My Joyful Mysteries, and A Revolution of Real

(joyful mysteries: We met. We were both theatre misfits, and crazy about God. We’ve sang in every establishment we’ve ever been in together. We both have laughed so hard together we’ve peed our pants. We have went in and out of each other’s life…always friends, even when our paths were different. I’ve always been honest with her, even when it’s hurt.  The only time I’ve gotten a standing ovation is after singing with her. We will always be friends. Thank you for sharing your real dear friend.) 

“Since my heart was embittered and my souls deeply wounded, I was stupid and could not understand; I was like a brute beast in your presence…” Psalm 73:21-22

In the last few years my dad has often told me, “Erika, where ever you go there you are.” I always learn the hard way in most every important life lesson and he knows that. At first I kind of brushed him off. My dad and I while close don’t always agree. We both feel very deeply. So our “truths” can be stubborn, especially when expressing them to each other. Both of us are addicts. Different kinds of addicts, but addiction is the same no matter how it rears its ugly head.
My first addiction was throwing up. It made me feel better. In 2000, after a series of events my first addiction brought me to a 106 day stint at “Remuda Ranch”. A rehab center for eating disorders.  I was almost “excited” to go to rehab. I was positive it was going to fix me. While in rehab they diagnosed me with several things. I’m not going to go into great detail…but by the time I left rehab for an “eating disorder” I was taking 8 different pills a day. Prozac, resperidal, Adderall, just to name a few. I left feeling better and I was convinced that my next chapter in life was going to be easier. 
Here lies the ugly head of addiction… If you don’t get to the root of the problem and only put a small band-aid on it, it’s going to reappear. While I know longer had the desire to throw up… I was no longer capable of “checking out” the way I had when I was practicing my E.D. So I found a new friend in alcohol.  

The last 14 years have been a series of trading addictions for a new one. Convincing myself as I healed from one that the next one was new. That they weren’t at all related. 
Basically, I checked out on life. I was angry, bitter, lost, and tapped out on addiction. While the medicine I had been prescribed can be helpful…it is not meant for long term use. My 8 pills in 2000 had increased to 14 pills on a daily basis. I would cry out to God and ask him to help me…but I would never DO anything to change my circumstance. At 35 I had high blood pressure, early onset diabetes, pain & anxiety management issues, & migraines.  I was numb and didn’t really care about anything. While I maintained a semi-successful life and exterior, I was dying inside. It started to eat it’s way into my everyday life. I had moved a couple times to “change” my circumstance but always ended up in the same scenarios. My location was different, but my addictions were the same. So I did the “logical” thing and moved 2,000 miles away from everyone I knew….
“Wherever you go there you are…” 

“Why are you downcast my soul, why do you groan within me? Wait for God, whom I shall praise again, my savior and my God.” Psalm 42:11




When I was 2000 miles away I finally cried out in pain to God. It was almost a “war” cry. I fully saw what I had transformed into. I was a shell of a person. I didn’t feel anything, I was checked out, and I didn’t care how my actions affected anyone. I was alone and there was a huge thunder & lightening storm that lasted for 6 hours. I watched all of it and sat on a balcony over looking the Gulf of Mexico and decided I was going to change. 
I did some heavy research on getting off anti-depressants, pain pills, anxiety medicine, & getting healthy. Slowly over a 4 month period (with the grace of God, my doctor, support groups, and the support of my family) I got off of everything but my heart & headache pill. 
This is where things got real. Emotions I hadn’t felt, experienced, lived, or even understood in 14 years came barreling at me. I went from feeling nothing to feeling everything. Even when numb I thought I felt deeply. It was nothing to the parade of emotions I was feeling for the first time in so long. I cried, wept, screamed, and felt defeated. However, for the first time I am happy to be “alive”. When I look at the sky it’s like seeing it for the first time. Sometimes I am so struck by the beauty around me I have to stop and praise God in the moment. It’s like I have new eyes. I still have a long way to go and a lot of healing in my relationships and in me. God is so much greater though. His timing is perfect. I’m not hiding from him anymore. I’m not hiding from anything. 
This is the “most REAL” I’ve ever been. My clothes are a bit tattered and there may be a little dirt and snot on my face. This is me. I’m Erika. I’m an addict. It doesn’t define me though. My worth is in him who picked me up at my lowest and brought me back into his arms.

“Yet I am always with you; you take hold of my right hand. With your counsel you guide me, and at the end receive me with honor. Whom else have I in the heavens? None besides you delights me on earth. Though my flesh and my heart fail, God is the rock of my heart, my portion forever.” -Psalm 73:23-26

Erika’s bio is general right now…working to pay her bills, and open to whatever God has. She is in a State of being Redefined…

I remember when we brought him home, and he was so small…

We had no idea how on earth we could keep this small little being alive. 

And we figured it out. Somehow. 

But now…I’m still trying to figure out what the heck I’m doing. This raising a teenager. 

I’m winning somedays. 

I’m losing others.

He is figuring out how to be a teenager. We are trying to raise him to be well balanced. He plays instruments. He plays sports. He loves God. He is crazy smart, and crazy disorganized. 

He likes a girl. And she likes him. And she likes us. And we take her to church with us. 

And everyday he looks different. And every day I ask God to help me do the right thing.

I still hate video games.  So we continue to battle, but I’ve lost some of that war. 

We limit his phone. But he has one.

He has no privacy. Because he doesn’t need it. 

We are open with him. We are protective of him.

And life is moving too fast. 

I talk to my sisters. As life gives and takes, and cruelty steals, and we raise teenagers…and we mess up, and we fall, but we love them. And are so scared. 

And I’m a brand new mom again. 

Learning all over again. 

Over the years I’ve learned a few things…a little quality time goes a long way. You can lose your shit and they still love you. That it’s easier to just vacuum up the Legos than pick them up, because they reproduce anyway. Boys smell. The best way to deal with a temper tantrum is to tell them to make it count… And they are never too old to be prayed with. 

And they will mess up. But so will we. And we will figure it out…together. 

I have no idea what I’m doing half the time. 

But…I…love…this…child. And he will always be my child. 

And A child of God. 

And a miracle. His life is an absolute gift every single day. 



Life is unpredictable. We can’t plan for what is going to happen next…

We work all day. We work nights. We lose sleep and dream of days where we can sleep again. 

But today we Live…

she…worked the night shift and one of her patients threatened to beat her other coworker up…96, with a catheter listening to his Louis L’Amour on a cassette tape. She has respect for his this fiery patients- with his passion, his past and Navy background. Someday at 96, she wants to be just like him. 

she…doesn’t know what she wants to be someday, but knows that right now she is right where she needs to be. As a Mom. 



she…wants to be a Private Investigator. And little-she wants to be Batman..



She…wants to be like my Grace, and embrace her own skin. She wants to be happy right where she is. (Side note:She is beautiful) 

She…always wanted to be a writer or a lawyer. She wonders if someday she’ll still become one of those things. 



She…wants to own a dress or shoe shop! 

She…wants to be a detective or figure out all the gory sort of crimes. She wants to catch bad guys…and has a dark and twisty side. 

She… Wanted to be on Broadway but now just wants to serve a God…right where she’s at. 

Me…I want my kids to be healthy. 

This week has been discouraging because we’ve been looking forward to so much for weeks…and are all battling things. 

I’m tired. 

I haven’t worked out. 

And I don’t feel all that great myself.

But we live. And we work. And we dream. And today where ever we are at…we are real. 

Today I embrace your real and your dreams, and I dream with you. Well…kind of because I haven’t had a good nights sleep in weeks, but I dream of dreaming with you…

And I see you, and you are all so beautiful. And inspiring. And real. 

I love no Filters! I love Wednesday. 



I take on guilt for things I don’t do. 

I take it on and wear blame like a coat and carry it around. Because if I can carry it someone else doesn’t have to. 

I don’t like the way it feels. But I can carry it because I’m used to that feeling. 

Most of my guilt comes from all the ways I’ve already decided I don’t add up. All the inadequacies I carry and drag after me. All my faults and failures. 

Sometimes at night I will think about it and wonder about all the people I’ve wronged. Lives I changed by telling the truth even when that meant that someone else’s life path was irrevocably redirected. Lives I’ve changed through my own faults. Ways I have messed up. 

And believe me I have messed up. 

Even today, two of my kids were calling and pulling on me and I am so tired…and I was on the phone, and I was dealing with my own guilt of a situation that is not my own- but surely I felt I should take on…and I felt annoyed by them and swatted them away. And then immediately picked up my new coat of another layer of guilt. 

Because I should always love and be present and see them. 

I think some of it has to do with my Catholic Upbringing…I am still very much Catholic, and I am proud of it. But there is an element of guilt and mystique with this shame that many of us have chosen, in our own misunderstandings of martyrdom. We fear pleasure if it takes away from God. 

Don’t get me wrong we all have suffering. And feel guilty. But Catholics, especially Irish Catholics we are born with a layer of guilt under our skin…it’s a scientific fact that I just made up…right now. 

So I feel guilty. Even when I’m not. 

Even when I shouldn’t. 

Today I was told…very clearly, that I need to stop. I am taking ownership of things, and intent that goes against every element of who I am. 

But this is who I am too- person who takes on your layers.

And I can’t help but want to solve, fix, be, and love people enough that they can’t be harmed. That the world cannot touch them. 

But I’m not God. 

I’m not that powerful. 

And life is hard. 

Really hard. And not fair. 

And I can’t feel guilty for that. But I want to. 

I want to carry your coat, so you don’t have to. 

I once prayed I would be barren so my sister would stop having miscarriages…because I would rather carry my own cross than have anyone else carry that feeling of loss. 

Recently some of my own real mistakes affected my family, and it was hard. Because everything I do, I do with the intent to protect and love them more and better. But I don’t always get it right, and I’m still having to come to terms that I spent a good part of last year as someone I didn’t know. 

I didn’t know her, or recognize. And I didn’t like her. 

But she was there. And I have to stop feeling guilt for who I was. 

I have to put this coat down, and love and be here right now, and not let this slowly smother me. All this shame. 

I have to stop taking blame for things I can’t control. 

And I have to just take ownership. 

This is life. And it is hard. And it is good. And the layers will only make life heavier. 

So today, I gave my layers and guilt to God. I laid them in piles. And I took my hands off the window and am choosing to stop looking in at the imposter that I thought was taking over my life, and acknowledging her. 

Acknowledging me. 

She and I…we worked really hard at life last year. I didn’t get it right all the time, but i got through it. I can look at it now and see how incredibly resilient I was. I can be.

Taking the layers on is easy for me. I’m always cold and I know them. But they aren’t good for me. They only make my heart hurt and fill me with sadness. 

So today Jesus, I give you my guilt. My shame. My inadequacies.

And I embrace all the parts of me. The person I was, the person I became. And the person I am. Right now. 

Today Jesus…I embrace who you are calling me to be. 



My friend April read an article and challenged me to do a little experiment. Another Mommy Blogger let her 3 year old son pick her clothes out for a week and blogged about it. Read here: http://www.babble.com/style/i-let-my-toddler-dress-me-for-a-week-heres-what-happened/

I asked my sons first if they would be willing and they all said “No thanks.” But Grace was all over it. For years she occasionally picks out my clothes, and always asks me to wear lipstick and perfume. 

She loves anything that sparkles. 

Here’s the thing. I like looking nice. I like feeling pretty. But I’ve spent the past year battling with my own self image and spend more time in work out clothes and when I do go to work I wear boots and leggings, and anything that is warm. I’m all about being warm. 

But Grace…she wears a swim suit in January and anything that twirls and loves heels. So giving her permission to do this was a little scary…I gave her two rules: it has to be appropriate(I can wear to work) and it cannot be a swim suit. 

She was a little bummed about that. I think that was her first pick. 

Day 1. 



She loves skirts with leggings so she chose this, and her most favorite shoes of mine, my red shoes. She also chose a shirt I haven’t been wearing due to its small resemblance to a maternity shirt…but I have never used body talk in front of my kids. So I wore it with pride and she was so proud. She also chose my jewelry, and had me wear a cardigan because she knew I’d be cold.(I love her) 

Day 2. 

I haven’t worn these jeans in a while, but she knew exactly which ones she wanted to choose. Bling anyone? Also she only wears jeans once a year so I thought this choice was funny. I hadn’t even put on make up but there you go- she wanted to take the picture anyway. She said I needed to wear peach and green together. These shoes and the shoes I wore the day before were clearance target shoes and are two of my favorites! 

Day 3. 

This is my favorite skirt so I was glad she chose it, with comfy shoes…and a work out long sleeve! Haha. She loves the color though and no one seemed to notice at work that I was wearing a workout shirt…bonus! 

Day 4. 

I changed a teensy bit before I went to work this day and put knee high boots on, because I was freezing AND I was really self conscious. The dress is a little short, but she insisted on heels until I left. And a big bulky belt that’s glittery that I never ever wear. I got more compliments on that belt!!! And she chose red lipstick for me. The boots offset the short skirt at work. 

After she got it all picked out, and I was dressed, she looked at me and just sighed…

“You are so beautiful Mommy.” 

And in that moment, I prayed that I could see what she could see. I want to love myself as much as she loves me. She was so proud of this outfit. 

Day 5. 

These brown shoes have Surprise Surprise Heels, which are higher than I’m used to- but this was a fun little outfit to wear. We went to coffee with friends and I could tell everyone she dressed me. I was pretty tired last week so you can tell the nights I didn’t get much sleep…but I love how much thought she put in everything for me to wear. 

Day 6. 

So she decided to go all out this day…and I was on my own. She is absolutely fabulous…don’t you think? I fall more in love with who she is everyday. 

I wore yoga pants, and workout clothes to her disappointment. But I did wear lip gloss. 

And so it goes on…a new week. 

But for 6 days…

I gave up control of every thing I felt inwardly about myself and my body and allowed myself to be seen how my daughter sees me outwardly. 

I also showed her that her choices are valid and her opinions are so very important to me. 

And I was okay. 

And she was happy. 

And while I was squinting into the sun in almost every picture, I made huge leaps in the past week in my own level of worthiness…I am beautiful because of how I love. And clothes are just extra. But it never ever hurts to wear fancy shoes…and to feel pretty. 

This skin I am in — carried this little fire cracker. I got to hold her inside of me and grow this little being of magic. 

My Grace is fancy and fun. She is beautiful and kind, and so very comfortable in who she is. She is simply amazing. 

And I want to be just like her when I grow up. 

She has a fever. Because we share things. And her brother had it first. And now she and another one of her other brothers are running fevers. 

They are both pitifully curled up on different couches, and she rests her little foot on my arm. It is warm. And she is so sad because tomorrow is crazy hair day at school and we had a plan. She so wants to be there. 

Today is International Women’s Day- and I think of all the women who have come and gone, and stood up and kneeled on a hard floor praying for peace. For justice. For freedom. For Equality. 

We have different truths, but at same time, we are all connected. We were all created to love and give, to nuture, and create. We come in all different beautiful shapes, and rich and precious colors. But we are all women. 

We are mothers. And Daughters. We are sisters. We are Aunts. We are widows. We are wives. We are grandmothers. We are caregivers. We are here. 

I pray for my daughter, that she will never be a victim of her body, that she will never have her bright spirit shattered.. That her innocence will not be stolen or tarnished. I pray that she will be surrounded by friends who love her deeply, and that she will be protected from jealousy and competitiveness. I pray that she will love and know love, and feel grateful for all the amazing things she is grateful for now. Like sparkles and a sucker from the bank, and new tooth brushes. I pray that she always has a bounce in her step and a song in her heart. I pray that her soul will belong to God, and that she will know peace that can survive through tragedy. Through heartache. 

All around the world there are little girls like my daughter whose mothers are saying the same prayers for protection. We all have different lives and burdens, but we all want the same things…for our girls to love and be loved- and to know peace. And to be safe. 

And my heart feels and breaks for the girls who think they are forgotten…those who are slaves to men, slaves to poverty, slaves to injustice. I pray that right now…someone speaks up for them, someone steps in, and that divine intervention comes and brings them immediate protection and peace. May we all use our voices to protect and uplift one another. May we love each other more. 

I have not forgotten you. 

Today I pray that we all remember how important we are to each other…

acknowledge, love, bless, be present…

As I watch my daughter sleep, I know that she has to be touching me, even with just her foot…because that contact is important as rest right now. 

We need to place our hands around each other in support and prayer…for the sake of our daughters and our world. We are here. 



I was just watching my daughter play outside. Singing too loudly in her little six year old body. Full of so much life. 

Today a little girl the exact same age went to heaven. A little girl we’d been praying for. A little girl whose body was taken by Cancer, but whose Soul was bright and beautiful. Cancer never once held her soul…

I don’t know her. I don’t know her parents. But I know that this is not fair. 

So today…my real is loving my children the best I can. And praying for those who grieve. Who grieve and hurt and I cannot even touch on the rawness of their real right now. But I pray for small doses of comfort for those who love and grieve a child. 

I have no doubt there is a heaven. I have no doubt today there is rejoicing. And I have no doubt that there is a God, and He is so good. 

But we stay here. And we have to wait. And it is so hard. And it never goes away, but remember and loving, and living…until we can get to them again. 

Today…

Please pray with me? 



(Joyful Mysteries Note: We met in High School in a school play. We got along instantly and shared our faith. What’s funny is I thought she had it all together, all the time. Funny how good we all are at hiding our real. We reconnected years later- after babies, and life, and brokenness…and she is so real. And raw. And it’s hard to read or see her real, but it’s there and it’s very very important. Thank you Erin for  writing your real. I love you. I am so thankful for your life and your resilience, and your spirit. You are so good. )

Without Fight or Flight



 

Today was shower day.

 

I hate shower day.

 

I have been an anorexic, bulimic, body dysmorphic for as long as I can remember.  I remember intentionally overeating at my seventh birthday.  I remember testing to see how long I could go without food when I was eight, faking a stomach ache to ensure I wouldn’t have to eat dinner.  I remember hating my body before I even knew what all my parts were for, feeling fat inside my still-from-the-little-girls-section jeans.

 

The sexual abuse started at age six.

 

The physical abuse started at age seven.

 

The scars and stains that you cannot see, the ones I’m JUST NOW starting to see myself, are still there.

 

I really, really, REALLY hate shower day.

 

On shower day, I have to get naked.  Despite every attempt to the contrary, I have to strip off all my clothes and spend a good ten minutes with my own skin.  I have to look at my body (all of it), I have to touch my body (ALL OF IT), and for that showery, shivery ten minutes I am unable to hide from what I know isthere, but what I so very much do not want to see.

 

Scars.

 

Stains.

 

Ugly, fat, gross, hated, disgusting, stretched, flawed, dimpled, brokenness.  

 

Worthless.

 

After years of practice, I have gotten to the point where I can shower in the dark, and I prefer to.  I can shower with my eyes closed the whole time, and I can finish a shower in six minutes flat.  I know I have to do it, the cleaning of the parts, but I don’t have to like it, and I don’t have to look.

 

Today is shower day, and just like every other shower day I woke up feeling irritated, somber, exasperated, and defiant.  I got up and made my bed.  I helped the kids make their beds.  I watched them to be sure they were getting dressed, and I started breakfast.  I checked to be sure there were no naked butts running around, made a cup of coffee, fed the family.  I did not eat.  Eating is even harder to do when I know I have to see the result later that day.  I got dressed in the clothes I wore yesterday.  I drove the kids to school, drove myself back home, hit the front door, and beelined for the bathroom, shedding clothes along the way.

 

My deliberate intent could easily be confused with desire or excitement, but it shouldn’t be.  It is how I shower every time, and it is how I react in the face of fear.  I FORCE IT.  I run. “Giterdun.”  PUSH THROUGH.  Go fast.  No time for thought, just DO.

 

Like a dive of the top platform at the pool, when it’s time to shower, I don’t think.  Just go.  Start at the bottom of the ladder and do not stop moving until your toes leave the edge, when weightlessness and the freedom of the fall take you to the water.

 

On shower day, once it’s go time, I do not stop moving until my hair is wrapped in a towel and my body is hidden away inside my clothes.

 

Today, though, there was a moment of pause. 

 

I got naked without looking.  I got my towel and let my hair down without looking.  I took off my watch and ring without looking.  Then, as I whipped aside the curtain, gripped the faucet handle, and tipped it up to turn on the water, I caught a glimpse of myself in the shiny chrome plate.  All warped and wonky, I saw my overly large forehead, the scar I got when I was two because I was jumping around in the parked car, the black roots that are starting to grow out and take back the purple hair that surrounds my face.  I saw my eyes, and my arm, and then waaaaay back in the distance, even farther away than real life because of the curve of the handle, I saw my skin.

 

All of it.

 

My breath caught in my throat, and in that one moment of suspended clarity, I realized that I felt fear.  Serious, legitimate, absolute fear, the kind that stimulates Fight or Flight, and I realized my Real.

“I am afraid of my body.”

 

I am afraid of my body, and I have been fighting-or- flighting it for all of my life.  ALL OF IT, and all of my life.

 

My size.  My shape.  My gender.  My sex, the passion and frequency of the kind I have, dealing with the kind I want.  The way I look.  The way my face is completely asymmetrical.  The size of my hands.  The size of my feet.  The length of my waist. The shape of my nose.  The length and color of my hair.  The stretched, pouchy, poochy, fat-filled skin left behind after growing three children.  Saggy, foldy, spent breasts hanging from my chest, emptied out by tiny mouths eager for thousands of meals.  The copious and seemingly endless expanse of my lower back and butt, once trim and tight, now soft and spreading.

 

Today I realized that I am afraid, and that I have been running and fighting my body for almost all of my life.  I have been afraid of the scars, afraid of the damage, and afraid that “this is what you’re worth.”

 

See, my worth has always BEEN my body.  My body was me, and I was my body.  I did not, and still struggle because I do not, recognize that my worth is not my physical self.  As a Christian I know that my heart and mind and soul are what matter.  As a lover of Jesus I know that my intention is equally important, that my true worth is flawless because it was scrubbed clean with blood, and the flesh I live in will stay behind when I go.  

 

I know all of that, but I don’t understand.  My body got the attention, while my soul and heart and mind did not, and so I have been taught that my body is what matters.

 

Without consideration of my intent or reason, my-body-that-is-me was punished for existing.  My body was in the way, and so it was beaten.  Without consideration of my desire or innocence, my-body-that-is-me was used to deliver pleasure to someone else.  My body was desired, and so it was assaulted.

 

I was taught with fists and fingers, skin and hate, mouths that engulfed and mouths that spewed words, that the body I have is what determines my worth and existence.  Nothing else, nothing more.  And I carried that thought and foundational belief into every year of my life, and I carried it into today.  

 

I am afraid of my body, because I am afraid that it is my true worth.

 

I am afraid of getting old.  I cannot keep my body young and beautiful, and I am afraid that I will not be worth keeping when Iam gray and spent.

 

I am afraid that if I am not wanted for sex, I am not wanted.

 

I am afraid that unless I am pleasing others with my physical presence, I am not worthy of love.

 

I am afraid that I deserve pain and neglect and dismissal the second I am in the way.

 

I am afraid that my body has earned and is deserving of every ounce of abuse it has received, because it is not and has never been perfect.

 

I am afraid that it will never be perfect,

 

and I am afraid because deep down, for that last part only, I know that I’m absolutely, 100% right.

 

For the most part, I am a brave person.  I teach my kids that bravery is not an absence of fear, but doing what needs to be done anyways.  I thought of this as I pulled up on the shower lever and returned the curtain to the wall, listening to the water hiss against the stall and tub.  I thought of this as I flipped on the bathroom fan, and I thought of it as I stepped into the tub, closing the curtain behind me.

 

I thought of my fear, and I thought of bravery, and for the first time in a very, very, very long time, I decided to look.

 

In the shower, the light of morning streaming in through the high-set window and lighting up the bathroom like an interrogation room lamp, I stood in the water completely naked, I held my arms out to the side, and I looked.

 

I watched the water run in rivers down my purple hair, chasing strands and bundles down my shoulder.  I watched the water amble across the folds of my breasts, over the generous hump of my stomach.  I looked at the stretch marks that love left behind, running my fingers across the bumpy, feathery impressions.  I moved my hands down and out, over my trimmer hips, then up and across my not-even-a-little-bit-trim waist. I grabbed a large handful of fat and stomach in each hand, fat and stomach I have railed against and tried to destroy with purge and starvation, and I thought to myself,

“This is not me, this is a result of the choices I’ve made.  I have the power to choose differently.”

 

I pulled my stomach in a bit with my breath, smashed it flat with the palms of my hands, and looked lower.  I looked down at the curve that led to my womanness, the patch of dark hair, the archof my inner thigh, the subtle mounds and folds of fleshy, pink skin.  I ran my fingers over my legs and in between, and I said to myself,

“This is not me, this is a tool and a toy, an expression of myself, it’s been used and abused, and it has created life.”

 

I tipped my chin up, let the water hit my neck, felt it run over my collar and back across my shoulder, down my nape, and felt it flutter down my back.  I wrapped my arms around myself and let my hands follow where the water led, then untwined myself to put one hand on each buttcheek.  Timidly, and with a bit of baited breath, I ran my hands up a few inches to the part of my back just at the waist.  

 

Of all the places of my body, this one brings me the most grief – some cruel words and heartless comments by one that should have loved and accepted these parts left instead some deep, permanent scars.  I am most afraid of how I look when I walk away, of the width and stretch of my ass and lower back.  It’s a silly thing, probably, but I’m positive we all have that ONE THING, that one place, that causes us to cringe most easily.

 

I ran my hands across my back and butt, and I said to myself,

 

“This is not me.  This is part of me, but this is not who I am.  I am better than whatever is here. I am worth more than any judgment I’ve gotten because of this part of me.  I am more than this flesh and fat and skin.  This is enough just as it is, no matter what the size.”

 

I ran my hands around to the front of my body, up over my stomach, across my breasts, across my chest, down opposite arms, and said,

 

“I am enough, no matter what the size, and with my scars, not in spite of them.”

 

The rest of my shower was spent with my eyes open, and my mind elsewhere.  At some point along the short mental journey I’d started crying.  Water mixed with tears to rinse away soap.  Some of the fear remained, but not as much.

 

The rest of my day today has been spent in thought.  When you remove both the fight and flight, what remains?  What do I have left, when I’m not fighting against or hiding from the body I live in?  What in the world am I supposed to use as motivation for ANYTHING, now that the fear is leaving?

 

Fear, it turns out, is much like revenge.  When we live our lives to serve and bow and scrape to the purpose of that one, sweeping emotion, what is left when it’s gone?

 

My Real is that I am afraid, and My Real is that I have no idea what’s left when I’m not.

 

I’m done with my shower.  My hair is in a towel, the inside of my ears are still wet.  My clothes are on, my body is tucked safely away inside fabric and darkness, and I have honestly never felt more naked and bare than I do right now.

 

From right now until the fear is gone, I pray.  God, fill what is empty and fix what is broken, because I am so tired of being afraid.  I am tired of running.  I am tired of fighting.

 

Make me enough, just as I am.

 

“It’s not that I’ve already reached the goal or have already completed the course. But I run to win that which Jesus Christ has already won for me.”

 

~ Philippians 3:12 (GW)

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is Erin.  I am 37, a divorced, doing-it-by-myself, single, work-three-jobs-from-home mom of three young kids, and I am absolutely imperfect.  I am a recovered Ana-Mia, a survivor of sexual and physical abuse, and a self-proclaimed overachiever control freak perfectionist (yes, I’m an imperfect perfectionist.  It’s confusing, I know.).  It’s so nice to meet you!

 

My one and only mission is to Forge Depth with my kids, to raise children that suffer not at the hands of others, but instead go forward to change the world with their hope and light.  I have recently launched a website and coaching program for parents, spouses, and women, and I am writing a book on the subject of Depth and love.  Most importantly (and my favorite part!), I amcreating a series of sexual education materials for parents and young children, so that parents may defend the innocence and chastity of their children before the world fights to take those things from them.

 

Thank you for reading, and thank you for allowing me to be part of The Real Project.  To learn more about me and my work, you can find me at http://www.erinlaurvick.com, or on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/erinlaurvick.

(jM note- hasn’t been edited yet- read at your own risk.)

Locking in these moments. When they are little. When the world isn’t pushing in and down and influencing. When there isn’t someone to impress. I am grateful for their lives, and I’m terrified of someone taking what is so beautiful and precious to me and changing them. 

Jesus I trust you. 

I’ve been thinking often about the wolves in sheep clothing. It brings a chill to my spine as I think of what our kids are being exposed to. I want to come in and shield. So much is  available with a tap of a finger. And we accept so much. 

We accept sin. And welcome it. Because we don’t want to offend. We don’t want to point out the wolves or look too “something.” 

And yet, the wolves arrive regardless. 

They don’t care.

And they strike fear into my heart. And I fear for my children. 

I live in a world where moms go to a Movie about a woman being a sex Slave riddled with domestic violence on Valentine’s Day. Wolves or sheep…

I live in a world where cheating is ignored, and people praise the person for finding their true love. When a heart is crushed. And there is always a victim. Wolves or sheep. 

I live in a world where we promote fitness while body shaming. No one is safe. A famous singer has a baby, and is publicy called names by another public personality on Twitter. And we shake our head while we judge the friend who confides they can’t lose weight.  Wolves or Sheep. 

My kids can’t tell people what their Dad does. Because some people look like sheep…but they want to hurt my family. 

Girls set up Social Media accounts and tell other girls to kill themselves. They bully by text. By photo. With Evil words. And parents don’t hold accountability, or teach their children to be good people. Send. Send. Send. Wolves or sheep. 

And I can’t stop it. Because they are there. Wolves among us. 

My children, who I have grown and birthed and held, and loved since their first breath. My children,  who are beautiful and messy, and hopeful and hopefilled. 

And I remember wrapping my hands tightly around their little small palms, and leading them, and now they walk along side of me. And one has a voice that is changing, and who is aware and sees. Who knows kids that use drugs, who knows girls that have been bullied by social media. A man child whose best friend texted him last year he was fat, who doesn’t want people to see him cry. 

And I talk to him about the wolves…”I know Mom.” He says, but I know he doesn’t. Because as the years pass his friends will change, and be pulled into packs. Away from those who have held and loved them. They will renounce things that held value, and take risks that could kill them. 

“I know Mom.” 

But he doesn’t. Because I didn’t know. I didn’t know my best friend would become an alcoholic. Or that someone I love who has children who would become victims to a monster. I didn’t know that my sister would become the victim of domestic violence.  I didn’t know.

I thought every one would want the best for each other. I believed in the best in everyone…

Jesus I trust in You. 

Because I am locking this in. These moments. Because I can’t keep the world out. But I can pray over them as they sleep. As their eyes become heavy, I can pray for protection. I can lead them  to trust their gut, and talk to them, and listen. I can stand unities with their father as we guide and raise, and expect accountability. And I can love. Love them when the mistakes come, when the wolves have slipped past me, and they cry. And hold them, and tell them what I know. 

Which isn’t a whole lot these days, but Somedays just enough. 

Today, I locked those moments in, and saw them carefree and I prayed that their hearts would be completely HIs. That he would take care of my children, his children.

That when the wolves come they won’t choose me, but will choose Him. Who is stronger. Greater. 

And I will be here. 

I will not choose terror or worry,  but will pray  protection and  life over them. A life that holds eternity in the future, and hope in their heart. A life beyond sheep. A life beyond the wolves. A life of love. 

Love locked in. 



Today we are attempting to function with no sleep, attempting to cover up dark circles and messy hair. Attempting to breast feed under hard conditions, attempting to will the clean laundry into drawers, and for it to maybe fold itself. 

We are attempting to get places on time, and function through very very hard real stuff. 

We are running on empty, and it’s only Wednesday. 

We are walking across the pavement, stopped at a stoplight, staring at the ceiling- and waiting to have it all together. To have it figured out. 

Today. 

We are halfway through the week. 

Halfway through the day. 

Halfway through a workout.

Halfway through the term. 

But we are getting there…because someone believes in us. Someone is counting on us. Because we will keep going, even if it’s trial and error- even if we don’t have it just yet…we are that much closer. 

And we may not have it together, and maybe we still can’t find our hair brush, which I can’t…but my daughter has a perfectly good brush for her American Girl doll that I’ve been using–so no matter where you are, you are further than me. 

Happy Wednesday…you’re getting there.