a growing of us

You're only four days old now and I still can hardly believe you're here.

Sometimes it feels like I'm floating and it's not because I am just a tad bit back logged on sleep. Is this truly not a dream?

The joy I feel is just so unbelievable.
The peace I feel is just so remarkable.

I carried a hope to be a Momma to another and you've been a long wait for me.

Watching you nuzzle and guzzle what God made my body provide for you, I am reminded of all those times I thought I was broken.

The doctor says you're just a few ounces away from your birth weight, gaining and growing quickly. I smile and then I tear up, knowing you won't be this tiny with squished up legs for much longer.

I watched your daddy take over and undress you at the doctor's office today, and then change your diaper one and then two times. He is so patient, concerned more about being gentle with you than rushing in response to a waiting nurse. I think, if only I could be half as good at changing diapers! Then I remember . . . 

Comparing isn't the way to live our own unique lives.

It's the changes that I notice most in these days since laboring and birthing you that astound me -- in me and in all of us.

With each contraction I experienced during my labor with you, I felt such a calm and profound peace as I focused on letting go and surrendering to the process. As I pushed you out and into the world, my loud, gutteral, uninhibited screams were more than just a response to the physical pain.

I screamed for the wrestle of surrender, for the receiving of grace, for the journey of hope, for the love being birthed in me.

Since that day I looked at you astounded that you really are here, I continue to feel immense joy and peace. I look at you and know that it's not about being worthy or deserved, it's simply about the plan God wants to accomplish.

I can truly rest from trying to be someone, I can just live, as I am. 

I don't have to do every thing right, I really am good enough. 

Your brother has been opened up to love. His heart is private and how he's been touched by your life already is in deeper ways than we could ever fully know. From the moment he learned of your budding life, to the moments now when he looks at you, something profound has been happening in him.

Your daddy and I are true partners now, not competitors or trying to prove anything to each other. We appreciate each other and love each other no matter our irritations or annoyances. Letting us be partners and friends on this journey is no small thing for me, let me tell you.

It could be the nearly 15-years of marriage and 11-years of parenting together that has taught your daddy and me to work together in coordination and cooperation, like sinews, yet I know it's more than that because we could be 30-years in and not have what we have today. 

God has given us courage to face the days with perseverance and to choose commitment over comfort.

This is a special time and I will not rush it away. I have already been out of work for over a month as we awaited your birth. Under the surface, there was a deep birthing of me during that time. I will be home for several more months and I am determined to not pressure myself or obligate myself to anything beyond our growing together.

I will nap when I need to, surrendering the compulsion to singlehandedly tend to you.

I will let your daddy in, and all the others who want to know and love you.

I will resume running because it is nourishment to my wellness, not to hurry away the remnants of my pregnancy with you.

This time is different. 

I am becoming the me I was designed to be; I am content and grateful for my life, as it is. I am at peace with all the parts of my story I had once wished were different. 

I'd say we're both quite blessed.

on learning to accept fear (Part 2: responding to a mother's worry)

My mother texted me the other day to express how "sad" it is about Robin Williams. I agreed and commented how mental illness is definitely very real.

She then said: "Promise me never to do that."

And I couldn't reply.

Sometimes the truth is too scary to face, so I hide.

I was afraid of my mother's fear so I chose not to respond to her request that I make such a big promise to her. Mostly I was afraid for her because sometimes the truth can feel like too much. I wanted to protect my mom from worry.

I've been paying more attention to fear these days.

I've been noticing that like children, fear just wants to be noticed. Even though fears can't just get what they want and don't have the right to push me around, I'm letting them be heard. I'm asking questions and trying to learn from them, even though rationalizing with or talking down fear doesn't always work.

Like the white hair, and wrinkles, and aches and pains that have been slowly making me notice that in spite of my feelings, I'm not 25 anymore . . . fear reminds me that I'm human.

I'm learning that I can rest when I simply accept fear as a part of life, kind of like germs that I can't just perfectly cleanse away. I make a choice to accept the risk that I might get sick and live.

No matter what we do, fear isn't something that we can make go away.

Fear isn't something to feel shame about -- neither that we have fear, or that we struggle to control it.

I hope that in time I'll become better at thoughtfully responding to fear instead of impulsively reacting to it and that my body will be strong enough for it the next time it invades me. For now, I'm learning to be honest that this conditioning takes a lot out of me.

I feel like a person who is just beginning a new fitness routine and is tempted to give up from feeling more exhausted because of the workouts. I'm learning to be gentle and patient and kind with myself as I develop the strength to stand strong in the midst of fear that is a part of life. Like wind, I can't control fear from happening, but I can do what I can to be prepared for it. Yoga reminds me of this as I contract my core muscles and stand strong like a tree, imagining that I can't be pushed or blown over.

I'm starting to accept fear and it's wonky ways. I'm also starting to accept it as a part of others, too, and how it spills over and makes a mess sometimes.

Though I couldn't promise my mom I won't one day take my life and I was afraid of how she might feel and what she might think if I spoke the truth, I decided not to let my silence be so deafening.

In my response to my mother's worry for me, I addressed it by saying:

I saw your text before I went to bed and didn't know how to respond, so I let it sit.

The truth is, I can't promise something like that to you. I can't promise that to anyone. Not even myself.

Does it mean you should be worried about my mental health? Not necessarily.

None of us are immune from random and seemingly sudden moments of onset anxiety and depression; however, I'd venture that the "sudden-seeming" nature is really a surfacing of the truth that's hidden below.

I've struggled in my own silent and scary ways for a lot of my life, and it's likely why I created "rules" that were my way of trying to fix myself.

I'm aware that my son and my husband and I could choose not to be brave in this life; we could choose to give up.

That I haven't . . . that any of us haven't . . . is truly a miracle. 

I share this piece of my response to my mom because truth alone isn't enough to set us free

     . . . neither is love from our family, and
     . . . neither is time.

It isn't because we aren't good enough that explains why we continue to struggle in life, it's simply because we haven't arrived in a place where anything is perfect.

When we accept that we were made human, we just might begin to accept our brokenness . . . and even ourselves. 

Maybe, just maybe, we'll begin to simply be, as we are, instead of work to become someone we aren't (even yet).

Maybe we'll begin to see our beauty as the kind that in its rawness is sometimes hard to look at, yet reminds others that they aren't alone.

Maybe we'll begin to see our imperfect bravery of accepting ourselves as the most perfect beauty of all.

Maybe we'll begin to accept grace.

Maybe we'll begin to rest.

Maybe we'll begin to live.

responding to a mother's worry

My mother wrote to me last night with what she called, unfounded worry. She asked me to forgive her if she steps out of line and said:

"I don't want interfere and I don't want to make things my business that don't belong to me. 

I worry about you because I am your mother and I love you. I cannot pinpoint why I worry. I have no definitive reason that brings me to this worry.  

It is not person or situation specific. It is just an uneasy feeling I have. 

. . . I just want you to know how important you are, how much you are needed and how much you are loved . . . " 

: : : 

Even though fear was rummaging around the walls of my heart, and . . . 

     I wasn't completely comfortable with what I had to say, and . . .
     I wondered what I could have possibly done to make her be worried, and . . .
     I wanted to run and hide, and scream and shout in defense of myself, and . . .
     I sometimes forget to count the gifts . . .

I scripted a response and sent it . . . in the midst of the fear . . . because:

I'm learning to honor myself, as I am
     . . . and I'm learning to honor others, too, as they are.

: : : 

My response to my mother's worry went something like this: 

Mom, 

I know you love me and that's a great gift -- to know.  

I truly appreciate you and how you care. 

Let me assure you that there's no need to worry. Though, mother's have this sense and that's not to be ignored, so for whatever reason that brings you to "worry" I'll just trust that you'll choose peace. I've been on a journey of rest and it's been deep and profound. Perhaps I've been distant. 

Why do people feel compelled to walk a certain line or stay outside of certain bounds? That kind of thinking isn't free to just love and care and express genuine concern and is what inhibits many of us from peace and what causes us continued restlessness, wondering what should we do? how should we act? what should we say? I've been deliberately choosing not to live that way and to be more open with my heart, though it's hard. I'm tired of the rules that imprison me; rules that I create and have based my life around that has ultimately inhibited me from living in joy and peace.

I want you to know that life is good, Mom. Truly, it's good. 

Now, in my mid-30s, I'm navigating who I am, as I am, versus who I think I ought to be. This may seem like a time to reply: "well, that's how you should have been living, silly girl" Yet, it's not how I've lived and that's just how it is. I think a lot of people my age get to this point in their lives and start to realize that we haven't been true to ourselves, and those who don't get it probably just haven't realized this about themselves. This is my story right now: learning to live freely as me and not focus so much on the imperfections.

I'm deep and often times too much for most people including myself, yet I am learning to trust God for my imperfections and trust my husband for his love. These two are profound lessons I'm in the midst of learning and it takes a lot of energy and strength and much of my heart just to live in this space. Perhaps that's a lot of the reason why I might come across as distant; there's just not a lot of words I can muster and not a lot of room in my heart right now. I'm okay with this and I trust I'm good enough in this moment, as I am. 

I hope you'll be overwhelmed with a peace that assures you that I'm in a good place. 

love,

a

Linking with Jennifer

hands

i remember the way they looked and how they felt. as a young child, i spent so many moments just looking at my mother's long, thin fingers and her beautifully sculpted nails. i'd trace the wrinkles from her knuckles and ask to try on her rings.

so many sunday night's after a warm bath, she'd comb and brush my hair. she'd clap and holler my name as i ran by during all those rain drenched meets. she prepared dinner, weeded the garden, ironed, and even smoked with those thin, beautiful hands.

and now, years later, i look down and see those same hands on me.

we've each made choices that have pained us and pained others. we've signed papers, handed out money and held someone with them. there has been so many commonalities between us. at some times i've denied it or tried to avoid it, yet regardless of what we sift there will always be similarities that remain between us.

we're writer's, and momma's and friend's. we've each been broken and mended, and broken and mended again, and again, and again. we've been hopeful and lost hope, and shared hope and bolstered each other's hope, around and around again. we've prayed loudly and silently, just as we've cussed. we're real and bold and raw and brave.

and now, years later, i look down and give thanks for those hands, and i smile.

linking with Lisa-Jo

growing | {Day 7}: Keeping it Real

Being a mother grows me.

I anxiously waited for his arrival, fearful he might not really come to be.

He arrived late, though healthy and perfect-seeming in every way.

The embrace he gives me--arms strong around my neck--expresses pure love to me.

And though parenting is incredibly difficult and isn't often fun in the *whirl and twirl* of our days, it's the most amazing experience.

His heart is Kind. Gentle. Thoughtful. Attentive. Helpful.

This Boy-Man teaches me about acceptance and forgiveness.

I still fear for him.

     That he will experience pain and disappointment.

     That our togetherness will be abbreviated.

     And that he will have wounds that are deeper than my love can heal.

But still, I trust in His purposes. And His story for this child's life.

And for the people who will be influenced by his being here among us.

I learn more about God every moment of being a mother.

And today, as I celebrate his eight years of life, I give thanks for my own.

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learning trust

Motherhood is teaching me so many meaningful lessons.

Perhaps the most important stretching for me has been in *surrendering control.*

There was a point in my young years of motherhood when I began to question what if, as it related to my son's life.

Simple questioning ignited awareness of possibilities.
Fear was provoked and roared in my heart like raging fire.

As I imagined the worst, my muscles seized with tension.
Muscles tight with Hope. Vision. Expectancy.

*Control* masquerades as good parenting. 

I began to realize that what I want might not be what He wants for my son's story. Awareness led me to loosen.

More often my prayer became less of me, more of you.

Over time, my muscles became stronger. More able to relax into Today.

When muscles are tense for so long it becomes impossible to control, even when it feels otherwise. The reality of this overwhelms me.

Through the tightening of my muscles to cling onto my boy's story as tightly as I could, I realized my weakness. I am not a superhero.

I needed Him to loosen my grip and strengthen where I am weak. 

Surrendering the present and future of my son's life was what became necessary for me to become stronger.

I had to die to my own abilities in order to trust Him.

My muscles are still being strengthened with my exercise in faith. I still struggle to loosen the grip.

Now, when I think of my greatest fears, I am able to immediately to believe that All. Is. For. Purpose.

He will purpose whatever happens in our story.
And goodness will come of it when we seek Him.

I see this unfold in my life and in so many lives around me.

Beauty from ashes. Life from death. Radiant colors from the darkest days.

I can trust. 

And when I don't--when I struggle to let His will be done--I'm choosing gratitude. Because, it's one more chisel at my pride and one more moment of awareness that I still need Him.

Thank you, Father, that you don't ever stop growing us. 

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{Grace} Unwrapped...

...one moment {of trusting} at a time strengthens faith...

...a vision for the value of every moment...

...how mothering breaks my idol self to pieces...

...who I am becoming, and how I never imagined myself to be who I am...

...the peace that comes when I choose to trust...

...realizing my own doubts and uncertainties...

...the certainty that He is near, even when my feelings tell me differently...

...seeing beauty from ashes in stories all around me...

...a passion to share this beauty with the world...

_______________________________________________

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seven years in

Who I thought I was, and who I thought I should be, have been completely transformed.

It took the first two years of his life for me to settle into what being a Momma means. Finally, I surrendered my Superwoman expectations that only I put on myself.

Now, seven years in, my eyes are open and my vision clear(er) to how male's were created to be. I understand my groom more by the lessons our child provides me.

This Boy-Man forgives quickly and dwells not.
He moves always and slows only at bed time.
He's helpful and appreciates structure.
A rule follower, he's learning to test his boundaries; driving me crazy and testing me, always.

Like me, he runs his mouth, complains, and longs for attention.
And like me, he sings with joy and dances in freedom.
Music is a reflection of his our heart.

Seven years in, I am Seeing that I don't know what's best, and I carry with me many fears. I teeter in my confidence and can do nothing but seek my Father for His leading.

I trust that I was chosen for *this role* and breathe--moment by blessed moment. 

Fears he'll live my pain are my constant companion.
And I surrender, believing his story is different because he is different.
We are uniquely created individuals; not the same.

Sensitive, shy and learning to speak his mind, this boy will one day grow into a man and I wonder what he'll be like. Already, this child has solid character and integrity. He'll evolve as the seasons pass, becoming more of what God intends of him.

Fears we'll only have him for a short while, keep me grounded on Today and grateful for the purposes he lives Now.

Seven years in, I am astounded at how I've grown and selfishly I see it being all about me. 

God has provided and He has this boy's back.

I slip up every day and lack, immensely, the ability to make him do as I say. And I remember it doesn't matter, and that's not what it's about.
When I scream or shout and crush his heart, my Our Father keeps him strong and fills the gap between my selfish pride, control, fear and Love.

He's my joy, this boy.

The way he loves without conditions brings me to my knees in gratefulness. I pray, Lord keep him close to choosing forgiveness and give him freedom to love fully. Give me your courage and Grace. Might I honor you in all I learn and in the ways I grow in this. 
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Happy Birthday, peanut-butter!

You turn Seven tomorrow--already! And while it seems *just like yesterday* that you were born, I can hardly picture our life before you joined in.

You are sweet and such a delight. You are special in every way!

I love you and will always be here for you.

Love, Momma
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A delightful surprise {of a friendship}

For years I stumbled about--trying to be who I thought would make her the happiest. 

She had a hard road in regaining custody of me as a child, and I saw it a challenge to protect her from further angst. As a good girl, I would bring her the most gladness and peace. I would follow her rules and be sure to stay out of trouble.

Compliant and controlled, I seemed to succeed in making her proud...until my *rule following* and safety precautions failed. 

What wasn't supposed to happen to me, did. I disappointed her.

The doors to my home and her heart were closing--soon I would be locked out. There was only one decision to make: in my needing her, I chose what she thought was best for me. Worried I’d lose her forever, and without a spark of an idea how to live for myself, I chose her way. 

I found myself despising my mother--she became the *shackles* I allowed to lock me into approval-seeking. I had forfeited Me for Her.

Never absolutely sure of what it is she wanted of me, I’d fumble in the dark of my assumptions and fail in my attempts at making her happy. 

Resentment became my middle name. 

For years I questioned, Who am I supposed to be? I would look at everyone around me for approval and direction. I blamed my mother for all of this. 

I never could’ve imagined that I would grow up and unwrap the gift of *friendship* with my mother. 

My mom is my biggest fan--encouraging me, inspiring me to grow, and challenging me to be myself. Most importantly, we both have grown to give each other space to live our own stories.

What a delightful surprise.

This. Is. Grace. 
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what my mother did for me

One upon a time she wrote, and then she kept on writing.

I found some of her writing tucked away somewhere one day when I was young.

I was inspired.

My mom was a journalism major and never got past her associate's degree, and I'm not sure why. Her dreams were snuffed out.

And then she wrote a book for my son. A hand-crafted--went to Staples and had them bind it--kind of book. It is a book about a Moose losing his tooth, and it takes place at the house I was raised in.

She told me how this book helped her cope a little bit from the sadness of missing me and my family when we lived out of state. My dad helped her color in the pictures and together they created what was once an idea.

Her writing was healing. 

I cried when my son opened his gift. I was so proud of my mom. Her first book.

A {small-ish kind of} dream was realized.

When I was in high school an English teacher mailed my mom a piece I had written. It was about her and it had to do with running, a sport we shared together.

Running is a place we found inspiration and strength together. It was a sport she first introduced to me as a young child--where she found strength to endure a painful time in her life.

My mom did something good for herself way back then, and at two or three years old that choice spoke so loudly to me--that I am strong, too.

And so, years later I chose to run. She watched me and became inspired, again.

She says she started running because of me.
What she didn't realize was that I started running because of her, and she was just on a hiatus.

I've been writing since I was a kid. Maybe since I discovered my mom's own treasures tucked away.
Creative writing was intriguing to me when I was in high school. Give me a title and I could write about anything.

My mom mailed that English class assignment to Runner's World magazine for publication without me knowing it at the time. As it turned out they didn't publish it, but my mom believed in me.

She inspired me.

I kept on writing, and running.

What I write about now is hard stuff and not much can my mom talk with me about. It's deep stuff about my spirit and relationship with my Heavenly Father. This is painfully raw for her and I understand that. Still, though, she inspires me.

Mom asks me if I've met a deadline for a writing project, and she encourages me to keep on writing. She understands how writing helps lots of readers and especially helps the writer.

She tells me that she hopes my writing continues.

I've gotten a bike recently and I'm pondering backing off from running and trying a new sport. I'm scared. I think my mom understands my fears. Yet, she inspires me and encourages me to keep on, nonetheless.

My mom is facing her own set of fears lately. She's making adjustments in her own life, trying new things to be good for her body. She's scared. And I understand her fears.

We're good for each other.

She's always written me heartfelt--and very funny--notes and e-mails. She pours out her heart through writing. My mom writes words she'd never say out loud.

I get her. And the fear.

I get how writing is our safe place, even when it tugs at the scary places.

My mother has encouraged me.

She's given me courage to step out and live me out loud--even though it's sometimes painful for her to see.

I'm scared to keep pursuing this writing-thing God has invited me to do, and I'm scared to ride a bike - just as my mom is scared to face the emotions I bring to the surface in my writing.

We do this together--this living-thing. It's what we do for each other.  

Forever, my mom and I have talked about writing a book, and that perhaps we'd write a book together.
Maybe someday we will.

*****

This post was inspired by Ann Voskamp.  

Ann offered a scholarship for SheSpeaks and it was chosen at random.

Though I would have {very timidly} been honored to be selected,
and {I think} attend the conference -

{I'm so not a conference type of girl!  I'm still a hide in my closet type of girl!}

I wrote this because it was a must for me.  

This was part of my own healing, my own living, my own worship.  

Though the scholarship was selected at random
and I thought that I probably wouldn't be selected, 

stepping out
and taking a *risk*
was the point of it all, for me - 

it was part of the process of living out loud.  

Here's what Ann said about SheSpeaks:

In North Carolina in July, 

there's this gathering of Proverbs 31 women 

[who] gather around their sisters -
women in ministry, leading, writing, speaking, and offer,

"How can we serve you as you serve?

How can we help you bear the risk of creating, all for His glory?

How can we help you multiply the talent that He's invested in you?

How might you bury your fear in faith to keep from burying His gifts for good?"

Might you take His hand and take a *risk*?