when you open the door

We hadn't seen each other in about six years.

In that time, we'd spoken over Skype once or twice. They were good conversations, meaty and rich with sweetness. Yet, still, the times we even corresponded were few.

His life this year has involved giving a daughter away in marriage and seeing her move on, something he didn't experience with his first and oldest -- me. I've thought about the strain of his recent experience contrasted with the one that he lacked and empathy has risen in my heart.

We haven't had the idyllic father-daughter relationship through the years.

He moved away when I was young and our time together became splintered. As I grew older, so did our relationship.

I wanted to know things and was too afraid to ask. When we were together I wanted the happy and fun to last, so I resisted "going there" in deep conversation with him. I didn't want to risk how talking about the heart could affect our time together, making it feel uncomfortable. Eventually, I'd ask a few questions and attempt to gain some color to the foggy parts of our story, only to be met with resistance.

Back and forth we'd trade accusations through the years, mostly by phone because I'm not sure we were ever brave enough to talk face-to-face. We both probably wanted to preserve the sweetness of what little time we had together, yet we both had words we so longed to be said.

In addition to his two other daughters besides me, he has an adopted son just a year younger than mine. It's crazy to think we're raising kids nearly the same age, both in the throes of raising tween-age boy-men. We share a similarity and a bond of understanding, more than just biologically speaking, even though our worlds are different.

While he lives and works in a third-world country, he's in the States for several months to connect with the people and organizations who financially support him. His schedule is exhausting to fathom -- driving miles and miles across the country, sleeping in other people's beds, and living out of suitcases. They still have three more months of this kind of living and I can see the toll its taken on him already.

I could see the strain, not just sense it. 
And it's all because I said "Yes". 

When he offered to visit in between his traveling from here to there, I felt love swell in my heart. I was thought of and loved. I was wanted to be seen. Just knowing this was enough of a gift, even if something happened and we couldn't coordinate schedules.

Our time together would only be a few hours, yet it was more than we would have if he didn't make an effort and if I didn't accept.

In our communicating back and forth about schedules, I considered that perhaps he had a bit of fear and anxiety in seeing me and maybe even in simply reaching out to me. I've been welcoming on so many occasions, and yet there've been others when I've kept the door sealed shut. Would I open it this time? What would be the condition of my heart? 

I thought about what to do, wanting to make sure I didn't have expectations this time.

I wanted to fling the door wide open in love. I wanted to say, "Yes! Come!"

I wanted to connect. 
     I didn't want to think about the strain and the pain.

His second grandchild is expected to be born any week, or any day now, and I want him to meet the babe, and he will, someday. But that doesn't matter so much now. This was our time and I had a choice to accept and be grateful for what we were given. So I did.

After nearly six years apart, we had three hours together. Three precious hours.

Our boys interacted with each other as if they weren't strangers. I talked with his easy-to-be-with wife and got to know his now teenage college-bound daughter a bit. And though we hardly spoke to each other, I watched him from a distance as he played yard games with my groom and our sons. I saw him smile and laugh.

When he spoke, he was funny and reminded me of my groom's humor. I laughed a lot in those few hours and I imagine looking down on us, there were a lot of smiles.

Though we didn't exchange many words, we still connected. 
We shared the human emotion of joy and thanks for the gift of togetherness.

As he drove away, I wished we had more time together and I figured that's a good thing. We didn't cry or make a big deal out of the holes that still remain in our wounded hearts. Our time together was lighthearted and not at all heavy or uncomfortable.

(Tween-age boy-men have this way of distracting a person from being so serious.)

I awoke the next day nearly two hours later than I'd been sleeping of late and was awake in the night much less frequently than has been typical in this, my ninth month of pregnancy. I awoke with memories of my father's smile and laughter, and my heart felt full.

This is what happened when I opened the door instead of keeping it shut tight.

Boundaries are good to an extent and then at some point, they're just not necessary anymore. I needed (and perhaps we both needed) some time and space apart for healing to really begin versus trying to make it be.

Forcing something usually ends up in even more brokenness.

I've seen this occur so many times on such a literal level. My groom reminded me of this when he and our son had set up the badminton net. He instructed Boy-Man to "slowly unravel the net and if it gets stuck, don't keep pulling . . . like you would usually do."

In opening the door and letting us be as we are, and our story as it is, I experienced joy and peace. I didn't need the holes to be healed. I didn't need the fairytale relationship I had longed for all those years.

In opening the door, I saw another human. 
We connected and it was good. 

Our time together wasn't perfect, yet it many ways it was. It was so good -- rich and sweet. And I'm so glad I said "Yes! Come!"

I no longer wish for the idyllic relationship I thought I always wanted.

Now I see that what we've been given -- though crackly and gravely in nature -- has been a gift. We've grown and will continue to grow in ways we never could've if we didn't have this kind of story.

Acceptance is the greatest gift of all.

In opening the door I chose to accept another frail and faulty human, and the story that was perfectly scripted for us -- as it is.

give

They're teaching me, these two men in my life.

About caring for each other well. And about paying attention.

I'm listening to them. Watching.

Words exchange and I notice their tone.

I hear similarities. See love, acceptance.

They are like the same. And I'm in awe.

I am learning to give my heart here, in the Now.

To teaching and learning, forgiving and growing.

Share your heart . . . add a comment below.

_______________________________________________

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myself

beloved

bare

uncertain

new

He writes to me that he remembers my birth.

And love wraps His arms around me and shades any doubt I ever had. Covers it.

Feelings of unworthiness. Or forgotten. Or given up on. They flitter away.

Love covers my naked heart standing bare and the beauty of it all is remarkable.

I was anticipated, longed for, and I am remembered. 

Thirty-three years ago and a few more children in between, and he still remembers me.

Though I hurt him and hated him and was hurt by him, he remembers his wanting me. I'm astounded at this.
And yet, as a mother I know it to be true. A parent doesn't forget.

It isn't anger or fear or hurt that he shares. It's simply love.

For years my father and I wrestled our disappointment for how things were between us, and we flip-flopped in our want for relationship. We longed for togetherness, yet the hurt was so painful there were times when we almost couldn't stand the thought of one another.

Though I threatened it time and time again, and time and time again I let time and space come between us, I could never truly give up. And neither could he.

When He lives inside of us, He doesn't let us give up -- 
     There is always hope.

What we share as father and daughter might not look like what I always hoped it would. Today I think it's better this way. And therein lies the miracle. The beauty.

The peace between us is hard fought. By Him.

We didn't do anything wrong for all those years to be a battle. It's just how it went.

He has purpose our story. I trust this to be true.

There are miles between us and yet our hearts are close. We share Him. And we see Him in each other.

For years, all I wanted was an apology. And now, all I want is peace. None of what was said or done matters. We're just two imperfect human beings made beautiful.

I prayed He would help me to love him even though I didn't know him.
As it turns out, that prayer changed everything for me.

He showed me His love for me and I saw His love for him.

It's remarkable how He shows up in us. 

I wonder how anyone can ever doubt His power when a strangled relationship becomes smooth and peace filled.

When what was once fiercely raging becomes beautiful calm, how an anyone deny Him?

Unwrapping this gift of Grace over and over, and over again. And giving thanks for this life.

And how He makes all things new.

__________________________________________

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how work is good for the soul

The smell of fresh cut hay hangs sweetly in the air, the tractor roars, and sunshine blankets the land.

Our extended family affectionately calls it The Farm. And though it's true that it is, I never really saw it that way because it isn't much of a working farm. There aren't cows or horses, pigs, or even chickens roaming around.

Years of maturity wrapped up in me, I survey the fields and realize that this land is worked. Most of it is rented off to local farmers now, though it's also still my father's work. It's still a Farm. 

Each year, Dad cuts a handful of acres of hay at a time and sells full wagon loads to local horse stables, making baling hay a much easier process. 

Times have changed to make the work lighter, but it's still work. And it's still getting done.

I breathe in and remember the days when we did all this hay baling work together, as a family. It used to be that all the hay would stay at our house for selling throughout the year. I'd help Dad stack it all in our family barns, usually on the hottest days, of course, because the work has to get done and the hay is always ready for cutting when it's a scorcher out.

Many hands make light work. 

Nowadays, Dad's got a system of doing the work by himself, though this time my mother decided to play nice, as I called it, and came down from the lake house to help. The times when she chooses to set aside her wants to support him blesses me to see. And mostly honors their story of togetherness.

Times have changed and there's still love. Sun-drenched weekends still have sacrifices.

My family in tow to bring a gift to Dad, we watch as he and Mom finish up the last row. Dad's white hair shows his age, though he's still strong enough to stack the hay and catch it as the kicker baler shoots out the bales quick and high. 

Once a Farmer, always a Farmer.

I breathe in and remember the days when my grandfather would watch us all work together to get the job done. It would be blazing hot outside and there was Gramp, in his cardigan sweater and corduroy pants, pitchfork in hand to realign the rows of hay.

Gramp has been gone for a long time now and only Gram remains. She is 91 now and paces as she watches the land being worked. I notice how frail she has become. It's summer-like hot in June and she is freezing. Just like Gramp was at her age.


Dad does all of this work because his dad handed it all down to him. And it's Father's Day and life is a circle. 

My groom holds our boy's hand and together they walk alongside the tractor as it pulls the baler and wagon. It's only a few times a year that the Boy watches the process and at only seven-year-old, he's not seen it enough to remember it with precision.

It took me decades of living to realize the house I grew up in is one of my favorite places. I moved out and away from our small town for a brief time, trying to make myself a new home, though Dad never did. To him, this is the only home he knows. 

"He's in his glory," Mom says. And I know it's true. Dad loves this place. 

Glancing up at the lightening balls on the barn, I suddenly remember why we spent so many days scavenging through antique shops when I was young. When Dad was a reckless kid he used them as his shooting targets. As he grew, he replaced them. 

It's a treasured place here. Respected. Honored. Worked. 

I breathe in and listen to the chug of the tractor. The hay flying around doesn't bother me in the least.
This is Home. Always has been. Always will be. 

It takes work to keep up this home. And work is good for the soul. 

_______________________________________________

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accepted

When I don't feel a part of the crowd, I often feel less than.

Perhaps not old enough. Credible enough. Or just plain not good enough.

I've thought that if I have grey and white hair, signs of age, then maybe I'll fit in.

Maybe if I look older, then I'll be taken seriously.

In a world of imperfect humans, I'm never going to fit in exactly as I'd like to think I could or should.

There will always be groups that are different from others. People will always feel left out.

Sometimes in family there isn't always a comfortable place to rest. 

Sometimes there is exhaustion and hard core work.

Sometimes there is rejection. 

I have lived a story of separation from a person who I didn't think I should be separated from.

The man for who I carry half his genes seemed to give up on me.

There are occasions when a note indicating he hasn't forgotten me is randomly sprinkled here and there.
But otherwise, I feel second to his new life.

When I think back to the same age I was when he first became a father, I have a bit more understanding for how he might have felt as we both grew. 

Empathy bubbles up for how he might have felt in surrendering me to my mother after a hard fought battle of the wills.

I wasn't even his age when I became a parent. And I didn't even give that child a life.

Memories of times with my father remain in my mind. We've laughed together and as a child I spent a lot of time with him.

I don't remember many serious conversations with my father. If we weren't laughing or having fun doing something together, the space between us felt awkward.

As painful as my days were, one thing I don't remember much of is feeling rejected. 

If I were to focus on the facts, it could be possible for me to garner such thoughts. Mostly I've been protected from that dark cavernous place.

Confusion was in play and still remains.

I often feel edgy about what to say and do, often feeling as though fault has been placed on me for the way my relationship with my father has been and is today.

I've felt the weight of responsibility that I am certain I don't own. The stress of that weight has aged my spirit.

The way I parent has been with a fierceness, determined to be more to my son. I adore him and tell him as much.
I speak truth-telling words to him every day with hope that they are life-giving ones.

It took me years to believe who I am.

It was only my Father who finally got through when my father seemed to fail me.

There's purpose in the story I've lived. 

God has used it to draw me to Him and learn about love, acceptance, and truth.

I see beauty in places where darkness resides. 

I have hope where Polly-anna is often despised.

I overlook any thoughts of rejection and see Purpose. Goodness. 

I have adopted an attitude of It's okay-ness. 

When he doesn't respond or they don't include me in their mommy groups, I am still accepted.

Choosing this perspective frees me from imprisonment and gives me *life*. 

This is my worship.

_______________________________________________

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living gratefully :: honesty

I offer up a confession: I'm scared of myself.

Tomorrow is my birthday and I'm trying to live joyfully. 

But, I'm so dang betwixed with myself. 

I might wake up and be *in a mood*. 

For those who've followed my writing, authentic is what they comment about me. Many people express how they are so captivated by how I can put myself out there. 

Here's the kicker--I still live in shame for who I am.

Being *authentic* is hard.

I know Truth and Love, and Grace and Peace, and Freedom, too! 

At least enough to know what they taste like. 

I've felt them and basked in them. Snuggled up and abandoned all self for their truth (at least for a moment or two). 

What I write about so often, I believe. 

[Though, admittedly for you much more than for me.] 

Yet, Fear never goes away. Shame, either. 

Both can be minimized and dissipate for awhile, but never completely gone as long as I'm living this side of Heaven.

To expect any different is to expect perfection 

     ...and to not need Him. 

It shouldn't surprise me that I still struggle. 

Truth brings me to my knees in gratitude--I do still need Him.

I'm just blessedly tired of being so...

     Imperfect, is that it? 

This year my birthday is a fun day on the calendar: 11/11/11. 

Twice it will be 11:11. 

And so, I invited 11 friends to celebrate with me. 

I am excited to throw myself a party. 

I plan to get balloons and make my own cake. 

I might even buy myself flowers. (And I just might pull out the nail polish.) 

We'll have pizza. On paper plates. 

(Cause I'm choosing easy over pleasy, and that's a *big deal* for me.)

But...

The closer I get to my blessed day, the more nervous I am. 

And though it feels a little sad to admit this truth, it's freeing to get it out there in the wide open. 

So, there--now you know, honestly I'm nervous about my own birthday. 

For one thing, my birthday has been an awkward time in my life, ever since I was a freshman in college. The day after the {fake} celebration of my own life, I chose to end the life of another teeny-tiny-one. 

I've received the fullness of forgiveness over that. 

The memory remains and I believe for purpose. For gratitude over His mercies and amazing grace. I say that simply, yet it's not without acknowledging the incredibly long journey it took to really believe this. 

The first year I was a mom when it was my birthday, I was lonely. Still on maternity leave, my groom went to work and I was struggling with admitting how hard it was to admit how hard it was. (yes, you read that right.) 

I remember going downstairs to find a picture frame. Unwrapped. Standing upright on the table. It was a simple gift. A picture of my baby-Boy and his daddy-Man-Boy, and a small card to say he was Hoping I would feel differently about my birthday now. Affirming a reason for my life.

The picture still moves me--how the gentleness of my groom is so evident.

But it's the tiny card that means the most. 

The words were few, but the Truth so big. 

My life does have purpose. Deep meaning. 

I cling to that. Again and again.
(Because sometimes I struggle to believe it.)

I wrap it around me like the blanket my son grabbed when I tucked him in last night. Snuggling up all peace and sound. 

Father, your healing--let it rain. 

One of my closest, most dearest, truly best, friends is coming to visit me. 

I'm so excited. But, I'm nervous, too. 

Our communication with each other is primarily through the written word. We savor the words we share and squeeze the life out of them. I love this friend. So. Much. I'm so grateful for what God has done in our friendship. 

Still, though, shame tells me that I'm too much and maybe we will be disappointed in our weekend together. I'm nervous, though I promised not to let fear have a foothold. 

My other best friend is like a thousand miles away and I miss her like stinkin' crazy. (that's a tone she'd use, and so in her honor I toast to the word stinkin'--love ya, Kate!) 

I invited this friend to come to my party and I was nervous to do that because I know that she can't afford to fly up here. 

Shame told me how dare you even invite her. How could you point out to her that she can't?! 

I'm nervous that I might not hear from my father. It's been months since he's written, and even longer since it's been anything feeling of love and closeness. Out of sight, out of mind, right? It's a bit true as the days *whirl and twirl*.

Yet, I'm nervous that I will hear from him, too. I don't even know what I want. 

I'm afraid of remembering the pain that's tucked in deep. Still not gone. Feelings still raw. 

Why does this happen? 

I wish I was a girl who got over herself. 

I wish I was completely healed. 

I wish I didn't expect anything from anyone. 

I wish God was my only god. 

I wish I could embrace true friends.

I wish I could envelop myself in their real love for me.

I wish I believed it when I say friend. 

I wish I wasn't finding myself making excuses to cancel the party. 

There's purpose in this. I have to believe. And I chose to. 

*Purpose* in the doubt. 

*Purpose* in the fear. 

*Purpose* in the stepping out and even trying to {fake} a party.

Just saying it's my birthday is totally not me. Totally. Not. Me. 

Truth is, a few years ago I hid my birth-date on Facebook and whenever anyone wished me a happy birthday that way, I'd delete it. 

(Even from my best friend.)

Last year's birthday was kind of lonely. And I discovered that I hurt myself by not giving others an opportunity to affirm me, even if Facebook feels somewhat totally impersonal. 

And so, this year I'm throwing it all out there. In this space, on Facebook, on Twitter. I'm actually telling colleagues. I'm screaming it to the roof tops that it's my birthday on 11/11/11. 

{At least for this year. Cause, 11/11/11 is my fun excuse.}

So, if you're led to, I'd totally appreciate your prayers. 

     For my Joy, Peace, Freedom. 

     For my acceptance of who I am right now.

I've me another true, good friend who I just learned a lot about in the past few days. I learned that she knows me way better than I ever gave her credit for. She's a friend who I feel the most shame around because I know she accepts me as I am, yet I know she notices me, and it makes me nervous because she never says much of anything to me about what she sees. 

This friend called me out yesterday on my indecisiveness. 

She celebrated how this is who I am. 

I made her feel badly for stating the truth...

     because the truth made me feel shame. 

She'll be at my party tomorrow. 

And I'm thrilled, because Truth tells me she accepts me

     --as wishy-washy-indecisive as I am, 

        she still accepts me *justthewayIam.* 

Honesty is my gratefulness, and this is my worship. 

_______________________________________________

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living gratefully :: courage {and a giveaway!}

There's a place where I find Comfort for my soul.

Peace. Freedom. Grace.

Love.

The real kind that says I accept you--
     for who you are, not what your story reads,
       
All *this* is found in my marriage.

This place has led me to Growth I never could have dreamed.

When I met my Man-Boy all those years ago, I imagined him as a father and the idea of him as a husband was a beautiful thought. But he was barely a teenager and still had a whole lot of living to do.

After we were married a handful of years (and more), I started to See that it isn't necessarily the Man who changed me, comforts me, cares for me--it's Him living through him.

My Man-Boy knew who he didn't want to be,
     and he knew what God wanted of him.

He has unabashedly lived with a focus to help people.

He has courage in his choices;
     a deep abiding passion for helping people do what is right.

He is a teacher at heart.

I can't imagine my groom ever ceasing to father with a courage that says
     I will be responsible in my role.

Looking around at others, especially those in our family, we have a difficult choice:
     either believe the trend of behavior and succumb to the lie that says
     we don't stand a chance, or...
   
Believe we can make a difference.

It takes courage to do live as we're called. To live responsible.

Just because our father's left us, doesn't mean we don't stand a chance. He uses our growing up years for good.

There's a movie out that will ignite change in people's lives and instigate perspective-change; it's called Courageous. 

It's thought provoking and has a way of digging deep, nestling in your heart.
Long after you've watched it, the story has a way of sticking around awhile.

Visuals of real life challenges and daily doubts, fears and remembering of pain come alive on the screen.

We are reminded of our own struggles and we're invited to pause to really think about who we want to be, especially as parents.

Parenting is more than making sure our kids go to bed on time or get good grades. It's just so much more.

I'm so grateful that my home has a courageous Man who envelopes his little Boy-Man in his unwavering commitment--Every. Day.

I lift up my groom and pray that this father will learn from his Father, and that the cracks where a tangible daddy was missing will be filled with tender grace.

__________________________________________________________

Dayspring has partnered with Sherwood Pictures to offer 

an 8x10" frame-ready print of the Resolution, 

like the one signed by the men in the movie Courageous.

It's available on Dayspring's web site, 

along with some really inspiring and encouraging cards for men.

Both of these are a great way to lift up the leaders in our homes.

As a partner with Dayspring, I have the opportunity to host a giveaway 

of one print of the Resolution and an assortment of these Courageous-inspired cards.

• Simply, leave a comment here sharing what *courage* looks like in your life.
  
  

• You have until midnight east-coast time on Sunday, November 13, to comment.
  
  
• I'll randomly select a winner and announce on Monday. 
  [This giveaway is open to US residents only.]

Visit the Dayspring's Courageous web site where you can purchase movie tickets, watch the trailer, and send and e-card inspired by the movie.

I was given an opportunity to review Dayspring products for free. 

The opinions expressed here are my own. 

_______________________________________________

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living toward healing

Nearly three weeks ago I wrote about the *freedom to forgive* and the premise was about my father. Courageously, I chose to See that forgiveness sets people free--the one being forgiven, and the one extending the forgiveness.

Since then, pain in my heart has been awakened. Band-aids have been removed and scabs have been exposed. The wounds remain as hardened, blistered sores.

I've looked with envy at the relationships of others and longed for what I don't have with my own father. I've felt left out, lonely. Lies have surfaced telling me that all I do is make a mess of things, when really all I try to do is right things.

I've seen how my fears of making a mistake and of people being mad at me, they both are directly tied to my hurt--of always feeling like I make matters worse with my family, and how what I do makes them turn their backs on me and shut me out.

The way I've had a compulsion for order and control, it's because of what I've lived. And I know to not make excuses--to *own* my part--and I know I should live differently; live with more flexibility and get over those hurts.

But I can't.

The hurt remains.

I can't make myself heal.
I can't just decide to make myself change and expect it to happen.
I can't make myself trust in a different way of living, and never fall back into the tendency to fear and question.

Seeing this, I recognized something I never had the courage to admit.
I am not just plain jealous of others.

I. Am. Mad. At God--my Father. 

I want to be like her. I want to live like he says I should. I want to be changed--forever. And I don't understand why I am not healed of all of this, yet.

For so many years I have known there is a better way of living, I've known what it is, and I've *decided* that I am going to make changes.

Folks say "just put your mind to it," and I've believed it. I've even surrendered to Him, leaned into trusting even this is *for purpose,* yet--the hurt remains.

Truth is, we can't sustain lie-living. It's a lie to masquerade as someone who I am not, and far too often I've lied mostly to myself. I can't just convince myself that I am healed. I can't just get over the pain in my heart.

I can't just say I forgive and expect change. It's a process--it's life lived.

People say I am too hard on myself. I hear that as I need to forgive my weaknesses.

So, I do. And yet, the pain is so deep; I don't have the tools to plunge it all out.

I've told my Father that I want to be healed...I long for reconciliation...I don't need apologies...and I've chosen to forgive.

So much goodness has come into my heart as a result of these choices.

Beauty has bloomed.
Walls in my heart have shattered--I've literally heard them crash.
Chains have unlocked and I've {begun} to live in Freedom.

I believe in surrender. I believe He is worthy of our trust.

But I also believe that He allows pain for purpose, we can't just decide to rid ourselves of it--He has to do the rest; He has to finish the story as He designed it.

I've tried to make the healing happen by my own, and I can't.

Beauty is seen more magnificently on the darkest of canvas. My understanding of this is in the most personal ways of my heart.

He stands-in where my imperfection lives. 
He fills the gap--heals and makes whole. 

And in the mean time, I trust that He uses all for purpose, including my pain and strangled relationships.

I am not sure I want to give my Father another day with my heart. And yet, He's the keeper of it.

When I am honest with Him that I am mad He hasn't done what I think He should have done in me by now, He looks at me with Grace. He lets me feel that way.

Thank you, Father, for all of this. I lean into Truth: All. Is. For. Purpose...even. this. 
___________________________________________

Gratitude for {Grace}...

...the Boy-Man's tears over his Poppy being called into work...

...and the understanding that washes over him when *truth* is told: people are being helped by this sacrifice of time...

...neighbors sharing practically a *boat-load* of blueberries they spent time picking...

...strength for a long run...

...football season and something *fun* to talk about with my groom...

...a *free-ish* family vacation from points-saved during work travel...

...imagining loving a four-legged creature...

...a connection with grace-lovers...


___________________________________________

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free to forgive

It's not about loving him because he's your dad or your father, or because he's your husband or your best friend. Or loving her because she's your momma or your mother, or your sister {who you may not even know}.

Love is a choice; an action.

It's realizing that he's worth loving because he was worth creating. It's realizing there's this big, ginormous Purpose living inside of him, and her, and you.

I'm astounded at this today. This Truth sets me *free*...to love my father because he was worth being created--not because he's my father.

This is freeing because he hasn't been my dad.

He wasn't there for me when I fell off my bike and skinned my knee.
He wasn't there for me when the boy's hurt my heart.
He wasn't there when I learned how to live bruised from choices--
He didn't even know about those choices.

My father didn't walk me down the aisle at my wedding,
and he wasn't there when my son was born.

At some point my father chose to move away from me and move on. 

Yet, the Truth is that my Father knew what He was doing when he chose this man as my father.

For so long I lived wrapped up in the *should* of loving him and haven't felt love toward him--I didn't have a reason. He doesn't really know me and I don't really know him. Where would we begin with all these miles and years between us?

Still...my heart tugs and pulls toward this man. 
And it's His Spirit who speaks to my heart, nudging me to choose love.

I'm really, truly beginning to See that this man--my father--has issues, too.

My father hurts.
He cries.
He aches inside.
He waddles in his beliefs and in his trust of God.
He wonders.
He wails.
He tries too hard, sometimes.
He gets mixed up.
He feels lonely.
He feels like a failure, sometimes.
He feels shame.

Like me, my father also needs Grace to live Free.

I find freedom when I cling to Truth that God placed us each in each other's life in the most intimate of ways, *For. Purpose.* .

This man met my mother and together they became my parents. Served up with the role to guide and nurture me at such a young age and lacking in maturity, God stood in the gap for them. Their relationship dissolved in hurt and I became intertwined among those feelings.

God still knew what He was doing--even in my parents weakness'.

Both of them continued their own story and I wasn't everything.
They began to live for more than me.

I began to live for more than them. 

I wondered for years why my father *gave up* on me.
Why did he move away?
Why did he choose another path that seemed to detach from mine?

Now I See that my father was created for more than me.
He is following what he believes his calling is, for Today.

In the process of living, our hearts haven't abandoned each other. Thoughts of each other still surface and love is still between us. And the thoughts we have of each other--the love--it was placed there by God, alone. In maturing we now live for Him alone, not each other.

It's a choice to respond to the promptings of love placed inside of us. 

When pain darkens the door of our heart and we're reminded of the ashes that remain from something that once was or could be, it's hard to See beauty. It's hard to seize it and rest in it. But when we do, we catch a glimpse of perfect love inside of us--and we begin to understand the wonder of His Amazing Grace.

I chased after forgiveness in the process of growing up, always trying to perfectly forgive--believing it would change everything. I didn't *know* forgiveness Then, like I know it Today, and hopefully Tomorrow I'll know it even more. And it's true, it does change Every. Thing.

What I know Today is that God loves us just as we are, and by choosing to forgive I am wrapping my arms around Grace who says You matter...no matter what.

This *choosing* love is my worship.
And my father's choosing to move on in his story is his worship.

What freedom we have!



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Expectations of a Father

There are a lot of should's and demands of a Father.

The pressures they tackle can seem insurmountable.

Father's are expected to keep their children safe -- they should make their daughter's feel secure and their son's feel strong.

Father's are supposed to create better worlds for those they love.

Father's are required to be *fixers* of everything. Even hearts.

Father's aren't supposed to hurt.

Yet, there are plenty of men out there who struggle with the role of being a Dad. In fact, I don't know a single one who doesn't.

Women tend to be critical of themselves. And yet we don't realize how critical men are of themselves, too.

It's not acceptable for a father to flail in his identity. Father's can't flop.

But, father's aren't perfect.

Men wonder, {just as much as women}, what their role is, and how to measure up -- how to meet all of those *expectations* -- with strength.

Because, strong doesn't fall. At least it shouldn't. Though, sometimes it does.

Father's sometimes make mistakes. And father's sometimes cry.

Today I think of the men in my life who are father's -- my father, my Dad, my Groom, and my Heavenly Father.  Only one of them is perfect.

And it's Him who I am giving thanks to today. He knows what's best for me, and ultimately for so many others. He allowed these father's in my life -- father's to me and father to my child(ren) -- for purpose, and it isn't to represent perfection; it's to represent His Love.

Thank you, Father, for the men in my life who lead me to you. I lift them each up to you today and thank you for what they represent -- even in their own struggles and imperfection.

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Gratitude for Unwrapped *Gifts* of {Grace}...

...{Grace} to give thanks for even the painful parts of my story...

...an engaged Daddy for our little-Boy-Man...

...Seeing that even father's hurt...

...new glove-giving for baseball catching...

...the legacy of farmland to cultivate...

...a story to write...

...cinnamon rolls and breakfast at home...

...hearing the Boy-Man speak wise words his daddy says...

For my son on Father's Day

You're closer to seven than six now. And soon you'll be a full fledged second grader. It's an exciting time to be growing and gaining so much independence. You have a lot to be glad for.

Right now, though, you don't realize just how blessed you are.

To have both of your parents together and to be celebrating Father's Day with your daddy is a gift from God. Just as you are to us.

When your father and I were your age, our lives looked very different than yours does now. Each year you grow we are reminded of the memories within the caverns of our minds -- we have some happy ones in there, and we also have some sad-feeling ones.

The parts of our story that brought us pain gives us so much gratitude for Today.

Your daddy and I grew up without the unabashed joy Father's Day can bring to children. We grew up tentative and reserved around this day -- always knowing we were missing someone and something wasn't quite right within our heart.

As we began to really know our true Father, we felt peace about this day.

Father's Day is now a special day to honor your Daddy as a father, and to thank our Father for the men He placed in our lives. All. Of. Them. Including how we know Him.

I want you to know, my little peanut-butter, that you'll be disappointed someday. You might not always be as close to me or your daddy as you are now. We will frustrate you. Because we aren't perfect.

As you grow, I pray that this day -- Father's Day -- will be a day when you can celebrate your ultimate Father in Heaven, the one who truly gave you life.

I pray that the relationship you're building with your daddy will grow into a deep, wonderful, beautiful story of acceptance and love. But most of all, I pray your Father shows you what it means to be you and live the story He has planned for you.

This year, I am grateful to watch you and your daddy play catch in the yard together and be everything a picturesque family can be. And as I think about the reality life holds -- how what we have now won't always stay this way -- I look to my Father and give thanks for all of that, and I trust that He knows best.

You need space to grow and I'm learning that, as your relationship with me is more push-pull with the sweetest touch of love sprinkled throughout. You teach me about Men in this way and bring me closer to your daddy.

You show me what love is, sweetie-pie.  You accept me without conditions and forgive me so much quicker than I can ever understand. Your love surrenders all pretense and you are free to give without reservation. You help me to heal.

You give me hope as I watch the way you go all out in your joy for life, and as I watch you make good choices -- for you, and for the benefit of others.

You're learning from a good man. You're learning how to be kind and gentle, thoughtful and attentive. 

And you're learning from an even Greater Man as you learn more and more about His Truth's and Love for you.

I pray you rich blessings on this Father's Day, my son -- that you would be inspired to learn from your daddy's love for you, that you would grow into the man God designed you to be, and that you would know His love for you -- how wide and deep it goes through your life.

I pray that even now, God would be building you up into a man who honors Him. I pray that you will one day hold little-arms in your own bigger-arms and you would seek Him for guidance in being a daddy to your own beloved.