When courage is met with silence

It's been far too long since I left words here in this space. Far too long since I sat and looked inside those places that have stories to offer and experience to share; and, I think far too long that I have been ragged and running and fearful and overwhelmed.

I had an experience this week that I feel compelled to write about- it may polarize some of you, and that's ok as I sometimes think some of the best writing does.
It's about a subject in which everyone has an opinion and many people have personal experience and those who might not have personal experience have opinions anyways.  Life is muddy like that.

This past weekend was a beautiful weekend. A precious friend I've treasured since high school came for a visit and our time together is always rich, refreshing and restoring. We swing from swimming in the deep end of existentialism to splashing in the shallow while we watch stupid videos on youtube and laugh until we fall out of our chairs. She is safe for me, and I for her, and I can say things without censoring and trust that she will dig through the dross to find the silver beneath my careless words.
I had a tough week last week. There are many big changes happening again with my family- and it looks as though we will be moving within the next few months again.  This will be our fourth house in two years, and the thought of uprooting my kids another time does a lot to me emotionally- from the sheer weight of another huge life change, to the basic reality of the work that comes with moving- which I will have to balance on my back that is packed high to the sky with more work than I can get through in each 24 hour block.

Sunday morning I awoke with the familiar sensation of having clenched my teeth as I slept.  My teeth were sore, and it was like a fairly mild toothache. I noticed it, but assumed it would fade into the day and laughter and fun with my girlfriend. She left that afternoon, and while I knew I was anxious about my future and so many weighty things that I'm carrying, I had no idea how badly my body would revolt.  Monday morning I woke up and the pain was stronger.  I was frustrated that while I know my circumstances are beyond me, that in the waking hours I was fairly functional but the truth was revealed in the dark.  It made me sad to begin to realize just how worried I was.  I took tylenol and went about my day, aware but not in awful pain.  And then Tuesday morning came.  I woke up in the middle of the night crying before I was awake.  I became aware of the searing pain my jaw and face and wanted nothing more than to squirm out of my own skin in order to escape it.  I took tylenol immediately and got my ice pack to try and get back into sleep where I could ignore it, but sleep eluded me. I managed to get through the morning at work, and by the afternoon I was in tears. I was tired from the pain, and beginning to be anxious about heading to sleep yet again where I knew my body would betray me.
When I woke up on Wednesday, I felt pain I haven't experienced in years.  I managed to get kids off to school, and my only thought was to see my doctor. At this level of pain, I was ready to do anything to stop it- from running on the street corners begging for narcotics, to smashing my head in the front door. It was some of the worst pain I've lived through in my entire life. In the foggy state of pain I was in, I was able to really begin to see how anxious I had become. The physical pain was a mega phone to the heart and emotional pain i was carrying without even knowing.  While I'm in no way depressed, the reality of the intense level of stress in my life became very clear, and I came around to the decision that I needed to talk to my doctor and ask for some help about managing my stress and anxiety. In the hours before my appointment it was all I could do to stay sane. I wanted to race to the urgent care office and beg for anesthesia. If they could knock me out, then I would get relief. I was in tears, and even vomited several times from the overwhelming intensity of the pain.
Finally it was appointment time, and I wearily sat on the tiny bed encased in crinkly paper waiting for the angel face of my doctor to open the door to relief.
When he came in, he asked what was wrong and I promptly burst into tears. I tried to tell him in ragged, breathless words, what was happening. I explained that I was under more stress than usual, and that I knew it was based in anxiety but I needed immediate help to get through the pounding pain that was taking over all of my head-space (literally). I've never asked for pain medication before, and was hoping that the 'in your face reality' of my pain would let him know how desperately I needed something. I knew he might also give me steroids for inflammation, and I was going to try and push out the words to ask for medical help with anxiety.
Nothing went the way I planned.
I love my doctor. I've been seeing him for about a year for my thyroid and other various minor issues.  I trust him. He's compassionate.
But when I began to speak of pain, and then to try and broach the subject of anxiety, I felt patronized. Not heard. Brushed aside as an overly emotional woman.

He told me he'd give me steroids for the inflammation and to use a heating pad. I sucked in all the air around me and worked to get enough courage to ask for stronger pain medication than tylenol. I didn't need much, just a few tablets to help me be able to rest, and not see stars.  He said no. Told me the steroids would help in a couple of days.  I was embarrassed. I felt as though I seemed dramatic and like a drug user.  I had never asked for anything stronger than thyroid medication, but his response made me feel like my record had just been flagged for asking for pain relief.
I managed to get past that blow and tried to tell him of my anxiety.  I have lost tons of hair over the last months- to the degree that I have balding places in my formerly thick, full head of hair. I had chalked it up to my thyroid being off, and while that certainly may be some of it, I believe much of it is worry and anxiety based too. I didn't quite know what I was asking for, but I knew I was at the place where I needed intervention.  The anxiety of sleep, the worry of not having housing, my ever running towards making ends meet, being the only involved parent and often the only provider for four children.. the list goes on.. I needed medical help. Even if only temporarily.
He recommended three supplements.  I told him that on his recommendation long before, I had bought and tried each one.. for months at a time.. with no measurable results. He told me I could be on daily medication, and I began to cry again.  I told him I didn't want to have to be on something every day, and that depression isn't my struggle; anxiety is.
He said that there were faster acting meds that I could take as needed but they were habit forming and he wouldn't suggest them. Somehow I managed to get the courage to say that I wanted to try anyway.  He told me again they were habit forming. I said back, through tears and embarrassment, that I didn't need much, but could use the immediate relief now, to get through this physical and emotional crisis.
He wrote the script in annoyance, asked me no questions about my life or lifestyle, and then told me I needed to get rid of some of the extraneous stressors in my life. I laughed through my pain.

When I got to my car, the anger began to build.
I had just done something very hard, very courageous, and I was treated with disdain. I had bravely asked for help for the very first time and my request was met with suspicion.

I began formulating an email to him in my mind, and as I was cataloging my stress, I wanted to to shout from the rooftops that not only was I not a weak woman, I was one of the strongest women I've ever known.
I've never done this, never written out or shared the 'list' because I don't want pity-  but I want all of you to see just how serious this was for me:
In the last two years-
My husband reveled an entire other life I knew nothing about- that has lasted for our whole relationship starting before we were even engaged.  Throughout the year after he moved out, more and more information came to light and each revelation was more shocking than the last. The things he had done to me and to our family were no less than hideous.  He then chose to do nothing towards reconciliation except ask me to try again. No apology, no counseling, no redemption. Just rejection and shock, and pain.

In the less than 6 weeks after he moved out, we had to move off of the Marine corps base from our 2000 sq ft house into a 800 sq foot house and we had to give away our family dog. I lost my community, my intact family, my home, any shred of security I had formerly had.

He lost his job in the Marine Corps, money dried up, and I began driving kids back to the base daily so that they could stay in their schools for the remainder of the school year.

We moved again just 7 months later into the basement of friends and lived for a year in 1000sq ft with no functional kitchen. I cooked with a large toaster oven, a microwave, and a small camping-like stove.
The kids started a new school, I tried to figure out how to care for them and work and juggle it all.
I got divorced, had court dates, and wrestled through the revelation that my marriage had been rough the entire time, with lots of treatment towards me that take my breath away to this day.  The reality was dawning that it was never good, nor was it safe. I look back on the scared and weary woman and weep for her lost youth where she never felt cherished, or safe, or truly loved.

My best friend's mother died from cancer, we got two flocks of chickens that were promptly eaten by one of the dogs we were living with (traumatic for my already hurting children), we left our church and began going to a new one, we lost friends, we sold lots of our possessions, and learned to live with far less than ever before. Extended family stopped speaking to us, and rejection piled on top of rejection.

One of my sons was diagnosed with a chromosomal deficit and that began the addition of many more specialists visits who are all located in a town two hours away.

Now, I'm going to have to move houses yet again, I'm working multiple jobs in order to piece together provision for my family without having to pay for childcare, and some months I get no support from their father.
Nothing in our lives is secure other than the love I have for God and my children, and some days the reality of what I hold is so far beyond me that I wonder where my next breath will be drawn from.

My heart is just beginning to thaw and to open again and the fear of hurt and the heaviness of looking ahead at doing this alone for decades to come sometimes feels crushing.

To say that my heart and mind and life are full- and filled with lots of hard things is the understatement of the decade. There has been incredible beauty, and provision, and I'm growing and changing and healing and learning, and really am loving myself fully for the first time since early childhood… but I'm one woman. One woman with no safe place at night to rest my head and relax under the protection of another adult. I'm all of it. Protector, provider, comforter, parent, friend, disciplinarian. God is so incredibly merciful to me, and yet my back bends and sways under the burden I carry around, and I was beginning to break.

To be brushed aside by a doctor when I finally had the strength to eek out the words "Please help me" was crushing. I was given a prescription for an anti-depressant last year by one of his colleagues and I never filled it. I wasn't ready for meds, and truly don't believe I needed anything at that point.  I've been proud of myself that I haven't stayed in bed one single day, I get up daily and do what needs to be done. I'm raising my children, and trying to process each huge change with grace and expectation knowing that my kids look to me for my response to heartache. I know this is the only childhood they get and I want to make it the best I can even in horrible circumstances.

There are lots of conversations happening in our culture about mental health… and I am sad to report that my experience in being brave enough to ask for help was not a positive one.  I don't know what the answer is, and I surely believe there are plenty of people walking around who are abusing the system and making it hard for the rest of us.  I wish I had been received well, and given direction, but once again, I was on my own.  I am the model patient for doing everything right before asking- I've been in counseling, support groups, I have close friends, I eat well, I sleep well, I do yoga, I spend time daily in prayer and mediation, I find times of quiet, I get outside, I take the vitamins and avoid the junk. But the stark reality is that sometimes, all of the good is still not good enough. And it's ok to need help. It IS. There is no shame in it, and there should be no stigma. My brain and heart are weary.  And rightfully so.
I'm going to email that Doctor.  He can still choose to ignore my words, but I pray that as he reads through my story he will begin to see just how much courage it took for me to ask for help in a way I wish I didn't have to. I pray that the next crying woman who needs someone to look in her eyes and tell her it is going to be ok will be given that gift. And I will keep asking, until someone hears me.

If Only for Today

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

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

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

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

First… this.

I have been paralyzed from writing since the ISIS horror in Iraq has been so much in my face. Anything I could think of to pen seemed self serving, or petty, or small, in light of the trauma that is lying on top of a whole culture of people on the other side of the world.

But the reality is, I don't want to blog about it. I don't want to give my opinions or bleed my sadness across the page.  I still feel helpless, I still feel broken, and grieved, and heavy hearted.  The only remedy for that, as I sit a world away with little to offer my brothers and sisters in humanity as they suffer evil daily, is to pray.  I have been in women's groups where I've shared details. I've been in several prayer meetings where we talked, and prayed, and cried.  But I can't do it here. It might be cowardice or fear, but I have nothing to say other than to ask you to not forget. To not hide in your own daily stressors and pretend that you don't know. We DO know. And pray we must. If you have money? Please give. They're asking for our help. If you have extra time? Pray more. Educate yourself. Remember. Do not let helplessness and fear keep you from the power you do have- to give and to pray. Those things hold more value than we can ever know this side of death. 

The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing. -Edmond Burke 

*You can follow Canon Andrew White on FB. He is on the ground as a minister in Baghdad and gives info that is different than what the media shares. It helps to see his photos and read his updates and know how best to pray and give. You can find him here:

https://www.facebook.com/apbw2?fref=ts

Living in the Tension

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time for Soaring

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Slipping Sand

Parenting is one of the most challenging jobs in the world.  Part of the design is that usually you don't fully grasp the gravity of how challenging it is until you've already added another one or two or three to the brood.  Baby land and newborn land is a hazy place that is physically draining and punctuated by moments of incredible bliss, discovery and joy.
I've learned that parenting gets harder, not easier, but by the time you learn that, you're in deep, and head over heels in love with the multitude of small people who have joined your life.

Being a single parent makes everything that much harder.  It's a lot like scooping up large handfuls of sand and trying to hold on to as much as possible as some inevitably slips through the cracks between your fingers. The larger chunks stay, as do the shells, and rocks, but the silky smooth sand that can't be grasped falls steadily no matter how hard you clench your hands together and will it to stay put.  Working with your spouse is like having his hands under yours, to catch much of what you're spilling, and while he too will lose some, there is protection in knowing that where you are weak, he can cover you.  Single parenting means that those places you know you should be able to work on, change, address, those places you can see slipping through your fingers get dropped and so you desperately pray for grace to cover your weaknesses.

I have the awareness that chore charts, allowances, and nightly reading is important, but many times keeping peace, getting everyone fed, bathed and tucked in with prayers is a monumental task when I've already mowed someone else's lawn, cleaned someone else's house, edited photographs and tended to our own home.  I feel like a sponge that is needed for cleanup and yet cannot wipe up the spill because it is already completely saturated.
I can see how many single mothers completely fall apart.  Staying in bed, or turning to less than desirable activities with less than desirable companions.  Women who have little support, even less self confidence, and no good places to draw from can create the perfect storm for not just lost sand, but total annihilation of the handfuls they have tried to hold on to.  I have moments of anger, I have moments of self pity and frustration and even moments where I let my mind wander into the homes of friends where money is assumed, furniture came new from a store and not handed down or picked from a curb, homes where women feel safe, and children feel adored by both parents and wonder what that feels like… but I don't stay there long.  Wishing and dreaming and spending time wondering what might have been brings nothing but grief and sadness, and won't get me where I want to be.  I can see many places where my sand is sliding through my fingers, out of my control, but I take heart knowing my children are well loved, we are knit tightly into a community who long to see us succeed. I am doing the best I can and God's grace makes a way where there seems to be no way.  While I never would have written this story for myself or my children, I'm so proud of how we are adjusting, growing, and learning how to embrace the life we've been given. The sand that slips through is minimal in light of the beautiful shells that are staying behind.