Me Too

The other day a friend was commenting on a funny post I made on Facebook, and he made the observation that most of what we see on Facebook is not true life. I mean, sure, I shared a candid moment, but it was mostly for laughs. It was not a “real” bad day. He said he wished he could design something where people would just share their truth, instead of the highlight reel we typically show on Instagram and Facebook. I realized he was probably onto something there. We all know this is true, most of us don’t post make up free selfies (except on R+F Go Naked day – and I can’t lie. Mine was all filtered up). We don’t post about the mornings we lose our shit and scream at our kids. We never tell about when we forget to show up to be class reader for our 2^nd grader, or when we don’t speak to our families, or deal with an addiction, or mental health, or have a falling out with a friend or are just really, really in the ditch of depression. I’ve been in that ditch, more than once, and I’ve never told my story. I’m not saying we should share every single moment of our lives. Have you seen the movie The Circle? No thank you Emma Watson. There is such a thing as over-sharing (you all know someone who does it). But Brene Brown has a really good theory about when it’s ok to share the gritty things with the world at large. The litmus test is that if you are looking for your healing from the act of sharing – it’s not time. If it infringes on someone else’s privacy, even your child’s, and you don’t have their permission – it’s not time. If you’re seeking validation of who you are or how you feel – it’s not time. But if you can pass this test, and still have that quiet voice inside that says “it’s time to share”, then you can and should do it. It’s a voice I’ve been ignoring for a long time.

                I have a t-shirt that simply says “We Can Do Hard Things”. It’s my quiet reminder that I don’t give myself enough credit. And I find lately that most of my Sheroes are women who do hard things. They say hard things. They speak truth and they tell people as much as they can wisely share. Because it matters that we tell our stories. I’ve needed to hear theirs. I’ve needed to know what they learned. They made me think. They challenged me. They showed me a bigger world and a better way. Their passions ignited something in me. Glennon Melton, AbbyWambach, Anne Voskamp, Beth Moore, Luvvie Ajayi,  Ellen Degeneres, Patty Griffin, Indigo Girls,Danielle Walker, Melissa Hartwig, and my imaginary best friend of course, JenHatmaker. They have suffered some for their honesty, but they do it anyway. In these years of my life where I have felt down, when I didn’t write, when I didn’t take care of myself, their words in blogs, books, twitter, poetry, song, whatever medium God gifted them with….they used them to lift me up. They sent them out into the world, knowing they weren’t alone in what they struggled with or were passionate about and that someone, somewhere, might need to hear them. That someone was me.

The lyrics of Patty Griffin to this day are a hug from an old friend. She’s sat on many back porches with me and held my heart so gently in her songs. Glennon Melton makes me proud to be 40. She makes me excited to have reached this age where I can just be me, and not need permission for being honest. She gives me an avenue to be a real, tangible help through Together Rising. Luvvie Ajayi challenges me and opens my mind and makes me laugh because even though she’s slinging some hard truth, she’s awesome and hilarious. Melissa Hartwig makes me believe I can consciously craft my own health and wellness and be a badass at it. And Jen Hatmaker and Beth Moore, well, they saved my faith when it was almost gone. They all taught me to love bigger, see broader, be braver, try harder, and listen to my own voice. If they had never shared their words, I wouldn’t have been able to learn those things. Words are important. Being brave enough to share them is a gift they gave to me and many others.

                Last weekend, my brother was here. We discussed what my next 40 years might look like. He said, “Don’t discount using your experience to help someone else who might be just starting the road you’ve been walking.” He’s right. I don’t know what that looks like yet, or how I want to start. But if we have knowledge or experience, or even most importantly – Empathy – we are remiss to keep that to ourselves. While he was touching on a health and spiritual journey I’ve been on, one that is still developing, these two separate conversations sparked in me a desire to share some writing that I penned a long time ago. When I was just healing and finally doing some really hard work in counseling about my own #metoo story. While those close to me have read some of it, I’ve never shared it with the world at large. It felt too personal, too raw, and too open. But the conversation on social media, the power I’ve seen from many of my Sheroes, the ones who don’t want to be silenced, have made me want to be a part of this very necessary dialogue. I think the most powerful words in the English language are “Me, too”. Especially for women, we are so mean to ourselves inside. We think we are the only ones that deal with shame, with feelings of inadequacy, insecurity, the demon of comparison. When Tarana Burke chose those words as her hash tag, I think she must have known that. There is power in not being alone. There is power in sisterhood. There is power in our voices raised together. And so, while I’m not going to tell the details of my story, and I probably never will, I can share some of the poetry it gave birth to. I don’t need to tell my intricacies to heal. I healed as much as possible a long time ago. But you’re never the same after a #metoo experience; it’s something you always carry. If I can share my most raw poems and someone reads them, maybe they’ll know that somewhere in Texas, I know just how you feel. That I am with you, I pray for you, and you are not alone. None of us are. It gets better. But we should never be silent about it. Let’s keep the truth telling going. It’s the most powerful thing we have.

As Margaret Thatcher said, “It took me quite a long time to develop a voice. Now that I have it, I am not going to be silent.”

#metoo

Tears From the Past

I know now why so many times

I cried for no reason

Something would just set it off

Like a fire without a spark

Or a waterfall with no river to feed it

I know now why the drive

Home seemed so long

And the job was never enough

Or the story of the victim

Struck a chord so deep inside my old soul

 I know now why the tears that

Came for the self-ruined relationships

Were not for the man I

Had just broken or failed somehow

They were for the shame hidden inside me 

The knowledge comes to me like

A beast in the closet that

I've never acknowledged but

When you shine the light on it

It's not a beast at all but a memory never dealt with

 It's the mountain I never climbed

And the task I couldn't accomplish

The rage I never screamed

The prayer I never prayed and the contest

I couldn't win because I had to admit what I lost first

It's the tears of my past that I couldn't cry

That I wouldn't recognize

That held me back all along

From becoming the person I was always meant to be

Because I never cried for the little girl inside

I never told her I was sorry

And that it wasn't her fault

It's her tears that have crept out

From time to time

Like the slow leak of a dam that's trying to break through

 It's her tears that I will cry now

And acknowledge at last the damage done

So together we can reshape the soul

That makes the beautiful victory

Of me and that little girl going forward to conquer the world.



Puzzle Pieces


All of us are puzzles

Shaped together by different pieces

Unique, different from your neighbor’s

Or your sister’s or father’s

Sometimes things happen to our puzzles

When they are young and still fitting together

Or old and fit, yet brittle or fragile

And yours falls apart

A little like humpty dumpty

All the king’s horses and your will

Or heart or broken soul

Can’t put the pieces together again

So you walk along with this broken puzzle

All your life, struggling to carry

Your burdens and keep track

Of the pieces

You saved to fit together again someday

But they never will

Until suddenly you realize

You have to let God reshape them

With hammering and biting and

Incredible heat and screaming and

Fisted hands with careful attention

And it burns and binds and breaks your insides

You feel as though your guts are

On fire and some days you can’t take the pain

But like precious metal or steel can be beautified

With the right amount of patience and heat

The tender hands of God, the blacksmith

Can begin to temper the broken puzzle pieces

To build a bright and shiny new landscape

After the pain, after the fire

After the suffering and broken back from

All the years of lugging your burdens

After you stand under the microscope and burn

Your demons like ants on a Texas summer day

Your pieces will begin to fit

Shaped by a heavenly forge and His hands

To create the puzzle that was waiting inside you

Cocooned by eons of self protection and uncried tears

Bright and with a beautiful hue

That pieces never broken can never have

But yours, because they have had

Such sculpting and pain

Love and Sorrow

All in one lifetime - they are different

They are shaped to fit the puzzle that is

Raw, awesome, and without bitterness

Because the heavenly fire charred it all away

Leaving only the shine gleaming

Your puzzle is now complete again in a new way

A better way, a way you could never foresee

And you didn’t need the king’s men after all

You just needed the King.

~ Rachel Massey

               

What a Makeup Party Taught Me About White Privilege

About a year ago I hosted a makeup party at my house. It was the kind where everyone shows up with no makeup on and takes turns in the artist’s chair having their faces  all dolled up. The hope is that you’ll love what they’ve done and want to buy all the products. It works pretty well (I bought all the things), and it’s a fun night. I invited all my friends. I love gatherings and we were going to have wine and snacks and makeup and laughs. What’s better? A week or so before the party I got a private message from one of my friends, asking me if they had makeup for “women like her”. My friend is black. Honestly, I sat with that for a minute. I never considered they might not. I immediately responded, “Yes, I’m sure they do!” She asked me to double check, so I did. I let her know the minute I got a reply that yes, they did carry makeup for her skin tone, and that I hoped I’d see her at the party. She responded saying thank you; that it wasn’t that she didn’t want to come to the party. But if they don’t sell a product she can use it’s just not as much fun and honestly, kind of awkward. To this day, she has no idea how much that question changed my views.

It never crossed my mind they wouldn’t have make up for black skin tones, because never in my life have I had to consider that someone might not sell makeup for my skin tone. That, my friends, is white privilege.

All of a sudden I felt like a light bulb went on. It has nothing to do with money, or upbringing, or education, or where you live, or your job. It has to do with our society defaulting to white, or more appropriately, not black. In the year since, here’s a list of just a few of the things that crossed my mind as I’ve sat with this, and pondered how she must feel.

     1.       I’ve never considered someone might not sell my shade of makeup.

     2.       I’ve never had to wonder if a salon or hair dresser could do my hair, or carried the appropriate products for my hair.

     3.       I go to Wal-mart or Target and there are hundreds of lotions and hair products appropriate for me. I’ve never seen “my” products relegated to a small space at the bottom of the shelf, at the end of the aisle.

     4.       I’ve never wondered if me or my kids would be accepted or rejected because of the color of our skin.

     5.       Growing up, I never wondered if someone’s parents would be ok with their son or daughter hanging out with me. To be fair, there may have been other reasons they paused, but not the color of my skin.

     6.       I’ve never experienced what it’s like to be the only person of my color in the room.

     7.       I’ve never, until recently, wondered what it’s like for a black person to walk by a statue of a confedederate war “hero”. What would it be like to see a statue honoring someone that fought against my right to exist in public spaces? My right to be free?

     8.       I’ve never worried that things might go backwards socially, and the battles my parents and grandparents fought could also be my children and grandchildren’s battles.

     9.       My race has never once crossed my mind during a traffic stop.

   10.      I’ve never known what it would mean to me to be called a minority, because I am and have always been the majority.

There are people who say that the counter protestors in Charlottesville started it. That they acted just as badly as the supremacists. I’ve never heard anything more ludicrous. How would I react if people were literally organizing a protest against my very existence? Would I be kind? Accepting? Calm? Or would I be outraged? Incensed? Incredulous? Would I stand idly by if people marched against my right to exist in public spaces because of the color of my skin? My child’s right to an equal world? I wouldn’t. I would be on the front row fighting with everything in me. And until we stand on the front row with black people, it’s not going to change. I read something this week that it needs to be heard from white mouths that racism, egregious or subtle, aggressive or micro-aggressive, will not be tolerated in any way, shape, or form. That the space we occupy will also be occupied on an equal basis with every color, creed, orientation, language, and religion. Freedom isn’t freedom and equality isn’t equality if we don’t.

The phrases “white privilege” and “black lives matter” aren’t meant to put a lesser value on white lives or blue lives or any other lives. It’s just saying that black lives matter AS MUCH as ours. Owning up to white privilege doesn’t make us bad people, unless we continue to fight for it to stay that way. It’s saying we see it and we want to be a part of changing it. It’s not about money. It doesn’t matter how much money you have to buy the makeup IF THEY DON’T SELL YOUR MAKEUP. It matters that we see it. It matters that we get it. It matters that we say it. It matters that we listen. What affects some of us affects all of us, the world we are building is the world all our children will live in. I want a better world, where the prejudices and the attitudes of the past stay in the past. We are stronger together. 

White privilege is real. I want to be part of changing it. Black Lives Matter.

On Being Last

I look back over my life and I see that in some areas, I have a trend. It’s called “If I can’t be the best I don’t want to play.” Some of you may also suffer from this syndrome. I wasn’t good at sports….so I stuck to dance and cheering. I loved them. But the year I blew my knee out and got moved to the back row of the recital, I quit (I feel like such a schmuck admitting that). Student teaching was hard and I figured out I REALLY didn’t want to be a teacher (much love to you teachers, it’s a calling for sure), so I changed my major – in the middle of my senior year of college. I could have stuck with it, should have stuck with it. But it was hard, and I didn’t like it. My mom and dad were good about pushing us to keep our commitments, to learn about doing what you said you would and the importance of it. But I see that when I could get away with it, I stepped away from things that were harder for me. I know this sounds petty – are these things hard? Really? No, in the grand scheme of things, they aren’t. But I’m learning, at 36 years of age, that even on the small stuff I don’t want to be like that anymore.

I started running a month ago, if you want to call it running. It’s really more of a power walk with a bounce in it. Let me lay the stage for you :

I HATE RUNNING.

 I have hated it since Jr. High when (big surprise!) I was dead last in every race…and I quit. But I’m part of a mom’s group and they make this running group sounds so good. They look good, they feel good, they have so much fun, they have coffee after early morning runs. It seems beautiful, and serene, and inspiring. There are beautiful sunrise pictures. So I got conned into a 5K.

 

They roped me in because they serve champagne after the race. Nobody told me there was actual running.

Here’s how I thought this running thing would go down. It would be hard for a week or two, probably really hard, but I would persevere. I would discover my inner runner and finally, after all these years, I would get what all the crazy runner people are going on, and on, and on, and on (y’all know you do) about. I would lead the pack, lose 40 lbs, and become a natural runner that loves to get up on Saturday mornings and greet the sun. We are one month in to run training. I missed a whole week because my shins tried to tell me this was a bad idea by pulling away from my bones. So I bought new shoes and compression socks (those socks and I have a history, anyone else get to wear them while prego?). It became less painful on the shins, but now I’m a week behind. I’m on 2 minute intervals and everyone else is on 3. This is becoming not as much fun. I seriously CANNOT STAND to be behind. So I skipped 3 minute training and jumped to 4 minute tonight on our group run. Oh, and added another interval. No big. I’m going to rock it , right? Except not.

Two intervals in I've decided that I will die soon. I can’t breathe, my back hurts, there’s a whole lotta shaking going on, and I am counting the seconds until my walking interval. Some people say they zone out and forget about running while it’s actually happening. I don’t know what they smoke before but I want some. I am counting every second of this agony until I can stop. Sometimes even the half seconds. About halfway through I realize I can’t do this. I’m going to pass out, or vomit, or maybe pee my pants (I’ve had two kids you know, these things happen). I start to run 3 minutes (bouncy power walking – not breaking any land speed records), power walk a minute, and walk a minute. I mean, I can walk just about as fast as I can run, so what's the difference? And then I realize – I am dead last. Visions of 8^th grade track and being the slowest one out there are spinning through my head.  I’m thinking, “What the hell am I trying to prove? I hate this. I’m going to quit.” A tiny little voice in my head said, “Pray about it”. In a fit of irritation, because I didn't want to ask for help, I wanted to quit - I asked for help. If God was there with me and if he cared about this running thing, to give me wings. Renew my strength or something. And you know what? He so didn’t.

Instead my instructor Maria notices me flagging (she has a sixth sense about people about to quit – it drives her mad) and she drops back. I may have f-bombed her and pleaded with her to run ahead of me. Because I knew, if she ran with me, she wouldn’t let me quit, and my pride wouldn’t let me quit. And I really, really, really wanted to quit. I mean, we're talking "back row of the recital" want to quit. Instead she talked my head off trying to distract me and we walked/ran the last intervals together. She prompted me “run to that tree” and I would do it, and say, “we can walk now?” and she would say, “no, run to the next one.” She’s mean like that. J

And as we finally finished… I was still dead last. I was still fighting back tears and considering vomiting. I felt slow, stupid, and like it was a waste of time for me to even try this. I mean - I was last - did I mention that? People walk faster than I run. I was last, and I still felt like vomiting because it was so hard. I’m not good at this. I’m not anywhere close to the front of the pack and I don’t think I ever will be. My inner runner is silent, perhaps because she does not exist. My natural inclination is that I’m not going to excel, so I don’t want to play. I stretched and came home, and couldn’t sleep because my calves were on fire. So I started thinking, and I made a decision.

I’m not going to quit.

I have a few reasons why but these are the biggies.

1.       I need a good, fat dose of humble pie. Does the world care if I can run fast? Do I really think all the other moms felt sorry for me? Yeah, actually, for a minute I did. And then I mentally punched my self-centered ass. I run with the most amazing group of women. They cheered because they’re proud of me. They know it’s hard for me, but I didn’t quit. I ran 3 miles. Yes, I was at a 12:43 per mile, but that’s the first time since 8^th grade I’ve run 3 miles. Maybe the first time ever. I cheered for them and I meant it. I would never feel anything but pride for someone else who kept trying. I made a commitment to them and to myself to run this race. It may be the only race I ever run, or I may learn to tolerate it (notice I didn’t say “love”), but I will finish this one with these women because we support each other.

Lighting it up blue for World Autism Awareness Day to support our mommy friends

2.       If this is what I do when it’s hard to do something as simple as running, I need to take a good hard look in the mirror. Am I so juvenile that I’m going to take my toys and go home until my friends are ready to play a game I like? (Yes, I kind of am, but I’m working through this). This is nothing. This is easy. Life throws some ugly curve balls. I see people every day and I think I could never do what they do. Humans are amazing. The amount of crap we can put up with and keep smiling is simply a miracle. I have only this one body. And if I quit the minute something is hard, or I feel discomfort, then I’m not the woman I thought I was. I want to look at running as a metaphor for all the hard things in life. It’s not supposed to be easy, you’re just supposed to put one foot in front of the other, and eventually, you cross the finish line.

 

 

3.       My kids are watching, especially my 4 year old. Every Tuesday when I get home from running group he wants to drink out of the run belt water bottles. He says they have “running power”. He tells me goodbye at least a 100 times and to have fun and that he will miss me. He cheers for me when I run. He knows I love to go to “exercise with the mommies”. If I quit, he will watch that too. Even if I am dead last in the race, he will see me running across the finish line and know that Mommy did something that was hard for her.

 

"Magic water with super running power"

4.       God answered my prayer. I asked for strength (I was hoping for an angel to push me from behind or something, is that too much to ask?). He didn’t give me strength, he gave me a friend. A coach to push me. I choose to believe it was a gentle, “Don’t quit, and here’s someone you might cuss at right now but she will help you.” (sorry for the f-bomb MariaJ) He’s listening, and he cares, and my friends care, and that’s enough reason to go past as many trees as I need to. Clearly, I have some things to learn, and perhaps running can teach them to me.

"Even youths grow tired and weary,
    and young men stumble and fall;
but those who hope in the Lord
    will renew their strength.
They will soar on wings like eagles;
    they will run and not grow weary,
    they will walk and not be faint."

Isaiah 40:30-31



 

I am stronger than I know. This has become, in the last hour anyway, about more than running. I have to believe I can do hard things, things I don’t necessarily enjoy. I have to believe I can show my kids I can do them, so they believe they can do them. I have to show them, and myself, that we keep our promises and finish the race, whatever form that may take. I have to get out of my comfort zone. I have to accept that I will not always be the best; that in fact I might be last, but I can always be a finisher.

12:43 a mile. Owning it. Let’s do this, feet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let the Children Come to Me

 

 

 

Lately there have been a lot of blogs going around Facebook about giving grace to little kids in church, or how parenting toddlers is like managing little dictators. Those are all good words and great advice, and I’ll be the first to stand and applaud when they are said. It’s hard being a parent. It’s often lonely and frustrating and I always feel like I’m getting at least half of it wrong. But it’s one thing for me to look at a struggling friend and say, “Hey, it’s ok. He’s fine. He’s a kid! You’re doing great!” – it’s quite another for me to say that to myself. I’ll be the first to give grace to another’s child that is screaming in the floor, but I rarely give it to myself.

Since our second boy has been born, we’ve been struggling with his big brother. My big boy is a three year old, rambunctious, loud, strong-willed, too-smart-for-his-own-good kid on a normal day. When you add in the turmoil of emotions that older siblings experience with the birth of a new baby, it gets crazy REAL fast. We are working through these things. But even before our current turmoil, I caught myself projecting my own insecurities onto my kid. If he had a less than stellar report at school or acted up at church, or maybe didn’t play so nice at the playground – I took credit for that. I wore that on my shoulders. I’m not disciplining right. I’m not controlling my kid. If he had a great day, I also took credit for that. I saw this “mothering list” from LysaTerkeurst awhile back and thought it was great advice:

1.  Don’t take too much credit for their good.

2.  Don’t take too much credit for their bad.

3.  Don’t try to raise a good child.  Raise a God-following adult.

I thought I was following this, but I wasn’t. I was trying so hard to shove my child into a “perfection mold”, the very same mold I always try to shove myself into and never succeed. I didn’t realize it until today when I picked him up from church camp. We’ve been working on good behavior and not acting out. I told his teachers that he was going through the adjustment with the new baby. But I could tell he was stressing them out. I could tell his behavior had been less than stellar. Maybe they weren’t used to boys. Maybe they had expectations that were a little unfounded. These ladies are volunteering their time at a church camp so whatever the dynamic, I want to give them some grace. They don’t know my child and haven’t been in our home. With trepidation today I picked him up and as he ran to me with a big smile on his face, I saw the teacher with a not big smile on her face behind him. My heart fell. As I had to tell him he didn’t “do good”, his face collapsed. My face collapsed. We both walked out in tears.

In my quiet time last night I came upon the story of Jesus telling his disciples to “let the little children come unto me.” There is an account of the story in Matthew, Mark, and Luke, so obviously this was an important moment. Here is the account from Mark:

People were bringing little children to Jesus for him to place his hands on them, but the disciples rebuked them. When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.”  Mark 10:13-14

In my head for all these years, I’ve pictured that scene as something like this – Jesus is seated, possibly surrounded by a halo of light, and mothers are bringing their children to Jesus. The children are sweet, clean, quiet, and patiently waiting in line. Sort of like Santa Claus, but better.  The mothers are patient. The children are cherubs. It’s possible choirs of angels are singing softly in the background. And obviously the disciples, who are always screwing up, are just children hating jerks.

As I read this, now that I’m a mom, I realized it probably didn’t look like that at all. Maybe Jesus was teaching, and the kids were crying. Maybe the disciples were afraid he would be distracted by mothers correcting their kids, shushing their babies. Maybe one kid was fighting with his brother and wiped a booger on one of the disciples’ robes. Maybe someone whined, “Is it my turrrnnnn yet??” Probably someone said, “I’m HUNGRY mom!! Did you bring any snacks?”  And for sure someone yelled, “I need to go potty!!”  It was probably hot, and everyone was sweaty, and tired, and definitely cranky. Some of the moms may have yelled,  some may have cried in frustration.

To me, that’s a more realistic picture. Jesus was just some guy their parents wanted them to meet. Children aren’t born with a sense of reverence and understanding of God like we think they should be, at least mine weren’t. If they were then babies would never cry during baptisms, toddlers would never throw things in church, and my niece wouldn’t have loudly announced during the Thanksgiving prayer one year, “I don’t WANT to talk to Jesus!!!”

What I love about this is in the midst of all this, Jesus rebukes not the children, but the disciples as they try to send the children away. He says, “Let the little children come to me.” And they come, just as they are. Don’t you know some of them cried as he held them? Don’t you wonder if a baby spit up on him? I know at least one of them was shy and hid behind her mother’s skirts and refused to get in his lap. Yet he loved on them, and blessed them, and said that they would inherit the Kingdom of God. He said we should all be like them. We should all be real - we should all be who we are. After all, it’s how he made us.

I don’t mean to say that children don’t need correcting and discipline. I’m not about to stop shushing my child in church, or taking away privileges if he hits or kicks. And heaven save me from the tattling! But I want to stop expecting my child to be perfect, and by extension, expecting that I have to be perfect. I’m not. I’m just a mom, struggling to do this right. And he’s just a kid, experiencing a big world that’s exciting and scary and always changing. And if I always beat him down and never tell him good job, he’s going to be more and more afraid of it. He’s going to start to feel like who he is isn’t right somehow. And I’d rather get a thousand bad reports than do that to him. There is a time and a place for correction, and there is a time and a place for just letting your kids come to you, and telling them you love them. God created my son to be headstrong, and rambunctious. Someday those talents will serve him well. While I need to teach him to respect authority and how to live in our social world, how to play well with others, he doesn’t have to get it down pat at age 3. He is who he is because my God created him, knit him in my womb and knows the number of hairs on his head. He loves Sammy. He loves me. I’m pretty sure he knows we’re not perfect.

I sometimes wish that the bible had more details. I’d love to know what it was really like the day those children were waiting to see Jesus. But at least in this case, I know why God chose to let those tidbits be left out. Can you imagine if your child was immortalized in the Bible as the one who threw a tantrum at the feet of Jesus?! God loves us moms too much to do that to us. He doesn’t see tantrum throwers, he sees children, whom he loves so much he calls us all to have faith just as they do, even when this happens at the family photo shoot:

 



Mac and Cheese Miracles

There is a place in Houston, in the 3^rd ward to be exact, where miracles happen every day. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. God is working at a little school called Generation One. I’ve had the privilege to be part of a group that provided lunch for these kiddos and the staff every Friday for 6 weeks. It is a small, peripheral role, but I really thought I would be helping and blessing these kids even with this limited involvement. But as often happens with these things, I was totally wrong. In doing nothing but walking in, saying hi and delivering sack lunches, I was helped and blessed more than I could ever give back. It all started when a friend of mine decided that she could get together a bunch of women out here in Katy, TX, and provide lunch for this small Christian school. In doing so it frees up a chunk of the school’s budget and makes a place for a few more kids. Gives a few families a little more hope for the future of their children.

On the second to last week my group decided to do a hot lunch. It was nothing fancy, baked macaroni and cheese (recipe courtesy of the Pioneer Woman – thanks, Ree), baby carrots, homemade bread, and juice boxes. My friend and I headed down to Generation One armed with what we thought was plenty of food to feed about 56 hungry mouths. Ya’ll should know that I’m a worrier by nature. Each week I count and recount lunches and check and re-check names against the roster. The minute we unloaded the food in the kitchen and started heating, I looked around and knew we didn’t have enough. It just wasn’t as much as I thought it would be.  As my friend Shannon drove the first set of lunches over the building that housed Kindergarten and 1^st grade, I was near tears in the kitchen praying. In this neighborhood there isn’t a drive thru you can run to and pick up extra lunches. There isn’t even a grocery store. If we didn’t have enough, it would be disastrous. We could go get more food, but someone would be eating late after we’d had to drive down the highway, and it would be obvious that someone got left out.

About that time a staff member came over and had a request. There was a small business meeting at 11:30; could we make 5 extra plates? In despair I knew there was no way we had five extra plates, but I didn’t have the heart to say no, so I said yes and prayed this would somehow work out. I don’t think I’ve ever chanted “loaves and fishes God, please just give me loaves and fishes” with that much fervency. I’m sure you can guess what happened next. We filled every plate for every class, every teacher, and every staff member. I looked up and we had a half a loaf of bread left and a half a tray of macaroni – just enough for 5 extra plates. And as it so happened, I had just enough extra scripture verse cards that each plate also carried a “love note” from us (what the kids call the daily scripture they get in their lunches). But God didn’t even stop there – there was enough bread for everybody in the meeting to have not one, but two slices of homemade bread. I had been the most worried about the bread, because I made it, and I was terrified my offering would fall short. What kind of God pays attention to those kinds of details?

Miracles – they happen.

As we were finishing up plating a young man I’d seen walking around the school came in with one of the school leaders. When I say young man I mean he couldn’t have been more than 17. I assumed he volunteered there, worked there, was delivering something, etc. But no, he was introduced to us as the father of a precious little girl in the preschool class. He had come to the school to conference with the staff because he was worried about his daughter and wanted to know how he could help her with her schooling at home. He wanted to know how he could be more involved. Here’s a boy, no more than a kid himself, who lives in a neighborhood with very little hope and desperate poverty, and he’s showing up to be a dad to his little girl. It made me wonder if I could be so strong in the midst of such circumstances.  What kind of resolve does it take to be a responsible, 17 year old dad in a neighborhood where such a thing may not always be valued? I have prayed for that young father every day since. He looked at our plates and asked what we were making. When I said mac and cheese his eyes lit up. Doesn’t mac and cheese affect everyone that way? There’s just something good about it. We offered him a plate, because of course, no surprise by now, we had enough for one more. I don’t know if he took it after we left, I hope he did. If anyone deserves a hot lunch made with love, that young man did.

Miracles – they happen.

I tell you this story to remind you of a few things. God is alive in our world. He’s working hard in places we never see. Every time I leave Generation One I feel unworthy. I couldn’t figure out exactly where that feeling came from, until a friend of mine explained it – because that’s where Jesus is. In a small school, in a poverty-stricken neighborhood, I’ve been in the presence of Jesus. I am unworthy to be there, but by his grace I can be. I can be blessed by more thank you’s and Velcro hugs and delighted smiles from children than any one person deserves.

Second, as you celebrate Thanksgiving this week, give thanks for this moment, right now, and let go of your worries, even if just for a day. Don’t think of what you will buy at black Friday. Don’t worry about what Santa will bring. For your life just give thanks. We have so much. We have no idea what poverty is. We have no idea what goes on in the corners of the world, even in our very community. Until we see it, we sometimes can miss the light God is shining in those corners. The light he wants to shine on us if we but give him the chance. So don’t worry about tomorrow, just live today and every day in gratitude that there is a loving Father who makes sure everyone has a plate and a place at the table. If you get a chance, give something to someone else. It really is in giving it away that the biggest blessings come.

And even if your table is not the turkey feast that many of us associate with Thanksgiving, even if you have nothing but simple fare, give thanks. Because I’m here to tell you, God can do some amazing miracles with nothing more than mac and cheese.

"People will come from east and west and north and south, and will take their places at the feast in the kingdom of God. Indeed there are those who are last who will be first, and first who will be last.” Luke 13:29-30

If you'd like to learn more about or support Generation One, please go to https://www.generationone.net/donate. Or if you're in the Houston area and would like a tour or would like to get involved in the lunch program, please contact me. We would love to have you. :)

The Morning After...

This morning following (and leading up to) the Presidential election, people are being so ugly on both sides of the fence. Jen Hatmaker took a beating on social media last night for trying to be a voice of reason. I unsuscribed from and hid from my news feed on Facebook friends from both sides of the aisle, because I simply could not stand any more vitriol and hate. Talk of secession, assasination (yes, from normally semi-reasonably intelligent people), gloating over republicans and rubbing their faces in it, calling people bigots and gay-haters because they happened to support Romney, and worst of all, claiming you couldn't be a Christian if you stood on one side or the other, depending on who's viewpoint you agreed with. It's all too much. I'm seriously considering a Facebook fast. 

I want to ask people today, what changed, really? Our house is still here. Our mortgage is the same. Our bank accounts, precious little though they may be, are the same. My car still works and the back end is still wrecked. There may be economic change in our future. I hope there is. But it's not happening today. And nothing we can do will change the Kingdom calendar anyway. It's a matter of faith. 

Many other things remained unchanged that have nothing to do with the economics of you and me. People still live in tent city in Haiti. Children in the 3rd ward of Houston are still hungry and their parents are still without hope. There is still work to be done, and most likely it won't be done by any one government or president. It will be done, or not done, by you and me. But mostly, I am thankful today. This beautiful morning I woke up and the sun rose. My son is sleeping in after waking me up at 5:45. I spent a long time in prayer and thought because of that early rise. I'm thankful for everything, down to cats that live a long time and sit next to me while I pray. I'm thankful for my marriage, my family, my home. Tim still has a job and today I'm still a stay at home mom. I'm thankful for our country, for the men and women that defend it. I'm thankful that in our country, change can and does come. I'm thankful that I'm not in charge of that change, in any way shape or form. 

I prayed for our president. I prayed for humility, kindness, understanding, acceptance, wisdom, and love - both from him and for him. I prayed for his children and his wife. I prayed for his marriage. I will never forget Dr. Mann preaching at Riverbend after he had prayed at the National Prayer Breakfast when Clinton was president. It was right in the middle of the scandal and he said Clinton looked like a broken man. Dr. Mann said he walked over to him, put his hand on his shoulder and said, "Mr. President, I believe in you. I have faith in you, and I pray for you every day." He said Clinton got tears in his eyes and hugged him, and could barely get out the words, "Thank you." Presidents need our prayers. They have feelings and desires and hopes. They want and need people to believe in them. In my heart I believe they all really want to change the country for the better, and they all aspire to do so because they love America.

We are all just people, even those in power. We are all loved by God, created by Him. Not one of us is more right, better, more loved, or has God's ear more than the other. I wish I could find a way to say that on Facebook so that people would listen, but I know they won't. So I prayed for healing and a settling down. I'm sure every election year is like this. I'm sure the people who hated Bush felt the same way when he was elected as those who hate Obama. There is always a winner and loser and if you live long enough, your side will lose. We forget how to be gracious winners and losers in our adult lives. We teach our children to congratulate the winning team, shake their hand, and keep their heads up in defeat. My dad always taught us to be gracious in defeat and in victory. Somehow as adults it's become ok to forego basic human courtesy and decency. I hate the lines that we draw in humanity. Racial, sexual orientation, religious, economic, political party. Jesus doesn't draw lines, he never has. He just came to love us all, and that was his greatest commandment to us before He ascended to heaven. That if we were to call ourselves His followers:

“A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another." John 13:34

"I urge, then, first of all, that petitions, prayers, intercession and thanksgiving be made for all people— for kings and all those in authority, that we may live peaceful and quiet lives in all godliness and holiness.” 1 Timothy 2:1-2 NIV

To All the Moms Who Loved Enough to Say "No"

This is for all the moms out there who said “no”, but most especially for my own.

When I was a teenager, I swore I would never be like my mom. I would give my children so much more freedom and would not nag them so much. I would nurture them more and scold them less. In my narrow minded 16 year old view, my mom stunted my creativity and kept me far too confined. She, quite simply, did not understand me.

Me at about age 16, brimming with wisdom

Now, however, I am a parent.

My son Sammy, happily drooling candy I just told him not to eat

Although my son is only 2, I already can look ahead and know that I will be everything like her. I can look back and see what an ungrateful wretch I was and feel a burning need to apologize. I suppose that God allows our children to be just like us as a reminder of what we put our mothers through. I know my grandmother used to say that to my mom, and now she will say it to me, and I will say it to my kids someday. But even more than saying, “I’m sorry”, I want to say “thank you” to my mom, and all the moms out there, for a few things I never thought I’d be grateful for.  (I tried to keep the list to a nice, rounded, Top 10, but there was too much I wanted to say):

1.       Thank you for giving me a curfew. I thought you were keeping me too controlled, but in retrospect I see you were trying to give me the most out of life as possible while still keeping me safe. It’s true, nothing good happens to teenagers after midnight.

2.        Thank you for forcing me to have a childhood. I wanted to be a grown up way before I was ready to be one. Now I look back on those years with a fierce gratefulness. Thank you for creating memories that later on I would treasure, when in my eagerness to grow up, I might have missed them.

3.    Thank you for making me study (I wish I’d listened more in college). In America one of our greatest blessings is an education for everyone. We truly can be whatever we want to be, but you have to grasp the opportunities presented to you.

4.       Thank you for broadening my horizons. You tried very hard to show me there was a big world out there, and that I was not the center of it. Valuable lesson.

5.       Thank you for forcing me to learn responsibility. I was expected to show up when I said I would and take care of business. You never allowed me to shirk things. It taught me integrity.

6.       Thank you for punishing me when I lied (which was kind of a lot there for awhile). Everything I was lying about was something I didn’t need to do anyway. It taught me honesty and accountability (Dad had a hand in this with the “talks” as well – but that’s another blog post!)

7.       Thank you for making it completely impossible to sneak around. I never tried to skip school because I would have gotten busted anyway by you or one of your 14 billion friends who worked for the school system.

8.       Speaking of your friends, thank you for bringing lots of other wonderful, loving, mother figures into my life. None of them ever hesitated to send me home when I needed sending. The lot of you were a bunch of tattletales when it came to each other’s kids. I hope I have friends that love me and my kids that much too.

9.       Thank you for creating a home that all my friends loved. Most of them thought you were awesome and didn’t really understand my pain. They loved our house, everyone did. I know now what kind of effort that took. Ours was the home everyone wished they had.

10.   Thank you for not judging me on the really big stuff. In those times, you knew it was more important to be there for me than to tell me how stupid I was (at least not right away…). :)

11.   Thank you for waking me up for church even when I really didn’t want to go. You were laying a foundation. Thank you for teaching me that worship is about God, not me.

12.   Thank you for teaching me that sometimes, the most love a parent can give comes in the form of the word, “No.”

Shortly after my son was born I called my mom and apologized. Once I held my child, I knew how much she loved me, and I understood. But I wanted to write it again on Mother’s day, to her and all the mothers out there who said no. You taught us how to be grown ups, how to be in the service of God, how to be parents. You created as safe a place as possible in the world for us to be children. Thank you for not believing us when we said we hated you. Thank you for not giving up on us after we wrecked the car….again. Thank you for believing we were going to figure it out someday, when often it really looked doubtful. Thank you, now that we’re grown, for laughing at the memories of our struggles. Even our mess ups can now be happy memories. My sister says that heaven is going to be our neighborhood. We will all have houses down the street from each other. We will ride our bikes together every night and eat popsicles and homemade ice cream on the driveway. The fact that she feels that way is not out of the clear blue - that was our childhood. Those memories didn’t happen by accident, my mom made them happen. Though a small part of me still believes I will never be as good at this as my mom was, I know in my heart I will be a good mom, because I had the one that was just perfect for me.

Hug a mom this weekend, we need it. We may do this motherhood journey in different ways, but we all walk the road with love.

 Happy Mother’s Day to all the wonderful mothers in my family, all of whom frequently told me "no" (including my sister). I cherish you all!

My sister, my mom, me, and my mother's mom (Dada) circa 1982

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My dad and his mother (Grandmommy) circa 1947

"Her children arise and call her blessed...." Proverbs 31:28