What do I even call this?

Lately I've been doing a lot of unraveling.

I'm discovering threads of false narratives that I've had woven through my life, and as I start to pull on them to see what they're really made of, I'm finding out that they're actually dry and brittle and covered with dust. This is a strange and slightly scary phenomenon, because I used to have such strong convictions about certain things--hills I was willing to stick my flag in and die on. But with a little tugging and a little digging, I'm realizing that these hills are actually precariously stacked empty boxes that topple over fairly easily.

It's disconcerting to be at the bottom of a battle you thought you had won.

Unfortunately, I think the scarier part is wondering how people I love and value and treasure and respect are going to react when I finally "out" myself. Will they still love me, and (even more than that) respect me and my views? Will they take the time to listen and wrestle with the things that I have wrestled with? Will they believe me when I say I did not set out to become the opposite of the person I used to be?

All of a sudden I have new battles to fight, new hills to dig into, and new faces in new camps to familiarize myself with. And I'd hope in the middle of all of it--all the battles, all the camps, all the faces--we'd still find Jesus, together. In fact, I'd hope that there would be no more battles and no more camps. Just people who love the same miraculous, holy, GodPerson that came to save us all. Why can't we just have that?

I'm tired of fighting with people. It just makes me tired and weary, and so, so sad. I think it's hard for us to remember (or understand, if we've not yet done it for ourselves) how scary it is to find yourself on the opposite side of a very strong conviction you once held. It's so difficult to see your thinking change with every jarring thought that drives it in even deeper. All of a sudden, this new conviction, this new truth, is everywhere. Headbutting you in the face. Making sure you don't forget and that you don't ever get comfortable. And all your memories start bubbling to the surface, and you begin to realize how colored they were by what you used to believe.

I know this is mumbo-jumbo and so vague, but I don't know how else to explain it.

How else do I explain the searing pain that cuts across my heart every time communion is served and I am reminded that the place I worship in tells me that I may never offer this beautiful sacrament to another believer simply because I am a woman?
Or the tears that fill my eyes when I see people running away from Christ and His perfect love because people that call themselves Christians have felt the need to tell them that they are condemned to hell for loving someone of the same gender?
Or the anger that rips through my brain when I hear people shame teenage girls for being teenage girls and having teenage girl bodies that they need to "cover up" so we can protect our teenage boys from sinning?

I just don't have anything left. And I'm at the point in my life where I'd rather be accused of loving too much and too extravagantly than loving too little. I'd rather be known for being "permissive" than for persecuting. I just would.

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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.

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trenches and ugly hearts

I yelled at my son tonight.

I'd been fighting the black pit of rage for the better portion of an hour as he screamed, bit, punched, kicked, and generally created havoc around him while letting me know that he was absolutely not going to go to bed peacefully. Then he woke up his sister, asked to nurse for the thousandth time, and got mad when he didn't think he'd accomplished a certain task to his satisfaction.
And that is when I just snapped and screamed from deep down inside, right in his face.
And then his heart broke, and he cried despair, and my heart broke, and I immediately hugged him close and said, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Jameson, I'm so sorry. That was wrong, and I am so sorry."
And I was sorry, and heart-broken, but there was this part of me that was still so angry and full of rage, and it battled with the Jesus-portion of my heart that was screaming for me to see past the noise and the emotion and just love on my poor, confused, exhausted two-year old, because he wasn't doing this to me on purpose.

And once again, I was faced with the reality of just how ugly my heart is.

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

I am a mess of emotion lately.

I've had a few trusted people ask me how I am doing, in regards to PPD, and being on the watch for signs of it to arrive, and I've had to step back and say that I'm really not sure if how I'm feeling has to do with the hormones from giving birth or if it's all just the outcome of circumstances for the last year.

I know this past year was a hard one for many, and it seems that our family was no exception. We've faced storms that I never thought we'd see, and have been barraged on all sides by an enemy trying to absolutely destroy us. We've come close to destruction, and despair, and I have spent more nights than I care to remember crying out to the Lord to just spare us. Just once, dear God, spare us this heartache.

And He has answered--in some ways that are satisfying, and others that are not.

So we continue to hold on, and ride through this hurricane, and pray that it ends one day soon.

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

My mantra lately has been, "This will not last."

Most of the time, I'm using it to try and remind myself to seize the moment and embrace the sweetness of holding my children tight, or listening to them laugh, or watching them learn and explore. But other times it's simply a chant to make myself hold on, to keep battling through, because this insanity cannot last forever. 

I am deep in the trenches of motherhood, sometimes so deep that it's difficult for me to see the sky. I have minutes where I find such an incredible joy to have the privilege of staying home with my children and serving my family that I am satisfied deep down into my bones. And then the pendulum will swing, and I find myself wondering why I had children, and questioning if perhaps I am one of those women who only *thought* she should be a mother, but really should never have procreated at all.

I love my children so much that my heart often feels like it's going to burst from the emotion of it all, but I would by lying if I didn't admit that there are many hours I spend missing the time when it was just Hubs and I, and dreaming about what I am going to do with all my free time once my children are grown. Humiliating, but true. 

I am still as selfish as ever. 

In short, every day is a battle, and I give you permission to spend too much money at Chick-Fil-A so that your kid can play behind glass while you drink sugary tea and almost relax for the first time in 24 hours.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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may 4

"It is easy to die for Christ.

It is harder to live for him.

 

Dying takes only an hour or two,

but to live for Christ means to die daily.

Only during the few years of this life are we given the privilege of serving each other and Christ...

 

We shall have heaven forever, but only a short time for service here, and therefore we must not waste the opportunity."

-Sadhu Sundar Singh

 

 

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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.

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isolation.

Jameson didn't cry when I left the house for work this morning.

I know this is progress.
I'm glad my child wasn't left screaming and banging the door down after I walked out of it.
But at the same time, I had this strange, heart-wrenching moment of realization that he doesn't need me as much as he used to. Cue sadness.

Being a momma is the most contradictory, difficult, and completely illogical thing I have ever, EVER done.

I mean, I am happy that my kid didn't cry when I left this morning, but also kind of broken-hearted about it. How does that even add up or make sense?
Or how about those moments when I am so bone-tired, and Jameson just wants a little bit more of me than I think I can give him and I am overwhelmed with how much I love him, but also how much he drives me crazy.

I think the difficulty lies in making peace with the feelings.

It's easy to feel guilt over feeling 1200 different ways about your children--all at the same time.
It's easy to look at yourself and think, "If I were a better mom, I wouldn't be exasperated right now--I'd just be so thankful that I even have a child, not to mention the fact that he is healthy and smart and has food to eat." and then we dig ourselves into a hole with all of the ways we SHOULD be feeling piled up on top of the guilt for the things that we ARE feeling.

When did motherhood become so cut and dried and black and white?
When did it become easy to look around and see how we are supposed to be and all of the areas that we're failing in, instead of noticing the things we have managed to accomplish--like growing a tiny human INSIDE OF OUR BODIES, and then keeping said human alive and teaching them some semblance of manners, even if they don't always get it?

Motherhood is too hard to do alone, but we isolate ourselves anyway.
That is ridiculous, and it makes me sad.
People need people. We were never meant to be alone.
Period.

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Days 21, 22, &23 [round two]

Day 21
Meal 1: 2 eggs, 2 sausages, coffee w/creamer

Meal 2: Leftover garbage stir-fry, leftover chocolate chili w/spinach, 2 sweet potatoes w/almond butter and cinnamon

Snack: Apple w/almond butter

Meal 3: Zucchini stew, sweet potato w/almond butter, herbal tea

Day 22
Meal 1: 2 sausages, 2 eggs, coffee w/creamer

Meal 2: Pork chop, 2 eggs, 2 sweet potatoes w/almond butter

Snack: Apple w/almond butter

Meal 3: 3 sausages, 2 eggs, 2 bacon, 1 bell pepper

Day 23
Meal 1: 2 sausages, 2 eggs, 1 bell pepper, coffee w/creamer

Meal 2: 1 garlic-lemon chicken leg, 2 bacon, 3 sweet potatoes w/almond butter and coconut milk

Meal 3: Nando's 1/2 chicken, side salad w/balsamic & olive oil, berries w/coconut milk, 1 sweet potato

I'm a bottomless pit lately, guys.
I don't know what's up.

I feel kind of funky hormonally, like I don't know what's coming (you know...THAT time of the month. I'm sure you all wanted to know that). But seriously, it's like everything is all out of whack, and I know that it's probably got something to do with still breastfeeding Jameson, but it's annoying because I can't tell if I need to cut myself some slack or just man up and deal with things.

I'm realizing I do not eat enough vegetables and I need to be more intentional about it.
I'm one of those Groundhog day eaters--I can eat the same thing for breakfast and lunch with a bit of variety at dinner and be happy. I like what I like, I like my routine.
The problem is that my routine, as of late, has not had enough vegetables in it and this needs to change. Part of next week's prep is going to be me spending a ton of time chopping, peeling, and steaming vegetables to just have ready to throw in with a meal.

As always, I'm still concerned with how much I'm eating/snacking at night, but I feel like stressing out about it is just compounding everything and making it worse. So...I'm going to try to not freak out about it anymore. Yeah, I eat a lot of sweet potatoes. Yeah, sometimes berries and coconut milk tastes like dessert and I eat it because I want that. Yeah, my goal for this whole30 was to work on my emotional issues with food.
But. But but but.
This month has been emotional for a lot of reasons not relating to food and I still need to remember that this is a journey--I will never get to a "perfect" place in my eating habits. They're going to change and shift and flux depending on where I am and the circumstances I find myself in. And that's okay. Because it's not about the food, it's about me. It's about how I feel about myself and my body and that's what I need to work on, not whether or not eating a sweet potato at 9 p.m. is going to make me fat.

So, the goals for this last week of strictness?
--More vegetables. Prep containers of veggies to add on as a side to my meals to help fill myself up and get more nutrients in.
--More sleep. Bed by 10 p.m. or as close as I can get it. Not enough sleep throws my hormones out of whack and this doesn't help anyone.
--Three workouts. I need to start enjoying what my body is capable again and part of this is getting physically active. I've got time for three workouts this week. Done.

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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.  

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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.

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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.

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words.

I bought a maxi dress for £10 today.
It was money we don't really have, but it gave me the hope of a summer and the feeling of caring about what I looked like for a half an hour, so it was probably worth it.
___________________

I have got to break out of this funk.

I've lost the eloquence and elegance I once possessed.
Right now I'm working out of a desperate attempt to grab what I used to have, and it's strange...my entire life has been spent pining for the future, for the day when I "arrive". But now, I'm pining for the past. I lay in bed at night, and close my eyes, and do my best to recreate where I used to be, the sights and sounds and smells of it all, and it helps me sleep, and escape the place that I am in.

(Wow, cause that didn't sound depressed and sad AT ALL.)

I wonder what it means that all of my dreams have sunlight in them, and that when I dream about the future (which is rare, because it's not really worth it anymore), the biggest thing I notice is the sunshine streaming through my imaginary windows, and the t-shirt I am wearing because it's warm.

(This isn't even coherent anymore).
_____________________

It's a struggle here, to be honest.
It's a struggle in every facet of my life--
being a mom
being a wife
being a follower of Christ
and everything in between.

I had a thought the other day, after my mom wrote me a letter reminding me that I will never be enough for Jameson, and that I was never meant to be. I was meant to fail him, because he needs to find Christ through my failures. My inadequacies should lead him right back to the God that loves him even more than I do, and the cracks in my human self should be the place that Christ shines through.

I keep trying to tell myself that, night after night of trying to get him to go to sleep and sobbing because I just feel like I've done everything wrong.
_____________________

Sometimes I go through these periods of deciding to be a "real" writer, and cleaning my act up: writing things with thought and flow that make sense and sound nice.
And then I always stumble back into the raw, messy part where I vomit words onto a page and it's all for me, because I just can't write for you anymore.
I don't even know who you are, so how am I supposed to know what you want?

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when the American dream meets the British reality.

By the end of next month, I will have lived in England for a year and a half.

If we're honest, I really didn't think I'd make it.

I've spent countless nights crying with homesickness, begging my husband to "please, please, let's move home" and dreaming about the day that I'd be far away from this terrible little country.

But (you knew it was coming, didn't you?)
--in the last few months, it seems I've actually "adjusted" to life in the British culture, at least enough for the desperation to give way to a quiet routine of daily living. I'm sure becoming a mother has been an instrumental part in this: I have to get out of bed and out of the house for the sake of my son. We go to rhyme time at the library, and monster music at the children's centre, and meet up with other Mommas and their babies for the sake of socialization.

In the fray of adjusting, I've also come to realize an interesting distinction between the two countries, and I think it's something that made it so difficult for me to come to terms with this place for so long:

In America, we are told, "You can do anything you want to do, if you put your mind to it. Dream big, and the sky's the limit." We are taught that we can be famous athletes, movie stars, astronauts, scientists, writers, doctors--literally anything is open to us, if we want it bad enough.

In Britain, they are not told these things. People are brutally and bluntly honest about shortcomings and where yours are. If you aren't good at something, they'll make sure you know. Kids here are not taught that the sky's the limit, rather, they are told that there definitely are limits and maybe they'll surpass them, but probably not (so best not try).

As an American, this rubs you (and me) the wrong way. It is offensive, it is pessimistic, it is wrong. "Of course, I can do that," we gasp in horror as a Brit gives us an eyebrow raise. "I can do anything I want to!" Unfortunately, this isn't actually the case (even though we don't want to admit it). I will never be an Olympic athlete (even though I like to think that I might have had a shot if I hadn't quit figure skating). I will never be an amazing singer, and I might (probably) won't ever be a world famous author. In fact, I might not do anything with my life other than being a mother and a wife. I know.


So when I would lie in bed and dream about the life my family and I would have back in America once we got out of here, it would be full of nice things--the dream house, great jobs, happy kids doing lots of fun extracurricular activities, weekly date nights, a church that allows us to use our gifts and minister well. When I compared that dream to our current life in England (and the prospect of a future here), it looked about as gray as the sky I was living under.

It is only in the last few weeks that I have really come to terms with the fact that it is okay to just live. In fact, sometimes it is better to just live where you are at, than to dream about a future you might never have. For so long I got so caught up in the dream of our life "back in America" that I forgot to put anything into the life I was currently living in England. I'm sure that I wasted opportunities, missed friendships, and generally put a damper on any positive thing that I had going for me over here--and even though that is a natural and normal part of adjusting to life in a new culture, it's still not something I'm proud of.

I spent so long bemoaning the practicalities of the English, and pitying them for their inability to dream of anything more than a quiet house in the country, that I failed to see the positive side of things. They are generally content in the lives that they lead (I mean, most are. I am making pretty sweeping generalities here). They may not tell you that, with their semi-constant complaining, but they are. Their lives are familiar and what they know, and they are all right with that. They don't feel bad for not being something greater. They do what they do, and they do it well. This is something that I have probably never done, and it is kind of, (but not really) ironic to me that God has made me live in a place that is the very definition of "blooming where you're planted".

Now, I know that there are two sides to every coin, so before I get hate mail from all the British dreamers out there, let me remind you that I am simply remarking on a side of England that I have not wanted to appreciate, but now do. I have found myself with a certain fondness for this strange, backwards country. This is slightly terrifying, because I can't hate it with a passion anymore and wish myself back in America. Yes, there are moments nearly every day when I think about how much I miss my country, but recently, this has been countered by a tinge of sadness when I think about leaving what we have invested here.

This is the birthplace of my husband and son, and it is a country that will always be a part of me. It has helped refine me in many areas, and opened my eyes to the fact that there is more than one way to live life and look at things--not wrong, just different.

Any other citizens of the world care to share your opinions?

I mean, he's the best part about England.

Peace at last.

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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.

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and over again.

It's kind of amazing to me how quickly my attitude can change when I am faced with a blinking, blank Word document, knowing that I have to hammer out 800 words on some mundane topic, as opposed to the "post" page that is just waiting for me to say whatever it is that I want.

I mean, we all know that I have a problem with authority and people telling me what to do, but this is a little ridiculous.

Anyway.

I kind of had a breakdown on the living room floor the other night.

I finished putting Jameson to bed, and as soon as I walked into the living room, he started to fuss. I had the weight of a week's worth of work needing to be finished in one night on my back, and I just couldn't take it anymore.
I didn't even cry (at first), I just laid flat on my back in the middle of the carpet and stared at the ceiling while babbling on about everything crammed into my too-small-to-carry-it-all-around brain.

"I just want to do what I'm created to do, and I don't even know what that is. I just want to do that thing that brings fulfillment, that lets me know that I am doing that thing that God put inside of me to do, but I can't find it. And how do I know when to fight for a dream that I think I could have, or settle for a life of responsibility?"

And then my wise and patient and ever-loving husband said, "What if you're not supposed to do all of the things you were created to do all at once?"

And I just thought, "I guess I'd never thought of that before."

Which is kind of dumb that I hadn't, if we're being honest. I mean, I've always tried to approach my life as having seasons, and I don't know how I didn't relate certain seasons of life to the things I'm supposed to be doing at certain times.
I was clearly not meant to be a wife and mother when I was seventeen and in college.
I probably won't be raising children when I'm seventy and living in my dream house (right? Ha).

But seriously. I'm here.
I'm a wife and a mother right now. That's what I do, it's who I am.
I also happen to write a little bit on the side to bring in some money, and if I'm not completely mentally inept after finishing that, I spit out messy words on a computer in the hopes that someone else will see and understand.
Maybe someday, or maybe even tomorrow, someone will see these words (or I'll get up the guts/energy/willpower to send them to someone) and they'll say to me, "Hey. I really think you've got important things to say, and the way you say them is intriguing and relate-able, and we want to give you some money to write more of these things and tell them to more people."
And I will be a happy, happy lady.

But for now, I need to focus on being here.
(Isn't that what it always comes back to, for me? Seriously, I don't know how anyone can keep reading this--it's got to get so redundant after awhile!)
I am enough, even without all of those roles.
I am enough when I don't write, when I don't mother, and when I don't wife.
I am enough in this depraved body, because Christ said I was enough.
And if He said so, why am I trying to say otherwise?

Ladies and Gentlemen, here sits Camille Nicole, back in the place she always finds herself--the beginning.

And it's okay.

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silence. [flashback friday]

Another post I found when looking in the "drafts" folder. Even though I'm not pregnant anymore, the sentiments remain the same. 

Confession: reading my Bible and spending time with the Lord has not been on my "Top 10 List of Things To Do" for the past few months.

I kept getting so caught up in everything else--the sheer exhaustion I felt when waking up every morning, the massive list of things I needed to get done before Jameson gets here, what I was going to eat that day, how I was going to survive the ache in my hips, etc.

I had started another daily Bible reading plan at the beginning of the year, and was doing okay for awhile, but my motivation slowly died out. This is also due to other life circumstances, but the roundabout point that I am making is that God has not been on the top of my priority list for awhile.

However, a few weeks ago I was hit with some pregnancy insomnia that had me out of bed at 6:30 am, sitting on the couch in silence. I figured that was as good a time as any to try and catch up on all of the scripture reading I had missed, so I made some coffee and got going. After figuring out where exactly I had left off and what was going on, I came across this passage:

"Like water spilled on the ground, which cannot be recovered, so we must die. But God does not take away life; instead He devises ways so that a banished person may not remain estranged from Him."

[2 Samuel 14:14]

Sitting in the silence of my living room, with the sun crawling through the blinds and a cup of coffee in my hands, it washed over me once again--God wants me.

I don't know why this is so hard for me to understand sometimes.

I don't know why it's so easy for me to sit and think about how far away I feel from God and come to the conclusion that I must have done something to get on His bad side, and He's just waiting until I grovel at His feet before He'll take me back.

I don't know why I have this fear that He's going to take away the blessings He's given me, because I haven't lived up to the "conditions" that they must come with.

Why is it that the weaknesses in our lives just keep showing up in different ways? Someday, I will beat this body of flesh and I will win the battle. Until then, I'm just going to keep going, because I can't do anything else.

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flashback friday

A snippet of a post that I started writing, but never finished:

I'm homesick today (but I'm not sure I can even explain what that means).

It's the middle of July, and there are rainclouds in the sky and a cool breeze blowing through the trees, and I just sit and think, "Where is summer?"

My son is sleeping in his swing right across from me, and the thoughts that tackle me when I look at him are overwhelming. The future seems so uncertain, especially with this new little guy, and I just feel like I am treading on unstable ground. Every day is different, down to how much sleep I get and how I feel physically. This is the biggest life change I've ever experienced, and I think I'm still in shock from it all.

I worry so much more now. I worry about his breathing, and his crying, and the little spots on his face, and the faces he makes, and all of the 'what-ifs' that hit me when we walk out the front door.

If I let it, this anxiety could consume me.
I'm sure I could attribute this to all of the hormones making their way out of my body right now, but I also know that this is probably just going to be the battle I fight for the rest of my life.
I'm a momma now, and suddenly, my heart is encapsulated in this little person, which means that I will always worry.

Six months later, and I am happy to report that the anxiety has gotten easier to manage, but is still around.


Looking back at this, I feel like I've gotten some sort of a handle on motherhood, even if it's just that I know my son now, and so am more familiar with what is normal (and what is not). I think the pendulum has swung the other way, and now I'm working on finding a balance between being a mom, and a wife, and still being myself and doing the things that feed my soul.


Any tips are greatly appreciated.

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this thing called marriage.

There have been a lot of posts lately talking about whether or not marriage is hard.

I think this was all spurned by the Driscoll's new book that came out recently, and even though I haven't read said book, I've read the posts around it.

To be honest, I was a little surprised. Most of the posts I've read have all been talking about how this thing called marriage is not hard, and the surprising ease that they found during their first year together. And while I don't discount this at all, I feel like it's not necessarily fair to those of us that did have a hard time.

Because let's be honest here (since that's what I do).

My first year of marriage was probably one of the hardest things I've ever faced.

BUT

 it was also one of the best.

And here's the thing. I got married at the ripe old age of nineteen, halfway through my second year of Bible college. When I got back to campus in the fall after we got married, I was surrounded by couples who had tied the knot that summer as well.
And that whole semester, I spent a good chunk of time worrying that we had made a mistake, because look at everyone else, they're so happy and all they talk about is how happy they are and how great marriage is, and gosh, we sure do have a lot of problems compared to everyone else...

And I just wish I had known that it was okay to wonder if we had made a mistake.
It was okay to feel like I hated this life, and to wish that I could just go back home and not do this anymore.

The problem is that no one warned me that it was going to be this hard, and that my husband and I would get in big fights late at night, and that I would cry and he would get angry, because we are imperfect, sinful people. No one wanted to talk about how marriage is like God holding up a big mirror that shows all of the bad parts of you and says, "Well kid, take a look. This is the truth, and there are parts of it that are pretty ugly." No one wanted to tell me just how selfish I was, and how I was going to have to learn how to say, "I'm sorry" and mean it even when I didn't want to.

So, I'm talking about it.
My first year of marriage was incredibly difficult, but it was also incredibly wonderful. There were moments that could have been pulled out of your favorite romantic movie, and moments that I will cherish for the rest of my life. But it was hard. And that's okay.
Because it's even better now, and I get to realize that and see how far we've come. And this is all okay with me. God has used my marriage like a refining fire, and even though I am far from done, I am proud to say that I have made progress.

And even though I sometimes get jealous of those people that have had a really easy time in their marriage, God is making me see that every relationship is different, and this just happens to be ours. Comparison is the kiss of death, it's the cause of all discontent, and it can be fatal to your marriage.

To my husband, thank you for loving me despite all of the roadblocks and difficulties we've faced. Thank you for forgiving me thousands of times, and showing me what sacrificial love looks like. Thank you for being my best friend, and making me laugh like no one else can.
I respect you so much, and I am so proud to call you my husband, and the father of my son.

To everyone else, I hope you won't judge too harshly.
And if someone else resonates with this, I hope you will realize that it's okay for something to be hard. That doesn't make it wrong, and it doesn't mean that you've made a mistake. It just means that it's going to take some work, but it's going to be worth it.

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