Until death do us part

I wrote this post years ago...and just signed in to my blog for the first time in years.
I am going to post this tonight, because tonight is the night that I begin to write again.
*********************

I woke up this morning and tried to remember a dream I had. I know my mother was in it, and I was plagued by some meaning it may have had...
I wore a black and white skirt.
I had a ham and swiss sandwich for lunch with a V8...didn't get to my banana.

Then I was divorced. Three 'o clock PM, Tuesday, January 14, 2014.
Just like that; but, not really.
And there. I said it.
I. Am. Divorced.

Divorce is like death: it is difficult to wrap your senses around. As the living we don't know what death is--not really. We don't know what it feels like, what it sounds like when it comes...and less than one second later the breath will leave the living and they are dead.
Just like that; but, not really.

Divorce is difficult for the senses to elite on...it is difficult to explain...it is difficult to understand.
It is difficult to live through.
I am not going to write, tonight, about what happened. None of that really matters, now, does it?

Tonight I take a breath for the first time in a long time (I told you it was difficult to understand), and I want to acknowledge a life, a marriage, and some of the beauty that lied therein.

Marriage is beautiful. It is the very stamp, the very thumbprint of God himself. I believe in marriage as a mirrored image of God's glory, his love, his very self. I will tell my children this, when it is appropriate, and I will tell them that I fought for mine with everything I had, and everything I didn't.
I will tell them that being married takes two people.

I will tell them that the day I signed my divorce papers I took note of their father and I's signatures side-by-side, like on our wedding certificate. State of Hawaii.
I was alone with my dad in the hotel room before I walked down the aisle, alone with him in the hallway at my attorney's office years later when the separation began, and then-just-alone in his office signing my name to divorce. Today.

I will tell my children that I came home and took my black and white skirt off, and looked at the place on the shelf where a wedding picture used to be, and that I prayed for them. Again.

...and in no particular order...
I will tell them about Ebba, the stone fish, the fish tank, about the half eaten graham cracker in the couch bed at the hospital, the Alpine slide, framed wildflowers, potted lilies, the lily box, the flower box, the cigar box.
I will tell them about fresh white paint, Memorial Day, and fishing.
I will tell them about the turtle.
I will tell them about broken luggage, hot chocolate, wine, my wedding ring, and the Christmas lights...the two hour wait for Santa...Disneyworld,

I will tell them the truth.
God is love; and, love is real.

He makes the crooked places straight.
He is a God of order.
He does not pervert justice.
He takes up the case of the oppressed.
His eye is on the sparrow.
He never left us.
He never forgot his promises.
He answered my every prayer, every plea...and even when I forgot, God never did.

9/12/2008-01/14/14
Here lies my failures, my success, my hope, my grief, my loneliness, my companionship, my grievances, my hypocrisy, my sin...and I leave it all to you, Lord.

I am walking away from this grave.

Ode to Joy (Lessons from 2013)

2013 has taught me more than any other year of living. Well, perhaps that is not true, it just stuck this time around...

I have learned that beautiful-sweet things begin with dirt, in dirt; flowers, people, pineapples...all began in dirt. Life will bloom towards the direction of the light, and any un-kept garden with warrior weeds will not live, but die.

Children are like flowers: they need light, and fresh air to thrive.
I am children.

There is a Comfort that cannot be squelched, a Refuge, a Strength that cannot be shaken by any storm. Comfort cannot be recognized without upheaval and without upheaval there is no need to seek a refuge. A need for strength cannot be recognized without first admitting gaping, impossible needs, struggles and weakness.
Grace does not exist without failures. Thank you, God, for my failures, my weaknesses, my painful awareness of my hypocrisy, for it is only by these things I have learned your grace.

Against all odds, life will resurface. LIFE cannot be buried, burnt, beaten out or down...because, you see, LIFE conquered the grave in the resurrection of Jesus...the LIFE I have.

The whispered, repeated name of Jesus is the only thing to help a child sleep, some nights.

I have come to believe that I am the righteous; not because I actually am, but because God says so through sentences spilled on a cross with blood red ink. His promises are for me. I can take Him at His word.

Life can be simple. Always. I'm serious about that. No matter the complications and brokenness, living is made simple by this: love the Lord your God with all of your heart, with all of your mind, and with all of your strength.
Seeking God's face to the point of exhaustion is not possible. It cannot come to that, as there is too much life there, and too much living to be healed in His presence...

Jesus never corrected anyone and left them without their dignity (unless their hearts were already hard, like the Pharisees). His ways of correction do not condemn, but restore.

I have learned that Jesus trusted the veracity of the testimony of his resurrection to women, and what that means...and how it changes my life.

Praying is a love language. Music is a love language. The moon is a love letter.

I have learned how to keep myself from crying...finally. And I have learned to weep. I have learned there is a worship in silent-grieving sobs, with no breath between, in broken hallelujahs. What else would one bellow once delivered?

I have learned the joy in moments of "firsts" with my children, and the sorrow in the "last" moments...that I miss every day. The last time my daughter needed help standing came and went without me. The last moment my son needed help turning the sink on...I missed these and so much more. I have learned that I love my children with a fierce love, and it is no longer motivated by guilt, but gratitude.

I have learned what a broken heart is when I drop them off at daycare. I learn this every-single-day.
I have learned the joy in holding them again at the end of the day, when I am exhausted, and the ability I have to give more when I have nothing left to give. I learn this every-single-day.

It is never the time to kick a man, but especially when he is already down.

Meekness is power under control.

God is the Author of my faith. It is HE who began a GOOD work in me, and it is HIM who will see it to completion.

I can cease my striving, and know that He. Is. God.
He. Is. Good.
He Is I AM.

I have learned that building a house on the sand will only always lead to a great fall. A home that's fallen reaches many hearts. It breaks them all. Breaks them. But God can fix and heal those wounded much more so than I ever could. I just need to obey His prompts...and build on the Rock.

He has the whole world in His hands.

I have learned to let go. I am learning what selfless love is, what it feels like, and how painful it can be; and, how wonderful it is to see someone bloom, grow and heal...even if you can't be a part of it.

I have learned to hang on. To hold on. To wait, and to go.

Pride destroys.
Burdens can be lifted.
Of self-righteous sinners, I am truly the worst.
Tithe.
The only things guaranteed to me are God's love and salvation.
I have learned what being a good friend is (because of the incredible friends in my life), and that family is a room you can just sit in...and be...whatever you ARE.

I have learned salt preserves, melts ice, dissolves concrete, flavors and causes a body to retain water. I have come to believe that maybe, just maybe, I am the salt of the earth.

My treasure is truly where my heart is. My heart is truly where my treasure is. My living does not lie about what my treasure is, and sometimes this mortifies me.

God knows.
God is not mad at me.

God prunes the dead vines away, so that they no longer steal life and nutrients from going to the fruit.

His sheep know His voice.

I fear only that which can take my soul and keep me from living life in the Spirit. The truest thing I want...is peace.

I will win the battles I am intended to win; and, that is not all of them.

The memories of my wedding day will always be sweet to me; and, that's as it should be. The stories of grace strewn throughout my marriage will always be sweet to me; and that's as it should be.

I am not the rain maker.

Don't step in; step back.

God has woken the mourning up in me...and with it- comes the MORNING. Tomorrow. New Year. New Life.
...and every day is that way...we compose an Ode to Joy, or to something else.

I choose joy.

What If God Allows More Than We Can Handle?

1 Corinthians 10:13
"No temptation has seized you except what is common to man. And God is faithful.; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it."

I can't tell you how many times I have heard: "God will never give you more than you can handle."
What wonderful encouragement! What a true, spoken word, from a heart that longs to offer comfort in to a, somewhat, hopeless-looking situation. There is sincere warmth and sympathy in these offerings from others. I have said those words 9,456 times myself. But what if we are wrong about that? What if God does allow more in our lives than we can handle? Look at the verse again:

"...he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear."

The statement "God will not give you more than you can handle," comes from this verse found in 1 Corinthians; but, I do not believe it is entirely applicable in the way I have heard it (and have used it) before.

The verse does not say, "God will not give you more than you can handle," (in terms of heartache, burdens, loss, disappointments) which is the context most people offer these terms of endearment within.
Lose a job? "God will not give you more than you can handle."
Lose a spouse? "God will not give you more than you can handle."
You get the idea.

But, if God will never allow more in to my life than I can handle, then why do I need God?

I'll tell you why: because the verse clearly says he will not allow us to be tempted beyond what we can bear, but when we are (not if), HE will provide the way out. I need him because I will have too much to handle on my own; and, when I am tempted to believe I can, or cannot, do it, I need him. He will be my way home again. He will be perspective. He will be the way out when I am tempted to believe I "have been given too much to handle."

When I am tempted to believe that I have been given more than I can handle, Truth offers the way out by saying, "You can you can do all things, because I am your strength."
Philippians 4:13

When I think I have been given too much to handle, I am tempted to believe I will be flooded and consumed by heartache. Truth offers the way out by saying, "Yes, the floods are coming. The fire is hot. But, I will protect you. I have redeemed you. I have summoned you by name. You. Are. Mine."
Isaiah 43: 1b-2

When I am emotionally driven, my heart condemns and deceives me. I am tempted to follow my heart. Truth offers the way out by saying, "Don't follow your heart. Your heart doesn't know the way. I do."
1 John 3:20

When I fear that admitting pain will leave me undone, I am tempted to rationalize my way through profound grief. Truth offers the way out by saying, "Grieve. I consider your grief and take it in hand. You sow in tears, but you will reap in joy."
Psalm 10:14;  Psalm 126:5

When I think I have been given too much to handle, I am tempted to believe I am defeated. Truth offers a way out by saying, "I have overcome the world in which these trials exist. And you are more than a conqueror. You ARE hard pressed on every side, perplexed, and struck down; but, you are NOT crushed, not in despair, not abandoned, and not destroyed."
John 16:33; Romans 8:37; 2 Corinthians 4:8-9

When I want to make my own way out, I am tempted to rely on my understanding to evade crooked paths; my understanding that is limited and feeble. Truth offers a way out by saying, "Your understanding is not the thing that will make your paths straight."
Proverbs 3:5-6

Being tempted to believe we've been given more than we can handle is an intimate invitation that reads:
"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."
Matthew 11:28

There's a space

this is my story and i still don't think it's mine to tell. i don't understand that yet. so i will unwrap it in grammatically incorrect and cryptic pieces. vulnerably, tearfully. i will tell it someday. not today.

there is a space where people used to be...
in my wedding dress. at the kitchen table. on the porch. there is space in the garage. in the closet. the chair by the front door.

in my bed. in my children's beds--this weekend.

i notice my son's whale shark on the rack in the basement. been looking for that for 8 months. wet boot tracks again on the floor. snow is coming. snow is here.

the table i ate at when i was a child with my mother. just my mother and i. and now i will eat there with my children. just my children and i. it's dirty and chipped.

it's home.

a light bulb bursts in the bathroom. one of four lit. porch light out. again. where are my grandfather's screwdrivers? this luggage isn't even mine. graduation gifts used on the honeymoon.

i wasn't wrong for believing.

hours behind a screen of choice. like someone was listening. i think that's all that mattered those nights, was if someone was listening. i'm sorry for every time it wasn't me. and i would also say thank you, but it would come out wrong.

cold baths and the fear of being alone when i wasn't alone. and i knew it. i could feel something that night like there was an uninvited guest in my home. and there was.

rehearsed pleas in may. cries to God in june. recorded cinderella prayers in july. the hope of august. flood in september like dead bees on the beach the day we got married. october winds against oaks to shape them. the oasis of november came in the desert. where else?

there's just a sadness that comes, sometimes.
the breath will leave and i cannot even cry about it. any. more.

but in the bones of this home, there remains the breath of God.
the hope of winter passing will never leave me.

december came as promised. the space is here, where people should be.

This is Love

I am reminded of valuable truths after spending a night with some of the best friends God ever made:

A quiet house, before your guests arrive, is the perfect time to sit and be alone. And do nothing. Do nothing with a glass of wine in your hand and candles lit and music playing. And keep doing nothing.

Some of us can cook. Some of us can't. Take D for example...she will have us over with fresh bread and homemade cheesecake and say, "Oh, let me move my sewing machine out of the bathroom." Apparently the (truly incredible) super woman also sews while she...? brushes her teeth? (I love you, Priest.)

Me, on the other hand, well, I will offer starburst (fresh from the bag, don't judge), and say, "Um. I think there was a chip around here somewhere. Oh. There it is. Under your chair. Go for it, girl. It's all yours." (Just kidding. I buy cheese and crackers. And starbursts.)

This. Is. Me. This. Is. Them. This. Is. Us.

It's amazing to have friends that understand the darkest places of your life mean that you are being delivered in to the light. They understand that your house is spotless, clean, with everything in it's place. And they understand that your mess of an office is symbolic of the corner of your heart where you also stuff things, while you keep the rest of you cleaned up.

A new mom next to mothers of 2 or 3 children, still calling themselves new moms, because moms understand we will never arrive. We can just share supplement treasure secrets and stories of things others may find no beauty in.

Sharing stories of middle of the night walks in the halls with crying babes and laughing about the things you were crying about 24 hours ago. Laughing, in fact, until you are crying again.

You understand the power of trust with friends like these. You understand the veracity in a true spoken word; the right word.

You understand why the caged black bird sings.

Talking about selling a house you carried your babies home to for the first time...and that housed the fights. Hearing about the houses just bought...and the mothers that come inside.

Sharing stories about dead fish, and the only God that is alive.

And when these friends leave your house and you blow the candles out...it makes you realize, as you watch the flame dissolve, that all fire needs oxygen to burn.

Idolatry

I've recently taken on the task of asking God to remove my idols. Why, you ask? I had no idea, either... at first. As I began to undergo the renovation (a.k.a. demolition) of the throne of my heart, I came to realize God is truly a jealous God. I see that his jealousy is one born of love, wanting what is already his: my heart, my soul, my mind.

As defined by the 1828 Noah Webster's Dictionary (go buy one tomorrow), an idol is: an image, form or representation...consecrated as an object of worship; a pagan deity; a person loved and honored to adoration. Anything on which we set our affections; that to which we indulge an excessive and sinful attachment. An idol is any thing that usurps the place of God in the hearts of his rational creatures. A representation.

An idol is anything that becomes falsely bigger than God, and that takes His place. Being a "rational creature," naturally, I read on...

Rational: Having reason or the faculty of reasoning; endowed with reason; opposed to absurd; agreeable to reason; acting in conformity to reason, as a rational man. It is to our glory and happiness to have a rational nature.

It is irrational to have idols. It is, in fact, absurd.
An idol is a counterfeit to the real thing. The craziest (and I mean that literally) thing about all of this, is that we seek freedom in our idols; and, they leave us as perpetual prisoners. They are greedy. They are never full. They are never done consuming our lives. Why, then, is it so easy to replace the truth of God for a lie? (Romans 1:25) Fools do that...absurd, crazy, irrational fools.

We are deceived by the counterfeit; by an impostor.
(Last one...maybe...)
Impostor: One who imposes on others; a person who assumes character for the purpose of deception; a deceiver under false character.

I can draw the conclusion that an idol's purpose is deception. That's a big deal. Jesus came into the world to testify to the truth (John 18:33-38). Do you have any idea how profound that is? Let me say that again: Jesus came into the world to testify to the truth.

So, what are my idols? I didn't get enough sleep last night to talk about all of them. But, I will mention one very close-to-home idol of mine. It sits comfortably on the throne of my heart. It fits nicely into my need for control (they feed each other, actually, isn't that cute). It thinks me back awake and keeps me happily selfish (and justified, of course). It never leaves me. It masquerades itself as a reason to "pray, and seek the Lord." It's what I have to fall back on when I-don't-want-to-wait-anymore-Lord. When I can soothe it, I feel better. I like feeling better.

Fear.

It's a small word. That's part of it's disguise, I think. It's an impostor. It's a counterfeit to having faith. Fear will make you pray. Faith will make you pray. Fear will keep you awake trying to reason your way out of this out of this out of this out of this. Faith will make a way. Fear, like anything, will grow if it's fed. Faith, like anything, will grow if it's fed.

"For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love and of self-discipline." (2 Timothy 1:7)
The Greek word for Spirit used here is pneuma. The Biblical usage of this word includes: the Holy Spirit, it is used to emphasize his work and power, life giving spirit. That's the Spirit at work in us. That's the Spirit we were given. We were not given the spirit of fear (we are just given over to it). We were given a spirit of power (dynamis) meaning: ability, power consisting in or resting upon armies. We were given the spirit of Love Himself. We were given the spirit of self-discipline (sōphronismos) meaning: "a calling to the soundness of mind." The Spirit of the only living God, the only Living God, should have His truthful place on the throne of my heart, my soul, my mind.

At the beginning, I thought it crazy to be asking God to remove my idols (when having them, at all, was the crazy part). It is no request for the faint of heart. What I came to realize is, that in His grace, apparently, I am not the faint of heart, the absurd, the timid, or the weak.

And neither are you.

 

Perspective

(A letter from the perspective of the One who sees all. When I started this post I began a list of the verses that referenced these names; but I decided that was not the point.)

Baby,

There are lions in your town. There are ashes all around; but, you can believe that the Phoenix exists.
Why do you fear and fret?
When you feel you are spinning, rejoice. It is then that you are being shaped as My vessel. Your cracks allow my light to shine through you.
You have forgotten that My holes made you whole.
I AM El-Roi, the God who sees. I know you angry sideways clumsy sad disjointed joyful alone quiet.
Some days your heart is full like summer and fog; and, others it is cold like nights and gas station wallpaper. You see?
I see.

I AM...

Advocate
Abba
Almighty
Alpha
Ancient of Days
Author of life
Author of your faith
Adonai

Beginning
Branch
Bread of life

Comforter
Consolation of Israel
Consuming fire
Cornerstone
Counselor
Creator
Cloud by day
Close to the brokenhearted
Conqueror

Deliverer
Desired of all nations
Defender

Eternal God
Everlasting Father
Elohim

Faithful
Foundation
Friend
Fire by night

Good Shepherd
Gentle

Heir of all things
Hope
Horn of salvation
Healer

I AM
Immanuel

Jesus
Jehovah-Rapha, your healer
Jehovah- Nissi, your banner
Jehovah-Jireh, your provider
Jehovah-Rohi, the Lord who is present
Joy
Just

King of kings
King of the ages
King eternal

Lamb of God
Lion of Judah
Life
Light of the world
Lily of your valley
Living water
Lord of all
Lord of glory
Lord of hosts--I Am
Love

Master
Meaning of Life
Merciful God
Mighty God
Messiah

New life

Omega
Omnipotent
Omnipresent
Omniscient

Potter
Prince of peace

Redeemer
Refiner's fire
Resurrection
Rock
Root of David
Rose of Sharon

Savior
Servant
Son of God
Son of David
Source
Shield

Teacher
Truth
Trinity

Unchanging
Understanding
Unity

Victorious
Vine of life

(the)Way
(the)Word

Yahweh

I AM a zealous God.

And you, baby?
You Are Mine.

A Letter for My Children: 9 August 2013

10.06pm
I cannot find a word to begin.
I actually hunted through my 1828 Noah Webster's Dictionary in an attempt to help me start somewhere.
Anywhere.
I suppose this is a letter of sorts; perhaps, a prayer; a praise...

Beloved,

I love you.
I love you tirelessly. I have only begun to know the true endurance and the true grit and stamina required of sacrifice. I have only begun to understand the joy found in the deep love as a mother, the relief in throat thumping prayers at 2am...the true peace found in surrender. I have only begun to experience the true love and faithfulness of God. I have come to believe that only God can understand the true sacrifice that comes with a deep and true love for your child. So, you see, my love for you--you cannot know, and God's love for us is even more unfathomable.

When you arrive in the deserts of life, and you will arrive, be still and know that God is with you. I pray, for you, that you always recognize His presence and that you come to desire it. There is no darkness or loneliness that can come upon you that he will not speak into. He will call your name. You will have His pillar of fire by night to lead and warm you, and as a cloud to cover you by day. You will again be lead to the oasis in the place of scorching heat that seems to consume all of life. Believe that Life and Living Water are not dependent on our location. Life giving water for the deserts of our souls comes from God alone. His giving is not dependent on our location; His giving is dependent on his grace. Ask, and you will receive.

When people judge you, and they will, be still and know that God is with you. Listen to what they have to say, for wisdom is birthed from correction. You must know to sift their words lovingly with the help of your Creator, who made you and knows the number of hairs on your head. Take heart and be courageous, beloved...if the words spoken are true, persevere in the refiner's fire. He will not abandon you in the flame. He will restore your frame and your bones will be made strong. If their judgment is harsh, untrue and God confirms this, dismiss them in love. Pray for them until you no longer feel the sting of their false accusations. God knows the truth. He is the truth. Do not fear man; fear God.

When you go through the valley, and you will, be still and know that God is with you. Lift your eyes to the hills, where your help comes from. You will not find the way through the valley, where you remain in the shadow, without the light of his Word to lead you. His Word is a lamp for your feet, and a light for your path. The valley offers a time of level paths for your feet. You will climb the mountain, one step at a time...tomorrow. But, today, while in the valley, find rest for your soul. There can be no shadow cast where there is no light nearby. God will walk with you in the valleys. You are not alone.

When you forget the way to go, and you will, be still and know that God is with you. He will never leave nor forsake you. You may not know what step you need to take next, and you may spend your sorrows on wishing for tomorrow (or yesterday), but your direction given will be sufficient for today. God has not misplaced the way. He is the Way. Just drop anchor, seek his face with all of your strength, and believe he will ensure your safe arrival as he has intended for you.

When darkness covers you with fear, and it will, be still and know that God is with you. No weapon formed against you will prosper. Your Father in heaven will protect and defend you. At His name alone, your foes must surrender.

When wars rage in secret and no one else knows of them, and they will rage, be still and know that God is with you. There will be a time for peace, and at times to keep the peace you will need a sword. Make your sword the Word of the Living God, not the words of an angry tongue, the actions of a vindictive heart, or the thoughts of an arrogant mind.

If you question who is going to sustain you in your weariness, be still and know "I AM."

I love you endlessly,
Mommy


(The inspiration for this post came from the fierce love I have for my children, seeing life in the valley firsthand, and a very simple song that carries me.)

The Milk Jug Heart Jesus

Some things hurt so deeply that you feel as though someone broke into your chest and gulped your heart and wedged it into a milk jug. You have people in your life that will never understand that pain, the reasons why it runs so deep, and they may even cast judgment on you because you deal with it in ways that they deem unfit. And when you are standing on your figurative porch, holding your milk jug heart in the cold, cold sun...you can either hold it in a jug and know they are wrong; or, you can realize maybe God allowed it to be removed because he wants your heart in your hands for awhile. Better yet, perhaps he wants your heart in his hands...

God has taught me the most gripping love in my times of pain and adversity. Hear me- he does not want pain for our lives; but he will use it. I have had the honor, very recently, to have been fairly wounded by one very close to me. (You cannot be wounded by those you do not love or those that do not love you. This is the blessing of betrayal.) These wounds meant levels of emotional betrayal in dark hours taking on a new meaning. I gained a new awareness of losing trust, and a sense of injustice in the entire situation left me reeling.

Our hearts are literally protected beneath our rib cage. I have heard many a wounded person talk about "protecting their heart." I have faced the temptation of protecting and guarding my heart in the wrong way by actually deciding I would keep it to myself, never to be free again. Protection and Prison are both a cage in their own right, but they are not the same thing.

We do become the same shape as the prison that holds us. If pain is our prison, we are allowing ourselves to a life with no joy. If anger is our prison, we are allowing ourselves to a life with no mercy. This list could be long; but, the bottom line is that we easily blame others or God (or our idea of him) for our prisons when we chose them for ourselves. If our prison is our rib cage- then no one gets in; but, we won't get out, either. If my heart remains in my chest, I have wasted the ability and God given gift to feel. I have wasted the honor to live and be hurt, and be healed, and be loved, and be a survivor of loving.

If I keep my heart in my hands, I can too easily drop it, or make it in to a paper Valentine and send it off on a paper raft into a paper ocean.

But if I am willing to let my heart be pulpy in my life circumstance and ripped out, and then take it in my milk jug, and intentionally give it to a friend that can help carry the weight, He will make the burden light. If I take my suffering heart to someone who knows suffering, too, He will fill it with a passion for caring for orphans and widows, knowing that the best thing you can do to feel better is to help others. In the hands of a skilled surgeon, He will stitch the hole in my heart that my betrayers gashed (and he will lovingly leave the scar to remind me that He stitched the wound). He will pick my heart up off of the sandy ground and make one grain in to a pearl. He will take the empty page and make it in to a new song. He will meet my heart, at the heat of the day, at the well...and will ask for the empty milk jug so he can fill it, instead, with Living Water.

This is what Jesus does with milk jug hearts...but only if we chose to hand our hearts over...

So? What's your prison and what or Who will set you free?

I mostly get this all wrong...too.

(This post is not to say that fathers do not experience the things mentioned, from a mother's perspective, in this post. It is also not to look down upon any woman who works outside of the home. I respect any person who takes on the task of raising and/or providing for a child. One of my dearest friends is pursuing her dream for and because of her children.)

Bedtime stories are as much a part of the day ending as is the guilt of a mother. I don't say that as a victim, as though the choice to care for my children every day was something that happened to me. No. It was a choice.

The way I saw it was that I could invest in to the next 60 years of my life and make that quite comfortable, to be honest...or I could invest in to eternity by choosing to be the one to have the largest influence on my babes in their formative years. I felt like a hero when I was pregnant with my first and realized I had made that choice to stay home. Man, was I vain. I still thought that raising a child was about me in some way.
Women have 10 months to realize they are...mothers. (9 months is a strange lie, and I'm not sure why more people haven't caught on. 40 weeks is 10 months, yo'.) It's a strange transition. Motherhood is a jangly waltz, if you will. And if you feel like you are getting it all wrong...good for you! You are officially a mommy!

So, if you understand the guilt I am talking about as stay-at-home parent--or are questioning if you want to be one--here is my $8.26 on the matter. (One last disclosure: this post is mostly written to help me figure out what I am thinking and, possibly, to pacify my ego. You've been warned.) My poor attempt at narrowing this down is in the following 3 areas:

1. Life Lessons...
What do my kids see when I am angry? Sad? Stressed? Rushed? This is how they learn. I will not shield them from human emotion. I want to teach them how to navigate through it.

I cry in front of my kids. "It's ok to be sad. We still do our chores."

I apologize when I am wrong. "I'm sorry I was loud when you were upset."

I pray in front of them. "Dear God, help mommy to be patient."

I talk to myself. A lot.

I personally think there are three ways we teach our children:
1) By example
2) By example
3) By example
It's ok to screw up. Their lives will be full of mistakes. We can't avoid making mistakes. (Accidents are given their name for a reason.) Our children's mistakes are not all our fault. Enjoy that for a minute. Our job is to teach them how to live with excellence, a moral compass, and self-control. Teach them how to intentionally live life with generous dignity, and you change a generation.

2. When my best is not good enough.
Perfectionist, anyone? Me, too. People tell me, until they are blue in the face, "Just do your best." What do I do when I know my best was only half what I think my best is?
Look.
How arrogant do we really have to be to assume that the sky falling will or will not be our fault? In other words, is the world so fragile that I am in more control of it than my God? No. Get a grip. Take a breath. Repeat. Then...you do your best.

Wake up when it's time to wake up. Read a book when it's time to read a book. Brush your teeth together. Look at the amazing stick when it's presented. And be amazed. Count everything you can. Don't try to make yesterday--today. I have days where I can get up at 5, exercise, read my Bible, shower and have breakfast made (OK, this happened once, I think) by 8--and others where if my 2 year old sleeps until 8 I crawl in to bed with him and sleep. Until 8. Life is reading the moments and living them. Make a routine- and keep a schedule; just don't freak out if it beginss at a different time each morning. (This, of course, depends on the age of your kids, if they are in school, etc...) Wake up, eat, play. Start at 7, 7:20, or 7:56. You are not perfect. You are excellent.

3. Should I go back to work?
(Reminder of previous disclosure, for some women, yes. This is you. There is not one correct mold. I am not judging.)
Most days I think I focus on catching the "firsts." But, I miss the lasts. If I am doing the dishes I will say, "No I cannot hold you." (And, kids need to hear that sometimes the answer is no.)

But what if tomorrow you don't ask me to hold you? What if all of a sudden tomorrow is the day you are a kid, and not a baby, and you don't want me to hold you? What day was it that you no longer needed me to help you walk? What day was it that you could hold a cup on your own? How do we parents balance all of this? I mean, a dirty kitchen makes me very crazy inside...so...

We use our judgement. We have them help with the dishes (bonus--use it while we can). Basically, what I mean is, we let our toddlers think they are helping with the dishes and we clean the mess afterwards.

For me, personally,  I wonder every single day if I am squelching my kids. Do you really think we can live our entire lives this way? Wondering what we did right or wrong? Now, I get it. Do your best.

For me, when it came to daycare, I had to ask myself how I would feel if I picked my baby up in a different outfit and I didn't know the story. Was it play-doh? The spaghetti at lunch? Did you get hurt? And it broke my heart to know that I wouldn't know the story behind a new outfit.

I get this wrong every day, and I go to sleep knowing that I get to try again tomorrow. Somewhere inside I think...if I do nothing else right today or tomorrow, they're gonna' know that I love them to the bones.

Facebook Fast

I realize not everyone may be living in the dark ages, by choice, as I do much of the time. I have long preferred a long hand letter (complete with a wax seal), record player, typewriter and paper journals to their counterparts. With that said, I love the Internet and still do not have a land line, currently. I aim for a balance and an act of moderation in our home (including my own time spent online). To be honest, I don't fall on the purest side of the equation but I also don't have any idea how to sync my iPhone. The side of me that tends to fall more on the conservative side of technology has some thoughts on the matter...

I wonder if my young child could (god forbid) call 911 on my cell should the need arise.
I have thought about his little brain--little hands next to the big satellite while he talks or plays on my phone (which totals, maybe 30 minutes per week).

Will my children call me when they are in their later 20's-early 30's? Tweens and teens?
Will my children know how to express emotions other than via emoticons? ;)
Will my children understand privacy? That strangers are dangerous, even behind a screen?
Will my children be isolated via the web? Will they be too busy creating their online selves that they no longer take honest moral inventories on who they really are?
Will my children know that life is not composed of abbrv's or life in a phrase?
You get the idea.

The world is changing. I am trying to keep up.
Technology is great. It teaches our children, and, in moderation and within safe and proper contexts, I think that is a fabulous thing. It even saves lives.
I have long wondered, however, if the Internet, and other tools of technology, have the potential of killing life.

I took a Facebook sabbatical. I deactivated my account for less than a month. I am not even sure if my absence counts as such. Try it. Deactivate your Facebook. I dare you.
Just-point-click-close. Why not? I don't know. But you do...

It is my conviction that the Internet has the potential to create a very dangerous, very false sense of community. Whatever your vice may be, whatever your choice of interaction, reaction, action or relationship...the Internet is two dimensional at best. What we are doing"with" each other--we are actually doing without each other.

Communication is made up of 7% verbal (in this case written) and 93% nonverbal body language.
Now, words are my life. I understand that not all people share the passion of the true sentence, the true word... simply put, I read the 1828 edition of the Noah Webster's Dictionary when I can't sleep.
Words matter. I get it, I really do. But words,  I finally resolve, are-not-everything. Words, alone, are not life. Words are not the living. Words are 7%, and I want my children to grow with the knowledge that talking is not just words. I want them to know that true communication is listening, watching, and being present.

According to CNN, better than 90% of kids under the age of two have an online history. By age 5, more than 50% regularly use a device to access the Internet.

Research that studies how the Internet changes life is still in it's early stages, but it shows that regular Internet usage changes the way our brains work. I repeat, frequent use of the Internet shows (both for adults and children) a change in the way our brains function. In some children, this change in brain function, has been linked to: limited attention spans, lower comprehension, poor focus, greater risk for depression, and a diminished long-term memory.
If I am honest with myself, I have probably experienced the same list mentioned above.

Yes, I have a life. And I really do. But I felt left out once I deactivated my Facebook account. I even felt alone at times when I would have--otherwise--been scrolling through the news feed or checking information on group pages. (Don't judge me until you take me up on my dare.) I had to, had to ask myself-who-are-my-friends? BTW (pun intended) you know who you are. I could count on two hands who my friends are in this last 3 weeks but I have hundreds on Facebook.

Have we forgotten what defines friendship on some level? Do we send Valentine's to our mothers?  Even email is antiquated these days. I just real life lol. Email is antiquated.

You know what makes me really real life lol? "Facebook security."
Have you googled yourself? Your name that "safely" hovers over your child's pictures, even in a tagged post? LOL. LOL. LOL. Google yourself. It opened my eyes as I read the town in which I live, my parent's names, husband's name, his sister's name and where she lives (and has lived). The real kicker was when I googled her name and got information about her husband's family, sister, brother-in-law...
LOL.
It took 5 clicks to get to my husband's brother's wife's mother's information. And she lives in another state--along with her son and his wife...
For a small monthly fee you could have someone's credit history. Facebook security?
L-O-friggin' ELLLLL.

Who a person is, who a person has always been, is who they are behind closed doors. Who a person is, who a person has always been, is not who they are in Facebook phrases. We see each other in glimpses like passing on the street. I am honest with the things I say in updates (even though cryptic, at times), but what do you know (or care) if I am lying?

I do trust the people in my friends list. Ones that I may not be in regular contact with are still good people. I am not afraid that everyone who did not call me in the last few weeks are the boogey man.  But honestly, it may be more accurately stated to say (with many of my 'friends') that I trusted them when I knew them in waking life. But who are they now? The truth is that I have not even so much as run in to many of them in the last 10 years, but I have given them an open window in to my life.
Then. I. Am. Awake.

It is no secret that the media dictates and sets the pace for fashions, trends, even mascara. I may not be one to care about jeans, bags or Ulta...but I am, by choice, a victim of commercialism in many other ways. This post is not to judge anyone who has an intimate affair with life via satellite or a love for Coach. But, is it possible that the bar has now been raised and our ways of communication directed by the waves of the man-in-the-moon himself? Will we all fade in to a background via updates?

Don't get me wrong...I like Facebook. I will continue to use it. I even tweet (lol--ok, I'm done now).

But I have to ask myself if this use of the Internet has dictated what I once would never have dreamed of sharing behind my cloak. Has the Internet encouraged me to share what I wear behind my glasses with--the world? And all because it's "safe?"
For example, sharing pictures of my kids (which I recently stopped posting), thoughts of mine on many things...this blog...
The Internet made me brave, I suppose you could say. Isn't that sad and wonderful? The Internet is it's own cloak. Who are you reading this? I don't know, but you know me. Getting the picture?

According to several news sites (but I have only noted one in the bibliography of this post, since it was so prevalent) the world spends  per day per day per day PER DAY on Facebook... 10.5 billion minutes. This average did not include time spent on phones. This is also according to the company of Facebook's IPO filing (10.5 billion minutes) per day.

Now, that seems silly to me. I live in a small town, in a relatively small house, with two small children. So let's make this small. (Like I said, wonder with words, eh?)
Let's just say someone were to spend 5 minutes at a time on Facebook to scroll the news feed, reply to a message, re-read a comment (you know you have) or check for 'likes' (don't even lie).
Let's say that they did this simple thing, for 5 minutes, 10 times in a 24 hour time period. Let's say, they did this 7 days a week, for 4 weeks. That's 1,400 minutes a month.
That-is-twenty-three point three (23.3) hours of life, on average a month, that that person will spend on Facebook.
Some of us "conservative" Internet users may, on average, per month, spend near one day of life on Facebook. Fakebook?

Now point-click-close-and go call your mother.

********************************************************************************

Laird, Sam. "Is Social Media Destroying Real-World Relationships? [INFOGRAPHIC]." Mashable June 14, 2012. 16 December 2012 <http://mashable.com>.

Clinton, Chelsea, Steyer, James P. "Is the Internet hurting Children?" CNN Opinion 21 May 2012. 16 December 2012 <http://www.cnn.com>.

30 Something Prose

30 Something was a show on television I remember my mother watching when I was young...and she was 30 something. She is now 50 something, and I find myself nearing the 30's.
I keep hearing nothing but wonderful things about 30 something.
 Please, don't judge the lack of grammar or correct punctuation, the lack of order in thought or the emotional canvass. I am not trying to impress, which is, in part, a part of the 30's, I hear.

Ironically the only time I have never been self-conscious in a bathing suit was this past summer. I had an almost two-year-old boy and was 8 months pregnant. And for the first time, I really didn't give a hoot about the cover-up. That day was about playing in the pool and being stained by the sun...finally.

For many reasons, the last few months have had my head swimming with the most haunting question, perhaps, that all humans face in their lifetime: "What if?"

I have thought about my childhood friendships and all that they taught me. Becky, on Lafayette, well bless her heart. I taught her how to climb a tree only to leave her there once the street lights came on; and, she was still my friend the next day. I thought about my dog. It made me cry, actually, when I realized he had probably died years and years ago. Our brains rationalize, don't they? Why wouldn't I, at the mature age of almost 30, have realized my dog probably died?

 I believe that God let that dog live through being hit by a truck, eating a bag of poison so his blood became so thick it wouldn't even move through his body, and getting stung by an entire wasps nest. I repeat, he lived. And back to my believing...well, I believe that God let that dog live because he was the only thing constant about my childhood. My dog. My dog was, in the end, the only thing that stayed the same...until my parents got rid of him when I was in middle school, which, made sense. Anyway, he died. It made me sad to almost 30 something realize that death is a part of everyone's life.
Maybe that's it. Maybe it's the realization that I am not immortal. Well, I am, but not in the physical sense. I think the realization, the deep-down knowing that I, too, will die, like so many close to me have...well, it makes you wonder what the heck you are doing today.

I know it's just a birthday. I know it's a wonderful birthday. I don't know why, I guess, this one seems like the first, and possibly, the only birthday that should really count for something.

I want my children to know what God taught me in my generation and those that went before them. I want to know why the world is going paperless; and, I want to know why I have a growing passion to remain the woman with a wax seal on my longhand letters, record player and tobacco pipe. I want my children to know that there is one-true-God and that believing that will offend many people. I want them to know that it was not their mother that said so, but rather, Jesus Christ himself.
I want my children to know what their great-grandparents were like, the America they fought for,  and the importance of living diligently and sober minded. I want my children to know the importance of working hard and sleeping hard...sometimes with sand on your feet if you get the chance. In fact, sleep with sand on your feet every chance you get.
I don't know...but 30 something feels like a new life both in a daunting and a glorious way.
Perhaps you can relate...

It feels like a crowded street in a rain storm, the way my mind has  been reeling the last few weeks. It's as though you recognize every face and recall every story attached to them...but in the end, you can see the aerial view of black umbrellas and you want to be the red one...

Amidst 30 black umbrellas, you want to be the red.
I hope that I am the red umbrella.

I Believe

I find it sad and profound that the Christian army is the only army that shoots it's own wounded. If I could recall the genius behind the genius in that concept I would attribute their genius.

I find it ironic that in the age of tolerance, I have seen and witnessed much adversity as a believer in Jesus Christ. I am not simply talking about my own personal life, but also amongst peers. My belief has become one that is-not-tolerated in many social circles. I have spent years trying to escape confrontation, in the hope of never offending someone.  Yes, there have been times when I have had a knot in my throat that I could not swallow--and I would speak God's truths. Those times have been somewhat spontaneous...like vomit, actually.

Today, I was reminded that I was promised adversity as a Christian. I do not speak as a martyr, victim or senseless wander lust woman who finally found something that makes me feel safe. I do not speak as one with a gun ready to shoot any who come in to my camp...Christian or otherwise. I really just want to tell you something.

I understand how the notion of a man, who proclaimed to be God's son, and a people who gather and eat crackers and drink grape juice each week in remembrance of a horrific murder...it's friggin' weird. It really is. It's confusing.
Dare I begin to get in to the historical (not the Biblical) man of Jesus?
No.
Not tonight.

I do have a case to prove, but I hope, and hope for all who believe in the saving grace of God through Jesus, that our proof will be in our lives. I hope our proof is in the imperfections of our lives. Grace does not exist without struggle.

I smoke occasionally at nap time. I like TOOL, NIN, and Perfect Circle.
I have had sex out of wedlock. A lot of sex (which I am not glorifying...it broke my heart and made me wish I knew who I was).

And you know what? I have had some really horrible people do some really, really horrible things in my life that changed me.

I have spit in the face of a man that was not even a mirror of an actual man after I beat him. I gave him a sign, my sign, my sins for him to carry on his cross to his death. I gave him my sign to carry and post as a crime he never committed...
"Liar. Cheat. Adulteress. Drunk."
And then I watched him suffocate to death. And then I walked away and stayed silent holding a sign that read, "Truthful witness. Honorable friend. Virgin. Renewed. Redeemed."
And as I glanced back, I saw his sign had changed and read the wrongs of every horrible person and every horrible thing they had ever done...to me.
The horrible men that abused a little girl. The horrible men that abused an adolescent. The horrible man that stole my virginity...
and many other crimes that I can't stomach telling anyone, especially via blog.
Or maybe, not ever.


Now, I realize "another Christian telling how much they love Jesus" may not be the new approach, or the one to create curiosity in a heart; so, I will attempt another...

Let's start at the beginning. God made the world. God made the world in a specific order. Now, I know this is the beginning of controversy, and I, having no left brain, may not be the best person to answer your carbon dating questions. What I do know, is that everything, ever-y-thing has a design. If anyone brought to you a watch would you assume it fashioned itself? We recognize design. Why is that?
I am unable to, perhaps, ask or answer the left brain questions...but let me ask you something...
do you understand the complexity of bacteria flagellum?
God gave the world order. Accidents don't organize themselves. Everything had, has, will have an order because the very world you are living in was stamped with the thumbprint of a Creator--a just Creator. He adores his creation. He adores me. He adores you.

Why did Jesus come in to the world? To testify to the truth (John 18:33-38). What was on trial?
Truth.

To my knowledge, no other man has ever said to me, "You don't have to do anything but believe that I am going to die for you, so you don't have to die. And then, you're saved." Seem too good to be true? If you answer yes to that question, then, perhaps you should wonder if you have been deceived. Perhaps you can ponder if you were the reason Jesus came to testify-to-the-truth.
So, if truth was on trial, it was naturally offering a fight against lies.

The fact that Jesus stood trial fought against lies held in our world-views, our home-views, our social-views...our views on justice.
Carl Sagan (Humanist of the year, 1981) said, "Our future depends on how we understand the cosmos, we will follow the truth no matter where it leads."
I have yet to find a scientific theory that began with a  hypothesis, followed by a theory, and finally ended in a law that ended with, "the only conclusion that 'it' all came from somewhere,but we don't know where," where that theory was, in fact, attributed to God. In other words..."follow the truth wherever it leads"...unless it leads to God.
If our universe was really a random chaos, what would be the need to study it? We study it's amazing design.
In my limited understanding of left brain workings, if the data does not match the "law," you then change your hypothesis--and start over.

Mt. Rushmore was not random.
Yet DNA was somehow random? How long did it take for us to evolve so that our brains would get the message we had been cut, so that our blood would clot, so that we would not bleed to death? How did humanity survive, at all, during this time?
Again, I truly have no left brain and boast NOT of any knowledge in this area...I am taking something for it's skin and bones (truly).

In The Life and Letters of Charles Darwin, Darwin wrote letters that he could not be anything but sick when he encountered small details; ie: the peacock feather.

Just the structure of an Amoeba has enough detail to fill over 1,000 Encyclopedia Britannicas.
Now, truly, I back away because I am no source for Molecular Biology, or the fossil record. What my right brain tells me, however, is that any theory lacking evidence simply becomes it's own theory, supported, then, by it's lack of evidence.
I should shut up, because this is really not my strength.
Let me, now, move to more of my right brain (where I will have spelling errors, and ironically, is much shorter).

Let's say you wanted to convince someone, more than anything else you have ever wanted, that you loved them. What would you do to show that love, to prove that love? Anything, correct?
Now, I am not talking about God's love- I am talking about the notion of an enemy that DOES do everything to block us from the TRUTH of a God, Yahweh, the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob.

What would he stop short of in an attempt to deceive you?

Hypocritical Christians is too easy (and widely used).
Ugly hearted Christians (of which I AM one)?
Economic collapse?
Rape?
Incest?
Murder?
Losing your job? Family?
How about all of those starving kids (thank you, Francis Chan for reminding me that while I am asking God 'why are so many people starving,' God is asking me that question).
Storms? War?

You see a just God does not violate his own laws in which he created the world to run. He does not become a puppet master forcing us to follow and obey.
While he does voluntarily limit himself so we are able to experience his presence in this broken world, he does not stop his order...because he is just.

(Parts of this blog have been inspired by 'The Truth Project' and the very wonderful Del Tackett. I wish he was my grandpa.)

chicken scratch--literally

If I'm being honest, and you always should when you write, I am best at prose, these days. Chicken scratch. And writing on photographs. I'll show you if you ask. It's like painting. Well, no, it is painting. It's using words to paint a picture. No, it's using a picture to paint your words...
I realize some people actually want to know how to write. Well, I won't spend your time or mine on grammar or punctuation...but it does matter. Anyway, you-just-write-and-don't care. You will find something in yourself when you do that and it will surprise you what you were thinking.
nostalgia
perplexed? don't fall through
the ice-
i only said hello
i slept in a canopy of howls
and marked the way back
with pieces of bread
crumbs

...and then you can shape it later, if you want to shape it later...

This-is prose. I think it's horrible that Ginsberg had a thing for boys in his basement, and I can't say I stand for all of 'Howl' but it's brilliant. Always been one of my favorites. Read it. Read America. William Carlos Williams- another one. His short stories make me want to write and make sense of something. He will make you want to write like dancing.
I wrote "I miss you" in the sky with a flashlight- from the base of "somewhere over the rainbow" listening to bon iver and thinking about trains. you would understand, i think. and in another life, you may appreciate that. but I don't believe in other lives...just this one.

Main st smells like a big city if you catch it by a donut shop, someone smoking, coffee in hand and the sound of a bus. the city is everywhere. the whole rest of the world is an inch- ONE INCH from the tip of my nose. my porch. the whole-world.
it seems strange to feel trapped when you think of it that way.

i live in a town where I can say i took my dress to francis st and everyone know I am talking about the cleaners.

each step of the walking waking world would make the most incredible song...the-most-incredible song. I don't find myself in a new pair of shoes like some people I know. I don't think it's bad that they do, in fact I am jealous, probably. perhaps I am the dullard. it's like you see your whole life broken in to pieces when you need the big picture, like a daunting landscape of years and vacations and pictures that tell a story you wish you were a part of. i am not the den mother. I am not the voice of reason in the thriller. am i?

sang in my head the entire time was bumpy
i think it rained yesterday
was windy and I was
numb

i told my sister I would write about what I would tell the 17 year old me. surprisingly, i have only a few things for now...if it's possible to even attempt that novel, here is the beginning, I suppose:

play basketball this year. you will still want to kick box in 10 years, and you can--then.

keep playing-the-piano.  sing more. sing. sing. sing. don't stop singing your freshman year of college. sing. it wakes your soul up. don't forget that, it will change you temporarily if you forget that.

don't get in the car with 'X'.

don't fall for something later just because it's a really good story. you will realize, all too late, that's all it was--a really good story.  and the irony of your life will be that you are the only one who won't buy it.

prose.

Battleship

Healing from a battle wound is like standing on the shore.  There are times the pain calmly laps over your feet and never once does it hinder your ability to walk-to STOMP- all over and inside of it.  Then, as the tide rises, it seems to surprise as it swallows you. Covers your head.  No up from down.  And you are left in a cloud of sand that hides your predators, and you are left with burning, aching lungs.  The more you fight this, the less energy you have to fight...this.

While I write from the edges of my heart on this blog, I keep some things cryptic on purpose.  Although written to a phantom audience, even some of those ghosts have no business knowing.
Writing heals, and it can also wound.  You can easily write yourself in circles until you feel--and welcome--familiar warm arms of apathy to enclose you.  In these arms you believe the lie that you have no strength to fight. And you stop.

It's tricky, though.

Once you are consumed in that tidal wave, be it fear or sadness, you incur less injury by being limp.  Your predators may leave if they think you already dead.  So, how is one to know what to do?

I believe, with all of my heart, that a person's mouth will be their undoing.  Words matter matter matter. So, as I write this I'm faced with a choice: do I write about the tide, all be it true, or do I write about the calm with will come?
I will choose the latter.

To follow a dream you must know it exists or you will find yourself chasing the wind. I believe my husband's dream exists. I believe in my dream. My dream is family.
Family is institution. Family is diversity within unity. Family is love. Family is God's heart.

Strong families make a strong nation. I have never fought a war of nations, but I am a soldier. Sometimes, ladies, we need to be silent. When you look at your husband in the eyes like a deer in the headlights, when your inside voice is screaming and beating words up your throat, when your burning lungs in that tidal wave have just enough air to push your very heart past your tongue...we just need to be silent and search our hearts.  This makes us soldiers.

This use of 'soldier' is not to be mistaken for being a martyr, as some wives are King of (play on words intentional). It's easy to mutter beneath our breath as we do the dishes, as we pick up clothes (am I the only one who knows where the hamper is?). Or as we submit.  I have learned that submission does NOT mean going placidly in the night as pirates devour my gold. This word encompasses a battle of fighting pirates within OURSELVES- and takes incredible force and endurance.  And some nights our battle is to walk the halls alone, again, at 2 am, holding our crying babes.
But you see...this is my life.  It is no one's job but mine to choose joy in my life.

Some would say that being joyful and trusting God through these tidal waves makes for a controlled and boring life.  Still, others ask, "Isn't it a crutch?"
Believing and trusting in the Living God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob is the craziest adventure of...well...my life.  Boring? Not even for a minute.
Is it also a crutch? Absolutely. And I welcome these limp legs in this wave because then there is rescue. And I need that 'crutch' that is my God because I cannot do this alone.

Can you?

Don't you ever just feel like you just-can't-do-it?

I have a choice in this tidal wave, and I choose to ride these waves with generous dignity.  When I can't fight, the Lord God of Israel will fight for me and I need only to be still. And this makes me a soldier.
My battles will be fought and won and great will be my children's peace.

a young 80 something

I saw my Uncle Johnny tonight.  The last time I saw him was at my Great Uncle Pocco's funeral. The last time I had seen my Uncle Pocco was at Christmas that year. Pueblo.
Pocco (Presley) and I watched football talking about the team that year. We never talked about how he was dying. We never talked about how we was going to die. We hugged goodbye like it was an Easter dinner years past when everyone we both knew and loved was still alive. We hugged like we will see each other again. At Easter.
That's how everyone in the Casack family says goodbye...like we will see each other again. And we will.

I was richly blessed and was adopted in 2nd grade by the man my mother married. I was adopted by my father- the only father ever meant to be mine.
And his family is my family. Of course they are.
But there is something about my mother's family that feels more like home. I don't know how to say it without possibly hurting feelings, which is not my intention. I just mean... I understand something about Pueblo and watering the lawn from my grandfather's porch that no one else could ever understand.

The time in between trips to Pueblo is enough to fill a lifetime, it seems. Time I lived there as a child of a single mother and every weekend until I was 7 and my mom married. Every Friday picked up from school. Every weekend stories and soda in bed with grandma and strawberry grass stains on my knees.
Most of this won't make sense to anyone. I don't care. Most of this won't be grammatically correct. I don't care.
I just have to have somewhere to put what flooded me tonight before it disappears. like i think i will disappear once my grandmother dies. like i think every memory that ever mattered to write down before i had children will disappear once my sweet grams dies and how i never visit her at her nursing home even now that she is here in longmont, finally, and why don't you go see her, ashley rose? why won't you go see rosemary which the flower means remembrance which is more than ironic and lovely and horribly sad because she can't keep her eyes open long enough to even recognize a voice and why can't i go see her?
why can't i go see you? why can't you remember, grams?
it's me. it's pale flower. it's me. you would remember me.
and sometimes i think you are the only one that would. that would really remember me.
i used to tear pages of my journals out and hand them to people in case i died. to be remembered.
feeding you strawberry sundaes, watching your hands shake on the table like you are blowing on a candle like you are whistling...
and it's like our lives are polaroid pictures that sat in an album in the sun and now they are garish orange colors bled all together making some sort of collage of what...was the picture. what was an anniversary. a song. life.

i used to drive for hours just to help you brush your teeth and tuck you in once your life became an 8X10 room with one box of frames and drive back with a pack of cigarettes and smoke every-single-one singing at the top of my heart from the bottom of my lungs like you could hear me and like i was helping you sleep
and i wanted to see you poke your sweet fingers through the blinds again from your mobile home and wave goodbye because you knew i was leaving and because you knew i would see you again and you would see me.

at easter.

aunt margie's laugh you always thought every person checking you out at the grocery store was upset with you the time you had to put the apples back because you didn't have enough money the time you lost your car and walked for hours in the parking lot when you first started to forget the story about the turpentine and how i laughed the moth in the kitchen and grandpa's green robe on the back of the bathroom door the wall of mirrors the room that scared me the crack in the sidewalk were i tripped at the twins' house every time i chased your car down the street when you and grandpa dropped me off back home the steel mill marking the drive home. my mom gave me the rocker and wanted it back to refinish. and it broke my heart.
the pictures riddled on aunt lou's wall with generations of life crawling in to grandpa's lap at age 15--minutes before he walked himself out of his house to go die he knew he would die at that hospital and so did i and i felt his tears in my hair as he held me.
i felt his tears in my hair. no more russian easters. why don't we have russian easter's grams? I can bring the basket and honey...you can bring the host and parsley. and i want to see you at that table. God, i want to see my family at easter.

the dream you had after both of your sons had died. tony and steve. drunk drivers. the way you told the story of the police coming to your door. again. the sirens. the way you knew.
the blocks of bikers around the church that day. grandpa in court giving that man freedom "ruining his life won't bring my son's back."

tony's life after his daddy was killed. prison. kids. drugs. sobriety. i love that brother cousin of mine.
when you drove around the block listening to "the hollies- he ain't heavy" and cried and asked me to be quiet and how i understand that funeral song after i can't tell you anymore. alan parson's project "time."

the gold leaf ring. the ruby ring. the plastic ring. the gap you have in your teeth. me too.
taking you to the bathroom. the role reversal in our lovely relationship...helping you put your shoes on. and tie them.

the morning of grandpa's funeral. you cried because you sat on your glasses. i cried because i got red lipstick on my white dress.

i miss you. grandma I miss you. i miss my family. i miss my family. i miss you.
you would have so much to say to me in this season of my life.  i know you would. you knew something all along that we never knew...
and i can't ask you anymore.
and you are sleeping blocks away from me.
blocks!!!! and i have not seen you since your birthday LAST march. Cards i have bought for you...stupid, cheesy, FAKE cards are in my desk drawer like a crime.
"don't bring me flowers when I am dead."

when were you last outside, rosebud?
when did you last see a tree? a squirrel? i killed one the other day. hit it with my car. i sobbed. man, i hate it when i kill animals.
called you from pay phones growing up. had a dime in my shoe every day for passing period.
i miss your voice. i miss talking to grandpa.
when he died i set my alarm for 15 minutes.
15 minutes.
and i wept. i crawled in to a ball and rocked on my floor and muddled ungodly tones in to my fists and pillow. and then my alarm went off. and i stopped crying.
how do you deal with one of your dads dying?
i could ask you. but i can't.

the music and how "Jesus knew what he was doing to create something so beautiful as that." the scorpion in the sliding glass door. I Love Lucy. Golden Girls. squeeze its. cherries.
fighting with tony at grandpa's feet when he made us play under the dining room table as a reminder...he was there.
when he walked out of his house the last time a moth flew in. and he looked at me and told me i would have to get them myself now. mass. funerals.
the shadow of the fan as it whirled over that statue of mary the last time you could go to mass.
the time you told the woman she looked like a man because you didn't know you were saying that.
the way you still would ask if you get me anything...when you could not go to the bathroom yourself...you just didn't know.
the brown glass always filled with water at grandpa's spot. the way his eyebrows raised when he opened the mail. cigar smoke.
nadia's theme for your 25th.
you hid the chocolate in your underwear drawer. and the alka-seltzer. pushing the veins on your hands. baths in the sink. cyrus.

i learned how to be an adult as a child.
i have a bed time. i have to go to bed. i have two kids these days.

i love you.
pale flower

Hope is having confident expectation

I don't know the ways of God. Deep down I am thankful for this. I can't explain the many mysteries of His ways, His will, His timing- but I know He is good. He is always, only good.

The day my daughter was born 2 1/2 weeks early on July 5, we waited in triage to have our procedure done in the OR. We waited as the OB was attending to an emergency. I laughed with my husband about my labor pains probably being some bad fish I ate. I realized I had not eaten all day...not the bad fish, after all.
I thought about the bathrooms still unclean at my house- the fear of the needles about to enter my spine (that did lend to an actual panic attack and me passing out- which, I am already laughing about), and a lot of other thoughts about feeling like I was abandoning my son to have this baby. I felt like I was leaving Isaac behind, like I was left behind...and I was terrified that he could possibly feel that way. I wasn't ready- but I wanted to be. But I wasn't.

Isaac, you are mommy's color red.

Little did I know, until the next day, July 6 that the emergency the OB was attending to was that of a 9 months along pregnant woman (most of you have probably heard this story in the last week and all of the horrible ins and outs)...she had been hit by a drunk driver. Her baby died.

Her baby died and minutes later Hope was born.
And I had been crying about a needle in my spine. I had been a cry baby. I had missed my chance to be thankful and instead I passed out. God doesn't hate me for this, of course, but it made me realize...what ARE you freaking out about, Ashley Rose?

My heart sank to the bottom of my lungs over that story about that little baby and his mother, Heather. Heather, I don't know you but I am praying with grit for you.

Hope, asleep beside me now, has filled my world with pink and glitter and has reminded me of God's mercy. Oh, the great depths of the mercy of my God! I have been given a daughter. A daughter. The healing this has already brought to my life- to see this little girl, blameless, wonderful and precious in every way...God is healing my heart through the birth of a little girl. Maybe, just maybe- I don't have to do anything for him to just love my pink- for him to just love me. I am learning new depths of this concept much lately. Maybe I am blameless in his sight...

Little One- oh my lil Miss Hope,
I will teach you that crying is good. The true meekness of the female heart has been at war with some notion of feminism for years, and I will teach you that you ARE created to be sensitive. That is a beautiful, wonderful thing. If anything outside of the Spirit of God calls your heart to be a warrior- you get the hell away from it, do you hear me?
Be hurt, however. Fight when and where you must. But know this, stay soft or you will disappear.

Be gracious. Remember that where there is no struggle there is no grace. Show mercy. Walk humbly.
Remember it is not good to have zeal without knowledge, nor to be hasty and miss the way.

Remember there are different types of clay. Some, in order to be molded by the potters hand, must be left to dry and harden some before it can be shaped in to the vessel. Some, as your mother is this type, needs to be sifted and rid of the stones and sticks, left to dry, broken again, and sifted...again. Allow yourself to be molded accordingly in each season of your life.

Know your Shepherd's voice. A good Shepherd will eventually break the leg of a wander lust sheep; but, this is out of love in order that he may carry the sheep to where it needs to go. Our Shepherd would leave 99 to find 1. To find you. You belong to the One True God, Hope- and the plans He has for your life will not be thwarted. I believe this and I will not fear for you. I will pray for you with passion and I will trust God.

I will do my very best to protect you from every kind of evil.
I will let you be young.
I will play with dolls with you or G.I. Joe's- whatever your choice...and I will teach you that there is magic in lemon juice on paper. Trust me.
I will teach you that you are precious and honored in God's sight as his daughter. That you have a purpose that has been long preordained for only you.
I will not self loathe myself or my body in front of the mirror anymore. You are wonderfully and fearfully made and you must know this and reject the lies of anything that tells you what your 'size' should be. I will fight this battle for you and along side you from now on, little girl. Those wolves won't get to you if your mommy has anything to say about it.
I will teach you that keeping guard over your heart does not mean keeping your heart in prison. Love with wisdom.
Know that men are good. Do not fall for the lie that "men are pigs." Even in the animal kingdom, lil Miss, they are the ones that add all color. Do not put men down or make children out of them. Allow a man to be a man and in this only will you ever be satisfied as a woman. Sometimes it will hurt and anger you beyond words or even limits...but you will know you did the right thing when you once again bloom. And you will bloom again.

Do not wear too much blush. Actually, do not wear blush at all. Pinch your cheeks. True beauty is found deep within your soul, Hope. Every choice you make and every shade of color or words you wear comes from deep within your very soul. Ask yourself what those things say about you when you see yourself in the mirror and hear yourself speaking.

Dress modestly. Being classy is not old fashioned, it's classic.
Speak gently but firmly.
Know that God is greater than your heart when your heart condemns you.
Know that your emotions are not your governing power. We were created as women with emotions to protect us, not to dominate us.
Sweet, girl- let a man open the door for you. It's not about "you being able to do things for yourself." It's about you being about to do it for yourself being the point of letting someone else do it for you.
Know that the season to sew is not also the season to reap. Know when to rest and when to wake up.

Trust your intuition. Always, always ALWAYS trust your intuition.

I don't know how to tell you the ways my heart explodes with joy over your ON TIME arrival. Hope, you were born during a storm (quite literally, too, in Colorado's worst fire season ever).  You were born in several types of storms actually, and I may just tell you about those some day if they will benefit you.  Sometimes the only choice we are given, Hope, is if we will ride out the storms in life with generous dignity or not. You bring to me reminders every day of the confident expectation of what beauty lies ahead.
I love you.
Hope, you are mommy's color pink. I didn't know I had a color pink until I met you. I am eternally grateful to you for that.

Up North

I spent some time up north, let's say, for awhile several years ago- as in close to a decade ago. It was there that I learned how to throw the stones that were burdens of mine, in the literal sense. I highly recommend doing this. I still do it.

Choose a stone that looks like what it feels like. For example, there was an event in my life that left me with holes. Lots of holes. So I took hours looking for a rock that had holes pierced and weathered through it. And I put it in a pack I was carrying. I did this with many, many things until I felt the literal weight of what I was carring around. I had my burden and I wore it like a flag. I had carried these things for years. Once I had my stones I walked, thinking about all of them. I let myself be angry. I let myself mourn death, I let myself soak in the realization that I had feared I had misplaced a childhood, that I would be thirty-something someday and only be shadows...I let myself be alive and I was yelling about it in the middle of nowhere...up north.

And then I took them out, one-by-one, and I threw them as far as I could. And I yelled from the bottom of my lungs at the top of my heart to God to take them from me- to take them so I could never get them back. And I could have whispered or said nothing at all and He would have heard me. I knew, in that moment, every time God was on his stomach beside me. And I was grateful.

My spot today is a rock in a river. It's a small walk from a road in the mountains and a big rock in a long river.  Sitting there I think anyone could understand the anxiety of always needing to be moving yet constantly in the same place. And I do feel that way- and here it's understood. And when I throw my stones away from me, some of them I carry for weeks, I have to yell above the raging water to hear my voice. There is something amazing hearing yourself call out to God in a place where no one else would know if you stood there naked...
Carry your stones if you must; but, know when it's time to throw them, standing naked in front of God on a mirror of sorts where nothing is hidden- and let-GO. Palms down, let go.

Bones, Pie and some loose Change.

Bones was a homeless man. He was emaciated. I imagine that's where he got his nickname. I didn't ask; I just snuck him extra pieces of pie the weeks I was doing dessert at the Denver Rescue Mission.
The things I learned about God through the eyes of people who had no homes or, in many cases, families- rescued me. Skinny Bones changed my big life.

It becomes easy to make God many things, all of them unloving and condemning. It's simple to dumb God down to a book that was "written thousands of years ago and was a game of telephone; hardly accurate." (Actually, Homer's Iliad was written 500 years post his death and only 643 manuscripts have been found. The New Testament was completed within 25 years post Jesus' death, burial, resurrection and ascension, and there are 24,000 manuscripts and counting found to confirm actual translation, historical landmarks, etc...perhaps a post on things like this later. Historians have written about Jesus too, a man who was crucified, buried and rose from the dead. Josephus is one of them. OK, ya...maybe another post about this later. And he either was God or was not. Something cannot be true and false. Right...maybe another post on this later.)

Well, anyway, it's passive to make God a magic trick because we can pull him out of our little hats and expect the rabbit to dance, we can make him the angry index finger-lightning striking God that resembles a statue because it means we never have to face wrong choices. The consequences of our living become God's fault. Bones didn't have this view. He didn't blame God for the fact that his daughter never called him. He blamed Meth and his choice to smoke it. (Dad, as in the man who adopted me because you were always hand picked to be MY daddy,  if you are reading this you can rest assured I no longer talk to Meth addicts when I am alone- but I may still occasionally slip them some pie.)

What emaciated life moments or, in some cases, emaciated people taught me was that God is God. He is not what I say he is. God is who He says he is. God is faithful.
Bones knew he would probably not live a very long life. I wanted his daughter to forgive him, to reach out to him. I wanted Bones, a 60 something man that could not even cast a shadow, to have someone who would smell his shirts when he died and remember him as someone they could have talked with. I didn't care about Bones' shirts because his stuff mattered to him, but because no one else seemed to care about what happened to him at all. When I realized, years ago, that Bones had probably died, it stung me in a place I could not quite put my finger on. It was mostly because I felt injustice. That man was trying and damnit, that should have counted to his daughter. That man was alive; and that should have counted to all of us.

Bones reported excitedly the day he got a job. Three weeks later he walked up to the pie cart and handed me a sweatshirt. Bones handed me a sweatshirt. I had five extra coats, I'm sure, in my car. Bones. Handed. Me. A. Sweatshirt. He had bought me a gift with his first paycheck. A homeless man bought me a present.
I think many homeless people I give change to DO buy alcohol. I really believe that with all of my heart. And I think that the point in me giving them money is that I made eye contact with them. They were people, not pigeons begging for bread in a park. They had a name for that moment. They had someone say, "Keep trying. Just keep trying."
The point in giving them money is not to control how they spend it. The point in giving is to keep MY heart pointed towards rescue, towards people, towards a Bones who maybe wants his daughter to call him back...my quarter will not change anything. My quarter will not change that that woman may still die alone.
My quarter changes my heart.
I'd like to think Bones was able to recover and that he died in his sleep. Yes, maybe that his alarm clock was set for 6:45 that morning, chain of the fan clinking against itself, his dogs asleep as the foot of his bed. And maybe he was asleep with plans to see the Doctor that morning. Maybe his daughter was going to pick him up for that appointment.
Who knows what happened to Bones, or what I did with his sweatshirt or if he even liked the pie...but seeing a man who kept trying with nothing, who was happy about two pieces of pie, about being able to give out of his very little- reminded me that I always have something to give. And Bones didn't care if I kept his sweatshirt and I didn't care if he liked my pie.
And none of that was actually the point, now was it?
And none of that was actually because God was wrong.
And none of that was for nothing.
You see, I think in God's faithfulness he allows us to be homeless (some of us figuratively). It is when we have no roof above our heads, at times, that we notice the stars for the first time. And maybe when it feels like I am God's victim, like he is just out to get me...well, maybe I am just lucky enough to be right about that.

My name means peaceful meadow; and, I added a few...

(Inspired by a speech I heard given by Dr. David Noebel last week):

What I am for:
I am for America, a kind word; I am for Al-Anon.
I am for books, big hips, baths, bacterial flagellum and all it screams about the complexity of design.
I am for Christianity, children, and Creationism.
I am for Christmas morning.

I am for discipline and discipleship...and
Excellence (not perfection). I am for El Qanna.
I am for faith, friendship, finger paints, family dinner, french fries and femininity.

I am for grassroots, gummy bears, and grandparents.

I am for health, humility, homemade green chili, harmonicas.

I am for the homeless.

I am for imagination, Israel, the innocence of children, justice, and journals.
I am for kites and killing spiders.
I am for laughter in any situation, long-hand letters, memories and music.
I am for modesty, masculinity, and marriage.

I am for the NRA.
I am for naps and I am for orphans.

I am for Pastor Youcef, prayer in schools, passion, and old pictures.
I am for Paley's Argument for Design written as a response to Richard Dawkins' the Blind Watchmaker.
I am for knowing when it's time to quit.

I am for the resurrection, resolution, righteous anger; and, I am for the Rapture.
I am for self-control, silent films, and the smell of rain.
I am for spontaneity and I am for schedules.

I am for Truth, Thanksgiving all year, tithing, trusting, and teachers. I am for trying again, tomorrow, type-writers; and I am for theTrinity.

I am for understanding before seeking to be understood, virtue, vanilla ice cream and Vivaldi.
I am for the Westminster Confession, wax seals, whales, and the 1828 edition of Noah Webster's dictionary.
I am for Xanadu or bust being real.
I am for Yahweh, youth; and I am for zoos.