My Joyful Mysteries, and A Revolution of Real

  

293 days.

41 weeks and 6 days. 

285 posts. 

All of this since this little Revolution of Real started…

I’m not thinner. 

I’m not prettier. 

I still pee my pants on trampolines. 

And not everyone likes me. 

But God is still God.

I’m still me…

I choose Him. 

And…

I choose Real. 

Yesterday I didn’t write. Words rolled and tumbled over each other in my head, but I couldn’t seem to get past my to do list followed by nonstop demands of my life. 

I spent a half an hour before bed with one of my children who cried hot tears over anger at himself and a math weekly-quiz we corrected. He had made a couple simple mistakes but it changed the entire outcome of the test.

“Show your work” I told him as I went over his mistakes with him. 

“Why?” He cried, tired and frustrated. 

“Because when you show your work, you can go back and see what you did right, or where you got confused.” 

“But what if I don’t want to?” He wailed.

By this time it was after 9:15, and they all should have been in bed.  But we didn’t even get home until after 8 and had an even later dinner which pushed bedtime off. He was near his expiration date, and so was I. 

I didn’t want to fight with him about math, and rounding to 100. I just wanted him to hear me. I repeated the questions in my own tired voice, and finally, we were finished. 

I came to bed tired, and grumpy. I had things I had wanted to do, but busy kept them away. Chores were left unfinished. Coffee wasn’t set up. I hadn’t showered. I lay in bed, and tried to will myself to sleep, as I drifted off- I actually started my prayers with this one word to God…”what?” 

It was said in a “What are you looking at- What are you expecting of me- Why can’t we catch a break?” Sort of What. 

“What?” 

I was wide awake by 2. The words kept tumbling in, but I didn’t write. Instead I just said “What?” I repeatedly asked God the next three hours those words. I cleaned my kitchen in the dark. I made coffee. I lay back in my bed the word “what” on repeat. 

Somehow, eventually, I fell asleep. 

I’ve had a lot on my mind. A lot of Questions. One in particular. 

Why bad, really bad things happen to good, really good people? 

And I’m not asking it in some entitled tone…because I’m the first to discount my own desires for someone else’s. 

And I’m not asking in some philosophical way, because spend 10 minutes with me, and you’ll realize I’m not philosophical. At all. 

Instead in a “Why God?”

I don’t expect people to change. We are flawed individuals with issues and stuff. There’s good stuff, and bad stuff. And evil.  

I pray for changes of hearts and forgiveness all around. I pray for healing. 

Because it’s not as if I don’t trust God…I know this–

My God is a Good God, and I believe in his faithfulness, but I don’t understand everything. And I don’t think I ever will. I can’t google some pretty quote and then life will all make sense. Because it doesn’t- not a lot of the time. 

But then again, I’m not God. 

I’m just me. 

So where do I fit in all this? 

Where do I fit in the words tumbling, bitter-sweet, world of real? 

Well, it’s pretty simple. I show my work. 

“What?”

I write because God asked me to. Not because it’s perfect, or that my life makes sense. And my real is that I’m changing, not in some outward look at me now, but in a deep down, there is more…just wait for it, sort of way. 

“What?” 

What if being broken into a million pieces…What if grieving so hard your heart can’t take it…What if the uncertainty isn’t the rest of the story, but is just the beginning? 

So I do what I was asked. I write and I try to show my work. 

To the people who may be just a little like me…The Tired. The  Real. The Broken. To those who need us but don’t want to be looked at as a problem or a burden, or an equation, but as a part of someone else’s life. Someone else’s Story! 

I’ve made a lot mistakes. And some of those mistakes changed the course of my life. 

But allowing God to be God, even when I don’t understand- when I don’t want to show my work, doesn’t take away the fact that He. Shows. Up. 

And not necessarily in the way we expected. Or wanted. Or asked. 

In the past year, He’s shown up when I’ve least deserved, and least expected, and He is Good. 

Even when life isn’t. 

And every single day I remind myself of my beautiful Mother’s words she uses often, “Every day is a Gift.” 

“What?” 

Everyday is a gift. 

Why God? 

Because your life is a gift. 

So live it. Show up. 

Show your Work. 

…to God be the Glory. 

  

Yesterday my first born turned 14, seems like all his growing happened overnight and I was too emotional to write. I think because all the realities of them growing up are becoming more and more apparent. I’m happy with the person he’s becoming, and I’m sad because that person will make his own path, and live his own life…and it might veer away from this life. 

And us. 

This child who redefined my life. His birth was grueling and terrifying, and complicated. But then there he was, and all my complications, all the things that could have went wrong, but didn’t, seemed so far away, when all I saw was his perfectly round face. I couldn’t remember a time in those moments, where I wasn’t a Mom, where He wasn’t a part of us. 

Every first he has had, have been my firsts as a mother. So, I guess there aren’t enough words for all these feelings. So that’s where I’m going to leave that here tonight…where I am, this is my real. Right now. 

His life has been a gift. A gift I was given the privilege to carry, and protect. To raise, and nurture. And I am blessed to be his Mother. 

   
   

sister. 

“You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through your hearts. You need her, and she needs you.” George R.R. Martin 

as I’ve watched my own daughter grow, one of the hardest parts is she will never grow up with a sister. she’ll never know her sister. she will never know the kind of relationship that has been such an integral part of my life. 

no matter what stage I am in my life, I need my sisters. 

i have been blessed to have four. and seven now counting my sister in laws. and I have sister-friends who are my family here. 

i need them all. 

they bless me, and I can’t imagine a life without them. 

so in honor of my oldest sister, on her birthday, here’s to ALL the sisters. no matter what stage life takes you, may you always remember to need each other. to love each other. to take care of one another. 

may we always remember the gift it is to be a sister.

i need my sisters. so much. 

   
    
 
Happy Birthday Missy, you have always followed your heart and dreams and accomplished the things you set your mind to. Like being Medusa for every Halloween as a kid. So go with your bad self. I love you. 

  

To the Woman who kept his “little people”  and matchbox cars and has some of them resting on her kitchen window seal…

Because of you, He admires every Lego creation they make, every Star Wars character they’ve kept, and loves to find buried toys in the backyard.

To the Woman who let him play in the dirt, and be a soldier every year for Halloween and any other day as he played in the yard…

Because of you He allows our boys to build forts and never acts surprised when He comes home to a “ladybug princess” playing football with “Rudy” in the backyard. 

To the Woman who told him chewing gum was made of elastic…

His daughters tells stories of the times her Daddy got in a fight with a bear, and got bit by a shark. And the one time He fought off a very sassy Giraffe. 

To the Woman who went back to school to become a teacher and sat at the kitchen table with her Son doing homework…

He now sits and helps them with their Math, not afraid to try a couple times to figure out the answers, and is brave enough tell them when He is stumped too. 

To the Woman who went to every soccer game he ever had up and down Southern Oregon…

He never complains about the weather as We watch Soccer, Cross Country, and Baseball, the only time He complains is when He misses their events.

To the Woman who always made a big breakfast the morning after friends slept over…

He always makes a big breakfast for the kids and friends. 

To the Woman who passed on a love for the river given to you by your own parents…

He is most content there.

To the Woman who believed in him, raising him to live a life of integrity and honesty, while finding laughter in the little things… 

He lives that way. Every day.

To the Woman  who took him to church and shared her faith with him…
I can never thank you enough. 

To the Woman who has prayed for him every day, and who taught him how to pray…

I can never thank you enough. 

To the Woman who thought her son might be a priest until she met me…

Who had one son, who chose me…

I can never thank you enough. 

You are a wonderful Mother to your Son, a wonderful Grandmother to our Children, and you are more than a Mother in law to me. 

You are my friend. 

I am…so grateful for your life. 

Happy Birthday Joan. ❤️ you are so very loved.  

    
    
 

Every Time you vacuum up a Lego, a New Mom gets a nap. – a Kristin Original.  

 

So here’s the thing I’m realizing…the hardest part of being brave, is actually the whole brave thing. 

But if not you, who? 

You will never regret being the deep gut belief, earth shaking, heart pounding, you are doing the right thing brave. 
And the ones who count? 

They won’t leave your side. 

  

I never liked those hand dryers in public restrooms. I always liked the actual paper towels I would get by spinning the little handle. I can still picture the dark tan scratchy paper towels that I’d dry my hands on as a child. 

For some reason my hands seemed cleaner if I could pat them dry, rather than trusting a too loud blast of lukewarm air. To this day I’d rather just dry my hands by haphazardly wiping them on my jeans than use the dryers. 

My daughter- she loves those hand dryers. She loves to sing under them, and stand with her hands under them as she giggles. Since she was little she’s preferred them, and if she has a choice she waves her little arms in the air until the sensor starts and her hands are dry that way. 

Both of us get our hands dry, but we’re different…and that’s ok.

A few weeks ago Pope Francis came to the United States. As a Catholic it was a big huge deal. My life was changed when I was 14 when I traveled to World Youth Day when Pope John Paul the II was in Denver. Because it was a life altering experience, I saw Jesus in so many people there- and I can’t even begin to explain the miracles I saw God do in removing us from our normal and giving us a chance to just join together for Jesus. 

So when the Pope came, it was exciting, and he talked to all different groups. He is not God, he is a man who has been chosen to be head of our church…our Christian Church. And our church hasn’t been perfect- give me a church that has been run by MEN and has been? All men fail, God doesn’t. But the Pope is a cool guy. I love that he’d rather dine with the poor than with millionaires, and that he would rather wash the feet of prisoners than dignitaries. 

Why? Because His Shepard is My Shepard. Jesus. 

So afterwards I happened upon a very famous bloggers blog, Matt Walsh. He is either loved or hated, there is no in between. Quite frankly I don’t know how he does it, the guy just speaks his real and says “Bring. It. On.” The comments on his blog are crazy. And quite frankly my little anxious heart couldn’t even begin to take it if I was him. But I read his synopsis of the Popes visit, and while he didn’t agree with everything, he wrote a very nice piece. And then because it was 2 am and I couldn’t sleep I read the comments…big mistake. BIG MISTAKE. 

In the past year from reading social media I can tell you my real has been trashed up and down because we are a law enforcement family, I am pro life(because I know what it’s like to lose a child far along), and we are catholic. Who knew?! Here I am, trying desperately to share the love of God in a real way, and I haven’t spoken out about anyones beliefs or ripped them to shreds, but I have to tell you the things I read that night made me nauseous and sick. Hateful things. I’ve read a lot of hate this year. 

Of course I will be passionate about vaccines(get them), my family, and Mariners Baseball. But who am I to ever ever tell someone that because I love being Catholic makes their Christianity less real to them? Why would I search and search for the ways someone else is wrong just so I can prove myself right? 

Why would I ever choose to divide, when Jesus is all about unity? 

Why won’t I? 

Why? Because I don’t walk in their shoes.

Why? Because my shoes have enough holes. 

Why? Because if I don’t have love, I have failed. 

One of my best friends Megan and I are different. We don’t always agree on things,  but I can never imagine tearing her apart because of my beliefs- because her life is a gift and she lives it beautifully. We love our children and we love each other. Our boxes aren’t crossed the same, but I know she’d drop everything and be there for me. And I’d do the same. When I ask her to pray for me, or vice versa, we pray to the same God. 

We’re different, and that’s ok. 

A few weeks ago I called my friend Amy in panic mode in a flurry of are-we-failing-why-do-people-think-we-aren’t-Christians-why-can’t-i-find-my-keys-why-do-I-care-what-people-think-why-am-i-so-sensitive? And she was so good, so calm and didn’t miss a beat “Kristin…you are living your life for God, and the only goal I’ve ever seen you set is getting you and your kids, and your husband to heaven. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. Only God.” 

Her words were clear and concise, and spoke truth. The kind of truth that I needed in that moment.  

Someday, I’m gonna die. And hopefully have an awesome funeral, with a great slideshow and a Bon Jovi song, and it will be a celebration. Seriously- I want celebration…

Because.

All that matters is that when my soul leaves this earth is that I see Him. And when I see Him, it will be the only opinion I’ll ever need. And right now, the way we are raising and leading are kids is towards Him. And that day…will be the best day.

So maybe we don’t all agree. 

But I’m not God. I’ll let Him do his job. But I will read His word and live my life working towards His will. 

As a Daughter.

 As a Wife.

 As a Mother. 

As a Sister. 

As a Christian. 

As a Catholic. 

As a Woman. 

As a Sinner. 

And I will love and pray for those who don’t love me. And I will pray for you. 

Will you pray for me? 

To OUR God. 

To God be the Glory. Only God. 

Ps. Always wash your hands…drying methods optional. 

…and never ever read the comments on controversial blogs. 

…if you’re only thinking of a response to discuss this post- you totally missed the point. 

  

• Joyful Mysteries Note: I gave my Guest Post Submissions to God. I only want the people meant to write to write, I ask people and step away. If they are meant to, led to, they will…if not- they have the choice to walk away. My friend Erin…she always shows up. Lately I’ve felt my posts have become stale, mostly because God is working, and I’m working, and it’s a lot of work to be present to my family AND present to God. And some of the stuff I’ve wanted to say isn’t easy to read, it’s uncomfortable and even thinking about it makes my heart race. I’m scared because I could lose friends, I could lose a lot. But Erin, she speaks the real and she speaks the truth…every single time. Everytime I’ve felt called to ask her- I know before I even push send that she will pray- she will be real- and she will show up. I love her. Not just because she speaks the truth but because she is passionate about a lot of the same things as me, and she’s real about it. Her authenticity is a gift. So thank you Erin, as always you tell the real most of us can relate to- and we need the truth, and the real. The world needs You. I’m so freaking thankful for you Erin! 

  

I am a Body Dysmorphic.

 

In scientific terms, that means I am “characterized by persistent and intrusive preoccupations with an imagined or slight defect in my appearance.” It means I struggle with anxiety and obsessive-compulsive thoughts about the way I look.

 

According to the American Psychiatric Association, it means I have a chronic mental disorder.

 

(That should probably bother me, but it doesn’t really… I always knew I was a little bit crazy.)

 

In layman’s terms, Body Dysmorphia means “I don’t like my body.” There are parts I would even say I hate. I don’t hate all of the parts, just some. And, those parts I hate, I spend a heck of a lot of time thinking about them. They’re always there. Whereas most (normal) people exist in their skin without giving their body much thought, I think about my body all. the. time.

 

As far as life goes, you can see the disorder manifested in my strict refusal to wear shorts or skirts that show my legs above the knee, or shirts that show my stomach, even around the house, even for bed. I haven’t worn a swimming suit in public since I was 18. I don’t wear snug clothing. I HIDE in my clothing. (Jeans out of the dumpster that are two sizes too big are just right.) The disorder tells me “You’re fat,” even though I’m not. I have not looked in a full length mirror in years. (I have one, but it’s turned toward the wall.) I hate, hate, hate dressing rooms, with the stark, show-every-flaw, overhead lights and mirrors at every angle. (Like I want to see my own butt?) Last time I was in one of those rooms, I cried off and on for two days after and starved for three. I haven’t tried on clothes in a dressing room for almost 20 years – I buy them, take them home, try them on, and if they don’t fit I make the extra trip back to the store to return them.

 

My disorder manifests itself in a very specific way. Every body dysmorphic has (at least) one part of themselves they obsess over; for me, it’s my weight. And my waist. My midsection, and the direct correlation the size of my middle has with the number on the scale.  

 

High scale numbers are “bad.” Low scale numbers are “good.”  

 

High scale numbers mean “ew and oh no, who would want to look at me, no one wants to touch me.” It means no sex, “because GROSS how could he want that,” and lots of self-inflicted punishment with calorie restriction and giving up favorite foods, and way too oh-so-much exercise.

 

Low scale numbers mean, when I sit down my stomach won’t pooch out over my pants, and I won’t muffin top in my jeans. It means I wear a snug-ER shirt (but still not tight. no no tight clothes.). And I’m happier, and I feel confident and light and unburdened and free.

 

…well, not TOTALLY free.

 

Because when you’re a body dysmorphic, “free” is a fleeting feeling. It only lasts for a day or so, or until you get back on the scale.  

 

Once you’re back on the scale and that number tells you “this is how much you’re worth,” you’re not free anymore. Not if the number has moved UP. Not even if the number has stayed the same.

 

For a very long time, I lived alone with my obsession. I felt alone in my disgrace. My disorder attached shame to my outward appearance, so I hid it. From EVERYONE. I hid physically and mentally. I isolated myself from others. I did not make friends. I did not let anyone in. The people who knew me knew only the tiny bits I would relinquish, nothing more. Every relationship I had was held at arms length.  

 

As though my feelings for my body were an ugly, horrible, physical deformity, I hid the shame and the shame hid me, and I lived intentionally alone in the dark. I did it to save others from the horribleness that was my existence. I hid my body and my perception of my body from everyone,

 

but mostly I was hiding it from myself.

 

I was POSITIVE I was the only one.

 

About a month ago, I joined a crossfit group. I’ve done some mental recovery over the last year or so, and for the first time I am making progress not out of spite for my disorder. Not “because I have to,” but because I want to. Not out of fear, but out of strength. I’m working out and sweating three times a week for me, because I can, not “because if I don’t I’m worthless.”  
I have also not been on a scale for almost two months.

 

As a recoverING body dysmorphic and a recovered anorexic, this is a huge, huge deal.

 

Yesterday, at the gym, I decided to use the toilet in the women’s locker room before my workout. It was the first time I’d used the toilet in that particular place; usually I use the bathroom right next to the treadmill (because without fail every time, 30 seconds into my warm up and I have to pee).

 

I walked around the corner, and there, like a big, glorious, terrible, horrible, wonderful alter, was a scale.

 

And not just ANY scale, but a BIG ONE. The kind they used to put next to the gumball machines at the grocery store, or right beside the Tic-Tac-Toe Chicken at Farmer’s Supply.

 

In that moment, I cannot explain to you with words how hard the pull was to step onto that scale.

 

So, so, so hard. Like, “black hole,” hard.

 

I didn’t do it. Not right away. Not because “I’m so strong, look how much I’ve grown, I don’t need that,” but because I really had to pee. And, as any woman who has ever had a love-hate relationship with her scale will tell you, “You weigh yourself AFTER you pee, not before.” (also take out your hair scrunchie, and get naked.)

 

Before I got on the scale I entered the stall to do my business, and an amazing thing happened.

 

While I was sitting there, thinking about “how much does pee weigh, again, did I drink a ton or eat a lot of salt, will I pee out what I should or am I still holding onto water,” I heard another woman come into the bathroom and step on the scale.

 

She stood there for a few seconds, then stepped off. I heard the door shut behind her.

 

Moments later, another woman did the same. Enter the bathroom, step on the scale, stand there for a few seconds, step off, leave the room.

 

Then another.

 

A dawning, fuzzy, cloudy thought began to form in my mind. (Of all the places to have a revelation, right?)

 

I flushed, pulled up my pants (because I can’t pull up my pants before I flush, it feels weird), left the stall, and washed my hands.
While I was washing, one more woman weighed herself.

 

Mind you, when I used the toilet I was only peeing. JUST NUMBER ONE. Not number two, not even girly issues. From start to finish, including hand washing, I was in the bathroom for a total of two minutes.  

 

Two minutes. Four women. And the gym wasn’t even that busy.

 

As I stood there drying my hands, I looked at that scale. For the first time in probably forever, I looked at it with objective eyes, an open mind, and a steady heart, and the hazy, misty thought that had started to form in my head moments earlier, came together with a snap.  

 

I thought of the women who lived out the intention I had in my own guts when they got on that scale, and the blurry, nebulous ephipany became perfectly clear.

 

Something in my head went **click.**

 

“My initial impression was right… THAT IS AN ALTER.”

 

“…and it’s not just me who worships there.”

 

See, worship isn’t just for Christians. We ALL do it. My very favorite pastor told me, “Humans are creatures of worship, regardless of religion.” We all worship in one form or another, and even us Christians worship things that aren’t Jesus.

 

I remember hearing the story of The Golden Calf as a kid. Moses, chillin’ with God on the mount, came down and found all his faithful followers, nose in the dirt, heads bowed down, worshipping a golden, baby cow. I remember thinking, “HOW DUMB IS THAT. They KNOW Moses is just right up there, they know God is with him, what the heck, people?!”

 

“And a CALF. Really?! Do they not know how dumb cows are? They eat their own throwup. Ew and oh no. Not worth worship. Not even a little bit.”

 

I remember feeling angry for God, angry for Moses, frustrated with Aaron (nice namesake), and disgusted with the Israelites for being so dumb. I felt better than them. I felt more righteous, and I remember hearing that story and feeling confident that “No worries, God, I won’t ever let you down like that.”

…and yet. There I was, standing before a piece of gears and metal, springs and glass, waiting for it to save me. Waiting for it to tell me that I was worthy, waiting for it to set me free.

 

“Wow.”

 

If the Israelites were dumb, I am worse.

 

In that moment, I understood what the Israelites were doing. I UNDERSTOOD THE REASON BEHIND THEIR MISTAKE. I understood that they just wanted SOMETHING, anything, whatever they could find that was tangible to make their efforts and suffering and struggle REAL. To make it worthwhile. To see PROGRESS. To reach out and touch what they had hoped for, for so, so long.

 

My relationship with the scale, I realized, is my form of horrible, awful, as-far-from-God-as-I-can-get, worship. I WORSHIP that thing. Once a week, every week, I kneel down at its feet to hear what it has to say. I bask in its words to make me feel better. I live my life to please it, and to hear rewarding things. If it is unhappy with me, I punish myself for misbehaving. I live according to its will, demanding of myself whatever it takes in order to gratify it, to bring the number down, to manipulate the outcome in a positive way.

 

I hate that effing scale.  

 

I love that effing scale.

 

Almost all of my life, I have worshipped that effing scale.

 

And, in this country, MOST of us women worship that same, false god.

 

Like I said, worship isn’t just for Christians. Everyone does it. Worship is “reverent honor and homage paid to a sacred personage or to any object regarded as sacred.” It’s the formality and ceremony of such honor. It’s adoring reverence.  

 

…or, according to the American Psychiatric Association, it’s a mental disorder.

 

I know I’m making a pretty big stretch, suggesting that my body dysmorphic tendencies are a form of worship. But not really… they are the same. I tithe into my religious worship of choice just like any other devout disciple. Not only have I given time and money to my object of worship, I have given focus. And attention. Thoughts. Words. Actions. Choices. Energy, passion, creativity.

 

And 38 years of my life.

 

I know the road to recovery is long. I know that I’ve got a long way to go, before I think of my body as God intended me to think of it. I know I will slide backward, I will be again the same person I was a week-month-year ago, even if only for a moment.

 

What I will not do anymore, is worship that scale.
I have recognized with full clarity to Whom my heart belongs, and I will fight tooth and nail to keep my heart up on the mountain with Him. With Moses, sitting on the sideline, watching the big guys talk about what matters.

 

Not down in the dirt, clawing at the foot of an alter made of glass and metal and springs and dials.

 

I know a lot of women will read my story and think, “Wow, that’s bad. I know I worry about my weight, but not like THAT.”

 

That’s good. That’s WONDERFUL. Your heart is closer to as it should be.

 

For the rest of you, you’re not alone. You’re not the only one that has struggled with shame and self-hate. You’re not the only one that has been led astray by concerns of flesh and bone.

 

Most importantly, we love a God that forgives unconditionally, and the price has already been paid. We can start over, any time we want.

 

“I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship. Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect.”

 

Romans 12:1-2

Today was good. 

And God bless Bon Jovi.