Speak now, or forever hold your peace

I've been going through Beth Moore's Breaking Free study with a couple of friends over the last few months. It's been a good place to examine myself; how I operate- in relationships, in my expectations, and life in general. It's been hard, and painful, and beautiful. (I highly recommend it!).  I'm in the beginning of week five, and the last couple of weeks have had us digging into our backgrounds to discover hard things passed down in our families as well as the really beautiful things. All of us carry both within our families of origin, and all of us will continue to pass on good and bad to the generations coming after us. The goal of the study is to discover, with intention, those things you desire to grab hold of and continue, and those things that have created difficulty, struggle, pain or dysfunction and in identifying those things- let them go.
Interestingly, I watched the video kicking off week five on Friday night. (start at 45:40 for the clip I'm referring to). The night that hate descended publically on my hometown of Charlottesville and made a blatant display of evil personified. The video addressed what Beth considers the most poisonous 'legacy' of many families: Racism. 

She does a great job of calling it out without mincing words, and without painting an ugly, insidious 'tradition' with sugared words to help us digest them. She calls it an abomination. A sickness based in fear and ignorance. She calls us to stand against it- with courage. Knowing for some, standing against the covert and overt racism in family relationships will cost something. She passionately argues that the ideology of being 'color blind' is a disservice, a farce, laughable. I'm with her all the way. She says when we are raised to believe that we are different because of skin color, then by default, it means someone has to be better. Yep. Amen. All things I am on board with. My only disappointment came when I realized she missed an opportunity to make another powerful, needed point. I would add this to her message:
Serving a creator God means we believe He has created all. All creatures, humans, plants, living things. Calling them good. As women, we frequently remind society that when we were created we were also deemed good, and also created in the image of God.
So... for my brain, for my logic, for my reasoning.. this seems a simple analogy. None of us look at the gorgeous blue butterflies flitting around our lawns and think "Man. Those blue butterflies are so much more important and valuable than the orange colored Monarchs. In fact, we should really try to get rid of those Monarch butterflies because they are in the way and annoying me by trying to get all of the nectar from these flowers! Dont they know they don't belong here?! We should make them go back to Mexico." We don't visit the animal shelter and tell the staff that all of the yellow dogs shouldn't be allowed to be adopted because they aren't as good as the other dogs; becoming incensed that the yellow lab is taking up space they could use for a chocolate lab and getting violent when told we are off our rocker for using such warped logic.

This is an overly-simplified analogy, stripping history and pain and wounding from the subject for a moment; but my point is this: Especially for those of us who love our creator God- why would we even consider the thought that skin color determines levels of value?! God is creative. Artistic. Intentional. We have no problem accepting that in the animal world, and with various plants and flowers- yet we stop short of offering the same effortless acceptance to the creatures called humans that He has created in.his.image. 
Beth Moore is correct. In many families of every color (especially here in the United States where our history is marred with horrific crimes against humanity based on skin color), there has been a passing down of racism at some level. It can be difficult to look at. She speaks of her grandmother who faithfully served others, loved her church, spent time in her bible every day and then spoke disparagingly about a group of people- made in the image of God. It's based in fear and ignorance and continues through generations with the subtle (or not so subtle) rhetoric of : if we are different- then someone has to be better. 
Pastor John Pavlovitz posted on his website this weekend calling those of us with white skin to speak up. To call out racism for what it is. To call out our white counterparts engaged in this disgusting display of fear and hate and brutality. To refuse to stay silent in our protected lives, and largely disconnected communities. His message is powerful and necessary- and I want to push it a step further.
I have heard many of my friends of color say that they are tired. They are no longer afraid- knowing God holds them. But they are tired of fighting. Of trying to speak out to deaf ears. Ears deafened by the noise of ignorance- never having faced ugliness directed at them or their families or communities based solely on skin color. Ears deafened by the rally of voices around them telling them that 'the American dream is available to all- if they would just work harder'; or 'black on black crime is worse than white on black crime.', or 'they need to get over it. I never owned any slaves and I don't understand what their problem is. I have tons of black friends.', or the more "accepted" statements such as; 'black people are so much better at sports than white people'; tossed out as though it is a compliment and should be received with gratitude. What about,  'well, he had been arrested before, so I'm not surprised'; and the ever-present: 'why do they have to say black lives matter?! Don't they know ALL lives matter?!'. Those continual sound bites.. perpetuated in our communities, churches, families, friendships, social media, television... they drown out the voices of the oppressed crying out to be heard.
They're tired of competing with the hum of words soothing the nagging worry in those of us with white skin who dare to consider that all of this is so horrifically, terribly wrong... and that maybe, somehow, we have played a part.


Yes, John Pavlovitz. We must speak. It's our turn. It's the responsibility of those of us with white skin to tell our friends and brothers and sisters with brown skin that 'we've got you'. You don't need to keep fighting. You can rest. We will fight FOR you. In love. In honor. And to tell our white brothers and sisters, no. No. We won't stand for this. It's evil.
To my white brothers- your voice carries the most weight. You have the 'in' to those who perpetuate this violence of word and deed. You have the highest probability of being heard by other white men- because you look like them. You have to be brave. Selfless. Honorable. Bold. To call out the coworker who makes a joke that turns your stomach. To challenge your child who makes a blanket statement about 'black people' that he picked up in the lunch room. To tell your family- No. That's not true. And it's hateful.
You have a huge responsibility to use your unearned place of privilege for good. Not to apologize for it, to feel guilty about it, or to try and deny it. No. To use it. For such a time as this.
To whom much is given, much is required. With great power comes great responsibility. Please. For the literal love of God and those created in His image. Use it wisely.

I'm Not an Enlightened White Woman

I'm the daughter of a preacher-man. One who had congregations made up of people from every class and creed. My parents taught me early on that people are worth loving. Worth hearing. Worth our time and love. That all people are the same, and created in the image of God. They probably didn't teach me this lesson intentionally, however growing up in a home where our dinner table was often shared with people who weren't the same color as us, it's a lesson I learned easily.

Some of my parents' closest friends are a black couple who began their family and careers in the growing of our church. Their family quickly became part of ours; and dinners, birthday celebrations, weddings, graduations- we did all of them together.  He was a quiet and kind man in med school, and she was a plucky lawyer with a loud laugh, sparkly dancing eyes and welcoming arms. I remember my dad telling me that Thomas and he had had many conversations about race and oppression. Thomas was working as a resident in the hospital in our town and he had an ocean of student loan debt. He drove an old, beat up car, as the purchase of a new one was beyond his means. Like most med students, he was living the frugal life with the hope to one day live the 'good life'. He told my dad that after he had been pulled over and ripped out of his car and thrown against the side of it to be patted down and treated with suspicion, that he vowed to never again go out in sweats. He knew that his wardrobe alone could possibly change the perception of who he was- a black man in an old car. As a young girl, I was appalled. Thomas and Dayna were part of our family! Who would ever think that they would be a threat?!
We rejoiced with them as he moved up in his career, and she did the same. When Dayna became the first black woman to be published in the Harvard Law Review, my parents were just as proud of her as her own blood connected family. She is now actively working towards the time when it is expected she will sit on the Supreme Court. When Thomas was named one of the best cardiologists in the country, and his ad for UCHealth was published complete with Thomas in his surgical scrubs standing beside Peyton Manning in his uniform, we all stood a little taller, knowing he was worthy of the title. And I wonder... if he were gunned down and later his incredible story was revealed- would we as white americans then mourn because we would see his accomplishments rather than his humanity?! I know. None of us want to go there.

We hosted an Indian chief for dinner when I was in the 3rd grade. He came to our house in full regalia and allowed us kids to try on his headdress while he told us stories of his tribe and his ancestry. My mom made many meals for international students visiting our country, and many more for missionaries who were visiting home before heading back into the field.
I remember crouching on the stairs listening to the hushed voices in the kitchen when a couple in our church had miscarried the baby they had tried so many years to conceive. My dad was headed over to their house (one we had all been in many times as family) to offer comfort. Side note- He, a black man- an artist of epic proportions; my family had his paintings in our living room; she, a successful, professional white woman. Broken. Hurting. Grieving. (Romans 12:15  Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.)
My childhood was deeply marked by my parents' active love and friendships with people who looked nothing like us, and yet were exactly like us.

I attended junior high school in downtown Charlotte, NC. As a pastor, my father made meager earnings, and our parsonage was located in a rough area. Sadly, in America, poverty and race run neck and neck, and I was one of a small handful of white students. The only white girl who made the step team ( I actually have a little bit of rhythm!). Never once did I feel excluded, or thought it odd.

My church today is incredibly diverse. We have two campuses and one has a white pastor, and the other, a black pastor. My circle of friends is balanced with white, black, Hispanic and Asian loves. The man I have been dating for more than a year and a half is a friend from high school, a black man with brown children. My office is filled with people of all color and backgrounds and the company is owned by a black man. My son's mentor and counselor is an incredible black man whom Samuel adores.

My point is this. I'm not an 'enlightened' white woman. I don't believe there is any such thing. I'm a white woman who was given the gift of the love of all of humanity by two white parents who walked it out in daily moments. My mom is from the deep south, and while her childhood certainly was laced with the ever-present stereotypical southern racism mentality, her life experience with individual people carved out any of that inside of her. Her family (who all still reside in the deep south) have also come far from that pathology. The reason simply being- when you have a real encounter with the living God- the one we proclaim created heaven and earth- you can no longer look at any of humanity and believe that somehow some of humanity was declared good, and others declared subhuman. And when you have a real encounter with others who have brown skin, and know them as a person instead of as a color, you can no longer maintain a hateful mentality.  A creating, loving, imaginative God designed each of us in His image- and that realization cannot leave room for anything less than love. (Genesis 1:27 God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.)


So what do we do? I think part of the answer lies in my history. I was mercifully given this gift of the example to love all people, and so it has become my life- but so many white people do not share my experience. I am continually blown away by the lack of black friends in the lives of so many white people. It's foreign to me to know many white people have never sat across a table and shared a meal and personal stories with anyone other than other white people. I cannot comprehend how so many of us as white people can express empathy for the trauma being experienced by our black brothers and sisters and yet never work to have a personal conversation with anyone of color. It becomes an over-arcing 'out there' and in order to bring any level of change, we have to bring it 'down here'. Into our personal lives. We have to be intentional. Nothing will ever change as long as we are 'us' and 'them'. But in order to collapse that divide, we have to dig deep into our humanity and get our hands dirty. We must be open and available to listen. Not listening with the intent to reply or somehow 'educate' black people on their experience, but to listen with the hopes of learning something. To listen to awful, horrible stories they've held close and not given over to us, out of fear of our continual minimizing or rejection. To listen to stories that might make us feel bad, guilty, embarrassed, helpless. And yet, listen anyway. Without running from the ugly feelings, or trying to brush them off of ourselves and onto a broken ideology that we purport not to accept. The greatest gift we have to offer one another is to listen to hear. To be willing to sit and hear the anger and grief and fear and not defend ourselves or try and explain away white privilege. To recognize that our experience has been blanketed by inherent protection- and we did nothing to earn it. To give space to the stories of pain that our black brothers and sisters have been longing to purge. It starts with us. Individually. Corporately. In our church families. In our work spaces. The black community does not need or want our pity, they want us to hear them. In hearing them, they are given back the mantle of humanity they have been stripped of. In hearing them, they are affirmed as worthy and seen. As people just like us; for that is who they are. Every one of us wants that. The black community has to scrape and claw and fight for it daily. How exhausted they must be. May it not always be so. We need to be a soft place to fall. We need to be willing to admit we don't understand, but are willing to listen. We must acknowledge our experience is not their experience- and that therein lies the struggle.

Nothing this horrific will ever be solved easily or quickly. But following the lead of God, and as it is written in John 15:13  Greater love has no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends. Maybe, just maybe, this isn't always in reference to death- but refers to laying down the life we know and take for granted in order to truly love and stand in solidarity with our friends.

Plate-Full

I truly believe God speaks to us, we just have to pay attention and listen. I believe He speaks in ways that are unique to each of us. Just as my relationships with my friends are different, His relationships with each of us are too.
I love words. I love writing, and reading, and enjoy the power of language. It's not surprising that for me, one of the ways I connect with God is through words.
For years now, I have felt as though I've been on an adventure with God. My time with Him has increased and my awareness of the incredible love He has for me has grown and I now finally understand that I am deeply loved and celebrated.
For me, I hear from God regularly through words on license plates. It might sound silly or weird, but I promise you that the encouragement, confirmation, love and smiles that I have been given through license plates is nothing short of miraculous.
I have many stories that would make your jaw drop, and have started an Instagram account purely for this amazing experience in my life, (more on that at the end of the post!) but for today- I'll share just one with you.
A couple of months ago I was searching for a job and anxious and preoccupied with needing work to provide for my family. I hate debt and started my life as a single woman in debt with no real work experience. This summer when my writing contract ended and I was left with part time work and odd jobs here and there my debt began to mount. I was in church one Sunday morning by myself and our pastor started a series that was only two weeks long. It was called "Perhaps". He talked about Jesus' first miracle- turning the water into wine at a wedding celebration. The message was very good and full of chunks of truth throughout that sat with me. I hadn't previously thought about the fact that Jesus didn't yet have a reputation as a miracle worker when he told the servants to take the water jugs and fill them up with water after his mother had specifically told him the family was out of wine. He must have looked like a crazy person- and yet they did what they were told. My pastor pointed out that when Jesus does the miraculous, he always asks us to do something in our natural strength first. He then posed a question to each of us: What 'water' did we need to put into our jug? What crazy, bizarre, hard thing did we need to do in order to allow God to move in our lives and do His part? Immediately I knew. I knew I needed to go home and itemize the list of everything I owed. The debt, the medical bills, people I would love to pay back one day. I had an internal argument with God. I didn't want to look at it. I had no job yet, and knew it was bad, so why in the world would I want to see just how awful it had gotten?! I've watched my credit dip lower, and have sold things and done any work I could find to stay on my feet, but I had come to the end of myself. I was begging Him for a good job, and my act before the miraculous move in my life was going to have to be this task. I had to really look at the mess I had fallen into.
I was sobered and quiet. When the service ended I walked into the parking lot without speaking to anyone. I knew it was a sacred moment and I had work I needed to do. I walked towards my car and got turned around for a moment. I changed directions and in front of me was this license plate:

Can you read it? It says: ADDEMUP. I chuckled and said out loud 'Ok God, I get it. I'll do what you've asked me to do'. THAT plate just happened to be by my car, in a parking lot of hundreds of vehicles, and a church that has three services- and it was there for me. I went home and did it. I looked at how ugly it was and absorbed the weight of that reality. Then I cried and prayed and spent the rest of the day in silence. After three months looking for a job, I was connected to the person who would hire me less than two weeks later. 

For me, the incredible ways I hear Him through the vehicle of license plates is how I know that He sees me. I know He sees each of us, and I'm willing to bet that many of you have your own stories of being seen by God that are unique to you. I keep a small notebook in my car and have been writing them down along with a few notes for several years. I've gone through three notebooks already. 

I've started a new instagram account where I can document and share with others. Feel free to come follow me there! I'd also love to hear your stories if you're willing to tell them. 

The Tension of Uncertainty

I'm living in the tension inherent to single motherhood. The struggle between wanting what's best for my children and the reality that what I may be able to provide might fall impossibly short of that desire.

I have been living on my own, without a man, for more than two years.  I have a college education that follows my name, but after being a SAHM for so many years, it is virtually useless.  With four children who need some level of daycare should I be in a more traditional 9-5 job, I have found that my only viable option to provide is to do it in a non-traditional role. I live in a very expensive area.  I live in a more rural part of the suburbs and apartments aren't on every corner. We have many townhouses in this county, but those often cost as much, if not more, than the single family homes found in traditional neighborhoods.

This is the second home we've lived in since we had to leave the military base so quickly back in 2012.
I had no job and was shell shocked from the news I had been given, and no idea how to begin to take care of my kids on my own.  As God often does, the path out and into new life began to illuminate one step at a time.  I was offered a place to rent by someone I was connected to in my church community.  It was about half of the more traditional rental homes (in size and cost) but it would house us.  My family came and helped me wade through 12 years of marriage and family 'stuff' and pack, and purge, and store everything so that I could move my family forward.  The military housing we had been in was 2000 sq feet with a three car garage, and we had managed to fill every corner of it.  The new home was about 800 sq feet with no added storage, and the change felt daunting.  Somehow, I managed to figure out what was necessary and what could wait, and we filled the cozy space with our sagging, broken hearts.  That small space proved to be a healing island as we bumbled into a new life together.  The tight space held us close, and I think we all drew comfort in the small rooms as we desperately needed to trust and depend on one another.

I babysat some through my time there and did odd jobs to start creating provision on my own.  Seven short months after we settled into that space it was time to move on and we were blessed to be rescued by the family I had been babysitting for.  We moved into their basement. It had a partial kitchen, and two much larger bedrooms than the ones we had been squeezed into before, and a gigantic yard to run in.  It also was about 1100 sq feet, and it felt like we were moving up in the world. The five of us brought our noise, our angry hearts and our stuff into the home of another family. I helped babysit their son throughout the next year and when they moved out, we were able to move into the whole house.  We were now stretched out into 5 bedrooms and 2500 sq feet. I finally exhaled.  I had no earthly idea how I would be able to pay the rent that was more than any house I'd ever lived in.  I was providing almost fully on my own as our child support is a small fraction of what the children need.  I was willing to do anything I needed to do to provide and keep them out of day care.  I mowed yards, cleaned houses, babysat, and worked as a photographer.  I sold more things that I discovered we no longer needed and prayed hard that God would see us and remember us. Somehow, since last summer, I have been able to take care of my family.  Some months brought checks in the mail from strangers or friends, some months brought unexpected work for me, some months were complete miracles, but here we are, going on 7 months since we took over the house and I am not behind on anything I am responsible for.  But change is at my doorstep again. The homeowners own two homes and have a large business, and selling this house is the best option for their family. The buying/selling season for real estate is coming in mere weeks, and so we are to be out of this house by the end of February.  I am struggling to find someone to rent to us because my income is so new.  I don't have years of rental history or work history to prove to them that I'm not a risk.  My good references could fill a book, but homeowners want a sure thing. A single mom with many part time jobs and four children does not look like a sure thing. It's the end of January, and I'm not sure yet where I will take my children.
These kinds of jagged places in life have a way of growing and challenging faith. I vacillate between feeling hopeful that I will again see miraculous provision, and utter despair when I absorb the feelings of inadequacy that hover over my heart looking for any entrance to bring decay to my faith.  Friends and family champion me with 'God's got this Heather!' and 'I'm praying for you girl!' And while both of those statements bring some comfort and truth, the reality is that my faith in God and love of who He is doesn't promise me a life without struggle. There are millions of moms who love God who are living with children in places that would make me want to curl up and die. There are many mothers whose love of their children and love of God wasn't enough to buffer their children from incredible heartache and pain, and yet, I still say… God is good.

I don't have a beautiful miraculous ending to this story.  March may find me in yet another basement of friends… filled with both relief at having a warm home, and anger that the life I thought I'd be living is so far from my reality that I can't even see it through the tears anymore.  I have full faith that my life story is still being written, and that it is beautiful, but as with many rich, full stories, there are often chapters that pull at the heart, and take the breath away… I just happen to be living inside of those chapters. I'm ready to see what's on the next page.

In Two Years

Today is the 2 year anniversary? non-aversary? (What do you call this anyhow?!) of when my ex husband left.
Two years ago today, I sat in stunned shock as my life was dismantled by the rush of words that poured out of his mouth and coated the bubble of ideals and expectations I had submerged myself in.  Two years ago today I became a statistic, and a shattered shell of a woman in ways I still struggle to comprehend. And two years later, as I look into the mirror, I wonder at the grief, hurt, and pain I've endured and marvel that I'm still here.

I read a quote this morning by Elizabeth McCracken that says:

“Grief lasts longer than sympathy, which is one of the tragedies of the grieving.”

Those words sat at the top of my heart and then sunk down deep; in that knowing way you experience when life has proven words to be truth.  Two years is a long time when asking friends and family to help shoulder pain.  But two years is a breath in the length of a lifetime, and some days I feel that I am at the starting gate when it comes to healing.  In so many ways I've come through this grief in leaps and bounds, shedding so much heavy weight of hurt, and delighting in the freedom that comes from the discovery of the pure strength of the soul.  In other ways, I find myself banging up against the anger phase… again.  And being frustrated with myself for being angry… again… just in a different flavor this time. 

Experiencing the death of a marriage messes with you in every way. It picks at your self worth, it can obliterate your finances, it bruises the hearts of your children in ways that take the breath right out of your lungs. I'm weary in ways I never dreamed I could be, and have worked harder than I've ever worked before.  

In so very many ways, I am proud of myself.  I have walked in integrity, and I haven't taken the easy way out.  I've protected myself against running into a relationship with another man, and I've lived for my children in a sacrificial way that has surprised me at its intensity.  So many places in this journey have shown me just how strong I am, and in other places, I'm having to really see the entitlement and expectation I had for a life that would be protected from divorce. As though somehow I was more deserving of a good marriage and a life kept from pain than others were. As though my choices could somehow manifest a life devoid of surprises and shock.

Like many college girls I suppose, I dreamed of a wedding, marriage, mothering, and home-owning in a less dream-like state and a more 'this is what you deserve' way.  

I went to college and got a degree, dated only my husband all the way through, and got married three months after graduation.  I thought I was making good choices, and in those good choices, I thought I was ensured an upward trajectory on the american dream graph. I expected to start with little, and thought that my homemaking attempts in our one bedroom apartment and then a trailer on a marine corps base would be the lowest I would ever sink. My attempts at thrifty shopping, and coupon cutting seemed quaint and part of the 'building a life together' script I believed we were both reading from.  No where in my 'surprise chapters of life' story did I ever think I would be barely scraping by, headed into my 40s alone, as a single mother with no solid home.  I assumed I would be signing papers for my first home, settling into his military retirement, and carpooling kids to sporting events.  The stark and painful reality his choices have forced upon me and the children has been incredibly eyeopening in ways I wish I could have ignored. 

It has been a gut wrenching revelation to realize that I have believed my choices and actions in my life would bring me only good and only prosperity.  While I do believe that choices are important, I am learning very painfully, that while on this earth, surrounded by other broken people, we often will suffer; not just because of our choices, but because others can make choices too.  I am angry, and I am broken, and I am, quite literally for now: poor.  I have every right to rant and rave, and fight and scream and flail and cry and fizzle out into a broken mess… and yet none of those things will pull me from the life I'm living into the one I want for my family.  It is a daily, and often hourly choice to let go of what I thought I deserved and learn to look for the beauty in what is.  It is a humbling experience to live in a measure of poverty, and yet still somehow be protected from falling by a God who sees me and sends provision just when I think there will never be enough.  My compassion for those who've lived lives harder than me, those who live lives fluffier than me but with no sense of self, those whose trappings of money prevent security in God, and in family, and in the love of real, trustworthy friends.  I'm discovering treasures in the dark, and also uncovering places where my pride and entitlement and attitude are festering.  It's a toggling back and forth between heavy, visceral gratitude, and the temper tantrum of a 3 year old screaming 'it's not fair!' 

I'm trying to be gentle with myself.  I know anger is part of the grieving process, and in many ways, it's part of the process I've largely skipped over.  I was so busy taking care of my children and trying to stand up, that the anger hung out in the bottom of my heart, and has just begun to rise to the top in the urgent need to be skimmed off.  Glennon from the Momastery blog, said last winter that sometimes we need to stop making excuses for being human… and I'm working on that.  I know it's ok to be mad, and sad, and disappointed, but I fight back against the dark shadows that try to whisper to me that it will be this way forever, and I will be broke, unloved, and in survival mode until they lay me to rest.  Walking through pain and choosing not to avoid it is a continual act of faith… trusting in what is unseen… believing that there is more to life than this… but while I work towards the 'something more' I can still find life, beauty, and passion here… in what seems like the "not enough."  The education I'm getting has been invaluable, and yet I have days where I want to rush it along, and get to the other side, where every day doesn't feel like such a struggle.  I'm in the in-between.  The place in life where there are no good answers or fluffy bows to tie off my experience for you.  My hope is that as you read here, and walk through this with me, that one day….. when I emerge from the dust, with hands open wide, heart whole and full, and knowing that all of this is enough, you will be able to celebrate with me, and tuck away some of my lessons in your back pocket.. for when your life shakes and jolts and you need to be reminded that you're not alone. 

If Only for Today

I wrote recently about our non-move.  Moving from living in the downstairs level of this house while a very patient and gracious family lived upstairs; to living throughout the entire house once they moved on.  

I have painted some and have moved the furniture around, but my head has had a hard time wrapping around the potential temporary situation that this could be... yet again. When I was married and we lived in military housing, I was always in a place of awareness that each home was temporary. I jumped in to decorating with energy and excitement and had curtains and pictures hung before my kitchen was functional. Beauty, and comfort, and a feeling of 'home' was so important to me, and I made each home feel as much like mine as I could.  I got creative with what I had, and learned how I like to display my art and photographs.  I have thought over the last months that I would do the same thing in this house too… and yet here I sit.  No curtains, only a few sparse pieces of art hung, and not a single family photograph.  I am busier and a bit more tired than I used to be as I parent alone and work very hard to provide, but I know that those reasons alone aren't the issue.  I realized this week that my footing in my future is unsure, and it's been hard to allow my heart to really settle into this space when I have no idea if we will get to stay for a year, or three, or ten.  I'm getting on my feet as a single mom and figuring out how to make this life work for us, and my first step was to sign a year lease. I will push through and somehow find a way to make the payments month by month, but at the end of this year, it's possible that I will find that it is too much for me to handle on my own, and I need to find a place that won't stretch me as far, and it's also possible that the homeowners will choose to sell.  They are building a family, and the landlord business isn't as glamorous as it looks on television. But it's also possible that I will be ok, and they will choose not to sell yet, and I get to keep staying, and at the risk of sounding like the Perpetual Pollyanna that I am, it's also potentially possible that I could buy this house on my own one day.

So here I sit. In the tension yet again of what is and what might be… and try to muster up the motivation to pull the house together and make it mine.
I know part of the struggle for me is fear. I've faced a lot of that recently, as waves of different emotions cycle back and demand attention at various times in this process of moving on. I have struggled with anger (which for me is often an outward display of fear and lack of control) as I settle in to the powerful realization that this is my reality. My real, no escaping it, true life.  I am on my own. There is no backup when I'm tired of correcting the kids, there is no person to tap out to when I just can't be the one to make one.more.decision. There is no financial rescue with another adult to share all these expenses with, and there is no partner to laugh or cry with at the end of the day about the often ridiculous things that happen in this crazy parenting journey.  In many ways, I'm ok with this.  I've embraced it, and am blessed and grateful for the handful of amazing girlfriends I have who listen and encourage me regularly.  I have friends who offer to help or help get school supplies, or remind me that I'm doing a good job. For all of those gifts, I'm humbled and thankful.

This process of a dying marriage, and building a new life is planted on one common theme: I have zero control over anything.  All that comes my way is filtered through grace; and each dollar, each gentle and peace-filled moment are direct God given smiles and gifts to me as I learn that while I am alone… I can't do this alone.  I have to let people in, I have to ask for help, I have to allow my children to see me cry at times, seeing that my heart is sad too.  I have to embrace today, even if tomorrow we have to pack it all up and move to yet another home. I need to live with my heart all in… knowing that this is the only childhood my children will ever get- and the weight of making it as solid as possible rests on me.
So today, after a day of hiking and swimming in the river- a summer day built for childhood- I will come home and begin to pull out some photographs. To place our heritage on these walls, marking it as ours, even if only for today.

Living in the Tension

Yesterday a few guys came to the house to help me truly move in.  The other family moved out in the middle of July, but I wanted to paint some, and needed some muscles to move around our furniture and to bring in some large pieces that I had in the garage.  Until yesterday, we were all still living downstairs for the most part. 
 I scribbled their names onto a box in my calendar for August 6th. They came to serve me with kindness and skill and in a few short hours, the house was looking like home. 

After they left, I sat at my antique farm table and stared out through the big front window.  The amazing reality of giving my children their own space again and moving into my own bedroom for the first time in 20 months was settling in.  I breathed deeply with the realization that we are truly on our own, and sat in the serenity for about 3.6 seconds before anxiety tried to barrel in with guns blazing. 

Nothing about my life makes sense on paper right now. Financially, my life is a mystery. I do the best each month with what I have, I do the work I'm given to do, and somehow, by some incredible miracle, each month everything is taken care of that we truly need. I have yet to get to the end of my resources and I haven't yet had to ask for help. We've been without my ex-husband now for 22 months. Some months have brought surprise money in the mail from friends who felt like sending me a bit extra. Other times, I've received food, or gift cards, hand me down clothing, or toys. Several times, I have even opened the mail box to find a care package filled with treats and surprises for me to encourage my weary heart.  Somehow, God takes the little I have and stretches it in such a way that there haven't been any cracks. But our minds can be a scary place to linger, and in that moment after the guys had left, and my kids had scattered to their own spaces, I began to rehearse how utterly ridiculous I must be to think that I could do this alone.  The joy of being in my own space was robbed by the anxiety that lurked, ready to pounce into massive disastrous thinking.  In the span of a few seconds, the track record God has in my life of providing for us was smashed under the weight of the fear I let descend upon my heart.  

I talked with a dear friend later in the day. She has been a single mother for several years now after a 25 year marriage dissolved when he chose to walk out.  She has been an example to me of learning to do with less than she ever dreamed and yet seeing her needs be met as she goes.  I told her that the fear of knowing tomorrow could hold complete financial disaster was a heavy burden to bear.  But as I spoke the words aloud, I finished the thought by saying, the reality is all of us are one moment away from disaster or destruction. None of us are immune to difficulty or struggle, it is just that living the lives that we have, we are more acutely aware of it on a daily basis.  We live in the tension of the now.  We don't have the luxury of planning for much, or banking the excess for future calamity.  We have the responsibility of weighing this day's choices and needs against the near future that we know will bring more want.  Just today I was faced with the decision of whether or not to buy the epipen I now need to carry as this year has revealed a bee allergy.  It was hundreds of dollars, and I've put off picking it up because the amount made me anxious. Today I had the money. So today I chose to get it.  I know that in one month I might wish for the money I spent today, but knowing the power in that life saving medication, and having the money for this day, I made the best choice I could make for today. I'm slowly learning the lesson of doing the best I can with what I have and trusting that I will get enough grace, enough mercy, enough provision for the next day, and the next, and the next.  

My Dad sent me this quote today, and it's an eloquent statement about living in the now, in that tension of living as we go:

"The heart of spirituality isn't safety and security. Instead, it is what Dorothy Day called 'precarity.' In the mind of most, precarity (or precariousness) is a bleak state of uncertainty and danger. The word connotes instability, poverty, marginalization, and the absence of a safety net....It also suggests radical dependence: the Latin 'precarious' is the state of being dependent on another's will, being upheld or sustained by another's force. So a spirituality centered on precarity acknowledges the radical uncertainty or contingency of human existence and our utter dependence on God." — Kerry Walters in Jacob's Hip: Finding God in an Anxious Age

The beauty of living in precarity is that I am faced with a simple choice. Either I trust that God is who He says He is, and He will provide for me and my family, or I fight it and try to conjure up miracles for myself. I don't have a good track record of creating something out of nothing. I haven't yet figured out how to open doors for work and influence when there seems to be no knob on the door. I do have almost 2 years and a notebook filled with line after line where I've documented the incredible ways my family has been seen, cared for, loved, and provided for. I still don't know how this will work. My rent is up now in this house, and I'm truly on my own. But each day brings what I need for that day. Each job I'm offered, each bit of mana I'm showered with has been enough. My Mother's heart longs to race ourselves out of this place of precarity, and yet the beautiful, miraculous story that is being written is one I would never have experienced otherwise. I'm learning to sit in that tension of precarity, and choosing daily to fling my hope and faith on the one who has seen me.

Time for Soaring

Tomorrow my life will change in a big way. Again.
For the last year, I've lived in the basement of friends.  I told you in another post how not many people knew as it's an awkward place that often draws pity, and your pity makes me squirm.

The family who has let us live here was one I babysat for for several months. When I was getting to the end of my lease in the small cottage we had fled to at the beginning of my separation, I literally had no where to go.  I had no real job, no job history, no landlord history because of living in military housing for so long, and no prospects.  She knew that at one point my solution was going to be the women and children's shelter nearby.  She and her family opened their house and their heart and made a huge commitment and sacrifice.  She offered me the space in her basement.  It was nothing short of miraculous for me.

My ragged, broken, grieving, angry family moved in one year ago, and we have nestled into this cozy space while we have worked on healing, boundaries, grieving and growing.  It's been a rescue of sorts, and I've joked with her that my rescue reminds me of the SPCA commercials- I was the broken, battered, and bloodied dog with the sad eyes and hopeless posture, but now, after being fostered by this family for a year, I'm the shiny-coated mutt with a bouncy gait and wagging tail.
That foster family who lived through my family's fighting and tears and loud energy, is moving out today.  They have graciously allowed us to stay here and take over the rest of the home and rent it.  It feels a little bit like Christmas morning.

I've almost always lived in military housing until my separation.  This is the largest house, with the largest yard we've ever had, and the first house I get to work on a bit to make it feel more like mine.  I get to paint the colors I've chosen, and I will decorate.  I have been living for a year with a kitchen that has been like camping, and as a foodie who loves to cook, that has been difficult.  The bar kitchen down here isn't made for real living, and so the counter top oven I bought from Wal-mart and the two eye burners and microwave I've used have been it for one full year.  I couldn't cook more than one thing at a time though, because the fuses would blow, and so we have eaten lots of convenience food, or one pot meals, crock pot things or just snacky foods.  The grateful heart I have now for a basic American kitchen is swelling with thanksgiving.

I cannot tell you what this year has done for me.  This has been the nest where I've let my broken wings heal. It's been the place where I've hunkered down and taken a deep breath and surveyed the damage so that I can figure out how to rebuild.  It was the house where I became a divorced woman with four children alone.  Where I have answered hard questions from my children, and watched as they have worked through much of their own hurt.
It has been the house where we brought home our puppy as a new family of five, and the place where I hid and rested and healed.
It's also been a home where I have gone without many things I had previously taken for granted.  I have shared a room with my daughter for close to two years now, I've shared a closet with her (the tiny sized one that is in many guest rooms). I've shared a bathroom with all of my children.  I haven't had much privacy, a real kitchen, a dishwasher, or a linen closet.  I have tiny windows instead of large ones to hold sunsets and pretty drapes.  It's been a literal tucking away, and I feel that my 'emerging from the cocoon moment' is at hand.

With the larger space comes larger bills.  I will be the main provider for this family in every way, and every bit of it looks completely impossible on paper.  But my life hasn't worked on paper for two years or more.  I have yet to get to the very end of my money. When I have a need, a true need, it has been amazing and miraculous how it is creatively met.  I have dozens of stories that would make your jaw fall in amazement at the ways God's net swings out beneath me before I hit the ground.
I'm terrified.  My excitement at having the house this next year has been tempered some by the fear of how in the world we are going to make it. By all normal estimates, I should not be able to be here, but God never does work that way, and my story is being painted beautifully in such a way that points to complete provision and faithfulness.

I'm excited to spread my wings. To lean forward into the wind and let it catch me so I can soar without the relentless flapping I've been doing. To get to float and glide in the knowledge that I am seen, and my kids are seen, and we won't be allowed to fall.  I am both terrified and excited to see what this year holds for us. And I'm completely excited to have my own closet again.
My moment is now.  I'm hopeful that my wings are ready.

The Tribe Necessity

I wanted to get a post up, because I need to connect with all of you.

I have been in personal/private writing mode recently.  I'm in a place of healing and growing and while I want to share some of that, in some ways, I feel very tender and tucked away and am working hard to cultivate quiet and rest into my life.
Not everything needs to be shared all at once.

I spent the weekend with a sweet friend visiting us.  I've been friends with her since high school and the years have seen us through many of life's mountains and valleys. I hadn't seen her since before my husband left and we had lots of ground to cover. But the beauty is that within moments, our hearts were connecting again at that level of love and tenderness that we've always had. Time hadn't stopped our connection, only suspended it for a time. It was so incredible to have her here, to hear where she is headed, to see her love my children.

I have been blessed with a multitude of good women in my life.  Women are incredible creatures with the power to bring life to relationships and situations and I have managed to stay away from women who are rolling around in drama or strife.  The struggle comes because I am saturated with children as a single mother, and yet also have many women in my life whom I truly love but don't always have the time or the energy to connect with on a regular basis.  I have several women I can think of at this moment whom I would consider close intimate friends, several more who I don't communicate with often but who I feel safe with, and loved, and accepted and celebrated for who I am, several more who I delight in, but rarely get to connect with anymore and even more who I cross paths with rarely but bring smiles to my heart.  I've always had women in my life.  From an early age I saw the power and necessity for safe people to spend time with.  I have always had at least one precious girl who would bear the weight of both my pain and my joy and have been overwhelmed at the many beautiful and wise women who have come into my life.  Some for a season, others for a few moments, still others for a lifetime.

I truly love being in the presence of healthy women. To watch as they delight in the stories each has to share, to see their faces light up with the announcement of love or new life, to watch the precious tender moments when another woman moves in softly to pull her friend close and help shoulder the grief both physically and emotionally.  I can't fathom how I could walk through this life without safe and wise women. Women who not only tolerate my quirks and silliness, but celebrate it.  Women who affirm me, who share themselves, who revel in my joys and quietly help withstand the weight of my grief.  Women who don't despise my other friendships yet honor them as fellow warriors of this life whom I get the privilege of being connected to.

I know some of you reading this post will be annoyed; there will be words here that pull at your heart and frustrate you as you look around and see that your healthy tribe has not yet been assembled.  I longed for decades for older women to be part of my group.  While I have a couple of dear friends who are a bit older than me, I never got the mentor I so desired. There were times I felt rejected, or frustrated, and I even had moments of jealousy as I saw others my age who were paired up with mentors who drew them in and were involved in their lives.  But that part of my tribe is being settled into place now and I can see that timing has been everything. These women will be lifelong tribe members and had those spots been taken earlier by someone who wasn't the best for me- I may have missed them.  (EDITED to add-  If you've been wounded by women, please, don't use that as a shield to hide behind.  I've been wounded too. There are hurting women out there who wield words like arrows, and use behavior to cut and control and injure.  Please, hear me when I tell you that not all of us are like this.  While each of us has the potential to hurt you without intention, if you find your group who is honest and loving, the wounding can be overcome, healed, forgotten.  Don't hold on to the hurt you have experienced at the hands of other women and use it as the measuring tape by which you judge new potential tribe members.  Love and friendship is always a risk, but if you are careful and wise, the payoff can be incredible.)

I think dear friends (more than one if you're blessed) are an integral part to this process of being a woman on earth.  We have ways of communicating and affirming and encouraging each other that can't be found in a man. When we can get past our own insecurities and inadequacies and begin to celebrate the success and joys of other women, the light that floods into our lives is healing, sustaining, and nourishing. If you don't have this yet, don't become bitter, or rejected or disheartened.  Look at those around you to see if there are already safe women there who you could reach out to- or if you need to find someone new. I would encourage you to even pray about it- ask for a friend who gets you- who will pull themselves into your tribe.  Realize that you possess gifts and talents and strengths that someone needs and they have gifts to share with you.  Know that friendship is both joy and work.  Intimacy is born through struggle and honesty and time. Having fun is amazing, but space for hearts to sit and stories to be shared is where you will begin to weave the threads of love between you that will sustain life's troubles.
Friendship with women is vital. Don't keep who you were designed to be from your tribe who needs you. Be wise in your choices... put women around you who will bring life to you and not drama and strife. Know that these kinds of women do exist and look for them. Be the friend you long to have, and watch as places of depth and beauty and grace and love begin to surround you in a great creative showing of the best God has to offer in women.

The Knife's Healing Work

Healing is a process and I'm at a weary place in mine.  My heart has hung ragged, bloodied and slashed, and I have taken the time to carefully pick up the flesh and hand it over to God and allow Him to begin to sew it back together.
But being open, being vulnerable, being ready to receive revelation of places of hurt and wounding, being honest and transparent .... is sometimes tiring work.
I lived a very long time in happy land.  I am, by nature, a happy, hyper and energetic person.  I like to have fun, I like to do, and I like to be moving and busy. Healing is slow work. Often still work.  Many times healing can look like nothing at all, and the desire and urge to jump up and move on to the next shiny thing can take over my head space and try to divert me from the healing path that I'm walking.

I have likened my journey to a car crash.  The day that everything came crashing down was the impact of the crash. I then had to be cut out of the wreckage, life flighted to help, triaged through the hospital, then stabilized.  Once I was stablized I had to be prepped for surgery and then endure a long surgical procedure.  I now see myself as being in post-op.  If you've ever had a lingering illness, or a surgery, you understand that during the healing process there are moments where you feel more energetic or stronger than you really are.  You are tempted to push yourself as you long to stretch your body and legs back into routines they have been used to. Often, you are forced back to bed where you concede that you might have rushed into activity too soon and more rest is necessary.  I am finding myself dipping my toes back into leadership roles, and into the primary parent role,  and while I feel I am moving carefully and slowly, there are times where my heart feels that it isn't strong enough yet, not healed up enough to endure the pressure of the job at hand.  Healing takes intention, attention, and effort.  I have to make the time to feed my physical body as well as my heart.  I have to be still... and with four needy, hurting children, that can often feel unattainable.

My knee-jerk reaction is to do more than I should, with frustration, and then numb the pain;  with food, or noise, or reading, or any of a million other things I can do other than sit with the struggle that swirls and swishes around me.  The hard thing to do is to be still. To asess how I am feeling, how I can respond, and to take my time in reacting.  To allow the new behavior I'm learning to take effect, to slowly stretch and build those muscles that have sat unused for so long.
I have discovered that I tend towards codependency and in that new realization, I'm having to learn to respond to people in new ways, and stop and think before I respond. It's all too easy for me to try and rescue people, or 'save' them from discomfort, and sacrifice chunks of myself all along the journey.
For now, as I do the still work of healing, I am giving myself permission to move slowly. To stop and rest. To make mistakes with the ever-present desire of forward motion. To refuse to punish myself for detours.  Maya Angelou says "When you know better, you do better."  I'm taking that to heart and running with it.  Each day I learn more... about myself, about how I operate with other people, where some of my weaknesses are, and how I tend to worry more about the feelings of others than my own.

Healing isn't sedentary. It's a slow, careful walk out of hurt and wounding.  It's intentional choice that can go against what your brain is telling you to do. It's the cautious tending to raw wounds that can be pulled open again and gently covering them with prayer, rest, and love so that instead of a long lasting slashed festering of flesh, the scar can begin to form.  It is grace and change and growing pains and doctor visits and time and rest and work.  As I continue to heal, I will next move into physical therapy; where what I'm learning about myself can begin to be put to work in a controlled environment.  I'm determined to do my work. I trust that as I keep growing and aging and moving through this earth journey that there will be more work to do, and I pray I can stay focused and close to the surgeon for any other procedures I need to have done.

Dear God, make me a bird, so I can fly; far far away from here....

I know I already wrote a bit about the movie Frozen- so just bear with me once again...

The movie really speaks to me and the message is haunting... in the best sort of way.

There is a scene where the younger sister has gone after her older sister to get her to come home.  The older sister essentialy has a meltdown and flips out... from fear. The song ends dramatically with the older sister yelling "I can't" and hurting her younger sister with her magical powers (which she has yet to learn to hone properly.)
The reality is, that the sister has strong powers... and they can be used for harm, or for good... but her fear becomes her greatest enemy and keeps her from living life and benefiting those around her.  So instead of using her powers and gifts, she hides them. Thinking she is protecting herself and everyone else.  The consequence is that the beauty that comes from her power is also lost.

I am sitting in a place in life where I can completely relate.
When my life veered so violently off course almost a year and a half ago, I needed a place to go. To start to breathe. To heal.  I had nothing. No resources, no job, no plan, nothing. Somehow, God always showed up and threw out the net just as I was about to hit the ground.  I've been saved from complete destruction in ways that still astound me.

Life isn't easy for us.  I've been slammed down and had the wind knocked out of me, and it's been hard to try to catch my breath. Thankfully, I've been in a place for the last 7 months where I can rest a bit.  I'm still working hard and trying to figure out my role as a single mom of 4 while also acquiring the new role of main provider.  Due to the fact that my children are still fairly young, I would need child care for them, and the reality is, I can't afford it with any job I could get outside of the home.  Thankfully I've been able to piece together photography, babysitting, writing, ebay, some help from others, some child support, and lots of grace in order to provide for my children.  But the time of hiding is coming to an end... the time to stop being afraid and jump out into a new world is looming large on the horizon.

I have been feeling paralyzed by fear.  The reality is.... that at the end of your life you look back and see that it's been a series of choices, and I'm in a place where my choices are going to pave the road for myself and four other people.  I'm excited and also terrified.  Fear can lead to complete lock up.  I can see the things I feel I've been gifted with and I want to use them to provide for my children, but the fear of failure, and the fear of success, and the fear of the unknown, and the fear of rejection, all swim together in my mind and prevent me from that giant shove against resistance into movement forward.  Any movement. I've been working through some of this over the last weeks, and have talked with my counselor, a couple dear friends and my parents and I know that I have amazing support.  I'm thankful that in a time when I have to provide for my children in a nontraditional way that I have skills that can translate into provision.... but I've never sat in this place before.  I've never had to be the provider. My identity is shifting, and I am having to lean into it in order to survive. I have had my share of meltdowns when I too have screamed "I can't!", but thankfully, there have been people who love me standing right there to turn me back around and push me forward and remind me again that yes, I can.

I don't want fear to stop me and push me into the darkness in hiding. Rather I want the uncertainty to be motivating, and pressing and powerful in the best kind of way. I have a lot of days where I am completely terrified, and when I look at my life on paper, nothing makes sense.  I am having to walk through doors I never dreamed I would even be knocking on and trust that on the other side of them, I will know which room to walk into.  I am having to trust that the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior when it comes to God's faithfulness; knowing that the miraculous ways I've been provided for won't dry up because I've used up too much grace. I'm having to believe people when they tell me that they love me and won't let me fall. I'm standing in very thick fog but I can see the halo of light off in the distance.  My job is to keep moving towards the light.  The time of my incubation and hiding is coming to a close.  I would be lying if I told you I felt ready.  But I will trust that as I jump from the nest that the wings I've been resting and tending to will unfurl in strength and steadiness and that somehow, fear will fall and I will fly.

Can Anyone Handle It?

There is a viral blog post going around about God giving us more than we can handle.
It was sent to me personally more than 10 separate times.

This means one of two things:
Either I've done an awesome job of being loud about my own personal feelings on this http://honesty-becomes-her.blogspot.com/2013/04/totally-cant-handle-it-after-reading.html  or God is preparing me for more struggle to come.  To be honest? After a night like tonight? I'm more aware than ever that I cannot handle it.  Not even a little bit.

Tonight was one of those evenings where it was illuminated as to why this parenting gig is meant for two people.  It takes two people to make a child, and I believe that it was intended for it to take two people to raise a child.

Raising four of them alone is way more than I can handle. On a daily basis.

Some days I do a decent job of pretending.  I can do sleight of hand, and some fancy footwork, and throw some cookies here, and a little dance there, and a lot of the time I manage to keep everyone fed, clean and alive.  Sadly that is often the measure of success these days.  Clean and fed.  Beyond that? Icing on the cake.

Nights like tonight have a way of throwing me into a tailspin.  The kids were hyper and irritable, I was tired and feeling low, and it was the perfect storm for hurt feelings and a giant emotional mess.  At one point, I had two boys crying in different rooms, my daughter crying on her bed because I had hurt her feelings when I was angry, and I just wanted to run away.  Out the back door, into the cold, dark night and take off in my car.  I'm not sure where I'd go- I just wanted to be far away from here and the responsibility of being the mother.
Before you call CPS on me, please know that I'm still here. I'm not writing this from borrowed wi-fi at starbucks (although that sounds tempting).  I stayed.  And cried.  And walked away many times.
This isn't meant to be done alone.
I should be able to lean on a husband who would trouble shoot at least one of the meltdowns while I tend to another. I should have the protective casing of marriage that allows me to press in when I'm weak and know that he's got my back.  Instead, I'm alone.  And the weight of the responsibility on my shoulders feels crushing.

I'm aware that we can feel this way even when married.  If your spouse is out of town, or deployed, or sick, or addicted, or disengaged, or even out with friends, or staying late at work- the gravity of parenting alone can feel like a load that is humanly impossible to bear.

I wish I could tell you that I always respond with grace and love.  But I don't.  What you don't learn as a child is that parenting is one giant soup of personal experience, skill, and attitude.  Today was a hard day for me personally... which meant that I went into this evening already depleted in the grace and patience tank.  Their arguing and disobedience grated on my heart and exposed to me all the places I was failing.  Despair was hanging out in the hallway, and sadly I flung open the door and welcomed it up to the table. Before I knew it, I was yelling, snarling, and even disappointed in myself.  My anger and frustration can boil up so hot that I want to punch anyone in sight.  Again- I don't.  But I am going to be the mother who says what many of you feel but refuse to admit- maybe even to yourselves.  There are moments where the frustration and despair and chaos and grief can all mix together into a toxic poison that longs for the relief of a physical act.  Maturity and grace and God's protection keep it at bay, but most mothers I've spoken to in private will admit that they want to occasionally throw their kid out of the window. (Once again- I would never throw my child out the window- I feel that I have to put this here- but I think you get my point)
Mothering has no end.  There are no progress reports from a boss who gives you constructive criticism or a pat on the back.  No end of the year bonuses or gold stars to admire.  In fact, most of the time, the things we do 'wrong' are more obvious than the things we're doing 'right'- because the struggle always draws more attention to itself than the ease.  So I sit.  Watching the dreams I had for my children fall through the cracks.  Things I thought I was guaranteed.  A young son who would never curse at me.  An older son who would say yes ma'am as he took out the trash.  A daughter who would agree to brushing her teeth without falling on the floor in a heap of hot tears.
That's the rub isn't it?  That's the part we can't handle.

The letting go. 

The continual act of surrendering what we thought would be for what truly is.  And instead of clawing back in anger, to allow what is to come forth and learn to respond appropriately to that behavior.

I'm not very good at that.

I know intrinsically that I can't handle this alone. But I'm not good at asking for help.
I am angry that I don't have a husband here to help me, but I am too prideful to ask a friend. People call me strong..... what they don't know is that I'm very, very weak.  I'm just skilled at hiding.

So tonight?  I'm not hiding.  I'm standing here in blog land saying (as many of you already know!) that I totally can't handle this.  I have no idea how to parent four children by myself.  To provide for them; not just financially but in every way we want to provide.  love. spiritual guidance. experience. safety. good memories.  I can see the vast chasm of my failings and yet I am beginning to think that that chasm would shrink if I could jump from what I envisioned to what truly is.
And that is what I will sit with tonight. Maybe tomorrow I can offer softer arms.  A kinder tone. More grace. Not just for these beautiful, challenging, hurting, precious people I am raising....but for the woman who looks back in the mirror.  maybe.

bigger than me

I'm in a place where i need God to be big.  bigger than I've ever seen Him.  i need to be able to provide for my family over the next year (and beyond) in ways i never dreamed I'd be providing.

I have always been an anxious person.  Worry was a way of life for me. I spent a huge part of my life projecting into the future and planning out each road that life may possibly take.  Now, I am in a season where there isn't much I have control over.  I am being forced to live each day as it comes, and enjoy that day for what it is.
I am blessed to be living in a place now where my living costs are down. But, by next spring (summer at the latest) my expenses will go up quite drastically, and I have to figure out how to pay the bills.
The incredible thing is that I can see the thread of His provision throughout my entire life.. and over this last year He has come on strong in such incredible ways that I can't doubt his care for me.  I know without a doubt that He has made a way for me through this year. I've kept a notebook of the amazing ways He has provided, and they knock my socks off.  One day, I'll share some of them here...
the incredible thing is that because I have seen Him make a way so practically and perfectly over this last year, my anxiety is almost nonexistent.  On paper, I know I should be terrified, but deep in the dark places of my soul where fear and doubt try to dwell, I have solid peace. Knowing that though this is bigger than me, it will be ok. I remember telling Him in prayer one evening when I didn't know where I would be living and needed to find a place quickly, that because things were so desperate, I knew without a doubt that the way out would have to be through Him.  He didn't disappoint.  He created a scenario for me and my kids that has been better than I could have manufactured on my own.  I'm blown away by the way He has cared for the details, and am overwhelmed with the knowledge that this newest need is not lost on Him.  I can't wait to see where it leads, and I know again, that however I get out of this will be clearly an act of God.  We'll watch and see.

Showing Up

Usually when I sit down to write, i have some idea of where i'm going to take it.  today- no clue.  my brain is fried, i'm very tired, and i'd like to go to bed.  but i have more work to do, and want to keep writing because part of the struggle as a writer is to just show up. each day.  over and over.  writing.  pouring heart and soul and fluff and deep onto the screen.  splash across with many words in order to mine out the nugget that is waiting in the dark ready to be unearthed.
so today, i write. for writing's sake.

my friend found a job for me to apply for.  i need to get a job, as i need to help support my family now.  it's a writing job, right here in my town, and i am qualified for it.  my paralysis comes from the actual resume writing.  how i wish i could just write an essay about how i'd be the best suited for the job... given the chance to weave words around my story and let them see my heart and strengths.  unfortunately for me, resumes are intended to be an at-a-glance look at who i am and what i have to offer.  so, my writing to impress the people at the writing job will have to be succinct and strong.  i pray i can do it. 

just yesterday i timidly told God that i wanted to write.  i wanted to be able to support my family with words, but that i recognized that it sounds frivolous and far fetched.  easier to call myself a waitress, or a receptionist... those are tangible things.  writing is open ended.. has no real boundaries... anyone can claim to be a writer- so, it's frightening to think that by the use of language that i might be able to feed my children.  i said i wanted to write, but i knew that if i am able to, it will be by his hand.  he will have to open doors and shine the light telling me 'walk this way'.  through fear and doubt, i told him i would write what he would have me write- but to please bring the opportunity.  this morning i awoke to the job ad from my friend.  i love those moments. the ones with the big flashing arrows that point the way.  i realize that this might not be my job in the end, but i don't think it a coincidence that i asked for opportunity and hours later one was laid in my lap.

i'll keep you posted. i need to stop stalling and work on my resume.  glad i was given a shove. 

I totally CAN'T handle it!

After reading this article  http://natepyle.com/confronting-the-lie-god-wont-give-you-more-than-you-can-handle/ I felt compelled to speak again.
Have been waiting for the 'right time' to begin writing in blog form, and this gave me the emotional shove to do it.

I'm sitting in a big pile of crap.  I am.  My life has forever changed, I am grieving, things have happened to me and my family that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.  And, in this pain, people want to help.  They want to give me a solution, or extend hope, or even placate me so that they can feel better and not have to absorb any of my grief.  It's scary to sit with someone when they're hurting.  It's easy to feel inadequate, or useless or intrusive if you have nothing to offer but kind eyes and a quiet tongue.  However, I can tell you, that often that is all I want or need.  The things that are pressing into my life and causing pain are things that will not be easily solved, erased or fixed.  There is no clear solution, and in every way it looks as though my struggle will continue for a long time to come.  That's just life.  Loving me (and others who also wade through pain) sometimes means just sitting with us and hurting some too.  Shouldering a bit of the burden.  Reminding us that we are not forgotten, or less than, or alone. 
One of the things that has been said to me often through this is that God doesn't give us more than we can handle.  I know that this sounds lovely coming off of well intentioned lips, and is meant to be some sort of strange compliment in the middle of pain, but... it's just simply not true.  Walk it out- continue down the road of what that means- if God doesn't give us more than we can handle- then are those whose lives are fairly easy less competent?  Are they less faith-filled, reliable, intelligent?  And if God gives us what we can handle then does that mean that those who have pain heaped into their laps in lions shares are saintly?  special? set-aside? God has no need of us.  It is we who need him.  And when do we recognize this more clearly than in the middle of searing pain?  Often it is our pain, our inability to 'handle' it that pushes us into his lap, crying out for mercy, relief, comfort.  Because ultimately we are unable to comfort ourselves sufficiently.  We need him.  He knows we need him.  My circumstances have driven me to need him to handle it.  I know I am unable to handle what I am experiencing.  Strangely enough, there is comfort in that.  Knowing that to get out of this crisis, He will have to move mountains.  That my life itself will speak to his grace because there will be no way i can take credit for handling it.

I'm thankful I can't handle it.  I'm thankful that I am close to the one who can.  Now I just have to remind myself of this in the moments i think I'll never make it to the other side.....