My Joyful Mysteries, and A Revolution of Real

(Bloggers note: this has not been edited yet.  Read at your own risk.)

How do I even begin to do a year in review?  You read my blog.  Now as I look at the time and realize that 2015 is within reach I wonder if a day passing will really make a difference?  I remember I used to think that.

I used to think a lot of things.

I’ve given myself 30 minutes to write this post.  Because I don’t want to dwell, it’s easy for me to go back to the sad dark places, and I don’t have time for that.  I have to work, I need to shower, I’ve got kids at home.

We used to give ourselves themes for the year. For some reason last year was the first year we didn’t.  Maybe we should have.  I think if I could pick a theme it would probably be Suffering.  Because this year I learned a lot about suffering.

Not just me.

I watched People I love suffer.  I saw someone I love, we all love, Suffer and Leave this world.  I watched all of us, left behind, especially those I love suffer as we grieved, and continue to grieve.  Too many had to say goodbye too soon this year.

I saw friends go through marriage issues. And love people who had addictions.  Friends pray and plead for children. So much suffering.  Friends lost parents, best friends, spouses, and there was nothing I could say that could bring comfort.  I watched my Dads heart stop beating, and saw my sisters face as the nurses pushed us out, as they brought him back to life.  Surreal Suffering.

Suddenly, People I didn’t even care for in the past were cast in a different light, because I could see their suffering.  I don’t know if it was the darkness or an awareness that everyone was going through something bigger, harder- harsher.  I would look at the people holding signs on the corner and I would see the lines of years of loss-addiction-and resign on their faces.

Suffering.

I remember my friend April and I said after a long hard 2013 that this year was going to be our year. She has suffered greatly this year.  Just like me.  We have cried together more times than I can count.  Both with completely different lives, and both carrying the weight of a year we didn’t want.

I feel older this year.  Not because I’m achy and losing my hearing, which I am — but because I went to places in my mind and in my heart that I never imagined possible.  The spectrum swung so far in dark and light that I feel like 10 years passed.

We were sick almost every holiday.  Halloween was the ONLY holiday that we weren’t sick.  Most family events were because someone had died or was having surgery.  When it wasn’t, the darkness was so suffocating I couldn’t get ahead of my panic. Me, someone who loves to travel, became terrified of it.

We planned a huge vacation for my birthday and had to cancel it because of a neighborhood issue…an issue far beyond anything we’d ever have thought could have happened. And my heart was broken. And My car broke down. Twice.

Some of my relationships changed. The relationships I never imagined would change.  It was so painful when you realize someone matters more to you, than you do to them.  It was a life lesson I would never wish on anyone.

The media and “friends” made social media and my one kind of vacation a painful experience with the anti police-don’t shoot-they need more training-lets march…blah blah blah.  Not knowing ANYTHING about the dangers my family has faced this year. I stopped looking, signing in, because they had no idea, and would never understand, or even try to.

And the whole, dark night of the soul- darkness. Where no matter what people said, he didn’t show up, the loneliest darkest months of my life.

Yep.  It was a hard year.

And Yet…

The Good did happen. My  husband is a rock star at his job.  He works with rock stars. Even with the critics. Even with the dangers.  And I am so proud of him. Everyday.

My kids grew and changed. As painful as that is, to see them change– to watch even the shape of their faces transform and bodies become lanky, it is beautiful to see the people they are becoming.  We are raising good human beings.  Not perfect. But beautiful individuals.  Who I enjoy being around. And getting to know.

In the past year, the most real true friends, some I’d already had, and some I met, came into my life.  They are the kind of friends you wait your entire life for.  The kind of people that I would admire from afar, and when I got to know them they were a million times more beautiful to know.  Beautiful people, who didn’t care if I was always funny.  Who didn’t need me to be “on” all the time.  Who took me this year with the shadows under my eyes, and still looked at me, and invited me into their lives.

I live in a home that I love and feel safe in.

I held babies. I held my goddaughter.

I learned for the first time in my life to say no.  And that I’m worth being considered.  And while I’m still working on believing and advocating my worthiness, I acknowledge it’s there.

And the dark night, turned into a bright luminous morning. A morning where even though the suffering didn’t cease, I saw hope because I heard God.  I saw his Grace.  Until you’ve walked in the darkness, you can’t even begin to imagine how bright the light is.  And it changes things.

It takes the dark edges and shines light on the things that went right.  Asking for helping. Seeking it.  And learning to live again.  And being grateful for the chance to live.

I’m hoping that’s the theme this year.

Gratefulness.  Because I am grateful to begin again.  I’m grateful for memories, and the chance to make more.

I’m thankful for the chance to see through the fog and above it now.  And see on days like yesterday, when it descends on me, murky and dark, as I waffle between praying and crying but can rise above it.  And while watching it evaporate still takes time but I can move through it.  I am not immobilized by it any longer.  Glory to God.

So here’s to a New Year! Here’s to being grateful!

Here’s to a big Suck it 2014!   I lived. I learned.

We all have a story to tell.  No matter how young or old we are, we have a story.  From the moment we are born, we begin to weave a story.  Thin transulecent, gossamar fine lines, like spider webs begin to unfold and there we are. Creating. Being. Intersecting.  Influencing.  Touching.  Writing our stories.

I was looking at my teenager’s instagram and I saw the letters TBH.  Everything these days has a quick little moniker.  LOL, which is still the most annoying end of a sentence- because I feel that unless you are laughing out loud you shouldn’t write it.  SMH, or shaking my head, which I guess means you whip your hair back and forth.  And TBH, or “To Be Honest.”  Which can pretty much be the best way for people to tell you’re amazing or be insulting because it’s Middle School, and hormones and awkwardness make kids hormonal and awkward.  Such a different world than when I was in Middle School where I would pull the phone cord as far as I could into the laundry room and turn on the dryer so my parents couldn’t hear me waiting for a call, from someone who usually didn’t call.  But I was there- just in case.  Social Media, and the fast paced, Information driven world allows our kids to tell people exactly what they think.  They have become bolder.  And so are we.  I think it’s easier to be inspired. But it’s just as easy to be crushed by the cruel words that someone types.  Everyone is a critic. Everyone has an opinion. Everyone has smoother skin and is craftier.   I even get mean spam comments on my blog…from mean spammers just wanting to be mean.

All of the things I hope to accomplish by being vulnerable and real are tarnished instantly.  As someone who I don’t even know pulls at the strands of my story and my ounce of bravery unravels a little bit.

We have become a Nation where the news is instant, but the “facts” aren’t always the truth.  Where the public mistrust is high, because we’d rather have a scandal than face the facts.  We write, we share, we don’t think about who we are affecting.  But sadly these stories aren’t the stories being weaved, these are electric currents that run and zap.  They damage and hurt. They snap.   And there is horror.  There is real evil.  Against families.  Against Children.  Addiction.  Soul Stealers.

But there is also beauty.  For a long time I couldn’t see the beauty.  Maybe it was the darkness.  Or maybe the fog of last year.  Or maybe it was that I had spent too long letting the words and critics singe and unravel my story.  My family. My truth.

Sometimes the meanest, worst critic, was me. Sometimes I was wound so tight that no one could even see my story because I hid behind the stories of others.   People more important.  People who needed to be tended too.  It was ok, because at that time I was needed.  Sometimes we need to just be there.

And not just sitting next to someone, distracted by our phones and the electric currents that keep our mind active…but the realness of sitting next to someone.  In the silence.  Listening to what they have to say.  Hearing their story.

Not making it about us. But being there for them.  I thought about that recently as I thought what it would be like if People like me asked for people TBH.

To Be Honest…I’m terrified to know what people really think of me…

Because I know what I think about me.

And this world has almost too much honesty for me to bear.

I see myself in the mirror.  I see the too thin skin and veins.  I see my dark stretch marks and the faded tattoo on my hip, I see the long scar from Grace’s C Section.  I’m not perky and my skin isn’t tight.  It sags and is round.  I see the circles under my eyes, and my chipped front tooth.

I don’t need you to tell me I look tired. I know I look tired.

I know I’m not pretty when I laugh. I’m ugly when I cry.  But I still do both.  A lot.

I’m not always patient or kind with my kids.  I have yelled and swore, I have put them to bed some nights and not had them brush their teeth because I’m so tired.  I spend a lot of time second guessing myself especially now as my parenting of children is having to change as we parent a teenager. I was never prepared to have to tell my kids not to tell people what their Dad does, to raise them in a world that views Heros in a negative light.  I want to raise them to love the Lord, to have faith, and there are Sundays where they complain as we get ready for Church and I worry.  Will they know you?  Will they love you? Will their story include You… God of my Heart?  I lay awake at night and see pictures of little round faces, lines of our stories- and memories spinning across the ceiling and my heart aches.  My heart aches because the story is unfolding too fast.  And someday I won’t be able to say sorry for all the times I wasn’t enough.  For any days where they went to bed wondering if I’d loved them enough.

I don’t need to hear the phrase “just you wait” when it gets really bad, because I know I’m in over my head. I always have. Because I’m not good enough for them. I’m not good enough to be the best mom.

See I’m too aware of all the pressures, and those electric zaps that threaten and bring our kids down.  I’m too aware of the pressures to fit in, and almost stay invisible, but to still stand out in a way that’s cool.

We’re not that different these days you know. And yet we still try to point out why we are SO different.

Labels. Prejudice.  Judgement.

I have loved the same boy since I was sixteen, and he knows every inch and curve of my imperfections.  He knows Me, and I worry that someday that won’t be enough.  That my love and passion for him will cover the times I have hurt without thinking, and have spoken without love. I am not easy to live with.  I feel everything deeply. Whether it’s friendship, family, even books I’ve read.  I feel it.  And that can be a lot to deal with every day.   I’m not the best wife.  I mess up a lot.  I want to be better. More.  More honoring.  Less tired.  Better.  I am my husband’s biggest fan, but I can be critical.  I can forget the way he carries our family.  I feel like I should have been stronger last year. I want to take on every critic who has made social media and media in general a land mine and marred how hard he has worked.  He is my best friend and we are a team, but sometimes I’m a pretty crappy team mate. I worry someday he’ll change his mind, about all of this.  Our Story.

I don’t need to hear how I could be a better wife.  I know I should be better.

To Be Honest all the Words that fly across in the face of my family are not needed.  I don’t need to hear your opinion on Police.  Or My God.  Or my body, or my kids. People are so bold…But seem to be forgetting that there are people who are living this life every day with integrity and maybe just maybe you have it wrong.  I don’t need to hear what you think, because my truth and what I see are MY Story.  And sometimes when we are so opinionated we fail to really read between the lines. To read the whole truth. I want justice too, But I also want the Truth.  To see the whole picture. When we write, and we spew, we forget that our electric words can zap and steal.  Hurt that cannot be taken back.

We can’t unsee cruelty.  We can forgive.  But we cannot unsee.

What do we need? What do I need?  We need to close the computer, put down the phone, turn off the electric current that makes our story pulse, and  step away and really look in the mirror.

Who am I?

I am writing my story.  It is long and some pages stick together but I love deeply. Maybe I’m not good enough for my kids or the man that I love, but I love them with my whole being.  I work out five days a week, and am not airbrushed… my body has held and nursed, has carried and loved.  My eyes wrinkle because I laugh, and who needs to look at themselves when they laugh? I don’t, because I love to laugh, and really maybe its not about how I look- but how I live.  I live fully, even on my bad days.

We need people who are present and real.  The critics, the currents that tug and sweep away can never bring the fulfillment human contact can bring.  The connection between two people, where their stories intertwine. We need eachother. We need each other’s Stories. We need to layer our stories and get each other, because we want to.  Because we’re human. Because we can choose to love greatly, and choose to forgive. Because if we look at ourselves should see how we live. How we love.

Our stories are written with each breath.   What a gift to give…

To Love.

Be Present.

Your story is Worth Living.

“One must’ve passed through the tunnel, to understand how dark its blackness is.” -St. Therese the Little Flower

She has never been here before.  She steps out around the crunchy leaves and heads down by a tree where a little creek trickles by.  She can hear the sound of giggling up the hill. She knows those voices.  Her three sons.  The oldest one laughs and giggles in light rhythmic catches and is contagious.  The middle one laughs silently most of the time, and the youngest–his laugh is hearty and full bodied.  They are too far up the hill, but it echos and she knows they are there.  Far but not too far.

She is dragging it behind her.  The rope is tattered, and some of her prayer flags are hanging on by a thread.  They used to be bright.  Now they’re faded. Many are torn.  There are so many, and it’s heavy but she carries them behind her.  She has dropped everything else on the way.  But still can’t seem to drop them.  She will keep them with her even if she is just dragging them.

She remembers when she used to keep them hung from her as a badge of honor.  As a little girl she would stare at the statues on the church and she knew them.  She never doubted God.  She would pray for a life of martyrdom. She would die a death of Glory.  Even as she was bullied in grade school, her hair pulled, yelled at, by little girls in blue uniforms.  She would cry at night, and pray that God would love them better. When she was called a “Dog” after her picture appeared in the paper, she cried, but knew real Beauty was in the sound of her mother playing the piano, in the way her little sister twirled her hair, and in the woman in blue who prayed for her.  The Mother of God, Mary.

She never doubted God’s love.  Not when she didn’t have friends.  Not when friends died.  Not when her heart was broken.  She went and curled up in bed, and found comfort in the only thing that was constant…Her Faith. Her Jesus.

This carried her.  As each year passed more prayers were added.  So many colors, deep and beautiful.  Her favorite was the color of the sky, like a blue robins egg, and it glistened in the sun.  When she was married a white one was added, pure and absolutely beautiful, with each child another prayer flag more beautiful than the next was added and hung from the beautiful strong rope.  The rope was so strong, just like her faith. Even during the heartbreaking prayers.  The prayers of not understanding, the prayers of grief.  She wrapped her prayers for her angel baby in pink, and her prayers brought her hope. Enough hope to add two more, a royal blue and one the color of glitter.

Years passed.  She was strong.  And her prayers were too.  Everyday she walked, them wrapped around her and there he was. Right next to her. Her Jesus.

And then one day he wasn’t.

The sky changed that day.  It was just grey.  She waited for him.  She talked to him.  And it was silent.

It had never been silent before. So she waited. She knew there must be a lesson. She started a woman’s prayer group, and waited.  He was with others, but she didn’t see him.  A month went by.  Then two.

She needed him there.  A loved one was so sick.  She was caring for another loved one.  She had failed at going back to school and felt lost in her own life. Her kids were getting bigger and she felt out of sorts. She was terrified, and she had never been in this place before.  She plead.  Silence.  She sat quiet.  Silence.  And then she noticed the prayer flags weren’t as bright as they used to be, in fact they were really worn.

…More Silence.

She told her husband.  He talked about the desert.  He talked about it being normal, that everyone with great faith goes through this.  But she couldn’t see why she’d had to go through it, right then.  She needed.  She begged. She waited.

Some of the flags were beginning to tear.  It had been a harsh winter.  So much grey.  Some of them were dirty and so thin.  She still wrapped herself in them every morning and carried them through out the day, but they had become heavy.

She didn’t remember them being heavy before.

The loved one passed away.  The other loved one got sicker, and she didn’t know what to do. A parent was ill and had lost everything.  The nights were darker.  She folded up with a sorrow so great she couldn’t remember a time when any new prayer flags were added. It had been so long ago.

There was one weekend, where she saw a glimspe of him. She talked at a retreat and she saw his hand on the women, when she spoke she knew he was blessing her words but as soon as she got in the car, wrapped tightly in the hope that He was back.  But all she saw was desert.  She had never been so alone.

It had been a year since she heard him, next to her.

She became angry.  She stopped wanting to attend Church.  She hadn’t slept in months. Her guilt. Her failures. Her shame in her body and who she had become.  She felt like she didn’t fit anywhere any more.   And the sky had become black. Her prayer flags were torn and faded, and her heart was shattered.

Then a woman disappeared from Portland, and everyone didn’t know where she was.  She was a Mom, a Wife, she was loved. Everyone was concerned, and even more so when they saw why she was gone.  But the darkness had swallowed this woman. And everyone said they couldn’t understand how she could…

But she could, because it was so dark. Because sometimes that seemed easier.  So she made calls.  And she grabbed her prayer flags, tears streaming down her broken face and began to walk.

First steps…telling people she wasn’t ok.  Admitting that the flags had gotten heavy and she needed help.  Her husband came and and helped her carry them and they walked together. Her Mom came and carried them, even HIS Mother was there. They walked behind her talking.  She found out that She had been there the whole time, praying with her Mother. Which made so much sense…the Mom never really leaves.  They stay by, even if in spirit.   For the first time in a while, she felt hope. Everything the Mother of God does points to him…so he couldn’t be far.

Next she found herself at a healing ministry.  Weighted down by the flags, she collapsed in the chair, and cried. For a solid hour.  Went through an entire box of tissues. Cried and Grieved the Silence, the guilt, and left knowing that if others could still hear him she someday would.

After that… She got help.  Some people call it therapy.  For her is was a life line, and after she left the first time the flags were still worn and torn, but they weren’t as heavy.  After her third session she got a diagnosis of PTSD, but she wasn’t scared. She just knew what she needed to beat.

Days went by.  She was getting better. She began to sleep again.  Sometimes she thought about the silence, but most of the time life had filled in the spots and light had began to seep through the cracks.  Sometimes she wondered if she was faking her faith but she realized she believed, even with the silence…she knew the truth.  She read her bible, and prayed with her Children.

And one day…she was driving…five hours North for her Dads third heart surgery in three months, and it happened. She was driving through a valley.  The sun was bright.  She just began to speak- and suddenly He was there. Her Jesus.

And She blinked and she was where she began.  Her prayer flags dragging as her hands clung to the rope.  The leaves crunched under her feet and she could hear the laughter in the distance.  Her boys.  She decided to step into the creek, and her pray flags began to shine brightly. Maybe a little torn, but the color was there, glistening.  She wrapped her prayers tighter around her, and began to follow the laughter. 

As she drove so much talking. Nonstop.  So much to hear. About Strength in brokenness. About Worthiness.  So much to fill all the empty cracks, he left some places broken, but her heart began to fill with a peace that had been missing for a year.  All the dark corners were lit up brightly.

At the top of the hill, was a gate, it was metal and heavy.  Her boys were on the other side but sitting on it was her daughter and she leapt out into her arms…into my arms.  She wore a beautiful glittery dress, and her Dad, My Love pushed open the gate. I spent a year outside of it, waiting to be let back in, but it was never locked.  My flags billowed behind me, shining…and I set my daughter down.  She ran to her brothers who laughed in the light.  I wrapped my prayers around me, and I took my Loves hand and we walked through together.  Towards their lights. And My Jesus.

“Be confidant of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on you to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.” -Phillipians 1’6

And here we are…after my initial tissue emptying prayer session, I went back two months later. This story came to me, and another Person during the healing ministry.  They coincided perfectly, during our own moments of silence.  One thing that stood out for both of us, were these tattered prayer flags…That even in my own blackness, my own dark night of the soul, I still carried my prayers.  I carried them even on the darkest days.  I carried my prayers, your prayers.  I carried them with me.

A few weeks ago I got together with my friend Katherine for lunch.  We hadn’t physically seen each other in almost a year.  Life, different schools, crazy-big-huge things had left us to just exchange sporadic text messages, once in a while emails but our lives didn’t allow any sort of actual contact.  Before we met, she sent me a link for some pre-date reading material…An abc news article about how life is way too short to have crap friends. I read it, we met, and it was lovely.

But yesterday I thought about that article again, as I drove home from Seattle by myself.  And I thought about my own life.  And I thought about my past year. And suddenly a lot of things struck me as important.

When I decided to unveil the Revolution of Real, through prayer and through a lot of thought after looking at the filtered lives we allow people to see and perceive as our truth, I was also struck by fear.  Fear that people wouldn’t like me anymore.  Fear that people would think a myriad of things about me, and would judge me.  But it wasn’t just about me.  It was about all of us, who stand in the wings and watch others do their final performances on stage.  The lighting is perfect.  Their tone is impeccable.  They are flawless.  We don’t see the practice, the fumbling, the real-life them.  We just see the performance.  But we compare, and wish, and think… if only.

If only I was prettier.  If only I was more organized.  If only I was calmer.  If only I was thinner.  If only I was more together. If only I was less sensitive.  If only I was better.  If only my boobs didn’t hang to the floor and my legs were always magically soft and that my hippie deodorant that was supposed to have less additives didn’t make me smell like a hippie.(No offense to hippies) Then…

Then what?  If only you were less real?  If only you were less you?  Because then people wouldn’t know the truth about real.

Real is messy and flawed.  Real is heartbreaking.  Real is beautiful, and not in a photo-shopped way…in a wrinkled around your eyes as you smile way.  Real is revolutionary.

This past year, as God strengthened my Real Friendships, and brought some women into my life who were not only real but beautifully authentic, I learned somethings about myself.

I’m over shallow friendships.  Friends who are only my friend occasionally, who never care enough to check in. Just because you like my FB status does not mean you know anything about my real, or care enough to be my friend.  By the way there is nothing wrong with liking my FB status- it’s just an example that we don’t always know what’s back stage. Friends who always have somewhere better to be.  I’m over small talk.  Unless you’re my grandma, I do not want to talk about the weather.  I’m over the “rest,” the people who burn my friends on social media or in life, or who use the guise of excuses to be passive aggressive and hurtful, and do good only to point out what a good friend they are. I’m over pretending it doesn’t hurt my feelings that you’re too good to be around me anymore.  Because I’m broken.  Because I’m not always funny.  Because I don’t want to hear the words “hang in there.”

I want to publicly apologize if I have ever used the words “Hang in There” to you.  You are not some cute orange kitten hanging with one paw.  “Hang in There” is annoying and discounts every emotion you are going through.  So if I’ve said it, I’m sorry for giving you a pat on the arm and negating your real.

Because if you can’t be real, you can’t allow yourself the grace to get better.  Or you’ll start to think it’s all in your head and if you just pray enough things will go away, but sometimes there are things that are much bigger.  And sometimes you’ve allowed yourself for too long to hang in, but you need more.  And all shallow does is make for a bigger crevice of loneliness..  Because no one wants to hear you.

I asked for prayer a lot this past year. But after a while I forgot how to pray.  I stopped asking God for help, because he hadn’t shown up.  At least I couldn’t see him. But it was because I had turned my back, towards the shallow – because it was easier than the real.  The real friends I had were concerned.  The real showed up, but I didn’t return calls.  The rest they just continued to be narcissists and didn’t notice anything outside of their “goodness.”

Real life.  No filters.

In July I was diagnosed with PTSD.  After months of dark, there was a diagnosis to shed light on the places that had seeped shame and sadness into my life.  I could cry for days and days. I couldn’t remember the past months at all–everything was foggy. I had spent so much time faking it, that I didn’t recognize myself.  But then I saw reality.  And it was scary.  Would I ever get better?  I felt ashamed, because I’m not a hero.  I haven’t lived through anything that warrants this sort of real.  And yet, only those who showed up this year knew what my life was like.  What I saw. What I lived through.  They knew…and they didn’t walk away.

I could have used my PTSD as a crutch.  Like so many people I’ve known in the past who continue to choose the shallow who don’t care, who continue to cling to agony because they don’t know how to live without drama and a cry for attention but do not truly want to get better. Then there are those who inspire me every day…who get up and survive, who live and who are real and don’t rest like a victim. But rise like a survivor.  So I turned, and faced it.  I got up.  One foot in front of the other. One step. And another.  And I asked for help, and prayer. And I turned from the shallow and there He was.

My God had  never left. But I’d turned away.  So I faced him.  And I told him off.  I said everything I had thought about his abandonment of my family this year, or how much he had allowed us to hurt.  And he didn’t move. He could handle it.  So I kept talking.  And he kept being real.  And kept showing up every day as I worked and worked.

And one day I didn’t cry much.  And one day the writing came back and I couldn’t stop my voice.  And another day I laughed so hard as I was writing my blog (the last one) that I remembered I was funny. And I smiled so big I had wrinkles around my eyes, and it was beautiful.  Even when I was real.

And for the first time in a long time I was like me again.  I still have to work hard, so I don’t have time for the shallow, the small talk, and the rest.  And I am grateful for those who have loved me at every point of this past year.

The real me, isn’t living in the if only’s anymore.  It’s freeing and healing.  And what’s more– it’s keeping the real close, and my God even closer.  Because that my friends, is living…

A good friend of mine is set to have her baby any day now.  They have the nursery ready, bags packed, and she is home, on bedrest, awaiting her daughter’s arrival.

She is loved, cherished, and their first child.

I was thinking about my friend, Meredith, today as I was thinking about how 13 years ago, I had my bags packed, the nursery ready for my first child, our loved and cherished son Jonah.

I read books upon books about his birth, and child rearing.  I had ideas – lots of them for how things would be.  This isn’t a post about what I found out after getting home with him, or his birth story…it’s about the Moms I’ve met along the way…

Because Oh the Moms you’ll meet…

The “My Horrible Birth Story” Mom.

I still remember right before Jonah was born I was at a gathering with other people, some of them Moms and one of them started telling me her birth story.  And it wasn’t run of the mill,it was absolutely horrible.  Blood, Vomiting, Husband fainting, Poop…you name it.  Then all of the Sudden their 26 pound baby kicked his way out…And suddenly everyone who is there who I thought would give me some reassurance starts telling every horrible birth story they’ve heard.

I left the gathering with heart burn, and an intense fear of what I was sure was going to be my 18 pound monster who was going to be born with a cigar in hand, chest covered in hair, and the nurse screaming in what I’m sure was a Janice-esque brooklyn accent “Oh MY GAAAWD!”

The “My Perfect Birth Story” Mom.

She begins with having the perfectly small belly and no stretch marks.  She shows you the pictures.  And then she tells you her story.  You are nine-hundred months pregnant, everything is swollen. Even your nose.  You pee constantly and then can’t get off the toilet.  In fact you have asked the doctor if pregnant women ever get catheters in the last trimester for the nighttime. You waddle, and are yelled at daily “Whooooa there, you are PREGNANT!” And then you meet her beautiful baby, and she tells you her story.  Labor started and she went to get a pedicure as she was timing contractions.  Then her husband drove her to the hospital and her contractions were just like little nudges from heaven.  She got to the hospital, and they checked her, and she was already dialated to 10 and so she was able to start pushing.  She pushed twice and the baby came out and everyone was crying.  Because she was SO beautiful. And the baby was pretty cute too.

The “Ala Natural-Birthing” Mom.

Labor and birthing is not a competition. But there’s ALWAYS that person who wants to make it one. She tells you in her disconnected voice about the ethereal birth experience she had, while her partner sang hymns in her ears.  She connected with her goddess spirit and the babies first cry was a battle cry of hope and honor for her not using medicine. And then I wonder if she’s enjoying something herbalish currently when she’s telling me her story… But seriously, My beautiful amazing Mother birthed all of us sans medicine…and has regretted it ever since.  Well, maybe not regreted it, but there’s no reward at the end. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; It doesn’t make you less of a Mom if you have an epidural. Or if you end up having a C Section.  I’ve done it both ways and seriously, bring on the drugs!

The “Nursing Police” Mom

I nursed my kids. I was very blessed to be able to do it.  The operative word being blessed.  I could nurse. Not everyone can. And there is nothing like engorged boobs to bring out the judgementalness in Moms.  I’ve heard of horror stories of people being ridiculed for nursing in public.  And I admit with my first I did nurse in bathroom stalls, and not in public, because he sounded like he was choking…But by the next one I comfortably plopped my boob out everywhere.  Well, I was discreet, and used a hooter-hider, because I am fairly modest…Any hooter (hee hee) I have also watched the horror of judgy moms about women who can’t nurse.  What?  Are you the lactaction police?  Are you the queen of breast milk. Some women just can’t whether its production, or let down, or it’s none of your business! The two SMARTEST people I know… my oldest sister and my husband were not breast fed.  And I have to say they cry at night because of how not bonded they are to their Moms…um no.  They are just fine.

The “Expert” Mom

She has read every book on every subject in the history of the world.  She is smarter then you.  She figured out how to make her breasts perky again just from reading about it.  She knows why your child isn’t sleeping.  She knows why they have diaper rash.  She knows why they cry like that.  And so you read these books. She says things like “No offense but…” You try her methods, and you’re pretty sure your child’s head is going to spin off from crying.  Your child is a week old.  And then you realize…You have a choice – listen to her, because she knows more than you, or figure it out for yourself.  So you promptly kick her ass, and then hold your baby because that’s why he was crying.

The “Well…my baby…” Mom

Her baby slept through the night the first night.  Rolled over when she was only two hours.  Walked earlier than yours. Teethed before yours.  Recited Shakespeare at her first birthday.  The Mom left the hospital wearing the same size she wore before she was pregnant.  Ran two miles to the hospital to have the baby, ran a half marathon the next day in a swimsuit. The baby started running the day she starting walking.  At 18 months she has read the Iliad and understands it.  Oh did I mention her Mom has already had ANOTHER baby in that time and they are also sleeping through the night? And it’s her boy…she hit the baby lottery. And guess what?! He has won America’s Next Top Baby…twice.

The list goes on an on… and they aren’t always Moms.  There’s the friendly parenting advice giver at the grocery store as your toddler throws the queen of tantrums. There’s the person who gives you fertility advice when you’ve been trying for two years.  There’s the gentlemen at the bookstore who will tells you, you actually should be teaching your child to “sign” because you’re not being affective enough as a parent.  There’s the people who gave advice to my friend Kari and me about how our labors should go, how much better a birthing center is, even though we both are bleeders and could die if not in a hospital.  There’s the people who show up, just because you’ve had a baby even though they’ve made no effort to see you in months…though I could be that person, because I love babies, so maybe it’s NOT that person.  There’s the “It was meant to be” A-Hole when you’ve lost a baby who should just be punched in the boob. There’s the Moms who have it all together, as you stand there in clothes that smell like spit up and maybe poop or cheese?   There’s the Moms who expect the village to watch their kids. There’s the people who ask when they find out you’ve adopted, “Are some of them your real children?”  There’s the Moms that everytime you say anything, tell you why their job is harder because they have 12 more kids.  And There’s the Moms that can’t believe you would think of having one more.  There’s the people that judge you if you don’t want to leave your kids with just anyone, or who judge you if still let your daughter crawl in with you at 5…because you’re tired, and she’s just so determined.

And then there’s You.

And then there’s your Baby.

Because inspite of every person who has judged and pushed their opinion on you…you are a Mother.  You are a Mother whether they came from your womb, or were born in your heart.  You are a Mother because when they cry, you are who soothes them. You feed them.  You rock and shush them at night.  You can’t remember a life where your heart wasn’t there resting in your arms as you watch them breathe.  You can remember a time when you slept, but you don’t miss it, well not THAT much.

Because here…they…are. And they are a part of you. And they are a miracle.  An absolute Gift from God.  If you hold a baby, you can’t not see the glory of God.  The glory of a small little human who yawns and squeaks. Who rests so perfectly in your arms.  Who is so helpless without you, and who needs your love.  But before them…you didn’t really know the power of great love.

So here is my only advice…  A mother of four beautiful children on earth, and one cherished angel in heaven… I have so many stories to tell, but the only advice I give is advice that is asked of me except for this:

Love your child.  Trust your instincts.  Ask for help.  Allow yourself to rest. You are already are a Great Mother.

(ps. I’m so very happy for you Meredith and Rob, and I can’t wait to meet Olivia.)

I was 11.

It was my birthday and I was in Montana.  It was freezing cold and right after Christmas, and my Dad took me out on a special date.  He held my hand in the car, after he’d smoked his Malboro cigarette and he told me about the day I was born.  How it was the coldest day of the year, and I came so early.  How I was supposed to be born in February but I decided to come in December. How they were going to name me Ann, but instead settled on Kristin Ann because I was born four days after Christmas.  He also told me that he didn’t have the money to buy me a gift.  That was one of the elements of being a Christmas Baby, money was always so tight and especially around Christmas.

I knew my Dad loved me. I never doubted my parents’ love.  And in those moments I was just so very glad that I had time with just him.  We were going to go walk around the Mall and get an Orange Julius.  My Dad decided to play one dollar on a video lottery game.  I sat on the bench outside the little casino in the Mall, my keds tracing the lines along the tile floor – When my Dad came out beaming.  He had won money, enough to buy dinner for our family, and a gift for me.  Anything I wanted.

I had never been able to “Choose” my present.  I spent so much time looking at them.  I chose what was the most impractical gift out of every gift on the shelves. It was a 3D puzzle, of Disneyland.  A place I’d only seen pictures of, but the puzzle was just as magical. We went to the grocery store, my Dad and Me, “His lucky Charm” the Birthday girl, and we bought dinner, a dinner that I got to choose, with ice cream for my birthday cake.  It was a great day.  Because it was filled with blessings that weren’t expected and I knew that I would never forget that day.  The drive.  The cold.  The winning.  The impractical gift.  And my Dad’s deep voice remembering the day he met me.

I love Birthday’s. They are my favorite.  I love celebrating my kids and making them feel like a million bucks. My friend Renee gave me the idea years ago about the birthday table so we always have our kids wake up to a decorated table just for them with a special breakfast and presents there. It doesn’t take much to make it so special.

On their birthday’s we say “Me Gusta” around the table and shower them with why we love them, and I tell them about when they were born.  I love that at night Grace’s most requested story is the story about when she was born.  She can recite it back to me, and will prompt me if I forget even one detail.  I love each of my kids’ birth stories.  The days they were born were the days where my heart grew sizes and I loved each one with more capacity than I ever knew I could.

I even love my birthday. I don’t dread getting older.  I love having a day dedicated to just being Me.  I can wear sweats all day, and sip coffee. I can take two hours putting on my make up. I can take a nap.  I can work out. That’s the one day I allow myself to not apologize for the laundry not being done, to not feel guilty of all the ways I don’t measure up.  That day I get a pass.

Jonah usually asks for just one thing for his birthday and always wants to make sure he’s not asking for too much.  Daniel puts a lot of thought into it, but usually only wants to spend the day with his Dad who shares his birthday.  Everything else is just icing.  Micah is like me, he spent his entire birthday this year playing Legos.  All day long, and he asked to go to Sonic for lunch. It was a lovely perfect day. And then there’s Grace. For her birthday this year she has requested…A pool, a cell phone, a tv, and a Mermaid Fin. Maybe that’s what I love about birthdays.  The possiblity of anything.  Grace won’t receive any of those things- but I know she will be so excited about whatever she recieves and will be so happy that she gets to have cotton candy…the one day I will let her eat her body weight of it.

But isn’t that the magic of being five? Just wishing for the possiblity of something spectacular?  Just like the day we were born, just letting go of all the uncertainty and accepting the magical gift of that day.  Of something so amazing and miraculous. Something that is so life altering.

It’s like meeting that friend that you’ve been praying to have for years.  It’s the moment when you realize that a huge prayer was answered after days of stress and anxiety.  It’s the day when I looked at my boyfriend of two years and I saw the next 60 years reflected in his eyes.

Maybe that’s why my eleventh birthday was so unforgettable was that I realized that the best sort of surprises are the ones you weren’t expecting.  Even if I had a list as long as my arm of what I’d wanted, nothing could have compared to my 3 D puzzle that for that day was so very magical.

Today, someone posed this question for me…did I think that I was the best thing that has ever happened to my husband? And I paused and I said “I didn’t know.”  I know he is. I know that he is my favorite person in the entire world, and the best thing in my life.  And they followed up with, “Why would you ever doubt that you weren’t the best thing in his?”

Why?

Because of all the ways I don’t measure up.  Because of all the times I feel guilty for just wanting five minutes of quiet. The days I hide in the bathroom, because they are fighting and I don’t want to hear one more, “But SHE…”  Because I can be critical and scattered.  Because I get my feelings hurt too easy. Because I only get one day a year for a pass…To just be me. To not try so hard.  Because anything else would seem selfish. Because this year, my husband, my beloved, has lived his vows so beautifully when I was shattered. And has loved me so completely when I have been so incomplete. And yet…

Today when I was asked this question, I realized what I wanted this year for my birthday.  I want to not doubt.  I want to be ok with just being present right where I am.  I want to not just give myself a day, but every day allow myself a little grace to just be.  These days the good days out weigh the bad.  And that is an absolute gift..  Just like Birthdays which are so special, And every day is a gift. Every single day should have little things that make us realize we are also a gift to this world.  We matter.  We shouldn’t doubt that beautiful things are in store even during the hardest season.  And suddenly we have those little miracles.  When we are tracing the lines on the floor of our year, a year filled with grief or sadness, when the bad days have fogged over the good,  that is when those little glimpses of hope happen.  Those are what we should embrace.  And cling to.

I believe we are given little tables of surprises from a God whose love is constantly showering us every day.  Even when we aren’t enough.  Even when we don’t think we deserve it.

It may seem impractical, but none-the-less it’s absolutely magic.

Because on the coldest day in December, right after Christmas, my story began after 8 months of growing and hearing my parents and siblings voices.  My story which was created by a God who is a God of miracles.  Who brought a teeny tiny girl, to my parents.  A God who was willing to share his birthday week with me, because he knew I’d love birthdays as much as Him. The one who created me, his daughter, who doubted his love for me this year…but once if I was ready to let the uncertainty go and just allow the possiblility of being better to come something happened to my heart. I started looking forward to things again.  I started anticipating life.  I started living.  And it was magical.

There is no doubt that HE loves me. And I deserve to know that Love.

I can’t wait for my birthday this year.  I can’t tell you now whats happening but it’s spectacular.  And there is the possiblity of everything!

I thought about deleting my account completely on FB, but because that’s how I sell Mascara and I do like being able to post photos so my Mother in Law can print them for Granni Great I will keep it for now. But overall I’m going to give it the silent treatment. Not completely though.  I’ll still rave about mascara on my parties, and I’ll still post pictures on instagram and link it to my FB for my family who doesn’t see me every day.  But I think FB and I need to take a break and here’s why…

I don’t feel good after I’m on it.  I just don’t.  I was talking to a friend yesterday and she said the same thing and I realized that was the feeling I’d been having. And then I read an article that talked about why people post things on it. I mean I’m actually writing a blog about this…What? But here I am, feeling like I’m back in Middle School and I am on the outside looking in at all the cool kids.   I don’t know who my real friends are.  I don’t know who is authentic, and it makes me sad because I think if I was myself, always truly myself I wouldn’t be invited to anything, except for some lame game that people play on there about cows who eat candy.

Facebook isn’t really real – you can filter and let your “friends” into all the angles of your life you want to show.  Because my life is a living breathing work in progress, I have formica counters and faded cupboards, laundry everywhere, and never enough toilet paper. I stress out that I can’t give my kids more, and that I spoil Grace. I am horrible at planning meals, and I let my kids eat McDonalds…so far none of our heads have spun. And I don’t know everything, and I still wish I was a better wife.

I don’t like seeing anti police stuff.  I don’t like that even though I can hide something, I still can see articles of police being killed daily, ambushed, and still being attacked by my “friends.”  I refuse to see you share an article that makes Police out to be demons.  This is my family. My life.  I actually read a bi-line by multiple friends that said “Not All police are bad.” There is something horrific about that statement. And I don’t want to read it. Just like I don’t want to see videos of people hurting kids. You can share all you want but for the sake of my family, I choose to avoid it.

For the same reason I don’t like Twitter.  I don’t really like Pinterest (ok I actually totally do, I just don’t get it). And right now I don’t like facebook.  I’m not interesting enough.  I’m not artsy enough. According to FB I’m not enough.  But in real life, my life, I am enough.

I’m sick of dumb opinions that affect others like not vaccinating kids or commenting on other friends’ posts just to be mean. Because it’s not annoying like selfies or backing cars into parking spots, it’s just stupid. I don’t want to discuss Politics. I don’t get joy out of arguments, in fact I hate confrontation.  I don’t want to read the cruel comments people make on news threads, because that is one of the dark parts of social media: blatant bullying.  I don’t want to read about the Kardashians, I want to read about real life heroes like Marcus Littrell and Louis Zamperini.

I work super hard to love myself. And not compare.  And if I’m looking at all the things I will never be…I do.  That’s not good for me.

My kids are super funny, but I’ll only share the parts I feel comfortable sharing on my blog.  People that see us every day and know and love us, get the full meal deal.  I will text pictures and personal notes to my family.  As things change and as my kids grow, I feel the need to shelter them more.  And I want to set a good example for them.  Here’s the truth, I check my FB WAY too much.  And I don’t want them to see that as a norm. I hate hate hate video games for hours, and think it’s weird when adults play them (unless it’s Just Dance or Mario Kart).  So why would I spend all my time doing essentially the same thing?  This summer I really started going back to the basics of life and this was the component I knew would have to change.  And it’s going too. Right Now.

I will continue to write, because it’s my passion and what I am called to. And in giving the silent treatment to FB I will have the time I need to focus on what I’m meant to do.  If there’s anything I’ve learned this past year is that in order to take back my life, I have to do what I’m meant to do…which requires self care.  Writing is self care. Working out is self care.  Loving my children is self care.  Sleep is self care.  Date night is self care.  Diet Dr. Pepper is Self care.  Being with my friends is self care.

And praying is life care.

And for now that’s enough for me…

We used to have two trees in front of our house.  The kids loved to climb them.  Their leaves were beautiful in the fall.  They offered amazing shade in the summer. 

The only problem was as the trees grew tall, the roots started to grow like crazy under the surface.  The sidewalk became warped and lifted high on one side.  Small knots started appearing in our yard. And then the knots and roots started to appear in our neighbors yard.  We could have lived with the sidewalk, and our yard, but when it started to disturb others, and could potentially effect their plumbing we knew we had to do something.  Somewhere a long the way someone tried to remedy the situation, long before we moved in.  There was extra dirt put around the base of the tree, but what grew under the surface wasn’t going away. 

You never know what’s under the surface.  For a long time, before the cement under my feet was broken a part, before I started to see the ground under me become uneven… I had a lot of roots.  Roots that spread from the foundation of my being and became my truth. No one could see them. I could feel them.  Under the surface.  Threatening, menacing this safe little place in my heart.   The place I’d always held Hope.  

So we took out the sidewalk.  We were expecting roots but never anticipated the size and tremendous amount that had grown there.     They went every which way and were tough.  They were entrenched deep in the earth, and the dirt surrounded and protected them. As it should be.  What had started out as a big job, was becoming even bigger as we had to saw and chop and splice into the earth to untangle years of roots. 

My roots were Self Doubt.  Guilt was a huge solid root.  Shame spread out.  Fear and anxiety intertwined.  Self criticalness, low self esteem, low self worth grew like little fingers and held on tight.   Sadness and Despair were the roots that were starting to sprout on the surface.  And they didn’t just effect me.   That’s the worst part about this kind of stuff.  It does impact others.  Everything we go through impacts someone else. 

Don’t ever for a minute think your pain doesn’t influence others. Your life, your choices impact others, even if on the surface they don’t show it.  And don’t think for a minute that people won’t eventually find out what’s under the surface…at church this past week the priest said that sometimes the stones in which we build our foundation become our biggest stumbling blocks…all of those things we put on top to hide those roots don’t stop them.  Eventually it all collapses, if we don’t know what we are standing on.  If we aren’t willing to face what’s under the surface. 

After clearing and spending a small fortune, we had to put in fresh new cement.  It was so white and beautiful.  We placed our hands so they rested in the cement forever.  We placed a St. Michael the Patron Saint of Police and the protector of our families Medal next to our hands.  Everyone’s hand went one way…except for mine.  

My Family.  The thing that as I exposed every root and pain was the what I kept going back to and finding hope in.  Jonah’s changing voice, but still magical little boy laugh and his steadfast faithfulness.  Daniel’s complete and total selflessness, and the way he will always step up to help someone else.   Micah’s hilarious sense of humor, the way he snuggles, and how much he loves home.  Grace’s constant singing, moving, loving presence that is so needed always.  My Dyp who rests his hand on my hip as he sleeps, who tells me I’m beautiful every day, who makes coffee every night so it’s ready the next day.  Stronger than roots, because this is the stuff that sits on the surface of my heart.  When I need hope…I know where to turn.

And I find comfort.  In the little graces God gives.  In the prayers of my Mother. In the fact that there was no line at the Post Office. In the little girl who wanted me to hold her today, and leaned on me. That we survived the first day of school. In my friends.  Little graces that remind me that last year I said Yes, to what God had in store. Even though I was left exposed.  But I believe I’m getting closer to the answer…Last week as I argued in prayer, why should I talk to women, write for Mothers and Daughters? Why call me, the one with the roots?  The one who is so exposed?  And there it was…Because you get it.  I get the broken.  I get the tired.  I get the thirsty.  I get the roots. And today I see hope.  

The trees are gone.  We don’t have shade anymore, but we have bright light.  Things are out in the open.  The sky is clear above me and I know that all this working hard at life is starting to work.  

Because I’m still here.