when we remember who we are...even if we forgot

When we walked in to Exponential on Tuesday morning, I really thought I was going to be sick. At best I was going to sob uncontrollably from the despair that refluxed from my heart to a rancorous taste in my mouth. At worst, I thought I would just give up trying or hoping or believing for "different" or "more" or "best" and just forge a six-sided chamber with a big ol' padlock around my soul, lock it, and toss out the key.

I was in a full-on death spiral of identity crisis.

Exponential is a conference for church planters. Based on that fact alone comes some explanation of why my spiraling began. My husband Anthony and I aren't church planters, but instead are moving into the seventeenth year of him - which means us - in vocational ministry as a staff pastor. We've served at our current church for the last decade, and it is also the church we essentially grew up in and where my father himself served on staff for several years. If you didn't catch it, that makes me both a pastor's wife and a pastor's kid. I might have issues.

We walked into that first building at Exponential and it was full of a hundred booths containing thousands of resources for fresh-faced, vision-driven men and women to avail themselves of, mostly for free. There was everything from curriculum to books to web hosting to fund-raising resources to music to database management. The air was electrified with a palpable and literal buzz while networking took place and words like "planning phase," "pre-launch" and "launched" were on many lips as they told each other their stories. It was such a clear oasis of refreshment for so many who are trekking into and through the great unknown of church-planting. It was phenomenal and like watching parched sponges soaking up so much water.

And all I wanted to do was run. Away. Far, far away.

Our church "launched" a long time ago. We've tried a lot of things. We've been fresh-faced and full of ideas. We've been "the flavor." But we've also been forgotten. We've been the trend-setter, and we've been the outcast. We've been rich, and we've also been broke. We've been the neighborhood church on the main thoroughfare through town, and we've had the neighborhood bought, scraped, the land abandoned, and the traffic diverted away from us towards a bypass.

Sitting at a table in the middle of that building, with so much purpose and potential swirling around me, I felt completely and undeniably out of place. Maybe even lost. If I can get brave enough to say it, I felt abandoned.

I sent a text to my best friend telling her as much in far less thought-out words that were also way more full of panic, and asked her to pray. Trying to say it in a way that wouldn't squelch his excitement, I confessed it - a little - in broken and abbreviated phrases to Anthony. Having been to considerably more big-venue conferences than me, he tried to encourage me about pushing through the "consumer" side of things; the ten-thousand-and-one "BEST IDEAS" for all things ministry that one can sometimes feel like are being presented or vended by the booths. I knew there was truth in what he said and it gave me a little comfort, but mostly not.

When I paused for a moment I realized that I believed this conference, through absolutely no fault of its own, was going to be used as one more moment when someone - this time God - would point out everything we still aren't as a church, everything we aren't doing right, all that we should've been by now but haven't taken the right steps to become. That he would turn to us and say, "you're all wrong." And it would hurt like hell.

The only thing I did right in that moment was not run away, and maybe then only because we were a seven-hour drive from home.

I shuffled into an auditorium, climbed some stairs to a balcony on the periphery of the main seating, and sat down. With all the despair and certainty of what was to come I went through the motion of pulling out a journal, a pencil, and a laptop, as if prepared to write things down that I heard the speakers say. If nothing else, in my identity crisis I would at least have the notes serve as some sort of reference sheet of what we should be, delivered by men and women from a platform who obviously knew how to "get it right" in all the places we get it wrong. If nothing else, we could at least emulate them and fake knowing who we are in favor of being like someone else.

For twenty hours and through twenty-four speakers, that didn't happen. Not once; not even for a second. Oh, notes happened...nineteen typed pages of them. But with every twenty-minute talk given by another speaker, dread started to literally drain out of me as if someone had pulled the stopper out of a tub. I didn't know what was coming in its place, but I knew despair was leaving.

I wonder why after all these years I still sometimes slip into believing God sees me worthy of being ground to dust. Matthew - a man that walked with Jesus after coming out of a life where he collected the taxes from his own people to pay to the very men that raped and murdered their sisters and brothers - saw things so clearly: "If your child asks you for bread, would any of you give him a stone? Or if your child asks for a fish, would you give him a snake? Even though you’re evil, you know how to give good gifts to your children. So how much more will your Father in heaven give good things to those who ask him?"

Hope would've been a good gift this week. Peace in my tumultuous soul would've made all the difference. I got those things, utterly and miraculously. But more than those, what I believe I got - what we got, what we carry with us like vessels - is this:
Identity.

In a room full of 5,000+ people, getting lost in the crowd is not hard. But he kept whispering, "I see you." When thirty-plus experts in their fields pour out their insights, feeling amateur is almost automatic. But he kept whispering, "You can do it. You ARE doing it." When the pull to compare and contrast threaten to tear off our limbs, he kept whispering, "You are all ONE body." When awe and envy and the desire to imitate bored into our pysche, he kept whispering, "Be you, completely in Me."

Every woman and man that was given an audience during Exponential spoke with such authority. And to the last, each one wound us up, turned us around, and said, "Now go. Tell your part of the world how lavishly and infinitely they are loved by Jesus in everyday ways by being uniquely YOU!" We were not charged to turn our churches into mini models of theirs. We weren't told to scrap the old churches or try to follow some delusion of being trendy by forming a new, cooler community of faith. Simultaneously, they called out courage in the ones who are stepping into forming new churches from the DNA up, and renewed courage in those of us that come home to established churches.

Our church has existed for 30 years. About twenty years ago she had her name changed. She's now been called by her current name longer than she was ever the name that went before. Sometimes, often times, I still hear her called by her old name in the community. I got to thinking about that and her diverted road and the other churches that have grown up in the area, some of which now contain people who formerly attended. Those things are hard and painful sometimes. There's a lot there that can exacerbate an identity crisis. But after a week like that of Exponential, those things start to burn off in the light of truth.

We are a people that loves God, loves others, and serves the nations. We are a people that reaches out to all kinds of people with the message of God's love and forgiveness. We are ambassadors of love, mercy, grace, and truth willing to set ourselves up as embassies, to say to the hurting, the questioning, and the wandering "come and see!" so they can find refuge and warmth.

He has called us by his name and we are his.

I expected a reprimand. I knew there'd be an agenda and a bullet list of all that's wrong. I prepared for a crumpling up and tossing of our current M.O. and some elaborate multi-step plan to change everything. But that's because I forgot how deeply known we are. That's not what we got. There's refocused vision and insight, and certainly some needed correction and some shifting to take place. But more than anything there is a very real sense that from this day forward our church could know who she is and be herself fully.

This is what the Lord says: Forget what happened in the past, and do not dwell on events from long ago. I am going to do something new. It is already happening. Don’t you recognize it? I will clear a way in the desert. I will make rivers on dry ground. - Isaiah 43:18-19

letters to my kids - 2nd edition

My sweet girl,
Do you remember what we did today?

Let's make a list.

-We had a yummy breakfast, but then later Daddy made cheesy eggs just for you and him. Remember that he said he may be a hobbit because he loves to eat "second breakfast" so much? Maybe he's right!
-You took a long, extra bubbly bath in my big tub all to yourself. And did you even notice that when it was time for me to wash your hair you didn't fuss or cry? Nope, you just scooched on over, lifted your head back, and got your hair washed like a big kid. Thank you for that. It made the job so easy for me. And when you're still like that no soap gets in your eyes!
-I cut your bangs and trimmed all the nails on your toesies and fingers. You stayed so still for all of that. Wow! Then you laid out aaaalll of the nail polishes and picked out the color you wanted. Now you have silver fingers and toes.
-Daddy took us to each pizza for lunch. Delicious. You called it a "Daddy/Mommy/Ava date". I like that.
-Remember when we came home from lunch and you felt tired? Remember how you laid on the couch and watched "Wreck It Ralph" all snug under a blanket?
-In the afternoon we picked the big kids up from school just like every other day. It's always so nice when they come back home. It makes you and me both very happy, doesn't it?

I like to spend my days with you, sweet girl. When I look at you now I am so surprised at how grown up you are. I say to myself, "Oh, is THIS my little baby?! Well, she's not a baby at all anymore! She's so big and smart and hilarious!" But you will always, always really be my baby, even when you are as grown up as you can be.

I like to spend my days with you. Do you know sometimes I forget that? Yep, sometimes I don't pay attention the way I should. Maybe I look at my phone too much or I type on my computer more than I sit and talk or play with you. I forget sometimes to read you a book or to pull out the paint so we can paint a picture or to watch you dance and sing. I'm sorry I forget those things that make our days together even more great.

I like that we try to remember to say, "I'm sorry" when we do something wrong. It takes practice to remember that. I want to practice now: my sweet girl, I'm sorry I don't remember every day how much I like to spend my days with you and how special they are. Will you forgive me?

We feel lots of things every day, don't we? We feel happy and excited and bored and frustrated and funny and silly and quiet and serious. I'm thankful we can feel lots of things, even all in one day. And just like we can make a list of what we did today, I can make a list of the things I feel when I think about you:
-full of laughter because you are funny
-warm because you bring me hugs and snuggles all day
-excited because you love to tell stories and explore
-proud because you are kind to your brother and sister
-happy because you are my daughter

We did a lot of things today. I'm glad we will do a lot of things tomorrow. But whether we stay at home or go out, we are busy or we are quiet, I am glad that we will be together. And tomorrow we may even forget what we did today, but I'll always remember that I was with you.

I love you, my pretty baby. I always will.

Yours,
Mama

a 31-day challenge

Some weeks ago I heard a story on a radio show of a man trying to get rid of the weeds in his yard.  It plagued his mind and  made him all sorts of irritated to look out and see the unwelcomed flora taking over his lawn.  Armed with concentrated, heavy-duty, spray-on weed killer in hand, he took to the yard on a mission to beat back the unwanted overgrowth and return once again to a beautiful landscape.  This became his modus operandi for weeks as he diligently and vigilantly wreaked havoc on those pesky weed.  Within a short span of time, however, it became all too clear that he had not only destroyed the unwanted weeds, but entire sections of his lawn in the process.

Ain't that the way?  How many times have I found an unruly weed popping up in some area of my life and fought it back with some huge overcorrection that left the earth beneath my foot very nearly scorched?

When his wife finally convinced him to drop the bottle of liquid destruction, this gentleman realized he needed a new approach.  He asked a pal with deeper and wider knowledge on the topic to come over and help assess the damage and cipher a better equation to both be rid of weeds and have a healthy lawn.  Without much need for a tour of the very apparent damage the friend had only this to say: "If you want to get rid of weeds for the long haul, you plant more good grass."

There it is, folks.  That right there?  Profound.

I've got some lifelong and recent practice at all this, both the over-the-top ulitimately detrimental response, and the calculated casting of new seed to starve the unwanted of a life-supply.  Those weeds, I've definitely got them; in my yard, in my house, in my relationships, in my time, in my mind, in my spirit, in my person.  How I'm going to get rid of them, well, still remains to be seen.

For the month of October I am linking up with the nester and a slew of others as we accept the challenge to write for 31 consecutive days.  The site and comment section is abuzz as everyone works on deciding their 31-day focus and topics, themes and categories.  I could think of nothing more relevant to the me-of-right-now than a month of writing centered on "planting good grass".  As all things are - and few things aren't - it'll be a process.  Nothing would make me more content than you reading along in October.  And would you consider talking back in the comment section below?  Let's think this thing through and work it out together.

 My mind is swirling with ideas and inspiration.  We'll see where 31 days takes us.  Hopefully the grass will be truly greener and more plentiful on the other side.

here's my link image that will show up at thenester.com

The Shape Of Grace

There's an old Out Of The Grey song called "The Shape of Grace".  That phrase keeps bobbing at the surface of my thoughts.  The shape of grace...the shape of grace...

I can feel it in my feeler and sense it in my intellect that I'm in a learning place;
here to learn
and feel
and experience
and know
and move in
and be still in
and give
God's grace.

I need it.  I want it.  And it's there.

In the cup of cooling water

In the clouds of soothing shade

In the arms of love encircling [her]

[She] saw the shape of grace...

Today it was sitting on a porch swing and holding Anthony's hand between breakfast and handing ourselves over to the magnitude of busyness that our day holds.  It was remembering in that moment to stop, hear and believe the words we were reading of faith and mustard seeds and no worry.  It was exercising the unequivocal privilege of talking to the God of the universe, and knowing that he hears us and knows better in all things than we do, that he'll whisper it to us if we'll listen.  And it was turning dry goods into playdough of varying shades when the house beckons loudly.

Sometimes the shape of grace requires stillness and contemplation.
And sometimes it's a blob and requires a skillet and cream of tartar.

(I snagged the playdough recipe here.)

When I'd Rather Pitch A Fit

I've made some serious progress in the world of materialistic winnowing around Costa Cottage over the last several months; well, years.  Rooms can be cleaned quickly even at their worst.  There is a place for most everything.  But when it comes to "everything in its place" I'm resolved to the truth that it don't come easy, baby.  There is, after all, another independent adult with a differing mode of operation when it comes to "stuff", and three children that seem to need to make messes or hang on to scraps of paper or inconsequential toys because of budding sentimentality.  It really is a day-to-day work in progress to keep us sifted, shifted, and stewarded well.

Because of the realization of this perpetual nature to winnowing and the bigger awareness of other things being of higher importance (things that aren't "things" like our relationships with each other), I haven't bent over backwards to tackle any major winnowing projects in some time.  There are a couple of areas that need the most attention: paperwork and laundry.  We're handling these, but there isn't real order in place to keep us from being behind the eight ball with these two areas.  I'll get to working on a system for these soon.

But the last room standing in my house needing serious attention is my garage.  Now, I know, we've been here before.  But remember there was a move two+ years ago, the addition of a kid, several more years of life, and the nearly inevitable accumulation that accompanies all of the above.  For reasons that confound me, it appears we are to never have a garage with a working garage door.  At the last house the door stopped working within a week of moving in.  Here it took a little longer; a month.  So in both places, the garage stopped being a place for cars to dwell, but rather became complete dumping grounds for a sundry discarded items: furniture no longer used, boxes that never got emptied after the move, off-season clothes, old toys no one plays with, stuff someone gives us that we should've said "no, thank you" to.  My guts churn at the bedlam in that room.  I'm not even kidding.

This week is spring clean up week in our small town.  It's brilliant, really.  The city sets out dumpsters on Main Street and city-limit dwellers can bring everything (excluding household trash) to the dumpsters for free the entire week.  It seems like the perfect time to do the garage.  And boy, I have been gung ho.  Until two hours ago.  After wrestling and wrenching myself and the garage door to get it open, surveying the situation, tears, and a flood of complete frustration, I realized cleaning out the garage...once again...isn't going to happen.  Not this week.

The last several weeks have been amazingly busy.  Fulfilling, but fall-into-bed busy.  They've also included out-of-state and out-of-country trips for Ma Luffin Mayun.  He will come home tomorrow from his latest trip.  I've had an increased work load in and out of the house, related and unrelated to him being gone.  Here's what I realized today staring at that cesspool that is our garage: I could get it done this week.  I could.  I'm not afraid of hard work.  There are a lot of times I can work circles around folks.  But to do that this week, it would come with a cost:

-It would be at the expense of my husband, whose trips haven't been vacations, but full of hard work coupled with the challenge of being away from home and family and the familiar. 

-It would be at the expense of my kids who have already been down to one parent (who absolutely doesn't act the same when she's flying solo) so much the last several weeks, and who could use the comfort and beauty and chaos that is the five of us together in a "normal" week.

-It would come at the expense of myself, which is worn out from the hectic schedule and could use some rest and recovery and self-imposed grace this week.

When I count up the cost and make the decision to say no to winnowing the garage this week, I sound so level-headed and well-prioritized.  But I'm incredibly grouchy about it.  I can tend towards self-reliance and I don't like to not be able to do something, especially if I think it is several clicks past overdue.  I've cooled down, but I wanted to flat-out pitch a fit; stomp my feet, cuss, go on a tirade about how this family let the garage turn into a dump and that it is not just my job to keep things in order around here, and demand that everybody stop everything until it's clean or until I say otherwise even if it takes days.

Man, that still all sounds really appealing, actually...

But I am wise enough at least to know that to not do it this week is right.  I do know that I will not be sorry for saying no to the good thing of cleaning out the garage and choosing the better thing of deepening relationships with my four treasures and giving grace to myself.  As I resign to it and practice that "no", it will get easier as the week progresses to lose myself in the "yes".

And one day, my garage will be clean.  Hopefully sooner than I can imagine...

     

Working With What I've Got

I don't think I'm any different than anyone else when I say that I felt more than a little stressed about setting goals for myself at the-end-of-2011-going-into-2012. I never think of them as “New Year's resolutions” simply because the connotation in my head for resolutions is their inevitable and swift demise; what Mary Poppin's describes as “pie-crust-promises: easily made, easily broken”. But there's actually nothing inherently wrong with a resolution since it literally means, “a firm decision to do or not to do something”, which is actually what I think of a goal being. So, apparently calling it a goal or a resolution is just semantics.

But I digress...

I felt stress making resolutions for 2012. It's not news here that I try to approach life within the balance of changing what isn't wholly beneficial while accepting imperfections as part of living. But when I stared the clean slate of 2012 in the face and tried to think of how to make it somehow better or more – or even less imperfect, perhaps? - than 2011, I just felt discouraged. That's it, discouraged; completely without courage to formulate the formula for improvement. If I knew how to bring about the positive change that would be my goal for 2012, wouldn't I have done it in 2011? Who would I be kidding if I said 2012 would be any different? All the same shortcomings and deficits in my person that had existed in the last one would still come into a new year.  Staring at the yet-to-be-discovered year of 2012, all I saw was the stuff that I failed at in 2011.

Le sigh. No wonder I felt stress.

I definitely think that part of what I like to call “reflecting rightly” requires looking at the fullness of things; discerning the good and the bad, the whole truth of a thing or person or situation. But on occasion that assessing looks less like discernment and more like harsh judgment, and never more so than towards myself. In contemplating what my goals would be for 2012, it seemed every failed goal of 2011 - each financial woe, all relational conflicts, the glaring behavioral flaws of myself or the kids I parent - was all I could see. And though I knew that all the wrongs of 2011 did not, could not, rest squarely on my shoulders, somehow the weight of them seemed to. The awareness of my faults – and the gross magnification thereof – lured me into feeling like the sole proprietor of the Little Shop of Shortfalls.

But then I snapped out of it. THEN, I reflected rightly...

I got to thinking – instead of feeling, for pete's sake – about it all. 2011 was a good year, like all of our years are. It had great stuff in it, like all of our years do. It had crap in it, like all of our years do. I did awesome and stunk it up, like I always do.

Get over it. Get up. Fail forward.

A year or so ago, the prince among men that is my father, gave us kidlets and kidlets-in-law a book called StrengthsFinder. Though its novelty should not be so, it is a hugely unique and innovative tool for approaching goal-setting and life-living. What is so different about it is that it starts from the place of your strengths and builds on them.

Rather than putting a magnifying glass to my faults and flaws, why not start at the places that are strong? In fact what if the things I am good at, the places of my strength, were allowed to overshadow the weaknesses? What if the strengths were given such support and reinforcement that they became strong enough to improve or diminish or eradicate the failings? What if I believed that this non-cookie-cutter, unique, one-of-a-kind person I am was created by God on purpose to be just that . . . me?

I believe in a three-personed God. I believe in God the Father. I believe in Jesus. I believe in the Holy Spirit. And I believe that I need this triune God to help me every step of the way. I know there is a supernatural needed in my natural. But I have to stop refusing to see that the person He so meticulously and intricately and thoroughly created me as was done by Him intentionally, with a wealth of strengths He wants to build up and build on.

Now that is a resolution: to stop starting from my weaknesses and to begin starting from my God-given strengths. It's different. In fact, it is a paradigm shift. But apparently, my top strength tested out as being adaptability, so that should help.

So let's get crackin' . . .

Living Life

Yep.  That's what we've been doing, just living life.  It's been good, it's been hard; it's been exciting, it's been boring.  It's the life I've always wanted.  It's full of daily frustration.  I've constructed thousands of bits of blog posts in my head or heart.  But the living won out over the writing therein. There's lots to say, but then again there always is. I will pick back up and start from here.

But today, Brilliant Beauty has words better than my own.  She has a creative writing assignment due tomorrow in her fifth grade class.  She came down from finishing her rough draft to read it to me.  It was lovely, and she drew the picture so well with her words.  So tonight's blog is turned over to her.  She makes me proud and joyful, and abundantly aware of the privileges of living this life.

The Garden

 As we enter the gates at Botanical Gardens in downtown Athens, I rolled down my window and I felt Fall.  I felt superb.  The cool, crisp air began crawling down my back.  Plus all the grand colors; red, yellow, brown, and orange.  Pretty, all of it.

Once we found a parking spot our journey began; time for the shade walk.  It really was a shade walk with trees everywhere.  There were magnolias, oaks, pines, all kinds of trees.  We even saw a hawk fly to its nest.  It was black, brown, and with a white-striped tail.  My brother and sister lay in the green, thick, luscious grass while I enjoyed the outstanding flowers and all the colors.  There was this one flower that was precious, petite, and purple.

As we took steps by steps, I was intrigued.  I saw a bench.  From that moment on I knew it was photo shoot time, the time of photos galore.  Splendid pictures are taken from my mom’s point-of-view.  I took pictures of my parents.  My dad took pictures of mom.  Mom took the rest.
After ending the shade walk, we went to see the bronze children.  My brother handled the boys, and I the girls.  We named them Jessica, Jack, Lewie, Joy, Charity, Tanya, and Mrs. Cavrey.  We played all day like we were doing homework and studying.  All so fun!

Finally it was time to go home.  We packed up the car.  As we made our way through downtown Athens and into Statham I thought, “Sure, we had fun doing the photo shoot and walking the shady path.  Yet our true happiness was FAMILY TIME!”

Literary Laryngitis

I think it's safe to say I'm in good company.  ACB is feeling it.  SBB is, too.  And it's not a topic I haven't hashed out with KakiBlack any less than a thousand times prompted by a hundred different circumstances.

This life is not perfect.  I am not perfect.  It is what it is.

I make it my goal to be authentic in my writing.  I figure it serves no one well for me to write about anything other than the life I genuinely live with the voice that is organically mine.  I long ago made peace with the sort of laws of imperfection that exist around us all; things are not always as we wish them to be; the hair, the clothes, the status, the days just don't always fit as comfortably as we'd like; there's that something we can't seem to quit, or that something we can't seem to begin.  However, the more days, months, years, and experiences I accumulate the less I want to be anything other than what I am in all the becoming.  I'm okay with the work in-progress.  And though I don't love everything about myself or my life or my way of doing things, I don't spend a lot of time trying to be something I am not or comparing myself to any one else.

Until the times when I do.

I want to be a writer.  Like, a lot.  I have loved to write and photograph and chronicle as long as I can remember.  (Ironically, for a woman that doesn't answer her phone I feel like I have a lot to say.)  In recent months I have dreamed of it and ached to do it, disappointed when there isn't time and so contented when there is.  I have brainstormed topics and thought some things through.  I have networked a little here and there in places where blogs can get a little bit more exposure (because, after all, writers want to be read in the end).  And I have read other people's blogs, particularly those of other "successful" women bloggers. 

It seemed like a good idea at the time.  Um, not so much.

What I have found myself doing is sinking underneath the sea of other writers out there.  Even now just thinking about it I can feel my chest tightening at the thought of the overwhelming number of female bloggers/writers who have carved out a niche or branded themselves into these forces to be reckoned with.  They write about everything: motherhood, home life, marriage, career, fashion, food, homesteading, crafting, spirituality, health.  You name it, it's being written about, and often better - or at minimum, more thoroughly - than I could write about it.  At least that is how it feels because that measuring stick I pride myself in not pulling out much is not only pulled out, but is measuring my writings against these - or worse, my life against theirs - and I'm carving out notches to mark all the places where I don't measure up.

I hate that feeling.  And all the measurements and comparisons seem to tighten like a vice grip on my throat, on my written voice in particular.  I ask questions of myself I've never asked before: could I write more like her, about more of that?  Should I twist this thing and contort it to try to make money out of it?  Do I continue to nurture a deep-rooted passion regardless of who notices or am I looking to peddle some gimmick that will stroke my own ego by raising the number of readers?  I hate these questions.  This is not who I am.

I believe I have a healthy and balanced confidence in my own writing, and in this life I live as a whole.  And to have allowed myself as much time as I have lately to make comparisons and draw misguided conclusions severely erodes that confidence and my morale.  There are some exceptional women writing some exceptional things out there, and some who aren't.  And there are some who paint a picture of an unattainable perfection, an I-have-it-all-together-at-all-times-ness, that I can't identify with but have wondered lately if I should fake.  Then, I remember.  There are a lot of writers, but there isn't another one with my voice . . . because my voice is only mine.  And your voice is only yours.  It's worth adding to the chorus. 

If you've forgotten or maybe even doubted, you're in good company. 

Use it.  Don't lose it.

       

Laura's Legacy

It wasn't until the phone rang yesterday evening that we even remembered.  "You know what day it is, don't you?", he said on the line.  Then we all remembered.  It sneaked up on us this year.

Fifteen years later.

She would be thirty-one years old on her August birthday this year, Ma Luffin' Mayun's sister.  Thirty-one.  That thought, of all the innumerable thoughts I have of her, caught in my chest and filled my eyes with tears.  Thirty-one.  She would be a woman, a thirty-something woman.  Like me. 

She would undoubtedly be one of my closest friends and dearest confidants.  We'd walk through marriages and raise children side by side.  We'd laugh together at the elements of family life that only the females pick up on, winking at each other across the room when the family's all gathered.  She would be one of my kids' favorite people on the planet, and I hers.  I would tell her what life growing up with only a sister was like and she would relate from the place of growing up sandwiched between two boys.  She'd roll her eyes talking about it, but really secretly love the brothers' staunch and innate lifelong protection and pestering of her.  She would be an amazing cook, like her mama, but would be determined to put her own spin on things because of that stubborn streak of hers.  Even at thirty-one she'd pile onto her daddy's knee and nuzzle in to give him a hug.

Instead she's frozen in time at exactly two months shy of being sixteen.  Gone in a blink and without a warning.  June 28th, 1996.

How much she is missed.  Even when we miss remembering.

There have been fifteen years of heartache; steps forward and lunges backward in the healing.  Too many "whys" asked to accurately count.  Fifteen years of learning that sometimes a thing - a circumstance, a disappointment, a loss - just is what it is.  There has been pain in the remembrance and in the forgetting.  Is it still okay to cry?  Is it okay to embrace the moments when the heart seems to lift from the doldrums into - could it be - joy?  Fifteen years of moving, in one direction or another, but moving away nonetheless from June 28th, 1996. 

We are a family with a deep-seeded faith in a Life eternal, a Life beyond this.  Reunions beyond this world are a sure thing and a blessed hope.  But it is not a sure thing that this is always consolation to a father's achingly empty arms, or to a mother's relational heart now missing one of her dearest, or to the brothers' void found when their first companion is no longer in the flesh.  Or even to the daughters-in-law who receive love from such an amazing family, but always know some potential profound relationship is distinctly missing.

I don't think fifteen years makes it easier.  I think it just makes it habit, this living life without her.

But then I remember.  I remember what I know to be true, but what I fear would sound callous or self-serving in others' immense loss.  I remember that her death is the moment that brought Ma Luffin' Mayun back to my heart.  After a month-long courtship, an abrupt end to it, an almost immediate sort of writing-off of him in my heart and mind, four months had passed when the call came to me between six and seven in the morning.  I only knew I wanted to - had to - be where he was.  I didn't know anything else.  My plan was to watch him and gauge how I could help according to what he seemed to need, with a certain measure of keeping myself at arm's length.  Because of her death, I was reunited with this family, this man, and given the opportunity to be a sort of bystander and observer of their lives and their loves and their caliber.  Because of her death I was placed back into a space I would not allow myself to be otherwise - in close proximity to Ma Luffin' Mayun when he was still only "Anthony".  Because of all this, two and a half months later I knew I could love him for the rest of my days, and in eight month's time we were married.  I have been my beloved's and he has been mine for fourteen years.

I remember.  I remember that the broken heart of a mother still had the self-awareness and courage to know she could - had to - still parent children.  I remember that the broken heart of a father could still love a wife, his life partner, enough to trust her knowing they could do it.  I remember that because of her death the wheels were set in motion to pursue adoption.  I remember walking into a restaurant just before Christmas in 1997 and finding my mother-in-law in tears of joy.  "Twins!  We're getting twins!", she would say.  A boy.  A girl.  Born to a woman who had such little regard for them and for herself that she fed a drug addiction throughout her pregnancy with them and birthed three-pound drug addicts.  They would become our own family.  They are thirteen.

I remember.  I remember that she left this world with a deep peace and a deep awareness of Whose hands her life was in, in the living and in the dying.  She was fifteen, so young to have such abiding faith, but she had it.  I remember that her brother would find himself in the unique circumstance of standing in an African prison only months after her death with dirt floors, where prisoners had no more than sheets of tin propped over their heads for a roof.  He would share the story of her faith and the reality that life is but a vapor.  There were men, hardened and violent men, whose hearts would be cracked open by her story.  Men on this dry and barren terrain whose tears would fall and lives would be challenged by the story of a girl two months shy of sixteen thousands of miles away who no longer had a choice to decide how she would live her life, but who had chosen abiding Faith while she could.  Some of these men would yield themselves to the possibility of a forever-changed life.

There are so many things she never was, things she never got to be and never got to do.  Too many events of our lives contain a space where we would rather find her face.  But she used fifteen years well.  She left us in grace and peace, with the depth and wisdom of a woman and not that of the girl she was.

Who would we be if she had never come?  But I have to ask, who would we be if she had never left?

She is missed.  Still treasured and still beloved.  And today it is a consolation that I will see her, that I will know her, again.

Today I remember.

Completely-Worth-It Ice Cream Carnage

It's flipping hot in Georgia.  You've gotta do what you gotta do to get cool.

Then comes the clean up and a cuddle...

Yep.  Completely worth it.

The Haves And The Have-Nots

I have not folded the laundry in awhile days.

Mount St. Laundry

I have not washed today's dishes...or even yesterday's.

I have not even picked up my haphazardly strewn shoes off of the bathroom floor to put them where they go which is only about 10 linear feet away.

(They're pretty cute shoes, though, huh?)

 I've got to get it in gear.

I have, however, done some planting.

Can you guess what this lettuce planter's made out of?

basil, dill, and chocolate mint

Two different types of raised beds with beans, tomatoes,
cantaloupe, and strawberries

I have watched baby birds hatch and grow in a nest on the front porch.

I have set out vases of wild daisies, picked by Ma Luffin Mayun and Little Big Man, all over the house.

And I have laid on my belly to capture the field of dandelions formerly known as our back lawn.

I have done a lot of things that I love over the last several days.  Conversely, I have not done a lot of the things that peg out pretty low on my personal fun-ometer.  That's fine, really.  It is what it is.  But tomorrow the us-es will need clean, neat clothes to wear or to pack for trips out of the country (read: Ma Luffin Mayun is headed to Asia for ten days) and fresh dishes to eat and drink out of, so I will put aside the "haves" of the past few days and tackle the "have-nots" like a good grown up.

I have a lot to be thankful for.  I'm rich in it all, really.  So, I will have not any complaints...

Hey, Where's The Remote?

I know we're moving soon (hopefully), but I did a little rearranging in the living room tonight. I piddled and slid some of the seating to a corner that used to flank the TV. Then I scooched the ottoman a little that way and this. When I was done with all that Ma Luffin' Mayun schlepped the TV for me to it's new spot.

The trunk. Of my car. Yep, that's right.

Here's the thing: we have threatened to give our television the ol' heave-ho for probably a cumulative half of our marriage and family-hood. In our nearly fourteen years together under the same roof we've never had cable or satellite. For us it just wasn't an expense we wanted to accommodate, and many times could not justify. But more than that we know ourselves, and we can be sure that our handful of expert gardener friends would far rather harvest useful vegetation than answer an emergency phone call to come pluck our deep-rooted, couch-potato butts from in front of the TV. We like TV. We like it alawt. Our kids do, too. And I'm pretty convinced we could never watch another thing and still be able to use one TV/movie line or reference per hour for the rest of our lives and not run out of them (it is our gift, it is our curse...).

Don't be fooled by the lack of channels. Without them, we watch lots of videos. There's a rotation of movies general viewing audiences (read: all five of us) can watch that cycle through regularly: Willy Wonka, Woody and Buzz, Tinkerbell, Hap Palmer's Baby Songs (which, p.s., contains the song "Growing" with a clown that Little Big Man consistently tells me he wants to punch in the face...yikes). Then there are a few schmaltzy rom-coms that get watched on occasion like You've Got Mail, Last Holiday, Fever Pitch, and 27 Dresses. Of course there are shoot-em-up movies: Tombstone, Minority Report, Reign of Fire, Jason Bourne, and hobbits, elves, men, and dwarves battling for Middle-Earth. There's the handful of musicals like Annie, Meet Me In St. Louis, and Singin' In The Rain. We've got Jane Austen and L.M. Montgomery, Jimmy Stewart and Carey Grant. There are episodes with Andy, Rob and Laura, Jim and Pam, the Huxtibles, BillieJo/BobbyJo/BettyJo, Ma and Pa, Jack Bauer, Lucy and Ethel, and soup nazis, man-hands, and ya-da ya-das. Believe me, there's always something to watch.

We like to watch stuff. It makes us laugh or think or not think. It's relaxing. It certainly makes no demands on us and doesn't require much from us. And so we watch. But there's a trade out; while we're soaking up some entertainment our chances for, well, something ELSE are seeping out of us. We laughed at a show, but did we make sure we got a laugh out of our kids by playing or talking? Some movie made us think and captivated the imagination, but did it add any real value? Ninety minutes of “down time”, but no rejuvenation. There's nothing evil or inherently bad about us liking TV or movies. It's okay that we watch. But I think where we're at is a place where finally we say it isn't okay – the life we're missing – while we watch.

I want to read more. I want to write more. I want to listen to the kids make up games and play like they are so inclined to do if given the space. I want to talk and listen in conversation with the people I love. I want to be creative. I want to think thoughts about things that don't come out of a glowing box. I want a different musical score to our days than a movie soundtrack. I want to freely arrange furniture in a new home with no regard to where the TV ought to go.

It's not for everybody, this chucking of the TV. And I got to tell you, it's going to suck around here sometimes because our default settings are going to have to change (read: I'm already missing it and it's been in the trunk for about two hours). But we're ready and I think we're up to it. I know we won't regret the decision when we see all the gains from making the choice. What we would regret so much more than this light and momentary discomfort, however, is realizing we know a plethora of movie lines but haven't got a clue how each other's day was.

And really, how much Beverly Hillbillies can a person watch before their head implodes, anyway?

8 Months In

Throughout these past eight months I have had to check my self pretty regularly.  What is my heart behind all of this?  What is the real motive?  Who am I doing this for?  To what end am I working?  Some days the motive for winnowing is to have less crap to pick up around the house so there’s more time to sit on my duff and surf the internet.  Sometimes my motivation is to do some awesome, kicking-butt-and-taking-names job on organizing or cleaning out or rearranging so that I can take cutesy/artsy pictures to slap up here to make you ooh and aah.  A number of days I have been propelled by the aspiration to bring even more peace into our abode.  More than a handful of days, there is no motivation.  Zero.  For any of it.

The last couple of weeks have been, um, interesting.  They have been in some ways a breakthrough in this whole WinnowingWoman lifestyle.  You see, eight months in (eight.flipping.months.), I am seeing progress.  Finally.  Real progress.  Not the *“look, I got the laundry room cleaned up!” long enough to take a picture of it and only to see it junked and cluttered with different stuff a month later* kind of progress.  Real progress. . .  

There is a place for everything, and everything is in it’s place (or can be put back there in about two minutes) in ALL of our bedrooms.  Clothes, toys, books, shoes, everything. A place for everything.

The Us-es have been observed day in and day out, helping me realize that out of a hundred toys, they consistently play with about the same twenty-five.  So broken toys have been trashed and the rest have been stored in an extra-large plastic container and put away in the garage for “trading out” every few months.

I can tidy the living room at a moment’s notice in less than five minutes, including returning the items back to where they go because now they actually have a designated location instead of “I don’t know, just put it somewhere” (read: our bedroom). 

The kitchen dishes can (and do) still get backed up and overlooked for a whole day’s worth of meals, but the entire kitchen can now be cleaned to a spotless shine in less than an hour because we simply don‘t own too many plates or pans or utensils.

Closets have been gone through and then thought through before anything went back on a shelf or rod.  We know what we have in there.  Nothing lurking in corners neglected or forgotten. 

The front and back yards have been purged of broken toys and random shrapnel (tools, plastic plant pots, wood scraps, etc.) so all that remains is the beauty of Creation, swings, slides, a playhouse, garden beds, and room to romp.

Eight months.  It has been a long time.  I look back in review and see this long string of starts and stops and steps backwards.  I have done huge things that ultimately made little impact, and tiny tweaks of things here and there that resulted in monumental improvement in the way our home operates.  Lots of trial and error.  Plenty of one-step-forward-two-steps-back.  Eight.Months.

I also peek back over my shoulder at the gal who started out on this winnowing endeavor and sort of chuckle and roll my eyes at how easy (or at least quick) I thought the challenge would be.  I actually and truthfully remember thinking around the first of February something to the affect of, “What will I do in a month or two when all the winnowing is finished?”  Ha.  Foolish, ignorant lass.  If she only knew then…

But I’m glad she didn’t.  Like everything else, this has required process.  Birth, death and burial, and rebirth.  And just looking at the components of the life-cycle and these elements of process, I see now there isn’t any one of them that in some capacity isn’t messy or hard or painful.  If I remembered that at the beginning of this quest, my own resistance to discomfort or hard work or change would have potentially locked me down.  I perhaps would have settled and “kept the peace”, a counterfeit, instead of “making peace”, the authentic, in our home and family.

I have stuff left to do.  There are things that remain to be learned.  Mistakes are still going to be made.  Thinking-it-through will continue to be requisite.  And I’ll still need some changing.  That’s good.  It’s all good.  More process.  Once again I am reminded that the process is likely the point.

Eight months later.  Who knew we’d be here?

Eight is great.

Happy Mother's Day, Indeed

It was a great day. I really did enjoy the day more this time around than in years past. This is going to sound sort of awful, but I think it was so nice because my expectations were lower. Let me see if I can explain...

I think back on bygone Mother's Days and see that I wanted some sense of recognition or acknowledgement or credit equal to the degree of which I think I "sacrifice" for the hubster and kiddos on a daily basis. There's got to be a term to use that encompasses that idea. Hmm, let me see, umm...how about "martyr"? Yeah, that'll work.

And at least in a way, a martyr I am. Now stay with me here.

One of the definitions of martyr is, "a person who sacrifices something of great value and especially life itself for the sake of principle". Let me tell you, if I thought it took great sacrifice when we were parenting one of the Us-es, I die daily to some part of me when you factor in all three; some hobby, some conversation, some thought process, some personal development, some self-awareness, some solitude, some spirituality, some spontaneity, some personal hygiene. Yeah, sacrifice is there. But coupled with it...no, the seed from which any of these sacrifices grow...is the principle(s) beneath it.

I don't have a personal mission statement for my life of parenting, but these are the principles that would have to be considered if one were ever developed:
-These kids were given to me, to us, to raise up. And though there is a tremendous amount of truth in needing a village to raise a child, they are our responsibility...and our reward.

-I have the awesome and weighty privilege of knowing these little people from their earliest existence. If I will allow myself to observe them, to assume very little about them, but rather to learn them, there will be no one better equipped to guide them in this life than me (and Ma Luffin' Mayun); to teach them when and how to stand and to bend, with the goal really being to teach them to know when and how on their own.

-I see them as on-loan. I don't mean that to sound detached or morbid or any kind of negative. I just simply believe that these little people are given to Ma Luffin' Mayun and me, within our household, for a very limited time. If this is the case then it is not my job to create miniature versions of myself...with my aspirations or talents or hang-ups or failures. The task at hand is to remember that I do not see the end from the beginning, so I am to take every opportunity I have to pour into them love, truth, authenticity, kindness, accountability, discipline, and steadfastness. I can slack off indefinitely in my housework. I cannot slack off for long in my mothering.

-The Us-es need to see living, breathing, healthy relationships between (a)Ma Luffin' Mayun and me and (b)God and me. They need to know the priority, the reality, and the prominence of these. They need to see the affection. They need to know the love. They need to know the truth that these relationships are absolutely not simple or easy or clear, but they are real and covenantal. And they need to know that there are elements of these relationships that will remain behind a veil, maintained as mysterious to them.

-They need to see me win. They need to see me fail. They need to cheer me on. They need to hear me ask for their forgiveness.

Yep. That so breaks the rules of developing a succint mission statement. But there they are, the principles that fuel the sacrifice.

Maybe in years past I wanted recognition out of some sense of insecurity in the newness of being "Mommy". Maybe I felt particularly unsung in the role (infants and toddlers don't typically give standing ovations). Maybe I needed some kind of acknowledgement because it would help me understand more of this aspect of myself, this Motherhood. I don't really know. Don't push the maybe, baby.

This year there are three. They're beautiful and funny and smart. And this year, whether I'm easy with it always or sometimes still feeling the mis-fit in my own skin, I know who I am: I am a mother, "mom", "mommy". I know it now. I don't need accolades or ceremony or applause to remind me of what I know. For such a time as this, I have the honor of parenting, with Ma Luffin' Mayun, these mysterious, remarkable little people.

So, some parts of me are dead, or dying, or will die. But I believe new will come, and rather than it just being newness in the life of myself it will be present in the lives of my kids.

It's the toughest thing I've ever done. It's the toughest thing I will ever do.

I wouldn't want to be found doing anything other.

Nothing else ever will make you as happy or as sad, as proud or as tired, for nothing is quite as hard as helping a person develop his own individuality especially while you struggle to keep your own. -Marguerite Kelly

[insert clever and charming blog post title here]

Yo, what up?

Long time, no write. Sorry about that. If it’s any consolation I do blog in my head constantly. If only there was a transcription program that could just download entries from my brain and upload them straight to my blog in the midst of the busyness. Wait, scratch that. You probably don’t want to know everything I’m thinking, and I surely don’t want it floating around in cyberspace. Yikes.

So, I’m working on contentment… I’m working on laundry… I’m working on consistently following my daily schedule…

About that last one, the schedule - here’s what I now know to be fact (from days of following it and a few days thrown in where I didn’t): I have to beat the kids up. Oy, that didn’t come out right. Let me clarify: I have to be awake, showered, and dressed for the day before any of the three kids are up. This is probably already a no-brainer for two-thirds of civilization, but I am just coming around to the facts and truth about early birds. I’m getting lots of worms these days. Yep, I’ve got worms. Hold on, that’s no good, either. I don’t actually have worms. I just meant…ech. You catch my drift.

I told you everything from my head did not need to be lain bare for the world to see.

This one thing - getting up early and making the preparation of myself for the day a priority - has made all the difference in our every day lives. And I'm sure it's because it first makes a world of difference in me. Whether a mom likes it or not, so much of home life rises and falls on us. It's amazing how a thirty-minute window of time first thing in the morning devoted to a little self-care can make such a huge impact on Winnowing Woman-and-Ma Luffin' Mayun's Wife-and-The-Us-es' Mommy. You know what I mean? I betcha do. I betchoo know what I'm sayin'...

The daily schedule post-showering/dressing, like so much else in my life, requires flexibility. If I can keep that in mind and not feel ruled by it, the schedule serves as an excellent framework for me everyday. Again, it serves me, I don’t serve it. The schedule brings a suggested daily focus for household work. And focus is a darn good thing. I can tell you that something is consistently getting done every day as opposed to nothing. Who doesn’t love that?!

So I raise a glass (of southern sweet tea, of course…actually SoBe water I bought with a coupon) to getting out of bed, hopping in a shower, getting dressed including earrings and shoes, and feeling that much more ready to sift, shift, steward, and save my way through the day.

…and here’s one more sip in gratitude that the brain indeed does not have an auto-download function. Hallelujah, cowabunga.