detox

And so the transition begins.

I started packing up Apartment 6 last week, putting it off because I knew what this move would mean.  I knew the kind of dust and fear and regret it would drudge up.  Somehow I had packed so much in that tiny space.

I was right.

We packed everything up and drove it to the house I grew up in.  Driving a silver van just like the one I wrecked seven years ago.  And I came back to clean...

It felt awfully like cleaning up after a crime scene.  Like I had trespassed onto some hallowed ground, a corpse that no longer looked like the living thing it once had been.

So I quit.  I had some pretty grand delusions of getting all of my deposit back.  Of cleaning until that place sparkled.

But my feet kept getting dirty.  And every time I wiped down the counters, dust would reappear.

Suddenly, I was done.  I didn't want any more of this dirt on me.  This was, after all, part of the reason I was moving.  To up and leave this small space and everything it represented.

Last night was not supposed to be hard.  But it was.  In ways I hadn't even anticipated.  As I wiped the dust off the walls where the clock used to hang, threw away the trash, took down the curtains... the bittersweet pain of leaving somewhere, having no where new to go was smothering.

It is, perhaps, a little like a quarantine.  My belongings, my things, did not get moved from one place to the a new place.  They got packed up.  Organized.  Sorted.  Stuff was thrown away.  Stuff was wrapped up.  Stuff was labeled.  And it was taken to a neutral place.  A place which meant no harm, no hurt.  Just a saving place.  A holding place.  As if my things need about three weeks to breathe... let air out the past year before they get taken into a new space.

A brand new space -- meant for families and lives well lived.

In the process, I wore myself out.  Emotionally I think I was fighting a battle, spiritually I was winning it too... if only because of how long ago I learned that it was not my battle to fight.  I woke up this morning in an old friends house... afraid to move.  Because as soon as you move, life begins again.  Rapid.

I have no ill feelings toward the tiny space on Woodland Avenue.  It served it's purpose of giving me my independence and a place to sleep at night.  There was more privacy there than I needed.  The ability of those four walls to keep secrets was unmatched.

Even now I look back at this writing space, at the first blog I wrote on August 1st 2011 http://annaevaughan.blogspot.com/2011/08/one-question.html.  It is such a brutal indicator of what the year would hold.  I can barely read it without cringing... without wondering how I didn't see it all coming.

So I am going to detox.  I am going to throw lots of shit away.  And this next season is going to be, not only a new one, but a good one.  A season following brokenness, it is going to be a season of rebuilding.

But I'm still brushing off the dust from apartment 6.

Refill

I just took the pictures down from the walls.

I don't dust.  Ever.  So where the pictures were, there are now a faint, gray outlines.  Single nails.

And with that... I began the ending.

I remember moving into this apartment and hanging those pictures on the wall and getting Eli to help hang the curtains.  Rachel and Thad showing up during a thunderstorm, to sit on thrift store chairs, and drill holes into the walls.

I remember thinking that the season here, by myself, in this tiny studio apartment would be a great one.

And it was great.  As great as a story could ever be.  With drama and romance and conflict and success and fear and excitement and defeat.  It, perhaps, was not good.  But it was great.

It shouldn't be hard to pack up such a small space.  But I've crammed it full -- full of secrets and dust and proof of paid bills and good intentions.  There is a rocking chair filling up my entire kitchen space right now.  The first physical manifestation of this baby boy who will be here soon.  My first indicator, the first sign I needed more space.  There isn't enough room here for the life about to happen.


I told a lot of lies here.  Believed none, but ignored many.  I played a game.  And curled up next to faint, lingering hope.  I woke up in the mornings beside too many mistakes and laid down beside too many more.  More often than not, this door was opened, letting light from the hallway cast a small square on the floor.  I would hide behind there, peek my head around, "this is where I live, this is my spot, welcome to my whole.... space."

I celebrated a lot of life and growth here too.  I don't look at this tiny space with as much resentment as I do a milestone.  A very transition piece in my story.

I'm ready for more now though.  More than just a bedroom.  I'm ready for a kitchen table.  For a couch.  For closets and a bathroom counter.  To introduce the world, only bit by bit, to my son and my space.  To determine, with discretion, how far one comes.

I knew all this would come unravelling as soon as I moved the first thing out of its place.  It's time to go.  Just like always.  Except there's a sweet little whisper in my heart... and I can't help but think that maybe I'll make the next space a "home".  A home with a baby.  That maybe with a little effort, I could find or better yet, build a place I want to stay.

~

My sister had a scare this weekend.  One misstep on a house boat and her leg is bruised and for far too many hours, her son was quiet in her belly.  Her son.  My nephew.  

I took a walk last night.  To the grocery store to buy blackberries.  As I was walking, I was willing my own son to start moving around again because now I was nervous.  Now I was anxious, wishing this little boy would kick me.  Hard.  Just so I knew he was there.  And as I walked, I prayed for my nephew.

A little boy named Elijah who will have, undoubtedly, the most beautiful green eyes any of us have ever seen.  I'm hoping that a small Rector comes into the world with a good mix of both my sister and his daddy.  I hope that he comes a few days before my Judah does, because I want to hold him in the hospital on one of the first days of his life.  

I walked to Kroger, praying for that little guy.  The little boy who I also prayed for five months ago on the floor of a friend's house.  Back then I prayed he just existed.  I wanted Elijah to be real.  I wanted my sister to have him.  I wanted my brother to have him.  I asked God for him.  Without knowing God had heard me far in advance and he already existed.  This time, walking down Columbia Avenue, I just prayed for those tiny legs.  And those tiny arms.  Much the same way I pray for Judah's heart.  

And I prayed for my sister.  Because regardless of how hard the last few months have been for us, only each other can even fathom the stress and fear and excitement happening in our lives right now.  Only I... in this moment... could even fathom the sort of fear you feel, when you trip through the damn door.

Elijah is moving again.  And I breathe a deep sigh of relief.  Good job, little man.  

~

I went to the library today.  Almost like one goes to the gym, even though they are tired.  

When I am out of words, I go find more.  

When you are empty, it is time to fill up.  

Something good this way comes... and people are starting to see the hope come back into my eyes.

And when it's time, I want to have the words to be able to tell the story.  

Starting next week, I can no longer call my blog "from Apartment 6".  So not only is it time for new space, new love, new words... it's time to find a new name.  For a new season.  For a new chapter.

Help me come up with something?

Future Orientation

I am laying in bed, hand on my belly.  Judah is kicking me, over and over again.  And it's not that I want him to stop.  But I can't really get anything else done. His movement distracts me far too easily, and I'm more than content to just lay here and anticipate his next move.  I'm also exhausted.  Which may be why I don't want to move.

I am just worn out.

Practicum started today.

I was hired for a new job on Friday.

I got a call back for a second interview at a job I'd given up on.

I found a new apartment.  And I'm currently looking at the one I live in now, intimidated by the mess and hating this space.

Hating this space so much.

~

I spent the day in court for practicum.  I definitely picked the right profession; there was nothing about the client interaction, which made me regret the decision I made three years ago.  But I am tired now.  And my mind is spinning.  

Between this morning in court and an impromptu discussion in Starbucks last week, I am left considering the term "future oriented".  I explained this term to a co-worker the other day, specifically because of the issue, which arises when an individual is not oriented in such a way.  This manifests as impulsivity, lack of regard for consequences, repeat offenses, recidivism.  As a bystander, case manager, parent, volunteer, friend, we do not understand how someone could not understand the connection between their actions and the consequences of said actions.  How do you not know that "A" leads to "B" and equals up to "C"?  

Sometimes, something is lost.  The connection cannot be seen, perceived, or found.  In the time that lapses, in the transference of information.  Next year seems so far away, there's no way today could impact it.  Right?  

A child becomes future oriented early on.  Their parents usually have some concept of the orientation, and lead by example.  Early on, the consequences of actions and behaviors are acknowledged and obvious.  You don't turn in your homework, you get a "0".  You don't study for a test, you fail.  You don't save your money, you don't get the car.  You don't show up to work, you lose the job.  You break curfew, you are grounded.  You eat too much candy, you get sick.  Connections.  Consequences.  

That's real life right there.

And half of us never get it.

But the only way to learn is to experience.  To open your eyes and ears and listen.  If you're lucky, there are people around to help.  To help you connect the dots.  To help pull you out of the mess of consequences you've found yourself in.  If you're smart, you listen to those people.  You take their hand.  

~

This does not make me better than anyone, but for the most part I am incredibly future oriented.  Almost to a fault.  I tend to worry about things so far in the future, repercussions that may never even occur, that I fail to focus on today.  

Even as I stare at my apartment, I know I could fold all this damn laundry and ease up some of my stress.  But I'm so worried about how I'm going to pay rent this summer and which job I should choose and how I'm going to get all 360 hours of my practicum in, I just stare at the laundry... 

There are times when we voluntarily forget about consequences.  We get caught up in the moment, thinking only about now.  About gratification.  About getting what we want when we want it.  Numbing the pain.  Or distracting ourselves from our current circumstances.  

And then we wake up.  The money's gone, maybe.  Or maybe he is.  You've wasted a lot of time and a lot of energy on things, on people, on stuff that doesn't really matter.  Stuff you really don't care about.

It is, however, this same frame of mind, which can push you through the hardest of times.  Knowing that if you save the money now, you can pay for the apartment in August.  If you survive the crazy schedule now, you will graduate in December.  If you just say no now....

~

I am tired.  And right now I cannot see past today.

Which is why I'm not making any decisions today.

I will try and clean my apartment and wipe away the tears that are, of course, forming behind my eye lids.  Wishing he loved me.  And wishing I was still small enough to fit in his lap.  And wishing I didn't look so pregnant that I couldn't walk through the store without being stared at.  

I can't change those things today.  

So I'll just clean.  And keep my hand on my belly, waiting for my son to kick my hand.  Because you don't get much more future oriented than this... to be a mother, loving a child she's never held.  Only felt.  Doing all she can to take care of him and prepare a good life for him, without ever having seen his face.

Test

It is raining outside.  The kind of rain, which tells me there's a thunderstorm not so far away.  The kind, which pulls the humidity straight out of the ground.

My windows are open, and I have so many thoughts I don't even know where to begin.

I am having a boy.

A sweet baby boy.  A son.  He is Judah.  His full name means "gift of praise".  He has big shoes to fill -- a big name to grow into.  He will be a lion.

Maybe I will tell you more about this later.  About what it is like to go for a first ultrasound and see a speck of light.  A shape.  To be told this shape is your baby.  Your child.  Only then to return, months and months later, and have an image of your child flicker onto a screen.  In a dark room, where you're laying all by yourself save a stoic technician.  You watch him stretch.  He turns to look at you and you realize he just heard your voice.  You recognize his jaw -- but it's not your jaw.  It's his father's.  And he doesn't have your nose either.  But maybe he will have your eyes.  Maybe he will have a sweet, dark face with green, green eyes.  Or maybe.  If he's lucky.  He won't be much like you at all.

Or I'll tell you about how just now... just this minute... with the laptop propped on my lap and the rain coming down and the window open, after weeks of feeling him move inside of me, I just felt him move on the outside.  I just watched my belly move.  And I think about how in a few years, at 9:45 at night, I will be scolding him and telling him it's time for bed.  And he won't want to go to sleep then either.

But actually tonight I'm here to tell you about other things.

I am laying in bed tonight, giving up on this day fairly early, because I feel like I've been fighting a battle. A very hard, strenuous battle.  The same battle I've been fighting for years and just didn't know what to call it.  I feel like I am losing.

A battle against the very demons of worthlessness.

As the semester wraps up, all which stands between me and another successful semester are three finals.  Just tests.  I don't worry about tests.  I don't study.  Because I truly believe if I learned it, then I know it.  And if I didn't learn it, then studying won't help.  I have to have it taught to me.  Or teach it to myself.  Or learn it by teaching someone else.  It's that simple.  I don't stress about tests.

But in the morning I have an interview.  For a new job.  Where I won't be serving food anymore.  Where I'll be paid more for every hour of work and those hours of work will not extend into the late nights or on Sundays.  A job with adults.  A job, which will look good on a resume.

I am a nervous wreck.

Tomorrow I also am going to look at a new apartment.  Up by a park where I used to play sand volleyball with a boy who would never love me.  An apartment I drove by in the middle of the day and there were EMS and fire trucks and police cars responding to a call.

I haven't been in my current apartment for very long.  But I'm ready to leave.  I feel like I've overstayed my welcome.  Too much life has happened here.  These walls have seen too much.  And there is no longer enough space for me and all my life.

But to me, looking at a new apartment feels almost like going on a date.  I walk in the door and make an initial assessment.  Check the closets.  Turn on the faucets.  Say hi to the neighbors.  Wonder, in six months, if everything will start falling apart.  Or if this is the real deal.

These are big decisions.  Decisions I have to make.  Decisions I need to make well.  Because the decisions I make now no longer affect just me.  I am no longer allowed to do some of what I used to.  What used to make ends meet, what used to be enough, no longer is.  And so here I am.  Doing what I do.

Which is what I have to do.

Survive. 


But surviving is  a hard thing to do when the enemy is telling you, you are broken.  Used.  Worthless.  Not good enough.  Unwanted.

Persevering is almost impossible when you no longer believe you have what it takes to do so.

Resilience is not a trait you can cultivate over night.  People like us, we're born with it.  Generations of grit and mistakes and learning the hard way made you come out of the womb ready to fight.  But the enemy wants nothing more than to think this battle has been lost.

It's funny, you see.

Because I don't stress about tests.

Why?  Because I know what I know.

Oh.

~

Today I was reading a book called "Love Does" by a man named Bob.  A man I wish I knew.  Mostly because I feel like I already do.  Kind of like how I feel I know his friend named Don.  Who confirmed that my crazy, out of the box, non traditional way of loving Jesus was still.... love.  Who sent me to Africa.  To the ghetto.  To Haiti.  

Now Bob is teaching me a brand new thing.  And I didn't have a name for it until today.

Until today when I was stressed.  Tired from sleepless nights because of nightmares.  Tired because I'm not allowed to lay on my back anymore and all I want to do is pass out, lying flat on my back, staring at the ceiling.  Stressed because I have no money.  And need a new place to live.  And have to tell people tomorrow morning that I am amazing and competent and exactly what they're looking for.  

But I picked up Love Does.  

And realized what it is Bob's been teaching me.  

Part of me hopes he reads this and is not offended.  That he understands what I mean when I say...

I have never known someone so confident in their failures.  

So confident in rejection.  

So secure with who they are, their place in this world, and their worth in Jesus... they wrote a whole book about the ways they made a fool of themselves.  About the ways they FAILED.  And the ways God used it.  The brokenness.  The failure.  The every-day screw ups.

Just because some people like to talk about their brokenness, does not mean they are confident in it.  Just because someone claims they've "screwed up" does not mean they can own it in a way, which makes them healthy.  And ironically... whole.  Just because they admit to the addiction, the adultery, the cheating does not mean they are secure enough in their worth to admit they got fired from a job, that they were reprimanded by their boss, that they were given a speeding ticket, that they were dumped.  More than once.  It's the little failures, the ones with perhaps no redemption, which we are afraid to admit to.  

I am not good at failing.  I suck at taking criticism.  I beat myself up.  And anything negative ever said to me has chipped away at me like an ice pick.  I bear the scars of the words of others, but find it hard to let the encouragement and uplifting words of some to soak in.  I am bad at failing.  At the big and the small things.

I better get over this soon.  Since I'm going to be a parent. 

After reading Bob's book this afternoon, I forced myself out of bed and got ready for a meeting I had this evening.  Almost like magic, as soon as I got up, I was hit with this overwhelming sense of joy.  This overwhelming feeling of peace and affirmation.  And I heard the faintest whisper of the One who's been obnoxiously quiet for so long: It's going to be ok.  

These words brought a smile to my face.  Because I know them to be true.

And I can't help but wonder why I worry.

Because this is all kind of like a test.

I know what I know.  And no amount of cramming, worrying, studying will help.  The key is to remember what I know.  And whatever it is I don't know, to learn it.  To teach myself or have someone teach it to me, or to teach someone else until I know it by heart.

I know what I know.

Although I need to get to that place where I fail well, I also need to remember how capable I am of succeeding.  That no matter how it might feel like they are, all the odds are not stacked against me.  All those little failures do not make it impossible to succeed.

And just like I always have... I will survive.  I will do what I need to do.

In the book of Job there is a verse I learned when I was fourteen years old.  Chapter 23, verse 10 says: But He knows the way I take, and when He has tested me I will come forth as gold!

The demons are quieter tonight.  Their nasty voices are being drowned out by the truth and wisdom of others who are also the children of my Father.  Because even though it's hard to believe on some days, good wins.  Love wins.  And God never left.

I know what I know.

Hopefully tomorrow morning that will be enough.

And if not.  I will just have to get better at failing.

Either way.

Scars & Damage

My eyes are swollen and red this morning.  Suffering from that horrible puffiness that no amount of washing or make up can hide.  I just look tired.  The kind of tired, which whispers of defeat and emotional exhaustion.  My lids are heavy -- less than five hours of sleep last night.  Maybe five hours of sleep each night for the past week.

~

Sometimes you don't realize how intertwined a lesson is into yourself until you try and explain your mentality, your behavior, to another.  I was raised, taught, and educated about labels.  For the last two years I have been trained as a professional to avoid this mistake.  He is not an Autistic child.  He is a child with Autism.  He is not a sick child.  He is a child who has cancer.  Somehow it has become some engrained in me: actions and circumstances do not always determine identity.

You lied.  Are you a liar?


You committed a crime.  Are you a criminal?


You took something that didn't belong to you.  Are you a thief?  


Your legs don't work.  Do you identify as a cripple?


You are mentally handicapped.  Do you respond to the word "retarded"?  

At some point, your actions do take over and become your identity.  At some point, you lie enough you become a liar.  It is part of who you are because of the frequency, the motivations, the intentions behind your lying.

You are sitting in jail because you are a criminal.  You have hurt, stolen, broken, or trafficked.  Once you've served your sentence, are you still a criminal?  You have been rehabilitated, but you walk out of the prison, with the word "felon" forever tattooed on your forehead.

Labels break us.  This is the whole concept behind the Scarlet Letter.

Labels turn us against each other.  They give us grounds to judge and ammunition to use against one another.

In the social sciences, Labeling Theory assumes an individual or a people group or a community is affected by the names and stereotypes placed on them.  Labels impact behavior.  Labels foster hopelessness.  People sometimes resign to delinquent, deviant, unacceptable, or cyclical behavior simply because a label has been placed on the group of people they belong to.

In some cases, Labeling Theory is used as a deterrent for such behaviors.  Individuals may avoid certain actions, behaviors, or participation in activities in order to avoid being labeled as "drop out", "thief,"or even "addict".  Studies are starting to show, however, in the most delinquent of communities.... it's not working anymore.

I wonder why.

One of the oldest adages we can all remember is: sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.  


Say what you want.  Your words do not have an effect on me.

What a nasty lie.

~

I was called damaged.

To you, this word may not sound so bad.  In some situations, it may even resonate with you.  Yes, I feel damaged.  I feel like I am not good enough.  Like I fall short.  Like I am unwanted, unusable, undesirable, rejected.


Words mean something to me.

Words hurt me worse than any other weapon ever could.

And when that word, those words: damaged goods reached my ears, it made my heart hurt.  Because it resonated with some of my deepest fears, the deepest fears straight from the enemy.  Like gasoline on a flame.  Those two words, the one phrase, fueled the smallest of sparks the enemy has ignited in me over the last year.

Because in my mind, damaged means worthless.  I hear "damaged" and I immediately think of the furniture on the side of the road waiting for the garbage men.  I think of the dented cans of nonperishables, which are drastically discounted because they're not worth as much anymore.

To me... damaged is synonymous with "worthless", "useless", with trash.

And I am not trash.


So what do you answer to?

I answer to scarred.

Hurt.


Growing.


Healing.

On some days, on most days, I even respond to broken.


But I will never respond to damaged.

~

This mentality led me to start a project last year.  

I have an eighteen inch scar down the middle of my back.  It is no longer incredibly noticeable, no longer causes me any pain, and most days is not a source of any real insecurity.  

But it used to be.  

I used to buy clothes to hide it.  It used to tinge with pain as the nerves grew back together.  It now looks like a nice, long, pink scratch.  Healed.

Now, there is a numb spot right in the middle.  But it doesn't hurt anymore.

Because of this strong thread throughout my story, I have become fascinated with people's scars.  

So last year I started a project.  I wanted to turn scars into art.  I wanted to turn the very things, which represented so much hurt and pain in all our lives, into something beautiful.  I believe there is a story behind every scar.  And therefore, our scars tells the stories of our lives.

Scars are beautiful.  Because scars mean it doesn't hurt any more.  That healing is happening... what caused us pain may be over.

This thought process resonated with a lot of people.  People who'd survived cancer, car wrecks, life-threatening surgeries, and self-mutilation.  People who'd always looked at their scars and been embarrassed or ashamed.  Looked at their scars like imperfections, hiding them under make up and clothes.

It resonated because we are all scarred.

Hurt.

Even broken.

I, for one, know I am now stronger in some of my broken places than ever before.

My scars represent growth and healing and the provision and protection of my Father.  

My scars tell my story.  

~

Be careful how you label others.

Be careful of the words you use.

Be careful of what you say about someone who cannot hear you.

Be careful of mistaking treasure for trash.  

Damage for redemption.

Beauty for ashes.

We have been repurposed.  All our imperfections, brokenness, and flaws -- smoothed over, repaired, enhanced.  (http://repurposedsoul.tumblr.com/)

Be careful with the words you use to describe someone.  Some of us will hear those words so often they will become our identity.  We may lose ourselves in who you think we are.  And only a few of us are strong enough to emerge from that, whole.

peace

You remember.  I used to hear God so clearly.  Through so many obstacles in my life, which beat me down and roughed me up, I was able to hear God's voice loud and clear.  Whether or not His words were instructions, or just to comfort, to remind... I heard them.

My life is such now that all I'm really seeking are answers.  So much of what I'm going through is within my control.  Assignments are piled up, due every day for the next two weeks.  Rent is due.  I need to find a new place to live.  I need to fix the window in my car.  I need to apply for new jobs and for graduation.  All of these things are within my control.  I have the resources and ability to control and manipulate each and every one of those situations.  Thus, I do not worry about them.

There are however, a few things in my life I have absolutely no control over.

And I am deeply, deeply worried about them.

I hate cookie-cutter answers.  I hate blanket statements, which suggest that Jesus is the answer for everything.  "I have a headache." --> Jesus.  That is not how I work.  You have a headache?  Take ibuprofen.  Jesus gave someone the incredible mind to invent medicine.  Freaking use it.

So my point is that I have a really really hard time with the statement "just give it to God".

Well damn.  Alright.

Not because I don't believe He can take care of it.

But because I forgot that He already has.

Now that doesn't necessarily mean my worrying turns off like a light switch.

But the old me, the foundation of me, all the way to the core is comforted by the fact He knows already. He knows the sex of my baby -- and He knows what kind of mother I am going to be.  He knows about my future relationships and how my child and I will handle everything if the father doesn't stay.  Or how we will if he does.

He knows when a ring will be slipped onto my left hand.

He knows my next address.

And He already has visions of my smiles on graduation day in His head.  Pretty far ahead, my Father has planned.

I belong enough to Him, too, that I get to take part in the story.  He trusts me.  Loves me.

But the not knowing is eat away at my heart.

Is my faith weak?  Or just being strengthened?

Am I failing?  Flailing and disappointing Him?  Or is He just writing a better story?

All these things He knows, which I have yet to find out, are safe in Him.  Waiting to be uttered by His lips.  Taken by Him, reworked, reframed, repurposed so that they work out for the good.

I've been questioning that lately.  That He works everything out for the good of those who love Him.  Perhaps that is another verse we've taken out of context.  Another verse we've manipulated to say what we want it to say.  For our own comfort and reassurance.

But for now, I must trust.  That He has made me strong enough.  That He has made my baby strong enough.  That He has made my family strong enough.  And in the not-knowing, He is making me better.

I heard Him yesterday.  In the matter-of-fact voice of a Father who knows you haven't been listening.  "You don't need answers."  And I heard Him offer His peace.

Maternity Clothes & Research

Today is not a homework day.
I have at least two papers to write before Monday and three presentations and a few more papers to write before April 18th.
This morning it is beautiful in Lexington.  Everyone is headed to Keeneland and I am sitting in Magees.  I got sick again this morning -- that whole routine is really starting to take it's toll on me.  I know my body well enough to know, the minute I wake up, if it's going to be "that" kind of day.  And I rolled out of bed this morning with dread heavy in my stomach.
So between the nausea and the homework, you'd think I'd be in a bad mood.
But I am sitting here, by the window, watching all the people in their dress clothes and sipping on a Bluegrass Breakfast Blend and staring at my half eaten danish.
And the only thing disappointing me is that homework has to be done.
I made the mistake of opening Pinterest this morning before I launched into writing my papers.
All my creative juices started flowing.
Looking at beautiful photography and reading witty blogs and smiling over sweet baby clothes.
And bemoaning my distaste for maternity clothes.

Side note:  Maternity clothes are not cute.  Seriously.  If you think so, you must love ruffles and lace and bows and empire waists and flowing sleeves.  I hate ALL THOSE THINGS.  I just want to be able to wear plain tank tops and t-shirts.  Simple lines and earth tones and NO ELASTIC WAISTBANDS.  Lord have mercy, I walked through the maternity section at Target yesterday and I just shook my head.  The day I have to buy a pair of pants like that, I'm going to cry a little.

The paper I am working on right now is for an implementation process for a hypothetical project to help aid delinquent youth.  The intention is to prevent and educate and occupy youth who otherwise would be loitering the streets of Lexington, getting involved in illegal behavior.  I am trying to channel my creativity this morning to my research.  And it's working... a little.  I think that EBSCOhost is as temperamental as I am.  There are days I use UK's library resources and they produce a whole bunch of crap.  But not today.  No sir.

So.

While I doubt that you want to join me in my academic research on how to effectively intervene in the lives of urban, at-risk youth, you might be interested in some of the other things, which have caught my attention this morning.

http://pinterest.com/avaughan/ These are my Pinterest boards.  Follow me.  These pages are really starting to reflect me, my personality, and my style.  And you will be linked to thousands of other people who are much cooler than I am.  (I hesitated just then to use the word "cooler".  Made me feel dated... and I am far too young to be feeling dated.  But I wonder if I had used the word "fresh" if you would have understood what I meant.  "Trill" is also an appropriate would that only a handful of you would have considered as anything more than a typo.)

www.beingfran.com This is my new favorite blog to read.  Fran is an acquaintance -- actually I'm wondering if we've ever even met?  But we know most of the same people.  She's always been delightfully feminine and somewhat elusive (divulging enough information about herself that you are intrigued but eliminating just enough that you are left wondering).  She reminds me of the Gilmore Girls -- witty and full of pop culture references and an impressive vocabulary.  Follow her.

I also encourage you to create a Pandora account.  This morning, I have been listening to Tupac and the Bee Gees and Janet Jackson and Salt N Pepa and oh wait.... Will Smith.  I am not ashamed.

(I am still on the look out for half-way decent maternity clothes.  I have yet to grow out of my current clothes (first trimester sickness had me DROPPING weight instead of gaining).  But the day is coming.  And I am dreading it.  Help me.)

Let Me Cry

My moods have always been very strange.  I am not a dramatic person and I do not have extreme, external emotions.  I am an introvert and the brunt of everything I feel is very much internalized and processed before you ever see it.  I don't jump up and down and get excited.  Fits of crying are short lived and rarely loud or snotty.  It's a great trick to get me to belly laugh -- although it's one of my favorite things to do.  And I rarely get into yelling matches.

But when I get into bad moods, when I get discouraged, it is damn near impossible to fix it.  Usually I have to sulk and just allow the bad mood until it passes.  Wallow in the feelings of overwhelmed-ness until I have some moment of enlightenment, however small, which lifts me out of the fog.

It's my system.  And there's not many people who know what to do for me when I get like that.  Must be frustrating.

-

All growing up we used to tease Kat's boyfriends about needing a manual to be able to understand her.  She'd get upset and we'd all watch these poor boys flounder, only making things worse.  Not one of them knew how to interpret her moods, when to speak up or when to shut up.  The worst of them would try and touch her hair.  Or tell her to hurry.

But for almost ten years now, David's been here.

And I always knew they'd get married.  Mostly because I prayed for it and about it more than I'd prayed about or for anything else.

But we were at Starbucks the other night.  Almost ten years later.  Six months of marriage later.  A little baby girl growing later.

And Kat was crying.

I watched as David settled himself into the chair and pulled her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her so she couldn't move.  And he said to me, "did you know this how you help Kat stop crying?"

In that moment, I remembered how I'd known.  How I'd known he was her husband.  So long ago.

Because David didn't just now learn how to do this.  I used to have to tell boyfriends all the time, the key to getting Kat "un-upset" was to wrap her up so she couldn't move and hold her just long enough to make the tears go away before she got claustrophobic.  There is about a two second window there.  A fine art.

But I never had to tell David that.  Ever.

He just knew.

-

That, by the way, is NOT how you help me get over my bad mood.

Hold me tight like that and I will be thinking of sixteen different ways to make you let me go.

Don't hold my face (unless you're going to kiss me).  Don't pat me -- anywhere.  Don't tell me to think positively.  And especially don't tell me to look at the bright side.  Don't tell me I'm beautiful (I stopped believing that a long time ago when it comes out of other women's mouths).  And seriously.  Don't tell me to be patient.  Or remind me of what I already know.  Which is that "this won't last", or "I have what it takes", or "it'll be worth it in the end".

I was in one of these moods a few months ago, right after I found out I was pregnant.  High emotions, uncertainty, fear, insecurity were all coursing through me and I was freshly dealing with the reactions of some of the people most closely involved in my life.

I walked out of one room, having set my mind on one decision, and walked into the other room.  I sat down, for what reason I didn't know, and leaned my head up against his chest.  He situated himself and wrapped his massive arm around me and let me lean up against him.

While I cried.

He didn't say anything.  He didn't try and reason with me or remind me of what I already knew.  He didn't tell me what he thought I should do or ask me how I was feeling.

He just let me lay there and cry.

-

I was in another mood similar to that the other day.  Overwhelmed and stressed and lonely, my introverted self needed time to process and rest, and yet the thought of being by myself was beginning to be too much.  I kind of just wanted to sit in a room with a bunch of people and not say anything.  I didn't want to talk to them, look at them, or interact with them.  Just didn't want me echoing thoughts to bounce off the walls of my empty apartment.

Tears brimmed that day.  Hot and swollen under my eyes and I was almost more irritated with myself for not crying than for wanting to.  I am pregnant.  Hormonal.  I should be crying all the time and damn it if I can't shed a single tear.

It was in that moment I texted Tamera and told her the story about Kat and David.  I said, "if I find a man who can comfort me like that, I will marry him."

"Amen", she replied.

I swallowed hard.  Remembering.

I wish, truly and deeply, that was all it took to make something work.

Rocking Chair

I have been so sick.  I thought morning sickness was supposed to end after the first trimester.  But mine has just gotten worse.  Between working and classes, I don't really have time to get sick.  Let alone stay sick.  So the past month or so has been hard on me, trying to juggle all my responsibilities and a perpetually weak stomach.

Two weeks ago I came down with a stomach virus.  For a lady who has an incredibly strong immune system, pregnancy has kicked my tail.  I was out for 48 hours last time, literally posted up in bed because I was too weak to move.  My OB prescribed me Phenergen and that only made me sleepy.  Somehow I managed to stay on top of things, but I was beat.  I fought a few more bouts of morning sickness over the next few days, taking the edge off by eating earlier and more consistently.  But yesterday I came down with another virus.  And I thought I was going to die.

Every time I get sick I worry about this kid.  My sister has felt her little girl move (she and David found out she was carrying their daughter last week).  She is showing much more prominently than I am, wearing maternity clothes already, sharing her baby's name with everyone.  She is consistently congratulated, hugged and asked questions.  People try and rub her belly and she proudly talks about the progression of her pregnancy and the plans she and her husband have.

I am not much of one for that kind of attention.  I recoil every time someone reaches for my belly.  To this day, the only person who I've let touch my stomach is my friend who fist-bumps my small bump and laughs while saying, "what's up, my nigga".  Alright.  So forgive the racial slur.  But when everyone else is looking at you with pity and disappointment, it gets me rolling every time.

Because that's what happens.  Even though I have allowed my pregnancy to become public knowledge, the news has not travelled nearly as quickly as I had assumed it would.  Just last night, my step sister found out that I was pregnant.  I shake my head, thinking: the one time I count on rampant gossip, it doesn't work the way it's supposed to.

On Friday night I went and celebrated my uncle's 40th birthday.  He is one of the best networkers I know, driven, with high aspirations.  I loved watching his plans come to fruition for a cause so near and dear to my heart.  He and I have always disagreed on my fundraising for short term trips to third world countries.  But just because we disagree, does not mean we don't want the same thing to happen: for people all around the world to know Jesus and have clean drinking water.  Simple things.  Important things.

My sister walked around that party like a proud mama.  With her hand on her belly, ring on the correct, left finger.  She is living her dream right now.  She was showing people her ultrasound pictures, proudly bragging on their little girl.  My niece.

And in reality, I wouldn't have it any other way.  Except for the questions some people find it ok to ask me.

Questions, which perhaps are not unreasonable.  Questions, which I'm sure most people are asking.  But questions I don't have an answer for.  Questions I had to choose, from day one, that I would not be answering in any kind of detail.  Not because I get any sick enjoyment out of secrecy.  Not because I'm trying to be vague or elusive.  But because I drew my line.

Many questions were asked of me on Friday night, which crossed my line.

And while I will never want you to touch my belly, and I may never be able to answer some questions to your satisfaction, there are days when I really do want you to care.

-

I spent all day yesterday in bed.  Weak and unable to eat.  I was so violently ill I burst blood vessels on my face.  And the whole time, I was just afraid.  Afraid I'd gotten this far, only to lose this baby.  Afraid I'd finally announced my pregnancy, faced the judgment and criticism and harsh words, only to miscarry.  Afraid it would happen and I wouldn't know.  Afraid I'd do something wrong.

But I woke up feeling well this morning.  I ate, showered, and made it to my last class.

And then I bought a rocking chair.

I believe my sister has already furnished her entire nursery.  Especially now they know it's for Penelope and not a baby boy.  She has always been a nester.  A natural mother.  I am not good at these things.  Actually, I'm so bad at these things I've often wondered how good of a mother I could possibly be.  Because my kid won't be on a schedule and will probably take naps in strange places and eat at strange times and have a dozen aunts and uncles and not wear clothes very often.

But today I bought a rocking chair.  From a ministry called Repurposed Soul, which takes old, used furniture and refurbishes it.  All the proceeds from their sales go to Northwest Haiti Christian Mission where I spent ten days last August.  Rocking a sweet boy named Kiki in a rocking chair early in the mornings and late in the afternoons.

Today I bought a rocking chair.  While worrying that my baby was not ok.  While worrying that I would not be a good mother.  While worrying that I do not have what it takes.

Then I came home from class and laid down in bed.  I have to sell frozen yogurt tonight while UK wins (*crosses fingers*) a national championship.  I am tired and sore and weak and I needed a nap.

When I laid down, however, I noticed that my belly was lopsided.

My belly isn't very big (especially compared to my sister's or Elizabeth's at 17 weeks).  I tell people it's because my hips are big and this kid has a lot of room to move around.  But in the mornings I will wake up and I can feel it.  And see it.  Though I have yet to feel any movement.

But when I laid down this afternoon, I could see and feel it, and it was all on the right side of my stomach.  I was concerned at first.  Instantly wondering if I'd knocked something out of place with all my vomiting.  But I looked it up.  Found out it is completely normal.  And then smiled a little.... taking the lopsided-ness for what it actually was.

A sign that my kid is growing.  And moving.

I poked my belly and told "him" to move back to where "he" was supposed to be.  "That's embarrassing, and you know it," I laughed.  I fell asleep for a little while and when I woke up, "he" had moved back to the middle of my stomach.  I shake my head.  Still wondering if I'm going to be a good mom.  Still wondering if I have what it takes.

But my kid is alive and moving and growing.

And I bought a rocking chair.

mission

Things have changed.  Quickly, unexpectedly, drastically.  Things are different now than they were at the turn of the new year.  I have had to rush, hurry to catch up to the changes.  My mind has yet to wrap all the way around it.

Every time a friend whispers, "you're going to be a mommy," it's as if I am jolted back to reality.

My belly is just now starting to grow.

I am hungry all the time.

The fatigue is ebbing, I have a lot more energy in week 16 than I have since January.

The nausea is intermittent and almost seems spiteful.  I've figured out how to combat it, but not without some terrible bouts.

I'm doing most of this on my own.  Most of this I'm just taking with stride, rolling with the punches.  I am in survival mode.

And sometimes... I even forget to pray.

Until I start feeling poorly.  Until my stomach starts hurting.  Until I have a negative encounter with someone who will highly impact my child and my life.

Then I thank God for not leaving me even when I suck.  And I remind Him I have no clue what the hell I am doing.  And beyond the few things I can do to help, my baby's life and health are in His hands.

My baby.  My son or daughter.  In five months, I will have a baby in my arms.  With dark skin and hair and a name I choose.  This child will be mine to raise.  To teach.  To love.

This, in part, has become my mission.

But satan's biggest attack on my life right now is trying to convince me it is my only one.  That upon having a child, carrying, birthing, and bringing a child into the world on my own... everything else will cease to be.  That all other opportunities will fade away.  That any other dream I may have had, is gone.  Unattainable.

This isn't true.  It's just a nasty lie.

And when I recognized it as such, I heard my Father's voice.  Speaking life and peace, consistently and quietly.  Faithfully.

If I let go of who I am, the dreams I have, the passions God has cultivated in me over the past few years, then I will not be a good mother.

Just because part of my story changed, does not mean my purpose did.  Does not mean God cannot use me.  It just means ... things change.  And God does not.

heartbeat

2/16/2012
I heard your heart beat today.
Before then, and maybe for five minutes after -- as long as it took me to get out of the office and into the parking garage -- I had been denying it.  Denying you.
I cannot see you.
I cannot feel you.
I feel what your presence is doing to me, but how could I be so sure?
I was worried about you.  From the minute I called you mine.
But I was not ready to love you yet.
I loved you enough that I changed the way I lived.
The way I ate.
The way I moved.
The way I worked.
Because I knew I needed to do everything in my power to protect you.
And if you were to be mine, to hold, to love, to raise, to cuddle, to teach... you'd survive.
Resilient.
Like me.
And so today, we went looking for your heartbeat.  Buried deep inside me, under all the mess and all the dysfunction.
I laid there, sure that we wouldn't find you.  Convinced myself that I'd, once again, loved only to have lost.
I could not hear you for the sounds of myself.
And then I saw the light.  The light in her eyes flashed and she smiled at me, "I heard it. There it is.  The heartbeat.  It's perfect."
Your heartbeat.
The proof that you are still here.
That you are mine and you are growing and you are alive.
I choked back tears, because I do not cry in public.
I swallowed all the fears and worries, which had been leading up to that moment.
And I left.
Today was the day I was waiting for.
The day I knew everything would change.
Because now I have a name for you.
And now I am so very aware of how my body is wrapped around yours and what I must do to help you survive.  To help you grow so when you get here, the world will be no match for you.
My gift.
Not my mistake.
Not my regret.
Not my accident.
My gift.
You will be mine.  And I yours.  A family.
With a foundation of a heart beat, so buried, so rapid.
I loved you before.
I was just afraid to say it.

First Day of Spring & Being a Mother

Sometimes, things just take time.

You need to hold a secret close to your chest, veiled and kept safe, for just a little while longer.

Timing like this is something no one else ever understands.

It's always too soon, or not soon enough.

But the weight of it is your own.  And you alone know how to carry it, how far you can last with it on your shoulders.

One morning, though, you will wake up.  Knowing, quietly, that it's this day.

Some things just take time.


I was carrying this secret long before I was even aware of it.

Somehow prepared, somehow unsurprised.  I've been carrying it for longer than anyone else has known.

Giving myself time, though not nearly enough, to process and to absorb.

We may never fully wrap our mind around, no matter how much time we take.

And so I'm here to tell you my secret.

I've been practicing saying such words over and over again.

But each time they only sound more strange.

These things, which take such time, are not often received well.

They are not understood.  Not accepted.  Not embraced.

They are difficult to receive, these words.  You have no place ready for them.

But they come, anyway, requiring a stretching of your mind.

And a stretching of your graces.

You will be required to leave with unanswered questions.

To handle a measure of confusion, which may never fully clear up.

To look at me and reframe.  Apply your surprise and your disappointment and your shock to what you already know or don't know about me.  And choose.

Your choosing will take as much time as my secret-telling.

-

I've known for over two months now that I am going to be a mother.

I am almost four months pregnant, due in early September, just days after my younger sister and her husband are expecting their first child.

More than likely, at least for a season, I will be a single mother.

I will graduate with my bachelors degree in December, with a four month old baby.

I find out next month whether my child is a boy or a girl.

-

For years and years I have worked with children.  I have mourned over their struggles and hardships, and my heart has broken each and every time I have taken them home.  Such a sharp pain, a reminder they are not truly mine.  Though I call them such.

For years I asked God to give me one of my own.  To raise and love and cherish.

For years I have been writing about living a good story, striving to tell the best story I can with the days I've been given.  Taking risks and listening for a voice, for a word, most can't seem to hear.

Never in a thousand years would I have thought that in 2012, I would add "becomes a single mother" to my timeline.  Never would have I imagined I would become a mother before I became a wife.  Or the idea of being a wife would suddenly become so far-fetched.

But choices and actions lead to results and consequences.  Sometimes, the choices and actions of others impact us and hurt us and scar us in ways we are not responsible for.  Other times, they are the choices and actions we deliberately make and take ourselves, however motivated -- leading us down new highways, through new corridors.  Until we find ourselves here.

Some place we never thought we'd be.

But here I am.

Hearing whispers of a Father's grace and love.

Which, as quiet as they are, overpower the cries and judgment of the rest of the world.

On the buried rhythm of a strong, steady heartbeat, He has whispered clearly, "Anna, I will use this.  Anna, I love this child.  And, Anna, I love you."

And so I love this child.

This child of mine, whom I will love.  Whom I will take home at the end of the night.  Whom I will raise and feed and teach and nurture.

This child who will call me mommy.  


Some things just take time.

Like adjusting to this idea.

Like rebuilding and redirecting my life.

Like learning how to be a parent.

Like building the strength it will take.

But I have time.

And I'm giving you time.

Because you need it.  Like I needed it.

Take it.

Guest Blog: Same Heartbeat

My name is Larry, and I am Anna’s dad. I am writing here as a guest blogger to share a few things with you. I asked for this assignment.

I am writing to tell you about my first born daughter. I used to call her Soup Bean when she was little, and I’m not sure how she got that name. Except I like soup beans a lot. Certainly an acquired taste, don’t you agree?

When I think about Anna I think about how scared I was of her as an infant. I didn’t know what to do with a baby, and I was certain I was going to drop her or inflict some sort of pain on her. So my heart would beat fast when she was in my arms. That lasted until the first time she fell asleep on my chest, lulled to sleep by that same heartbeat. And I knew then that everything was going to be OK. At least that’s how I felt then. But I was wrong. Everything was not going to be OK. She had skinned knees and alligator tears and disobedience and scoliosis and adolescent hubris. Intermingled in the things that weren’t OK were things that were amazing, such as beautiful art and wisdom and poetry and imagination.

Here’s a memory that still haunts me: We were riding bikes and she was in front of me and we were going pretty fast. Her bike slid out from underneath her and she went down right in my path. I will never forget that feeling as long as I live. My bike was mere feet from her downed body, and I was certainly going to run over her. My very own daughter. I lifted the bike with everything I had, still grazing her, and I wrecked just past her. My world stopped. Had I hurt my very own daughter? I would never do such a thing. I would (and have since) taken great strides to make sure she remained unharmed. I could tell you stories, some that even she doesn’t know, about my efforts to make sure she was unhurt.

I am writing to you because she is hurt even as I write this. And her hurt has been caused because she has made some poor choices, driven by faulty beliefs. She will tell you this. But she will not tell you much more than this because she doesn’t understand much more than this. Neither do I. Truthfully, it’s going to take some time for she and I to understand this enough to speak about it intelligently. It will likely be worth wait, because I’m pretty sure it’s going to be one hell of a story.

Anna is going to have a baby. And she is not in a relationship at the moment. Even as I write this I can see her losing control of the bike she is on, going down right in front of my eyes.

I am two people these days. I am hurt because she is hurt, and I would move heaven and earth to make her pain go away. And I am so excited about the life that is growing strong inside of her. Anna’s sister, Kat, is also having a baby, and they are due only a day apart. Kat felt her baby move today and I got to talk to her about that tonight. I am so excited about this. Being a granddad. The kids are going to call me Poppy (or Papi, still not sure about the spelling).

I am guest blogging tonight to ask a favor. Anna doesn’t need your pity. And she doesn’t need your judgment (unless you have perfected the art of living). She needs space to work on her own stuff, which she is doing, and she needs help celebrating the life that grows inside her. A true wonder. Her job is simple (not easy): Fix the mistakes, love the baby. You can help her with the second part if you choose.

Is everything going to be OK? Well, I don’t know that yet. I guess in the end of all things the answer is “yes.” But I don’t know how long we have to wait for that.

I know that in my family two young lives are developing, getting ready to walk into a world they know nothing about. In this messed up world I know they will be loved. And I know if either one is a boy he will have to be comfortable wearing the occasional dress and playing with Barbies and American Girl dolls.

And I am full of anticipation for that day when my grandkids fall asleep on my chest, listening to the sound of my heartbeat. I guess then everything will be OK again.

Midtown Pt. 1

I keep making plans that keep changing.  Best laid.

I went to Atlanta this weekend.  For the first time in three or four years.  I forgot about the headaches I get when I go down south, the change in the climate, the pressure change.  I forgot how antsy I get when I can't go where I want, when I want.  Atlanta has always meant losing my independence, all the while calling me to let loose and be myself.  Always a preview.  Always a sneak peak.

I went this time to see Tiffany.  That's what I told people.  That's what I told myself.

But I was actually going to check on something.  Something I had a suspicion of, but wasn't entirely sure of.  I didn't realize this was my personal agenda until I asked Tiffany to turn around.

We were in Midtown.  High rise apartments surrounded me, richly funded parks, well-paved sidewalks, girls walking their golden retrievers.  (This was not the Atlanta I love, and I was confused why my GPS was taking us this way.)

And then there it was.  Tucked just in front of a luxury apartment and an office building.

We didn't even stop.  Just slowly drove by.  I was deeply confused for only a split second until His voice swept over me.  "Don't be disappointed," He whispered in my ear.  We kept driving on and I settled back in my seat.  "That was not what I had for you."

Plans keep changing.  I keep having wild, noble ideas and make agendas and plans for myself.  I will do this, go there, then.  I keep embarrassing myself, having to tell you that things have changed.  And what I was so excited about, so set on doing, is no longer the plan.

I don't know if this makes me foolish or wise, the being willing to change.

We continued to drive through Midtown and I only happened to look down as we crossed a bridge.  I don't know what I expected to see, maybe another highway.  In Kentucky it would have been a creek.

But in Atlanta, it was the projects.  A different sort of living environment.  Built around a basketball court.  With a bridge built over top.

And on that basketball court were dozens of children and teenagers.

I think I scared Tiffany when I started hollering about how that's where I wanted to be.  Not in the yuppie park.  I also think she thought I was joking.  The last time I saw her, none of this had begun.  So maybe it looks like a wild infatuation with the black culture.  Which it is.  Or maybe it looks like a complete distaste for wealth.  Which it is.  But it is also... my heart.

Because regardless of the places I go or don't go, the opportunities I take or don't take, the plans, which change or don't change, one thing remains the same.  I know who my heart belongs to.  I know where to go to find my rhythm, my life.  In the longest time, that has not changed.  For the longest time, He's been confirming this in me.

wrecking ball

I am so over character development I could vomit.

Yes.  I said it.

Freaking leave me the way I am.  Just for a minute.

Let me wallow in my imperfection, in my own mess, in my immaturity, and my foolishness.

Give me time to let the sore muscles heal.  Because right now I'm not strong enough to withstand anymore of the stress.

Everything has been attacked.  Torn down.  Demolished.

The wrecking ball is still swinging, dangling from the crane.  Gawking at the wreckage of myself.  Slightly proud of itself for how quickly, how effectively, it humbled me.

I'm still standing, at least.  Covered in dust and debris.  Ears ringing from the racket.  Mouth dry, nose itching.  I am afraid to look around me.  I know I have to start over now.  The foundation is still here.  Solid and firm and unmoving.  But that's all that remains.

Character development started out as remodeling.  As rebuilding.  A fresh coat of paint.  Reinforcing a support beam.

Apparently that wasn't enough.

And resulted in this.

The hardest part of the demolition phase is the hope in the rebuilding.

Because standing in the middle of all of it, I certainly can't see the plan.

walk away

Sometimes, I just need permission to slam the door shut.
Lock it.
Turn around.
Walk away.

I need you to tell me it's ok to do that.
To forgive.
And then prevent the hurt from happening again.

This morning, with the rain, I let it be washed away.

Something deep rooted.
Something long lasting.
Something painfully shallow.
Something painful.

I will not allow it to hurt me anymore.
I will not hold on to possibility.
Or the 'what if' of what lies ahead.

Letting go proves itself to be the hardest thing.
Strange, since I never truly wanted it in the first place.
Perhaps it's not the letting go.

It's the unknown.
It's the hatefulness put on me.
It's the absorption of scorn.

I needed permission.
And I got it.
"Go ahead," He whispered.  "You know the answer."

And I wonder if the hardest lesson is choosing to do the healthy thing, at the risk of being hated.

Shake my head,
knowing this shouldn't even be an issue.
This should not have taken up so much of my time.

But isn't that how it is?
We waste it all,
on the most undeserving.

burden

Piled on.
Bend knees, lift weight, hoist, exhale.

Muscles and bones adjust under a new weight.
New pressure.

Take a few more steps,
old bags hugging my curves in familiar ways.
New ones rubbing blisters.

I think I have this pace figured out.
Pace measured, calculated.
Body settles under and adapts.

Until they ask me to add more.
"Here, take this."

It is slightly familiar,
this they're handing me.
I know it, remember it, know how to carry it.

But with this new load,
I can't find room.

My shoulders are laden.
My back burdened.

I remember what it felt like to carry that before.
The relief we all felt when it was put down.

The sort of burden, which tears you apart with its weight.
The sort of burden, which draws anger and bitterness and fear to the surface like a hot compress.
Intended to heal, but pulling.

It's just too heavy.
I shake my head, as words fly around me.
"No more than you can handle."

The words aren't true.
This, this is more.
What I've been handed, I cannot carry.

Truth bolsters me.
And with the quiet request, whispered through parched lips,
I ask what I know this burden is pressing me to ask.

Perhaps it is the purpose of the burden.
The mission of the weight.

To bring you to your knees.

Better than Average

Yesterday was ridiculous.  I felt like a parent who had company over and my children just didn't know how to behave.  Any time you bring someone new into your "home" you are acutely aware of everything going on around you.  Every temper tantrum, every bad word, every smart aleck remark, every lost battle.  The one time you want them to show off, they act up, and you're left trying to decide whether to shrug or apologize.


How do you explain love?  How do you teach someone to love a group of people the way you do?  "Hey, meet my family.  Ok.  Go love them."


It is surprisingly easier than it may seem.


In Don Miller's Blue Like Jazz he says, when explaining his new found love for jazz music, "Sometimes you have to watch somebody love something before you can love it yourself. It is as if they are showing you the way."


So that is what I do.  That is my job, my mission, my passion.  To show others how to love, just by doing.  Leading the way, just with my actions.  Which is why if you follow me into that gym, into that cafeteria, into that classroom, the only preparation you're going to get is a role call.  


Because I can't tell you how to love them.  I can just show you how I do.


One boy was running around, or more like running away from a leader.  Two had switched names with each other and there was really no way to tell who was who at any given moment.  One was slurping applesauce from a cup and the fifth grade girls were on a whole other level.  

Another one of my older fourth graders was stepping up in a major way.  I put my new friend with him to work on subtracting fractions.  Usually, this kid is notorious for getting halfway through his homework and complaining about wanting to go to the gym.  He usually storms through a door or slams a stack of books, huffing and puffing.  Yesterday, however, he sat down.  Jaw set.  Bent over a few really hard math problems, and worked diligently until he was done.

It was heavy on my heart to let him know how proud of him I was.  I think I told him at least three times yesterday. But what was even more important to me, was that he heard me telling someone else.  So I sat down next to my friend who had been helping him, and I told her a little bit about F.  About his leadership skills, about what a good athlete he was, about how excellent his attitude had been lately.  How proud we were of him.  I watched the light flicker in his eyes even though he refused to make eye contact with either one of us.  And he only tightened up a little when I gave him a really big hug.  

Cultivating leadership is one of our greatest goals.

One day, Frank will change the world.  Just wait.  

One of my babies, the one who I've consistently had the most progress with, was throwing a temper tantrum over work pages his teacher had assigned.  He has a C in the class.  Because he wasn't turning his work in.  Every assignment he turns in, he gets full credit for.  100's fill up the columns on his sheet.  But each 0 brings his grade down dramatically.  Tears streamed down his face.  He was calling us stupid, his face all tightened up and his body stiff.  He's a small fourth grader, and more often than not all it takes is a big hug or a good tickle to get him back in shape.  But not yesterday.


Yesterday he was fighting all his demons.


Marcus finally came into the room.  He explained to Mary and me what was exactly going on with the homework and patiently stood there as T crossed his arms tight over his chest and hot tears slid down his cheeks.  We were all stupid, the little guy said.  We were all bossy.  We were giving him too much work.  


Finally Marcus looked at him and said, "You have a C, T.  That's average.  T, do you want to be average?"


And I saw it.


I always see it eventually.  


Looking back on your own life, think about those moments, which jolt you awake.  Which demand your attention and cause you to lift your head.  The moment when something clicks, something falls into place, something finally makes sense.  Maybe you're lucky enough to remember.  Maybe you've been lucky enough to see it happen in a child.


Do you want to be average?


I left the room.  Reduce stimulation, reduce distraction.  Promote organization and focus.  Encourage and correct and redirect.  That's our job.  


When the day was over, homework packed up, trash thrown away, most of the lights turned off, I went to find Mary and T.  They were putting his books away in his backpack.  The tears were dried on his face and the light was back in his eyes.  I looked at Mary for confirmation.  


"He did great, Miss Anna," she said.  "He finished everything I told him to and even started on another page.  He's so good at this, and I'm not just saying that."


I smiled and looked to T.  "Is that right, little man?" He nodded rapidly with his jaw set, like he always does.  I squatted down and pressed my forehead up against his.  (Think Boy Meets World.  Sometimes, you have to get really close to get someone's attention.  Sometimes you have to make physical contact to get your point across.) 


"Do know how much I love you?"


He nodded and both our heads moved.


"Do you know that I think you're one of the smartest boys I know?"


Nod.


"Do you know how proud I am that you finished, even when we had such a bad day?"


Nod.


"Can I get a hug?"


He threw his arms around my waist and squeezed tight and then reached up and kissed my cheek.  "I love you, Miss Anna."  


I sent him to hug Mary and we walked down to the gym together.


This is my life, friends.  


-


Today I am wondering if you want to be average?


How badly do you crave excellence?  


What kind of leader do you want to be?


Can you look at me square in the eye, tell me your name, and shake my hand -- proud of yourself and who you're becoming?