the swing dance of parenting

He's learning to husband me and it's beautiful, though sometimes it hurts.
He's occassionally out of line and out of place and a bit wonky.

He puts on a front, pretending not to care about any thing, including the things I know he really truly does care about. I'm reminded of myself and how I pretended for so long, how I erected a facade to portray a stronger than I was image.

We're not sure what to do with him. My groom and I wring our hands in angst as we try every approach to reach him, including stepping back and letting him be.

Parenting is a responsibility that requires stick-with-it-ness.

Maybe one of these days we'll say something that will make a difference, so we keep trying.

He's only ten and yet, he's going to be the (much older) big brother. Our life reflects a very different kind of story than most people we know with their kids scripted to be 18 months to two years apart.

We didn't script our life, though I wanted to and tried to -- many a times.

And here we are, battling it out day by day with this tween who knows we cannot make him do a darn thing.

He puts up a stink when we say things and someone told me the other day that it's good, he's learning to stand up for himself. I tuck that away in my Hope-file.

I'm learning to love him as he is and not pine for who he might someday be, because this could be it. These hard days could be our only days and I think . . .

     What if these are the glory days? 

I look for a reaction from my every day attempts, as if what I say will illicit some sort of chemical reaction that will be positive and perhaps puff a colorful cloud.

I'm looking for something to make me feel good, to know that I am doing the right things and making a difference.

I take what he says so personally and if I haven't said something in just the right way, I've often thought I am not good enough. I don't worry about being a bad parent as much as I worry what kind of a person he will become because of me.

I often have to remind myself we all have something -- we all could use counselors in our lives, and . . . perhaps God will use my weaknesses as my son's mother to draw him ever further to His heart, where He is the boy-man's God and not me.

God is bigger than the expectations and criticism of the world. I have to remind myself who each day I will serve -- them or Him . . . my comfort or Him.

I have worn the letters right off the keyboard in my tap, tap, tapping for a cause, a cure, and even confidence. I've choked myself with the pressure to solve and diagnose every reason for why I can't seem to right all that is not working.

Exhausted from all the attempts to fix all the things and all the people, I decided to try God.

     "You can trust Me," are the words that stir in my weary heart. 

All along I've thought it would be me leading him. I'm stepping back and considering how perhaps it really is the child who will lead me.

___________________________________________________________

Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion?
Come to Me.
Get away with Me and you'll recover your life.
I'll show you how to take a real rest.
Walk with Me and work with Me --
watch how I do it.
Learn the unforced rhythms of Grace.
I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you.
Keep company with Me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly.

-- Matthew 11:28 The Message (MSG)

on holding onto hope

The Boy-Man is identifying with his father more and more these days.

It hurts me to watch this process of his growing up. Boys are supposed to need their momma's. (And does he think I don't notice that he's been trying out calling me simply, Mom?)

Deep in my heart I know this growing up and apart is good, so very good. It's a moving from being dependent to inter-- and in--dependent. 

For this child, I see inter-dependence in action as he is attentive about the needs of other people within our family and the world around him, versus being exclusively focused on his own gain. He's learning valuable executive function skills, while also being incredibly connected to others.

The Boy has a different view than a lot of his peers about most everything, which might be why he sometimes doesn't seem to fit well. I'm okay with this more than I used to be as I've been deliberately trying to fixate on more of his heart and less of his habits.

I've worried that The Boy-Man won't be able to survive on his own as I've cleaned up his crumbs and reminded him time after time to use a napkin, yet that fear is ever more loosed as I watch him increasingly resist my accolades and instruct me on exactly how to grocery shop since his dad and he usually are the ones to do the job. The Boy tends to care more about speech intonations than whether he can replace the sheets on his bed. Yet, I can count on him to give me the lo-down on the morning news, reminding me to pause and consider the world beyond my own.

My groom is a good model to learn from when it comes to both inter-- and in--dependence. He puts my needs and our son's needs ahead of his own, while also doing whatever he needs to do for himself. He's certainly not one of those men who don't know how to make up a grocery list or cook a meal. He makes connections between my quick kiss, hurried state of being and changing of my outfit, identifying nine times out of ten that I'm disappointed with my body or recent choices that I've made and therefore distance myself from him out of shame.

I watch and listen to the environment and tone in our home. The emphasis is more on others versus personal fulfillment and achievement, and being all lookatmeish as I can tend to be, I give credit to The Man (and ultimately, of course, to God).

Recently, I found myself expressing relief to my groom that I wasn't pregnant, even though we've been "trying" (in a loose whatever, yet hopeful kind of way). With some careful and gentle excavating of my heart, my groom was able to help me uncover that fear wants to hold back my hope . . . because it's just so overwhelmingly painful and risky to love.

Experiencing our son's maturing, now nearly a decade into life, I've wrestled with wondering what my place is within our family and most of all The Boy's life. I've wondered what my ultimate purpose is, forgetting that it changes with time.

I nursed our son and deliberately kept to a thoughtfully orchestrated schedule. I held him and sang to him. I read to him and wrote notes to him. I've whispered affirmation to him as he's laid his head on his pillow each night, praying over and with him. I've done so much more than this measly list, and yet I wonder what my role is now and what it will be as time presses on and he distances himself even more.

The memories I have of my relationships with my parents are thicker now that The Boy is older. Fear gets tangled up in my moments with him. I thought I was over all the hurt that I had growing up and it seems as though it's resurfacing all over again. A part of me wonders if it's just a matter of facing and accepting my story now that I'm at the age I'm at, but fear snarls at me and tempts me to jump ship so that I don't make the same mistakes . . . yet, how would leaving be any better?! I know I sound crazy and might even be half (or mostly) crazy, so I settle on one big jumbled thought:

     There-Is-No-Way-I-Can-Possibly-Do-This-Again-And-Someone-Please-Hold-Me!

My groom will likely have The Conversation with our son about what it means to be "A Man" in the pubescent sort of ways. He's the one who coaches him with his sports. And he's the one who teaches him about everything else, including all his academics. My groom will teach The Boy how to balance a checkbook and pay the bills. And he'll be the one to teach him to drive. I often pray, Please Lord don't let him die young! because I'm just so afraid of messing it up.

My groom is the teacher and I'm the nurturer. Though we both flip-flop our roles on occasion, and mostly it's like a dance, I try to remember not to be my groom and instead, to simply be me.

I am learning to make myself available to listen to the Boy-Man's stories. Even if I've heard them before or know what he's about to say, I am learning to be interested in what he has to say. I'm learning to be a sounding board for him and to give him an opportunity to practice knowing something and presenting his ideas and thoughts.

The Boy is slipping away from me little-by-little. He stands like a limp noodle when I give him a hug and wraps his arms around my neck with affection much less often, unless he thinks he can take me down in some aggressive and stealth, ninja-like way. He scolds me and keeps me accountable to doing things the right way. Yet, when we're in a store I notice that The Boy reaches for my hand and pats my bottom like his father does, gently wrapping his arm around me. He'll sit closer to me sometimes at night when we're watching a television show together and he sometimes pats my knee just as affectionately as his father.

It's a clunky time for me to know my role and I'm sure it's becoming increasingly wonky for The Boy. He notices things about me that he never noticed before and the whole idea of what he might be thinking scares me because he can be so quiet, yet so talkative at the same time.

There are books upon books that have tried to explain all that I see happening right in front of me, and there are millions upon millions of women who've gone before me and experienced the gradual growing-apart of a Boy-Man. Probably every single woman has questioned her place and role as her son has grown, so I can trust I'm not alone. When I dig deep, truth tells me that I will continue to have a meaningful role in The Boy-Man's life. Yet, I also know that growing always hurts. The truth isn't always enough to set a person free.

I still hold tight to a dream that we'll have another of our own someday, though all that I'm experiencing now sometimes makes me think that hope is too risky. In telling my groom that I was relieved to not be pregnant, what I really meant is that I'm relieved that I don't have to face the push-pull of relationship and the vulnerability of hope.

I forget that even though the moments won't last forever, it all matters.

I forget that my commitment to centering us around the table together for most every meal encourages conversation, enveloping The Boy into more than just a part of my day.

I forget that sharing my heart with him makes him actively involved in the moments of my life, teaching him about the grittiness of grace.

I forget that I also help to condition the environment in our home and that my expression of joy helps him to see moments as gifts.

I forget that the way I respond to my groom's affection is teaching The Boy how to be brave and to boldly love.

I forget that how I receive love teaches him about the sensitive nature of a woman's heart, preparing him to consider perspectives different from his and to slow himself enough to bolster a woman to be, as she is.

I forget that one prayer can make a profound impact, even long after it's spoken and remembered, and that it isn't my job to measure the worth of anything that has breath.

Truthfully, I really am relieved not to be pregnant with a second child right now. Sometimes even the risks in life are incredibly overwhelming to consider. My heart just doesn't have the space for more than what's right in front of me.

I still hope, but even that seems like too much. Nowadays I hope differently than I used to. The hope I have today is that I'm actively being prepared, each moment-by-moment, for the dreams my heart struggles to hold. My heart is constantly reshaping and growing into each new moment as it comes and I have to trust that God knows what's best for me and the world I'm a part of.

For now, I'm choosing to rest . . . and accept this life, as it is.

I'm choosing to live. Because, this really is enough. And for this, so am I . . . as I am.

we forget they need You

Father, we come . . .


fearful we aren't who they need us to be.

fearful we won't reflect your love enough.

fearful we haven't learned from our own mistakes.

we want to fix them and create happy.

we want our love to heal their wounds that are deep.

we worry they will experience pain and disappointment.

we worry our togetherness will be abbreviated.

we worry so much we forget we are a big deal to them, as we are. 

widen our capacity to trust You for their life and their influence, as they are.

widen our acceptance that they need You, far more than us.


amen.

we're wanted

Father, we come.

wanting to play and yet with so much to do.

we hope someone else will occupy and entertain, someone who is more fun than us.

we hear the words, "will you play with me?", and we so want to

     . . . yet, there's all the things! 

     and . . . "just one more thing . . . one more minute . . . "

the relief came when his daddy came walking in the room and said he'd play.

we even sighed at the feeling of being rescued.

it's hard to confess our gratitude for this rescue.

we're being asked for, though.

we are wanted. 

     as. we are. 

slow us to see his eyes that long for us.

slow us to listen to hear his voice say our name.

slow us to feel his tug for us.

make less of our many things.

less distractions.

less us.

we are wanted and we have made them wait too long for us.

it is us who they want, not just him or something else to do to fill the time.

it's us.

it's time that we take our wanted place.

so, might we set down the dish towel and the spoon that stirs.

might we put a pin in all the things and pick up the video controller, even just once.

we're being asked for and we know it.

we're wanted, even with all there is to do.

doing less and being with them is kind of a big deal. remind us today.

and might our saying "Yes!" be our offering to you.

might we feed and clothe them with the love you give through our very being here.

loose us to fast our comfort of control and order.

niggle within us a wanting to be with them.

thank you for provoking us and prompting us to notice their want of us today.

amen.

linking with Jennifer and Emily. 

hero

you go through your days with hope that it will be easy, i know.

this is my waking thought most of the time, too.

it's not wrong of us. it's a comfort catching kind of thing. and we're all allowed to want that.

so when the day turns sour and your hope gets a flat tire . . .

     i'm right there with you in the sad of the day.

i want it to be better, too. i want it to be easier and smoother.

i want to make it all better for you. and for me.

but i can't always solve the problem or create a next time not like this.

i have to let life run its course.

i have to let you feel pain, and us -- together -- feel the inadequacy.

our stickwithitness is tested in these days. our patience refined.

we're sorrow-filled for our grief and our heavy disposition, yet somehow we continue . . .

     we keep on.

we say yes to another day.

with the ounce of courage in our pocket, we accept this:

     life . . . as. it. is.

we're heroes, i'd say. and the pain that we feel is really okay.

so let's be patient and trust that the hero-making of each day isn't at all meaningless.

it's grace.

this is our worship: to be real -- as. we. are.

linking with Lisa-Jo

in the bunker . . . and #WorshipUnwrapped

Here, in this moment, there aren't accusations or judgment between us. 

And this is blessedly sweet. Miraculous and almond-bud-like. 

Blossoms are spouting forth between us. And this is indeed a blessedly sweet moment to unwrap.

I confess that I want to run away and even wave my flag, hoping he'll excuse me. 

Instead, he says I hear you. 

And for once I see . . . we are together in this. 

We acknowledge that we hear each other, we understand.

So we kneel and hold hands, in the bunker. 

this is our worship. 

: : : 

And this is their #worshipunwrapped . . . 

__________________________

1. "I am trying to figure out how you patch together something that still sings of grace and glory while not ignoring the present reality.

     How do we take the straw we've been handed and spin it into something golden and magical?"

Holly Grantham's #worshipunwrapped. 

__________________________

2. "Christmas can feel like it's falling down as the pieces of a dream season shatter, scattering from one edge to the other."

Kris Camealy's #worshipunwrapped. 

__________________________

3. "What if hard actually means you are doing something right?"

Jamie Martin's #worshipunwrapped. 

__________________________

4. "I used to struggle with seeing joy, for I was blinded by grief and caught in the haze of black sorrow. I felt the weight of death, her diagnosis. She's too young, my heart yelped, she's too young to be wounded, too tender and innocent. And yet her babyhood was full, it was rich."

Michaela Evanow's #worshipunwrapped.

__________________________

5. "Miracles are just a temporary fix . . . I know He loves me and I don't need a miracle to know that . . .

     If I wanted to be a missionary, I couldn't reach as many people as I have through this."

Abby Smith's #worshipunwrapped. 

We present to you these offerings, Father. 

We dance. We declare. And together, we dine. 

___________________________________

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no small thing :: worship unwrapped

we're on the edge

both of us, me and you.

nearly about to jump

or run away.

we're here together, though

and this is no small thing.

i kneel low to count this grace,

as you wipe the tear from my eye.

this is our worship. 

: : : 

And this is theirs that I have unwrapped . . . 

__________________________

1. "Sometimes, we have to make the decision to begin again, even when we don't feel ready." 

Read about how Michele-Lyn's beginning again is worship. 

__________________________

2. "I want to hear The One who comes softly saying,
     Be Still. Listen. Watch for the light. Come away . . . 

I want to hear Him . . . and it's getting harder to push away the noise."

God meets us where we are and doesn't drag us to where we "should" be or where everyone else says we "need" to be. 

Read about how Jody Lee Collins's listening is worship. 

__________________________

3. On being the enough Mom. 

"Motherhood, and in fact life, is often this journey of waking up and discovering self.

     That's the truth." 

How Rachel Marie Martin's being Real is worship. 

___________________________

4. "Making space for God's presence in my home feels about as back-breaking as hauling stones . . . 

It asks nothing of me. Requires nothing of me.

It is an impossible mess, and it is grace, and my children and I have seen fire.

Read about Christie Purifoy's space making as worship. 

We present to you these offerings, Father. 

We dance. We declare. And together, we dine. 

___________________________________

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where the green grass grows

It's hard, I know it is.

Sometimes you want to give up. 

You even pack your bag to make a point and dared to stand at the door and threaten to leave.

Though you knew you wouldn't really follow through with it, your illustration was important for you to make. You needed to act out your feelings because you weren't being heard.

The Boy-Man was acting today, too.

Though his choice to act out his strong will was inappropriate and mistimed, he, too, wanted to be heard.

He was struggling with self, all prideful and arrogant and stubborn, and seeming to be wholly disrespectful.

I know, and you know, that our son doesn't mean this attitude and that he's wrestling the gift of strength that God gave him. He is learning to stand up for himself and we want this for him.

He was irresponsible as he played around in selfish disobedience. I'm with you.

Believe me when I say we're on the same page.

The valley seems so hard sometimes. 

     It shouldn't be this hard.

But it is. For everyone it is.

Those who are brave enough to be honest about it reflect beauty in their Real truth-telling.

God reminds me that the green grass grows in the valley.

Lush fields abound here, where the soil needs the most cultivating. We get dirty in the farming. And we might even get a hayseed or two in our eye. It's just part of the process.

The Boy is growing into a man, wholly Holy.

I've scheduled work trips with a deliberate and hopeful intention of providing a shot of relief in a particularly tense season of life, and I, too, have wanted to bolt out the door and say "I've had enough!"

I'm still a {God-made} child -- irresponsible, prone to act out, and selfishly disobedient.

As hard as it is, let's remain. Because God's got this. And him. And us. And . . .

I'd hate to know we missed the blooming season. 

So let's stay and see the green grass grow.

this is our worship. 

____________________________________

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sacrificing smooth

So you wanted it to go differently -- a little less rough around the edges. I call it happy and you call it smooth.

Instead, my eyes meet yours as I walk in the door on my lunchtime visit and you shake your head. Instantly I see your disappointment, sadness almost, over not having what you really wanted for this, the first day back to school -- our first day to teach and learn at home for the whole year.

I listen to you explain the challenges that first morning presented. You humbly share and I feel the ache of your frustration. Your words speak of your heart -- a strong attempt to choose kindness and gentleness, and how it wasn't received and how sad you were for him needing the consequences. For I see, it does sadden you and you wish it weren't always needed.

I'm giddy as I'm listening and I can't hardly wait for you to stop. I want to do what I'm most compelled to do and that is to encourage you. I want you to see what my heart sees: Pure goodness. Rich, sweet, satisfying goodness pouring out and over the cup you share as we commune together in this moment of you sharing this story of your morning. The blessing spills over and the cup runs over and I see it:

The hard moments, when the fight leaves the edges of our story tattered, torn and frayed, are really Holy moments -- to-God-glory-be moments. 

It requires the most insane amount of sacrifice to See because we think it just doesn't make sense and really, it doesn't -- hence the crazy part. Reaching for Hope sometimes doesn't make a bit of sense. It's completely ridiculous on the surface.

To really find understanding we need to listen, keep quiet, slowly consider what the moment is all about, and only then thoughtfully respond. Slow and quiet soften our response to be more heartfelt and less of a hell-bent-like reaction.

Listen. Consider. Respond. (not react).

I speak this out loud for myself to hear and soak up the words because what I need to remember most is that there's a difference between react and respond. Because I don't always agree with your approach and the truth is that I sometimes don't trust that God is in control, and so I elbow my way to the soapbox to be heard and to control and outcome that I fear.

  O to trust more . . .  

The grace is in the slowing of me to See. To seek first to understand you. To surrender my fears and instead choose an ear, I am in turn gifted a window to your sweet and gentle heart and this, a wildly beautiful perspective:

When we sacrifice our desires for a smooth going day, we are willingly choosing to See the meaning full purpose of it all. 

And from what I can see, you are cultivating a rich soil, gently turning it up and patiently handpicking the weeds and stones up and out -- the ones like his pride and disrespect. This character farming is a reflection of He who lives inside of you. Metaphorical speak, of course.

So, steady on. You are doing a great work. Truly, a great work.

I cannot judge for I was not there (and neither can anyone else for that matter), and I do not have an alternate solution or suggested approach that might be better than yours. What I do know is how to encourage, and so hear me my sweet friend:

     You are doing a great work. Do not come down from here. 

Brick by brick His beauty is being built here in this place.
So, stay the course, press on, and remember this:

The roughness of this moment is merely a reflection of His refining in process. 

May our Heavenly Father fill your gaps and bless your heart and work. Amen.

all in

this is the one where i am going to step off the diving board.

though i don't have the technical experience to perfect this and i'll likely belly flop, i'm going to step forward anyway. i'll give you a nod and maybe even a slight wink, and then i'll take a step. right now.

the considering and deliberating is the scary part.

the water isn't the color i thought it'd be and the season seems a little off to me. alas, i've heard the call and i've decided not to turn back.

we'll do this thing -- whatever that might end up being i am not 100% certain -- and i'm going to just trust.

someone deemed me worthy of the life we share together. i recognize how very important our story is and i've decided not to question.

this is today's decision. i recognize that tomorrow might feel very differently and i might be torn to consider doubting again. i will wrestle confusion to the ground again -- it's inevitable -- and we'll go round and round until i get tired of myself.

we might look at each other and feel the tendency to blame one another when the chaos seems like taking this step was a stupid thing to even consider. i realize the risk in that and today i'm okay with it. because, i am embracing our humanness -- our sloppy, messy, hypocrite-like tendencies that tend to act out emotion rather than identifying, examining and discussing it.

i'm in. all in.

this step i'm taking is a surrender -- a releasing of control. an acknowledging that i don't know what is right or best or even what i want. i'm embracing the 180-like shift in our almost plans.

it feels a bit risky to dive without knowing how deep the water is, and to step without knowing what is coming next . . . but my amount of faith mixed with your amount of faith will be enough. we already are enough. and truthfully, we didn't need the faith -- He already made us enough.

so, let's embrace our enough-ness and lay low our fears and together take this step.

: : : 

to my groom,

i've acted like a child who was too impatient to wait for her father to give her what she wanted most -- who, resentful of the waiting crossed her arms and pouted, and then when the gift was handed to her spouted: "but i don't want it any more!" -- because, it was so hard to surrender into the waiting, and i'm so scared of false starts and empty gifts. 

i realize i have huge trust issues with God and a tremendous weakness in my ability to live out hope and faith, and i'm realizing that my surrendering became prideful -- a "look, i surrendered!" attitude that says, "don't make me do it again! because, i had this other vision i was asked to yield to and so i did, and now, this -- a 180 shift, again!"

and here i am, fearing that my thinking out loud here with you might be sloppy and confusing and just too much . . . that you won't get me and i'll just make a mess. 

these lower case letters are a reflection of my small, shaky voice that struggles to believe i am enough. that we are enough. that we will be given enough.

so this piece is my: "okay, i'll surrender the vision to try for one of our own" -- and again, a yielding, perhaps now to the true desires of my heart.

i'm surrendering -- giving up the control and the fight and to just see what He wills. i'm taking this step. 

i love you. more than words or my life can ever reflect. 

a

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_______________________________________________

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You might be interested in this:

on letting go {raw and unedited}

surrendering superwoman

how trust is a game changer

the pursuing

discomfort

jump

on noticing grace

I look at him and think about how every day there are new freckles appearing. It's my daily hunting. I see my mother when he smiles. Sometimes my father, too. The Boy-Man's face is changing right before my eyes and I am so grateful to notice.

Life is slower these days, and yet it isn't. There is a lot happening in the periphery of my immediate view and I feel the strain when I try to see beyond my immediate sight. I am not meant to look beyond. My eyes are more comfortable to look straight ahead. The same goes with my heart. I was created to be in the now. The moment I start looking beyond, I miss out on the now. It seems cliche and a lot of people write about this, yet it's truth that I'm really beginning to know in a more fuller way than ever for myself.

I can't stop thinking about how captivated I am these days, by freckles. And I wonder, maybe it's the small that He wants me to notice. God always has been one to speak in metaphors.

Boy-Man's eyes are the kind of blue that make up my favorite sky kind of days when the sun and the blue is the only thing above me -- wide open and bright, and so blessed beautiful. I name the color French Blue and it reminds me of a dream I have to take him there someday -- to Paris. His eyes represent France to me and it's crazy.

I notice that Boy-Man's eyes widen as the Hibachi Chef lights the grill on fire. It's that moment that he will remember most, I am sure of it. There was another party next to us with rowdy folk having Saki bombs and all this eight-year-old can say is how "dangerous!" it is to drink as fast as you can like that. He is wise beyond his years, noticing danger before he ever officially gets taught. His heart is always concerned about others and I remember my mother's comment this winter: "someday he will save a life."

We watched my cousin graduate from college a few weekend's ago and I noticed out of the nearly 500 graduating seniors -- the one who was in dress blues. I learned that earlier that day he was commissioned as a Marine. And I cried, for the vision I have of my own son someday. The one that could be wrong, yet always brings me to my knees in surrender and how I am reminded that my son's life is not mine to keep; how, he is His.

I notice the furrow he gets in his brow when his joy is squelched. And I see how he forgives easily and quickly, though I also notice the sadness that washes over him and I wonder if it's because he's been disappointed. I pray God uses those moments for The Boy-Man to learn we aren't perfect and we will disappoint, and yet that He doesn't. I pray his trust grows for Him more than for us. And that's a hard prayer to allow my spirit to pray. I notice how easily some prayers come and how I don't even have to think -- true breath prayers.

I notice the way he sits closely to her. His friend who is a girl. He sits close to me just like that. It's the people who accept him as he is that makes him feel comfortable. I see how he loves her, yet it's pure and deep and rich and people would say eight-year-old's shouldn't feel that way. But I would argue that it's not the attraction type or dating type of love. It's the pure love of people and connection of hearts -- the love Christ showed.

Noticing is a gift. I want to know what's happening next in my life and I get all anxious at sensing something different is about to burst wide open in our lives -- like a wriggling little puppy just waiting to explode out of a box. I anticipate with a wanting to know His gifts because I know my Father gives with such purpose.

The bush in front of our house is burgundy. It flowers pink briefly each spring and stands proud with rich dark red the rest of the year. It's a color that warms my soul and I'm grateful for the feeling that color evokes in me. The same color wraps the Boy-Man up in warmth as he lies on the couch. I notice that television watching is boring to him -- he'd rather do something. Yet, his daddy sleeps and I read with sudden urges to write and I'm about to go out for a long run and he'll have to wait for the hub-bub of the day to begin. He's tired but sleep is boring and life is to be lived. I notice all of this and write down my gratefulness in blank pages sprawled open wide. My declaring is worship, I know it.

A few weeks ago my groom and I had an unexpected opportunity to be together. I had almost made myself coffee and decided not to, and then surprisingly my groom invited me to take a walk with him to get some. It was a found time of togetherness. I sat at the counter sipping latte and sighed as a van passed us by. He noticed my sigh and inquired about my thoughts. I considered what I could miss out on by avoiding his inquiry and the moment to connect. I breathed in the Spirit and asked for Him to guide our conversation. Public chats can be risky for us as emotions sometimes get fired up when we try to connect deeply, though I trusted that maybe being in public would ground us in a way -- keep us accountable and focused on respecting each other.

We chatted about adoption and whether to pursue it. We've taken steps recently to explore this as a real possibility -- a God-sized dream -- and whether it just might become our reality. The pursuing and considering together was huge; the actual taking of a step -- going beyond talking about it and wondering. Our very togetherness was the important part, I know it.

For years I would talk about adoption as if it was really going to happen. It was exclusively my vision. And so as we took a step -- together -- I pointedly asked God, Is this what you want for us? Just because my heart is passionate about it, is this how it looks for us? It is part of our story to adopt?

For six years I practically begged for another child of our own. Six years of tantrums when my groom said "not now" and his vagueries weren't enough for my impatient self. Finally, out of desperation and realization that I had no where to go if I wanted joy than to surrender and let it all go. So I did. Painfully. Excruciatingly. Begrudgingly.

A few days prior to our chat at the coffee shop, I had noticed thoughts swirl in my head about having another child of our own. It's like those thoughts were preparation. And then, right there in the coffee shop, he speaks of another option: of having another of our own. Of getting pregnant by fall. And there I sat with tears streaming down my face -- my head so mad and yet my heart laughing because God is just so comical sometimes. A 180-shift, yet only from my perspective.

Pride is something He draws me to notice -- to own and confess so He can break me free. I surrendered my plan for having another child and became pride-full in the process. A lookatmeish kind of accomplishment to be praised for. And now that this could be a very real possibility, I'm honestly not sure I want it. I'm struggling and wrestling. I realize how I sound like a stubborn eight-year-old who says "never mind, I don't want it anymore!" -- full of resentment from all the waiting.

I look over and notice Boy-Man's smile as he watches The Bill Cosby Show like I did when I was his age. I notice the peace I feel as I recognize and confess my pride and selfishness: I'm not sure I want to birth another child. I'm honestly not sure I want to go through the changes of my body again. It wasn't an issue back then but it's suddenly become one now, and it's gross to think about -- the pride. But birthing a baby is a miracle and a gift and maybe this is what God wants of me, to surrender control. He wants all of me: My heart. My pride. My fertility. My body. My honesty.

To follow Christ is to sacrifice -- an immense amount of surrender.

I want to follow Him and He knows what it takes. I am learning to receive His grace more and more -- to accept my messing up and mistake-making and imperfections and trying-too-hard and recklessness. It's this process of my learning to live in trust as I learn about His love and who I am to Him that matters most.

I notice how much my perspective has changed and how much more peace fills my heart is these days . . . how much I notice His truly amazing grace.

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