversial,

or too narrow-minded.

What would it be like to write without hesitation, without the haunting presence of my invisible audience, hovering over shoulders, whispering and reacting as I click, click, click on the keyboard, and there goes the [backspace]

~~[and we strike a sentence or post or four]~~

for fear of being misunderstood, for fear of rejection, for fear of falling flat in this

alternate network or writers, of sojourners, of friends and strangers whose search engines and links and blogrolls find us each at each others cyber-place.

If I were anonymous,

I would write about my struggles in ministry, about the disillusionment and discouragement my husband I and have to work through.

If I were anonymous,

I would write more about how I wrestle with this becoming the mother,

and the requisite laying down of dreams,

the fear of losing myself to sippy cups forever, and the Resentment I feel sometimes, followed by her bestie, Guilt.

If I were anonymous,

I would write about how I still, how I will always, wrestle with the stuff I have, the life I have, the comfort that is 7,128 miles away from destitution, injustice, rape, and oppression; 7,128 miles away from the mothers who cannot feed their babies in Sudan.

Until I can come up with courage, or the justification, to write about these things that press on my soul, I may not be able to find the middle ground. I've crossed a threshold, one that craves an honest answer and less platitudes, one that demands that what I write is in sync with the state of my soul.

My soul is wrestling right now; my heart has been quieted.

And so may fall this blog, for a time.

Because the truth is, no one can have both the comfort of community and the license of anonymity. What we write and say and do has impact, both in our daily lives and here, in front of these screens.

So, I must sieve and sort and thresh these forces, this Self-Protection and this Authenticity, as they drive at each other, fighting for the better part of me.

I will find a way to write, with conviction,

just as I am,

to write as if I were anonymous fully knowing I am not.

free healing resources!

2011-07-17T14:38:00.008-04:00

Last January, I got up on stage at church and shared my story of healing from sexual abuse

{it's on the side bar of this blog}.

I should have known that with the current stat's on abuse--1 in 4 women and 1 in 6 men-- this would hit home for many, many people.

But I was still surprised,

shocked,

devastated,

when the emails came pouring in.

It's one thing to come to terms with a number, with a percentage; it's an entirely different thing

to hear the details,

to relive the heartache,

to assign a broken heart and a beautiful soul to each story that claims

it happened to me, too.

So, I threw together some resources that have helped me on my healing journey and created a new page on my blog dedicated to practical steps the sojourner can take towards soul-health.

I'm so PUMPED to share that a couple of the resources are being offered for free, right now!

Mary DeMuth's audio series, Get Past the Past, is awesome. The principles she offers are universal to each person's healing journey and yet, she still seems so personal. It's a series of 6 podcasts that I paid $30 for.

You can subscribe to her ezine and get all of them for free!

She's also offering her 95-page ebook Live Uncaged when you sign up for her ezine as well.

So, what's holding you back??

Healing resources + Free = Get started TODAY!

I love ya'll, I believe in you,

April

after the long silence, a guest post by my mother

2011-07-14T21:29:00.000-04:00

My mom is my hero.

she's pretty, too

Thirty-six years ago, she made a courageous, counter-cultural decision when one too many pink lines appeared on the tell-tale stick. She was only two years distanced from Roe vs. Wade, and one year from graduation, and yet she bravely chose to carry her daughter and then place her in the arms of a loving couple that couldn't conceive on their own. Hers joins the ranks of stories seeping with beauty and heartache, of stories that speak of One who can redeem all.

Here's a bit from her latest post. Click on the link below to read the rest of her beautiful story...

Music to My Ears

Sometimes it doesn't matter what a loved one is saying. Just the mere sound of their voice and their near presence is enough.

Like Whitney Houston's 80's song, So Emotional where she sings,

"When you talk I just watch your mouth. "

Rather, "When you talk I just hear the sounds."

It could be a spouse taking time to converse. It could be a child, grown or small recounting seemingly insignificant bits of their day. Or an old friend dredging up shared histories; bringing to life experiences that seemed all but buried and forgotten.

In this case, it was the sound of her 36 year old voice. Lost once for 33 years, then lost for 3, and back again last week. Hearing her voice on the other end of the phone was truly...

Music to my ears.

click here to continue reading...

happy father's day

2011-06-19T21:02:00.000-04:00

he's goofy

he's tender

he's hands-on

he's playful

he's their Daddy and I couldn't have hoped for a better father to my sons

how's the healing going?

2011-05-31T23:06:00.001-04:00

We meet early.

Like, 5:55 a.m., pillow wrinkles still embedded in cheeks, did-you-sleep-at-all-last-night? early.

We grab our coffee and head to my patio, books tucked under arm, my baby's monitor in hand. And before the sun rises to reveal backyard toys, overgrown grass and the latest art project drying and draped over a chair,

we begin to talk of healing.

My friend, my dear friend of A Thousand Sorry's, and I are reading and working through Dan Allender's book and workbook, The Wounded Heart. We're completing one chapter a week and then we meet to talk about what we wrote, what we reflected on, and a ~~few~~ hundred other diversions equally important. Like, how our history of abuse plays out in our marriages. How it plays out in unhealthy coping mechanisms and serious character flaws. How we hope to change, but can't seem to. For my friend and I, Dan Allender's material has been good on an individual basis, but used between two friends or in a group, it's exponentially more powerful.

Our times of meeting have become a place of safety, a place of deep soul confession and insight, a place that welcomes the Spirit of truth to stop in, settle down and rest a minute and then lead us to places flesh cannot go. And it's been good.

So, my dear friends, I'd love to ask you--

how's your healing going?

What are you doing to pursue wholeness? What steps are you taking on your journey?

That's all I got!

I'd love to hear from you, I really would.

Irish Jesus, suburban Jesus

2011-05-27T22:57:00.002-04:00

We quietly walked into the store, could be we made up half its occupants. We browsed the CDs, recognizing none of the artists, and then we headed to the back where a greying man with a scruff that begged scratchy grandpa kisses recommended we pick up David Grey's White Ladder album if we were wanting something distinct and upandcoming and native to this land.

It was just barely 2000, fog rolling over the grey dates of March, and we were in Ireland.

So HighSchoolFriend and I purchased the CD, boarded the tour bus that held the rest of our chorus group, that held too many freshmen boys who cared nothing of this emerald country, her history and sounds, her people nervous about transitioning to the Euro, her smog-filled streets of Dublin,

her enchantment.

We finished our sight seeing that day, exchanged full rolls of film for fresh ones, hoping for pictures in focus, pictures that captured Tim singing Oh Danny Boy with 90 year old native on the side of the road, pictures of sheep spray-painted fluorescent colors demarcating ownership, pictures of the brown lamb scooped up in my arms, coastal cliffs in blurry background, and we then piled into our modern hotel that promised the next century would be oh-so-cool.

And the reason we bought a CD that day was to use the trendy CD player installed in our hotel room.

The rest of the stay, those next four days, David Grey sang to us, morning and night, while rising and makeuping, while choosing whattowear, and then while peeling the day's adventure away for a night's rest.

Ireland now had her soundtrack, a musical accoutrement to her sights and impressions, to her faces and foods, to the adventures she'd lend me. And beyond those literal moments, these songs created memory space around the girl I was, the woman I was becoming.

The soul searches for continuity, for something that can tie the stories of a bright-eyed seventeen year old to the stories of a (happily) tired mother of two.

And I see some constants, some, against the glaring changes of eleven years. The heart is more weathered, pangs of disillusionment have replaced naivete. The heart is more full, loneliness and longing replaced by the friendship and love of one breathtaking man. And the heart is the same, still breaking away from common paths to discover hidden ones, still getting lost along the way, still craving silence and nature and horse rides over shopping, early morning runs to castles over sleeping in.

But the most constant thing between my present and my Ireland is not David Grey, is not my stories, is not the aspects of my personality unchanged.

The tie between then and now is Jesus.

He was there with me on that tallest mountain, fog rolled in, whispering through wisps of hair the glory of risk as we scaled the cliff, trail long lost. He was as oxygen as we traveled through humble villages, infusing me with an excitement to breathe it all in, with an invitation to revel in the majesty of rolling hills, of freckled faces, of the diversity of creation. He was with me when I shared my story with my hotel roommate, making for a total of five who knew then, inviting me to ministry, to love, to scrape away false strength in exchange for vulnerability, even when healing's not complete, and only just begun.

And Jesus, the same Jesus who met me on the mountain, who met me in the streets and in the pub, whose presence held me tight even on that hormone-filled, obnoxiously immature tour bus, is the Jesus of Here and Now.

The adventure is not as sensational, no one begs to see the scrapbook of a stay-at-home-mom whose days are filled with cooking and playing and reading and nursing, but the risk, the love of life, and the ministry are all open invitations still standing, still calling me to answer.

It's different now, it sure is different.

But He's not.

God of Ireland, God of now, you are my constant,

you are the continuity of my story.

You are Jesus, the same yesterday, today and forever.

my husband has married eight other people

2011-05-13T23:50:00.000-04:00

That is, he's performed four marriage ceremonies.

You were thinking we went all Big Love, weren't you?

I thought for all my ranting about becoming a pastor's wife, I should share with you one of the highlights--

my husband gets to marry people.

Tonight we spent two hours with a couple, the guy we've known for years. We had met him fresh out of his divorce, still reeling from the pain and the let down. He impressed us with his goat-cheese-and-raspberry-relish-stuffed-pastries that he brought to our home team Monday nights, immediately placing himself in high demand. And she? She's too cute. Like, cupcake cute. As in, could-there-be-anything-wrong-with-you cute? They're both PA's. They both love Jesus. They have a great story.

So, they came over tonight to talk wedding details, but I had a better plan.

I decided to test their working relationship right here in our home. So I sliced my right index finger. Bad. Blood-splatter-on-the-wall bad. Just as they were on their way over.

So the first twenty minutes of our time together consisted of them, literally working hand in hand, stitching up a profusely bleeding digit.

{I let Carter watch and his first words were, "Mommy, I'm so very proud of you!" Enter heart-melt-age here.}

They were even cute then, with their medical suture jargon, her debating steri-strips or gauze?

So, one "U-stitch" later, we sat down with coffee and leftover goat cake

this is what I get for ordering raw milk and generally going crazy about food for three months

and talked

wedding

vows

procession

honeymoon plans

kids-in-the-future?

work stress

anticipation

worry

love.

And Neal gets a front-row seat. We get the privilege of being brought in close, close enough to pray, close enough to listen,

close enough to rejoice.

God is doing good things, even now.

Two friends, four cups of coffee, and one bandaged finger later is proof.

on dreams deferred

2011-05-12T07:32:00.000-04:00

When asked as a child what I wanted to be when I grew up, I didn’t answer this.

When thoughts turned to words scribbled in hot pink journals, I didn’t pen this.

When dreams manifested as goals, as steps to take, as a path to follow, I didn’t chose this.

But God did.

My husband is a pastor.

And I am a pastor’s wife.

I saw us Somewhere Else when my husband and I were just dating, just dreamers, when the world lay before us. He would go into business and my calling was advocacy—I would become the next Erin Brockovich, or Mother Teresa, or Condoleeza Rice. I would fight and bleed and give voice to those who had none. My major, my networking, our move, it all lined up with my dream and my husband fully supported me.

And then God called him.

I was there.

Right beside him, Bible hugged to chest, bare toes digging through matted apartment carpet. Something inside him broke, some hidden current, nameless and unsuspecting. The dam burst forth and he wept and dreams and desires found words and labels and a way to rise to the surface and become part of the conversation.

And as if we were part of some holy cosmic game, people and opportunities aligned within months, without our doing. A mighty hand maneuvered us to the place of vocational ministry,

serving the local church,

pastor and pastor’s wife.

I wrestled and I surrendered. It was no new thing, this request by God to lay down my Isaac for his will. I had seen it, lived it, before so I knew the drill. I would fight him. I would cry. I would submit.

And then I’d know the fellowship of obedience.

The fellowship that is sweeter than any passion that pulses through my veins, more real than the dark children who call my name from across the sea, from across the socio-economic lines of our city.

I’m learning now that my heart was probably too soured by prejudice towards white, middle-class suburbia to be of good use to a loving God. I’m learning that I had infused my God-given dreams with a prideful agenda and had made them about me and the identity I so desperately wanted.

I’m learning how to love those who look like me, who have no physical need, whose wounds are deep and hidden, whose façades of perfection are convincing and deceptive. I’m learning how to discern and meet the needs of my family, of my community. I’m experiencing the thrill, the rich satisfaction, of the journey towards selfless.

I’m a pastor’s wife and I’m walking in the footsteps of another person’s dream.

But my God is good.

My God is here.

And knowing him in this is better than the fulfillment of something forced, something worked out by the determination of my independent will.

Years ago, I would be expecting God to intervene and make a way for me. Years ago, I would be watching the clock, impatiently holding up my end of the bargain, expecting the reward of what I’ve claimed to come my way. But I know better now.

God owes me nothing.

Not even my dreams.

because I want my son to know where food comes from; because I want my son to delight in the Creator

2011-05-10T23:01:00.000-04:00

the pony's name was Alabama (we believe that stands for Auburn, AL)

"is that a horse?"

goat got her head stuck in the fence

the kiss--his idea


two seconds later, mouth full of dirt

ballet and body and numbers

2011-05-07T10:29:00.000-04:00

Dear Ballet Teacher of '96,

I remember you, I remember then so clearly.

We submissively pulled pepto bismal pink tights over our expanding thighs and took solace in the fact that everyone else looked this silly, this naked, too. The maroon leotard was was ribbed and covered our bottoms but its shelf was no help for girls who were growing, who were becoming women, one awkward stretch at a time.

You were small, you were so small and the mirrors that shot our images across the room and back would not let us forget that. And as we plied and releved and ront de jambed at the barre we hoped we were becoming stronger, more beautiful, and maybe someday we could go en pointe like the real dancers next door.

And then one evening, at barre, you told us your number.

You told us how much you weighed.

And for girls like us, girls whose bodies were changing, wrapped in unforgiving elastic, set in front of tall mirrors, a number like that did not help.

Did you know that girls like us lived by numbers?

Did you know that girls like us lied and told our friends we were vegetarians so no one would second guess our order of salad, no dressing, at McDonald's?

Did you know that girls like us counted everything--the calories, the meals, the portion sizes, each digit on the scale?

Girls like us didn't know then that your petite frame and five-foot-one stature played into your low number. We didn't know that you ate meat and fat and actually enjoyed your food, guilt free. We didn't know we were beautiful, our different builds and sizes, and that health did not have to be defined by

your frame,

your body,

your low, low number.

I'm guessing you had no idea what girls like us were going through.

But I do, now.

And I will never disclose my number. Words like "skinny" and "thin" will not pair with compliments meant to build up another girl. I will use my words about myself, about others, to emphasize the value of the soul, of sparkling eyes, or spunk and spirit. And maybe about funky, delicious shoes.

But for me, no talk of numbers.

I've played the game before,

and no one wins.

it's the little kisses

2011-05-04T14:13:00.002-04:00

I almost rolled my eyes.

Not at the mentor who was counseling me with marital wisdom, but at the actual advice.

And when he comes home, I stop what I'm doing and I go give him a hug and a kiss.

I was twenty-two, newly married, and I had read the books, had done the counseling and the courses and had been at this thing for ~~ten~~ eleven months.

Seriously.

I needed to be told to greet my husband when he came home?

We were pro's. We had this thing down. We could start our own counseling practice, we were so freakin' awesome at being married.

And then familiarity set in. The newness wore off. Actual, salaried, you-could-get-fired-if-you-don't-take-this-seriously kinds of jobs, with the stress they generated, came into play.

Oh, and kids.

Shouldn't forget we had kids.

So, seven anniversaries, two pregnancies, five moves, eleven hairstyles, six cars, ~~seventy, eighty,~~ a hundred {?} fights, and a hundred and one make-up's after that conversation, her words still haunt me.

They catch me, soapy hands in sink, when I hear the door open and I think,

           Carter will play with him. Just let me finish loading the dishwasher.

They catch me, tired body on sofa, baby in arms, and I justify,

           He'll walk around the corner any minute now.

They catch me, evening routine already in full swing, and I reason that

          I can just smile now and kiss his cheek in a minute.

But I'm wrong about that. About the just-let-me-get-this-done-first business. My husband is my love. He's the one I chose to build my future, my family, with. He's the man I respect the most, the only person on earth with whom I am to work out the weighty mystery of marital covenant.

He's more than a room-mate, more than a break from my kids, more than an extra set of hands to help me get my stuff done.

He is my husband, and love is my first charge.

My mentor was right. And her tidbit of marital advice was much harder than I expected.

It's the get-up-and-greet-him hug when he comes home, it's the {every night} goodnight kiss, it's the saying I Love You before hanging up the phone.

It's the little gestures in the hello's and goodbye's of life that keep us kind, that keep us closer to the honor and deference and priority that our spouses should have. They tell us that we are not as busy as we think we are, that our agendas can rest a minute, that simple celebration is more important than uninterrupted task.

It's not complicated, it's not sexy, but it sure requires me to lay myself aside for a moment. Who knew, after all these years, my mentor's words would ring true? Who knew I'd be preachin' that

it's the little kisses.

the beauty, the wound, the comfort

2011-05-01T18:44:00.000-04:00

I just read about my writer-friend's miscarriage. She compared her soul to a frail origami crane, yearning for release from the pain, fly to heaven, where she can hold and never let go. She wrote of the failure of not being able to bear, to bring forth the life that began inside.

And I think about another blogger who recently wrote about her abortion, about the humility that comes from knowing she was the one who ended the miracle. About the pain, about the inescapable longing to hold the one she said goodbye to. (She writes of forgiveness and healing and hope, too.)

I think of one of my heroes who got pregnant in high school and courageously chose to carry her child, while culture screamed 'abort,' and to then place her baby in the arms of a couple who would raise her. I think of her pain, of her regret, even in the face of choosing right, of her longing to know the one she birthed.

And another, so many others, who silently pray and hope and suffer and try again to conceive. Who receive sterile words for conditions, for procedures, for tests, from doctors in sterile rooms, all the while, hearts bleeding inside.

Then there is the motherhood--come after the waiting, and for some, it doesn't ever come. The motherhood is beautiful and it is worth the stretch marks and the labor and the sleeplessness and sacrifice. But if refuses to be the escape from pain. It holds its own weaknesses, its own regrets and failures, its own reasons to feel incapable and unworthy. It breeds its own kind of burden, one that causes divisions and sects and labels for different kinds of mothers, all fighting to make good decisions for their children, all fighting to stave off the guilt monsters.

And I wonder what makes it so difficult to be a woman.

Why a mother of five healthy children can still be plagued by her abortion decades past, why the mother of one adorable daughter still pangs inside when she sees a stroller past and her womb reverberates with emptiness, why a working mom feels less for not staying home,

why a stay-at-home mom feels guilt for dreading Monday, when the husband leaves and she knows she'll probably despise the pleas to play with the preschooler, to fill that juice cup just one more time?

We're insatiable, we women.

We who give life and love, we who nourish bellies and nurture souls, we want so much.

We want beauty and health for the ones we love, we want security and safety, and to know that we can do this thing, this being a woman, this becoming the mother, and do it well. And we don't want the pain, the guilt, the failure, and the uncertainty. But it all comes, it surely comes, wrapped in the promise, embedded in the cells of the embryo twisting deep inside the womb.

I wonder why this had to be our curse, why longing to contain and bring forth life became so closely intertwined with our identities. Becoming Mother is our power, our pride, and maybe God saw its mystery, its majesty, and considered how it might render unchecked in a fallen world. Maybe the wound of motherhood is a wooing of sorts, an invitation to fellowship with the One who started this whole giving life thing. He, after all, knows the pain of losing a child, the burden of raising rebellious ones, the grief of laboring, of carrying the promise of life, only to see it refuse to come to fruition.

I hear these stories and I am humbled. Stories of women who aborted, who adopted, who lost, who bore many, and I am filled with a new resolve to judge less, to carry mercy in my thoughts towards all.

Motherhood is beautiful, but it is no escape from pain. And with the tears, no matter what the source, the quieted will hear a whisper from the very soul of Mother God,

to come close,

to grieve together,

to rest on the bosom of the One who knows.

"For this is what the LORD says:

   'I will extend peace to her like a river,
   and the wealth of nations like a flooding stream;
you will nurse and be carried on her arm
   and dandled on her knees.
As a mother comforts her child,
   so will I comfort you...'" Isaiah 66:12,13

Religious Bullies, or, April in Wackoland

2011-04-12T00:09:00.008-04:00

My little guy has been watching Mickey Mouse for the past two years. Who can blame him? Mickey is cute and non-threatening. The plots are pointless and the colors are garishly bright. It's got just the right amount of preschool-stuff to appease his attention span.

Somewhere between the fifth and thirty-fifth episodes we've watched together, something started

to

bother

me.

Pete the Cat is a bully.

And Mickey totally enables him.

With a chuckle and a gosh-gee and a let's-find-a-mousketool, Mickey Mouse cowers to Pete's ridiculous demands every. single. time. Recently, Carter’s attentions have turned to another Disney character, Jake, who actually stands up to his bullies every single time. Thank God for progress in the world of cartoons.

I had an encounter with a bully last week.

A religious bully.

I was perusing the aisles of Whole Foods, soaking up every ounce of silence while the kids played at Grandma's house. As I pushed my cart towards the baking aisle, a man headed the opposite direction passed by me and would have been totally anonymous but for the fact that he muttered loud enough to be heard:

Read the Bible.

No eye contact. No pausing. No breaking stride.

Excuse me? I whirled my cart around.

Did you just tell me to read the Bible?

His whole demeanor softened, changed. He smiled but shrunk into his shoulders a bit as if he'd never been caught before in his game of drive-by-evangelism.

Yes, I did. He walked toward me.

Well, I'm a Christian, I do read the Bible. In fact, my husband is a pastor here in town. And I just want to tell you that your method isn't working. If you truly felt compelled to talk with me, you should have stopped and made the time for conversation, you know, find something you have in common with me and then share what you have to say…

You didn't even make eye contact with me.

He stammered, Well, you know, sometimes you don't have time for that. I figured it couldn't hurt.

I totally disagree. I said. It does hurt. The way you just did that comes across as judgmental and condemning. It will only push people further away. Jesus gave people a sense of dignity when he interacted with them.

Well, he continued to deflect, I just do what the Holy Spirit tells me to. You know, maybe you were supposed to hear that you should read your Bible.

I do read my Bible. I did this morning. And the Bible says we are to worship God with our minds, so I want you to consider the fact that your method isn't working. Pray about it, if you have to.

And with that, I was off to find my coconut oil.

I had a whole 'nother hour to myself, a vacuum of mind-space immediately saturated with wittier, more sarcastic versions of the conversation. I was freaking awesome in my If-Only-I'd-Said-This-Instead conversation. You should have seen me.

But even then, I knew I responded the way I did, restrained, and sprinkled with Christianese to buy myself the street cred, because I thought there may have been a time,

a long time ago

when Bob the Religious Bully really cared about people reading the Bible. The Holy Spirit may have legitimately prompted him to talk with people he didn't know and he may have been entirely moved and motivated by a love for others and a love for God.

Maybe, I considered, he's just gotten pigeon-holed into some hyper-spiritual Christian community that's so out of touch with what's normal that he needed a girl shopping Whole Foods to help him towards a reality check.

Maybe.

It made me wonder about the others to which Bob the Religious Bully has dropped a condescending line or two.

It made me wonder how many of you have been religious-bullied, in one form or another.

And it made me wonder about the times I’ve thrown my spiritual weight around, carelessly knocking people over with my immature and untempered zeal.

I think the reason I gave Bob the time of day is that I was reminded of a younger and more immature version of myself in the [failed] attempt to do something good. Ya’ll, I did some weird stuff in the name of Jesus back in the day.

And while I'm not stuck condemning myself, wisdom teaches me to lean into the regret long enough to learn from it. And I am sorry.

I’d like it if I could apologize on the behalf of all the other religious bullies out there. I’d like it if this post could help heal those of you who have been wounded.

And I’d like it if one less Bob could drop one less line while walking through the grocery store.

May Jesus change our hearts, bullies and bullied alike. The aisle that separates us isn’t as wide as we think it is.


And ten minutes after my conversation with Bob, a John-Wayne-ish older guy walked by me, leaned in and said with a drawl, "You look like Liz Lemon." Not kidding. I promptly headed for the check out.

And then a wasp bit me as I was getting in my car.

What about you? Have you been religious-bullied?

How did you work through it in your relationship with God?

a thousand sorry's

2011-04-07T14:39:00.002-04:00

You've known her and you've loved her and you've wondered,

[because of your own brokenness]

if her strong arms and fierce independence have come from pushing back the weight of secret doors

alone

for so many years.

You wait and you pray and you trust your God with his daughter

and then a tipping point is reached

and she decides she no longer wants the fight.

She

is

tired.

She lets loved ones in, come down the stairs, watch your step in these shadows,

this place,

where no light has shone.

Secret Dwelling.

And then she says you can come in, too

and you step gingerly [you don't deserve to be trusted like this]

and you turn the corner

and you see it, there.

Pure.

Horror.

---

You weep for the innocence lost. You weep for the years she spent, sentenced to this dungeon, shouldering the atrocities all alone. You weep because you cannot undo it. You weep because a thousand I'm sorry's cannot remove the stench of evil. You weep hot tears whose cries for justice drown out mercy's voice.

For a later time, books and counseling, wisdom from the healing road and prayer will all find their place, will each take their turn. She'll take even bolder steps away from this place, Savior's hand held tight.

For now, Silence and Sadness are the only welcomed friends.

For now, a thousand sorry's.

Sarah's Story, part one of Stories

2011-04-06T21:52:00.004-04:00

I am so excited to welcome you to Stories, a collection of interviews from this past fall with women I know and love. They are beautiful women, each with a unique story of hearing God speak directly into their lives. Put your feet up, lean in closely and hear a story, or two or three, over the next week, of a God who is personal, who challenges and comforts, who leads and loves.

Here's Sarah's story (and check out the end, for an update):

Sarah, we were in a Bible study two years ago, talking about dreams God’s given us. I remember you saying that you would love to eventually have a house for pregnant teenagers. Tell me more about this dream of yours.

Yeah, I got pregnant in high school and I had great support from my family. I saw other girls who didn’t have support and I really felt for them. There was this house called Light House for teenage pregnant women that I’d heard about that provided them with a home and prenatal care, also providing them with life skills and that kind of thing. So, I really identified with that.

I really just wanted to, at some point in my life, open a home for girls, providing them with the prenatal care up through getting them into college, or finished with high school, and getting them a job. Over the years, it’s kind of morphed into something larger, like possibly opening a restaurant there to give them business skills.

So, yeah, in my head there’s this giant dream of what my mission work could be-- it’s something I’m passionate about.

So, when you first shared about your dream a couple years ago, how close or far off did it feel?

Very far off. Extremely far off. Because financially, my husband and I just support our household, with two teenagers who still have to go through college-- how am I going to support a household full of girls that don’t have any income whatsoever?? There were other obstacles, too.

So, it was a really far off dream. And I didn’t even know how to take the first steps. I even thought, I know this is so silly, but I thought,

Oh, I’ll write Oprah and tell her what I want to do and she’ll hand me a bunch of money and then I’ll be able to do it! (laughing)

So, this summer you told me that God was really challenging you in certain areas of your life. What’s that about?

Yeah, I guess it was May or June and I was in a leadership Bible study and heard him speak-- what’s his name from Crazy Love?

Francis Chan.

Yeah, Francis Chan. That man turns me inside out every time I hear him speak. I feel overwhelmed every time I hear him speak. And I felt like God kept saying, “you need to be doing mission work, you need to be doing mission work.”

But I couldn’t, for the life of me, figure out how to make that work. I have two kids, a husband, a full-time job and I’m supporting the family right now since Josh is in school.

And, to be one hundred percent honest, I wasn’t ready to sell everything I owned and live under a bridge with my family! So, what do I do? How do I make that work? I couldn’t figure it out. And I was wrestling, and frustrated.

In July, I really felt like God laid it on my heart that I should fast for two days.

So, I was praying about mission work and also felt like God wanted me to pray about selling my car. And I’m like, selling my car?? This was my dream car—my Suburu Outback Turbo, you know, everything I had always wanted in my head. But, after the 2 days, I felt this total peace about selling my car. I was like, I don’t need it-- we have 2 other functioning cars that are completely paid off, why are we making this other payment on something we don’t need?

If we sold the car, that would mean I could work less one day every 2 weeks, which would mean an extra day for me to do mission work. I could also save the money from the would-be car payment for a mission’s trip overseas, which was something else I wanted to be able to do, but didn’t know how to afford.

The other thing I got out of my fast was that mission work comes in various forms--it didn’t necessarily mean I had to go to overseas. There’s mission work right here where I am. I researched online and found a program called Alpha House, with a program for pregnant teenagers and adults that was almost identical to my written plan at home.

I went to their Lunch and Learn and it was amazing. I was so energized. It was everything I had wanted to see—that’s what they were providing. They have financial classes, how to cut coupons, how to cook, how to change diapers-- they’re not going to let these women fail. I emailed the director and now I volunteer 3 hours a week in their donation shop.

My hope is that, as I show up every week, serving in the background, they’ll see that I’m committed and that they’ll move me into different positions and then I’ll really have some ideas and know-how for when I open my own home.

Now I have this settled in my heart that I’m doing mission work; I’m going to sell my car; I’m being obedient to what God’s laid on my heart. I’m much closer to my dream than I ever was before.

How would you encourage friends of yours who are experiencing that tension? They feel like God’s calling them to do more in serving and giving, but they know they can’t sell everything and move to Africa?

So, first identify what you’re good at and what you’re passionate about. Like, if you’re not passionate about feeding homeless people, don’t go feed homeless people—you won’t stick with it, maybe that’s wrong to say, but I don’t think you’ll stick with it. Find out what it is you’re passionate about. Pray about it. Fast about it. Dig in and figure out what you want to do.

And then be obedient about it. You know, there are some days I don’t want to drive all the way down to downtown Tampa and rustle through bags of used clothes, but I know that in the end, I’m helping. Also, find an encourager, another woman who can listen and help you build on dreams and make them happen, even if it’s little by little.

Something that was hard for me was to let it be God’s plan and not my plan. God’s plan wasn’t for me to uproot my family and move to Haiti, it was that I serve somewhere locally with Alpha House and then go to Haiti with Church at the Bay once a year or so.

This mission thing was something I felt like I was supposed to be doing, but I didn’t know how to put it into action. Now, I know God’s given me so many answers and I have this new peace in my heart and in my stomach.

In just a few weeks, on April 28, Sarah and her fifteen year-old son will be going to Haiti to help with the orphanage our church sponsors! SO cool!!!

walker meets the sea

2011-03-29T13:47:00.002-04:00

We went to the beach last week.

It was the baby's first time.

He was slathered with sunscreen, but there was less than precedent called for; he wore a hat but it didn't match; he had no special sticker indicating the amount of UV exposure on his chubby left arm;

this is the blessing of Second Time Around--a little more relaxed we've become...

We took pictures, but he won't remember.

He couldn't know that the ocean is where his mother meets her God.

That she grew up close to the sea, brought home from the hospital to a tiny apartment on 16th Street, right off of Balboa Boulevard in Newport Beach. That her headbands were used for structural support in castles made of sand. That her pale skin was once bronzed; that she rocked the hottest diaper tan.

He couldn't know that later, her mother and brothers would have to wind through the Santa Monica mountains, breaths held as they passed over the mountain's crest, first view of the ocean falling on excited eyes trying to discern whether the fog would lift, whether the sun would come out to play.

He wouldn't know that she was the one who persuaded her camping friends to leave their tents on the beach for a dew-soaked night sleeping under the stars, sea spray matting down 12-year-old hair, smearing mascara that shouldn't have been there.

He won't be able to picture the iridescent blue-green glow, radiating from broken waves that night. He won't hear their crash and the lightening-like charges of light that flew across the foam for one joyous invitation to listen in on God laughing.

He couldn't know that nine years ago his father took an ocean-sick girlfriend away from Tallahassee's hills to the Gulf to invite her to join him as lover and friend for the rest of their lives. Or, that their honeymoon would be had overlooking the ocean in Barbados; or that three years later her Grief-Consummate would manifest on a hilltop overlooking the Pacific, where her uncle would breathe his last as she stood at his bedside.

He will hear about it, but won't be able to fathom the very experience that ushered him into this world. That God would whisper to his mother the morning before his birth,

I will be with you in deep waters.

That she would find each contraction present like the commanding waves of Zuma. That she would take a deep breath, dive into its power and then emerge, tired and weary and grasping for rest before the next wave. That fear would never own her, that she would let herself go to the ancient rhythms of childbirth, promise in hand, God standing by.

Death and life and promise and grief, have all been met by the sea.

God speaks of his majesty, of his forever-ness through the endless horizons. He says,

"you are but dust"

with the sand that creeps between the toes. He says,

"I am Big"

with the stretch of water from the shore to where it meets the sky. He says,

"I know you"

when happenstance finds me, again, at the shore, for a time of celebration or mourning. He knows I meet him there, he knows I worship at the water. And he keeps bringing me back.

Walker met the sea last week, for which I am glad.

But my heart's cry is that he meet its Maker, the Grand Designer of it all. The call may not come through the roar of a breaking wave, but may it come, loud and strong, until my son is brought to the feet of the One who knows him best.

One more reason to heal...

2011-03-22T16:25:00.000-04:00

dieting four year old from Oprah's show

I'm a girl outnumbered, and it's always been that way.

From the age of four when I noticed the swell in my mom's belly, I started praying for a little sister, and after that, a little sister, and the next time, a little sister and surely this last time, I would get a little sister.

And God, in his glorious and perfect will, gave me

a little brother,

a little brother,

a little brother,

and another little brother.

I love those guys, all taller than me now, with a fierce loyalty and I miss not the sister I thought I wanted.

My house is now also decidedly blue, with the testosterone of a manly man, the antics of a mischevious son and the gurgles of one baby boy all crashing and colliding and making for one crazy happy home.

We are open to having a third. [I am open to having a fourth.] And if God ever decides to send some pink my way, I've found just one more reason to heal:

for the sake of a daughter.

Moms, if you don't think yourself worthy to heal, if you fear the pain that will inevitably arise on the journey, if you sense the inconvenience of it all and rationalize that the past is the past and that you are simply too busy to face your demons, I beg you

if not for you, for your daughter.

In April 2006, Oprah featured three mother-daughter couples, including a makeup-obsessed three year old and a dieting four year old. The mothers thought their girls just picked up their poor self-esteem from preschool. The mothers also revealed their own struggles with body image and pain from their own pasts.

There is a direct correlation.

Your daughter may be healthy and secure and happy. A regular Ashley Mayer, I'd call her (the daughter of our lead pastor--freakishly confident and beautiful). And that's wonderful. Your daughter may struggle with an eating disorder or a poor self-image. And that's not to say it's your fault. We do live in a fallen world and we're assailed with lies, yes, as early as preschool.

But if you've been made aware of your own pain

and if you've dismissed it because it's too big and too scary and there are no easy answers to be had,

maybe you should take another look.

Maybe you should allow yourself to grieve, to speak aloud the horrible truths and then receive comfort from the Divine Counselor. If courage is lacking, maybe not for yourself. Maybe you take this leap, this time,

for the sake of your daughter.

heaven sounds delicious

2011-03-18T09:51:00.000-04:00

Who needs trinity theology when you have a three year old to explain it all:

"Mommy, God makes chocolate and Jesus makes chocolate chips and Jesus gives God chocolate chips."

kick plates and birds and silly, silly girls

2011-03-16T16:43:00.000-04:00

For the past two weeks, we've had a little bird come and knock at our door.

She perches on the step, as close to the brass kick plate as she can get and she pecks away.

Carter has taken up his father's response. Throws his arms up in the air and runs toward the door to shoo the bird away.

She doesn't bother me.

Silly is all she is. Pecking away at her own reflection. Not knowing that there is nothing on the other side, just an image of one pecking back. Some kind of illusion of company, I guess. The kick plate is strong--aged and brassy, came with the door, with the house. The only damage I fear is that of her own brain stuff.

So I shoo her away too.

I think of the times I perched in front of my own mirror and all I could do was peck. I saw this flaw and this didn't measure up and this certainly didn't look like the girls in the magazines. Jesus stood in the window, curtain pulled back, head shaking at the sight of my silliness. He, too, feared for my brain stuff and tried to shoo me away from my mirrors, from the condemning voices inside.

Together, Jesus and I unsubscribed to Delia's (a superskinny tween catalog I got back in the 90's) and we talked of real beauty. I read a [Christian] book or two that told me I Was Really Beautiful and used scripture to prove it. I stopped pretending to be a vegetarian for the socially acceptable excuse it lent me to eat only a bowl of rice for dinner. I started eating red meat. I asked Jesus to make me feel beautiful.

And I think he appreciated those efforts, just as I'm relieved when my silly bird flies away.

But then she comes back. And I would come back, too. To the image, to the question of beauty, to the insatiable longing to know if I had measured up.

I think the cause of my insanity is the mirror I have been choosing. I've continued to place myself at the threshold of Me, to test whether I measure up to Me and My Standards. I've used Jesus and his merciful healing, my husband's adoration, the warmth of community and the value gained from blessing others all to serve as answers to My Own Selfish Quest.

I was never meant to stand before myself. I was not given the capacity to contain the answers to my own questions of identity. The first and only place for me is before a Broken King.

When I stand before Jesus, my ugliness is apparent. Concerns over acne or weight or fashionable clothes fade to gray when my self centeredness and rebellious pride present themselves.

Before Jesus, I fail miserably. No amount of pity or worldly rationale can remove the deficit.

And before Jesus, I'm declared loved and worthy and highly esteemed. No amount of good makeup or expensive jeans or worldly praise can contribute to this revelation.

So the answer, then, is not to stand before my own mirror and chant, "I'm beautiful. I'm beautiful." There has to be a fundamental change. There has to be more of him and less of me, an exchange of standards and value systems and definitions.

Jesus needs to be my Mirror.

I want to look upon him and love him. I want to look upon him and be changed. I want to look upon him and lose myself in him, no longer condemning myself but also not trusting in my own esteem.

This silly girl needs to fly away home. The kick plate has lost its luster and the heart aches for something more secure, more complete.

Jesus, you and you alone are Beauty. Let me lose myself in you.

new page on my blog!

2011-03-12T18:11:00.000-05:00

After this, I told you I would write more about my journey of healing.

Here's my start-- a new page on my blog with resources and a [tiny] spiel.

Love,

April

it happened to me

2011-03-10T22:25:00.000-05:00

I've been blogging for two and a half years and have never referenced it.

I wrote about it here and here (same article) this past month, and intentionally chose to not link it up with this site.

I even got up on stage, in front of 300 people, and talked about it for fifteen minutes.

And yet, I couldn't bring myself to share it with this platform.

Funny how familiarity breeds risk; how anonymity creates a sense of safety.

The truth is, there are family members and childhood friends who read this blog and I know that.

My fear and my shame know that.

The truth is, this one isolated event has impacted my life significantly, far more than I realize, I'm now learning.

The truth is, I wrestle with its ramifications regularly. It spills over into my relationship with God, into the dynamics that play out in my marriage, into my self-image and my control issues.

When this blog has fallen silent, I've probably been in the throes of its effects. Posts have been edited, all allusions censored. I've literally put an entire part of my person-hood on mute.

The truth is, I'm tired of carrying a burden of shame that doesn't belong to me.

The truth is, I was molested.

---

There are those my story may help [stats say one in four girls, one in six boys]. I plan to write more about my journey of healing as I go forward.

But for now, in this moment, this post is about walking away from the shame, declaring it will own me no more.

It happened to me.

There.

{For the record, it was no one anyone knew. I spoke about it here, if you want a listen.}

Shameless Promotion

2011-03-06T14:05:00.000-05:00

I might have a rant or two tucked away in my heart's queue, ever-ready for sharing, when it comes to Children's [Christian] Books I Don't Like. One thing I can't stand is ethnocentrism. It's 2011 and we have archeology and anthropology and the internet all shouting to us, undeniably, that Jesus Wasn't White. So, if you want a spot on my son's bookcase, you better be historically accurate with your illustrations. The other thing I'm currently wrestling with is the violence of the Old Testament. I get plot. I love stories. But I don't know how to reconcile reading OT Bible stories to my son with teaching him biblical truths of forgiveness and love and obedience. So, I just flinch when Carter's music teacher candy-coats violent OT stories and I avoid them at home.

With those two obstacles, Christian children's books have been having a hard time making the cut.

Until this one.

The Jesus Storybook Bible, by Sally Lloyd-Jones, illustrated by Jago

The illustrations are award-winning. Tawny and bronzed, clad in robes and turbans, the characters on these pages actually seem to hail from the Middle East.

But it's the Story, the theology that flows within and throughout each individual story, that captures my heart and loyalty. My descriptions will fall short, so here's a listen to some of the actual text:

Creation: "But all the stars and the mountains and oceans and galaxies and everything were nothing compared to how much God loved his children. He would move heaven and earth to be near them. Always. Whatever happened, whatever it cost him, he would always love them. And so it was the wonderful love story began..."

The Fall: "Eve picked the fruit and ate some. And Adam ate some, too. And a terrible lie came into the world. It would never leave. It would live on in every human heart, whispering to every one of God's children: 'God doesn't love me.'"

The Garden of Gethsemane: (Grab a tissue. My favorite.) "'Papa! Father!' Jesus cried. And he fell to the ground. 'Is there any other way to get your children back? To heal their hearts? To get rid of the poison?' But Jesus knew--there was no other way. All the poison of sin was going to have to go into his own heart. God was going to pour into Jesus' heart all the sadness and brokenness in people's hearts. He was going to pour into Jesus' body all the sickness in people's bodies. God was going to have to blame his son for everything that had gone wrong. It would crush Jesus."

The Pentecost: "As they waited, they were praying and remembering--remembering how, from the beginning, God had been working out his Secret Rescue Plan...inside their hearts, they felt a strange heat, almost as if the coldness and hardness were melting away. As if their broken hearts were mending. And God was giving them brand new hearts--hearts that could work properly."

If you have children, you need this book. Carter and I read it every Sunday morning, before church (so Mommy can model to him that church is more than The Day Mommy Actually Puts on Makeup). If you don't have children, you need this book. Beth Moore (I heart you!) can move over--this book could compete with the most inspired devotionals for a spot on your bedside.

If you've stale-mated in your connection with God, go and buy this book. You'll fall in love with the pictures and poetry, and hopefully, more importantly, the Person of Jesus.

miss you

2011-03-03T15:04:00.000-05:00

Driving down the road today, two boys in tow, a warm breeze hit my face and took me, for just a moment, to times less complicated.

The Eagles rock out something about girls and California as we drive my beloved PCH. It stretches before us for miles and miles, salty wind runs through strands of wannabe blonde hair and we, we sit side by side with much to say and nothing at all.

We were driving to Santa Barbara. A wine tour through the Santa Inez Valley and dinners at mom and pop restaurants, bicycle rides on the beach and cigar walks on the sand, comfy pillows and alarms unplugged awaited us, but the road is what I miss.

I miss the lack of agenda. The lack of deadlines (if not for a few days), the lack of watch-checking and babysitter-fee-calculating. I miss getting away to dream. To love. To be. Without the pressure of trying to catch up on words and sleep. I miss the world that was ours alone, the selfish love we indulged in for years before God gave us our babies.

I love my boys, my baby and my son-turned-pirate, and I eat and breathe and live and sleep their needs, their wants, their joys and sorrows. My life is richer and fuller than ever before because they're here and because I'm their mother.

But with the catch of the warm breeze today, with the catch of his eye this morning, I'm left wanting more of us. Just us.

unsubscribed

2011-02-24T15:56:00.000-05:00

I tend to obsess over things.

When pregnant with Carter, my mind and my speech were littered with words belonging to Dr. Sears' books on natural childbirth and the "conspiracies" hospitals weave. Me and my best intentions hired a doula, practiced different birthing positions on a birthing ball, and had the hospital's number on tap so we could put dibs on a labor room with a bathtub while on my way to deliver.

Ten hours into labor, I asked for an epidural and ended up having to have a c-section.

My obsession back-fired.

As I processed the why's of my emotional attachment to the idea of natural childbirth, I found that there was some good in there. I really did have honorable motives, but those motives were also intertwined with fear, and pride, and that obsessive nature of mine.

So, about a month ago, when a friend directed me to some "traditional" and "real food" blogs and research, that old obsessive nature kicked in big time.

Some very real and persuasive motives captured my attention and launched me into Obsession-Ville again. Of course I want to eat healthily. Of course I want to feed my kids the best foods I can afford and prepare. Of course I don't want toxins and pollutants and MSG. Who can't agree with those premises?

There quickly arose a problem, though. What started out as something Good--the desire to learn more about nutrition for myself and my family--became saturated with Fear and Worry and Urgency. I allowed myself to be swallowed by fear, instead of stepping forward gingerly and with discernment.

Neal and I talked about my research over dinner at Carrabba's one night. As I contemplated ordering the GMO corn-filled polenta covered with factory-farm steak tips on skewers with pesticide-ridden grilled veggies (roll your eyes now, just roll them), I told him I'd devised a first step out of Obsession-Ville.

"I'm going to unsubscribe to my blogs. Like, fast from them for a week."

It's not that I don't believe a lot of the principles of these "real food" bloggers. I do. But I know that my nature tends to pollute the potential good with fear. And reading two posts every day about what I was potentially doing wrong was not helping.

I think with all good things, all good changes of direction or new goals, fear will challenge our movement.

But it doesn't mean we don't move.

For me, I had to unsubscribe. And then continue my learning at a much slower (and less judgmental) pace.

For others, it could mean granting yourself heaping loads of grace as you attempt to learn how to read the Bible. And for someone else, this could mean lowering your standards for that anticipated finish time of your first 5K--not stressing that you didn't train like you wanted to and choosing to be proud for just finishing the race.

Fear will always creep onto the path of the Good. In those moments, our decision should not be whether we should continue down the road, but how.

What Good have you attempted to do, and then encountered Fear?

How did you move forward?

what's yours is mine

2011-02-20T21:03:00.000-05:00

You should know that I still go to the bathroom in front of my three-year old. Well, it's not really like, "let's-all-go-to-the-bathroom-together" kind of business; I just haven't gotten into the habit of closing the door.

Yet.

(It sounds very wonderful, this idea of having one room to myself for a few minutes. Alone.)

A few days ago, I sat down to commence my bathroom-business and Carter said, oh-so-bossily,

"Mommy, that's my toilet. You have to use yours. Go use your bathroom,

not mine!!"

And we began a debate that went something like this:

"It's not really your bathroom, Carter. It belongs to Daddy and me."

"No, it's really mine! Look, there's my toothbrush and my shampoo and my stool (pronounced "stew-loo"). It's my stuff in my bathroom."

"Actually, it really isn't yours. Daddy and I bought this house. And we bought you the stuff here in your bathroom. We just share it with you because we love you. We lived in this house, using this bathroom long before you were ever here...

(And no, I don't expect a barely-three-year old to understand that whole concept.)

So, Carter, I'm going to use this toilet."

I wondered, then, how many times God has tried to have that conversation with me. When he's tried to say, April, I want to use this thing and then I pout and tell the God who has existed before time, who gives me the very breath I breathe, who made the cotton grow that would become my clothes, who designed the cow whose cream would make for glorious creme brulee, who had the audacity to grant me free-will so I could one day mimic the reasoning of a selfish three-year old,

that it really. all. belongs. to. me.

I heard God laugh while I sat on that toilet.

He didn't have to convict me. I needed no scripture to be brought to memory. It was one of those wait-till-you're-a-parent-and-you-get-a-glimpse-of-what-you've-put-me-through kind of moments come full circle. The truth is, it all belongs to him. The truth is, it's ridiculous for me to have the kind of grip I do on my money, on my free time, on my decisions, on my prerogative. The truth is, the God-head has been doing this Life thing way before I came into the picture. He's been exerting his will, accomplishing his holy plans long before my stubborn will was ever given the opportunity to participate.

So, yes, God, you may have my money, my priorities, my stubbornness, my talent, my influence and my life, and if need be,

you may use my toilet.

Happy (late) Valentine's Day!

2011-02-16T09:31:00.000-05:00

I can be a brat

2011-02-09T22:35:00.000-05:00

Grace is when your husband is making a spice mix for the fajitas and you tell him he should add cumin and he says he doesn't like cumin and you make him smell the opened jar and he makes a face and then you walk over to his spice mix and deliberately add cumin in an act of culinary stubbornness and general obnoxiousness and he stares at you in shocked disbelief, composes himself and then he tells you to go for a run, really, I think you'll be happier if you do, and I got dinner and Carter's fine and I love you.

envy looks back

2011-01-23T13:23:00.000-05:00

They were all lined up on her bookcase. Dozens and dozens of them, their pudgy little bodies forever solidifying Sarah's stance in my eyes as cool. Each one of them boasted of its own experience--a meal of coveted chicken nuggets, or a plastiky cheeseburger, with fries and maybe even a Coke.

Sarah's mom is so cool, my five-year-old mind thought.

She's got 34 McNugget Buddies to prove it.

Here began my relationship with Envy, a friend with something to say about everything.

Fourth grade lunches were had under a pathetic sapling, striving to be something greater, where Kelly, Nicole, Dana and I circled and sat. As we unpacked our statements of status, my familiar friend Envy polarized my thoughts. I glanced at Dana's fruit snacks, those rubbery, sweet things that were supposed to taste like the flavors their fruit shapes held.

Poor you, Envy whispered, you just have real fruit. And my apple slices were browning.

Envy pointed out Nicole's white bread and then my oatmeal-dusted wheat bread. There were Juicy Juice boxes, compared to my water bottle, and Lunchables compared to my peanut butter and honey sandwich.

Envy continued her parade in my thoughts, usually unchecked.

In fifth grade, I noticed how Marisa's clothes were store-bought, and mine were sewn by Mom. Yes, we had fun going to JoAnn's, thumbing through giant books of patterns, choosing the fabrics and prints, and then watching the clothes come together, piece by piece, over days of cutting and pinning and sewing. But those tags on Marisa's clothes.

Those tags were cool.

I'm a mom now. And I'm starting to prepare lunches and clothe my children and choose which experiences we'll share and those we won't.

And I'm just a little angry with my friend Envy because the things she whispered, the feelings she imparted, weren't based in truth. Envy did not have my best interest in mind.

But Mom did.

While Sarah was busy collecting her McNugget Buddies, my mom was at home, making home-made cheese sauce for her version of mac n' cheese, sparing us kids the TBHQ and dimethylpolysiloxane.

While Dana's mom was buying her Lunchables and fruit snacks, mine was preparing sandwiches with real protein and fiber, believing that fruit should taste like fruit and not reconstituted corn syrup.

And while Marisa’s mom took her on shopping trips, trips that Mom and I would eventually have, my mom and I spent hours and hours creating those tagless clothes together, memories I wouldn’t trade even now for a pair of Seven jeans.

Envy tries to whisper to me now, even though I should be way past this childish covetousness and pettiness. She points out brands and status symbols and LeCruset cookingware. I’m trying to recognize her voice a little bit faster, and dismantle her influence a little more frequently. She’s never loved me, like my mom and my husband and my God. Why I’ve given her this power over my thoughts, I’m not sure; it’s probably just the way of human nature.

I’m happy to say, though, that she looks different. She’s no longer a welcomed presence in my life, holding my trust in hand because she lets me know what’s cool, sparing me rejection. Envy represents the ugly parts of me and I want nothing to do with her now.

I’d like to be the kind of mom that packs less-than-cool lunches, with snacks that don't have their own commercials, and that probably won't get traded, because I care for my kids.

And I’d like to be the kind of daughter who can receive the goodness of life that her Father God gives, from whole wheat bread to off-brand sneakers, from authentic friendships to security in a husband's love, without leaning in to listen when Envy comes around and whispers.

the most important thing I can do

2011-01-17T10:12:00.000-05:00

I find myself impatient. Incredibly impatient and ready to be done with this season. It has to do with the sleeplessness, with the unsolved mysteries, the unanswered questions.

Why is my baby not sleeping through the night yet?

Why is he still needing to eat every three hours?

Is my milk supply enough? Is he making up for unmet caloric needs during the day?

Does his thrush affect his nursing? Why is the nystatin not working?

Should I let him cry it out this time? Is he over-stimulated? Is my presence keeping him up? Are his feelings hurt when I don't come right away?

How did I do this with Carter?

Why is this not working?

These questions weigh on me,

resting on already tired shoulders,

hovering like Eeyore's cloud,

unmoved by the fleeting distractions my happy life provides.

The dishes are calling, my dirty floor needs mopping, my sweet three year old wants to play, my marriage needs a date, a night away from parenthood, but I tell myself

this is the most important thing you can do right now.

My blog needs updating, women's ministry needs events planned and coffees had and women contacted and loved and listened to, but I tell myself

this is the most important thing I can do right now.

My body needs more sleep, my legs need stretching, my heart needs the challenge of a three mile run, but I tell myself to be patient, that even my body can wait, because

this is the most important thing I can do right now.

My books are strewn across my floor, right next to the pump that's part of attempt number 17 to get this thing right. They speak to my questions, offering up seemingly simplistic solutions, but I take them anyway because it's something. Something to try. Something to tell the pediatrician. Something to tell myself.

I tell myself that these three months of discomfort are nothing when compared to the span of my life. There will be no significant event to mark the passing of these three months, or the next three, or even the next nine. I'll turn 29 and might gain a crease or two around the corners of my mouth and eyes, discernible to me alone. But for this little one, these three months are everything. And the next three, and the three after that are all definitively foundational to his life-long development and health. So, again I conclude that

this is the most important thing I can do right now.

My husband and my God are patient. They seem to understand that this is my life. They don't sulk, or throw pity-parties for lack of attention. There's no deep Bible study right now, no convicting challenge for me to work through. When my thoughts turn to God and scripture, they seem to tell me,

It's okay. Keep going. My love will sustain you. I gave all for you, so lean on my strength and give all for your baby.

When my attentions turn to my husband, he meets my weariness with praise and encouragement and trouble-shooting. We work through the questions and write new plans and try new things. Sometimes we're met with success, it seems these days mostly failure. So we start all over again.

Because this is the most important thing we can do right now.

This is the most important thing I can do.

hello, old friend

2011-01-15T16:57:00.000-05:00

It's been eleven months, two weeks and three days since my last.

Some would say the time lapse was too long; most would excuse me since I've "just" had a baby.

But it was time to break the fast. I finally laced up my last-year's-Christmas-present-but-hardly-used-Asics

and I went for a run.

Running has always given me much more than I've ever given it.

Running tells me I'm back.

Running tells me that my body is stronger than I give it credit.

Running tells me that I'm more than a milk-giving machine, more than a keeper of our home, more than a wiper of tears and a reader of books and a giver of much-needed hugs and love.

Running tells me that my husband is entirely capable of caring for the boys my world revolves around.

Running tells me that I am the same woman who discovered the escape of the sidewalk fifteen years ago. She may have gone to college, gotten married, become a teacher, entered ministry, and birthed two boys, but her need for fresh air and steady pavement will never die.

Running tells me that my hormones will stabilize, that quiet is possible and that I can move from surviving to thriving is this new normal.

I'm not promising myself much. There are no half-marathons or even 10K's on the horizon, but my shoes will remain by the door and my sanity will grow to anticipate the increasingly-regular, endorphin-inducing pleasure of a run.

אלוהים איתנו

2010-12-22T16:30:00.000-05:00

From the moment I pulled our nativity scene from its box three weeks ago, I was struck by the seeming absurdity of it all.

Those little figurines representing the ones present for the birth of Emmanuel seemed so ridiculous standing next to the glitter and gold and the sparkle and shine of my other Christmas decorations.

They were plain.

Poor.

Unimpressive and unsexy.

Mary especially caught my attention.

As a woman who recently gave birth the old-fashioned way, I'm shocked at her birth experience. The whole scene, made too familiar and taken for granted by our traditions and art, is actually quite scandalous. I find myself thinking about details that never occurred to me before. I wonder why Joseph didn't knock down the doors of that inn--surely my husband would have. I wonder if some compassionate woman heard Mary's cry and helped her labor--I cannot imagine giving birth (without epidural) without the mothering and comfort of another woman, much less my mother or best friend. I wonder if they had enough clean linens and fresh water to cleanse the wounds of baby and mother.

This birth experience, far from the comfort, predictability and safety that I counted on last October, is how Jesus chose to enter our world. It wasn't sterile. It wasn't measured and planned and calculated. It wasn't even average, by that day's standards.

The only glory displayed was intangible. The only glitter came from a beaming mass of gas and rock millions of miles away. The only fanfare, the songs of a thousand angels, was received by an audience of dirty, homeless shepherds.

Long before his infant lungs fought for their first breath, Jesus intended to announce to us what we should and should not expect, simply by choosing this birth story. A King had arrived, yes. The angels and astronomers concurred. But, were we tempted to expect a typical king with a typical kingdom, this birth story allows us no justification.

The humility and offensiveness of Jesus, lying in a donkey's feeding trough, born to a teenage girl with a blue-collar husband who couldn't even secure a motel room, screams to us that

this.

is.

Different.

That should we want to appease our superficial natures in the quest for a Beautiful King, a Handsome-Brad-Pitt-Celebrity of sorts, or a Military Leader whose power would defy Rome, or a Religious Leader draped in robes of pomp and circumstance,

we would not find Him.

We would not find a King made of the trappings of this world, because that is not what we needed. We needed a God who would dare to take on our stench, become familiar with our sufferings and weaknesses, who would know our pain and yet, in his God-ness, transcend the ugly human-ness of it all.

The Nativity scene, the real one, the unvarnished, dirt-under-your-fingernails-scene announces that this God has a Great Agenda, one that won't flirt around with the fleeting comforts of fame, popularity and wealth. This birth scene sets up the ultimate scene--baby is grown, revealed to us as God-Man, and is bleeding out on a tree, receiving into his spirit the rebellion of humanity and all of its darkness--

that to all who look to him,

they might know light. and life. and true-Jesus-breathed-redemption.

Emmanuel, God-with-us.

Let us find You, and be changed.

and there will be glitter everywhere for the next month

2010-12-13T20:46:00.000-05:00


Shortbread cookies and hot cocoa

glitter and pine cones and glue

a boy who creates

and a baby who coos

make for one. perfect. afternoon.

a December prayer

2010-12-10T14:28:00.000-05:00

thank you, God,

that the dishes I wash mean I have a well-fed family;

that the gifts I plan mean I have children, brothers, parents, in-laws and a wonderful spouse to celebrate;

that the toys I pick up, strewn throughout the house, mean I have a happy son;

that the Christmas cards that take hours to address mean I have friends and family who love us;

that the spit up on my shirts, sheets and blankets mean my baby is feeding well;

that the clothes that don't yet fit my postpartum body mean God enabled me to carry and birth a miracle;

that the weariness I feel means I've been been running after my two sons, and not after a paycheck;

that the life I live is beautiful and blessed and filled with wonder,

and may gratefulness always be my response.

jacob's river

2010-12-02T17:12:00.000-05:00

all i wanted

was to cross a river

but you stand there, in the way,

and I cannot be unmoved.

so i lift my hand

and you lift your voice

and my heart has bled

as my eyes searched your words

as my mind tried to comprehend.

Darkness has masked your face

midnight's dew has masked my tears

but i stay

and you stay

and i plead for your answers

(tell me you're not the one you appear to be).

the night is nearly over

i tire of my resisting

i'll take defeat

at least strike my hip

at least let me know

i've been wrestling with you.

return to the red tent

2010-11-12T17:53:00.000-05:00

I read The Red Tent years ago. It's a historical fiction account of what one author imagines might have happened between the matriarchs of our faith. Leah, Rachel, Zilpah, Bilhah--these four mothers of the 12 sons of Jacob (and subsequently, the 12 tribes of Israel), along with Dinah, the only daughter of Jacob, and their imagined relationships make for the basis of this book.

The concept of a "red tent," a place where menstruating or women in labor found refuge, isn't exactly factual, either. The author created such a place based on evidence from other tribal traditions in the area, portraying the red tent as a place where the women could gather, temporarily released from the daily demands of domestic life, to laugh, gossip, commiserate and share in life together.

What I should have gleaned from The Red Tent was an appreciation for the unique bonds women can share.

What I got, instead, was a strong distaste for the cultural values of that time--it only served to perpetuate my unanswered questions with God over what I perceive to be sexism and unjust treatment of women in the Bible.

From the marches of Susan B. Anthony to the we-almost-had-a-female-vice-president-or-president-in-2009, women in this country have been fighting to leave the proverbial red tent. We've protested and lobbied and debated and fought, all for the cause of equal pay, equal rights and equal respect.

And so should we.

We should have whatever career choice we desire, the option to work or stay home with babies, access to education and a culture to live in that grants us the respect we deserve as the other sex created in the image of God. We no longer live in an agrarian society, where physical strength is the capital of the workforce. Barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen (which is what I was for most of 2010) should not be the prescribed destination of every adult woman.

As much as a I believe in what I just wrote,

all I want to do right now is return to the red tent.

The desire introduced itself when my mom came up and stayed with me for a week. We took care of the babies, cleaned, cooked and even finished a cornice board. We made coffee and talked about transitioning a family to two children and compared birth experiences.

I felt the urge again while visiting a girlfriend with a newborn only 2 weeks younger than Walker. We sat on her bed, curling and uncurling the babies' tiny fingers, swapping stories of c-section recovery, husbands' reactions, body image concerns and things only new mommies will share.

Later that afternoon, I reached for that connection with another friend, a mommy of three. I expressed my fears, choking through the tears, of failing Carter because I'm just...so...tired. We shared things you don't talk about until you're there, fears and insecurities, coping strategies and the perspective from someone who's further down the road than I.

For all of my fighting, for all of these years, against an identity solely comprised of Wife and Mom, all my heart longs for right now is the fellowship of other Wives and Moms. A safe place to gather and connect and cope and care for each other appeals to the deepest parts of me.

Let the feminists have their rights; for me, for now, a red tent is all I need.

16 minutes before my next feeding

2010-11-05T10:11:00.000-04:00

16 minutes before this cow gets back into action.

16 minutes before my 2 week old starts rooting and grunting and whining for momma's milk.

(Now) 15 minutes to churn out a quick post, trying to sum up the past 3 weeks.

Walker Neal McCullohs was born two Thursdays ago, October 21 at 9:30 a.m. weighing 7 pounds, 9 ounces and measuring 20 inches long.

My birth experience was awesome. I got to have my VBAC, thanks to a freakin' awesome doctor and the fact that Walker finally chose to get his heart rate nice and stable. I abstained from drugs, working through contractions on a red exercise ball, getting Moroccan Rose massage oil rubbed all over my back, squeezing my husband's hands until little capillaries popped all over them, and receiving lots of praise from Neal, my friend Sarah, and Mom.

Pushing sucked.

Recovery was surprisingly much more painful than I anticipated. Thank God for sitz baths, Epifoam, Dermoplast (with menthol), refrigerated Tucks pads, Percoset, Motrin and a red donut seat.

Hormones are hard to negotiate with right now.

As is the sleeplessness.

My son is beautiful, worth it all, stealing my heart with smiles as early as day 5.

Carter is adjusting well.

Neal is the most amazing partner. I can't imagine doing this without him.

God is so good to me.

To wrap it up, a quote from my son that every mother desires to hear two weeks after she's given birth (and some pictures):

"Mommy, I like your belly! It's sooo squishy!!"

my Christmas Eve

2010-10-18T17:18:00.000-04:00

I remember the anticipation. The giddy butterflies that compounded in my stomach as my family and I drove up the 101, back home after an evening of celebration with family. We passed through the hills of Camarillo, by Lady Face Mountain of Agoura Hills and finally crept into quiet Thousand Oaks. Every inch closer to my bed that night meant we were closer to the Wonderful Inevitable.

It was Christmas Eve.

I didn't know then that those butterflies, as much as they contributed to the sheer glee of Christmas, had a shelf life. Year by year, their population diminished and the magic seemed to wear off. I had that awkward, "it's-not-about-the-gifts-but-I'm-still-thinking-too-much-about-them" phase, where I'd try to guilt myself back into the anticipation, back into the magic, but for less materialistic and more noble reasons.

And so it goes.

With the birth of my son, Carter, the magic started to return, the welcomed fluttering of intangible excitement. And we, my family of husband and me, still love Christmas.

My Christmas Eve no longer falls on the 24th of December, though. My first Grown-Up-Christmas-Eve fell closer to the New Year of 2008. The anticipation, the wonder, (the fear), the loss of breath over what-may-be all built around the coming of my first child.

And we're hear again. In this season of pumpkins and plastic front-yard ghouls, my soul is being brought back to the childlike joy over the imminent arrival of one of the greatest gifts and privileges of my life. Motherhood. Again. To a distinct, unique and marvelously crafted son.

It's kept me up at night. I've slipped out of bed and quietly crept to the nursery to muse. To finish thank-you cards. To write in his baby book. To appease the butterflies that denied me sleep.

I love that I'm brought back to the wonder. That the privileges of childhood are not completely lost along with the innocence and naivete. That once again, my soul is invited to dream and to hope and to skip a few soul-beats over the promise of what's to come.

This is my Grown-Up-Christmas-Eve.

And I can't wait to share with you the gift.

behind the mic

2010-10-07T13:28:00.000-04:00

I've always been a Talker.

My mom has, stashed away on stacks and stacks of VHS tapes, home videos of my talking.

The time I hosted a cooking show. The time I gave a tour of Grandma's garden. The time I directed a neighborhood play based on my all-time favorite movie, Hook. I've led Bible studies, I've sung from stage, I've even managed to find a way to send my thoughts through cyber-space with this blog.

And all the while, I've known that I've needed to listen more.

To be fully present when someone else is telling their story.

To ask questions that lead to more insight into the Other Talker's life.

To find increased appreciation for the opinions, life-experiences and values of the Other, without interjecting my own conclusions or related stories.

Last week was a grand experiment in the April-Needs-To-Listen-More-Project.

On a blue and green plaid couch, outside of Starbucks on creaky wrought iron chairs, in my dining room over pumpkin spice lattes, and later armed only with tap water,

I listened.

I listened to the stories of four different women.

One with a heart-breaking journey through infertility. One with a brave story of following Jesus as a single woman. One whose happy-family-ever-after was tragically transformed in a weekend, launching her into the unknown territory of single motherhood. One who wrestled with God over dreams deeply rooted in her soul to discover a step or two closer to their fulfillment.

I want to invite you to listen, too.

I channeled my inner Nina Totenburg (NPR journalist) and recorded, with permission, each conversation.

And I'm now in the process of transcribing them. They're part of an upcoming women's breakfast for the ladies at my church, Church at the Bay, and I'd like to give you the opportunity to be encouraged, inspired and challenged as well. You can email catbladies@churchatthebay.com to request to receive these conversations as email, which will be sent out starting on October 11.

As much as talking helps me process this world, I'm finding that listening is a far greater force for growth.

Would you like to join me?

the Bible, censored

2010-10-04T22:28:00.000-04:00

Tucked in the back of my son's closet are some newly-forbidden books, hidden from sight, begging to know what destiny awaits them.

And I have no answer for these books, except that they stay hidden.

For now.

I don't feel right chucking them; I could be okay giving them away.

These aren't Katy-Perry-dances-around-with-Elmo kind of books; they don't teach evolution or get into why-Ella-has-two-mommies;

they're Bible stories.

Three Bible stories.

Months ago, I could flip through the pages, rewriting the text, moving quickly past the pictures of sinister-looking men. Now, my son is too smart for that.

Let's take Joseph's story.

It starts with an illustration of a kind, old man putting a rainbow-colored coat on his son.

I skip the part that says, "Of all his sons, he loved Joseph the most." With a brother on the way, no concept of favoritism needs to be introduced.

The next picture is of Joseph, happily trotting down the road, older brothers in the background, with arms crossed and scowling faces. We ignore the text that speaks of their anger and jealousy.

There are more scowling faces until we reach the page where Joseph's brothers throw him in a pit, his perfectly-animated face displaying some contortion of horror.

Here's where I transition from paraphrasing

to skipping over

to lying.

Joseph fell in a pit, I tell Carter.

And then he went on a journey to see the pyramids and Joseph's daddy is crying because he thought Joseph was hurt and let's please try to ignore those awful, sinister, evil faces of Joseph's brothers one more time.

Then Carter will ask for Daniel's story. Another classic.

The very.

first.

starting scene.

shows a picture of a boy playing with his toys. And then some soldiers appear on the opposite page, one with an arrow drawn and the other, reaching over a wall, snatching the boy's toys away. We're told, "One day, a great army came and captured all of the people there and took Daniel to a strange land."

Brilliant.

So, next time you're innocently playing with your toys, son, you should be aware that soldiers just might come and take you away, too.

The story moves on, giving us a brief respite from having to paraphrase. skip over. and lie. until we reach those sinister men.

And once again, I'm brought to a very familiar place--lying about how our hero came to find himself in a pit.

Daniel fell into a pit with lions.

The king was worried, God made the lions "be nice" to Daniel,

and one would think we could end the children's version of this Bible story right here.

Of course not.

Let's mention that the bad men had to be thrown in the pit with lions and, for kicks, let's include a colorful illustration of the lions lunging at the frightened (sinister) men.

Don't even get me started on Noah.

While I have less paraphrasing, skipping over and (no) lying to do with this story, I can't help but wonder why the makers of everything-Baby have chosen this story to be their mascot.

The one time God is so fed up with the world and disgusted by the violence of men that he chooses to wipe out the entire population, sparing only Noah and his family, is immortalized in pastel colors plastered on nursery walls and baby bedding around the world. I guess if the story of Sodom and Gomorrah had a few cute token animals and a rainbow, we'd be churning out artistic renderings of it as well.

So, I'm in a quandary.

I don't want Mickey to be the only character capturing my son's imagination.

I also don't intend to lead him to believe that the world is a perfectly safe place, protecting him from the inevitable truths of bad people, conflict and pain.

But seriously.

He's only two and a half.

I think (I hope) I'm right in thinking that these themes of betrayal, war and the horror of this fallen world can wait...

just a little longer.

We're only innocent for so long, anyway.

O Working Mama

2010-09-25T15:21:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking of you, Working Mama.

It happens when the kitchen clock hits 8:00 a.m. and we're still eating breakfast. I think about how you're probably already commuting to work, kids fed, dressed, and dropped off at school-- and you've already had your shower.

It happens when I hit Publix mid-morning, my only stressor being how-to-prevent-my-two-year-old-from-running-over-the-elderly-shoppers and which new recipe I should try for dinner. I think of you and how you manage to buy groceries for the family during the crowded evening rush, or over the weekends.

I remember being a Working Mama, too--when my Saturdays fell to Catching Up on Laundry and my Sundays guaranteed no nap; when I jealously eyed the Gym Mamas dropping their kids off at my class, decked out in the latest Nike workout outfits, declaring their morning belonged to Toned Muscles and Just-A-Little-More-Fit-Than-I-Presently-Felt; when I wished for more time with my newborn and prayed for the grace to make it through another week.

Maybe you're a Working Mama by choice and you don't have a stitch of envy for Gym Mamas. Maybe you love your career and feel immensely satisfied with the roles you so graciously juggle. Maybe being a Working Mama is in your blood and you wouldn't have it any other way.

Whatever the case,

Working Mama, I think

you.

freaking.

rock.

And I hope you get the praise you deserve.

a God who transcends

2010-09-21T16:49:00.000-04:00

It was 6:12 a.m. and I was already 12 minutes late for my meeting with God. Instead of my usual routine of opening my Beth Moore study to where I had left off the previous day, I felt a quietness,

a sort of hushing of my soul.

Isaiah 6 was the whisper I received.

I knew this passage--this story of a prophet whose beloved king dies. This prophet, whose heart still grieving, lifts his eyes and has one of the most mystic visions recorded of God on his throne. This prophet, who gets to eavesdrop on the melodies of heaven.

For me, I cannot read

In the year that King Uzziah died, I saw the Lord seated on a throne, high and exalted, and the train of his robe filled the temple.

and not be raptured into scenes of my past, into moments of corporate worship in a small church-on-a-mountainside, jubilant praise vibrating from the crumbling bricks. Our biggest, blackest mamas would step up, led by the Spirit, and lead us in the chorus that comes directly from this scripture. Our singing of the refrain,

"holy, holy, holy is the Lord"

would build and build with each word, each syllable, until the very frame of our building seemed to beg for mercy under the weight of such expressed glory. I was only 7, maybe 8, but moments like those were the cracks under the door of worship through which I would peer, intrigued by the promise of more, the promise of Something Bigger, Someone Bigger, to know someday.

So I spent the next ten minutes singing that song, trying to lift my eyes a bit higher that morning. I wanted to let God be God and not just my means to a prayer-request-fulfilled, which is far too often all that he is to me.

I thought about death. How, for Isaiah, it took the physical death of a hero in order for him to receive the fullness of God's holy nature. How, for me, it has taken the death of dreams, the death of ambitions and false-identities to truly lift up my eyes and see Him.

Six hours later, I received a call from Mom.

Grandma had just died.

---

We thought she had more time.

God knew.

God knew that "on the day my Grandma would die" I would lift my eyes and think about heaven more than I had in a long time. He knew I would imagine myself at the threshold of the throne room, the place Isaiah envisioned, the place my Grandma freely crosses.

He knew I would like an invitation to join the angels singing the refrain of heaven,

to join my grandma as she sang,

perhaps for the first time, fully-present,

along with the holy ones, an eternal chorus.

---

God blows my mind.

Only he, in his compassionate wisdom, could take something as sad as my precious grandma's death and infuse the grief with one more moment with her, with one more promise of the fellowship to come.

I am reduced to the state of a little girl, only 7, maybe 8, whose belly rubs the floor, eyes straining to see through the cracks of a door. The melodies and lights and promise of heaven are bleeding through, under the threshold, faint silhouettes of those loved and lost, the glory of a King who will reign forever.

For now, that's all we get. Brief moments of revelation, of Reality-to-Come breaking through to our muddled existences.

For my grief, for my perspective, for the attempt to live on purpose with my days left from Here to There,

I'll take it.

"holy, holy, holy is the Lord"

In Response to Subscription Problems!

2010-09-14T15:53:00.000-04:00

Hey all,

So, long story short, we fixed the subscription problem--the one where those who signed up to receive Church at the Bay Ladies emails were instead receiving Through This Lens emails (totally different sites!).

But I can't fix it all. Here's your part:

To activate your subscription to Church at the Bay Ladies, you'll have to click on this link, enter your email address, type in the confirmation code and then--for real this time--you're good to go.

Here's what the confirmation looks like.

If you wish to stop receiving Through This Lens emails, there's a link that says "unsubscribe now" at the bottom of all of the emails you've received from Through This Lens so far. Just click on that and do what they say.

Again, sorry for the confusion!

Happy future reading,

April

please read...

2010-09-09T21:31:00.000-04:00

Hey guys,

So, apparently a lot of you (more than 5 that I know of) subscribed to my blog, Through This Lens, thinking they were subscribing to Church at the Bay Ladies' blog, which is www.catbladies.com.

Those blogs, CATB Ladies, and my personal-venting-platform, Through This Lens, are not the same!

If you're one of those who thought they were receiving emails from CATB Ladies, but you realize they've been from Through This Lens,

please

email me and let me know!! Or, comment on this post.

I'll talk to some techie-friends and try to get it straightened out.

Thanks so much!!

lost in translation

2010-09-09T17:13:00.000-04:00

There's a six year old Muslim boy, living somewhere in a village in Ethiopia, who

thinks I have a pet monkey

living in my house.

But the curious thing to him was not the monkey living with us, but the birds.

How do you tame your birds?

He wrote.

Where we live, the monkeys can be tame at times, but the birds destroy our crops.

We pass the nights outside, in the fields, to keep the birds away.

My son is three and a half years younger than Hawi, our sponsored child through World Vision.

Soon, he will understand these stories of a little boy who has no shoes and lives in a hut and helps his mother draw water from a well. Soon, he'll be able to find Ethiopia on a map of Africa and will understand why our letters take halves of years to receive responses. He'll trace the postal stamp with the capital's name, Addis Ababa, and will delight over the syllables and hard consonants of a language unknown.

For now, the joys of sponsorship belong to my husband and me, but I can't help but dream of how Hawi's story will stretch the imagination and worldview of my son.

For an American boy, born into a world of air-conditioning and Mickey Mouse, laptops and cell phones, ice cream and pancakes, books and beach and boat rides with grandparents, the story of a boy living

far, far away, in a village in Ethiopia

should lend itself to lessons on generosity and thankfulness;

should lead to questions about differences and disparity.

After all, when you're friends with a boy

who sleeps in fields to chase away the birds

your worldview can't remain the same.

the hands that led me back

2010-09-07T14:24:00.000-04:00

Over the past couple weeks, my faith has been rocked.

shaken.

wrestled with.

doubted.

I almost felt like defecting.

(the forces that led me there have been badgering my soul for years)

I'm okay now. I'm actually doing really well.

But it wasn't on my own accord that I reached this higher ground.

There were hands that led me back.

My husband extended his hand by listening when the dam broke. It was late at night and I finally realized I couldn't shoulder the weight of my demons alone. He didn't try to fix me. He didn't throw pithy God-cliches my way. He respected my burden and made me feel a bit less crazy. A bit less alone. He promised to love me no matter where I landed. His grip was the first pull I felt towards sanity.

Solomon extended his hand to me in the form of his writings. His prose, once depressing to me and self-indulgent, became oxygen to my suffocated soul. I found comfort in his honest assessment of our condition. I found a way forward in his admonition to embrace the brokenness and love life and serve God.

Margaret Feinburg extended her hand in her spiritual memoir. The essence of a woman known by Jesus bleeds through her pages and I was reminded, once again, of my own journey thus far. The same voice that Margaret spoke of is one I know, one I've known, once without which I would lose my only identity. Her reminder of intimacy made God seem safe again.

Beth Moore extended her hand to me with her studies. The first day I felt strong enough, "back enough," to try some real academic Bible study, she met me right there, on the first page. She spoke of the conflict the disciples felt when Jesus appeared to be something he was really not. She asked whether I would run when human logic told me to, or if I would stay near Jesus, even then. Even now. Her challenge helped solidify my new-found footing and I was able to move forward a few more steps.

My good friend, Sarah, extended the last hand I needed to finalize my journey. She initiated our conversation and I let her in on the craziness that had been plaguing me. When the final broken thought had been shared, she and I stood in awe of a God who doesn't let go. Who can handle it all. Who just might have wired my mind this way, that I might search for him and experience him in the darkness.

I'm back.

But it wasn't on my own.

There were brothers and sisters who helped lead me to this safer place.

I'm not sure there's any other way.

Who has helped you through your dark places?

middle names and not-at-ground-zero-mosques

2010-09-01T14:56:00.000-04:00

My middle name is Marbury.

One that my mother, grandmother and other various ancestors hold. The most infamous "Marbury" we lay ancestral claim to is Anne Marbury Hutchison.

Anne lived back in the day of the Puritans. And didn't exactly agree with the established church. And spoke about it, in public, and without heed to the ecclesiastical warnings of what might happen to her if she didn't pipe down.

So, Anne was sentenced to prison over a harsh winter, while über-pregnant, and eventually was excommunicated. (Her husband helped purchase an island near Rhode Island, relocated the family, and years later returned home from a trip to find Anne and several children scalped by local natives.)

You should read her story.

Here's where I'm getting...

If my beloved heroine and namesake had lived in modern day lower Manhatten, Sarah Palin, Newt Gingrich and 68% of Americans would think her expressions of faith were wrong (and insensitive and whatever other words we're spewing around).

While many might not see the correlation-- Anne Hutchison leading her own version of Bible study and offending the Puritans and the moderate Muslims planning to build a Community Center and offending the Republicans-- it's there. The same reasons that sent Anne and her family packing to a god-forsaken island are the same reasons there are grossly ignorant tweets being made by political has-beens and wannabees.

We are America.

Not just the white, Christian, country-music-loving population among us, but the blacks and latinos and Asians and Catholics and Muslims and atheists.

We have a moral high ground to hold to--one we stake our worldwide reputation on. A high ground that's been used, time and time again, to justify our foreign policy, to allow us to make demands on other nations that we ourselves won't succumb to.

That moral high ground is our defense of Freedom. Freedom to worship whatever. Freedom to say (almost) anything. Freedom to meet about saving the trees or saving the unborn babies. Freedom to live productive lives, unhindered by a religious government that tells us what to do on Fridays. Or Sundays.

This is why we think we're better than Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, the Taliban, Fidel Castro, Hu Jintao and all other present and past despots who regulate religion and its expression.

And we should think we're better than them; better than their narrow-minded, restrictive policies.

As long as we stay better than them.

The minute we tell a peaceful, America-loving, group of citizens that they cannot express their persuasions the way they please, we lose that high ground. We lose a piece of our DNA, a part of our sacred foundation. We lose the very thing that has attracted millions of oppressed sojourners, in search of a better and freer life.

We lose our American-ness.

I will always lobby for freedom of worship and a secular state because history speaks, too clearly, to what happens when one group of citizens is allowed to dictate the religious behaviors of the rest. It's a slippery slope, this religous intolerance. I fear for the future of my children, my white, hopefully-Christian, probably-country-music-loving children, if our nation begins to acqueise these sorts of demands.

Only 90 years ago, another terrorist organization was at the height of its power and influence. Its members met in secret, monitored the social and religious behaviors of its community, and executed acts of terror on undeserving, innocent citizens.

Far too quickly have we forgotten that the Ku Klux Klan members claimed to be Christians. That Christian churches exist in the very towns where these terrorists lived and worshipped. That these KKK members would worship at Little Town Southern Baptist Church on Sunday morning and then meet to discuss their next lynching on Monday night.

And yet, we don't protest, we don't tweet about the "insensitivity" of those Christians with their buildings so close to the hallowed ground of martyrs. We are able to make the distinction between moderate, sane Christians and Christian terrorists.

Another distinction needs to be made. Soon.

If not, at best, we look and sound like idiots. At worst, we lose our Freedom.

---

(Let's check our facts: The "Ground Zero Mosque" is neither at Ground Zero, nor is it a mosque. The building site is 2 blocks away from Ground Zero. Ground Zero can't be seen from the site. It's a proposed community center, complete with a basketball court, fitness center, theatre, Islamic prayer room, and a memorial to the World Trade Center victims. Sounds pretty threatening to me.)

goodbye, maybe

2010-08-30T14:43:00.001-04:00

It was a first for many things.

The first time I walked away from Carter with tears in my eyes, even though my absence would only be for four days.

The first time I held a boarding pass with San Diego as its destination, and didn't feel the giddy excitement of returning 'home.'

The first time I had to brace myself for a Final Goodbye.

My Grandma is in hospice, as of this past month. Her dementia has accelerated to the point of Alzheimer's; she has no appetite and is losing precious pounds from her already petite frame. We're told she's not uncomfortable.

Neal lost a former student to leukemia three weeks ago. I lost a loved one to AIDS while he had much life left to live. Grandma's decline, her slipping away from us, does not feel unfair like these other deaths.

She's still happy.

She's peaceful.

She says "that's wonderful" every other minute.

But she's leaving us...

Time has etched its mark in the deep creases of her face, in the transparency of her skin. Her eyes still burn blue, but their weariness permits them little light. Her wiry, coarse hair is as thick as ever, unkempt and glorious with silver declarations of age.

She awoke for us and did her best to recognize her "beautiful visitors."

Her grasp was tight and she pulled me into herself, to press her cheek against mine.

Like an infant, she mimicked the motion of a kiss, more precious than my own son's first attempts.

She was humble. Grateful. Beautiful.

All I wanted to do was crawl into bed with her, and lie down.

Rest together.

Grieve.

Remember.

Be still.

Be.

I didn't know how I'd do it. How I'd quietly leave her side, as if this were some average visit. As if weren't about to board a plane the next day, pass two more months in Florida, have a beautiful baby boy, and wait to hear from family if her last day had come.

I didn't know how to say goodbye.

But she did. In her naive graciousness, she whispered my release.

Could we be getting along now?

She was tired. She is tired. A long life, well lived, will do that to the best of us.

When death and its finality edges closer to our present, when thoughts of forever overtake temporary concerns, we're reduced to the humble state of human once again. There's something inherently wrong about this set-up. We feel it in these moments.

Somehow, with her character of grace and her humility of spirit, my grandma seems to transcend the evil of death.

It could be the naivete her disease grants her.

It could be her unshaken faith in Jesus.

It could be a combination of both, for which I'm desperately grateful.

I didn't know how to say goodbye. Just like I don't know how to end this post.

Maybe I won't this time...

mis hermanas

2010-08-12T18:00:00.000-04:00

She is a reverend in Alabama

loving and teaching and challenging the members of her congregation to know Christ

She is a mother in Florida

whose journey of infertility has led her to straight to the bosom of God;

new life has been birthed in her soul and identity

She is a secretary in South Florida

with teenage sons and jobs and neighbors to

take care of, to serve well

She is a missionary in France

leads worship in an indie band to reach the forgotten youth of Aix en Provence

She is a nurse in Tampa

courageously living a new identity

her love is fierce

She is a pastor in Ocala

filled with wisdom and grace, tempered by years of service,

a fire that won’t waver

This is my fellowship

A motley crew of sojourners, each burning with purpose and value and life

They’ll probably never meet, much less join arms to labor

on this side of heaven

---

I gain strength

comfort

perseverance

from each one;

A brief respite

from the loneliness acquired on this narrow road.

the day after

2010-08-09T10:20:00.000-04:00

the day after

a sleepless night because the whirling helicopters filled my mind with worries

the day after

my worries were confirmed--the predator was in Karate Man's house, some doors down

the day after

a visit to the walk-in clinic, just to make sure Carter's newly acquired wound was okay

the day after

the Dr. sent us to the ER for x-rays, drugs and monitoring of the swelling

the day after

we leave the ER, passing a room with an infant who's just been resuscitated, his worried mom's eyes catch mine for a sad moment

the day after

we're told that everything's okay, prescriptions are filled, the pantry is stocked with applesauce the freezer with popsicles

the day after,

the PJ's stay on till noon, as does the TV

the Providence of God is praised

sighs of relief are had

emotions let down and try to settle

embraces and snuggles and too many squeezes fill our home

the day after.

welcome back, crazy

2010-08-06T14:20:00.000-04:00

Although we've been going to Busch Gardens since Carter was en utero, he's just recently noticed the roller coasters.

And he's obsessed.

This whole week, the couch cushions have been piled on the floor as he's tunneled his way under and over them declaring the whole time, "I'm a roller coaster!" He even has a ~~weird~~ cute noise that makes, which sounds nothing like the actual ride.

With the recent departure from my lovely, uneventful, emotionally-manageable second trimester, I can wholeheartedly relate to Carter's new-found identity.

Hormonally, I'm a roller coaster.

I remember the bipolar-like surges of emotions from my first trimester. I swore I would quit ministry at the slightest discouraging thing, even as I drove to church. Those were negative surges. And I cried one time, with real tears streaming down my cheeks, while Neal and I sat and ate at Ikea's food court. When Neal asked what was wrong, I replied that nothing was--the whole Ikea Experience was just so moving to me. Ikea promoted recycling and living simply (as shown by their 756 sq. ft. sample homes and awesome storage solutions), the cafeteria food was organic and affordable, and I felt like I was back in Europe. They were tears of joy. Right there. Over my Swedish meatballs.

So, this roller coaster is quite familiar to me.

It just sucks to be back.

for the mommies

2010-08-04T16:48:00.000-04:00

While some of you commented on the analogy made in my post Celestial Sticker Rack , a lot of comments were made about the literal story line: Carter freaking out at swim lessons.

So, here's some reassurance. We're getting into trouble with the teacher and looking pretty cute doing it.

hospitality, re-vamped

2010-08-02T22:48:00.000-04:00

For years and years, I've dismissed myself from believing I have "the gift of hospitality." I figured that if I couldn't cook like my aunt, and if hosting a dinner party stressed me out, I wasn't cut out for it.

And it's no wonder I thought that.

Yesterday, I spent thirty minutes tracking with Ina Garten as she and her friend Matthew showed hospitality to their friends, Frank and Steven. Frank and Steven were coming home from a long vacation in England and their poor fridge was empty. So, Ina decided to stock it with white truffle mac n' cheese, lemon custard and fresh bread with cinnamon honey butter. Matthew took on the aesthetic challenge and set their table with fresh cut flowers, apples and placed firewood in the hearth.

It was a lovely homecoming.

Ina ended the segment with a cheesy, "Yes! Mission accomplished!" and a wink to the camera when her friends confirmed, by text, that they enjoyed the surprise.

That's what I've believed, this whole time, that hospitality is all about.

Perfectly executed recipes hosted in a beautiful home.

And then I read this this morning:

"Sodom’s sins were pride, gluttony, and laziness, while the poor and needy suffered outside her door. She was proud and committed detestable sins, so I wiped her out, as you have seen."

Ezekiel 16:49,50

Remember Sodom and Gomorrah? They're the cliche for evil in the Bible, the icon synonymous with judgment and seriously rousing the wrath of God. We conservative Republicans are quick to credit Sodom's infamous judgment with her reputation of homosexual behavior, but God clearly spells out her sins in this text:

Sodom was not biblically hospitable.

I'm sure there were some serious parties in Sodom, maybe no white truffle mac n' cheese, but I'd bet the house on filet mignon and decent wine. God's bone to pick was that the parties were had and the lifestyles were lived out in total ignorance of the needy.

So, I can master Bobby Flay's flank steak and I can learn how to use the recently-acquired pasta attachment to my Kitchen Aid mixer, and I can even invite some people over to (try to) enjoy the results, but if I am

too proud to hang out with those outside of my socio-economic status,

gluttonous in that a dinner party is focused on the food and not the relationships,

and too lazy to meet the real, physical needs of my neighbors,

I am not being biblically hospitable.

I'm beginning to think that the hospitality God calls me to has less to do with my perfectly executed productions and more with meeting needs. Even Jesus exhorted his disciples (you can read it here) to throw dinner parties for the needy and the rejects of society; not just for friends.

I don't know what that looks like in my life.

But I'm going to explore it. And I'm going to do something about it.

I want to learn what it means to be biblically hospitable--the radical, Jesus-loving, un-cooking-show kind of way.

celestial sticker rack

2010-07-28T16:53:00.000-04:00

I was totally unprepared.

I mean, I had the swim diaper, the change of clothes, the towel and the after-your-first-swim-lesson-treat all ready to go.

But, emotionally, I was ignorant to the experience that was about to strike me.

You see, mine is the son who's never cried for me when I've dropped him off at childcare for church. Mine is the son who politely (because his butt's whooped if he's not) asks me to "Leave me alone. Daddy and I are playing right now."

That same independent son cried

the
entire
thirty
minutes

of his first swim lesson last week.

When Carter's name was called, along with Sid, Ella and Cameron, he wasn't sure what to think. Once his teacher dunked his head under the water, though, he knew exactly how he felt.

Abandonded.

"Mommy!!" he screamed in panic when he could catch his breath, "Come swim with me!!"

I could barely hear him. We mommies were seated behind a thick plexi-glass wall, with a red stop sign posted on the door that stood between Comfort and Fear. At one point, I asked the other moms if the kids could even see us--is this some kind of CIA interrogation glass? They assured me the kids could.

Which is why, 5 minutes into the hysterics (both mine and his), these other mommies told me I should hide myself. From his sight. The reasoning was that if he stopped looking back for me, he might forget his fears and focus on his lesson.

So there I stood, hiding behind a tall sticker rack, crying as my son frantically searched the scene of Watching Mommies for his, wondering why I would

leave him with a stranger,

leave him to his fears,

leave him to choke on chlorinated water because he's still not able to hold his breath.

The reason I chose to subject him to such fear, loneliness and seemingly abandonment is that I believed his temporary pain paled in comparison to the unalterable pain that could come from a drowning accident.

The promise of my son's independence and freedom in the water was worth far more than the tears we both cried that day.

I wondered if this was a fraction of what God has felt with his children;

if there was some Celestial Sticker Rack that God hid behind while he watched me walk through my darkest days, the moments comprised of tragedy and brokenness, the moments about which I would later swear,

You broke my heart when you let that happen.

I'm led to believe he cried then. I'm led to believe he was surprised by the pain he experienced. I'm led to believe he was whispering, the entire time I searched the sky for his face,

I'm right here. I haven't left you. I'm so sorry. It's going to be okay.

I have learned, in my short journey so far, that there is a Promise that far outweighs the pain, the brokenness and the tragedy of this life. Intimacy with God, fellowship with the sufferings of Christ, genuine ministry to broken women and a dependency on God are all parts of the Promise I've already known.

For the unanswerable questions, for the sufferings that seem to have no possible value in this life, the ultimate Promise of life and healing await his children. I imagine God standing there, at the door of eternity, with a warm towel in his hands, ready to embrace the shivering sojourner.

For now, though, we just have to believe He was there. He is there. And that his purposes are wiser and better than a mom trying to teach her son how to swim.

Where do you have to trust God still has a purpose for you?

why I'm reading through Age of Speed and other boring business books

2010-07-25T15:14:00.000-04:00

I have scribbled, in a blue sharpie pen, a note to myself. It's posted on my once-organized cork board and goes like this:

I wrote it down around midnight last week, after a fit of "I-can't-do-it-all-and-I'm-freaking-out." Neal and I talked late that night--about my dissatisfaction with what I felt I could do (and mostly, not do) as a mom, a wife, a house-manager, a creative person, and as a leader in ministry.

I felt like my output was all just...okay. And, as all mothers know, okay does not keep the Guilt Boogie Monsters away at night.

Usually, with this onslaught of feeling overwhelmed, I determine that I'm doing too much and pare down my tasks to a more manageable docket. This time, that strategy would not do because I honestly believe that everything I'm doing is necessary and valuable and has its rightful niche in my life.

This time, it's not that I'm doing too much, it's that I have to grow up to the much that I'm doing.

So I'm stealing Neal's business books--the boring, read-it-in-two-sittings-because-business-men-wrote-them-and-know-better-than-to-waste-your-time-with-description-and-adjectives-and-interesting-writing kinds of books. And I'm trying to implement some of their strategies.

Prioritizing.

Getting crap done quick (the unimportant, every-day, repetitive stuff).

Planning.

And I'm asking God to grow me up. To mature me to the level at which I need to exist.

To love well. To serve well. To be well.

this post really is just about a bookstore

2010-07-19T08:51:00.000-04:00

I always have to pass it before I know I'm close; navigational doubt fills me every time I attempt the trek.

It's one of those obscure, hard to find, unless-you-know-the-correct-U-turn-to-make kind of bookstores.

Musty and dank, with aging carpet and fluorescent lights, the store quietly welcomes you with the solitary ding of a bell upon entering. No looks up to see who's come in. The only distinguishable staff sits behind the counter, immersed in her novel. A black pen tucked behind her ear, barely emerging from her wiry, peppered hair is the one mark of employee-ship.

There's no Starbucks or Seattle's Best cafe, no plush arm chairs for trendy Mac-Users to own. I come armed with a Tervis Tumbler, sloshing around with this morning's stale coffee, french vanilla creamer and half-melted ice cubes. My own version of a summer's drink.

I start at the beginning, the Florida section, where high-gloss and stunning photography make the front-facing displays. I already bought my bird book, so I'm good for now. Working my way past the horizontally stacked novels that line the entire east wall, I weave through shelves spilling over with mostly yellowing paged books.
I'm not sure what I'm looking for, but it's not

Self-Healing and New Age,

Biographies,

or even Cooking.

I stop at Classic Literature, due to a sort of obligatory deference I feel towards the names of the Great. It's a Shaw-thing, this respect for the Classics. One reads them, because that's what they're owed.

With the coming of motherhood and its demands I've increasingly excused myself from that guilt. I know I should get a kick out of Oscar Wilde, but in all honesty, I don't. And, like sushi, I don't have the time or money to spend becoming accustomed to the taste.

I settle in Christian, curious to see what my peppered hair friend and her coworkers decided fares as Christian work. That in and of itself is pretty entertaining, but it quickly passes and I move on, still asking myself what it was I wanted.

This journey through the bookstore is much like a treasure hunt, except that I'm not sure what the treasure looks like. I always believe there's a diamond or two in the rough and it's up to my discerning eye to discover them. There's an art to the search--I can't stay in one section too long for fear of getting too narrowly focused. Then again, I can't move too quickly per chance I might skip that One Book my quest is promised for. I move along, with an intentional pace, head tilted just so in case my treasure’s title isn’t placed at eye level.

I ended up carrying a Julia Alvarez collection of essays, along with a promised-to-be-witty book on grammar (I am that nerd) both to the counter. A 25 cent pelican bookmark begs to join and gets thrown into the mix. I ask Peppered Hair what she's reading and she quotes me an author I've never heard of (but might have if I cared more about the Classics). I smile, thank her, and take my generic plastic bag of books out the door.

Uneventful to an outsider, yes.

But for a soul so deeply moved by words, their mere presence in the inconspicuous labyrinth of ideas, persuasions, and stories that I affectionately refer to as my

Used (Beach) Bookstore,

leaves me with a comforted sensation, much like what comes from having met with old friends. The satisfaction of having discovered two good books, with pencil scribbling on the inside flap of a price of (at least) 50% off, having both been read and loved before me, is worth the trip even before I open the books.

death in all its forms

2010-07-14T11:35:00.000-04:00

This morning there was a panicky scream from the kitchen.

(Oh crap. Another poop that didn't make the toilet.)

To my surprise, though, Carter hadn't pooped on the tile, and urgently led me to the site of the crime.

We stooped under his kiddy table and he pointed it out:

a withered and dried up mosquito corpse.

It's okay, Carter, I assured him, It's dead. He won't bite you.

Long pause...I could see the wheels in his head turning.

He's dead...so he'll be nice to me?? If "dead" means the bug won't bite, then "dead" must mean he will be kind. Pretty decent logic to me.

How does one explain death to a two year old?

I logged onto to my email thirty minutes later and found a more-sobering-than-the-death-of-the-kitchen-mosquito message.

Grandma's in hospice.

I texted Mom, thanked Aunt Cath for the update, and excused myself from Daddy and Carter's sacred morning ritual of jumping on the bed and watching Mickey together.

It comes, this thing called Death, for us all. For the 8 day old insect and the 89 year old matriarch. And while we can expect and come to terms with and read literature in college and watch the headlines every night,

it's no less sad.

it's no less broken.

naptime

2010-07-10T16:25:00.000-04:00

I laid down with you today

(Bear was in the wash)

you slung your arm around my neck

warm yogurt breath down my cheeks

you whispered,

Mommy, you maeel pitty

Mommy, you smell pretty

I wondered how much longer

you would be holding on

how many years do I have left

of being Your Only Girl?

of compliments and kisses

and jealous hugs when Daddy loves

---

My promise is to love you

to build you up and make you strong

to let you risk and kiss the wounds

to help you find who you’ll become.

One day, you’ll see Another Girl

more beautiful than me

you’ll pour your soul into her

and be her everything

you’ll take the strength we’ve lent you

and the strength you’ve found on your own

you’ll build her up and make her safe

and together you’ll create your home.

---

For now, I’m holding onto you

and Bear and naps and yogurt breath

from here to there and what lies between

you’re my precious son; I call myself blessed.

here in this place

2010-06-24T10:09:00.000-04:00

This hour surprised me.

I am unprepared, with only 58% battery remaining on my laptop and no power cord to extend my time.

My time here, at Panera, somewhere off of 60 in Clearwater.

I was supposed to be back at it. Back to Mommy-business and chores and preparing for Saturday’s ladies’ dinner. But Cathy, my gracious mom-in-law, called and told me not to hurry home from my night out with old college friends.

I could meander a little longer.

So, here’s where I find myself…

My life is full right now.

Neal and I are in such a good place in our marriage. We’re partnering with each other in ministry, learning how to appreciate each other’s unique skills and passions and refraining from projecting our own expectations of ourselves onto the other. And we’re in love. And it’s so good.

Carter is a rollercoaster ride of discovery. Just this morning, on the phone, he repeated several times,

“I’m fixing to get ready to go to the park.”

What? You’re what to get ready to go to the park? He was clearly frustrated with me when he handed the phone back to his grandmother.

Did my son just use the phrase fixing to?

I didn’t use the phrase “fixing to” until…never.

And that’s the impressionable, smart, son I have. I am stuffed full with a sense of contented joy because God has chosen for Carter’s life to intersect with mine.

We are full of anticipation, wondering what to expect from a second son, waiting to meet him and discover his uniqueness. He reminds me of his presence whenever I let my blood sugar get too low, with a kick or two or four.

Ministry is hopeful.

After an-unspecified-amount-of-time, God has recently reached down and interjected a Great Pause in the discouragement we had been enduring. We’ve befriended a group of new-ish Christ followers and are in awe, all over again, of How God Works.

Marriages on the brink of divorce restored.

Porn quit.

Drinking abandoned.

Baptisms and confessions of faith and Brand-New-Fresh-Leather-Bibles bought…and read.

Stories whispered, in the confidence of just two, of God speaking.

Is that supposed to happen? Does God really speak to us like that?

Yes. Yes, He does.

With all of this beauty, I’m strengthening my resolve to be contented in this place. To reject the ever-tempting desire to fantasize about the Land of Tomorrow.

Right now, right here, in my place in life and with a laptop with only 40% life remaining,

I can call this good.

And I’m so thankful to my God for bringing me here.

Catching up...

2010-06-09T15:27:00.000-04:00

For some reason, an old post of mine went out last week, 13 Reasons to Run a Half-Marathon.

For those of you who know I'm 20 weeks pregnant, it didn't really make sense (especially the part that said "I'm not pregnant.")

No, I'm not training for a half-marathon. I'm lucky if I walk my 2 mile route once a week these days. (Carter's so good to remind me that we haven't been to the gym lately, also! I've got a conscience and a 2-year old to bother me!)

We're having a boy.

Super happy about that. About Carter having a little buddy to play with, to wrestle with, to "share" trains with, and to share his new bunk bed with, eventually.

Selfishly, I'm pretty pumped that my to-do list for the nursery was sliced in half when we spotted that extra leg on the sonogram screen since there will be no redecorating.

And I'm taking a break from the blog.

Consider it a belated lent-type fast.

I just need to think, to focus on Jesus and what He's calling me to do, and if we went to bed with a clean kitchen every now and then, I'd consider that a good result as well.

Love ya.

mwen rele april

2010-05-28T16:51:00.000-04:00

Last week, I spent some time with my parents and brothers in West Palm Beach while Neal was in Haiti.

It was a quiet few days, filled with walks and too much coffee, bedtimes hours past their due, help for Spanish exams, and new recipes I've been meaning to try since my cooking class.

Dad was excited to share with Carter and me a local trail he'd discovered that winds its way through a newly constructed wetland preserve. We said we'd go early, there were no cypress trees to shade the boardwalk, but even the 9:30 a.m. sun was enough to baptize Carter in his own sweat.

We saw birds. Lots of them. We'd periodically stop at the wooden posts along the way to try to identify the birds. And we were able to name a few-- the obvious ones like the anhinga and the sandhill crane, but it wasn't enough for me. After our walk, we drove to Barnes and Noble and I bought one of those bird books for amateurs.

Carter and I returned to the wetland preserve the next day, this time armed with my little green book. Carter found it to be a fun game, this finding "matches" and tempted my anger by almost throwing the book into the swamp ~~three~~ four times.

I thought about it. This desire to know something or someone's name.

It's not enough for me to tell you I saw a greyish bird with a freakishly long neck, and a small black bird with a red tuft on each of its wings. I had to know their respective names.

It's funny, this name game has been going on since the dawn of creation. Adam's first job (or so) given to him by the Creator was to name the animals. My husband and I are currently vetting a list of names for our baby on its way. A name assigns identity, value and individuality. It distinguishes the one from its species, from its people group and even from its family.

A name is God's way of inviting us to share in His delight of creation.

While Neal was in Haiti, he brought me in for a visit via Skype. We started in his room and then went to the common areas of the orphanage where I practiced my bumbling Haitian Creole with Charlene and a few others. Neal introduced me to some of the orphans, and although their faces were blurred from the poor internet connection, I remembered their forms.

On the 7+ hour ride home from Ft. Lauderdale to Tampa, Neal filled me in on some of their stories. He told me of the 15 year old boy he talked with on the roof whose father sent him across the street to get something right before the earthquake. The building collapsed on and killed his parents moments later. Neal told me of an eleven year old girl, one I remember from my Skype chat who was holding a baby. I thought she was the older sister. She was the mother of that baby, a former slave who was gang raped on an errand and then kicked from her home when her owners discovered the pregnancy.

Knowing the name, and the face and the story, has the power of invitation as well.

We're invited to move beyond a (justified) feeling of hopelessness in the face of overwhelming need and numbers--there are 490,000 orphans and 300,000 child slaves in Haiti right now-- to a place of relationship and empowerment.

Knowing the name is not just an invitation to delight in the uniqueness of a wild bird, a friend's new baby, or an orphan, but to enter their worlds and affect it for change.

It's the first thing we ask each other, one of the first words a child learns and the starting point of all friendships. It's your name. It's his name. It's the power of creation and the invitation to relationship all in one.

musings and mush, if you dare to read

2010-05-25T14:53:00.000-04:00

Marriage changes you.

And, it's not the kind of change that happens overnight, like the last name or the new apartment.

The kind of change I'm thinking of is deeper, reaching back into the recesses of your soul and then extending forward through your personality.

It's the vocabulary changes-- "four-ish" no longer means "sometime during the hour of four o'clock." It now refers to the exact window of "3:50-4:10." It's the dietary changes-- coming to learn that you love cheesy grits with bacon, that you never really liked alfalfa sprouts, and that your mom-in-law's mac-n-cheese really does taste better.

There are political changes--the liberal Californian has learned what constitutes constructive conversation with the in-laws and what is simply downright offensive to discuss. And there are recreation changes--football is no longer just for napping, but represents an entire culture I've recently come to appreciate.

I used to fear that change for me in marriage meant losing myself.

When I thought about change, I didn't fear losing my love for hummus or NPR; I feared losing my independent spirit, my individual identity and the spunk to hold one's ground, even to a guy whose IQ ranks much higher than hers.

Seven-ish years later, my husband has not allowed any of those real fears to be realized. When we were only married for 11 months, it was he who encouraged me to take off to Mexico to teach an English class to Mayans...for 5 weeks. He's the one who's researched opportunities for my to explore my dreams, who's bought me books on topics only I could care about, and who asks questions-- those probing kinds of questions that stick with you for weeks and push you to self-truths you wouldn't discover alone.

As a result, I've settled a bit. I don't feel so defensive over my identity anymore, realizing that the person I'm becoming is better than the person I'd be on my own. I don't always need to be understood and I don't always need to be right. In the security of my husband's love, I've traded the posture of independence for a mutual partnership and it's so much more gratifying.

All this to say, it's night number 6 that Neal's been away

and I miss him.

you've been waiting for this one

2010-05-22T16:22:00.000-04:00

I bet you thought it'd never happen.

That I was only capable of writing about the shadowy things lurking in the back of my mind. Things that require introspection, analyzing and soul-searching.

Well, here goes.

The first down-to-earth and ever so straight forward post:

I'd like you to pray for us next week.

Neal, my husband, is on staff at Church at the Bay, a local nondenominational church, and he and two other pastors are traveling to Haiti this Monday, the 24th through Wednesday, the 26th. (And I was surprised when my doctor said I couldn't go.)

We're partnering with Global Orphan Project, a grassroots, non-profit relief organization that seeks to not only alleviate the suffering in individual orphans' lives, but to transform entire communities in the meantime. It's pretty exciting.

Neal, Hal Mayer (lead pastor) and Hal Mayer IV (because who doesn't love roman numerals?) will fly into Port-au-Prince and stay at Global Orphan Project's home base. They'll spend the majority of their time in a village outside of Port-au-Prince that GO Project has paired us with, taking video and pictures and meeting the indigenous leaders in the village.

The vision is for Church at the Bay to establish a long-term partnership with that village, helping meet the needs of the orphans and the community at large.

Freaking awesome.

So, back to my original request.

Will you pray for these 3 things:

1) that Neal, Hal and Hal will be able to accomplish all they need to in the short span of 2 days

2) that there will be great communication and relationship building between our guys and the staff at Global Orphan Project, and with the Haitian nationals in our specific village

3) (here's where Wife and Friend kicks in) for the safety and health of Neal, Hal and Hal IV

That's it, guys! I'll keep you posted.

Thank you.

I was going to do it

2010-05-12T14:21:00.000-04:00

I was going to write a post about Jillian Michaels, trainer for The Biggest Loser, who recently said in her interview with Women's Health, "I'm going to adopt. I can't handle doing that [pregnancy] to my body. Also, when you rescue something, it's like rescuing a part of yourself." I was going to write about how awesome I think Jillian is and how her career in physical fitness has impacted American for the better. And then I was going to tell you how disappointed I was when I heard her take on pregnancy and body image. I was going to explain how I had hoped for more from her--from this woman who counsels other women to love their bodies and selves, even when they're far from perfect. I was going to share with you my Ideal Jillian-- one who gets pregnant, goes through the 10 months healthily and models to us women how to be fit and eat right and embrace the stretch marks and weight gain ~~and other stuff I can't write here~~. And then Ideal Jillian would "get her body back" within a reasonable time, all the while, making Baby the priority and measurements secondary. I'd then ask you this piercing rhetorical question, "Wouldn't American Mommies be better off with an Ideal Jillian?"

That's what I would have written if I had decided to post on What Jillian Michaels Said About Pregnancy.

But instead, I realized that she's very. much. human.

With real fears.

Just like me.

Basements and Jesus and the Ugly-Things

2010-05-07T19:00:00.000-04:00

I've got a bright green door.

The kind of green that makes a great, big contrast with our yellow house.

And when you open that green door (if you were expected), you'd most likely see a tidied up entryway and a dining room which leads into a kitchen with counters wiped down and then you'd see the living room, with ~~no toys~~ not too many toys strewn across the floor.

The guest bathroom won't have its usual potty seat attached to the toilet and the shower curtain should be pulled shut to obstruct the buckets and boats and balls that litter the bathtub floor.

What you won't see is my bedroom, with its unmade linens and laundry-still-in-baskets and you definitely won't be touring my closet or bathroom.

Because that's the way we live.

And it's not bad, or hypocritical or full of pretense.

We only have so much time to clean, and we prioritize what we want others to see and what we don't want others to see.

It's really okay--with our literal homes.

The problem occurs when we live like this in all of our relationships.

When the only thing we let our close friends see are the tidied-up areas of our hearts, the places of success and happiness.

When we only allow our friends into the "guest areas"-- the ones that are presentable and under control and ready at all times for a realtor to show potential clients.

I just spent three hours with a friend who's been invited into my life, regardless of the conditions of the many rooms of my soul. The kind of friend who answers the question, "So, how's your heart?" without the obligatory superficial crap.

This friend ever-so-boldly invited me into her own basement--the kind of human basement with cockroaches and cobwebs and things we as humans don't want to confess we own. It was with fear and pain that we walked down those steps as she shared her story with me. She brought her ugly-things into the light--the light of heart-felt confession to another human--and it wasn't easy

at all.

Since her courageous invitation-- to know even the most regretted and broken parts of her story--I've been able to reciprocate. Today, we walked down into my basement and I showed her some of my ugly-things. Together, we flipped the light on, acknowledged the fallenness of our human condition and then turned our eyes to

the Only Light we know.

It's not just the confession and the invitation of another person into our brokenness that causes the life-resuscitating healing we so desperately need.

It's the turning toward the Light of Jesus-- One who doesn't down-play our screw-ups and at the same time grants us a purity and wholeness--a freedom from shame-- we could never achieve on our own.

Fear and shame and guilt make for stunted relationships and hearts that can only give so much. Only when we allow Jesus into our closets and bathrooms and basements

(and he often invites another friend)

will we discover the uninhibited freedom to love and be loved the way we were meant to.

That's the power of the invitation. It requires much, but for those bold enough to risk it all, the rewards are immeasurable.

Who have you invited into your basement? Is Jesus welcomed there?

because who really needs that stuff in the dollar bin at Target, anyway?

2010-05-05T13:21:00.001-04:00

“And what does the $33 a month cover?”

I was on the phone with the Missions pastor at Westside Church in Kansas City, trying to learn how his church meets the needs of impoverished children around the world.

“It covers food, medical care, shelter and access to education. It’s nothing that would compare with the standard of living children have in Tampa or Kansas City.

It’s nothing fancy.

Just the basics.

Because, where these children are coming from, the situations they’re in right now—

good is great.”

That phrase has stuck with me. It’s ricocheted off the corners of my mind these past few days.

What if good were great?

What if my 5 year old Rainbows were enough—they sure seem to have an eternal soul—what if I stretched them another summer, committed to replacing them later?

What if last season’s (and the seasons or two before that) Loft dresses were just fine and I could keep at bay the urge to maneuver the current fashion demands?

What if those knick-knacks and shiny Target gimmicks and certain updates for the house could wait?

What I already have is good…can I start to consider it as great?

Here’s what I know.

If my coffee get s brewed at home, and a few more meals are ~~cooked~~ attempted at home; if I spend less time lusting over shiny JCrew shoes and more time watching over our finances, I might just free up some $$ we didn’t have before.

Money that could be sent to those little ones overseas who have

so. very. little.

If my current good can become great in my own eyes I might just be able to change some lives.

There are children, millions and millions of children, near and far, who will never (even be able to consider) a lifestyle that by our standards is called good. If we can recognize the pull that consumerism has on our souls, and begin to abstain, little by little, we might just break away long enough to catch a vision for The Least of These. We might just break away long enough to free up that $33 a month needed to transform

just one life

from barely-getting-by

to good.

And these children, when given the opportunity, would tell you that their good truly is great.

the unsexy days

2010-04-20T21:05:00.000-04:00

I'm coming to terms with this.

This transition from working full-time to part-time to not-really-any-time at all. This transition from the exhilarating, production-filled days to

the unsexy days.

You see, I was the girl who aspired to be the next Condoleeza Rice. Who waltzed through Banana Republic, dressing herself in the sharp grey and tan power suits, readying herself for the days when her clothes would communicate power and importance.

(I am that vain...)

I was the girl whose husband was shocked to find, upon completion of my timeline, The Next 20 Years of Our Lives, I had totally forgotten to factor in kids.

Grad school for me? Check.

Grad school for hubby? Check.

House? Check.

Children before 40?

Oops.

So, here I am on the other side of college-girl fantasies. I'm home, full-time, with my lovely two-year-old.

I sort of roll through my days, through my weeks, trying to be as intentional as possible with this time God's granted me. And it's beautiful and fulfilling and sometimes slow, but altogether good.

It's days like yesterday when I'm forced to come to terms with just

how
unsexy
these
days
really
are.

It's when Carter's washing his hands for lunch and I glance in the bathroom and I literally flinch at seeing my un-make-uped reflection. It's when I realize, 15 minutes before my student comes over, that I haven't yet showered that day. It's when I look forward to dinner out because I'll have my first reason that day to get out of a sports-bra.

We've come a long way from the April-with-the-JD-after-her-name.

I'm stumbling upon a different kind of beauty right now--one of quietness and contentedness. One that's slowly becoming okay with not measuring the day's worth by an Outlook task list. A beauty that's desperately trying to inhale the energy of each moment, fully knowing that this season will soon pass.

I'm thankful for these days.

Whether or not mascara makes the cut.

dear sister, i hope this address is right

2010-04-15T18:00:00.000-04:00

I was a young, bright-eyed college freshman when I snuck away from my roomies and found some alone space at the top of Dorman Hall’s stairwell. I brought my guitar, the one Dad had played in his Jesus-loving hippie revivals in Venice Beach.

My fingers strummed away, interchanging chords, hoping to find some melody to become the venue for my soul to express its pain. And I happened upon some chord pattern, just enough to write a song to my sister.

My sister whose actions told me that, although we started this journey together—

this bold adventure of following Christ at the nation’s 2nd foremost party school,

it wasn’t looking like we’d continue the journey together…

at least for now.

I sang out my hurt, I sang out my bewilderment, I sang out my sense of loss of friendship.

The chorus of my song, I fear, I’ll have the opportunity to sing time and time again:

Here we are, waiting
Waiting for you to come
And we’re all praying,
Praying that you know we still love you
And should your feet turn home--
Know we’ll meet you on that road.

Because that’s the nature of The Road.

The road that Jesus has beckoned me, and you, to, is one less traveled. Jesus himself called it “narrow,” and spoke of how so few take it.

Along the way so many different and diverse Jesus-lovers have intersected paths with mine, and I’ve learned to love and fight fair, to forgive and honor and to (I suck at this) try to put others’ wants over mine. I’ve disagreed with many—over theology and practices, stupid things and essential things—but I’ve cherished these travelers and have fought to bring myself back to a place of love.

Over the years, I’ve made indescribable and invaluable ties with the ones whose journeys have coincided with mine. Whether it’s partnering in ministry, or learning something together, or discovering that

you, too, are not alone in your struggle,

these ties are what make The Road less lonely and less difficult. They lessen the time it takes to get back up when you stumble,

or when you stalemate.

These ties are essential to The Road—Jesus couldn’t conceive a journey without them.

So it only makes sense that I’ll feel the pain I felt that freshman year

again,

and again,

and again.

The beauty of my God is that he gives us choice and some of my dearest friends I’ve walked alongside

choose

to

leave

The

Road.

The raw emotion still resonates within, memories of others’ leaving flash before my soul’s eye, and I remember praying to discern what my role should be. Eventually, I would release them to their decision and pray God they’ll return someday.

I don’t ever want to lose this sense of loss.

I don’t want a hardened heart, one jaded by years of traveling.

I don’t want to not feel this pain when a friend makes a detour and tells me not to follow.

As I freely embrace the joys of following Christ—the victories and celebrations and freedom-stories—may I freely embrace its sorrows.

Because that’s the nature of The Road.