be Real with me

i see you sigh when the new day dawns.

pulling the covers back over your head and lingering a little longer underneath the warmth, i can see how you hesitate to step your feet out and begin a day again.

life feels heavy sometimes. the days are burdensome with all their responsibility and such. 

you carry these immense expectations of ourselves and others, and it's just so hard to make everyone do what you think they should do.

     (why, oh, why can't they just do what they know is right?!)

you know you can't control and really, that isn't your plan. yet, you feel compelled to help and guide, and it aches so much to see everyone so reckless and seemingly mindless.

surrendering their care feels a little bit like carelessness on your behalf. it makes you squirm inside and think maybe you are being irresponsible with your influence.

you're entitled to feel what you feel and think what you think.

taking your foot off the gas and pulling over to take a break in the day feels a little bit like playing hooky and you worry about causing more of a distraction than creating good, hearty discipline. flittering about in fun is good, just not all the time.

your heart really wants the best for all of us, i get that. we have work to do that requires order and structure, focus and attention, and so . . .

     when he doesn't seem to remember all that together you put into yesterday . . .

     and when she seems to have forgotten the simplest reminder . . .

     and we all seem to be too carefree . . .

i get that you sometimes just want to scream: doesn't anyone care but me?!

whimsy is our way, though i see it isn't yours. you have a more organized way to each day. we need you, just as you need us -- whether we each know it or not. 

and so, i'm praying because that's what i know how to do. 

     i'm praying your grip will be loosened . . .

     i'm praying for your willingness to let us be us will be widened . . .

     i'm praying we won't dismiss you and your ever loving heart . . .

     i'm praying we pay attention more to the details and not scrimp on being responsible . . .

     and i pray we all learn to live our days barefoot and frantic-free.

let's hold each other up today. 
let's let each other be, as we are -- fully and free. 

i'll appreciate you for you. and him for him.

and let me back up to say that i first appreciate me for me.
     (which, as you know, is truly no small thing.)

i'll step into the me that i am and invite you to do the same for you. 

when you sigh as the new day begins, i'll not ridicule you for not being happy-clappy sunshine-face mister-ready-for-the-day. i'll let you be and trust that you'll find your way.

and when i'm struggling to get my popcorn-brain thoughts to settle down, will you let me be as I am, too?

will you hold me and remind me that we each have our struggles? will you just let the quiet be between us without making me feel less than and you feel more than?

remind me that we all have days that make us sigh.

     days that make us want to scream . . .

     days that make us want to stand on our heads . . .

          or spin the plates wildly . . .

          or simply want to humph and sit in the sun.

because, i forget sometimes that i'm not the only one who gets lost on any random day that ends in y. and i forget sometimes that we're all allowed to have moments when we want to run back in bed or frankly, run right away.

when i see you sigh, as much as i sometimes want to rebuke you or fix you, i need to see your real.

i need to be reminded that grown men cry and hurt and get discouraged, and that big girls can cry, too.

i need to be reminded that we don't have it all together all the time, and we can't be all things to everyone without coming apart a little at the seams.

i need to see you are Real. 

so sigh on, my dear. the days are heavy to bare.

i can't promise you today will be any better than the other day, or that everything today will be okay.

what i can do is accept that you have feelings and you are human.

     i can climb into bed with you and pull the covers over our heads . . .

     i can hold you and sigh right along with you . . .

     i can take your hand and stay with you through this uncertain and brand new day.

this is my worship. 

a new kind of vow: As. We. Are.

I think we should come to the altar naked.

     No more of this beautiful white gown and glorified-perfect stuff.

Seriously, I think we should come naked: as. we. are.

     Messy. Dirty. Bruised.

     Self-mutilated. Self-shamed.

     Holey and drained.

     Ashamed and afraid.

     Angry. And even amazed.

Our vows should be of a different kind.

     Aware that we will surely swerve and sway and make mistakes.

So I'm proposing a new kind of vow.

     To our groom (or our bride), as much as to our littles, and each other.

A daily vow as much as a life vow.

: : : 

to my groom . . . my son . . . my self . . . and even my God,

my loving you today is a choice, and you need to know this:

     i will get angry even after i say that i won't.

     i will surely hurt you.

     i will be unlikeable a lot of the times.

     i will abuse and adulterate what we've got.

     i will put me first.

     i will have unfair expectations of you.

     i will be impatient, and impish.

     i will abandon my umph and stickwithitness.

     i will want to run.

     i will try to hide.

     i will want comfort more than i will want the hard work.

     i will make so much about me.

     i will want what i want over what i know is what's best.

     i will get everything so tangled and twisted, just as i will be.

     i will complain of not having what i want.

     i will pine for better days.

     i will come into my days scared and scarred.

     i will not promise that i'll always love with a generous and committed heart.

     i will, though, guarantee one thing: i'll always be human.

          i will live the definition of messed up, tripped up, effed up.

          i will be me. 

     i will boldly and brashly bring my whole self to the table, at least some days: real and raw.

     i will reflect my need for undeserving grace, unconditional love. true redemption.

     if that's what you're willing to want, then let's do this thing . . . this life . . . this day.

this is our worship. 

Linking with Jennifer.

We come

We come to the table with our heaviness, our sadness, our disappointment, our angst.

We come with resolve for different and better.
We come with hearts that are joyful and for some, even bitter.

We come with our baggage, our fear, timidity, and even for some, naivete.

We come with discomfort and comfort quilted within us.
We come with remembrance of generations before us.

We come with tight jaws, bringing our empty, gritty and raw.

We come with our yesteryear's, our now, and the tomorrow's that we hope and we fear.
We come with our memories and our many-sized dreams that we hold so near.

We come with our holeyness, and our wholeness, and find there among us a Holiness.

We come with imperfect love that seeks to fill and free each other.
We come with a willingness to share in communion with each other.

We come to the table with an invitation to feel and to be Real, stuffing ourselves on the gifts of grace.

this is our worship. 

____________________________________

Follow:

Twitter | Facebook

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

I am from . . .

Big, old, Victorian brick handed down for generations.

Where loyalty and honor and obligation reside.

Where not much is ever sorted through or gotten rid of.

And where quiet and lonely and too much time in my room sparked the curiosity to crack open His Book.

The search began to know the One who my father wrote about in endless letters and on cards. 

Where his words would appear more like a script for a cure or a recipe for a life.

And where I'd first begin the habit of "should's," always wondering just how to cook it up just right.

I am from . . . 

Hay farm and tractors with red worn barns and far too many tools. 

Like a museum, the place holds history and wonder, and a vast array of mystery. 

Where gold-framed mirrors and ornate antiques felt stuffy and too much-ish.

And though beauty surrounds its walls, fancy felt foreign and the women always out of place.

Where peonies bloom full and pine trees have tumbled down in the storms. 

And ivy on brick has stifled and masked. 

Family would come and the bounty would be full. 

While laughter would abound, hurt was hardly ever shared.

Appreciation was guilted and strong was defined by tight lips.

I am from . . . 

Divorce -- an everyday dad and a far away father. 

Of confusion and loneliness and an only-me life. 

Small, quaint college-town village with bike riding days. 

Declared grounded and soap in the mouth would find me for truth-telling failure.

An imagined life always seeming so much better than my own. 

I became Heather and had sister's before reality ever birthed.

Fluffy compliments would fill me and I'd learn "hard work pays off". 

Where I heard "children are to be seen and not heard".

And where adult conversation at the big family table would learn me a strong voice. 

I am from . . . 

"Keep on keepin' on," and powerfully emotive women with mouse-quiet passion.

Resentment and bitterness. Sheltered, though behaved. 

My good-girl mistake would be folded neatly and tucked away.

Hidden and silenced, disappointment would shame me. 

Like fancy desserts that needed to "look good and behave," so too would become my way of life. 

"Be your own counsel" would silence a village and keep me alone.

An Army-baby birthed in the big state of Texas, the only Caucasian babe of them all.

Braces fixed my smile up pretty, all the while feeling ugly and dark.

In search of significance, I over-analyzed myself.

Exhausted and worn, weary and bruised. 

Ashamed and performed out, I'd learn of the habit all those years created.

Of how perfection-seeking colored me and the courage it takes to Be.

I am from . . . 

Encouragement and plenty of cheer.
A single mother's biggest fan. 

A daughter. A mother. A bride.

A writer. A thinker. A lover of sky. 

A friend. A truth-teller. An idea generator.

This is my life story. His Beloved.

I will thrive, though never fully arrive. 

Joining SheLoves Magazine synchroblog today.

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

_______________________________________________

You might be interested in this:

less of us and more of you :: a marriage prayer

Follow:

Twitter | Facebook

beauty of the dark unwrapped

i stood back watching the family i was with chat and laugh together.

grown up big-cousin-love and the littles loving on the bigs and all the happiness nestled in between.

soaking it in, i thought about the way ours is welcomed and accepted by them.

these people who are our family, too.

conversations were abundant and long.

we spent more time with these people than we ever had before. and it felt good.

driving home all i could think about was the beauty of the dark.

my groom was included. which means we were included.

and if it weren't for his father being his father, we wouldn't have been there.

or here, in this home -- our home, with this boy who looks like those boys.

beauty redeemed.

it is all so remarkable. breathtaking. 

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

_______________________________________________

Follow Amy on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest.

You might be interested in this:

on letting go [raw and unedited]

learning to trust, even when it doesn't make sense

diagnosis

It's been a particularly challenging several months for our family.

Nothing huge or life shattering. Just enough to be a nuisance and yet mild enough to keep us from change.

There are things we want to do in the *whirl and twirl* of our days that don't fit into a standard mold.

Dreams. Visions. Promptings. Passions. Callings.

We recently reached a point where we decided that enough is enough. We've been troubled by some challenges we've had with our son and it's time we do something about it beyond question and wonder.

     (Tell me, what eight-year-old boy doesn't appear to have an attention issue?) 

So this is it.

Diagnosis time. Margin readiness.

We're popping the bubble and relieving some of the pressure.

The typical public school structure and rhythm creates stress that we have realized we can avoid.

We've unwrapped what just might be one of the best gifts of our lives -- Freedom. 

Folks will disagree with us (even my parents).

     Neighbors may think we're strange (perhaps they already do).

     Other folks tell us, "Who cares what other people think?!"

     And others will wish they are doing it, too.

We've gotten assurance in the most unlikeliest places, from sweet souls who remind us that we are the only ones who know our challenges.

We are learning that we are the only ones who can advocate for us. This is our duty. Our responsibility.

I pondered and questioned, and deliberated and decided . . . and questioned and doubted all over again, until I finally realized that there isn't a right answer here.

(And that means there isn't a wrong one, either.)

So we've decided to homeschool.

Effective now.

Tomorrow is The Boy's last day in public school for the year, with one quarter still remaining.

It feels a little bit like quitting, but it isn't.

We're clinging to this truth and reaching for grace.

     We're still responsible parents and our son will still be learning.

But, we're pressing pause on the busy and hectic and crazed. Because, it's just been so very chaotic.

And, it's time -- Right. Now. -- to say enough is enough and get some control back. Get our togetherness back.

We're beyond the considering and we're Doing. This. 

With one quarter remaining of the year we have a smaller bite to try.

     Flavors of *different* to taste.

     Sweet and steady to savor, over busy that leaves us bitter.

We don't need a professional to give us a diagnosis. We know that we're stressed. The typical and common is chaotic and we don't have to live it.

The biggest ah-ha and freedom reaching realization ever is this:  

We. Don't. Have. To. Do. This.

We can get off the ride. We really can.

And so we are, thankyouverymuch.

Most of all, we're doing it together -- this choosing, my groom and me. We're aligned and that's a beautiful thing.

Sure it's a bit scary, and daunting, and parts of us feel sad for our boy's mixed up emotions. But the point is we're choosing courage to try Some. Thing., and we're doing this.

So, to the principal who affirmed us and just never made us feel badly . . .

     Thank you. 

     We appreciate you for caring more about what's right for one child and his family. 

     For setting aside your opinion and helping us to find our own.

     For caring. 
     
     For investing.

     For empowering us as parents . . . 

          to consider and choose to make a change for our own child . . .

          a change that will help us get to know him more fully, 

               and ultimately (we hope) show him how much we accept him, just as he was created. 

     You've helped us to receive grace for differences and embrace how God made us all so unique. 

     Thank you, Mr. Principal.

*This* is worship. 

     Our choosing. Your encouragement.

          And all of our lives lived outward -- Authentically. Courageously. Boldly.

And to all the rest of you, I pray you choose courage to make your own diagnosis' in life and take your own step toward a good treatment for you, and your family. Brave on.

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

_______________________________________________

Follow A {Grace} full *life* on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest.

You might be interested in this:

18 Reasons Why Doctors and Lawyers Homeschool Their Children

enough

 Aches seized every part of my body for three days.

Even my elbows hurt.

Flu in the summer? Who gets that?

It could have been the flu and yet perhaps it wasn't. Maybe some other virus or a bacterial infection, or maybe just exhaustion.

I tried to run on the second day of aching and as it turned out that wasn't a good choice. It was the worst day I felt since my freshman year in college. I moaned incessantly and couldn't get comfortable.

Work had mandatory strategy sessions for two days. In the throes of my aches. And I went anyway.

I sat in hard back chairs and couldn't get comfortable. I was angry at what seemed so unproductive and longed to be horizontal. Yet when I got home I couldn't find a comfortable position.

As I walked in the door, The Boy had a story to tell and I remembered that his sharing is his hello. He's been waiting to envelope me into his world all day.

He exclaimed that he planned to run around the house 17 times. He was training for something.

I grabbed my camera for a different reason and instead captured his running.

Here I was, sidelined because of sickness and there he was, doing it instead. Not because I couldn't, but because he could.

I'd had enough of work this week. And Pinterest. And Facebook. And Twitter. And even comparing words and getting twisted up in feeling worth. less. So we decided to get away and we've packed the car.

Before we go, I'll celebrate feeling better and get in a run. And try for it not to be out of perfection-seeking or pound-dissolving.

Today I'll try to think on what I have.

The moments. The joy. The peace. The smiles. The laugh-till-my-belly-hurts. This life.

It's enough.

Just. This.

In sickness or in health.

Today's post is part of my friend, Lisa-Jo's fun challenge each Friday to 

     "Write for five, short, bold beautiful minutes... 

     Unscripted and unedited...

     Without worrying if it's just right or not."

_______________________________________________

Follow A {Grace} full *life* on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest.