“This is crap. You can do better.”

 


reflection

dear b“No! Let go of my necklace,” I yelled as I yanked my favorite turquoise beads out of your fisted hands. Your face crumpled like a used tissue and tears erupted from your eyes. I tucked my necklace back safely into the jewelry box that you had been pilfering, as guilt flooded my chest.

I knew I’d been too harsh, but so much of my jewelry had already become your casualties.

Then, I remember the day before when a wobbly baby had toddled over to you with open hands and a wide smile, grabbing curiously at the teapot you played contentedly with.

As the baby approached, you clutched the candy pink plastic to your chest, swinging your other hand around in protective circles, and screeched, “No! Mine!” I had been embarrassed at your behavior, explaining that you needed to be kind and gentle to babies.

“She’s younger than you, and she doesn’t know any better.” The words resound in my ears as I shamefully look into your hurt, tearful eyes.

You are a reflection of me.

So often those words become stale in my mouth from overuse, but as I sit with them now, they resonate as valuable truth: you..are..a reflection..of me.

When I first entered college I had to pass a test called the Subject A Exam which assessed my ability to write an effective essay. I have always loved writing, but in high school, my teachers focused on teaching me the conventions of writing rather than the art. Mixed with test anxiety, the Subject A and I did not hit it off.

After my third failed attempt, the university mandated that I take a Subject A prep class. I showed up the first day feeling as indignant as a two year old who’s forced into taking nap.

Over the first weeks of class, I stubbornly decided that no matter what, I would despise and resent the class. The teacher, Ms. Gypsum, was young, and carefree. She wore boldly printed scarves and blue rectangular glasses that were disarming with their quirky charm. But I held my resolve.

She had us read books and articles that were actually interesting. She would return our essays covered in her inky cursive with thoughtful feedback and questions. We would sit in class with our cups of coffee doused liberally with cream and sugar, and she would encourage us to have thoughtful and worthwhile conversation.

Despite her attempts to connect with me, the first half of the class I skated by with little effort or dedication. Until Ms. Gypsum handed me back my midterm essay, and across the top of the page, seven words were scrolled beside the big red letter D: “This is crap. You can do better.”

She’d taken three weeks to show me who she was, as a writer, as a teacher, and as a person, and now, she was standing face to face with me and challenging me to show what I was capable of. Her words took me off guard, they knocked me off my pedestal and infuriated me.

But then, they forced me to look in the mirror– and I realized that I didn’t like what I saw. What was my self righteous attitude about anyways? I thought I was such a great writer, but what was I producing besides bitterness and mediocre work?

Too many times in my life I have let my ego decide who I am and not my actions. Sometimes I need to be knocked off my pedestal and told: “This is crap. You can do better.”

Because as I seek to discipline you, God is disciplining me to become a better person and a better mom. After all, the word discipline actually means “to train.”

In order to be the kind of mom I want to be, I first need to be a student. I need to learn how to be patient, humble, selfless, kind, and generous. I need to say please: please God give me strength. I need to say thank you: thank you God for your abundant blessings. I need to say I’m sorry: forgive me God for falling short.

As your hurt eyes peered into mine I put my hands on your shoulders, “I am so sorry I yelled at you like that,” and I pulled you close in an embrace.

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When Life Gives You Puddles

 

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I heard a heart-stopping cry. I know all my daughter’s cries. The fake cry, the tired cry, the cry when her feelings are hurt, and then there’s the heart stopping one– the one that I drop whatever is in my hands, leap over the vacuum, or dog, or person in my path, and run to her.

She was sitting up with her blanket in a hood over her head so all I could see were her wide blue eyes and the streaks of tears sliding down her flushed face. “Bree! What’s wrong?” I asked as I plopped my swollen pregnant body on her insubstantial princess bed, and wrapped my arms around her.

“Daddy! Daddy’s gone!”

After I calmed and assured her, “Daddy’s at work, he’ll be home tonight.” I went and checked my phone that I’d heard clanging in my bedroom beneath the din of her cries.

Ten missed calls…from Daddy.

As I heard his strangled voice on the other end of the line, he explained in gasping bursts that he’d dislocated his shoulder and was waiting for it to be set, but everything would be fine.

And everything was fine. He returned home with wild hair and glazed eyes and slept solidly for the next 24 hours. Then he was himself, save the lack of use of his left arm which was braced against his body.

It’s a week later, and I have to help him with little things, like applying deodorant and putting on his shirt. He can’t pick up our daughter and he can’t help set the table or wash dishes, but none of this is a big deal. None of this is a big deal.

We found out he may need shoulder surgery: no big deal– 4 to 6 week recovery where he won’t have full use of his arm.

Not a big deal. I’m saying this through gritted teeth, hormones flooding my body and threatening to commandeer my brain, my 8 and a half month pregnant mound of a belly staking claim like a giant ant hill that requisitions the surrounding landscape.

In my plan, he would have use of both his arms.
 God willing, the baby is coming in 6 short weeks or less.

In my plan, the shades would be hung in the nursery, the closet painted a crisp white instead of the streaks of dirt and rust that threaten to claim the walls. The contents of the garage would be neatly organized on the shelves instead of dumped in a disheveled mess on the floor and every surface.

In my plan, he would have use of both his arms.

Then I’m reminded of how Bee entered the world on an unsuspecting Friday afternoon. I woke up in a puddle of water a month before she was expected. My house was a mess, the nursery wasn’t complete and my family was eight hours away.

Breach…emergency C Section…it all came in a confused rush.

When I held her soft, warm body to my chest, none of it mattered.

Too often I try to shrink my life into the little trivial details right in front of me rather than seeing the big beautiful landscape God is painting before me.
I wouldn’t change a thing about my first birth story. God knew that I was an anxious mess, and He saved me a month of harried preparation and bustle. More than that, He knew His ways are higher than my ways in all things, big and small.

Too often I try to shrink my life into the little trivial details right in front of me rather than seeing the big beautiful landscape God is painting before me.

In his goodness and grace he uses my circumstances to redirect my attention to HIM.

He loves me so much that he comes and affirms his goodness in the small things, like my husband’s laughter as I tickle his armpit in my pitiful attempt to apply his deodorant, or in Bee’s small hand, wrapped around my finger in our first moments together.

He loves us so much that he affirms his goodness by giving His life for mine. And in the quiet moments as I feel the healthy kick of my growing baby girl, He reminds me that HIS plan is the only one that matters.

 

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Choosing Love…When You Just Want to Pull Your Hair Out

seasontolovedear bThese days you are a tumbleweed of endless energy and curiosity. I wake up, and face the challenge of finding ways I can occupy your day, so that when the lazy heat of the summer afternoon closes in on us, you will topple into your bed in nothing but your princess-pullup, surrounded by a cloud of misfit stuffed animals, and sleep for a blissful hour.

Our day passes in busy bursts: as we rush to the potty when you’re crossing your legs; in distracted meandering: as we change your dress three times because apparently toddler girls are the most indecisive females on the planet; and grinding halts: as you throw yourself on the floor of Target because I won’t buy you a $50 Sophia doll.

And then there are the moments when time freezes, and I  have a stunning instant of clarity that  makes our stumbling days of toddlerhood distill into an emotion that gives purpose and reason to the craziness of our lives. LOVE.

time melts away, to do’s scatter like confetti, and my purpose lies snugly in the circle of my arms.

When I cuddle you in our bed in the morning as your wild wheat hair spreads across my pillow and you murmur a string of senseless words and songs–your breath smelling of cheerios  and your smile full of mischief and daddy, time melts away, to do’s scatter like confetti, and my purpose lies snugly in the circle of my arms.

It makes me want to collect as many of these beautiful moments as I possibly can, the way you collect rocks wherever we go. Somehow you find beauty in even the dull, muted ones.

Sometimes I feel like I have no more love and patience to give, and so I grab on to the emotions that come more easily.
It’s so easy to choose to be frustrated and exhausted and exasperated when you want to “help” me with household chores, or beg to read one more book, or stumble out of bed, for the third time, asking  for a drink of water and a cuddle. Sometimes I feel like I have no more love and patience to give, and so I grab on to the emotions that come more easily. I distract you with TV or rush you through our bedtime routine so I can just survive the day.

Today as we were walking, I saw you with your eyes squeezed shut and nose chasing the wind. I asked you what you were smelling, and you responded, “pretty blooms and green leaves.” It made me stop, and laugh in surprise, and sniff the air to take in the smell of grass, and leaves, and yes…pretty blooms.

I realize that when I look back on my life I’m not going to count the number of crusty egg pans I scrubbed clean, or the number of passes I made across the carpet with my vacuum. I will cherish the lazy cuddles in an unmade bed, impromptu dance parties, kisses on pretend booboos, and pushes on the swing.

And you empower me to see that I have a choice between seeing the things of this life as blessings or burdens.
But even as you get older I can choose to get mad at you when you make mistakes, or to empower you to overcome them. And you empower me to see that I have a choice between seeing the things of this life as blessings or burdens. I can complain about my responsibilities or realize that responsibility comes out of opportunities. I can let disappointment and frustration grow into resentment and isolation, or I can choose to love people through their shortcomings.

You remind me that when I take a moment to stop and smell the pretty blooms, my days reveal a lot more purpose, and my heart has room for a lot more love.

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When Band-Aids & Kisses Aren’t Enough

dear b
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When you have babies you will understand that any trip out of the house requires careful preparation. During the first few months its diapers, wipes, milk, pacifiers, burp rags, and the list goes on. At two its snacks, clean Minnie Mouse underwear, your favorite butterfly water bottle, and the armful of toys you insist on towing along.

As you get older, the tangible things you’ll need from me will become less and less. But as the things I carry lessen, your intangible needs will grow.

I know the challenge of motherhood that lies ahead is when you have the wounds that can’t be made better with a kiss and a Hello Kitty band-aid.

Motherhood is exhausting, but less complicated when you can meet every need with a bottle, clean clothes, or a band-aid. I know the challenge of motherhood that lies ahead is when you have the wounds that can’t be made better with a kiss and a Hello Kitty band-aid.

I don’t have a balm for the ache that comes when kids make fun of you because you’re too tall, or too skinny, or too shy. I can wrap my arms around you and hold you close when you endure your first heartache from a boy, but I can’t hold your heart or heal the throbbing pain in your chest. I can give you wise words, but I can’t stop you from making choices that cause you to hurt yourself, or prevent the consequences of your mistakes.

There will be a time when my advice will be the last thing you’ll want to hear. You’ll have empty places in your heart that a million of my words could never fill. My hope is one day my words will be a guiding light when your world feels dim. I’m certain that there will come a day when all you’ll want from me is a new thought or  word, and you’ll only be able to sift them from memories. But when my advice fails you when you’re young, when it offers you hope and clarity as you get older, and when my silence feels like the loudest thing in the room, know that my love never, ever falters. My child, a thousand of my words, even the best and brightest, could never tell you all the ways I love you.

But my love can’t stop the world from hurting you. There’s nothing that I can carry that will stop the pain in your heart during your darkest moments or give you air when it hurts to breath. That’s why I know that although I’m tired and cranky because you didn’t sleep much last night, and you seem to find a new mess to make in every cupboard and corner…this is the easy stuff.

My prayer is that  I will find the wisdom and endurance to show love and grace when you make messes of your life. I already know I will find ways to fail you at every turn because I’m only human, so my greatest prayer is that you will know that while I’m the one holding your hand for a short while, He is the one that holds you in His hands always.

 

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Never Lose Your Wonder

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As I sit on my crumpled bed, I watch you twirling in your pink tutu. You have a radiant smile on your face of pure joy. Earlier you got into my bedside drawer and found an anniversary card that your daddy had given to me. As you explored the white icing sparkles and traced the fuchsia embossed heart, I watched you mouth the word “wow.”

In your eyes I saw that card in an entirely new way. You see my dear, when I received it I saw it as an obligation: a mere trinket that I expected your daddy to give me on the day that marked our five year wedding anniversary. But when I see it through your eyes, I see our wedding cake, I see the rose on your daddy’s lapel, and I see a love story that has woven us together as a family.

At the beach yesterday, you squealed as we took off your sandals and you allowed the sand to explode between your toes; you giggled with glee as the foam of the waves chased our heels; you peacefully rested in utter bliss as your daddy’s arms enveloped you in a seaside nap. It makes me realize that too often I forget to indulge in life and soak it up with all my senses. Too often my prayers of thanks are the cursory things rather than taking time to appreciate the details that God has intimately placed in my life. After all its the sunrises, and morning cuddles, the smell of your hair after a bath, the taste of coffee after a bite of breakfast, red high heels, pink tutus, and sand between my toes that gives life the dimension and color that help me to see more clearly.

You have fresh eyes for everything, finding excitement and awe in the corners of life that, too often, I let collect dust. With your bright vision my own world gets bigger and I’m reminded to see the wonder in things that too easily become commonplace.

While the cotton candy pink of your baby blanket,  that I unwrapped from the white paper tissue before you were born, has dulled to a pastel; days and life experiences will soften your vibrant spirit and your bright eyes. Its hard to believe, but in time, your figure will ease into gentle curves and the skin on your face will relax into subdued lines. Like the fabric on your blanket has become soft with love and washes, this softening of your spirit is part of becoming a woman.  But, as you relax into your different roles as a friend, a professional, a mother and wife, I pray that you don’t lose your wonder. My prayer is that your laughter, enthusiasm, and face splitting smile don’t get dimmer, but richer as you grow into the beautiful woman that God has created you to be.

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Prenatal Depression: How I Survived My Pregnancy

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My Journey in Overcoming

Prenatal Depression

Dear Daughter,
All I could think of was becoming pregnant. Every month as I waited to see if my test would be positive,  I’d become like a helium balloon, puffed up with excitement and hope, and in the days following my period, become deflated and weighed down with another missed opportunity. When I finally saw the faint pink line I was in such a state of disbelief that I made an appointment with my OBGYN right away to confirm the result. They did an ultrasound and spotted the embryo–the miracle–that was you. I saw the mass on the screen that looked like scrambled eggs, and tears of joy streaked down my face, because no matter what it looked like, God knew, and I knew what it meant.

The beautiful gift I’d hoped and prayed for, began to feel more like a burden.
The weeks and months following the happy news became an obstacle course of sickness, confused emotions, and irritability. The joy I first felt eluded me. It became an effort to get out of bed, to get dressed, and to even eat. As friends and family began to worry, I began to wonder if I would ever feel the same again, and the beautiful gift I’d hoped and prayed for, began to feel more like a burden. What I didn’t realize at the time is that I was suffering from depression during pregnancy, or what professionals call “prenatal depression.”

We announced your expected arrival in December as the days grew grayer and colder, and my tummy began to swell with you. Members of our church in Sedona learned of our news with a picture of us we put up on the front screen along with our church announcements. The photo showed a happy couple in front of the Christmas tree, with a ribbon tied in a bow around my waist and  your daddy kneeling to kiss my bump. That Sunday morning, Barbara, a friend and mentor came up and wordlessly gave me a hug and a squeeze as tears quickly sprang to my eyes. Since we couldn’t find the care I needed in Sedona, I had been gone for the last few weeks staying with your Cece in San Diego as we tried to find a psychiatrist who would help give me the extra treatment I needed. I had spent my days as a kid would on Christmas break making gingerbread houses and ornaments, reading books, sleeping long hours, and watching mind numbing TV, as I grasped for the hope and excitement that I couldn’t seem to find. My prenatal depression left me listless.

Barbara held my shoulders and looked searchingly into my eyes. “I knew you were pregnant, but I wanted to wait until you shared the news before I said anything.” “You did?” I asked, “but how?” “Remember my best friend that I lost? I’ve told you about her before,” I nodded. Barbara had shared with me that in her 30’s her friend Candace and her were inseparable. They both had kids the same age and were involved in church together. After she lost Candace tragically to an untreated infection of strep throat, her friend had been appearing to her in dreams. She explained, “Candace told me to pray for you and your baby.” As she said this, a warmth filled my belly while a chill crept from my neck and down my arms and legs creating goosebumps. In all the grey clouds, sadness, and apathy, I had forgotten that you weren’t just something growing inside me, but a baby; you were my baby, and a child that God cared for enough to send an angel to my friend to seek her prayers.

The months following weren’t easy. God didn’t give your daddy an extra measure of patience but poured down buckets of love and patience as he shouldered the burdens of work and my depression that seemed to weigh on our house like a musty, woolen cloak. No matter what I did I couldn’t seem to find the joy and excitement that had filled me up at that first ultrasound. But, now I had something to cling to. Despite the sadness I felt in my prenatal depression, despite the void of emotions I wanted to feel, I clung to the knowledge that God already knew you as my baby, as His child, and that He had a plan for you beyond the fog of my prenatal depression and desperation.

Child, when you were born, I am not exaggerating when I tell you, you were my bright spot, my sunshine. The grey cloud of apathy lifted when I held your warm body against mine and I breathed in your sweet, milky scent. They say what I suffered from was perinatal depression. What I know is that it was a season that helped me to see more clearly. We don’t know what light is until we experience darkness–and although God let me experience the darkness of a mental illness called depression that I had never known before, He also allowed me to see His light and goodness in a way that I would have never fully grasped until I saw your face.

There are many things that can be gleaned from this story, but I think most of all I want you to know who your maker is. Mommy and Daddy dreamed of you and planned for you, but your God knew you by name before you were even scrambled eggs in my tummy. So while I will speak words to you of love and encouragement, I will try to guide you down straight paths, I want you to always know that God is the one who sent an angel for you when I couldn’t find you in my darkness. He’s given me the wisdom, courage, and strength now to be your mommy, but on the days that I disappoint you, He will never fail you.

If you or a loved one thinks they have prenatal depression, talk to your healthcare professional who can connect you with a support network. Don’t endure prenatal depression alone.

http://www.postpartum.net

 

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Letters to B.

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dear bIn quiet moments, I find myself talking to you. I tell you about our day together, I tell you about the lessons I’ve just learned or the hopes I have for our future together. But in my inner ramblings, I’m not talking to the B with scraped knees, a button nose, and a gleeful giggle, but a vibrant and beautiful teenager, a young woman anxiously waiting to find love, a nervous and glowing bride, a swollen and radiant mother to be, and an exhausted, yet blissfully  content wife and mother. I imagine myself stringing together lessons, ideas, memories, and snapshots that can hang on your neck like a strand of pearls, giving you a piece of me, and helping you navigate the milestones of your life. I realize there’s nothing I can say that will develop the wisdom that is earned from bad breakups, betrayal, reckless love, and all the moments that mark how beautiful and sometimes how heart wrenching life can be.

I imagine myself stringing together lessons, ideas, memories, and snapshots that can hang on your neck like a strand of pearls, giving you a piece of me.
But I smile as I see you reading my words at sixteen and rolling your eyes, then again at 23, as you think you know better, and then finally at 34 and beyond, as you savor them, like the morsels of dark chocolate I keep hidden from you and daddy at the back of the pantry.

So while you nap soundly, covered in flecks of sand and salt from a morning at the beach, here I am with my laptop, putting off my zillions of chores to bang away at my keyboard, and try to distill all that I want to impart to you in the meager words I’ve been given. I’d like to think my thoughts to you could touch and benefit others, but maybe they’re intended for an audience of one–and that’s okay too. Because that’s the crazy way that God works, calling us to plant a seed that could fruit beyond our wildest imagination now, or lay dormant in the ground for years and years and then miraculously sprout up in a new and unexpected place.

My dear B as I share my thoughts with you in these letters I’m going to tell you what you’ve already figured out. I am only human. I’m going to fail you a million times before you ever sit down to read my words. Just last night, I kissed your face and my tears wet your cheeks as I apologized for raising my voice at you–you were refusing to go to bed and I was impatient and tired. But my dear, I hope by now you know that that’s what makes our world so beautiful–that God takes our shortcomings and messes, our half efforts and good intentions and wraps them up with lessons and forgiveness; He ties a ribbon of grace around them and transforms  them into the beautiful gifts that our lives are made of.

 

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God: Where are You Taking Me??

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“Faith is taking the first step, even when you can’t see the whole staircase.” Martin Luther King Jr.

Back in January, God planted the word “thrive” on my heart. I told the hubs about it; basically my convo went like this, “God wants me to do something in ministry with moms that somehow surrounds the word thrive. I don’t know what it is, I’ll let you know when I know more,” and he responded as he usually does to my bizarre tangents, “okay cool.”

“Where your talents and the needs of the world cross, there lies your purpose.” Aristotle

It’s not the first time that I’ve felt God give me a glimpse at what’s to come. However, it doesn’t come in the form of a road map or a lightning bolt, but more like an itch I just can’t scratch. It started when I told hubs I would be leaving the salon and working in children’s ministry–even though I had no reason or desire to leave my current job.  Six months later in a  twist of events I went from giving blowdries to wiping snotty noses as a preschool teacher. The most unnerving was when I told him we’d be moving and he’d be getting a job that was more missional. A year later he interviewed for a position as pastor of missions and outreach, and we accepted the call at our new church  and moved six months later.

“Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.” Psalm 37:4

I don’t share this because I want you to think I’m gifted, and certainly not that I’m psychic. It really has nothing to do with me at all. For reasons I cannot explain, God has chosen to give me these small glimpses into what he has in store for me next.  There have been other times I’ve been dead wrong, like when I insisted I was having a boy, and we now have a very healthy 2 year old girl.  The difference is when I try to make a prediction for my own benefit, its as hopeless as dowsing for water in a desert. Rather, these ideas enter my life as a thought in the middle of an ordinary day. Before I know it that thought has found it’s way into my chest where it rattles around insistently. Then at inconvenient times, like when I’m trying to sleep, it knocks hard on my heart.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding.”         Proverbs 3:5

This brings me back to “thrive” and my deep conversation with the hubs. Everywhere I turn, the word finds me, in books, in devotions, even in blogs and social media. Lately the clattering  in my chest has gotten louder as I hear about fellow moms who are feeling loneliness and / or hopelessness. They love their families, but struggle to find a sense of identity and community in their role as a stay at home mom.  As women, how can we grow and thrive personally  in a world where our children, our husbands, and our responsibilities are constantly clambering for our attention? This is a question that I grapple with as the wife to a busy husband, mother of a toddler, and mother to be of another beautiful girl.

When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, I used everything you gave me.  Erma Bombeck

I don’t have the answer, but this word and this calling will continue to knock on my heart and awaken me at night until God reveals what He has in store. I wanted to let you in on the process so you can pray for me, mentor me, or share the things that keep you up at night.

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Am I Pretending to be a Grown Up?

Sometimes We’re So Busy Looking Back, We Forget to See Who We’ve Become…

My big brother had soccer coach training in our area, and so he stayed with the hubs, B, and I overnight. First may I note, that if you had told me ten years ago that my brother would be the coach of his daughter’s soccer team, I probably would have laughed in your face.1451495_10102307916179303_1474626142_n

It was amazing to see him, but I’ll admit the whole experience was a little surreal. As I made up his bed, and gave him bottled water, and made his coffee in the morning, I think we both had this weird feeling like, “woah…we’re grown adults.” We laughed about when I would brave crashing on his futon in his college dorm, and hit a coffee shop after we’d rolled out of bed midday, because…what was a coffee maker anyway?

As he said goodbye, he brushed his lips to my cheek, and I felt the tickle of his beard. I said “love you bro,” and he said “love you too.” As my door shut I actually laughed out loud to myself. My brother, the soccer coach, who wears a full beard, gives kisses goodbye, and says “love you” without mumbling or blushing. Who was this guy?

I’ve always loved my brother, but my heart swelled with pride at the man, the father, the husband he has become.

It made me think at how I allow myself to forget about the adult I’ve become, and to go back to the mindset of an insecure teenager. I  question my decisions, my words, my feelings and actions, placing myself as judge and jury of my own life; and all to often, my verdict is that I come up short.

I will always come up short, I will always make mistakes–but I’m no longer the shy teenager that was too timid to say hello to classmates in the halls of school.

I need to value the sum of the lessons I’ve learned, the experiences that I’ve had and realize that I’m no longer the kid sister.

All too often we ruminate on the mistakes we’ve made, or we think about the people we want to become. In the movie Bridget Jones’ Diary, Mark Darcy tells Bridget “I like you just as you are,” and though it sounds quaint, the scene is completely romantic and sweet (if you’re a sap like me). But rom-coms aside, it draws me to my point:  how often do we like and accept ourselves “just as we are?” Yes we’re all a work in progress, in one of my favorite books we’re compared to clay jars.

We’re cracked. But we’re also beautiful and useful, and exactly how God created us to be….just as we are.

What would happen if we lived in this day instead of reliving the mistakes we’ve made and all the ways others have hurt us? What if we thrived in the opportunities placed in front of us knowing that the sum of our experiences has equipped us to live in this moment?

Maybe then, we could be the husbands & wives, fathers & mothers, brothers & sisters that give kisses, and say “I love you’s…

the kind of people that mentor, that speak truth, and don’t allow fear or self doubt to discourage us from being the people we are called to be.

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I’m Mediocre and Happy

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Blogging Barbies Move Over–I’m Mediocre & Happy!

We are surrounded by images on TV, in movies, magazines, and ads of women that seem to show no signs of “real life.”

Somehow in print, and on screen, celebrities have managed to avoid the ravages of child bearing and aging.

At 31, I have a pretty good self image, but I can’t help but notice the lines around my eyes, the stretch marks on my hips, and well, the other imperfections that come with babies and age.

But as if “keeping up with the Kardashians” isn’t enough, I find myself facing another group of women that challenge my sense of reality.

I will dub them the “Blogging Barbies.” Like Barbie, they manage to spin a reality of their domestic life that is shiny, and seamless, and pure plastic perfection. From their designer decorated homes, perfect pantries, down to their immaculate underwear drawers, these bloggesses (no auto-correct, not blouse, I’m inventing a word here!) seem to have every stitch in place of their effortlessly homespun life.–And don’t forget their gorgeously dressed and beautiful children with sweet and original names like Harlow and Dax–who also manage to put their toys back in the adorably labeled toy bins tucked away in their color coordinated closets.

I’m not dissing women who love pinterest, and are crafty, and have cute homes. I know quite a few, and I hope someday some of their talent will rub off on me!

But as I browsed the black hole of pinterest today, and fell deeper and deeper into my own black hole of negative thought, I’m so disorganized, my house isn’t cute, what do I do with all my time, why isn’t my bathroom matching down to the toiletry bottles?!

I decided to take a step back and celebrate that my house is relatively clean, my pantry is 65% stocked, and my kid and husband are fed, smiling and their clothes mostly match.

So today, instead of worrying about a reality on blogs that I will never achieve in my real life, I’ll celebrate giggles, sticky hands, and overall domestic mediocrity!

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