Verdict? Not Guilty

If we are willing to listen, life is full of moments to teach us more about ourselves, more about the world around us, and hopefully even give us moments of revelation that can change our futures. 

I was honored with the opportunity to photograph a funeral for a fire chief in our area.  He was a Navy veteran, a beloved husband, father to two girls, and both a career and volunteer fireman. He poured his life out in service to others, and watching the honors unfold to remember him was an experience I won't quickly forget.
Funerals are one of my favorite things to photograph. As someone who loves when people connect in genuine, raw places, I have found funerals to be a place of intimate connection, and tender emotions, and gracious handling of the hearts of others.  While there is always pain involved, there is always much beauty too.  I love watching how the families are cared for, and how gracefully the lost one is respected.
Visitation for the funeral was the night before the funeral services. I had been invited to go and photograph it by the man who had hired me.   He hadn't given me any specifics, and I slipped carefully through the crowds to get images I hoped would touch the family for years to come. At one point I wedged into a back corner and grabbed some shots of friends honoring this great man at the side of his casket.  There were parts of the gleaming wood in my shots, but not any of the man resting inside.  I walked out into the lobby to catch my breath and was stopped by another photographer.  He was aggressive and prying and asked me questions from who I was, to who had hired me, and what kinds of shots I was taking.  He made sure to let me know how important he was and that his images taken on behalf of the Navy would be used for public consumption as well as being placed in our local paper. He told me to be sure to stay out of his shots the next day and reminded me again of his importatance.  I was completely bewildered and felt insignificant.  He then told me the family had told him no shots of the casket.  My face fell and my heart sank.  I mumbled that I had already taken some shots and that I never meant to offend anyone.  He told me to delete them.  He walked me through the very simple and elementary process of deleting off of my camera- as though I had no idea what I was doing.  I stood there dumbfounded and concerned I had overstepped my boundaries.  I managed to get away from him, but his prying and aggression with me had deflated my confidence and I wandered around the funeral home in a fog, worried I had somehow committed an unpardonable sin during an evening that was both intimate and precious.

When I climbed back into my car, now a trembling bundle of nerves, the man who had hired me (but who had to leave prior to my arriving at the visitation) texted to ensure I was ok. I texted back worriedly that I had been approached by the Naval photographer who told me to stay out of his shots, and told me to delete all of my casket images per the desire of the family.  The man who hired me to be there (who was a close personal friend of the family) simply texted back- They knew you would be there Heather.  Assurance. Importance. Inclusion. His simple words reminded me I had been sent there with the most important job- to work for the family.

The next morning I arrived early.  I began my work, with the frustrating nagging feeling in the back of my mind that I was somehow not good enough, or my work would be offensive.  Eventually the man who hired me found me and hugged me tightly to tell me how much my presence and my work meant to everyone. My guilt and shame was palpable and gnawing and so tumbled out as I told him how concerned I was about offending the family. He quickly put my fears to rest.  The aggressive photographer came up to the two of us, interrupting our conversation rudely, and began his barrage of questions to my friend.  My friend responded to him firmly but kindly and let him know that I was there to work on behalf of the family and could do whatever I pleased. And, to kindly stay out of my way.  I was elated.  I had been thinking since the night before that the family's desires trumped the Navy's guidelines any day, but I hadn't been bold enough to say it out loud.

A couple of days ago, it hit me.  Because of the way I was treated in my marriage, I have been conditioned to always take the posture of guilt and shame.  I had been approached by a man who had no business telling me how to do my job, and yet my immediate response to his out-of-line correction had been guilt.  My heart was grieved to realize that I have been so carefully trained to always take the blame that it is second nature in most every place in my life.  I had nothing to feel guilty about, nothing to apologize for, and yet I took on his annoyance, his threatened posture, and absorbed it into my heart as anxiety and worry and shame.  What an awful realization. How many times have I taken direct hits from poisonous arrows never meant for my heart because I've been trained that by my mere existence I am guilty?! How many times have I sat in unnecessary worry and anxiety because I didn't stand up for myself and speak out against the circumstances that had nothing to do with Heather?  How much time has been wasted in damaging shame because I took on the concerns of others when I had no business picking them up and packing them onto my back? My heart is torn at this realization, and yet I'm so thankful for the burst of clarity that pierced my heart the other day. I will be careful going forward to pass those feelings of guilt and shame through wisdom first before I choose to add them onto my own burden. I have so far to go in my healing process, and yet I'm so very grateful for the clarity that comes and brings with it lessons that can change my future.

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.

How Memorial Day is Dawning for Me

I'm struggling today.  I will be cleanly honest and tell you that I am aware that my feelings are most certainly being led by my hormones and probably even the state of my thyroid- however, knowing what is driving the emotions do nothing to lessen them.  What is left is to sift through what is there, pull out the lesson and the truth and try to move past it.  

What you don't know is I've lived in the basement of another family for almost a year now.  It wasn't a secret, but I get so weary of pity that I keep much close to my chest.  This is my reality right now and I trust that it is temporary. I refuse to believe we will be statistics who slip into poverty unseen and work to claw our way out.  While there are challenges in still sharing a room with my daughter, and being in smaller quarters than we had been used to, and not having a real kitchen to feed my family from- there have been so many wonderful things.  The yard here is incredible.  Two acres of fenced in beauty that is not just safe, but nourishing.  The kids are in good schools where they are doing well, we are close to our beloved church, and I have friends tucked into the county far and wide.  The family we live with are both veterans from my adored Marine Corps and they have one sweet and lively toddler whom my children have adopted as one of their own.  They have been incredible to give us space and always make us feel that this is our home.  They've never made us feel anything but welcomed and appreciated; but. On days like today?  My heart swings hard and falls and my brain tosses around all the anxiety that I've worked hard to avoid for so very long.  The heavy weight of knowing that my large and loud family is in their intimate space while they traverse their own struggles and rolling hills of family has been hard.  I sometimes feel guilty that we have kept them from half of their home for a year, and that we've been here through several deployments and sweet, private homecomings.  I cringe when the kids yell, I feel guilty after I do, and I often feel the desperation to pay back all I feel I've taken.  They have never given me anything but grace, and have never once disrespected us, made me feel less-than, or made me feel guilt.  All that I'm feeling is self inflicted.  As I cried in the shower, acutely aware of my loud and hyper children on this calm and peaceful holiday from work, I scanned my heart to discover why I was spiraling into this pit of self deprecation and guilt... and the word whispered softly in my heart: grace. 

We all need grace, we all want grace, and yet many times when it is offered we fear it's being offered with judgement or expectation and we rise up quickly to atone for what we cannot pay. Grace as I understand it to be is unmerited, meaning by its very existence it cannot be earned or paid for.  It just is.  It is pure, beautiful, healing and safe.  It is the biggest gift we can offer and yet often the hardest to accept.  It is the sanctuary of blessing and space that allows the weary to pause and heal and repair what needs attention.  For my family, this gifting of grace in the form of a literal home it has been the exact remedy we have needed to get through the immediate slashing of our hearts and souls and space to rest unjudged while we have worked to wade through the muddy waters that rise in divorce. It has been more beautiful and protected than I could have ever provided on my own, it has been a place where I could fall back into a more vulnerable position and breathe my way through the labor pains of moving into, through and past the pain of a ravaged family.  Grace has given my children more normalcy and stability than we've had in a long time, and grace has allowed me time to grieve, wake up to life again and work towards the very real role of provider and protector.  The guilt and shame that is trying to creep in and tarnish the shine that grace is leaving on my story would be an insult to the ones who have poured it out so freely.  To sit in fear and guilt would be to deny the gift that has been powerfully given.  To stay in that place of anguish and worry and anxiety would be to turn inward to myself and wound the ones I so desperately want to honor.  The reality is that there isn't much I can do to return payment for all that has been done for me through this family. A family who hardly knew us but knew that our hearts and bodies needed a soft place to fall. A family who loved us more than their own comfort, and welcomed us in in order to meet a need I could not meet on my own.  On this Memorial Day, as we honor servicemen and women and remember those who have given all, I am keenly aware that these two veterans have continued to pour out their lives in service long after the ink on their discharge papers have dried.  They've served when no one knew, never announcing to the world their act of charity and grace.  They did it expecting nothing in return, rather choosing to reach down into the sticky mess and help to pull me out.  They did it with hearts of service and grace, and on this Memorial Day, I'm slain with that truth.

Greater love has no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends.  -John 15:13

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.

Camping anyone?

I don't always have to write with a deep, brooding tone.  I can be silly. In fact, in real life, I'm pretty hyper and silly a lot of the time.  So to lighten the mood a bit- here's a post about my adventure.

I took the kids camping last night. Alone. For the first time.
I really love being outside.  I love hiking, and swimming, and being in the forest. I always wanted to go camping as a family in years past,  but often I was the only one who wanted to go.  Since life has changed, and I can make the decisions now, I decided I would take it upon myself to get out there and do it.  It was awesome. It was enlightening. Fun. A good education.

Here is my fun list of our Family's Camping 101.

1.  When setting up your tent, either be super humble and ask someone for help, or be super confident and just pretend like you know exactly what you're doing.  Sneak glances around you to see if it looks like everyone else's and pray that no big wind comes and carries it away.  (I did both. I set it up very confidently, and then asked one of the guys in the registration office to pop on by and make sure I did it right.  Guess that thought that I needed a man to tell me if it was right or not is taking a bit to go away. He came by and guess what? I had done a great job!)

2.  I can make a fire.  Really!  I can.  And not a smoky, smoldering mess.  A real roaring fire that calmed into a slow burn for hot dog cooking and s'mores. It was beautiful. And yes, I'm very proud.

3.  Remind your almost-a-teen son not to wander around the site with his swiss army knife drawn.  He said he was looking for wood to whittle, but all I could see was us getting kicked out of the campsite for brandishing a weapon.  Next time I'll remind him before he goes exploring.

4.  I'm not too prissy to sleep on the ground.  I may however, be too old and bony.  I took my yoga mat, a blanket and my sleeping bag. My hips didn't like digging into the earth and while I did sleep some, I think I will need more padding in the future.

5.  Birds are noisy in late evening and early morning- and I loved it.  So many songs joining, and so incredibly beautiful.

6.  I like the smell of fire, earth and even sweaty kids all mingled together.

7. Drunk people were annoying in college and drunk people are still annoying now.  (Go to sleep you silly annoying drunk people! )

8.  Sleeping through the night in a tent with four other people under the age of 13 will not happen. You will be awakened at 3am by a naked child standing over you shivering and loudly whispering that he has had an accident and is now frozen and wet.  You will sit up and realize that your 'extra' blanket choices are limited and will try to bundle him up as best you can, without waking anyone else, and then pray that he doesn't die of hypothermia as you settle back into sleep.

9. Take more blankets next time.

10.  The thought to take .97 cent solar torches was brilliant.  I used one set on top of a jug of water (which softly illuminated the whole thing) as well as one in two different corners as really low nightlights.  It helped the kids a ton.

11.  None of my children are too old to be sung to sleep.  My lullabies saved the night.

12.  Bug spray. Even more than you think.  Ticks? Oh they are already having parties.. some of them were having parties in my kids underwear. yeah.  For real.  Thank heavens for the tweezers on the swiss army knife.

13.  I should have asked for more help setting up our site, but I was so excited to be alone in the QUIET that I kicked them out. Made them go play. It was heaven.

14.  Insist that every child use the bathroom before bedding down.  See #8.  Enough said.

15.  Don't let the kids go in and out of the tent in excitement before it's time to bed down. What seems so fun will turn your tent into a bowl of sand and dirt, and you will be using your car broom to try and get it as clean as you can before realizing you're just going to be lying in it all night and what the heck, we're made from dust, we go back to dust and tonight? We sleep in dust.

16.  Keep expectations low.

17.  Remind children at 6am that it is still time to be quiet and the sides of the tents are not, in fact, solid walls. Whisper loudly to them that their exclamations of 'There's a tick on my testicles' and 'I need to throw away my pull-up' can be heard by everyone within a 1/2 mile radius.

18.  Don't make eye contact with anyone after you emerge from your tent when everyone has just heard about the tick and its choice of location.

19.  Decide that the tent WILL in fact go back in the bag. Refuse defeat.  You will do this. Shake it out, fold it up, pull it into the bag where one lip of the bag will always slide off until you realize that you do not, in fact, have the super power needed to do this particular camping task, ball it up and put it into your car. With the bag on top.  To fix at home. Or, to ask your neighbor to help you fix it.

20.  Cheer the kids on and tell them how wonderful they did.  Chuckle at the preteen who arrived with an attitude that it wasn't rustic enough who is now sitting by a morning fire with a mouth full of pop tarts exclaiming that 'This is my most favorite place ever'. Decide to do this. Again, and again.  Healing comes amongst the trees.