gracious incompetency

I got embarrassed today.  I explained something, to an uncomfortably large group of people, and said something not entirely appropriate.

Later, someone said something.

They brought it up.  In front of everyone.

I sat there, quietly.  But my mind raced a thousand miles every second.

I didn't have all the right language.

But when someone said something about it, I got angry.

I wanted to say, "the way to educate is not to shame... someone..."

I live with this little brown eyed boy with coarse curls and full lips and daily I wonder how I will teach him how to handle other people who don't understand.

And there are a lot of people who don't understand, but I do not ever want to be one of them.

I didn't have the grace or the humility to apologize to the woman who shamed me today.  But I reached out to my friend, whom I knew would understand.  A woman who's dedicated her life to education on this particular topic, and I apologized to her.  Mostly because an apology to my classmate wouldn't have been genuine.  But my apology to my friend was.

And I didn't like how embarrassed I felt to be wrong.

I'm wrong a lot.  And in a lot of public ways.

But in this moment, I thought about all the times I have reacted with less than patience about someone else's particular ignorance.  Using inappropriate language, or believing generalizations and stereotypes.  I think about the times I have failed myself, when I have been less than I'm capable of being.

We have to learn to be gracious with our incompetencies.

Not dismissive.  Not permissive.

But gracious.

In those ways we fail, out of exhaustion and ignorance or miseducation, we must be able to find the grace.  For each other, but also for ourselves.

In those moments when I recognize all my stagnancy, all the ways I've strayed from my dreams; the windy path we've followed, which has led us here.  Failure like windows thrown open, light and temperature and moisture, waking us up.

We can be wrong and still shrouded in the grace.  We can stand still, knee deep in all the mud, and it's grace reaching for us.

Grace allows us to be wrong and learn from it.  To learn and grow and fight the complacency we often find ourselves in.  Because we are supposed to get better.

We are not supposed to stay this way.

what's been goin on

I just want to write. And I was trying to be poetic and insightful and damn, that's harder than it sounds.

So y'all get a list.

Because lists knock things loose.

-I have been thinking a lot about balance lately. What balance looks like for my family and how I will achieve it as an individual. What keeps the scales balanced in your life?

-I've been introduced to the Barreamped method. I've been taking classes at a local studio for a few months now and it's been a total change of pace from the heavy lifting I've been doing for the past year. Check out ElleFitness here, and come take a class with me one Tuesday night!

-The change in my physical activity regimen really threw my body for a loop. I've been researching food as medicine, as a result, and I don't just mean dieting. Check out my Pinterest board for what I've found so far... And give me any tips or share any knowledge you may have about juicing, supplementals, essential oils and anti-inflammatory diets.

-I started a new job almost two months ago. That's all I really care to say about that.

-Judah has grown in a very handsome little boy, if I do say so myself. I'm on the look out for new books to keep him interested and local activities he can participate in. Here's what we did on Saturday.

-This is my favorite new recipe.  It's not difficult, or clean, but it's good

-new favorite blog

-I got Olivia hooked on this component of my skin care regimen.  It's simple.  Not organic or expensive or all natural, but it has saved my skin.

-But for those days when my hair or skin, especially my stretch marks, need some extra love here is a DIY skin care recipe I just tried.  And love.  I also use this on Judah after bathtime: sweet, brown baby love.

-This is the local event I plan to attend on the 4th of July.  Lexington is coming ALIVE with creativity, entrepreneurs and a true sense of community.  I plan to experience a little of all of that here: Night Market

- Have any of you ever used a shampoo bar?  Tell me about it.

A Change is Gonna Come: Pt 1/Getting Fit at Home

Remember Anne Hathaway's debut?

The Princess Diaries?  The invisible girl with a retainer and unmanageable hair, who had never been kissed?

Remember the transformation scene?  When she suddenly realized she was beautiful (had been all along) and now everyone else saw it too.

That's what the gym did for me.

Last May, I hit the ground running.  I studied, without realizing it, and learned how to transform my body.  I studied form and muscle groups and I asked questions and practiced in mirrors.  I noticed plateaus and burst through them.  I added plyos when needed and one day I remember I walked into that big gym and it didn't scare me anymore.

I arranged my day around my gym session.  Only one hour at a time, I went it to do work and got it done.  On bad days I made myself venture out onto the main floor, outside of the crossfit room.  Where the heavy weights were.  Where the men were. And worse, the sports bra clad women.

I didn't see a significant change on the scale, but I did in my clothes.  Suddenly, my quad was cut.  And so were my delts.  And I knew what that meant.

My knee started popping so I did some research and realized I was overworking my quad and underworking my hamstring, and so I increased my deadlifts.

Which killed my lower back.

So I dropped weight, increased reps and bought a foam roller.

Guys, this made my heart beat.  This was how I took care of myself.

I had a few run ins with the trainers out there.  And by run-ins I mean: I, the invisible Mia Thermopolis, Anne Hathaway, Audrey Hepburn circa Sabrina, 1954, caught the eye of the trainers.  I only mention this because they were who I was scared of.  The ones who were supposed to know what they're doing.  I needed to stay away from them, just in case I messed up.

We don't mess up publicly around here.  No sir.

We mess up privately and then correct ourselves, so when we debut in public no one ever knows.  No one ever knows.

(Yeah.  Um.  Except for the unwed pregnancy bit.  But we won't talk about that.)

But they saw me.  Over the course of the year there were more than a few, actually.  Saw me, approached me, praised me.  It made me proud to know they thought I worked hard.  And that out of all the people they might notice, I was one of them.

There was one day, a few weeks ago, when Larry and Emily came and watched Judah for one Sunday afternoon while I hit the gym.  And I hit it hard.  When I got there I realized the place was almost empty.  An athlete's mecca, if you will.  I thrive in the emptiness because (see above) I don't have to hide.

And there was the sled.  Already loaded with about 100 lbs.  Already tied to a battle rope.

Just asking to be pulled.

That was the day I knew I had transformed.

Feet braced, hand over hand, pulling that sled across the gym floor.  Engaging muscles to pull faster.  Tossing rope length to the side.

Then April come along, and I quit my job.

It was a necessary move, I believe, but that one letter of resignation has sent our little world into true upheaval.

There's much more to tell, much more serious aspects of this change.  But the one, which is bothering me most tonight is I had to quit the gym.

The new job is out of county and so mine and Judah's day increased by upwards of two or three hours each work day.  My gas bill doubled.  And this will all barely be absorbed by the pay increase.  I am away from Judah 10 hours every day and when I say that out loud it makes my stomach hurt.

There is no time for the gym.

And even if there was "time", I still wouldn't pick Judah up after a ten hour work day and stick him in a daycare with girls who in the past have let him cry for 45 minutes straight.  No sir.

So I've been problem solving.

Seriously.  This is causing me anxiety and the way I deal with anxiety is by going to the gym and now I can't go to the gym and... phew.  The cycle is exhausting.

My first thought is: I've lost my means of self care.  My second thought is: I don't want to get fat again. And my third thought is: WHY DID I QUIT MY JOB.

Good news is I know how outlandish all three statements are.  I also know how much power I have over all three concepts.  And here, I will document my journey to finding the solutions.

Initially, here are my thoughts.

1. Self care is self care and if your means of achieving it don't adapt to a lifestyle change, it's probably not as effective as I think.  My self care is my alone time when I accomplish something.  When I move shit.  A gym membership owns no rights to that concept.  Also, I'm creative.  So over the past few weeks, as the budget has allowed, I have accrued some at-home work out tools.  Including resistance bands, jump rope, slam balls, and ab rollers.  I need to acquire some heavier weights -- which means I should probably be perusing some yard sales.  But for now, burpees it is.

2. I have been fat.  I have.  I look back on pictures now and I almost don't want them to exist, because I am not that person anymore.  Just this Friday night, after an evening of celebrating birthdays and graduations, I walked up on an old friend I hadn't seen in six months or so.  And she said, "it's so good to see you.  You are so SKINNY!"  The face I made was probably atrocious.   Because, I am not fat.  But I am NOT skinny.  But that was her perception of me.  Who I am now is not the same as who I was before.  Also, this fear completely denounces the power behind diet and the foods we choose.  Diet (as in, lifestyle of eating) has always been my weakness.  Now, when my strength cannot be as conveniently utilized, it's time to clean up my kitchen.  To make the harder choices so that the little bit of exercise I accomplish will be effective.

3. I still don't know the answer to this one.

So, if there are any of you who have thought to yourself "I need to work out", or "I should get to the gym" or even said to me, "I wish I had your motivation"... take a deep breath.  You don't need to do anything.  I would recommend it.  And as I embark on this journey of staying fit at home, maybe we will find some motivation together.

Once I started training my posture changed, my skin changed, my body composition changed, my sleeping changed.  Overall, the way I viewed myself changed.  Like a year long transformation scene.

I'm still choosing my theme music.  

In conclusion.  I had a wild hair the other day and started researching the simplest way to get certified as a personal trainer.  I have some pipe dreams I'm entertaining.

Question is: would you let me train you?

six months ago

November 13, 2013
There are so very few witnesses. 

So very few who see, understand.  Who know without me saying.

I am trying, but my thoughts are spinning and I know if I don’t flesh them out, they will just lose momentum.  And come crashing down.

We have to choose, the movie told us, to live each day like we were getting a second chance.  Like we were given the opportunity to do it all over again. 

We thought it was going to be a sappy, Christmas-time chick flick.  And it ended up being a movie about family.  About second chances and the consequences of our choices.  The things we value too much to ever change.  The time we so often take for granted.

So I woke up this morning and deliberately chose.  I asked for help telling a better story.  To do better.  And I just don’t know if it was the asking or the choosing, but today has been better.

I’ve spent a lot of time lately ignoring some anger.  Or, rather, pretending I’m angry instead of sad.  Because there’s this big, gaping hole.  Hollowed out, not so smoothly.  And I really only notice it at night and when the wind blows and it hurts… not at all unlike the gap from a lost tooth.  Or the place where your coat folds away from your neck. 

Light would catch this abyss and be lost in it, drawing my attention.  But you can’t think on something too long, too hard, without beckoning it; and so I would just shake it off.  Blink.  Keep going.  To beckon it, would be to beckon the sadness.

And not just the sadness.  The embarrassment.

Do you know what I mean?  Heartbreak doesn’t just make you sad.  It doesn’t just make you angry.  It embarrasses you.  Me.  Because heartbreak means someone cared less than you did.  Once again, maybe for the hundredth time, you invested yourself poorly.  You loved and they found you unlovable. 

This should be a testament to them—those who don’t reciprocate.  But it never is.  It’s a reflection of you.  Me.  And all that is not worthy and all that was wasted and all that still hurts.

But just like everything else, it’s not the only thing that hurts.  It’s just what people ask about. 

And I’m choosing to forgive and slowly, daily, the hollow place is shrinking.  We are learning to do it this way.

But what I want, despite hollow places and heart break and embarrassment and achy loneliness, is to live a good story.  To create magic and moments and build a family regardless of our demographic.  Despite our missing pieces. 

I miss being part of solutions.  I miss big hugs and teaching boys how to shake hands and I miss fractions and sight words.  I miss feeling bold and brave and being the one who loves those embarrassed and unloved.

I didn’t stop loving. 

But I am still searching. 

Trying to find coveted balance.  Trying to grow myself.

I am a builder and I feel like I ran out of bricks.

And all I want is to build a life where Judah knows how to love others and never questions that he too is loved.  I want to be patient and creative and considerate and to use the pain from these hollow spaces to propel us forward into bigger, better things.

But some days, I just sit.  I don’t know what else to do.

I don't want to depend on anyone else.  On charity or child support or hand outs or favors.  I've worked too hard and too long and built our way out of rented rooms and food service jobs to this, where we are now.  

But today... on the days I sit, thinking about how unless someone thought to ask, all of this goes unwitnessed...

I just pray for a witness. 

Wherever he is.  Whatever he's doing. 

May 12, 2014

Sometimes words are meant for later.  They're built and constructed for a later time and are meant to sit and wait.  Age and ripen.  Until we (I am) are ready.

Until I am ready to say them, own them.  Until I am ready to make them real, in the open space breathing on their own.

So some night, when I sit down in desperate need, the words are already there.

I have not been able to expel them, because they're sitting, waiting patiently to be retrieved.

They've been whispered, only to be owned.

And I sit at my kitchen table, in the dark with the baby in bed and the fan whirring and the hollow sound of a slightly deflated basketball hitting the pavement outside my door, and find what I needed to say has already been said.

And I take a deep breath, ready to share.  You're ready to hear it now, the words from six months ago.

I feel some sadness.  The words from six months ago, ringing painfully true tonight.

There's little, if anything to add.  Except that the sadness is tinged with delight at knowing the life, which exists in the words I've been given.

Only something truly alive could wait so patiently.

I wrote this morning: I feel as though I am staring at a pile of bricks.  Not broken or destructed, just a pile.  And how I build from this point forward will make all the difference.

So.  It's time to build again.

I am a builder.

And all I want is to build a life where Judah knows how to love others and never questions that he too is loved.  I want to be patient and creative and considerate and to use the pain from these hollow spaces to propel us forward into bigger, better things.

last day of February

The harsh reality set in this morning that all while people are encouraging me to not give up hope, or give up all together, there's not a lot right now within my control.

I tell people constantly, pseudo-professionally and personally, to control what they can control.  There are so many variables and often we get so hung up on the ones we have no power over.  Namely, other people. 

I tell my foster parents to pick their battles.  To watch their proximity and to reward good behavior.  To them, this feels like relinquishing power.  To me, it means creating peace and restoring control.  I tell them not to raise their voice just because a child does.  This concept is lost on them.  I tell them to watch how they express feelings, to watch for triggers, and to pick the non-negotiables.  Operate from there.  A good, solid, healthy baseline.  They don't listen. 

This is why I go to the gym.  Because I can control my body.  There are parts of my body I cannot control -- like the curvature of my spine, stretch marks, the one leg and arm longer than the other.   But the gym, and the work I put in there, helps me overcome.  I should be controlling what is in my refrigerator, because I can control that too.  But I feel less triumphant after a healthy meal than I do after an hour long workout, so if I'm going only going to pick one battle to fight... I always pick the one that makes me sweat.

Yesterday, I was treated pretty poorly at my gym.  Nothing so bad I would talk to management about.  But enough to make me skip my morning session today out of disdain and/or embarrassment.  I was disregarded and misinterpreted and scoffed at; so many uncontrollable variables all at once my safe place suddenly became a place where I lacked any control again.  I left with my tail tucked between my legs.

Last night I was told, for probably the hundredth time: I was great, but it just wasn't going to work out.  

I was so proud of myself for the casual way I responded and the coolness with which I ended the conversation.  I tricked myself into thinking this week that a lack of attachment will help with all this emotional turmoil.  But man.  Is that against my nature.  So this morning, the tears came.

Not because of him -- the variable and his rejection.  It was a silly conversation and a try-again attempt, which we were both right in believing would have probably wasted our time.

Before this emotionally tumultuous week, in which I cancelled interviews and had corporate arguments and quit grad school, I had a few more difficult conversations with uncaring, unimportant people.  Which went a little something like...

"Anna, you are not.... fill in the blank."

Enough, basically.

Then I tumbled into this emotional train wreck of a week, and I started blocking phone numbers. 

Left and right.  All for good reason, all personally validated, all justified and very much warranted.  I began to use the hard and fast rule Larry always taught us: if I cannot benefit you and you are not benefitting me, there's no need for a relationship.

And I had a hey day.  Cleaned the proverbial house.  And was free from stupid boys for all of a week before the latest one flipped the switch on me.  He doesn't need his number blocked.  But I didn't allow for any lack of clarity.

But it took all the way until this morning.  When I was actively avoiding the gym because of a variable.  To realize how much energy I was spending worrying about those uncontrollable variables.  And not taking my own advice.

I am still sad.  Don't get me wrong.  I walked down the stairs this morning and saw signs of comfort, of family, of belonging sitting huge and glaringly obvious at the foot of my stairs.  Gut wrenching.  The lack of safety of the most craved space. 

 

People tell me to choose better.  I've been on this soapbox for years now.  I don't do the choosing.  I know how to choose well.  I can pick a good man, a good woman, a good human out of a crowd.  It's my gift.  I'm sensitive to goodness.  But as I sat back today and thought back, I realized I have not been actively pursued by a good human being since before I was 20 years old. 

 

I have picked a half dozen fine, good, handsome men of character.  Who all ended up with fine, good, beautiful woman of integrity.  But in seven years almost there's not been one worth trusting.

 

I cannot control that variable.  If I could, I would have a long time ago.  I would have constructed the right man out of thin air and we would not be here right now, dammit.  But here we are.  And I'm not so sure anymore he exists at all. 

 

The integrity is in the details, you see.  You see the big picture.  Judah and I need a good man.  With a job.  Who loves Jesus.  Maybe you're insightful enough to know we need a man who isn't racist.  But most of you aren't. 

I see the minute details of every day and I know the man who fits here, if he exists, will be one of a kind. 

 

But I can't control that.  He may not know who he is any more than I do.

 

He, or the lack of him, is my uncontrollable variable. 

All this to say... I have a new mantra.  I am not sure how it will manifest in the day to day.  But it sounds something like, I am not responsible for them.  I am not responsible for the trainer's arrogance, or his moodiness, or how he interpreted what I had to say.  I am not responsible for another man's insensitivity.  I am not responsible for another man's lack of motivation or the decisions they choose to make.

All I am responsible for is me.  And Judah.  And how we carry ourselves, conduct ourselves, respond to others, reach out to others.  I am responsible for what we choose to ignore.  What I choose to address and how.  My proximity to the chaos.  But only sometimes the chaos itself. 

This goes right along with a thousand other mantras, which get me through my day.  Including "they don't care about you", which is in fact one of the most comforting one-liners to get a social anxious creature like myself through the day.  

And so I went home on lunch and packed a gym bag.  I'll go back to the gym tonight and I will nod and smile like I always do.  I will reclaim my safe spot.  My last courageous act of February.      

Improving

Currently I'm living in this weird state of mind, where I am never fully present anywhere.  I just realized this, because I haven't been fully present enough to assess the situation and give this strange mood a name.

But that's it.  I am disengaged. 

Which was not part of the plan.  At all. 

And by "just realized this" I mean I recognized it at the beginning of the year when I reviewed the past year.  So I've been mulling over this idea for a while, but it's February 10th and it's time to fix it.

When I watch a suspenseful movie, the storyteller (and movie goer and human) in me knows when it's about to get scary.  The music changes, so does the camera angle.  A character does something stupid, goes somewhere alone, meets someone dangerous.  You know what I do then?  I squint my eyes.  I let my vision go blurry because things are less scary if you don't really acknowledge them.  Because a lot of us aren't afraid of what we can't see.  And if a monster is going to jump out of my peripheral, at least I've eliminated one of my senses.

This is not good practice, guys.

About six weeks ago I realized I was doing this in real life.

Mine and Judah's life is kind of scary.  We teeter precariously on edges I wish we could distance ourselves from.  We scrape bottoms of barrels and stretch to make ends meet and we fight monsters on a daily basis.  A lot of monsters who pretend not to be monsters.

So I was walking around with squinted eyes.  I let my vision go blurry so that the chaos was a mess of colors and sounds but I was not overstimulated.

But then you miss it.  You risk missing it all.  Being blindsided by time and life and growth and all the dangerous things that sneak up silently.

I was trying to be a mommy, a social worker, a homemaker, a daddy, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a graduate student, an athlete and someone's (I don't know who?) girlfriend all at the same time. 

I'm imagining life right now like an old school game of Mario Brothers we used to play at Granddad's house.  Where Mario or Luigi would navigate a haunted mansion or castle and be bombarded by bombs and rolling stones and explosive fires and collapsing bridges.  That has been our life. 

I was (am) trying to be good at all of it.  But at the end of the day I kept looking at that grad school course load and dipping into my well for whatever was left... and coming up dry.

Which would result in starting out the next day with less than I needed to do well at anything else.  Which cut into story time and meant the dishes were piled up and in my attempt to ignore all things scary... none of it was getting done.  In an attempt to do it all well, I was mediocre at everything.

It took the clogged bathtub drain to help me realize.

Judah and I moved into the house in September and the bathtub upstairs already drained slowly.  Fast forward to February and it just hardly drained at all until the water stopped running, so I hated showering, hated cleaning the tub.  But the drain is not like any I'm used to, so I wasn't really sure how to clean it or unclog it.  So I just dealt with the clogged tub.  And spent additional time cleaning it after the bath water drained out.  And spent additional time being grossed out.  But no additional time resolving the issue.

Until last week.  When I sent Larry upstairs to check on a sink handle and asked him to take a look at the drain in the tub.  How could I unclog this drain, I asked for the first time, out loud. 

Drano. 

Simplest answer.  Logical answer.  Really, an answer I already knew and had explored but hadn't implemented.

Not too long after, I drew the parallel.  I always, eventually, draw the parallel.  Of simple solutions and asking the right questions and using energy wisely.

It's time to fix some things.  Namely, my expectations for myself.

And I start by opening my eyes.  Clearing my vision and allowing my senses to open up.

Because regardless of what I've led myself to believe, the most scary of all monsters are the monsters who have no name.  Who sneak up from behind, who you did not anticipate.  I have been doing myself a disservice and made us very vulnerable.

I feel like a failure, most days.  Maybe I want to justify all the ways I am shitty by saying I do a lot.  Maybe my mediocrity has been justified by the load I carry.  Maybe I've expected too much of myself and believed the lies.

But I didn't do that on purpose.  And I don't want to do it anymore. 

You know what I want to do?  Right now, in this season, for this leg of the journey?

I want to play with blocks with Judah.  And make homemade play dough.  I want to do well at my job while I'm here.  I want to read books I enjoy and I want to write more.  I want to help others again, in some form or fashion.  I want to keep washing my dishes.  I want to cook and I want to share my food and I want to double my back squat.

I turned twenty six in less than three months.  I've set a new goal for myself, because I finally addressed another clogged drain I had chosen to ignore.  Another issue of mediocrity, held together by fear.  Fear of failure, but also a fear of succeeding.  Hiding behind old facades and leaning on old crutches.  I don't want to do that anymore either. 

I want to challenge myself.  Not burden myself. 

And if I am only a few things to a few people, rather than a lot of things to a lot of people, I want to be excellent.  I want to be proud again. 

So, then, it's not quitting after all. 

It's improving.

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.