I Don't Go to Church Very Often ... Either

I wanted to write about this.  And I wanted even more to write about it when I was no longer mad.  Out of the overflow of the mouth, the heart speaks.  Right?  So maybe it's not that we say things we don't mean when we're mad.  It's just we say them the wrong way.

I will preface this with what you already know.  Just to be clear.

I grew up in church.

I've done the "in church every time the doors were opened" thing and I've been there when the vacuums were running and the lights were off.

I grew up in youth groups and on summer camps with curfews and dress codes.  I knew the motions to the songs and didn't participate in games.

For a good long while, I did a lot of consistent tithing too.

I dated two worship leaders.  Was assaulted by a third.

I've left the country four times in the name of "missions".

I memorized scripture.

I was baptized when I was nine with my sisters.  By my dad.  Top ten most vivid, most precious, memories.

So there's the basics.  I know what I'm talking about.  Maybe I'm not right.  Maybe I didn't go to Bible college.  But I am not without experience, exposure, or educated opinion.

~

I remember going to visit a new church once, when I was halfway through my pregnancy.  And no one knew me.  I was there to watch one of my best friends sing, so my mind was open and I had very little expectations.  But what they did (or didn't do) kept me from ever going back.

Not a single person said hello.  But they looked at my belly.  Then they looked at my left hand.  Back at my belly.  And then kept moving.

So the other day when Don posted a blog about how he doesn't go to church very often, my ears perked.  His post rallied the pitchfork mobs, as most non-traditional ideas do.  And the poor guy, who was just trying to be transparent, has raked over the coals.  He responded, albeit much more defensively than I've ever seen him respond before.  But maintained his opinion and invited the opinions of others, while calling out the ones who had chosen to be so hateful.

Gosh.  You all can be so damn hateful.

Funny.  John Calipari mentioned how personal people take things on Facebook the other day; called us a pack of yelping dogs.  No one got mad at him.  But he's a pretty successful basketball coach who attends Catholic mass.  Not a pretty famous writer who claims to love Jesus.  So I guess that's the difference.

But what gets me, is these writers are being condescending.  Not just hateful.  The undertone of every responsive blog has been "I'm a Christian, I love Jesus, I have to love Don so I won't outright say it.  But quit threatening my way of life, sinner."

Anyway.  One man in particular posted a "Dear Don" letter on his blog.  And I read it.  Thoroughly.  Not unbiasedly, however, since even the URL irritated me.  But, I'll say this upfront.  It appeared to me, this man wasn't trying to talk to Don.  He was trying to defend his beliefs.

But as we saw with the Evolution vs. Creation debate earlier this week... people don't give a damn about much else but authority and publicity.  We defend only when we feel threatened, so the voices who agree with us will get louder.  (Notice, I said "much else".  There's the margin.  Put whomever you'd like in that margin, if that makes you feel better.  But this week's debate was nothing short of tax collectors in the temple.)

So I felt a need to sort through my thoughts this way, in this public forum.  But it is not addressed to Mr. Gospel Coalition dude.  It's addressed to myself (a former, current, unfaithful church go-er) and you.

Here's why**:

1) Churches get lots of teenage girls to volunteer in the nursery.  I leave my child 40-50 hours a week while I go to work.  The weekends are precious to us.  And even though church is an hour long, it's a two or three hour ordeal at the end of the day.  And if I'm going to leave my baby, AGAIN, I am not going to leave him with someone who doesn't reach for him when it's time for me to go.  I got to church a few Sundays ago and immediately left because the highschool student working J's room stared at him like he was a rabid dog when he started crying.  Um.  No.

2) when I don't show up, no one misses me.  If I show back up, they croon and hug and smile and say "where have you been?  We've MISSED YOU."  With lots of side hugs and back pats.

3) people, either directly or indirectly, refer to Judah as a sin or a mistake.  And imply because he is biracial, he is either inferior or it "makes sense" I am parenting alone.

4) sermons are boring.  I hardly ever learn anything new or leaving feeling encouraged, convicted, or moved. You know why?  Because I haven't heard a minister talk about hard things in years.  I know a few ministers in Lexington very personally and very well, trust their leadership and love their hearts.  But I can't hear one more sermon about how God loves us and doesn't want us to cuss or have sex.  I guess there are still people who haven't heard that.  Right?  Has the message that the "church" is anti-premarital sex reached the masses yet?  No?  Ok.  Let's keep talking about that.  And not greed.  Not pride.  Because those things aren't a big deal.

5) (addendum to #3) people i know from church pretty consistently say stupid shit like, "i bet that's good birth control", or, "I bet you won't make THAT mistake again", or "I hope you know God has forgiven you", or refer to my shame and guilt.

oops.  Should I not have worked through that so quickly?  I don't know.  The martyrdom of holding onto shame just doesn't suit me.  I am not strong enough to carry that around.

6) church is political and talks about money a lot.  end of discussion.

7) people say things like "hate the sin, love the sinner".

8) people talk about you and yours whether you're there or not.  And will weasel their way into your life as long as they think there are juicy details.  And when the drama dies down, no one is anywhere to be found.

So there it is.  Eight isn't really a glorious number, but I was getting mad again so I decided to cut myself off.

Let's get serious for a minute and take an honest look at this.

I was checking out Mr. Gospel Coalition's blog and trying to be objective, unsuccessfully.  But my tipping point was a paragraph at the end of his pretty lengthy blog, where he makes a statement I think he intended to drive all other points home.  Obviously he was sure he'd hit the nail on the head with this one.  "And here's where the rubber meets the road: I don't know how we can say we love and belong to the church without loving and belonging to a church.  Or saying we want to connect with God, but we won't listen to God's word for only 45 minutes out of all minutes of the week."

Oh man.

I tried so hard, guys.  So freaking hard.

But you know what I heard when I read that?  And if I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt, maybe Mr. Coalition guy meant in order to belong to the church we need to identify with people who also belong.  But you know what?  I really don't think that's what he meant.  I really think he meant a Sunday morning service.  With three songs and gold communion trays and nasty red carpet and a really liberal and edgy drum kit.  With a sermon taught by a Christian college graduate and a really good prayer at the end.  Accountability and community and repentance.  That good stuff.

I think he meant the church, which (not who) becomes part of our identity when we choose to attend.  Like our alma mater.  Our graduating class.  Our neighborhood.  Our career.  "Where do you go to church?"

So I felt more sorry for him than anything.  And I really just wanted to tell him stories.  Stories I have told all of you.  Stories you have told me.

About fires on mountainsides in Africa.  About flour mills.  About shoes and quiet boys in Haiti.  About wind blowing and doves and afternoons spent reading and three squeezes.  About foster care referrals.  About storms, delayed.  About hot dogs, multiplied.  About dodge ball and tornadoes and crack cocaine deals gone bad.  About camping in caves with crank radios.  About taking thoughts captive and peace beyond understanding.

And let me tell you what.  Not one of those moments, those numinous, holy, unexplainable, spiritual, God-filled moments happened in a church building.  Not.  One.

Ok.  So the hot dog thing happened in a church.  And so did the shoe thing.  Actually, a red headdress thing did too.  But not on a Sunday morning.  Not during a service.  But they WERE church.  In your entire lifetime you couldn't convince me otherwise.

They happened when our hearts were in the right place.  When we move beyond ourselves to the point where we are willing to see and hear, where we are aware of shortcomings and desperately aware of our need.  And He was there.  Right there, just like always, waiting on us to see.

I pray for Judah before he falls asleep at night.  Well.  I pray for that kid a ton, because he jumps off high things and locks me out of the house and he had that calcium deposit in his heart and doesn't have a daddy.  I pray for him without ceasing, to be honest.  But I pray for him out loud at night, when he's sleepy enough to sit still.  He lets me because he likes it when we whisper in his ear.  And I swear to you I cry every night.

You don't think that's church?

You don't think Jesus hears that?

The point is there is absolutely nothing wrong with the church service on Sunday morning.It has a sweet way of tying things together.  And is a privilege, friends I know in other countries don't have.  It's just sometimes the church doesn't look much like Jesus.  And most of us have reasons we don't go.

And the sad reality is those reasons are usually the people who do.

Someone else posted ANOTHER responsive blog last night.  Poor Don.  Another blog defending lifestyle and why they choose to go to church and why that's the right choice and they are better for it.  This particular blog drove home the fact the writer would "never leave church".  And I just sighed and made cookies, because now I was mad again.

We don't plan to "leave the church", guys.  Trust me.  You don't need to know how I know this.  But I know it.  It's never part of the five year plan.  Also, Don didn't say he left the church.  He did use some weird language about graduating, and I want to look more into that.  But leaving implies separating yourself.  And this imperfect man has committed his life to helping you live a better story within your relationship with God.  If you try to look at his statement as objectively as I looked at Mr. Gospel Coalition's... I'm wondering what you'd see.

But this second blog, by a guy called Geoff, specifically said this:

"Without the local church I tend to only associate with people I like.  People who are like me.  Within the context of the local church I am forced to love people who are unattractive, unlovable, and unkind."

Objective, Anna.  Be objective.  

Damn, it's just not working for me today.

THAT, guys, did me in.

I really hope Geoff is attractive, lovable, and kind.  Always.

I know I am not.  And neither are my friends.  

Neither are 99% of the people I run into every single day.  

Every.  Single.  Day.

~

I won't pretend I know the history or background of Mr. Coalition or Mr. Geoff.  My guess is their story isn't "out there" quite like Don's is, and even if it was, it might be a little more tidy.  So I won't assume they haven't been rejected by the church yet.  Or hurt by it.  I won't assume they've haven't trusted the church with their whole heart and found only hypocrites.  I won't assume they don't have gay cousins or sisters who aren't married with babies or uncles who are addicts.  Stuff like that will shake it all out, my friends.

There's a reason people don't seek sanctuary in the church.

There's always a reason.

So if you are part of the church and you meet someone who loves Jesus, but is afraid to walk through your doors, it's time to ask the questions.

Not point the fingers.  Not defend your lifestyle.  Not worry someone is cross examining your belief and the choices you've made.  Those things don't invite Jesus into the mix.  They just don't.  You don't owe us those answers.  

~

I have never been a part of a large, healthy church.  Ever.

I have been a part of two, very beautiful house churches over the last ten years.  Both, which tried to become a lot more like a big church and fell apart.  Same with a ministry I was wildly devoted to.  Politics and  money and rules weaseled their way in.  Now it ceases to exist, for all intents and purposes.  

There is nothing intrinsically wrong with the mega church.  Truth be told when I choose to attend a service it's at the biggest mega church in this area.  But I know what goes on there, when the vacuums are being run and the doors are locked.  The popularity contest which lives and breathes in that space.  That's what slows me down.

Corporate worship, suddenly doesn't mean collective and together and unified.  It means business.

~

There are a few of you, belonging to "a church", who help me love Jesus more.  Who have been around, unfailingly, for Judah and me.  Who have pursued us relentlessly, even when I didn't want you to.  Who have loved us, not despite anything, but because you valued us.  You don't use jargon or quote scripture.  You just live it.  I know who you are because of the way you love.  (Not because of the service you attend.)  You've been generous and given lots of hugs and asked for no recognition and pried for no details.  But you've asked the good questions and the hard ones.

Thank you for that.

One day I hope to find a Sunday morning gathering Judah and I can join again.  I want him to learn from people, other than me, about Noah and the Resurrection and Joshua and David.  I want to hang those coloring pages on my refrigerator and for Judah to learn there are lots of others who know this Jesus we talk to, who loves us.

But when we do start going regularly again, it won't be what makes us more holy.  It won't be what makes us right with God.  It won't be because we are getting back on the right path.  We won't be "going back to church".   It won't be out of obligation, either.

I'm sure you're biggest argument is that church isn't about me.  Which you're very right.  But I'll let you simmer in that statement; I won't bother to point out the disparities.  Here's the difference: Jesus doesn't need us.  He doesn't need us to worship Him, to love Him, to obey Him.  We don't earn any points, right any wrongs, prove a single thing just because we show up in a building.  Or by singing or reading or memorizing or maintaining appropriate relationships with the opposite sex.

He just loves us and fights for us.  He asks us to love and fight for others.

And how well are you doing that?

What Endures

We all want to find love, right?

That's probably not an accurate generalization, but I've only run across a few people in my lifetime who truly didn't want a significant other.  And more often than not, they did want the benefits of a relationship.  Just not all the work.

I remember meeting M.  Walk down to the pool, he turns around and bright blue eyes are all I see.  Closest thing to love at first sight I've ever experienced.  Fast forward ten years, and next week he is marrying someone else.  I haven't seen him since I was a heavy, 19 year old college student.  And whoever we were down there in Panama City, we aren't those kids anymore.

I don't remember meeting C.  And I kind of like that.  He did this easing thing.  This thing where he slipped into all our lives and kind of radically shook shit up.  He didn't shower much and in the whole time we were together he only shaved once.  And we did life together.  Plain and simple.  I loved who he was.  But ultimately, I guess, you have to do a lot more choosing than that.  And now he's married to someone who matches him much better than I ever did.  Who doesn't mind the beard as much either, I'd say.

There hasn't been a real boyfriend since then. 

I have tried to forget a lot.  But a few still linger in my mind.  Some more than others.

Mostly him.  Almost three years ago, with the sunglasses and the summer that changed it all.  He's getting married too, to someone very much unlike me.  And he mentioned, not long before he proposed, that he had asked her to change in so many ways, which would have been unfair to ask of me.  I do not know what this means, except she loved him enough to do so.

He's married too, now.  With a blended family and house on the north side and I ignore him when he calls me now because he equals so much chaos.  He thought I hung the moon, he said.  But he picked someone else, someone who required much less of him than I did; and at the same time, demanded so much more.

And he's not married.  But he should have married me, maybe.  He lumbered into my life when it was still just me, the way only gentle giants can.  Leaving evidence of himself that I can't ever seem to scrub away.  And I see him duck to leave, sometimes, and wait quietly, angrily because I know the shadow will darken the door again.

But I don't really meet new men.  Or for whatever reason, when I do, it doesn't work out. 

And so when my best got engaged over Christmas, her maid of honor and I spent the drive to the bridal shop talking about online dating.

Because I am a social worker and she is a teacher and we are closer to 30 than 20 and now our best friend is getting married.

And all we want are dates to the damn wedding. (Which we are overwhelmingly excited about. Seriously. It'll be the best day.)

Groupon was "selling" a subscription to an online dating site for $15.  Chump change.  Right? 

I had tried online dating once before, last year, and was so spooked in the first 24 hours I never did it again.  Tucked my tail and ran.  But I justified why this time would be different and how we would do this together, share our experiences, and maybe find dates to this wedding.

Unfortunately, when you're a single mom of a cute little toddler, you're never just looking for a date.

And as it turns out, no one is really ever looking for you.

It's been three weeks and three days and I just deactivated my account. 

I don't know what to tell you, really, other than the month of January has felt like voluntary torture. 

I suppose we all get to the point where we crave attention so badly, so deeply, we accept all forms.  Negative attention feeds the need, I suppose.  But I am not at that point.

I am not this desperate. 

For the record, I don't think dating online makes you desperate.  But if I were to respond to the attention I was getting, or internalizing all the rejection, it would be out of desperation. 

I gave it a fair shot, before you tell me "these things take time".  

I gave it a fair shot and met multiple guys (out of hundreds) I was matched with.  I was matched with half a dozen guys I know in real life as well, which was a true litmus test for how poorly this site had me figured out.  I talked to a dozen others who either were not interested, were older than my dad (or lying about their age), had just signed divorce papers, who took creepy, green selfies in the corners of their dark basements, or who ended up being so conservative or judgmental we couldn't carry a conversation.

Not to mention how often I was weeded out because I selected "curvy" as my body type, or because I indicated I have a child.  In 3 weeks I had 3,000 profile views. 

I've been thinking long and hard about what it means to have a connection and what it means to have chemistry.  About the most significant relationships in my life and how they came to be.  And I know this method has worked for so many. I don't knock it, not for others.

But what I know is: on paper, I look like a train wreck. 

But I also know my heart is tough and I am strong.  No one, however, will ever fully appreciate who I am, who we are, based on drop-down menu selections.

Last week I went to church for the first time in a while.  Chasing Judah around the vestibule, I ran into two men who work out at my gym.  We're not really friendly, but I see them everyday, and the flicker of recognition crossed their faces.  Our worlds had collided.  Who they thought I was and who I really am (a mommy) finally meshed, and I have no idea whether they were surprised, disappointed, or if their suspicions had been confirmed.  But when I saw them both again at the gym later that week, there was a quick little nod.  Acknowledging.

That is how it should happen.  Paths should cross.  

Collide.

Right now, I'm trying to figure it out.  Bombarded is the way I feel and I'm trying to sift and sort and compartmentalize so I can just deal.  Because I'm not that desperate.  And I know it's truly a blessing to get to be a part of Judah's life.  He and I have a good thing going right now, something which even on the hardest of days makes a lot of sense.  And you don't mess with a good equation, unless whatever you add or subtract makes it better. 

I deactivated the account today, with four or five days left to the subscription.  The straw on the camels back was the firefighter who'd been texting me for a couple days who found out what kind of neighborhood I live in.  Who found out Judah's ethnicity.  And never texted back.

And it all very much feels artificial.  Forced.  Like a bad season of the Bachelor or like Queen Esther... like walking into a party and knowing you're not the prettiest in the room.  And knowing that one fact, will keep you from being seen.

But the artificial spotlights what's real.

And it's the real stuff that endures.

Which has made me take a couple of second glances.  To return and reexamine for signs of surviving life.

Because he keeps coming back, after all these years, in a different way than the big guy.  He keeps coming back in the way you build a brick wall.  Building layers, and time is mortar.  Time is height.  And he is not like the others and he did not sweep me off my feet.  We argue and he complains and we do this little dance... while the pieces fall together.  And I check myself, my stubbornness, and learn to give a little.  Who knows.

love endures all things.

call them lies

Most of what I feel is intensely circumstantial. 

Sometimes my sister and I suffer from what we call the "guilty feeling", which is a feeling of weight and unexplainable sadness, causing a day to feel heavy, cumbersome, or even weepy.  The guilty feeling is unpredictable and usually cannot be traced back to any event or mishap, and certainly has no reason.  But it is short lived.  It's not chronic, perpetual, or ultimately controlling.  Actually.  It's so wildly circumstantial, Liv and I shouldn't ever deal with it at all.  Because we know what fixes it. 

Music fixes it.  Blueberries fix it.  Hugs fix it.  Dancing usually fixes it. 

It's just a little rise in the roller coaster of some of our days and we know better than to let it change anything substantial.  I dare say she and I have even learned not to make any decisions or any critical "moves" during these few hours... but we talk to each other.  Because nothing is more comforting than someone who doesn't need an explanation. 

I don't live with constant anxiety.  I think I used to, to some degree.  Social anxiety is for the birds.  Learned behavior has been my saving grace and the things, which used to stop me up, slow me down, or cause freaking heart palpitations, may only cause a minor sweat these days.  And that's only when something is at stake.  A job interview.  An exam.  A speech.  A crowd of people no longer sends me over the edge -- and perhaps that's because I've learned a thing or two about people.

But one person is very capable of inducing anxiety in me.  Not a particular person.  Just when they come at me, one at a time. 

My dating life is either non-existent or in shambles.  And, like my friend Bonnie and I used to discuss, I am a horrible "starter".  She, on the other hand, was a great "starter" but had a serious issue with longevity.  I can't convince someone I'm worth the risk.  She got bored. 

She's married now.  What gives. 

But every once in a while someone will come into my picture.  Into the peripheral.

And for the last five or six years, they've stayed there.  Right there on the edge. 

I'm not really an edge kind of person. 

Stay off of my freaking edges.

Either you are here, or you're not.  In or out.  Whichever you choose is fine, but pick one.

Still there on the edge, the peripheral of my vision and our daily lives, linger just too many assholes. 

Recently I started blocking phone numbers.  The proverbial pushing.  I don't even want to have to decide if I should respond to you or not.  I don't even want the option.  This has helped.  They get the picture I think.

In the past year there's been one or two who have NOT started out as assholes.  And we all get kind of excited and we all wonder "what about this one" and he works his way off the edge and then he does something stupid, and I am too busy, and I'm really annoying, and then he's gone for whatever reason and we're back to square one. 

Inevitably, when in the space between hello and whatever comes next, I worry.  Swollen chest, rampant illogical thoughts of unworthiness and questions and despair.  It all seems kind of hopeless and unless you've been right where I am, I don't know that you'd understand.  I wouldn't want you to.  But there are a few of you know who know all about the lonely nights I'm talking about.  When you just stare at the damn phone.  Or in my case, turn on the ringer and put it across the room so I will stop looking at it and play with my child and hope it makes some noise.  Soon.  And when it finally does, it's my mom. 

And you look at yourself differently in the mirror, trying to figure out "is this the problem?".   

Then, in what you think is pure logic, remind yourself no one wants to date a woman with a baby.  And that's asking too much and even though the pseudo-encouraging masses disagree, you know it's going to be unlikely to find someone who chooses this chaos.  This particular chaos.

And you say things your otherwise wise, mature self wouldn't say. 

And you forget you're wonderful. 

You've seen corners of the world no one around you has ever laid eyes on.  You have stories so great no one even really believes them.  You have made something out of nothing and up until this point, nothing has kept you down.  You have recovered.  Numerous times from numerous things.  And daily you face fears no one else may understand, but at the end of the day it's the fear who backed away.  You are a fighter and a builder with the greatest capacity for love.

We dwell on what is broken.  What is broken gets all of the attention in seasons like this, seasons of repair.  Of rebuilding.  We feel pretty responsible for the acknowledgment of our flaws, just so someone else doesn't get around to pointing them out first.  We know what we do not bring to the table and we think we know everything which didn't work out before can be directly traced to our deficiency.   

And so yesterday... the lies got so loud I couldn't hear anything else.  Tears just poured.  Because if it didn't work out again it must be because I'm broken, because my situation is too hard, because there's not enough good in me to overcome the bad.  Because I will always spend Christmas alone and I won't ever have more children.....

Loud lies.  Bad lies.  Real freaking awful bad lies. 

And I reached out to a friend.  A friend who has felt some of the same things.  A friend I met nine years ago, when we were teenagers, when love came in a wrecked our lives the first time around.  And she asked me something, then told me to ask God to speak to me in a familiar way.  I explained I had.  I've been waiting to see Him for some time now... anxiously, just waiting.  But honestly I needed Him to man up and come looking for me too...

And there it was.

The familiar.

The visual.

So I sat on my couch and cried and realized what the lies were.  Who the lies were coming from.  And called them lies and they died down, like water receding or a flame going out.  Slowly until they were all the gone.  A pot of water taken off the heat.

And all I was left with was the image of a shepherd.  The gentle Jesus who I needed very much at the time.  Not the warrior Jesus or the crucified Jesus.  Just the gentle Jesus, with the rod and the staff.  Comforting and warding off the big, scary things with teeth who were trying to eat me alive. 

And He left the 99 to come and find me, and we called them lies together. 

I still looked at the phone this morning with a twinge in my chest, a feeling of "if only I'd been more".  And stared a little tyke basketball goal in my living room with the same feeling.  And took a deep breath and gave those thoughts away. 

Because the truth is, I can be more.  And I can do better. 

I will try harder and fix as many of these pesky personality traits and address as many of these fatal flaws as I possibly can.

And the one who chooses not to leave will be the one who's earned the privilege of the best me.

2013

Here's the deal.

It's Friday and my shampoo worked really well last night and Old Navy had great sweaters on clearance, and I bought a coral one.  Not a neutral one.  A coral one. 

And I got a good morning text.

It's December 27th and the water is spinning over the drain and it's all almost over and we all quietly wonder what we're going to do now?

With all that fear we confessed.  With all that blank page.

Early spring, maybe summer of 2013, we talked about small goals.  Maybe we talked about operationalizing objectives.  About creating measurable goals.  Did we?  If not, we should have.  Because that's what I did.  Instead of a large-scale, life-long, grandiose bucket list, a few of us created our own yearly bucket list.

My list had three goals.

1) buy a house

2)  enroll in grad school

3) and a general fitness goal with a weight objective

It's December 27th. 

I am currently enrolled in an online Masters in Public Administration degree with Murray State University.  And I'm horrible at it.  I hate it.  I'm getting ready to just have to eat the damn frog, however, because I can't afford to pay back student loans yet.  I don't want to keep going, but I will.  But I am.  I am a graduate student.

Judah and I bought our first house this fall.  A small, simple townhome in a rough, little neighborhood.  Not much.  And some days I resent it wildly.  But it's home.  With a washer and dryer and Herbie and a welcome mat.

I have been diligently working towards a vague, conceptual fitness goal since May 2013.  Haha... roughly since January 2009. 

In 2009 I dropped dozens of inches.  All over my body.  Counting calories, lots of cardio.  That was the year I got sick.  The year I dropped out of school.  Exercise was one of the only things, which made me feel better, but the confidence was not there to do the work I needed to do.  So I lost dozens of inches, gained only a little muscle, got sick, gained all those inches right back.  I'd hit the gym pretty consistently through the rest of my undergrad, having easy access to the campus gym.  Light weights, elliptical machine, spinning classes.  I was more confident than ever before, but so much of it was because I wasn't thinking about it.  Because I had chosen to focus less on it -- it, the things I didn't like.  I didn't look in the mirror anymore and think about a fat roll or blemished skin or crooked teeth or twisted back.  I embraced my body shape... only because acceptance was so much easier than the alternative. 

Then I got pregnant.  And had a gigantic baby boy who gave me stretch marks and increased the size of my ass and who separated my abdomen so far, I could lay three fingers between the muscles.

Anyway. 

It's December 2013, so seven months after setting a goal, I still haven't reached it.  The scale is a bitch.  However.  However...

My abdomen is healed.  And I tightened my belt another notch.  I increased my personal record for my deadlift and my back squat last week.  And the coral sweater is a size smaller than what I would have bought last year. 

This what it's about.  How I can walk into a place and have a goal, an agenda, and accomplish it without feeling inferior.  I've changed my lifestyle in such a way I am bettering myself, without even realizing it.  My skin is clearing up, after a very intentional regimen change.  My hair is longer and my cooking skills have increased.  I budget better and think outside of the box.  And I am enjoying it. 

Now.  I really do embrace my body shape.  And it's really the same as before.  Just stronger.

So last year's third goal, the fitness goal, will carry through to 2014.  It's marathon, not a sprint, I suppose.  I hope to work increasingly on my food choices, the amount of sleep I get, and also how much food we waste. 

A second goal for 2014 is to find a new job.  I love my job.  I am thankful for my job.  I work for a therapeutic foster care agency, recruiting and training foster homes.  It is flexible.  I get to self lead and make my own schedule and some of the people around here are great.  But Judah and I need insurance.  We need an income, which allows us not to have to rely on anyone else.  I dread the sacrifices, which will come with leaving this place.  I may have to sacrifice the gym time.  Or hours with Judah.  I may have to buy a new wardrobe, lose the nose ring, cover the tattoos.  With a bachelors in Social Work, options are limited.  My eyes are peeled.  But I'm praying when the time comes to take that step, I'll have peace. 

A third goal for 2014 is a hard one.  I will leave it simply as this:

Risk. 

That's up for interpretation.  But can't ambiguity be sweet?


I just pulled up last January's post.  Hot tears just flooded my eyes and the knot in my throat is too big to swallow.  I will continue to try and do better...  I don't really know what else to do.

And fear, suddenly, turns into thankfulness.  Thankfulness for a fresh start.  For a brand new year, fully unknown. 

A few old words cut, sting, as I reread:

I hope I learn to be more gracious, more patient, more understanding.  I hope I am a better friend. 

I hope to stand up for myself and my son and be brave enough to walk away from the things that hurt us.

I hope I remember how to risk and how to listen.

I hope I get answers.  I hope I get closure.  I hope we find freedom in being and love the way we were created to. 

I hope I keep learning.

And that at the end of this year, I hope I have a new story to tell.

And I cry. 

January 1st will also be an anniversary of a decision I regret so deeply it haunts me daily.  I don't know if it can be called grace, if you regret it.  But one decision led me down a rabbit hole of graciousness, from which we may never return.  Learning to forgive and protect and fight in ways I never dreamed possible.  I am not gracious.  But I now know how to show grace.  I hope, although I still regret it, this decision is what teaches Judah to be a gracious man.

And we didn't walk away.  Not soon enough.  Not fast enough.  There are so many times when I should have picked up that baby and ran in the opposite direction.  But crouched in fear, sometimes because I had only a little hope left.  But there are times when I did.  When the unfathomable love I have for that boy helped me cut whatever tied and dare any danger to follow.  Both shield and sword.  I am better at protecting Judah than I am myself.

But I got my answers. 

Painful, terrifying as they were.  I got my answers. 

And even if it's the dwindling last days of the year, I'm trying to do better. 

It was just this week... a familiar prayer settled in my spirit. 

Open my eyes to the risks you want me to take.  Give me insight, discernment, and enough perception to know and to hear.  And the wisdom to make the right choices for us.

It's a new story alright.  If not a good one, a strong one.  I wish I could say I did better.  I did not.  Not with what matters.  But now I know how. 

so I repeat, as we welcome the new year:

I hope I learn to be more gracious, more patient, more understanding.  I hope I am a better friend. 
I hope to stand up for myself and my son and be brave enough to walk away from the things that hurt us.  I hope I remember how to risk and how to listen.  I hope I get answers.  I hope I get closure.  I hope we find freedom in being and love the way we were created to.  I hope I keep learning.  And that at the end of this year, I hope I have a new story to tell.

Years that Answer

On Tuesday the boys were running around Noni's house, fully unaware it was Christmas Eve and loving the day.  Loving each other and hugs and kisses and new oversized toy cell phones and tearing wrapping paper.

Noni made one quiet, thoughtful comment, "can you imagine how big they're going to be this time next year?".

That's when the fear hit.

I'm always contemplative at the end of the year.  There's always a post, recapping what's happened and how far we've come.  This year I actually get to cross off every item on my one year bucket list.  Which blows my mind.  To think backward, in order to gauge progress, is a beautiful thing.  Tie up loose ends, wrap it up.  I compartmentalize by years.  Good years, bad years.  "Years that ask questions, and years that answer."  Anymore, nothing is solely good or only bad.  There are hard things and joyous things, together.  Years of community and then years of solitude.  They are years of what we need, I suppose.  Rarely what we think we want, always what we need.

If only to move us.

Judah was running around Noni's house and his words are still jibberish and his gait is jumpy and sometimes unsteady.  He still gives open mouth kisses.  And there were people this week whom we never heard from, and yesterday morning, on Christmas morning Judah and I woke up in our house.  Just him and me. 

2013 got us right here and dropped us on the next year's doorstep and for the first time in my life, I'm afraid to move forward.

Another January.  Another hot summer.  A second birthday.  A twenty-sixth one. 

I have no way of knowing what 2014 holds and instead of filling me with anticipation and hope, I recoil... expecting a hit.

I suppose this is what happens when you are far too familiar with Murphy's law.  Or when the majority of the past year's experiences have been troubleshooting, problem solving, and crisis management.  Craving a calm, simple life and finding yourself in the boxing ring.

We come to expect the worst and to fear what lies around the next corner, because the next monster is always bigger. 

There's a card on my refrigerator now, which reminds me how problems used to always overwhelm me.  And points out an ability, come only with age, to problem solve.  To find solutions. 

Perhaps this last year was full of monsters; monsters, who made an unplanned pregnancy and delivery and graduating with an infant look like child's play. 

So much changes in a year.  And while I am no where near content with where Judah and I are, I am comfortable.  We have our routine.  Little things like bedtime make sense.  The dryer ticks when it's done, I need to replace the batteries in the smoke detectors; and I try and pick up toys every day before bed so we start our day with clean floors. 

Money is tight and Sundays are hard days and the oil needs to be changed in my car.

I know these things. 

I like knowing things.

There's no graduations coming up.  No major events planned.  Which leaves this plotline wide open.  What happens next is a mystery and I find myself in the middle of a page-turner.  Trying to trust my ability to build, to find those solutions; trusting in our resiliency. 

In less than a week, this year will be gone.  For all intents and purposes, it already is. 

If I were to ask, to make a request for what comes next, I'd ask for laughter. 

And to not wake up alone.

There's a power in saying.  But we will see.

Worth

Sometimes, maybe, worth is overestimated.  

Maybe we can start believing something is overly important, of greatest value.  But in reality it is worth very little.  The oyster with no pearl.  

Often, also, we grow to believe those things which are very important are no longer worth anything.  We grow to believe recognition defines value, appreciation determines worth.

And I really sometimes feel like the latter.

And fear I am the former.

~

I don't remember one particular conversation in my childhood about my worth.  I don't remember a lecture about how boys should treat me or not treat me.  Maybe they happened, but I don't remember them.  I remember standing up conversations in living rooms with boys, scared of Larry.  And I remember lots of good and valuable life lessons, which had much more to do with growing up and danger and heartbreak than sex ever could or did.  

At most I remember maybe two conversations, before the age of 17, which went something like "don't have sex" and lots of conversations afterwards from lots of other people, which went something like "sex is bad".  And I still roll my eyes.  But not for the reasons you think.  

I do distinctly remember breaking up with my first love and coming into the Long Avenue kitchen around midnight, breaking the news, and first being asked, "since the best birth control only works 99% of the time, what are the chances you're pregnant?"  Strange foreshadowing.  But I don't remember thinking I deserved more.  Or ever being told I did.  More than the jealous selfishness of that first relationship nine years ago.

Or after the second relationship, which ended because of major differences in values.  A relationship I was mostly admonished for ending.  (Understandably.)  But I was never quite able to process how I wanted, needed, to be a priority.

I have a laundry list of regrets between then and now.  Over the years I have had friends preach repeatedly about how much I'm worth.  They say I'm beautiful a lot and talk about how much I deserve and I just quietly laugh at the word "deserve".  We don't deserve or earn any of this.  

I allowed a lot of bad things.  Disregard, disrespect mostly.  

I was admonished for bad decisions.  Judged for them.  Still am.  And most of you right now think I'm mostly talking about sex, which I'm really not talking abut at all.  You think I should be, but I'm not.  Because regardless of what you believe, sex or the lack of sex, has nothing to do with this worth I'm talking about.

But, one of the hardest things you will ever do is change your own perception of yourself.  

I remember someone once saying the Vaughan girls were the kind of girls you married.  At the time I remember thinking he was right.  

But I haven't thought about that in a long time.  I haven't trusted someone with so much of a future, and no one's tried to stay yet.  And the tendency for those of us, for whom love comes slowly, is to repeat mistakes.  Or to give up entirely.

I wasted two years on one, who despite his good heart, had no idea.  I spent another year on someone who, to this day, remains a mystery to me.  Two weeks was spent on one, who turned out to be dangerous.  Because of him I proved to myself my ability to put Judah first, no questions asked.  

This time around, it took roughly nine weeks.  

Nine weeks and I asked myself the question about six weeks in.  

This, this is the breaking of a cycle.  

Do I still believe I am that kind of woman.  And I wondered, quietly, if maybe I have been overestimating my worth.  Or have I been ignoring it?  

Is it possible I am worth as much as some say and it is wildly acceptable to set the standard high.  And to look someone square in the eye and let them know.  I will work hard and love well, but I expect the same in return.

Is it possible, instead of believing my worth had been overestimated, it has been underestimated?  

And if so, is there any redemption to be had?

I don't know, really.  If you can come back from all this.  But here I am trying.

Is it possible I can wake up tomorrow and reclaim a greater sense of worth?

Maybe that's what I've been doing already.  Since the beginning.  Since the first time I walked away and closed a door because I knew whatever it was I had, was not what I needed.  

Because it seems to hold true, your worth is not determined by how you are treated.  

And so it follows, you may not have to wait to be treated differently to experience restoration.

give a damn

"Nothing has transformed my life more than realizing that it's a waste of time to evaluate my worthiness by weighing the reaction of the people in the stands." - Brene Brown

A few weeks ago I blocked a phone number.  Thanks to the nice new iOS, a contact in your iPhone can be blocked without going through your service provider.  Finally.  Since we are impulsive, forgetful, self-sabotaging creatures, I can't really think of a better idea than being able to eliminate temptation.  (This, of course, is why I eat all the cookies at once time.)  To eliminate a problem, however small, is a great luxury.

This person was rude.  They were rude and derogatory and disrespectful to me.  And worse, they were the kind of person who was sure they were right.  Because no one had ever told them they were wrong.  Right about me.  They don't even really know me.  Sitting in the grandstands, they knew all there was to know.

I had to give myself permission to let it go. 

People have always had lots of awful things to say to me and about me.   

A lot of awful things I have let sink in. 

That I choose to believe, simply because they were said.

*This is why I deleted my social media.  The internet is a platform for unfiltered, unsolicited, destructive, uncensored, competitive language.  Where no one is held accountable and the community can be wildly superficial.  This means, now, the only people who speak into my life are the ones I actually know.* 

(Also, I have had to learn how to pick my friends better, which is why at this point in my life I can probably count the good ones on one hand.  In any given week I have real, constructive conversations with maybe four of you, excluding the family.  Makes for some terrible loneliness and a lot less drama.  But it probably should stay this way.)

People have always had lots of awful things to say to me and about me.  They have so many opinions and so much advice.  Unsolicited.  But I listen and absorb it and internalize it and then shame myself because someone, who doesn't even know me, thinks poorly of me.  I made someone mad, just by existing.  And they must be right because they chose to say it. 

Maybe some of them were right.  I've explored that option too.  Regardless, what I wouldn't give to naturally, biologically, genetically be predisposition not to give a damn what they think?  Those people in the stands?

I was encouraged by one of the four the other day to "shut that shit down".  A huge smile broke across my face when I got the text message for a couple different reasons.  1) She was smart enough to call me on my cowardice. 2) I love when she says shit. 3) She cared enough not to let me make a mistake I would regret. 4) She doesn't lie to me.

That kind of criticism I can handle.  It may make me choke at first -- like a big smack on the back.  Knock all my air out.  But just long enough for me to remember: this person loves me.  Genuinely. 

Today I blocked another phone number.  Full of compliments and sugary words and then flares of nasty temper.  I hate tempers and I hate manipulators even more.

Someone in the grandstands, knowing all there was to know.  Who would never be accountable for their words and had no interest in reciprocity.  So I eliminated the problem. 

I will never be one of those people who believes to be honest we have to be brutal or harsh or destructive.  I don't respond well to that.  (Aside from athletes, I don't know a lot of people who do.) Sometimes we have to be honest and tell each other to shut shit down.  We have to be honest and tell each other to choose optimism when it's the hard choice.  We have to tell each other to stop being paranoid and we have to tell each other to stop being judgmental.  We have to tell each other to be brave and when to stop making the decision that will kill us.

But I do believe we have to have filters. 

The people who love us should have a voice in our lives.  Ultimately, even they do not determine our worth.  The people in our lives who love us should help us become better people, should challenge the weaknesses and spotlight the strengths and be willing to stand in the treacherous line at Moe's on a Monday with you and not say a word so everyone can get their queso. 

But what about the people who don't? 

I am not the center of any universe.  Neither are you.  But in the system, which is our lives, other people hold certain spots.  They transition through certain positions, or maintain certain perspectives. 

This is the realization I adopted, which got me back into the gym.  I was intimidated by the other gym members and I had to remind myself of where they stand.  I had to remind myself: those people see me, but they don't care about me.  What I do, don't do, how I sweat or don't sweat, how my ass looks in those pants... is not something anyone anywhere thinks about for longer than it takes for me to walk out of their line of vision. 

This does not make me insignificant. 

It means I can sweat and work and make gains and progress and not worry.  (But this is why, when the front desk guy started calling me by name, I got really paranoid.  Because now I am a tiny bit more significant in the one place I wanted to remain invisible.)

Who loves me? 

Who's invested in me?

Who do I allow to have influence over my emotions, my decisions, my opinion of myself?

The number of people who love and invest in me is dramatically smaller than the number of people in the third category.

I want to fix this.

I want to be able to hear criticism and determine whether or not it's constructive.  I want to be able to hear a compliment and determine whether or not it's genuine.  In the blink of an eye I want to be able to assess the answers to a series of questions (which may be up for revision):

Does this person love me?

What is this person's motivation?

Is this person right?

Is any part of what they said helpful?

What role do these loud, loud voices play in my life?  Do they have weight?  What is their influence?

And then give myself permission to smile and nod and keep going.

The last, hardest question for me to answer is: does this person matter?  Because, frankly, there are people who love me who do not matter.  And there are people who matter who do not necessarily love me (i.e. my boss). 

It sounds harsh to me.  I feel callous when I say it out loud or when I think it to myself.  But I'm not asking if an individual is important.  We are all important.  We all matter.  But do they matter in my life?  Does what they say matter to me?

Too often my answer is yes.

And that needs to change.

Very few of you truly matter to me.  You know who you are.  Chances are, I'm trying to be a lot more like you, which is why I chose you.  Thank you for choosing me.  And for hating my monsters as much as I hate them.  And for crying with me.... and for the past two years, crying for me. 

You matter.

maternal instinct

I was reading my friend Fran's blog this morning.  Just because I remembered she was pregnant and I wanted to know her perspective on the experience.  Already,  her journey is entirely different than mine and I'm wildly jealous of anyone who gets to be excited about pregnancy.  But she said something, which this morning especially, resonated with me. 

Something about not being overtly maternal.  Something about knowing you could be a mother... but not necessarily yearning for it, the way some of our girl friends have and do. 

~

Judah had a procedure on his ears on Friday.  We woke up early, before the sun, and I did my best to keep him sleepy and warm and distracted from the hunger I knew he was feeling.  No food or water since 8 o'clock the night before.  Those were the rules.

We bundled up and made a few ridiculous trips to my dark, quiet office and back to our dark, quiet house looking for some necessary things I had absentmindedly forgotten the day before.  All while pushing panic and anxiety aside, keeping the what-ifs and apprehension at bay.

I picked up Judah's dad and I had to let him drive, because his legs are too long to sit in the passenger seat.  His almost seven foot tall frame barely fits in the Corolla at all. 

And we drove to the hospital. 

I had quiet flashbacks of repressed memories of the six of us in the mini-van.  I only remember driving at night with the whole family, only in the winter, only on Christmas really. But I remember it.  I remember hearing the two of them talk and not being able to understand.  I remember Garrison Keillor.  And I remember associating marriage with being the ones to sit in the front seat.  Being a wife, to being the one to sit in the passenger seat, because husbands drive.  Daddies always drive.

My mind was reeling, wondering if I could hold it all together.  It was a simple procedure to help drain Judah's ears so he would stop having so many ear infections; but it required general anesthesia and I couldn't be back in the OR with him.  I worried he would be confused and feel abandoned.  I felt guilty.

So the three of us waited in the waiting room, making awkward conversations with people who had no idea what our situation was, who had no idea the hell we've been through to get there... sitting together in the waiting room, the three of us.  Almost like a family.

The nurse called me back and I left Judah's dad in the waiting room.  We went back to the pre-op room and Judah got his blood pressure taken and one of those strange, beeping monitors they put on grown up's fingers... but they put on his toes.  Everyone exclaimed at his hair and at his protruding belly button and at his size in general.  Until his dad came back to sit with us, and then the questions stopped.  Like now, it all made sense.

And they ask us if we're married and they ask if Judah's a daddy's boy and they ask if Judah's allergic to anything and "oh my god, how tall are you?" and "is there a family history of...".

They quickly take Judah back to the OR and his dad and I wait, cautiously, until we know he's around the corner and then walk quietly, tiredly, anxiously back to the waiting room.

It's a simple procedure.  It took just long enough for me to waste a cup of coffee.  Then I heard it.

The doors opened and the nurse came out with a sheepish smile and Judah's big man cries bellowed through the hallway and his dad and I stood up, throwing things away and following the nurse.  Following Judah's cries.  The cries I recognized as well as his face, the cries no one had to tell me belonged to my boy.

There Judah is, then, in the dark post-op room in a nurse's arms.  Screaming, eyes closed, bloody cotton balls in his ears.  And I reached for him and she made me sit down first, handing me my not-so-little baby and he screamed and screamed.  She left the room because she knew, like I knew, there was nothing wrong.  But anesthesia is a bear.  The fog and confusion it leaves you in as you come out of it is nothing short of bewildering and all Judah knew was he woke up and there were only strangers.  I held him and whispered to him and juggled his thrashing body, his flailing arms and legs.  He's almost as big as me, without exaggeration.  But I rocked and crooned and stood up and sat down.  All while his dad looked at us, eyes wide.  Uncomfortable.  Because what was there for him to do?  He didn't know.

You see, I'm not overtly maternal either.  I always knew I wanted children -- lots and lots of children.  I still do.  I crave it, a large family.  I grew up telling others I wanted a family who made people ask "how did that even happen?" when we all walked in the door together.  Different races, cultures, ethnicities, sizes, genders... that's what I had in mind.  People still ask those rude questions, even though it's just the three of us.  Even though, for all intents and purposes, we are not a family.  How did that even happen...

 This morning, after our first full night's sleep since the procedure, Judah climbed into my lap on the couch.  Full night's sleep equals 9pm to 6am and so in the wee hours of the morning, Judah and I just sit.  It's still dark out and it's still cold and I am out of coffee and out of creamer.  So we sit in a daze watching the Today Show.  He leans his head back against my collar, his cheek pressed against my cheek and his hand laying on my forearm. 

And I think so many things on mornings like these.  I think, there is no where else I'd rather be.  And, I could be a better mother.  And, my family does not look at all like I thought it would. 

And there are mornings, just like this one, where I wake up and feel the wind whistle through the holes left by people who never intended to stay, hollowed out places for someone we've never met.  And I mourn for them all and do my best to speak them -- the right ones-- into existence.

But that never works.  At least not yet. 

So we sit, cheek to cheek, and I squeeze his little body and am thankful for him.  Thankful that despite my flaws and the deficits I entered motherhood with, we've learned how to do this.  How to do the hard things.  Answer the hard questions.  How to sit still and soothe the crying.  How to lay on our backs on the floor and giggle.  How to chase each other down the halls. 

locus of control

There's always a trigger.  A putting a name to a thought.

The destructive chaos of the past week has left me wanting to only sit in a corner.  Feeling lonely and out of control and mad.  Mad at those who believe they know me, who've undeservedly caught a glimpse at our life.  I've allowed it, and I am ashamed.

But I am smarter than I remember, some days.  And in the white noise tonight I found the name.

In the loneliness of our life, we seek energy from the outside.  I seek energy from the outside.  Naturally I am an introvert.  I process internally, gather energy from being alone, crave quiet time, and tolerate only small doses of highly social situations.

But life has happened, hurt has happened.  I've allowed myself to develop an external locus of identity.

And I've lost a certain level of control.

Interesting, then.  People can be selfish and presumptuous and arrogant.  But what satan means for evil, God will use for good I believe.  There's always the inciting incident.

Now it's time to regain control.  To draw back in, without withdrawing.  To create in this new home a safe place and also allow myself room to grow.

Regaining, repositioning, recollecting a locus of control.  Others have influenced, swayed, contributed far too much.  Too much has been lost and there's so much space to fill.

I sat down, intending to be much more profound and cohesive.  But I don't have this figured out yet.  Take it as the confession it is, and be gentle.

eyes to see

I said I was done crying about it.   But I lied.  The tears are flowing today and I can't quite sort those these feelings of confusion or inadequacy.

And I can't find a safe place.

Nowhere to go to talk, no listening ear, no comfort.  And the fear and the hurt bounces off the walls, reverberating and returning to my ears, deafening almost.

I know the tears will stop though.  They have to.  And surely this season is almost over.  I feel as though I've lived a lifetime in this storm and I just can't breathe here anymore.

I knew it would come to this.  It had to -- I doubt I could have ever gotten us here on my own.  But, goodness, it hurts.

And I am so confused.

I mean very little to most.  So very little.

There is so much deception I can't wade through it.  What is true, what is manipulation.  The tears fog my vision and I just don't know what else to do but pray for eyes to see.

I want a reset button.  I want to wipe the slate clean.  I want to take it all, sift it out.  See what makes the  cut.  And I want to do it quickly.

I am tired of making excuses for others.  For allowing myself to be hurt, in the name of grace.  For being in a corner all by myself... because it's not like Jesus to defend one another?

No wait.  That doesn't sound right.  But regardless I am fighting this fight alone.  Dodging bullets and punches and reminding myself these people are hurt, they didn't mean it, they have no role models.  Or reminding myself of what I've been so often told...

To choose us would be the hardest decision.  

It really can only get better.  With the war being waged around me, I am afraid to imagine the many more wrong turns it could take.  But I do know space is being cleared and broken places are being strengthened.  I do know that.

But I wish I was protected.

I wish I was comforted.

I wish I was not always required to be the strongest person in the room.

Or that when the tears started like that... well.

It just wasn't supposed to be this way.

I wish the fear and hurt I feel on no one.  The uncertainty is a plague I can't escape.

And it's just all I can think to pray for anymore, that someone else would start making the hard decisions.  Doing the hard things.

These new eyes are adjusting to the light.  It burns, but vision is coming.  It's the pangs of healing that hurt the worst, it seems.  It's the being put back together.

one year later

Birthdays, more so even than New Years, are a time for reflection.  They are milestones, launching us from what has been to what will be, and give us all kinds of false hope for who we think we ought to be twelve months from now.

Each year I get older, I stop on my birthday and feel around to see if I feel any older.  Never do.

Birthdays aren't important, really, unless you weren't supposed to make it to the next one.  Or unless this is the first birthday with someone special.

In some ways, Friday was both.

It's not so much I didn't think we'd survive, but I questioned how.

This time last year, I questioned how I'd deliver a baby alone.  How I'd survive the top of every one of those contractions, causing me to vomit.  How I'd survive one final semester of undergrad. How I'd pay rent.  How I'd go back to work after three weeks of maternity leave.  Mostly, how I'd raise this little boy... not yet born... all by myself.

I woke up Friday morning, trying to fathom how we'd gotten here.  To a year later.  Where did 365 days go?

Friday was Judah's birthday.  He is a year old.  This was his first birthday and when I look at him I can't believe we made it.

But we sure did.

This was the fastest year of my life and I am overwhelmed.

So much has changed in such a short period of time, I can't imagine when Judah blows out two candles where we will be.

~

Survival is not a choice.

And I have no words, but thankfulness for this small, loud, precious, cuddly, wriggly, big-footed, brown eyed boy.

What a blessing he is, and oh how I don't deserve him.

May this year find us in less of a battle.

unless you have to say it

deep breath. 

I am overwhelmed with the weight of it, on my chest like something sitting.  Right there.  Where I breathe.

I don't understand why things happen.  I don't understand why my life, our life now, has played out the way it has, but I am heavy with it.

One year later, I should be writing about something else.  About candles and smash cakes and happy birthday to yous.  But that is not what's on my mind tonight.  To get to that, to the confetti, I have to sort through this.

All of this.

Tears came today.  After so long holding back.  After short bursts and welling, of self control and self admonishing.  It is silly to cry alone.  It is embarrassing to let someone else watch.

But tears came today and my eyes are a little swollen from it.  Listening, for the first time in years, I was comforted by the silence because I knew it meant he heard.

And the heaviness was alleviated when I said the words out loud.

Some things take so much courage.  And monsters are defeated when given a name.

Easier said than done, he says.  Unless you have to say it.

And I had to say it.  

I've said it before, half heartedly, leaving the door cracked.

I allowed the hurt, which is the saddest part.  I allowed it to continue and I allowed it to cut deep and I exposed Judah to it and I am sorry for that.

But we pray for answers, even when we don't know what they are.  We have sneaking suspicions we won't like them, but we pray for them anyway.  And often I pray He'd control it, I know I can't and I don't know best, and would He please fix what I cannot.

So sometimes, the answer is the decision is made for us.  He chooses what we're not strong enough to choose.  Hollowing out space.

And oh how thankful I am.

deep breath.

That's what I had to say out loud, you know.  How thankful am I.  I've been thinking this thought often... deep moments of gratitude for the survival and the place we've found ourselves in.  But thankful for this?

I am thankful.

I am thankful I don't have to always make the hard decisions.

And for the deep, rushing feeling of being able to breathe again.

Bless our hearts.  What could it mean to have love reciprocated?  Time valued?  Hearts cherished?

Deep, rushing.  Space created, I am thankful and I am so relieved.

Hurt.  Heartbroken.  Confused.  But so very thankful.

I scoop him up and he hugs my neck now.  And I wonder how he could not be loved.  How is it so easy to walk out on this little one?  I don't linger on this thought, knowing it's my fault.  It is not him they walk out on, but me.

deep breath.

Quietly tonight I pray for the one who won't walk out.

If you know him, send him our way.

There was quite a bit of room made here recently.  And I'm done crying for it.

but.

I've been using the analogy of a garden. 

But I was just reminded this looks a whole lot more like a fight.

The highlight reel plays before my eyes, except this one doesn't depict all the good memories.  Lights flash and I remember horns hocking and glass shattering.  I remember sitting in parking lots and praying for courage to go inside.  Of being shaken.  Of standing toe to toe, quite literally, praying I didn't blink.  Of walking in and finding confusion and bewilderment and not being brave enough to say out loud what needed to be said.

I am reminded of this, this afternoon, as Satan tries to have a field day with mine and Judah's future.

And I am overwhelmed with the sound and impression of heavy doors slamming shut, bolts locking.  Claustrophobia kicks in as I can't imagine my way out.  I can't fabricate an escape route.

But. 

Good stories always have a "but".

I've mentioned this before, I'm not sure it's a wildly popular concept.  But lots of you are in love with the crucified Jesus.  The battered, beaten, sacrificed Jesus. 

But I've always said, from the moment I met Him, that was not the Jesus I knew.  Today I'm reminded of this as I sit down and pray that Jesus would do what I cannot.  I count on, love, trust, expect a Jesus who's really dirty, who loves little children, and who fights like hell.

So I've asked for doors to be thrown open and for room to be made and for provision, protection.  The whole freaking gamut. 

Then I saw Him.  As soon as I took the time to ask.

And don't you know He kicked the damn door down.


I don't really know what happens from here.  But I'm holding onto that image for dear life. 

new locks

Yesterday was one of those bad days.  The sad days, when the road you're taking makes a sharp left and you're left staring at the brick wall ahead... or the plummeting cliff.  Unaware the path has changed direction.  It feels like a dead end.  Like an immovable obstruction, obstacle, perilous fall.  All in your way. 

But in time, you always realize, you just have to move your feet.  It's still winding and confusing and it's still not so hopeful.  But it's not the brick wall, not the cliff anymore.  It looks a little bit more like cooking dinner and messy applesauce and damn if it doesn't look like one hundred body weight squats at the gym and $4.99 drapes from Ikea. 

I guess I don't really know what happened.  Actually.  No wait.  I do.

Judah and I were sitting in the funny doctor's office waiting room.  And he was snuggled up in my lap playing with a dinosaur I know had yucky germs on it.  We were one of funny doctor's first patients, almost a year ago now.  They know us by name.  They love my little, brown boy.  So when we walked in, they asked about his ears, and they squeezed his cheeks.  Then.  I let him walk.  He toddled around the office and I just beamed with pride.  Funny nurse kept looking at his chart, marveling at how this ten month old was moving so quickly.  He got to stand on the big boy scale to get weighed. 

And when we went into the examination room, I took his little shirt off and there he sat in my lap.  All 26.6 pounds of him.  Each time a stranger came in the room, he would tuck his shoulder in my armpit and rest his cheek on my collarbone.  This is new.  My boy isn't shy, I didn't think.  But here we are, and he's being bashful.  I am his safe place.

Also.  I was right. 

He has an ear infection. 

Good call, mom, Funny doctor said. 

Of course, this morning I woke up with a cold too.  After wrestling with Judah to take his pink medicine and falling asleep to Shark Week and wishing he would walk through the door. 

But you know the other thing that happened was I got a quick faith check.  A gut check, if you will.  It doesn't happen often because I'm surrounded by people who are at a higher caliber of righteousness than I am.  And that doesn't challenge me.  Not a bit.  What challenges me, what measures my faith, is when someone else doubts. 

I may live in a gray world where sometimes I haven't a single clue what's going on.  Is it right or wrong?  Good or bad?  (Usually the only definitive question is whether or not something is wise or foolish, but then again...)

When I hear someone say, out of the hurt and confusion they feel, they don't know who He is anymore... I get a little bit antsy.  Popping up out of my seat, trying not to blurt out the answer.  My answer isn't your answer... but I do have one. 

I have a pretty good idea of who He is, after all this.  Maybe I would question Him if my life looked a little different.  If I had experienced more loss.  I write this and laugh a little to myself, realizing that I have claimed to have no hope and yet here I am.  But I do know who He is.  And when I take a second to acknowledge, and wonder how I might describe Him... the answers come faster. 

Yesterday still sucked though.  And I'm still really lonely.

Today I have a cold, so today sucks a little bit too.  But forgetting who Jesus is... is not something I want to happen.  Not to you, not to me.  Even when we're tired of it all.  Even when we're tired of Jesus.

But part of what redeemed yesterday was a gentle acceptance.  Not of loneliness, not of singleness, not of forever-aloneness (although, I looked in the mirror today and I look really old today and I thought, ah shit).  But I thought about what's about to happen. 

What building looks like. 

Part of what redeemed yesterday was Jesus heard me say I didn't believe in miracles anymore and that pissed Him off.  Oh please, Anna.  Yes, you do.  And then he reminded me. 

A few weeks ago I signed a really ridiculous contract, which flirts with the wise/foolish property line.  I'm dancing on it.  E came out to do my inspection on this purchase, with his cigarettes and his wandering eyes and his attention to detail and his off color sense of humor.  And when E came out to do my inspection he left a dishwasher door open.

Now I have new locks on my doors. 

Because a few days ago, Jesus must have heard my muttered whisper about not knowing how much new locks cost.  Not knowing if I'd have the money for new locks, because I didn't know. 

Now there are new locks on my doors and a contract set for three weeks from now.  A move out date.  A move in date. 

He reminded me those miracles I decided not to look for anymore, are bred in those decisions we're not really sure are wise or foolish.  Miracles happen when we trust, when all those eggs go in one basket, when we're willing to change our minds.  And live anyway, even when it doesn't make sense.

Miracles happen where there are new faces and names and $5 pizzas and basketball in the court.  Cookies in the oven.  Where we plant seeds and hope.  Trusting not only that they will grow but did we plant where we should have, that the birds won't take off with them, that if we're going to put down roots... we chose the right spot. 

Miracles happen when we ask the ridiculous questions.  Trusting looks like, for me, when I turn to God and say angrily "Hey! You heard me!" 

Miracles look a lot like the prayer I prayed years ago, that all my thoughts would be considered prayers.  A prayer asking the Spirit to pray for me when I hadn't a clue what to pray for, or the right words to use. 

And to this day, my thoughts are recycled into prayers. 

the way we do

Weed pulling is hard work.  And my hands are dirty and my nails short and my back sore. 

I feel guilty for wanting more, for wanting different.  Because the small person who runs around my house is also my favorite.  He is sticky and he is loud and he is funny.  His eyes smile bright and his snuggles sink deep.  I have a hard time wrapping my mind around his love for me.  He doesn't show it often.  He loves many -- favors many, reaches for many.  My heart hurts that he often doesn't prefer me.  But when it is just he and I, together at home, he runs down the hall after me.  He throws back the shower curtain.  He rests with his hand on my knee. 

I don't want him to get big, but in the same breath, I cannot wait for the day when I can answer his questions.  When I explain things, and he understands.  When I get to hear his thoughts and his laughter, because he understood what was said.  When I can teach him things and buy him movie theater popcorn and show him real lions.

But I am tired.  From all the weed pulling and from the load carrying.  And I sit here now, welling, as Liv would say.  Because I'm just doing such a poor job at it all. 

I am irritable and I am tired and I am impatient.  My hair is a mess.  My car is a mess.  My apartment is a mess.  My eyelashes are falling out.  Judah went to daycare sticky this morning because on the way out the door he stuck his hand in my cereal bowl, dumping milk and soggy cereal on the floor.  And I forgot to wash his hands off, because I had to mop up the milk on the floor. 

We will go see the funny doctor this afternoon, because Judah's nose is running and he's not sleepy.  But I bet the funny doctor tells me "welcome to parenthood".  I have a toddler now.  All by myself.  And I just have this feeling my will won't match his.

We've experienced so much loss.  Life, daily, often feels like a precarious balancing act.  Teetering.  I am not as brave as my boy, who falls and claps for himself.  He knows no failure or embarrassment.  Just picks himself back up and tries again.  I sit on the floor longer.  Mope longer.  I wallow longer, bemoaning anyone saw me fall and getting up and all that is so much work.  He's braver than I am and I hope, with everything I have, he holds onto the bravery. 

I watched him last night in Noni's sink.  He's almost too big to get bathed this way, but his feet were dirty and we knew he'd fall asleep in the car.  So we stripped him down and into the sink he went.  Lathered and soapy and I watched him as he grabbed for the water coming out of the faucet.  He could feel it, but couldn't hold it. 

I feel like that today. 

I just can't get a hold of it.  Of the thoughts I know will lead to some congruency.  Maybe even to a harvest.  Thoughts that will lead to a place of hope I haven't visited in a long time.

Everyone wants to reassure us.  Women, mostly.  Of how beautiful we are and how lucky any man would be to call us home.  Of how young I am and how I have all the time in the world...

Tears well again, mostly because I don't believe it.  Not because I'm stubborn, but just because it's not true.  I am not young, I have never been young.  I do not live a young life or have a young mind.  I am not beautiful, I am just surviving.  Honestly.  But I know it's hard to be alone, whatever your circumstances.  I know it's hard to be married.  I know it's hard to be barren, and I have my small person, which so many would die to be able to call their own.  I know.  I know that's what people are trying to say, when they say don't worry.  That I'm not alone, others have it worse, to stop complaining.  All while looking at me and my little, brown boy and seeing just what I'm talking about. 

For this reason, I stopped believing in miracles a long time ago.  I picked up my shovel and started doing work for us, on our own.  And stopped looking for dots to connect and stopped asking for blessings.  Because of all the quietness.  Because you can only ask for something for so long, before you're weary of it. 

Before you feel like it falls on deaf ears.

And you can only hope for something for so long before it hurts too much to keep on. 

Regardless, I'm trying to make it work.  With that shovel and this gumption and with a lot of coffee.  So much of crouching and pushing and barreling through the hurt and the mess: leave my family alone, I feel like I say most days.  Back up.  We've been through too much already, all I want is...

But the tiredness drains the joy.  Who am I, though, without the joy? 

The struggle is, also, who am I if I am not a good mama?  So the other gets sacrificed, because it was never promised anyway.  And I take a deep breath and grapple.  Trying to grab the water flowing from the faucet, and have a good attitude because I know it will help. 

I try to make good food and go to the park so he can swing and make myself stay awake until it's dark out.  All in an attempts to find some normalcy.  To defeat, and say we made a good life despite it all, we built a tiny, strong family. 

Because he's my favorite.  He's my priority.  Someone would have to come in and love us both, unconditionally, without a second thought... anyway. 

So how do you make a family and save yourself from the splintered pieces? 

Close your mouth and keep the well-intentioned friends from criticizing, making it worse.  Save them the irritation.  Buy a plain house just big enough and hope this is where the harvest is.  Hope this, now, all this cloudiness and heaviness is the rain that makes the seeds grow.

Keep brushing your hair and washing your face and practice smiling... and understand life never works out like we thought it would anyway.  So you shouldn't be surprised. 

And hold the back of his curly head and whisper in his ear, the way we do.  I love you, I love you, I love you.  Feel the leaning in he does, until he knows it's true. 

Deep breath, and muster the courage to make it beautiful yourself. 

I was hoping the story would be told differently, though.

weeds

In April, He said this.

I was going to pick up my boy and I saw him.  Randomly standing on the edge of the street, spade and spray bottle in hand.  His bright red shirt caught my attention and when he looked up, I knew.

He was wearing sunglasses.

I drove back around the corner and him, the red shirt man, stood up and watched me.  I heard him say, behind my ears, "I am weeding".

There for a few days I had it, the clarity.  The removal of the old, to be replaced by the new.  The choking, toxic gone, to give room to breathe, to grow.

Until today.  When He came there, behind my ears again.  I am reminded of this now and the tears come.

So now my prayer is different. Soften the soil, then.  

Ears full of so many children's voices.  I envision a little house with green shutters and I just saw him hand me a gardening spade.

I'm returning to the field.  And though I've doubted, perhaps my heart always knew.

As I've said before, I have a feeling, perhaps in a different capacity, He will lead me back to it.  

first steps

On the fourth, Judah took his first steps. 

I wasn't even really paying attention, trying to calculate my student loan repayments.  I looked up just in time to see him turn away from his activity table and take two tentative steps towards our entertainment center. 

I screamed and hollered and clapped so loud it scared him and he fell back on his behind.  And then started clapping for himself too.  Big, gummy grin and all. 

So for the past few days, we've been practicing.  A few steps here and there.  One, maybe two, as many as four.  He maneuvers a funny little side shuffle, but always claps for himself. 

I was standing in the kitchen the other night and Judah was standing there with me.  He was trying to get to me, but was using the kitchen cabinets for support.  Shuffling and holding the wall.  I picked him up and stood him in the middle of the room and reached out my arms to him.  He looked around tentatively, realizing all his support and security and safety were at least two or three steps away.  In every direction. 

And as I reached for him, I heard it. 

Just like always.  In the whisper. 

Becoming a parent will help you understand the nature of God in a way only being a parent can.  It's just a facet of him, an aspect of his character.  But I couldn't explain it with words.  The same way I can't prepare my pregnant friends for what's coming.  The same way no one could prepare me.  It transcends whatever language we choose... we don't have the words for it. 

But in that moment, God bent down in our kitchen floor and reached for me.  He pointed to the catastrophe that has been this past week.  The catastrophe, which had catapulted me into the middle of the floor. 

He reminded me, gently, of what it takes to make us grow.  The pivotal moments, the turning points, the inciting incidences, which are required to tell a good story.  To lead us away from the wall, away from the safety, away from the security, to the middle of the floor.  Where the good story is being told. 

And He called to me.  In a voice so familiar.  I am reminded He loves me, and is calling me to Him.