I was never me

Why is it that women are often so encouraged to give up every piece of themselves for their families or their loved ones, and put being themselves on hold until everyone else is done and taken care of? Why are we the ones expected to raise our children, keep our homes in order, and keep telling our dreams, "Not today, dear ones. Check with me tomorrow."?

There is honor in laying down your life for someone else.
No greater honor, in fact.

But where is the honor if you're not living the life you are laying down?
Where is the sacrifice if you don't even realize what it is you're giving up?

I just finished watching 'Wild'. It was beautiful and it made my heart pound and soar in so many magnificent and uncomfortable ways. I understood Cheryl, identified with her in so many ways. I understand the desire to push grief away, to numb it up so high that you can't feel anything anymore, let alone the pain that's cutting your soul open. But at the end of it all, there comes a point where you realize the only way to stay you, or even find out who you are, is to simply walk straight through it. Straight to the heart of it all, the corners of your mind that you'd rather never see or visit or even acknowledge.

Because how can you know who you are if you don't even know what's hiding inside of you?
I've been in a season of walking through grief, and it lasted for a long time. Years, even. The most secure things in the world were ripped open and shaken up, and I had to decide who I was and where I stood, even when I had no ground left.
Lately, I've been in a season of rebuilding and implementing the things I've discovered. I'm trying my very best to hold onto the things I learned in the fire, and to carry them with me into this new season. But I still think there's more to go. There are things left unseen inside of me, and I think I know this. There are places that I just don't want to go, because they're too dark and too hard and I am so afraid of what is lurking behind those corners.

Who am I, really, in the shadows?
What if I would choose to make the same mistakes?
What if I would choose to change them all?

Read more...

On why I am tired of The Church

Oh, I am so weary.
Today I have just had it. The straw that broke the camel's back landed in my bag and I am firmly on the other side of "I'm done".

I am so tired of this Church.

This judgmental, angry, hypocritical, whitewashed church.
The ones who spout love with one breath, and judgment and condemnation with another.

The ones who claim to follow Christ, and yet seem to ignore those great commandments of loving God first and then loving others. (Can we all take a minute and note how we, ourselves, do not even make the top list of people we are supposed to care about?!)

I am so worn out from fighting it, and trying to convince myself that it's not like this, and that The Church is still there and still beautiful, and still in love with Christ. Because right now, when I look around, I see a Church in love with the Law and in love with themselves and this masquerade of Righteousness that they are convinced they are living out. Like the Crusaders, firmly convinced that spreading Christianity means beating other people to death.

I just can. not. take. any. more.

So I'm out.
Do you hear me?

I am OUT, Church.

You can find me in the dens of iniquity, hiding with my LGBTQ family, my fellow addicts, losers, left-wing, liberal, worldly, SINNERS.
Because that is who I am, and this is where I belong. Right back in the place that Jesus plucked me from, so that I can hope and pray that He will use me to help pluck someone else from that place. I cannot hold my head up high anymore and say that I am okay with the attitudes running through the Evangelical Church right now. The judgment disguised as "encouragement", the hypocrisy disguised as care, the moral high ground disguised as leadership. I don't want any part of it.

I love my local church body. I love my fellow Christians who are truly in love with Christ and are genuinely living that out. I love the women that, every day, push me to challenge my old ways and thinking and to make sure they truly line up with Scripture and the life God calls me to live. Those are the people I will cling to and fight the battles of this world with. But I am tired of trying to align myself with others who believe that people are the enemy, and not the evil authorities of the spiritual realm.

I just don't have the energy to hate anymore.

Read more...

rust and dust and dry bones

It's been too long.
(I feel like I'm always saying that.)

I don't know where writing fits into my life anymore, or even where it should fit.
It was a part of my identity that I clung to for so long, doling it out whenever I could help it.
"What do you do?"
"I just want to write."

And now that feels...still true, and also not true.
For so long writing was air, it was breathing, it was life.
But then I started living without it and realized that I could.

Now I'm back from the experiment and I don't know if I've learned that I can live without it, or if I've learned that just because I can doesn't mean I should. I think I get stuck inside my head too much, and I censor myself before I've even had a chance to unravel what needs to be said and what needs to be put forward. I can't figure out who my audience is or should be and so I never know what to say because I don't know that (the proverbial) you need to hear.

And lately all I can think about it purpose and meaning.
Do I matter? Does my story have a place in this world? Is what I'm doing enough? Does what I do make any sort of difference? And if it does, to who? And are they enough to keep going?

Motherhood has taken over my identity. It has usurped any sense of "woman" that I used to have. Now, before I am a woman, or a wife, or a writer, I am a mom. And I don't think that this is the right order. It's not supposed to be that way, but how do you tell yourself that when it's 1 am, and your daughter is clinging to you while your son snuggles himself into the curve of your back and it's going on 24 hours that you've literally had someone touching you at all times and you just need to breathe for. one. second. How do you hold onto your sense of self in those moments? Who are you? Who am I? Who am I supposed to be?

There are a hundred and one blog posts out there in internet world telling us that yes, motherhood matters, and don't worry about the crumbs on the floor because there is glory and purpose in the mundane, and just look in your child's eyes and see the purpose that God has put there, and just hang on sweet momma because this will be over before you know it--but what happens when it's over and you've lost yourself in the process and your kids leave and it's just you and God almighty left. Who are you then?
I don't want that to be me. And I don't want this to be one more page of words in the internet world talking about glory in the mundane and purpose in the dirt on the floor. Because all of that is true, but isn't it also true that we were created for more than this? We were created to live, and we were all gifted with the ability to do something that makes our souls fly and our hearts sing. So what do you do when you can't find it and all you've got left is the dirt? And those children, those two beautiful children with the chocolate brown eyes, and the chubby fingers, and the dimples, that will suck every last bit of you out of your body if you let them--what about the moments where your soul is doing the opposite of flying when you look at them and your heart is dying a slow death instead?

Dear God, give me back a piece of myself. Show me what to run towards, instead of trying to force my life into the picture I think it should look like. Because I know myself. I run towards shiny objects, and a life that looks full of happiness and perfection, but when I get there (IF I get there), it's never what I thought it was going to be. I'm tired of running for fool's gold. I want the real life, the full life, the God-life. I want the fulfillment that comes from knowing that I am doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing exactly where I am supposed to be doing it. I want the peace that comes from being filled and then turning around and filling others. I need that peace. I'm dying for it. If ever there was someone parched for Living Water, dear God, it's me.

Read more...

words

I miss crafting with words.
I miss the flow, the spiral, the effortless dance that my fingers would play out while the words locked inside my head were fed through my fingertips and onto a page.
It hardly required effort, there wasn't even much thought attached, it was simply there--open the page, unlock the brain and go.

Today has been harder than I'd like to admit.
My first day back at this stay-at-home mom gig, and we've had a struggling afternoon. Jameson is finally napping now (please God, for at least another hour), and I managed to get some errands done (although I forgot the milk for Hubs tea. Dang it.), but this was not without mass effort.

I am lacking in patience, I am lacking in understanding, I am lacking in toddler-whispering skills that allow one to get through places like the library and Target without your two-year old son screaming at other children who happen to also be glancing at the Sesame Street DVDs, and grown women also buying bleach in the laundry aisle.
Time and again I come around with, "These are for everyone, and I know it makes you upset when you see other people using them, but we have to take turns. If you cannot take turns, we will leave." and then there are more shrieks, and then there is me, wrestling with a 30-pound mass of muscles and fury while trying to stand upright with a six-month old fetus in my belly.
What a sight to behold.

All those magic words, and acronyms spelling out empathy, and scripts listed out generally seem to work about 10% of the time, and the other 90% I am left fluttering around, praying to Jesus that I am not inherently creating a monster in this moment, and that I am also responding with as much grace and love as I can muster.
Why can't any of this just be clear cut?

Because humans are not clear cut, and if you are looking for evidence of this, look no further than my two-year old son who is at the height of his humanity. He has not yet figured out how to temper or hide his emotions, and so they are all there for everyone to see, front and center. And if you ever doubted that human beings were confused, easily upset, lost little creatures, then come and spend an afternoon at my house and observe otherwise.

I see myself in him all too often, crying up at God with my mess of emotions and humanity smacking me in the face, begging for someone to calm me down and walk me through this hormonal cloud I am stuck in. Just like my son needs me to take his hand, look him in the eye, and articulate what he is feeling while reassuring him that there is someone there who understands, so I, too, need God to hold my heart and remind me that He is bigger than all of this, and He gets it.

I often feel like I've been left to figure things out on my own. And maybe I have, for a little while, because that is part of growing up. I won't be able to tell Jameson what's wrong forever (and I am sure that the time will come when he will not appreciate my assuming that I know), and so God is probably giving me space to learn myself and my reactions, and to see if I have made any progress on the tantrum-throwing front.

I don't have a resolution here, or an acronym for myself to recite in the moments that God is silent.
I don't have an encouraging word to end this with, a miracle story of the moment that God decided to open up the heavens and let me know that He's heard me crying for three years.
I've just got myself, and this fledgling faith that has somehow managed to keep itself rooted through the tsunami's its been through. Sometimes I doubt it's existence, but it's there, I know it's there, because it stabs me in the heart every time I try to walk away.

Read more...

cliff jumping

How do you write about something when you're not sure just how much you ought to say?

In the past, I have often erred on the side of sharing too much.
In recent months, and kind of years, I have tended to close up and shut down until the situation has been over, or nearly over, and I felt like I could write about it without offending someone or disclosing too many details.

The problems come in when I realize that I need an outlet to spit words into, to see them on a screen, and process through them, often with the help and advice from others. How can I process something that's not there, that can't be there, because to put it up there would be to risk hurting someone else involved in the situation?

The eternal dilemma of this internet age.

How about I go with this:
My little family has just taken a giant leap off of a figurative cliff and we are now free-falling and waiting to see what kind of parachutes God holds out.
We are scared (obviously, since we are falling), but we are also excited about the possibilities that arise from not having any definite plans, or even ideas of definite plans. We are absolutely and completely traveling the way the Lord directs and this is both terrifying and liberating. I'm not sure that we have ever taken a jump like this without even one small safety net in place, which is probably why we are feeling the height of all our emotions so strongly.

For all who have been praying for us: an eternal and everlasting thank you. Your sweet friendship and words of encouragement have gotten us through the day-by-day and we are so glad to have you to rely on.
Please keep praying. God hears, and it is comforting to know that we are not the only ones pleading for our welfare right now.

For others worried, we are not in any physical danger or anything. (Well, at least not yet. Two car accidents in three weeks worked to change that, but hallelujah for seat belts and sturdy car seats).

And above all, there is this:

Jesus is God, and He owns us.

That's all there is, and all there needs to be.

Read more...

just some stuff.

You know, I really thought that once I got this job, my blogging would increase ten-fold since I literally sit at a desk all day. But it's like, I start to think, "Maybe I should write something..." and then I go, "What do I even have to write about? How I ate lunch at 11:30 today instead of noon? How I've had to go to the bathroom every hour since I got here? That one time the coffee mugs were extra gross and I had to wash them all out and not gag?"

You get the picture.
Clearly my job is not the most intellectually stimulating experience. And I'm still struggling with that.
I got to spend time solo with Jameson this weekend and it was so wonderful. Profoundly exhausting, as simultaneously growing a human being inside of you and chasing a toddler (while trying to navigate through those incredibly murky waters of EMOTIONS) can be, but so wonderful. I knew in my bones that this is what I wanted to be doing with my time--taking my kid to Target and wandering the aisles, driving up to the mountains and going on his first "hike" (he's still talking about it. "Mountains, momma and da bwidge!"), grabbing lunch and just hanging out in the sunshine.
But it's Monday, and I'm in the office, in my chair, staring at this screen while Jameson is at Grandma's house, probably banging on the drums and running around outside and scaring the dog.

Contentment and peace.
God's been pushing that on me lately, and I'm trying to come towards it willingly.
Learning to live satisfied in the mediocrity of life, because that's where you spend the majority of your time, and if you can't be happy there, you won't be happy anywhere.
Being at peace with everyone, as long as it is up to you, and especially when it is up to you and the attitudes that you carry around. Rooting out all of the bitterness and jealousy that has been seeping in and rotting like a poison for years until you almost don't even notice it anymore, but it's there and it's still eating away. Bringing every single thought to Heaven, to sort through and examine and then let go.
What a novel idea. Letting go.

But this is it. The mediocre, the middle, the every day.
I did eat lunch at 11:30 today, because I am pregnant and extra hungry.
The coffee mugs were super gross this morning, and I hate that part of my job.
I go to the bathroom like I'm getting paid for it and it's annoying every single time.
There is a baby in my belly that moves so much it makes me wonder if there isn't more than one in there.
My son is so big and rambunctious during the day, and then when he falls asleep at night he somehow regresses back to that sweet baby I knew two years ago and it breaks my heart to walk out the front door every morning.
My life is tinged with sweetness and bitterness, happy and sad, excitement and boredom, and we are here in the middle of it all, just moving along.

Read more...

this time around.

Being pregnant with baby #2 is a completely different experience than with baby #1.

I was so excited and anxious the first time around, reading everything I could get my hands on in order to try and understand what was happening inside my body, writing little love letters to that bean in my belly and making sure I was taking care of myself as much as I possibly could.

This time around, bebe was a complete and unexpected surprise and (brutal honesty coming up here) I didn't want to be pregnant again. Jameson has reached new heights of toddlerhood and I am exhausted--so when I found out I was going to have to do all of this over again, while continuing to manage the screaming caveman that runs around our place, I kind of wanted to cry. My nausea has been off the charts this time, lasting all day and making it hard to eat ANYTHING, let alone a healthy paleo diet that consists of lots of eggs and vegetables, two things I can't even look at right now. I am even more tired than I used to be (how is that possible?!) and I am getting fat.

It's been hard, friends. It's been really, really hard. I have struggled with wanting this pregnancy and WANTING to want this pregnancy. I have close friends who would give their left foot to be pregnant right now and I start to wonder why God would bless me with this when I was so not ready or even wanting it yet. I also think that, because I've been struggling with all of this, it's made it even harder to soldier on--because soldiering on wasn't something I had planned on. When we got pregnant with Jameson, I was ready and willing to be hunched over a toilet all day and able to sleep whenever I needed it. I don't really have that luxury this time around--I've got an office job that requires me to be at my desk, not sleeping underneath it or camping out in the bathroom. I've already got an outside kid that needs his mom as soon as she gets home and a husband whose face I barely remember because we only see each other when we lay down to go to sleep at night.

I've been trying to find ways to connect with this bebe, trying to get myself into a place where I was handling all of this a little better and really trying to be excited. I scheduled an ultrasound at nine weeks, hoping that seeing my little baby would help. Instead I found out that I'm two weeks behind and was only about seven weeks along--giving me an extra two weeks of misery before my wanting to throw up on everything goes away (we hope). The light at the end of the tunnel finally came when I went in for my first midwife appointment and she found the heartbeat with the Doppler. It was a moment of clarity--a realization that there is a baby growing inside of me who I will love just as much as Jameson by the time they are born. Another baby that I get to hold and smell and be a momma too, just like I did once before. Another person that came from Hubs and I, and is a tangible example of how I've found someone to love me through anything.

This is starting to make it all worth it. Even though I still hate eggs.

Read more...

back.

Had you come up to me five years ago and asked me whether or not I thought I would be living in Utah anytime in the future, I probably would have laughed at you in that way I do and then said, "No. Not even."

God is funny like that sometimes.

I was driving to work today, and it was such a simple thing, seeing all of the "North to Salt Lake" freeway signs, but it was such a bizarre moment of realization when reality just slaps you in the face. I wake up to the mountains that I've missed for years every morning.
I drive the roads that got me through tears of triumph and tears of despair.
I see people who's faces have been missing from my vision for years.
I live in the place that was home for so long.

I just can't decide if it is home.

I think it's the closest thing to home that I've found so far. I'm just not sure that it's home all the way.
Then again, this is the woman with a divided heart speaking now--it seems that everywhere I've lived, I've left pieces of my heart and gathered up new facets of what "home" actually means.

For the moment, I'm more peaceful than I've ever been. I have yet to feel the restlessness that used to haunt me wherever we were, and I'm grateful for that.
But there have been snippets of moments where I catch myself remembering where I've been, and dreaming about where we'll go--the countries we'll see and the people we'll meet and the food we'll eat and I know, deep down: there is no such place as home.

Read more...

day 19 [round two]

Day 19
Meal 1: 1 sausage, 2 eggs, coffee w/creamer

Meal 2: Leftover garbage stir-fry, 1 fried egg, 1 sweet potato

Snack: apple

Meal 3: 3 bowls zucchini stew, 1 frozen banana blended w/coconut milk & coconut butter

The sugar dragon was roaring in full-force today, and I decided that I just had to be lenient and cut myself some slack--so I did that whole "blend a frozen banana to make fake ice cream" thing and tried to let that be sufficient. It did actually taste really good, and I blended up two but only ate one, so at least I know I've got some form of willpower.

I was reading this article the other day about perfectionism and key traits of being a perfectionist, and it was scary just how much stood out. I mean, it's something that I joke about and use in job interviews ("Tell us about a weakness of yours...") but sometimes it can be so true that it's damaging. In fact, one of the main things that stood out to me was the paragraph where the author talked about how perfectionists always feel guilty about everything, because they're not measuring up in anything--cleaned the house but neglected your kid? Guilt.
Cooked dinner but left the kitchen a mess? Guilt.
Played with your kid but snapped at your husband? Guilt.
Following the whole30 rules but still have wicked cravings for pizza and five sweet potatoes a day? Guilt.

I've found that I have a hard time resting in the tension of being an imperfect person and saved by a perfect God. I don't know how to deal with this--it's too much for me. It doesn't fit into my exact, 90-degree-corners, square box that I like to organize and line things up in. It's messy and inexact and means that I have to be messing up in some area of my life at all times and I HATE THAT.
Romans 7 has been my heart cry for years, especially verses 24 and 25.:

"What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?  Thanks be to God, who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord!"

Sometimes I forget that I serve a God who doesn't mind mess, and chaos, and disorder, as long as I am loving Him first. I forget that He doesn't sit there and look at the state of my house, and the contents of my meals, and the crafts I (don't) plan for my kid and judge me on my success in these areas. I forget that the only things that matters is what I do with this messy life and who I live it for--am I going to live in a perpetual state of guilt because there's crayon on my carpet and I just want to eat cheese? Or am I going to suck it up and get outside of myself and embrace this wide, beautiful world and tell them how much Jesus loves them in spite of their own mess?

God, I want it to be the latter. 

Help it to be the latter.  

Read more...

day 11 [round two]

Day 11
Meal 1: 1 1/2 sausages, 2 eggs, coffee w/creamer

Meal 2: Leftover lamb, romaine and spinach salad w/tomatoes and balsamic/olive oil dressing, 1/2 sweet potato

Snack: Bacon, apple w/almond butter

Meal 3: 2 1/2 bowls zucchini stew, 1 sweet potato

I don't even know what to say about today.
Jameson woke up in the middle of the night again last night, and Hubs worked an overnight, so it was my cranky butt that got up with him bright and early this morning. Then he threw his oatmeal on the floor and somehow managed to aim the bowl just right that it shattered on my carpeted floor.
I literally sat there with the pieces in my hands for a good five minutes and thought about how I would cry if I had the energy for it. 

Although, one way I know whole30 is working is the fact that I'm not a walking zombie even though my sleep has been crazy interrupted. Sure, I'm tired, but I'm functioning on one cup of coffee in the morning and managing to do okay. So, there's that.

No news on the laptop yet. Hubs is taking the keys off to try and clean underneath them and I managed to get the backup to run before I shut it off completely. Worse case scenario: it's kaput and we become a one computer family for awhile. We'll deal. It was pretty old anyway, and it was refurbished when I got it, so it's had a good life.
But maybe this isn't the end--maybe the laptop gods will see fit to let it live another day.

Either way, I'm trying to embrace the forced semi-hiatus from staring at a computer screen.  (Maybe this was God's plan all along. I'd been moaning about not being productive enough/spending enough time with my family...)

Managed to get Jameson and I out of the house and over to a friend's for lunch where I met up with two mom's from way back in my preggo days and their kids. It was good to be with other women who just let me whinge about my sleep-hating kid, and to let said kid trash someone else's living room for awhile. The best parts were when he'd run over to me saying, "Mama, MAMA!" and then give me a kiss and go about his merry business.
Man, I love that guy so much.

Read more...

dreams.

Watch out for giant spiders that crawl on you in the middle of the night.

 It's Sunday morning, and ever since I've had a child that wakes up earlier than I would like, I've begun to experience what life can be like on a Sunday morning before "get ready for church" madness starts.
There is time to sit and drink coffee and wander through Facebook, and think about things I don't normally have time to think about.

Like all of the dreams I once had, and the way reality has played out so different (but also aligned right up) than I thought it would.

I wanted to be a missionary in Africa for a good chunk of my life.
I'd go to missions conferences at church and soak up everything the visiting speakers had to say, and I could see myself there, living in a cave and telling people about Jesus. I wanted to live the rough missionary life--the one with no electricity, no modern amenities, no distractions from the reason I was there.
When I went to Panama and stayed in a hut in the middle of the jungle, and slept on a slatted wood floor, being woken up by monkeys and goats running underneath our house on stilts, I knew that I was in a place I could stay forever. I could see my life stretching out in front of me, and I was thrilled. The world wasn't big enough for me, and I wanted to go everywhere and live with everyone and love them.
So I went to Moody as an International Ministries major, telling myself that I wouldn't let anything distract me from my goal of going out and living in discomfort so that others could hear the gospel.

These babies were so sweet.

Obviously, things changed a bit. *wink*

I got married, and had a baby, and although I did move to a foreign country, it is a thoroughly Western foreign country and I'm not exactly living in a cave like I had planned.
In fact, I'm living on the knife edge between "desperation" and "enough", so much so that often my thoughts are consumed with figuring out ways to get just a little more, so that I can be just a little more comfortable.
I am distracted by things and this is the opposite of everything I ever wanted.

I definitely got bit about 2.5 seconds after this photo was taken.

I am an all-or-nothing kind of person.

In order to shape my character, I have to make the change all at once and cut the offending issue out completely. 

No "adjustment period", no "gradual change" because I'll just slip right back into that habit.

I wanted to be a missionary in a third-world country because I knew that if I didn't have the option of having something, I wouldn't want it as much, and I wouldn't be distracted from my whole purpose of being there in the first place. 

No nail salons around? Guess I don't really want a manicure that badly after all.

No electrical outlets? I don't need to blow-dry my hair.

No clothing stores? I don't need clothes that make me look skinny/fashionable/etc.

I shared the hut with this lovely and his parents.

I think a lot of this is coming up since we're getting ready to move back to America, the land of even more excess, and I am worried about who I am going to become. 

I know who I want to be, and I know who I am, and I don't necessarily know how to make the two match up.

Maybe it's copping out, to just ask for all of the temptations to be taken away, and maybe I'd still struggle with jealousy and covetousness just as much, but...but. I'll never know.

And I think I've got the word "failure" rolling around in my head for so many reasons.

Our society always raises up those people who didn't let anything (or anyone) distract them from their purpose in life, and I always wanted that for myself. To be so focused on what I was supposed to do that I didn't let anything get in the way.

So now that I'm here, worrying about cars and houses and furniture and Christmas presents, I just can't help but shake my head in disgust at how very far away I am from where I thought I'd be.

Not only that, but I'm leaving this "foreign" country where I thought we'd be living forever after only two years, and that kind of feels like a failure as well. 

And I know that it's not. I know that we're not crawling back to America with our tails between our legs, but that we're making the decision to move where we feel like we ought to be, but...but. The perfectionist in me is still crying out, "Can't you see anything through? Why do you give up in the middle of everything?"

And sometimes I just don't know how to keep her quiet.

It was so hard to get these two to sit still for the camera.

Read more...

distraction.

It's that time of year again, where the sun disappears and the sky is a resolute void of color, and I can usually be found hunched on the couch with a cup of tea in my hand, begging the Lord to give me a slice of sunshine just for a moment.

It is the time of fog that billows in to all of the nooks and crevices of my brain and burrows itself in, making it hard to think or accomplish anything, since I can't seem to keep myself focused long enough to actually follow through. Where I find myself fighting to just get-out-of-the-house and just-cook-dinner and just-go-for-a-run and just-stay-sane.

It is the time of distractions in the form of anything and everything:
--too many tv shows
--too many blogs
--too many chores
--too many moments

And sometimes the problem is that I know I need to sacrifice the little distractions in order to achieve the greater wellness, but it's hard.
(Which is so ridiculous, but it's true.)

I know that keeping up with fifty blogs about how to be a mom and keep your house clean and write well and look good and eat healthily is not actually beneficial, but in reality makes me neurotic.
But I do it anyway, because I don't want to be "left out" and maybe if I can just get my life together, I too, can look like those people and their nice lives.

I know that picking out every single lump and roll and line on my body does not motivate me to work harder and stop eating junk. But what it does do, is make me want to crawl back under the covers with the entire pan of brownies and just give up, because why even try anyway?

I know that comparing and wishing and desiring and hoping are not, actually, going to get me that perfect house/car/wardrobe/life. I know that "looking at everyone's highlight reel" is not reality and comparing it to my "behind the scenes" is a surefire way to make myself miserable, but I still find myself wanting that new purse that she got, or going on a tropical vacation like they did, or buying a new house like his.

And clearly the answer to all of these problems is to simply STOP with the frenzied pace and the million influences all plugged into my life.
But the sad part is that it's hard, because in a sick and slightly twisted way, I like these influences.
I like the few moments of dreaming of myself wearing all of the clothes on my Pinterest board, or imagining what I'll look like after working out five times a week and eating Paleo (never mind where my child will be during these four-hour workouts each day). It's like a rush of adrenaline and endorphins shot straight into the aching, empty part of my brain that can't see the sky outside my window but can see it on the screens all around me.

And I just want to be free.

Love.
Joy.
Peace.
Patience.
Kindness.
Goodness.
Faithfulness.
Gentleness.
Self-control.

Read more...

motivation.

From the Catholic Memorial at Dachau Concentration Camp in Munich, Germany.

Sometimes I seem so up-and-down with this thing, I feel like a hormonal teenager that bursts into tears for no reason all over again.

One day, I'm ready to kick it all into high-gear, market myself like crazy, and enter the rat race of mommy-bloggers writing to make money.

The next, I'm struck with an overwhelming feeling of "Maybe this is all narcissism wrapped up in pretty packages" and questioning what my motivation should be for this platform that I've given myself.

Oddly enough, this is the first time this questioning isn't borne out of, "Maybe I'm just not good enough, maybe no one will care about what I have to say," which is a good thing, I think. That line of pondering is so self-centered, so focused on what other people think about me and that shouldn't be the point of anything.

Really, it comes more out of examining what I want my life to be about, and how is the most valuable way to spend my time? Sadly, I only have twenty-four hours in a day and even though I have enough things that I want to do that would fill up thirty-six of them, I simply cannot get it all done. I just can't. I've tried, and this has led to my mental defeat and breakdown in the form of tears, binge eating, and twenty 'to-do' lists scattered all around my house. 

What do I want my life to be about? 

--Loving the Lord with everything inside of me.

What does that look like?

--Being intentional with my time and my energy. Investing in things that are going to bring glory to Him, not to myself.

And that is the crux--I want my life to be about Him. 

I want the words that I write to reflect His power and glory, to bring people closer to Him, not to get people to marvel at the words that He's given me.

This desire has been lost for a long time. 

It's been buried under piles of sadness, depression, anger, longing, exhaustion, and hopelessness. 

The last two years have been the hardest of my life, hands-down. 

The last six months have been even harder. 

I have come thisclose to giving up on God completely, to throwing in the towel, and telling Him to leave me alone because I'll make my own way from now on, thank You very much.

Somehow (I am not sure how), I have found myself in a place of surrender to Him. 

Finally.

I am beginning to rest in the fact that He is in control, and the only place I am going to find fulfillment and joy is in Him.

Finally.

I am claiming the words of my favorite hymn, and asking the Lord to "bind my wandering heart to Thee".

Finally. 

I will write, because I need to write, because I was created to write, and because not writing would be ignoring a gift and passion that God has put inside me.

I will write the truth, and I will tell you about my life and sometimes I will show you what I wore, but the point of it all is different now.

It has to be. 

 ^"Wretched man that I am! Who will set me free from the body of this death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!"

{Romans 7:24-25}

Read more...

the background [pt.5]

Find part 1 here.

____________________

I'm sure there are some of you that are wondering where exactly I think God was during my whole tragic ordeal.

He was there.

And He's still here, regardless of whether I want to acknowledge that or not. 

So much of these past nine years have been spent wrestling with God, demanding an answer and promising to "do better" as long as He'd tell me why or get me through it. I'd rant and rave, and then I'd beg and plead, and then I'd sit and simmer.

Ironically, I honestly feel like I've found myself the most distant from God in just the last two years. 

You'd expect it to be on the nights where the blood was flowing and my heart was pounding and all I wanted to do was escape, but even then, I knew He was there. I knew, and I knew that it would be a relief to stop being here and start being there. Sure, I thought that I wasn't good enough and I thought that He must be angry at me, but I knew He was still around.

But the last two years--maybe the last six months in particular--I've found myself in an ambivalent state. 

(and I think this is the most raw and terrifying confession of them all)

It's the closest I've ever come to "losing my faith".

You see, it seems like the hits just keep coming.

Some of the blows are softer and don't knock us all the way down.

Others strike sharp and hard, leaving us reeling and crawling on the ground trying to find a safe place to hide.

And all I want to do is stand up and shout at the sky, "This is what You promised us? How does this serve You? How does this bring You glory in any sort of way? Where are You?"

But I keep my head down instead, for fear of being struck even harder, and I go on about my life with a semi-blatant disregard for anything having to do with God.

~*~

I told Hubs today, "I just need to fall in love with Jesus again."

And this is true.

I need to sit, and savor, and be still. 

I need to stop rushing around and stop trying.

--more Bible, more prayer, more church, more study, more holy.

It's exhausting.

And before you start shouting "behind me Satan",

I'm not saying that it doesn't all have value.

Of course it does.

Of course it's all important.

 But it's not always about the action.

Sometimes it's about the motivation behind the action

and right now, the motivation is wrong.

So for now, I am choosing to believe that God can and will meet me where I'm at.

I am choosing to believe that He loves me despite ______ (fill in the blank).

~*~

Ben Howard's 'The Wolves' is playing right now, and it feels strangely accurate.

So, even though this post feels like it's lacking all of the right words, and even though it feels like nothing came out right, I'm going to dump it all out and leave it.

It is time to be finished.

Thank you all for the kind words of encouragement and understanding.

It felt like ripping my heart out to write these five pieces of smoldering honesty, but it's a relief.

And there is more, because there is always more. 

And if you need someone to listen, someone to dump it onto, I'm here.

I love you all.

Read more...

the background [pt.2]

If you haven't read it yet, you can find part one here.

______________________

Before I really get into all of this, I feel like I should give a disclaimer.

I don't know how to do this eloquently, and I am afraid that I'm going to stumble over my words, or convey the wrong emotion and message and present myself in a very bad light.
But at the same time, I also know that I need to just get it out there and over with, and let you be the judge so that I don't have to anymore.

So I am just asking for grace for the telling--this is a rough jumble of words, and I'm just trying to get it as right as I can.

__________________________

I guess the first time I remember any inclination of it all was back around seventh grade. 

I was part of a co-op of homeschoolers that all got together twice a week and brought in teachers to teach different subjects--Spanish, Creative Writing, Algebra, Marine Science, etc. It was where I got to hang out with most of my friends, get out of the house, and get a taste of "normal" life. Unfortunately, there was always a little bit of a stigma around us, since we were a Christian group, meeting in a church, holding a Bible study, and so on. A lot of us felt the pressure to live above the standards that were set, and to be better than the examples that were held up of "the world out there". This was hard to live up to, especially since we were teenagers and trying to figure out who we even were, let alone how to be better than everyone else. 

There was one girl, a little bit older than the rest of us, a little more distant. It took her awhile to make friends, despite our mothers urging, but eventually she knocked her way into the group and settled down into it. She had all the girls over to her house for a sleepover one night, and I remember going into her room and seeing her sitting on her bed. Her arms were bare for once, and I noticed that they were covered in swirling silvery-pink lines. As I looked closer, I realized they were scars. Some more faint than others, but all etched deeply into her skin.

I remember being shocked, with a twisting in my stomach because I knew that was "bad". But I was also curious--up until that moment, pain had been something to avoid, something to fight against. Yet, here was someone actively seeking pain, giving it to themselves and carving it into their flesh.

When I asked her about it, she shrugged it off in her very nonchalant manner, saying, "It's not a big deal. It's just carving, just like a tattoo." Even though I knew there had to be more behind it, I didn't want to believe that she was carrying around so much baggage that she needed to bleed it out of her. So I accepted her answer, and walked out of the room.

~*~

I always kept the scars in the back of my mind, and every time I'd see them peeking out from underneath her sleeves, I'd feel a jolt of electricity in my stomach. 

By the time I hit high school, the emotional confusion had only intensified in our group. We were getting older, we liked boys and the boys liked us. Some had branched out and met "other" friends, dangerous friends that would take you down the wrong path. A select few had gone rogue and were the subject of much prayer and discussion. 

I was toying with all of it. 

I'd met a boy, a dangerous and mysterious boy that intrigued me and left me desperate to "fix him" and make him happy. He "had problems", but I didn't care. I was getting tired of being the example, the leader, the good girl. (They call it a cliche because it's true.)

I could feel echoes of the sadness that he felt inside of me--it's like seeing them in him allowed me to realize that they were in myself as well. And even though I sometimes wonder whether being around him magnified my own problems, I am still sure that they would have been brought to the surface eventually. It's like he was the catalyst for the implosion that was bound to happen one day. Things started to get darker and darker, like falling into a hole a little bit deeper at a time, until one day I was so far down that I couldn't see the top anymore.

You see, you have to understand something here.

This was not the expected outcome for a girl like me.

I was the little girl that grew up in the same church since she was a year old. I was the daughter of leaders in the church, the girl that everyone looked up to and parents told their kids to emulate. I kept my room clean, obeyed my parents, got a job, and did well in school. I never openly rebelled, rarely talked back or broke curfew. I was the safe friend, the one that parents liked to have over to their house because they knew I wasn't going to get their kid in trouble.

So when the darkness started creeping in, and the world felt like it was going to collapse on top of me, I didn't know what to do.
People like me don't get *shhhh* depressed. 

"Too blessed to be stressed", don't you know? 

I remember feeling like I was suffocating, drowning, being buried alive. 

I hated myself, and I hated everyone else for being better than I was, or being worse than I was and not caring about it. 

I hated God, for letting it get this far and not saving me from myself. 

--in fact, I remember screaming at Him, asking if He knew that this was how I was going to turn out. Did He know that that sweet little girl with the ringlets in her hair, singing 'Jesus Loves Me' in Sunday School was going to wish that she were dead on a daily basis?

Because I did. At some point each day I thought about how much better, how much easier it would be if I simply ceased to exist.

And that's when I remembered the scars.

Read more...

saving my life.

Chicago.

the sun has been my salvation and brought deep happiness and satisfaction to my life for the last three days. finally.

my other son is always an essential part of saving my life and keeping me buckled to reality. he is my sunshine, my joy, my wonder and there are many times that I think I would have stopped living if he wasn't here.

the promise of our first family-of-three vacation that is going to be happening in two months is saving my life. planning out the sights we're going to see and the hotels we're going to stay at and the food we're going to be eating--right now, Germany and Austria are keeping me going.

as always, my husband is ever saving my life. he makes me laugh, and roll my eyes, and smile. he is my constant companion, my best friend, and my soulmate.

"be still and know that I am God." [psalm 46:10]
these words are the lifeline right now.
-the only promise that I am able to cling to as the storms weather on.
-the only action I am able to take as the beating continues.
-the only thing I am able to meditate on as the doubt creeps in.

still. know. God.

-linking up with Sarah Bessey

Read more...

is that all?

The green-eyed monster is creeping up again, with it's whispers of failure and imperfection and look-at-what-they-have.

Sometimes I just get so sick of fighting it that I decide to lay down and let it run me over.
Other times I decide to fight back and turn myself into the object that my green-eyes have found.

Neither option gets me where I want to be.

And then my only option is to run.
Run, run, run, right back to the Lord and pray hard that He can take away the longings and fill the fulfillings.

"It's not about happiness," I keep chanting to myself.
Except sometimes it is.
Sometimes it's all I want, and sometimes it's the only thing I can't have.

"Wait for the Lord;

Be strong and take heart, 

and wait for the Lord."

{Psalm 27:14}

Read more...

today.

Today will be a day to breathe.
To sit in His goodness, knowing that even though I don't understand, and even though I can't feel Him, He is there.
He is always there.

And every time I think I have it (Him) figured out, there is always something new, something unknown, something different that I have to get used to.
And I am sent spinning off again, trying to reconcile what-I-thought-I-knew with what-I-know-now.
And it's okay.
Somehow, it always ends up being okay.

"Trust in Him at all times, you people; pour out your hearts to Him, for God is our refuge."

{Psalm 62:8}

There is sun, and flowers on my table, and less pain in my shoulder than yesterday, and God is still good.

That's the biggest thing, really.

He is good, so good to me.

Read more...

chaos.

Today, when I tried to put Jameson down for a nap in his room, he just wasn't having it. He kept pulling away from me while he was nursing, intent at staring at anything he could find. He's been napping in our room for the past few days since he's been sick, so instead of fighting with him, I just decided to take that route again.

We laid down, and I watched his big eyes start to close, sloooooowly, and I had this extreme urge to do something--anything other than laying down, doing nothing.

But then I heard the rain pattering on my window, and I felt my baby's warm body fit next to mine, and I heard a voice in my head say, "Rest."

I started to counter with, "But..."

And it persisted. "Just rest. You used to dream of moments like this--a free morning to nap, with the rain outside, and someone you love next to you. Rest."

So I did.
And it was wonderful.

---------------------

Today is Wednesday, which means that my mother-in-law takes Jameson to her house in the afternoon so that I can get some work done, and maybe Hubs and I can get some quality time in together. 

I have some really nice, flexible clients that have been so patient with me in this "figuring out what I'm doing" period, that I really wanted to make sure I got a lot accomplished today. But when I sat down to write yet another article on something I don't really care about, I wanted to scream. And cry. And pull at my hair, like my son does when I take something away from him.

I am so tired of this constant struggle. 

Why can't "just" being a mom be enough? 

I know the logical reasons why--we need my income to build up our American savings account (especially if I ever want to visit again or move back), but that doesn't mean I like it. Not to mention that it does a number on my stress level when I'm sitting there thinking, "If you want to go home, you'd better get this article done!"

I guess it's just another moment of wondering why things are the way they are, and why we're in the place that we're in.

I've been doing my best lately to let God meet me where I'm at, and choosing to see Him in my life, rather than being angry when He doesn't show up the way I want Him too...I guess this is just one of those moments that I'm going to have to let go of and muscle through.

This is what I'm living by lately:

"Your emptiness is but the preparation for your being filled, and your casting down is but the making ready for your lifting up."

 -Charles Spurgeon, Morning and Evening (November 4, Morning).

Read more...

rest.

Through a series of strange circumstances, I have found myself with a pen pal.

Really, this is a long-reaching goal for me, since all my friends had pen pals when we were little, but I could never find anyone that wanted to write me letters on a regular basis.
Until now. Which I love.

Anyway. My first letter from said pen pal came the other day, and it was like a breath of fresh air into this dusty brain of mine. She was so honest, and open, and everything she wrote just made me smile.
She spoke truth into my life, when so many other people haven't been able to, or when I just couldn't listen.
(I think there is something to be said about having an objective observer give advice. They're not bogged down by the drama or emotion of a situation.)

She wrote to me about how she firmly believes that the Lord has placed her and her family in a season of rest. And it struck me, because maybe that's exactly what God has done with us, too.

Why is it that I always struggle to see the good in others, and especially the good in God?
Why can't I remember that so many people are good-willed in their intentions, and that the Lord doesn't do things to harm his children, but prosper them?

The Lord has given me a son.
A fire-cracker, pistol of a son who does exactly what he wants when he wants and will not be dissuaded otherwise. And I love him all the more for it.
However, taking care of my son is a full-time job. But that's okay.
In fact, it's more than okay--it's exactly what I've wanted.
It's just that, somehow, I got caught up in the idea that I have to be doing something in order to feel validated, in order to feel that I didn't waste my time.

Which brings me back to rest. So often in scripture, God called his people to wait, and to be quiet, and to rest. And these periods were not without a reason--these people were placed in this position.
Placed there.

For too long I have ranted and raved at God, questioning His love and His care.
Too long have I begged and pleaded with Him to just get us out of this place, and put us somewhere new. To please, please, break the silence and reassure us that He heard and that we mattered.

So for now, I am choosing to rest.
I am choosing to believe that God has placed my family into this situation that we are in.
It is not without it's struggles (as I sit here and battle against the three-letter-monster that is raging war in my brain), but there can be reward if I allow it.

I am going to relish in afternoon naps with my son, walks to the park, movies on tv with my husband, and watching my child grow.
I will not allow myself to be dictated by the part of me that screams "What are you doing with your life? Accomplish something!"
And it will still be a battle, and I will still fail--but at least there is an acknowledgment and a resolve.
And maybe I can finally let go of the anger, and let my heart begin to heal.

Read more...