I'm Not Sorry

This morning was "Mornings with Mom" at my kids' elementary school.
I love that they offer that. Today was juice and donuts served by some volunteering dads.  We can bring board games and sit and take some special time with our kids. They have one for dads too and I think it's a neat way to celebrate one another.
It was so fun to be there this morning and see so many moms I know. I feel completely settled in this community and it's home now. It's an amazing feeling to be in a place where I have roots and to know I am loved and have many families I love dearly.

As we were filing out of the cafeteria, the halls were full of moms and children, and I began to listen.  The word I kept hearing come out of the Mothers was "sorry." Over and over and over again.  As Mothers pulled children to their chest and out of the way of others, as Moms walked through a conversation, as they bumped their kids while moving through the tight hall space, as they merely moved through life.
I went to the grocery store afterwards and three different times women crossed in front of me and said 'sorry'.  Not, 'excuse me', or 'pardon me', but 'I'm sorry'.
My heart is so heavy over this.  Why are we women programmed so well to apologize simply for existing?! Why are we so quick to dismiss our very presence as though it might be offensive to others? Why have we been conditioned to quickly look down, or minimize our footprint on this earth in order to make space for others? Why can't we capture the syllables before they slip through our lips and pull the word back into ourselves to burn?

I do it too.  My dad has gotten after me for years for apologizing for everything under the sun.  As a woman who has strong empathy instincts and who has been a codependent for so many years, I have learned to feel responsible for everyone's emotional well being within a hundred square miles of myself.   If I think my personal being, or words, or actions have offended or upset someone in any way, I am very quick to offer them my apologies, and work hard to smooth the way for them while often chipping away at my own well being. I've gashed out pieces of my own soul to try desperately to make sure others were whole.  I've lost myself in an ocean of sadness, anger and resentment because I began to feel that I wasn't seen.  And yet I'm learning that I made myself small. Invisible.  I minimized the very creature God created me to be in the fear that I might make someone else uncomfortable. I became a very skilled chameleon in that I would adjust my behavior quickly in order to soothe those around me. When I wasn't able to fix it, I would apologize, and bathe in guilt and shame that I wasn't good enough to make others ok.

I'm tired of apologizing for myself. In fact, I'm beginning to believe that it's an affront to my God.  To not fully lean into who I have been designed to be is instead denying the world the very thing I was put here to do. Only I can be the best me. Only I can do what I was created to do. And by sheer statistics, there will be people I annoy, anger, frustrate and confuse.  My job isn't to fix that for them. My job is only to 'To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with my God.' 

Listen to your words.  Hear the places you take ownership by apologizing where it isn't necessary. Start to stop that word from spilling out like bitter water.  Show our daughters that that word needn't be at the top of the vocabulary list. Smile at women who apologize for themselves and tell them 'no apology necessary'. I want to stop shrinking and start being. I'm only sorry it's taken me this long. 

Story Gatherer

A few months ago I was asked if I wanted to be on the story telling initiative at my church. I had no idea what that meant, but knew that if there was a team working to tell and gather stories, I wanted to be part of it.
I meet with a small group, and we have been working towards growing our church in the vein of story telling.  How do we tell them? How do we gather them? How can we be a safe place for people to share pieces of their lives with us? It's been a fun and powerful experience to discuss such a simple concept that holds such weight.

I can think of no greater honor than to be dubbed a facilitator of stories.  If I could write my epitaph, I'd love for it to read: She gathered stories to her like flowers, and in turn shared those from her own garden. 
I truly believe that in the telling of our stories, from the coffee shop blunder, to the deeper, more visceral  chapters of abuse or rejection, we spin webs into the lives of others that connect us in a way that can't be achieved without them. Making space in your life for stories from the lives of others is the most powerful way to honor people.  We are designed for hearing them and sharing them- HONY (Humans Of New York) has made a huge splash in our culture by telling short stories of people walking along the streets of NYC.  We devour the stories, we add to them, and speculate the ending by the dress, stance, and few words spilled from a heart ready to share a little part of themselves with the world.

Stories move us to action, they connect us to one another in an emotional sense.  Our empathy, and compassion can be pinged by a well told story.  Stories humanize us, and if we allow ourselves to listen, then we often are moved out of judgement and into grace.  Stories open wide the heart to allow it to fill with love, and understanding, and it pulls forth the pieces of emotion that we have experienced in other situations that can attach to the experience being shared with us.  Stories can caution us, and prevent us from walking roads that would damage our souls, which then keeps us from trouble. They teach us, they grow us, they connect us and they can change us.

It's always confused me when people tell me that they 'hate people'.  We've all heard that from someone in our lives, and while I understand the surface level of defense against more pain from the hands and words of other people, I think that avoiding people, hating them, and being defensive against them creates a void in the soul meant to be filled by connecting with others. Our story is the treasure we carry with us. It's the way we can see God move in one another, it's the way we relate; and to avoid people, and consequently their stories, we miss the richness offered to us by listening.

I have had powerful times where I've found myself in someones story- and in their telling, I discover places in me that need attention, and grace, and love to heal.  When I hear my experience fall off of someone elses lips, and I can see myself there, I am often changed, and encouraged that my experience doesn't end here. I can see and hear my own future when I listen to stories of others- and the places they've walked ahead of me. It infuses me with hope and I learn once again, in the daily dosing I seem to require, that I am not alone.

Listening is sacrificial. It sets aside self for the gift of space for a heart.  It makes room in us for more love, less self, and more God. It's the honoring of their soul, their heart, and their experience. It takes time, and energy. But in gathering stories to ourselves… in making room in our lives to hear the experience of others, we are nourished in ways that make every moment worth it.
Look around… people are longing for us to hear them.  It's one of most precious gifts we can give to another soul.  Safety, freedom, and time.

She called herself the Fat Girl

I went on a field trip with Ivy a few weeks ago.  I was thrilled to get to be one of two parents who got to go with the busy first grade class to the children's theater.
I've been blessed to go on many of my kids' field trips through the years and enjoy getting to spend time with the other kids as well as my own child outside of the classroom setting.

My experience with this field trip was more than just a good time… it had intense moments, and places of ragged humanity that left me more than a bit weary and deflated.
When I got to the classroom, Ivy ran to me and pulled me into her group of girlfriends.  I knelt into the gaggle of long braids, sparkly sweatshirts, and pink nail polish.  The girls swarmed me and began touching my hair, earrings, and necklace.  They ooohed and ahhhed at my jewelry and exclaimed several times that I was just 'so pretty'.  Ivy was beaming from ear to ear, and proudly stood beside me with her tiny hand tucked inside of mine, as they fawned over me.  At first it was sweet, flattering, and cute to hear their little voices get excited about makeup and cheap jewelry from the sales rack at kohl's. But as they continued, I began to get uncomfortable.  The truth was, I wasn't all that jazzed up that day. I had on jeans and boots, and a simple sweater.  My hair and makeup were my daily style and my jewelry was simple and easy.  I always dress this way. I love being a woman, and I love to look my best.  My style is basic, and simple- not at all flashy or glittery- but I wear makeup and jewelry daily- it's what I do.  I couldn't help but wonder if some of the women in their lives weren't making time for themselves… to spend the few extra moments on themselves on an average morning to brush a bit of blush on a cheek, or spike eyelashes with a dash of mascara.  We often put ourselves last. And our daughters are watching.

Women don't have to wear makeup or curl their hair to be beautiful, or feminine; but I am watching my daughter watch me take care of myself, and begin to incorporate some of those things into her normal daily routine.
I saw the opportunity for a little life lesson and dove in- as they told me how pretty I was, I was able to look into their eyes and affirm their beauty.  I thanked them for commenting on my earrings, but swung the conversation back to the importance of being beautiful from the inside out. Loving our friends well, treating people with kindness and grace.  I have no idea if they heard me, but I was determined to be another voice in the hum of voices vying for their attention.

I got my assignment of kids in my group and gathered them to me like ducklings.  Their excitement for our adventure was contagious and we giggled and talked and girls paired off for bus buddies.  We climbed the steps of the bus and settled into the rigid backed seats with excitement.  One of my group girls leaned across the aisle to get my attention and her words pierced my heart. Without blinking, without apology; in the innocent honesty that children have before the world darkens and softens the edge, she said 'kids in my class call me fat'.
I blinked and swallowed.  She wasn't really asking for a response. She wasn't looking to shock me, or gain pity.  She was simply sharing information that was sitting at the top of her heart that was too heavy to carry, and so she laid it down for me.
I looked back into her eyes and said "I'm so sorry that that has happened to you sweet girl". She looked down, and fidgeted under my concern- "It's ok" she was quick to dismiss me.  "Everyone says it"
She sat back in her seat and looked off through her window.
My heart was heavy as we bounced along on our way to the theater.  I knew she carried a heavy burden, and there wasn't much I could do to lighten it.

We got to the theater and she found a spot at our table to spread out her lunch and share her food and her story with me.  Through the next hour her interaction with me was peppered with hurt she had suffered at the words of kids in her class about her weight. But each time she spoke, she would give a reason as to why they had said the hurtful things; quick to dismiss the hurt and offer excuses as to why they were mean to her. She mentioned that one boy on her bus had told everyone she had kissed him "but it's not true" she insisted with tears brimming her eyes.  She quieted for a moment and then started again… "But it's ok now. We're friends again".  I was dumbfounded.  "How are you friends again?  Did he ask you to forgive him for lying about you?" She looked confused at my question. I pressed on: "Did you ask him why he said those things about you? Did he ask you to forgive him? He lied about you sweet girl. A friend would apologize. "  She sat silent for a moment and then quietly said.. "Well, everyone forgot about it, so we're friends again."
Some time passed with silly girl talk, nibbling on home-packed lunches, and discussions about the upcoming play.  At one point, Ivy became upset with me and was crying and pouting.  My little friend "Jenny" slipped her bracelet off of her wrist and held it out to the despondent Ivy.  "Here Ivy" she pleaded. "You can have my bracelet.  Just please don't cry. Please don't be upset"
Ivy looked up and her eyes lit with excitement over the new trinket. I put my hand on the bracelet and looked into the other girls eyes. "No. You're not giving this to Ivy. You don't have to give things to people to make them like you Jenny.  Being who you are; being a friend is enough. YOU are enough." She cocked her head to the side to bring in the information that wasn't quite computing and slipped the bracelet back onto her wrist.  I looked at Ivy and said "If that happens again, you need to tell her thank you for offering, but no thank you. Your love is enough for me."
I was blown away.

I watched the habits of this 6 year old girl. One who had been pegged the 'fat girl'. One who thought the only way to get and keep friends was to allow herself to be consumed.  I was sickened.  We had several conversations about her beauty- the inside and the outside kind.  I have no idea if the words I spoke to her took root or not, but I couldn't stay silent.  To see her pain, and to see her quickly work to make the way smooth for those around her, at the expense of herself was painful for me. I think of her often and I'm sure I will carry her heart with me through the next years and am honored to be able to cover her in prayer. We women have a reponsibility to young girls coming up in this world. We have to speak. They hear so many voices, and we have to join in to try and overpower the lies they are fed daily.  Take the opportunity when it comes, and don't be afraid to speak raw truth. Truth that is infused with love is powerful, and my prayer is that all I said will swim around inside of her for decades; attaching itself to other good counsel, and that she will begin to hear and trust truth over deception. We belong to each other. And that means speaking light into darkness.

When Your Bridge is Out

I'm broken and torn and gashed wide, and the lifeblood in me feels as though it is oozing out around me.  I no longer have the strength to patch myself up and walk on with a cane, I rather feel the urge to lie down and weep. To breathe deep and long, and to sit with the sadness that this is hard. I know my blog is often pensive and vulnerable, but in my real life I spend most of it looking to the good, hoping for the best, trusting in the goodness of God and relying on copious amounts of grace.  But there is something to be said for lying down. For taking a moment, or a thousand, to sit with the reality that this is so far beyond me that I will never be able to make it pretty, or predictable or comfortable for everyone around me.  And yet, in my moments where I still had to stand today, to get kids out of church, and bags packed up, and tears were falling because nothing I could do would keep them in any longer, the woman who sat at the end of our row painfully made her way towards me, and in her aged wisdom, and body twisted by arthritis, she bent down into my mess and whispered "Are they all yours?" "Yes." I managed to say.  "They are so beautiful. And so well behaved. You must be a wonderful mother."  She looked right into my spilling eyes, and held me there in her heart.  Her grace poured over me like oil, and I bent my head under the weight of it.  She patted my shoulder as she rose, and hobbled away.  I was broken in the wake of her offering.

You see, my kids hadn't been well behaved.  Tucker hadn't had his medicine this morning, and while he wasn't disobedient, he wasn't quiet either.  When he hasn't taken his medicine, his body defies any stillness in him, and he rocks and twists, and hits himself.  He is full of smiles, but it is not quiet and it is not calm.  Certainly not the behavior most people expect to see in church.
Ivy was right beside him drawing with him in an old bible coloring book and the two of them exclaimed over the images as they colored together.  No amount of stern looks and finger pressed to my lips brought her from noise to whisper.  The woman in front of Tucker moved her chair forward, and I knew that my son whose brain fires differently than others had probably banged into her chair one too many times.  The two of them gasped and exclaimed loudly as the scenes shown from the Papua New Guinea missionary splashed across the screen, and our row in that church today wasn't still, peaceful, or quiet.  As we moved into communion, I was in tears.  I no longer care what people think of my children or my parenting, but I don't want to frustrate others who are trying to listen to what is being said. I sat with my head tipped up and eyes closed and tears poured and I tried to find the grace in the moment.  I was jarred by Tucker who had spilled his cup, and I longed to lie down and weep.  The truth is that none of the things that happened today were the struggle; the struggle is the daily pouring out of me with little room for replenishment as I try hard to parent alone. The struggle is the continual waves of feelings of inadequacy and failing, and in those moments at church, I had no more strength to push back against the reality.  I was breaking, and the graceful woman whose body told a story of pain, reached out her heart of love to help me stand for a moment longer.  The beauty in that has seared my heart.
I'm grateful that in a moment where I was at the end of me, another woman stepped in to offer me a bridge. A way out of the despair that was closing in and threatening to consume me today.
Know that those things matter. Please know that your words to a tender heart, to a broken soul, they count- either for pain or for healing.  Know that you have power to build bridges or throw stones. I'm so incredibly thankful that today gave me a friend with a bridge instead of a crowd holding rocks. It matters.

Space for Us All

This morning wrapped up the class I've been helping lead this spring.  We finished up with a good talk filled with encouragement and topped it off with a brunch of shared dishes and shared hearts.

I was struck hard this morning as we dipped our toes into new waters of vulnerability and honesty.  One of the women in the group is more reserved. She's a grandmother whose children are long gone and finds herself in the place of caring for her aging and ill father. She bears weight that is heavy and yet she shows up each week and offers encouragement both in word and in deed.
She's quiet and thoughtful; kind and generous and loving.  As we poured into the subject of the morning which covered 'recycling our pain by sharing our stories with others', she peeled back the protective blankets over her heart and laid bare information she had allowed to seep in deep.  It was information that didn't resonate with the rest of us at all, and as she brought it out into the light, into the space of that room, she too began to see it was all lies that have kept her from truly embracing all she is created to be.
The other leader in our group is even more gregarious than I am. She is bouncy, light, fun, and energetic.  She knows no strangers, and she is readily vulnerable and transparent.  She is infectious in the best way and her extroversion draws people to her in droves.  The more reserved woman looked at my co-leader and said wistfully "I love people. But no one knows it. They all see me as solemn, or depressing, or reserved.  I pray often for more joy, but I just don't have it like you do."  I waited for her to finish laying down her burden before I spoke, but my heart was about to leap from my chest as I watched her pain and disappointment over the intrinsic makeup of who she is.  I started quietly and told her that I think joy doesn't always look like bouncy, laughing light. Sometimes joy is the steady calm that braces another in her circumstantial storm.  Sometimes joy can look like a strong hug that gives life to another and shares in her delight.  Sometimes joy is quiet and does the dishes for the fifth time in a day or hums softly while sweeping.  Other times joy is the small stretch of a smile that neither laughs nor bubbles, and yet rests in the peace of shared excitement.  Joy can be tired, and quiet, or light filled and bubbly, but joy as it exists is not inherently demonstrative.  It is an internal culture of living and being, not always an outward expression of excitement.  I looked into her and said, I see you as neither depressed or solemn. I see you as an introvert, and the women who need to hear the power of your story are the women who won't be comfortable sharing their stories in the presence of bouncy, bubbling light. Those women need steady hands and soft hearts, they need the safe space that your personality cultivates.  Those women who are overwhelmed by someone like me need someone like you to give them a place to share safely. If we were all bouncing off of the walls with no one to steady us, we would be wrecked.

Her eyes grew larger and softer as the other women chimed in to affirm her steady loyalty, her response to a crisis years ago that had been gracious and love-filled, her consistent demeanor and gracious quiet.  Here sat a woman now a grandmother, who had been lured to believe that due to childhood experiences she had somehow been molded and warped into something other than who she was put here to be.  Those of us in the room gave her back the gift of herself.  The beautiful amazing gift of individuality and the space to revel in it. To see that realization light into a woman's eyes, her skin, her soul, is a miracle to behold. And then, the finishing blow; to have another woman thank her for being so honest, so vulnerable, which allowed us to come in and speak truth over her- truth that has power to heal decades of hurt, rejection, and self-doubt.  Do you see? Do you see that when she found safe space and took a risk to share her struggle, that the women in the group pulled tight into a beautifully formed net to catch her and lift her into an atmosphere she never knew she could breathe in? We brought her tired and weary soul into space that gave her breath and life and truth, and it was evident in her response that the truth was setting her free. I get giddy with the thought that I am allowed to be part of this.  This healing and repairing craft of honesty and vulnerability in the safety of women.  I know not everyone has this, and it tears at my heart in that knowing.
Dear ones- If you haven't found places like this where simple acts of bravery become monumental acts of change, please; do not lose heart.  I'm leaning into my 40s, and am just finding this space, and part of the reality is I'm helping to create it.  My risky vulnerability is helping to make room for others, just as this sweet grandmother's did today.  While I would never want any of you to go pouring out your lifeblood into unsafe vessels, I do want to encourage you that with effort, work, time and prayer, groups of safe and life-giving women do exist- but they probably look nothing like you might expect.  Keep your eyes and hearts open to possibility and expect that you can see and be beautiful miracles.

Reach out and touch someone

I wrote months ago about the class I attend on Thursday nights.  It's been a ragamuffin group of women, many who have since left and returned to a life of struggle, but there is a core group of us still there, still determined to do the work to get out of these stuck places in our lives.

At the end of the class last night, as we were closing, the two women leading went around and touched and hugged each of us.  I was aware as this was happening how as each woman was held, something in her broke. Tears that had been pushed to the back of her heart came spilling out. Tenderness broke into that jailed space of emotion and pulled it into the room to rest.

Most of us in the room are single mothers now.  It wasn't a prerequisite for the class, but I think that when your world falls apart and you are left standing in wreckage as the responsible parent, there comes a breaking point where you discover that you are not capable of doing all of the tasks at hand alone.  You either break, or you search for a place to teach you, heal you, show you that with God all things are truly possible.
While there are several women in the group who are still married, most of us live only with our children.
Living only with children means that there can be a great void in human touch. While I cuddle my children, and get kisses and hugs and even a child in bed with me often, I only get hugs from adults when I am with friends.  I know I am incredibly blessed as I have several good friends who pull me in close and don't immediately withdraw their safe harbor from me.  Friends who will allow my breathing to slow a bit, for me to take a moment to feel the love pouring from them, a moment where they use their own hearts and spirits to absorb some of the weight of my sadness or weariness.  But I know that some of the women in my group don't have that. They are literally starving for human touch in the form of an adult.

There is something powerful in touch. Something sacred in taking the moment to allow your body to touch someone else's, to invade their personal bubble.  There is something other-wordly in allowing your safe harbor to take on some of the weight of their daily stress, something precious that happens when you stop for just a moment and pull them in close, allowing their body to sag into yours showing them they are loved, safe, revered, and remembered. The spirit responds to that, which is why each woman broke into tears rainbowed by smiles.  We need this touch, we need the steady arms of someone who cares to brace us up with their strength even if only for a few moments, to remind our very beings that we are not alone in this life.
I am more aware now of the people around me who need this, and I am determined to be mindful of this going forward. There is healing in touch, and a strong hug has the power to stitch up places that are hanging ragged and torn. We need one another, not just in word, but in deed. Find someone who needs your safe space and offer it to them when you can. It's a gift many of us so desperately need.

To Bring Back the Girls

Many of you have seen the news of the stolen girls from Nigeria.
If you haven't, you need to read about it. It's a watershed moment for the future of our girls on this earth.

If you've read up on it, you can't help but feel overwhelmed with emotion. As a woman and a mother of a daughter, the thought of living through this nightmare is other-wordly.  I feel that many of us are looking around, hopeless, wondering where is the help? Who sees these girls?  When will their rescue come?

I have prayed and cried and prayed some more for their release, comfort, healing and protection. When the list of their names was released, I poured over the sweet words printed on my screen, knowing that each two word statement was attached to a real and living beautiful girl. A girl with purpose.  A girl who shouldn't be denied a future solely on the fact that she was born a life giver.
I told my children a brief story about them, wanting them to know, yes, even at this young age, that evil is here, and yet we do not have to fear.  I watched Ivy take in the information, I saw my boys light up in anger as they longed to 'go after the bad guys'.  As the conversation turned and my boys moved on to boy things and found space to play again, Ivy came up beside me. She was grieved and I wanted to address it.  I told her that it was so very sad, but that I had been praying, and if she wanted to, we could choose a name together, and adopt our own Nigerian girl to cover in prayer. She can't yet read but looked at my screen at all the names lined up neatly, the order that belies the chaos they are living even now. She took her delicate and dusty child finger and pointed.  Pointed at Saratu Emmanuel.  I breathed her name out. Saratu. Emmanuel. Her name Saratu means 'An agreement' and the name Emmanuel means 'God with us'.  I reached for Ivy's hand and she laid her head on my shoulder. I started a simple prayer asking for protection, release, freedom, and as the words came, so did the tears. But the tears started in Ivy. She whispered, 'God, bring her back to her Mom. She's my sister.' 
I am quite sure that in that moment, that holy moment where shoes are off and hearts are torn and we stand as helpless watchers a million miles away that the truth of her sisterhood with this dear Saratu could not have been more real. I broke off in prayer and sat in the moment of sacred space carved into the plainness of everyday. I looked at my daughter, the one who still sits on my lap and sleeps a few arms length away each night and told her "Never forget that your prayers have power. Never forget these girls.  Never forget that you can always pray and act and cry for the ones who have been taken." She nodded solemnly and asked me to promise that we would pray again before bed. I assured her that we would.

The hole in my chest is nothing compared to the ripping that is happening in mothers there.  The grief I feel for the stolen children who are being consumed for their womanhood is light in comparison to the weight that these mothers must bear.
Like so many of you, I long to do more, and I come across Ann Voskamp's blog post about the issue.  She has a way of writing that will slice into your soul and pull out what needs attention, and as I read, the tears poured. She spoke of the travesty of the devaluing of women all across the globe.  She reminded me that while the situation in Nigeria is desperate, sadly, it is all too common. She shared statistics that will baffle your mind and shred your heart. But she didn't write it to create emotion without solution. She wrote it with the intent to stir you to action and get you involved with the Esther Initiative.  A plan for women to empower women by telling them that God sees them and values them.

In a world where so many girls are denied education because of their gender, many also have no idea how valuable they are. Hearing the stories of God loving women is a powerful way to bring identity to many who have never been thought of as anything other than disposable.

When our worth as girls, as women, is dropped to a few dollars or a moment of sexual gratification by a man or even the ability to carry a child, we miss the truth that our worth comes at the cost of God himself.
This is a moment for the world to turn and see that girls are being treated as commodities all over this earth- even here on our soil. For us to take notice of the stolen girls from our neighborhoods, our schools, our country, as well as the ones who are missing in Nigeria. At the end of the day each of us are  the same. We all want to be loved, to be safe, to be treated as the miracle we are, and yet so many girls go to their grave in disgrace, being consumed and discarded as though they matter not.
Please read her post, please, if you pray- pick a name and pray. It feels inconsequential, and yet there is power there. Say their names. Don't let the stolen girls become the forever lost girls. Do what you can where you are. Notice the ways you can value the girls in your life. The ways you can bring truth and love into your own life. It matters. Each one of us matters. #BringBackOurGirls

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.

Strength in Vulnerability

An interesting side effect of going through grief and working on healing is that you can become raw, tender hearted, easily moved, and saturated in both beauty and empathy.

When you begin to look at your own heart, to really look at it and see the darkness and also that beautiful capacity for both hurt and love, there is a great awareness that begins to dawn- and in that awareness comes the realization that each of us walking around this muddy planet have places of darkness and beauty.  When you realize this basic truth, you begin to see yourself and others with new eyes.

I used to pride myself on my 'strength'.  I rarely cried and didn't like that show of emotion.  I didn't like the feeling I had of losing control of my emotions... except for anger.  The anger often ran over like water.

Suffering has a way of burning off the chaff so that new growth can blossom.  Seeds of beauty that haven't been nurtured and have been sleeping in the deep, dark soil, are freed to push through the ashes and grow into coverings of color, and beauty, and depth.

When I was still married, I knew at a soul-knowing level that things were wrong.  I mentioned before how I hoped my way along, and since I wasn't living with truth, I was powerless to change things.  When life exploded for me, when the truth was laid bare, the pain was at once blinding and freeing.  Knowing the reality of my life gave me the vantage point to be able to assess the damage and start the process of building.
As I waded through new realities that I had been living with on a daily basis but had been blind to, I began to learn how to weep. How to grieve.  How to allow the deep sadness and dark blanket of death to settle into my heart and begin its work.  When allowed, I believe that the grieving process can actually be the catalyst for new life.  As we give ourselves over to the death of what was, and make space for what needs to be birthed in us, the ability to feel not only our own hurts but to recognize and empathize with the hurts of those around us develops into a beautifully honed skill.

My personal grieving process has been quite self absorbed.  I wasn't able to maintain the relationships and commitments that I had previously carried.  Sitting with a new reality and laying my marriage to rest took everything I had to give.  I turned inward and began the painstaking task of sweeping clean the crevices of my heart and soul.  The energy spent just surviving a death (of any kind) is all consuming and laid waste to anything I had to give.  In the last few months, I have begun to see light again.  The heavy blanket that had been tucked around my heart has begun to lift and I am feeling lighter and brighter and very tender-hearted. I feel as though I have walked from a dark theater into the bright sun of day and have to blink and squint and rub my eyes to protect them against the blinding brightness that comes from the life giving sun.  With new eyes and a keen awareness of those around me, I now see pain behind so many cautious faces.  I am approached in public by people who know me as well as strangers who each want to tell me their story, and I believe it is because in my face there is now a light that shines and draws in the hurting.

I have been given the privilege in the last months of hearing the stories of many women.  Women who are working through their own places of disappointment, disillusionment, grief, and anger. I have found that as I listen, and watch them lay bare their souls to mine, that I can no longer stop the flow of tears.  The 'strength' I used to think I had in damming up that waterfall has been replaced with the tender place of grace I long to offer those who are courageous enough to share parts of their lives with me.

I know I still have work to do.  There will never be a finish line where I get to stop running and know that I have the badge of 'healed up tight'. But I revel in that truth. I love knowing that as far as I've come, the road stretches ahead with more growing, more connection, more beauty, and even the knowing that I can swim in deep waters.  My tender heart is now my badge of strength.  The ability to be cut deeply by standing with a woman as she grieves her way, the knowing that all of us have deep and precious stories, the privilege of holding space for other women as they work through their dark and beautiful places is something I am proud of. Your stories are priceless.  Beautiful. At times both painful and dark; and I can't think of anything I'd rather do more than to be a player in your story as we learn to walk these roads together. Thank you for holding space for me, and know that I am here for you.
Much love. 

Out of darkness into light

Today was the first day of class for me in a new group at my church.

I mentioned before that I was going through a group on Thursday nights called Stuck- which has been incredible for me, and now I have the amazing privilege of being one of the leaders in a group that meets on Tuesday mornings.  It's a study (for lack of a better word) that deals with 'life's hurts, habits and hangups'.  I was a bit anxious before we met as I wasn't sure how many women would be in the group. There is a large group of women who come on Tuesday mornings from the community and today we kicked off several new studies- I really thought that our group wouldn't have many commit because the emotional work it will take will be intense.
I was blown away to see 15 women join us, and butterflies settled into my stomach.

The main leader of the group was out of town at a conference today and it was also the first day so it was a bit awkward.  After we spent time breaking the ice and going over the rules to protect one another's privacy, we broached the delicate subject of why each of us had come. One by one each woman bravely opened her mouth and shared a tiny piece of her heart. It was a sacred space to be in.  Our lives, our history, our struggle and our pain make up the very essence of who we are, and for those women to share part of themselves with the rest of us was a gift.

I have already learned this lesson over the last years, but today was another powerful example that every one of us walking this earth have hurts. If you get the honor of peeking behind the closed doors of someones life, you will always see places where they have been wounded, or felt rejected, or are struggling.  Wrestling with other people will always leave you banged up and so all of us have places where we're limping a bit, or possibly even ripped wide open.

It was beautiful to see each woman identify a place or multiple places in her life that needs attention- and so courageous to hear them say it was time to move on from that place of pain. To lay it to rest. To identify it, look at it, walk through the darkness surrounding it, and ultimately leave it behind.

I was talking with a friend yesterday who has walked a very dark road. Through no fault of her own, she was banged up and wounded deeply in her childhood and teen years. Those who should have protected her instead abused her in every way, and she was left with confusion, distrust, and pain I can't begin to imagine. She chose to do the work of stepping into that darkness and face it and she put it to rest. It wasn't easy or fast, and I had the incredible honor of watching her grow, heal, and change over the last 4 years.  But she did it.  The shame and pain that held her in bondage for so long has dissipated into the wind and she is now left with compassion, grace for herself, and a deep desire to tend to the hearts of others.  We were discussing one of her family members and the harmful choices that woman is making.  It is a clear situation where this woman is choosing to stay stuck and in pain to avoid the pain of walking through the dark places in order to heal and move on.  We all have to make the choice to walk into our dark tunnels on our own time, but I have learned that there are many treasures to be found in the dark; and true healing can't come without walking that dark and ragged path.  There is no way around that pain, only the way through, yet we are never alone... God is near to the broken hearted, and I can tell you from personal experience that the grace and beauty that was found there far exceeded the pain of surgery my heart had to go through.

I am excited to be able to be part of a group of women who long for healing. Women who are lacing up their boots in anticipation of walking down a bumpy dark path.  Women who are steeling themselves for a painful journey out of bondage and silence.  I can't wait to walk this road with them, and love that I get the chance to stand so closely to those who are ready to trust the process. Being with women who long for wholeness is one of most amazing experiences I can think of.

Sticky business

I started a class at church last night called "Stuck".  There is a workbook that goes with it and it's considered a care group- not a bible study.  We are there to care for one another through the process.  There are ten or so of us women in the group and last night was the first meeting, where our nervous giggles, and squirming in our seats belied the surface calm that was in the air.

The goal is to begin to either identify or start to unpack those places where we are broken, angry, discontent, overwhelmed, or scared that are holding us back from full living. From moving forward. From not just dreaming, but moving into goals and engagement with the world as our true selves. That is hard work.  Doing that work will inevitably lead down a bumpy road of struggle and pain to sift through. While I want to do that, and work towards unsticking myself, it feels daunting.
Each of us shared for a moment our names, and a tiny snippet of why we were in the group.  The broken hearts around each table were placed gently into the open with the hope that the rest of us would scoop them up with love and grace and understanding.

I think that the class will be good. I think our group is going to connect in ways not often afforded to groups of women.  The atmosphere in the group is thick with expectation and I believe we will find ourselves knee deep in one another's grief, anger, and struggle.  But I also think that we will find ourselves standing in the warm light of grace and as we begin to shed some of the shame and struggle that sits so heavily on our hearts and souls.

The more I've been allowed into the lives of people, the more clear it is to me that each of us is broken, shattered, cracked, and wounded in some way.  Life has a peculiar way of jamming reality and struggle into each of us at some point.  I don't say this out of jaded cynicism, but rather with the knowledge that we cannot move through this life well without accumulating emotional injury along the way.  The beauty in that is that it levels the playing field.  We are all alike. Connected.  Bound by the awareness that life just happens. To all of us.   If you had placed the same group of these ten women in a room for a baby shower, we would still be the same ten broken, hurting, scared women... but because we're being given the gift of safety which will cultivate vulnerability- we get the amazing opportunity to allow someone to lean on us in those places we are strong, while we lean on someone else in our brokenness.  It's a lyrical dance of healthy community when we begin to peel back the places of shame and pain that dulls our shine and allow that light to pour out into the world.  The darkness of hurt can dampen the brightest light, but the space for truth to rest... the truth of where we sit... that space brings freedom, and light, and love and grace.  Wouldn't it be wonderful if we all had a place like that? A group to go to where you knew that your heart and your fear and your precious lifeblood would be honored and loved and given room to rest? All of us need it. We all need those places to be vulnerable and allow the opening of our wings without the fear of another person tearing a hole in the gauzy fabric.  I have friends who do this for me, and I know I'm blessed.
I'm looking forward to getting to know my group and learning from the strengths they have that I am lacking and excited to offer encouragement in places where I am strong. It's good stuff- this systematic autopsy of my struggle.  I'm thankful to get to have a group to hold me up as I shrug off some of the falsely protective layers of pain and let them hold me up as I unfold my wings and get my legs under me.

My name is Heather and I'm a recovering blogaholic

I used to read mommy blogs the way that other women read erotic novels.  I had a problem and I don't mind admitting it (now).  I would pour over words that other moms wrote and then use them as measuring tapes for how I was doing as a mother.  (For the record?  I usually decided I was coming up short. Failing miserably. Most likely to send their children to therapy first.) But I couldn't stop. The addiction of punishing myself with their words and stories and beautiful photos was one that was damaging and yet strongly drew me in day after day.

I was so sensitive to how many places I wasn't 'doing it right', that each word, every birthday party photograph, each recipe to save my family tons of money while also nourishing their growing bodies felt like a personal affront to my mothering style.

I don't read blogs much anymore.  Not because I don't like them, but because I all too often dive in head first and find myself writhing in physical pain because I have never given my children a themed birthday party with colorful balloons and a catered cake.  The pinterest laced craft ideas that mock my feeble attempt at engaging my children with art are everywhere these days, and for me?  the best choice is to not engage.  Essentially I'm a mommy-blogaholic, and the best remedy for that is to abstain.  I do however, read Momastery.  Her raw honesty, admission of mess and struggle, and ability to laugh at herself connects me to her at a soul level.  I'm absolutely sure we could be the best of friends if she would let me come and sit at her feet while soaking in her common-sense knowledge.
She had a post recently that has stuck with me and brought some freedom into my heart.  She wrote this and you really need to go and read it.

She talks about how other women aren't 'parenting at us'.  Let that sink in for a moment.  Other women are not parenting at us.
Roll that around in your heart... start to fill in the holes with other ways that that applies...
That other woman? The one wearing the amazing dress that you would secretly love to wear but feel too tall, fat, skinny, old, young.. fill in the blank- she is not wearing that dress at you.
The room mom who likes to make fancy cupcakes for every holiday known to man, and bring in special origami valentines that she and her first grader slaved over is not crafting at you. The career mom who manages to not only work an amazing job but still be the den mother for boy scouts is not den mothering at you. 
The teenage girl with the skinny body whose shorts show a little too much... ahem, muscle, is not being beautiful at you. (well, maybe she is, just a little) The point is, we all too often take our own insecurities, struggles, and mess and use them to paint across everyone else and absorb that negative junk back into our hearts in such a way that affirms to us that we are not enough.

Not enough.
Not.....kind enough. skinny enough. smart enough. gentle enough. beautiful enough. tall enough. stylish enough.  we paint everyone else with our 'not enough-ness' and then treat them as the enemy... instead of confronting the lies we're telling ourselves.
Isn't is easier that way?  It was for me.  It was easier for me to think that other women were homeschooling at me rather than to be vulnerable enough to admit that I was choosing not to homeschool because it didn't work for me.  It's easier to get angry at all the other moms or women who appear to be living closer to the expectations we had for ourselves, and press the disappointment of life into their choices rather than to sit in the reality of the life we are living.

I'm becoming freer and happier as I am beginning to be able to live in this reality.  I took two of my children to Awana at church this evening. (Sort of like scouts- but at church) And was laughing on the phone with a friend as I told her that for us?  Showing up with our supplies was a win.  Other moms work hard to help their children learn the memory verses for the week, and read the stories nightly to them before tucking them in... these children are receiving patches for their hard work and memorization skills.  I laughingly asked my friend how I could get the patch for just being there. Showing up. Wearing matching shoes.  For my family, in this season, that is a great feat.  That's my reality.  The mothers who are working nightly with their kids to help them memorize the weekly verses aren't doing that at me... they are doing the best job they can... inside of their reality.
When you begin to see that each of us is doing the best we can.. at that moment.. with what we know and what we have to work with in the way of skill and giftings.. you stop thinking everyone is living at you and begin to see how much freedom you have to live in your present reality with the grace you are provided in your own circumstances.  The post Glennon wrote has singed my heart.  The message went down deep and has allowed me to laugh at myself and the complete pridefulness it exposes as I start to recognize how much I can make it about me.  The irony is that freedom is allowing me to be a better mother.  The headspace I was renting out to lies is now free to be inhabited by grace.  And that is where I want to be.

Thankful for my village

I'm glad you're here.  Reading my words, my thoughts, my struggle and movement inside of this life.  

I do want you to know that I don't always sit in despair. I have told you that I am addicted to hope, and that is a hard addiction to break. 

I am a feeler- I feel deeply, intensely and many times I am harder on myself than I would be on any other person. 

I do struggle as a mother.  Since Samuel was two years old he began with challenges, and the reality is that for the majority of my mothering career, I have felt more like a survivor than an all-hands in, excited, joyful participant.  Some days that gives me pause.  I scan my brain and intentions and wonder if some part of me is fractured.. some 'enjoyment' gene I missed inheriting... and I begin down the road of mommy guilt and sadness.. but many days I am able to recognize that mothering (like any other intimate and ongoing relationship) is one that is filled with struggle and difficulty. Being in close proximity with others, and being the one trying to shape those others naturally brings about challenges... and I am becoming more and more aware that many mothers are behind closed doors struggling with something- loneliness, guilt, inadequacies, infertility, disappointment, disillusion.  This doesn't mean there isn't also laughter, and joy and silliness and cookies! and an intense connection with flesh and blood (or adopted blood!) that brings us to our knees with its sacred beauty.... but being a mother is tough.  And walking through it day after day can leave you feeling ragged and scraped raw. 

I don't always hang out in despair.  I am aware that things are happening behind the scenes in my life that are causing me to be lower on the rungs of resiliency.  Because of that, it is easy to fall into the well of pity and hopelessness.... but somehow that golden ladder out of pain always appears.  

Being a mother is hard.  Being a single mother is impossible... without all of you.  Hopefully, in the shocking things you've read at my hand... you will be spurred to be kinder to other mothers around you. To offer smiles to the mom pushing her cart in walmart with a wailing toddler in the seat.  To really look a woman in the eye as she tries to avoid you as she leans over to pick up her spilled purse contents, or her keys that her baby has thrown for the bazillionth time.  The reality is that none of us will get through motherhood without some injury or scarring.  So love on each other.  Give one another space to screw it all up and to also succeed miraculously- even if her rules and ideals don't necessarily match up with yours.  I've been incredibly gifted with a community who rallies around me when I begin to sink. I had one small text message that caused a friend in CA to call me immediately- just to pray with me and encourage me last night. I had many personal texts after my post, and several private requests to offer help.  I don't even know what to ask for- but the reality of having people who love me at my finger tips is a gift I don't take lightly. 

So, if my post rubbed you raw, and made you squirm for me, or for yourself- take that energy and love the mothers around you.  The mothers who don't have babies in their arms yet because their bodies won't yet give them the children they cry out for, the mothers whose husbands are across the world fighting for our country, the mothers whose husbands have walked out or whose husbands have been kicked out. The mothers of children with special needs, and the mothers whose kids just seem to be brats. We are all doing the best we can, and the most potent antidote to that hopelessness and mommy guilt is the soft word of another woman telling us we are not failing and not alone. Those words hold weight that presses back against the darkness of our pain and reminds us of the intense responsibility we are wading through, and it shows us that there is light here. 

So, thank you for reading.  I do sometimes write funny, witty (ish) and silly things. But, I have to be free to see those things first, and sometimes to get to the light... we have to swim in the dark.  But morning always comes dear ones- it always comes. Don't give up on me now.