The Compounding of Grief

I went to a funeral this morning. 

While this was a shocking, awful death that affected someone I love, it was not someone I knew well but had only met a few times. For me, the funeral itself was not a time of true grieving but of simply being there for a friend whose life has been flipped upside down. 

But I sat there, and the images came flying through my mind, more and more rapid. Donnie’s funeral in 2004. The last funeral I went to at our church, last fall, for the dear woman who kept Hannah in the nursery. Jeffrey's funeral, that of a fallen soldier. Watching Mike's funeral via my computer, sobbing, haunted for weeks and months over his suicide. And always, always, Stephanie’s, the immense pressing sick feelings of that day just weeks before my high school graduation. 

You don’t know my names, my lost loved ones, but you know yours. 

As I grow older the list grows longer. I’ve gone to more funerals that I can count on both hands now, and I know they just come faster as I age. Maybe it’s my off-the-charts Meyers-Briggs “F” for feeling that rushes up every memory associated with death each time I sit in a pew grasping tissues. Maybe it’s just human. 

Grief is an odd acquaintance. It never goes completely away. It changes form and place, morphing into a nag at the back of the head that sometimes you forget is even there. And then, a trigger. And it’s there in your face, haunting you, once again. I don’t know what I’m trying to say except that today, I am grieving. For people gone one and six and ten and fourteen and eighteen years ago, and more. So if you’re grieving today, over a person or a loss or a dead dream, I want you to know I’m walking along with you. 

Grief is normal, and OK, and good. 

“We may thank God that we can feel pain and know sadness, for these are the human sentiments that constitute our glory as well as our grief.” -Eugene Kennedy, The Pain of Being Human

Our Island

 

The people behind me in the line at the grocery store have been coming to Tybee Island for 14 years.

“We informed our children we’re spending their inheritance buying a house here,” the man told me, a smile in his eyes. I understand completely. I’ve all but begged my own parents to spend my inheritance buying a house here.

It’s a magic place, one that now holds five summers’ of memories for us. When my husband and I first chose Tybee for our tenth anniversary getaway, we didn’t know how it would capture our hearts. From the simple, cement-floored ice-cream shop where we first ate a burger, to the pastel-colored cottages that line the narrow roads, to the always packed IGA grocery with aisles too small for two carts to fit through, Tybee’s charm is in the small things.

I’m sitting on a wraparound porch, looking at palm trees, and somehow the island breeze and sound of cicadas enchants me. My feet are bare and still slightly sandy, even after a shower. Bikes pedal down the roads, sometimes with children attached in trailers behind. If there are college kids and parties going on, I never hear them.

I rode the waves on a boogie board with my 9-year-old daughter today, and collectively we decided we didn’t need screens for a happy summer. All we need is family, the ocean, sand in our toes, good books, and fresh seafood.

It’s year five of our trip here. We almost didn’t come this year, as we’re taking another trip later in the summer to the East Coast. But no one could imagine a year without Tybee.

Dear 2011

source: juliejordanscott

Dear 2011,

You have been a strange year.

You've been the year of learning to parent two. Despite the fact that sweet David was born in 2010, he only shared 11 days with that equally awkward collection of days. I've learned about parenting a boy, about the mother-son connection, about passionate nurslings and mama's boys. All those things I heard about having a son? They've proven themselves true.

I've also learned how to survive with only a fistful of whole night's sleeps in an entire year.

2011, you have not been a year of travel. In the past I've gone to Brazil, Thailand, Mexico, Montana. The furthest I flew from Tennessee was Boston. My first venture into New England, and a very fun one.

You contained a lot of heartbreak over our little condo, my first "owned" nest, the home I brought my daughter to and that I still can't ponder without a slipping-down feeling. God has worked in my life and mind and heart a great deal through this experience, but I can tell you one thing, 2011: this experience gave me a pounding about our idea of ownership. And a lot of lesson about pride in our credit score.

You brought a new home, a new life, a new society. Thank you for that. But you also brought some severe bouts of depression and the worst self-doubt I've ever faced. I'm not sure I can handle ten more months of age 3, by the way. Could we move Libbie's birthday to May, perhaps?

Unfortunately I've spent this last day of your melancholy year battling a 3-year-old whilst trying to remember that it's no good to battle. Nights of lost sleep, post-vacation recovery, and a house that is still sparkling with Christmas lights and mess while my mind is ready to move on has made a mess of me.  It's 7:30 p.m. and I'm considering going all Bridget Jones' Diary and eating all the chocolate and singing something pathetic ... or just going to sleep. Probably the better option.

Good night, 2011. I tuck my hopes and dreams into your final moon, imagining it as the shield of God and knowing only He can fight these battles for me. The battles against myself, my will, my dark places.

As I watch the sun rise over the Tennessee River and Lookout Mountain tomorrow morning, I will breathe deeply and pray thankfully.


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Love Loss Hope Repeat.

source: Craighton Miller

I’ve never lost a son, but I know two women who have. Both dear, both young, both undeserving of that kind of pain.

In One Thousand Gifts, Ann Voskamp writes that perhaps those tears in the canvas of our life ― the places where we are raw and hurt and wonder Why God? ― are the places where we can see Him most clearly. If we choose. I think those are also the places we can try to patch up with tar and feathers, using scathing words against the One who allowed those rips in the first place.

I think of another mother, a very young one, who wondered why she was going to have a son. I have been there, although unlike Mary, I was not a teenager nor unmarried. But I’ve flipped those flashcards around in my head, too: Why me? What am I going to do with a son? Am I ready for this? Will I ruin him? Scar him for life?

Those perhaps not rips but puckers, places where we’ve doubted the goodness, the grace, the all-knowingness of a Heavenly Father.

We have a second son, a Compassion child, who lives in the scattered islands of the Philippines. Does his mother wonder, too? Why so many? Why so little to work on? Is she embarrassed to have to reach out to help support her children?

All different tears in varying stages. I’m sure at one time or another, we’ve all asked the same questions in different wording, different languages.

Do we see God in the pain? I imagine my heart with tiny pin-pricks straight through, some larger than others … and a flashlight shining from behind, revealing stars. There’s something about stars, isn’t there? Hope. Vastness. Waves of feeling the universe.

I want to swim in the pools of light instead of hiding in the shadows. Finding myself closer to the Comforter, the Giver, whether I feel He is those things at that moment or not. 

Because He is in there, somewhere.

At Christmas, I miss those two unknown men who were lost, my uncle and brother-in-law. I reflect on the hurt of their mothers. And I pray extra-hard that God will seep through the holes and continue to heal, twenty or forty years later, with the promise of glory-to-come.

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Cloudy October

source: S John Davey

I'm not sure I'll ever become accustomed to
being so close to the clouds.

I drive through them, can reach up and touch them if
I just stretch my fingers far enough.

More than ten years ago,
I saw the black like ink on the ground, moving,
and I thought it was some kind of plague.
I had never been close enough to the clouds
to see their shadows, shifting on the wheat-grass.
Montana was so wide,
the amber fields of grain.
(But not purple mountains majesty, she said. Those were back in the Virginia homeland.)

The clouds have been so thick, so dense
I've rarely seen the moon for weeks.
I miss its guidance but know when it does show itself,
my heart will sing.

We're still scraping our ways out of the shadow,
waiting for the sky to clear,
poring over Scripture and longing
for the still, small voice.

When we can see over the cloud cover and straight to the eye of the moon.

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Rainy September

It's another day where I feel like I've failed in everything.

Clothes don't fit,
but I eat macaroni and cheese.
Try to stay calm,
but I still snap snap snap. Pull glasses back, point angrily, try to get the lightbulb turned on above her head.
Grump at other cars,
write Better Business Bureau reports in my head
instead of offering forgiveness
and remembering it's a first world problem.

In the solitary night,
I cling to what I try to imprint
on my babies' brains.

Today Libbie said to me, "God loves me when I obey Mommy and Daddy."

"NO." I am scared of this lesson, this untruth. "God ALWAYS loves you. He LIKES it when you obey. But that doesn't change His love."

Does she get it? Do I?

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On Writing, and Fear

source: joeflood

I want to write, but I am crippled.

I am afraid I don’t have a story. All I have wanted all my life is to write a book, and I don’t know if there is one inside of me.

I read what I have written and I hate it. It’s too much truth … too many people who could claim libel for finding themselves in my so-called tale.

I’m afraid that in so many years of blogging I’ve lost the ability to talk about anything but myself.

I write magazine articles: recrafted stories of others, dictated to me and simply made palatable. I write blog posts: a messy conglomeration of stories, recipes, wonderings, life.  Some of them are good and interesting, but nowhere in there lies a true tale anyone would want to read from start to finish.

I want to write Matlida. I want the stories to come to me in dreams and flow onto the pages effortlessly. I want to see the movie of it in my head and move it forward without thinking. Instead, I stare at two sentences and then click delete. It’s all I can do to make myself write anything, fiction or not. An e-mail. A sentence.

And then I wonder if I have the knowledge to write nonfiction. I want to write about our possessive culture, how we think we have rights and everything belongs to us and even Rachael Ray calls it “my cilantro” and “my tacos.” I want to write about God as Father and Jesus as Husband and how those two relationships figure in to the literal relationships we have with earthly fathers and husbands. I want people to read my words and not be able to help being drawn to the bosom of God.

I want the words to come and I’m afraid I’ve lost them in the midst of “Mommy I’m hungry” and wailing and library storytimes and coffee making and having one stinking minute to myself.


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Appearance of Love

I wield my vacuum as a weapon, valiantly sucking away the crumbs and hair and dust that tells of our everyday existence. Creating a story that is not my own, one where I am tidy and my children are constantly bathed and my stove does not have dirty pots on it. All for the sake of someone I know doesn't truly care.

I still feel the urge. The need to hide what's there, what is true. The knowledge of what I need to fix in myself. The disgust with my body, my home, the ants dancing across the bathroom floor.

Do I do the same thing here, in my home on the Web? Show only what I think others can stomach; make myself look better, holier, thinner than I am?

I revel in the sacred moments but fail to reveal that they are too rare. I've not shared with many my Lenten sacrifices, because I would be forced to admit I have fully kept to neither.

I tell of my battle with depression, but not about the day where I couldn't stop crying and screamed at my babies and had to have a friend take them somewhere else.

I don't ever want to be too proud to be true. In love, I show you who I am. Run quickly, or stay around and have a cup of coffee and confess that you, too, screw up. I'll love you either way.

_______

I want to turn Romans 12 into a painting, something I can see in my house every day:

⁹ Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good. ¹⁰ Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves. ¹¹ Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord. ¹² Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. ¹³ Share with the Lord’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality.
 ¹⁴ Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse. ¹⁵ Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn. ¹⁶ Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited.
 ¹⁷ Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone. ¹⁸ If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. ¹⁹ Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God’s wrath, for it is written: “It is mine to avenge; I will repay,”  says the Lord. ²⁰ On the contrary:
   “If your enemy is hungry, feed him;
   if he is thirsty, give him something to drink.
In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head.”
 ²¹ Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good (NIV).

Here is some of Matthew Henry's commentary on verses 9-16:

"True Christian love will make us take part in the sorrows and joys of each other. Labour as much as you can to agree in the same spiritual truths; and when you come short of that, yet agree in affection. Look upon worldly pomp and dignity with holy contempt. Do not mind it; be not in love with it. Be reconciled to the place God in his providence puts you in, whatever it be. Nothing is below us, but sin. We shall never find in our hearts to condescend to others, while we indulge conceit of ourselves; therefore that must be mortified."

True Love. Reconciled.

I seem to recall a fitting picture of those words.

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Working for the Lord

I am standing in my kitchen wondering what I would make Jesus for dinner.

It's Sunday afternoon, and I don't particularly want to be in the kitchen for hours, as I have been. But prepping several meals at a time saves time during the week ... time I need when my kids are having meltdowns at 4 p.m.

I am starting to get bitter, especially when I ask my husband to watch the baby and he says he doesn't really want to, but he will. I can see the sparks coming out of my ears. I brace myself against the counter and think my own personal mantra:

Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men (Col. 3:23).

And my mind wanders, considering doing this very task for Jesus. I certainly wouldn't make Him Chicken and Dressing casserole, which is what I'm currently composing at the counter. I did make the cream of chicken soup from scratch, but boxed cornbread stuffing? Not for my Lord.

I know many cooks have a specialty, but I don't. I often try new recipes on guests, because I'm a little crazy. Baked Ziti is something we often take to friends who need a meal, but I'm not sure Jesus would appreciate the pork products.

Finally, I decide I would make him what my earthly father always asks my mother for: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy.

I don't really know how to make fried chicken; but for Jesus, I would learn.

I'm not sure this is what Paul meant in Colossians.

Sharing this post on Feels Like Home as my Sunday Best!
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Finding Thanks in Bugs

It plagues me regularly: the feeling that our home is not enough.

It's certainly large enough for us. Four bedrooms with our current set-up. Adequate living room, two bathrooms, one even graced with a jacuzzi bathtub. OK, so the jacuzzis don't work, but it IS big.

Right now the bathroom is being invaded by ants, our stove is approximately 80 years old and the burners are uneven, our bedroom carpet is hideous, and there is no door between Libbie and David's rooms so I am not sure how I will ever move him in there. Teddy-bear border is scraped off Libbie's walls; it appears to have been stuck back on with hot glue when it was falling down. Her walls await green paint which has yet to have been procured in the appropriate color.

Not to mention this is not even the house that we own.

I saw my parents' new house for the first time Saturday evening. I immediately got the tingly jealous feelings. Gorgeous kitchen. Amazing floorplan. Beautiful tiled shower. Space. Lack of insects. Not 61 years old.

Right away, I do a double-check of feelings. Because? My parents have been married 32 years and are in their (EARLY and do not act it at all) 50s.

One of my biggest annoyances is that people my age and younger think they "deserve" everything RIGHT NOW that their parents have spent many years working toward. When my parents were my age (also with two small children), they lived in the same sort of older ranch house that we do now. They had the same financial struggles.

It's a constant cloak, the want for what I don't have. How do I shrug it off? Joy and thankfulness for the much I have. Clinging to the robe that I have in Christ.



Today, I am thankful for:

- the sweet curl-framed face of a toddler whose enthusiasm for life makes me crave a childlike faith
- the first laughs of my baby boy
- a home that is more than adequate for our needs and wants
- a stove that simmers soups and an oven that bakes fresh bread
- a safe and uneventful car trip from Chattanooga to Pennsylvania
- parents who adore me and my children and play on the floor and shower all of us with affection
- singing songs from 1998 in the car with my sister and trying to teach them to Libbie
- sweet sleep with an electric blanket

What are you thankful for today?

Join us for Gratituesday at Heavenly Homemakers!





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Haunted Places of the Mind

(source)

It's a sign of my ongoing struggle with body image that I can still see the magazine layout in my head.

A pair of teenage girls roller-bladed in bathing suits in some now-defunct young teen magazine (because I was way too young for my mother to let me read Seventeen). (I think it was, in fact, Teen magazine.)

I couldn't have been much older than 7th grade. I stared at that page mercilessly, willing myself to be small enough to wear a two-piece bathing suit. When I did get skinny, I would buy the exact one on the right of the spread: still modest, a coral-colored two piece with a unique, off-the-shoulder top. I'm not sure what deluded me to think if I were thinner I would suddenly have the body of a 17-year-old, but I was sure I would look just like the girl in that spread.

I've never worn a two-piece. Not even as a child, that I can remember. 

The reason I remember that issue of the magazine so vividly is because it laid out a diet. One that WORKED! Of course! I carried the issue around, dog-eared, for weeks or even months. Trying, trying. Coral in mind.

I didn't drop weight, not even with all the tuna and frozen peas and white-meat chicken.

Somewhere around eighth grade, I hit a growth spurt and thinned out a little. Not two-piece thin. But that magazine was during the lowest point, the hidden years, the year I was bullied and it makes me want to throw up to even think about. Until I had someone call after me the slogan of a popular weight-loss commercial, every day, for an entire school year, I'm not sure I even realized I was truly overweight.

I'm fairly certain not a day's gone by since seventh grade when I thought of my body in a positive manner.

To remember my solidary focus on one coral-clad model makes me sick. But I still want that now grossly out-of-date bathing suit.

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Getting to Friday is a Finer Thing

Does it ever feel like just getting to Friday is a finer thing?

We started this week with a (literal) bang. Massive storms took out tons of trees all over Chattanooga. The 15-minute torrential downpour scared the beejeebies out of Libbie and stole our power away for 24 hours. While I enjoyed the excuse to go visit friends, it's amazing how "off-track" one can feel just living without cooking, a dishwasher, or laundry for a day!

Tuesday morning Libbie and I took David to the doctor for his 2-month check-up. Our chunky boy is 12 pounds, 11 ounces at 10 weeks. Before the appointment I had taken them to Dunkin Donuts because we had no power and it was chilly in our house. Well, the donut man didn't have any power either. They had no donuts and no bagels. But they did have coffee, glory hallelujah. And biscuits.

 gratuitous adorable baby picture

So we went to the doctor with Libbie carrying her biscuit in a Dunkin Donuts bag. It made me feel like a really bad mom. I promise, she doesn't eat donuts all the time. (My precious nurse there, Peaches, said girl needs to eat and let her eat whatever she will. I love that lady.)

I feel like today was spent in a battle of wills with two children and found me in a puddle of tears about 4 p.m.

There is more to that story, of course ... but for now, let's just say it feels like it's been a very long week.

And it's hard not to stay up late when that is the only time I have to myself, ever. So here it is 10:47 p.m., and I know I should have been asleep an hour ago. I'm thinking half of today's mental breakdown was brought on by the fact that I got very little sleep last night. So what am I doing awake?

Good night, friends. Fridays are a finer thing indeed. We're looking forward to a fun weekend with the in-laws and some beautiful weather.


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Another Adventure

 David is 10 weeks old today.

I have two Monday babies, and the day Libbie turned 10 weeks old was my first day back at work after her birth.

I claim to love the baby time more than the toddler time (and I know that is swapped for a lot of people). But I also know I didn't experience all the baby time with Libbie. I didn't wrestle her to nap, change all of her diapers, or fish the pacifier off the floor 8,000 times a day (only 3,000 times).

Of course everything is already different, because I have a baby and a toddler. I will never know what it would have been like to be at home with just one little baby during her formative months. (I really am not bitter, just truthful, right?) But that is past. And now I feel like today marks the beginning of a new adventure for me: staying at home with an infant.

I'm excited to see all of his developments and firsts myself. I'm less excited to change every diaper, especially the blowouts. I'm excited to not spend two hours a day strapped to my breastpump. I'm less excited to have to schedule life around the naps and feedings of two children.

I wouldn't give up staying at home for anything; yet, I still miss my job. I miss getting dressed and brushing my teeth every morning, seeing my co-workers every day, and being involved in some amazing Bible study projects. I was good at my job. A lot of days I feel that I've already failed abysmally in this new profession.

I sit here, blogging, with my baby boy snuggled against my chest and realize this is not something I got to do with Libbie. Our hours between work and bedtime were slim. (Plus David is just more of a cuddlebug.) I love it.

The stories of their infancies will be different. But both sweet and good, I surmise. Both tough, both filled with charmed moments.

As always, I'm willing to ride it out and see what God does with it. And I'm excited.
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A Good Measure

I couldn't tell you the names of the children who live next door, but my neighbors Ann and Bill have become the local grandparents my babies don't have. They are an integral part of my life.

When Libbie and I first moved here, they brought us a plant and banana bread. People just don't DO that anymore. In their early 70s, Ann and Bill are retired but certainly not sedentary. Last Spring, Bill and I planted a garden together, but he did most of the work!

We spent many warm mornings on their back porch as they shared their morning pot of coffee with me, fed Libbie the Teddy Grahams and fruit snacks they stock just for her, and let Libbie play with a bag of old Happy Meal toys that belonged to their granddaughters.

Bill has infinite patience for Libbie despite the fact that he won't touch the baby (too fragile, he says). He will let her sit in his truck and change every single thing he has adjusted as she buckles and unbuckles a seatbelt 13,000 times.

Ann and Bill have lived in the same house for 40+ years--and so have many of the neighbors on their street. (Our backyards are catty-cornered from one another; they live on a much less busy street in more of a "neighborhood.") Two doors down lived a lady named Martha.

Martha had no family to speak of, so Ann and Bill adopted her into theirs (much as they have done with us). In May, Martha slipped and fell at the Food Lion and broke her hip.

Since then, she's been in and out of the hospital to the nursing home to the rehab center. At 80 she's no spring chicken and could not seem to recover from the hip break and bouts with pneumonia. Ann and Bill have done everything you could possibly think of: taken over her finances, including being landlords to the other occupant of the duplex Martha owned; done all her laundry; fed her cat and then found the cat a new home; cleaned and modified the house so Martha could come home just to find there was no way she could. They have tirelessly attended to her every need, visited her nearly every day--despite the fact that from what I understand she was slightly, er, curmudgeonly.

{The day they did try to bring her home from the nursing home, she only pointed out one thing in the house Ann and Bill had gone to great lengths to clean and prepare: the tear strip on the box of Tide was not torn off correctly.}

Martha died Sunday morning after one final battle with pneumonia. It was her choice to be sedated and drift to sleep rather than have them put her on a ventilator.

Only then did Bill and Ann find out Martha had left them her house in her will.

I am tickled pink that my friends have received such an unexpected blessing when they have given tirelessly out of the goodness of their humongous hearts.

Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. Luke 6:38

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Where's the Line?

I have never claimed to be anything less than an all-or-nothing person. I seem incapable to rest halfway. If I am good at something, love something, I cling to it. If I am bad, I tend to let it go. Like cleaning my house, for instance.

I feel myself tightly wound lately. Now that the baby is seven weeks old, I feel more like my old self physically and emotionally. (As much as I would like to look like Selma Hayek and feel like Julie Andrews singing "The Hills are Alive," my old self will have to do.) When I got pregnant with David I felt like I was just starting to learn how to do this stay-at-home mom thing. I made the beds! I made whole wheat bread!

I want to do it all. I just want to wash the sheets, darn it. I don't want to serve peanut butter and jelly for every meal. I want to do my Bible study, exercise, have the house clean, do all the laundry, go to playdates, clean off the top of my dresser, write thank-you notes, and not have frequent emotional breakdowns.

It seems that there are people who actually do all these things. Even people with small children. These are all good things, valuable things, and things I probably SHOULD be doing.

However.

I also have a small baby who hates being laid in his bed, a toddler who needs an extra dose of attention, and very few shared nap hours between the two, if any. I have freelance work that must be done. I have a husband to love on and oh, yeah, a need to sleep!

Where is the line, friends? What is "enough" to do? I feel panicked because I can't do it all but with no conceivable notion of how to do some of it without feeling like I am going crazy looking at the mess and my body and a stir-crazy child. I feel at the other end is the defense: my kids are small and won't be small long. I cherish them. Life's too short to clean.

And yet, the ants won't stay away with crumbs lining the floor.

What is the happy medium?

File this under: Another Confession about How Not Only Do I Not Have It All Together, I'm Pretty Sure I Have It All Apart.

(photo source)


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Like Looking in a Mirror

Early in my high-school years, I developed a strange habit of chewing on the end of my hair.

Yeah, I know. It's kind of gross and weird and I have absolutely no idea where it came from or when it went away. I was a shy, awkward kid--and teen ... and of course that is completely and totally different than how I am now.

I was in drama from 8th to 10th grades before I discovered that no matter how much my heart told me I was going to be on Broadway, my acting skills just didn't measure up. (Again with shy and awkward.) I spent 11th and 12th grade in the creative writing elective, and I think we can all agree that was a better choice.

I vividly remember a drama exercise where we were paired with another student and we were supposed to give a monologue as that other person. I was teamed up with a good friend of mine, much to my relief. And as we practiced in our high-school auditorium, also known as the drama "classroom," the first thing she did to "be" me was start chewing on her hair.

I was mortified. I thought no one else noticed this crazy habit; it was my own secret strangeness. But obviously it was the first thing people noticed about me. Seeing it replicated by someone else made me crimson with embarrassment and sick to my stomach.

I get the same feeling now--often--when I see my bad habits reflected in my spunky two-year-old. Some of them seem rather harmless to me: the way she says, "Come on!" in the exact same intonation that I do. But I know this truly shows how I get upset at simple, insignificant things.

Her indignant, "Hush, baby David!" is another phrase I don't like to hear repeated. Do I really say it like that? Am I so insensitive to my own children?

We are definitely at the point where Libbie soaks in anything and everything. Just like in high school, we are being watched. Will what she reflects make me proud? (Like when she says she is "waiting for Jesus" as she closes her eyes and folds her hands together?) Or will I once again be mortified, embarrassed of my own habits as I see them repeated before my eyes?

Photo credit: bagaball
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Guest Post: More Than Meets the Eye

Allison is a slightly OCD momma (yes, M&Ms must be eaten in pairs of matching colors) who blogs over at Alli ‘n Son and tweets at Alli_n_Son. She’s the momma of a spunky, energetic, and frustrating two-year-old boy. You can often find her up to the knees in potty training, bubbles, and all things balls. She’s also a wanna-be photographer and gourmet chef, a highly creative woman, and one-time graphic designer, all rolled into one.


First off, huge congrats to Jessie on the birth of her son! As the mother of an almost 3-year-old boy, I know that she has so many wonderful things to look forward to. Especially things related to balls. Oh the joys of having a boy.

Like I said, I'm the mother to an almost 3-year-old boy. I've been a stay-at-home mom for the second half of his life, working a full-time job for the first half. Which was torture, let me tell you. It's funny how having a kid completely and utterly changes who you are. I went from very career-focused to not really caring about my job. With the help of my husband, we worked toward financial stability so I could finally leave my job.

Anyway, I'm not here to talk about how I became a stay-at-home mom. I wanted to share a story with you.

For the last year I've had my son enrolled in a beginner's gymnastics class. It isn't so much a gymnastics class as it is a jump-on-the-trampoline-and-run-through-tunnels-for-30-minutes class. We've been in the same class with the same group of women and kids since the beginning, and we have all formed a tight bond. Our kids have the type of friendship that will grow with them as they grow. I can actually see them all, hanging out on the football field together at high school games. Seriously.

Recently we were confronted with a tough decision, one that from the outside doesn't seem major but hidden below was a whole world of meaning. The class the kids were enrolled in was technically for kids ages 1-2. The next level up was 2-3. By all means, we should move our kids to the next level. Perhaps we should have moved them a while ago.

But the thing is, we kind of have the run of the class. It's unorganized, the kids can run and play, and we—the moms and grandmas—can sit back and talk, knowing that the kids are safe and having fun. There's a course set up for various activities, but rarely do we actually guide our kids through it. We'd much rather just let them be. Actually, when a new instructor came in and tried to get the class organized, we kind of wore her down until she stopped trying. Now, she sits down and talks with us while the kids do their thing.

The class was coming to an end and we had to make a decision: move on to the next level or hold the kids back. In my heart of hearts I knew that the kids were ready, all of them. They just needed our help and guidance and before we knew it, they would follow along the course and still be having a blast.

Even though this may seem like a small decision, it really is much larger than it appears. It's about more than moving from one class to the next. It's about learning to let our kids grow up. It's about guiding them to experience new things. It's about holding their hands on new adventures and knowing when to let go.

I view motherhood as a big spider web with our kid(s) right at the very center. When they are born we are attached to them in every way possible. We are responsible for feeding them and clothing them. For changing diapers, bathing them, and keeping them clean. But as time goes on, our responsibilities change, lessen even. They learn how to feed themselves, and a strand of the web falls away. They learn how to dress themselves {most days} and two more strands disappear. They are potty trained and even stay dry overnight. More strands drift away in the wind. Slowly over years and years the spider web loses its strength. But an amazing thing happens: the spider, our kids, grow stronger. They learn how to live apart from us, in baby steps. And it's amazing.

Our job, as mothers, fathers, grandparents, caregivers, whoever, is to hold on to our kids with all of our might, but to also realize when it's time to let go and let them grow. In the end, we did decide to move our kids up to the next level of gymnastics class, and I'm so glad that we did {because honestly, if everyone wanted to stay behind, I probably would have moved my son to the next level anyway}. I know in my heart of hearts that they were all ready, they just need a little guidance from us. They need to know that we have faith that they will succeed. In the next class. In the next stage of life. Even as our hold gets weaker and weaker, they know that we are here for them, giving them the push they need but also offering solid ground when they fall.

Parenthood is hard. Don't let anyone tell you differently. But watching your kid(s) grow and become his or her own person, there's just nothing else on earth like it.


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Welcome, 2011.

It wears me out to think about the last two years.

If you've been reading my blog for any length of time, you know our story. If not, you can read about here or here or here.

I'm not sure what I would have done if two years ago I knew we would be living in limbo for such a long time. Struggling financially, worrying over a house that won't sell. Still living so very far from any family.

It was not what I had planned.

But in 2010, I moved to Chattanooga. I became a stay-at-home-mom. We found an amazing church home that is thriving and where God is moving. We conceived and brought another child into the world.

If I let myself think about the things that weigh me down, I panic. Every day I have to choose to focus on the blessings of being where I am, right now. Even if that place is Limbo, Tennessee; population: family of 4.

I can't help but think that Jesus lived here, too (well, not Tennessee). What must have passed through His mind as He waited those 30 years for His ministry to begin? Was He anxious? (Doubtful.) Did He wonder if the right time would ever come?

I am glad He understands.

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The God of All Comfort

For this is what the LORD says:
    I will make peace flow to her like a river,
    and the wealth of nations like a flood;
    you will nurse and be carried on [her] hip,
    and bounced on [her] lap.
As a mother comforts her son,
    so I will comfort you,
    and you will be comforted in Jerusalem.
Isaiah 66:12-13, HCSB


I am grateful for these verses today. When I am feeling really low, I picture myself crawling into the big lap of the Most High so He can rock me. Some days, I crave comfort. And He is Comforter.

May you rest in His comfort today.





Added to Friday Feedback at A Steady Rain.

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I Think the Universe is Trying to Tell Me Something

A few weeks ago, I went to the Once a Month Mom Tweet-Up in Atlanta. It was great fun, and there were some wonderful door prizes. I won a little bag from Skin Solutions. Which, honestly, I was not that excited about. I am notoriously bad at taking care of my skin.

Then, last weekend I had the privilege to attend the Face2Face event hosted by Robin of Pensieve. The event was to publicize Therapon Skin products. Therapon is social-media-savvy, and they are utilizing some great bloggers on their own blog, as well as hosting three of these events across the country.

I was excited about getting a free massage, but found the true gem of the day was getting a blissful facial. The one facial I had ever had before this was in Mexico on our honeymoon and was not a pleasant experience. Comparatively, this facial was heaven. I loved the mild scents of the products, the feeling of having my rough skin polished off, and especially the results.

My skin looked awesome! Seriously! I don't have a ton of blemishes or real issues, but after the facial I was glowing. And it lasted. And I Tweeted.

I am doing something now that I have almost never done: using skincare products every day. (OK, so the instructions say wash your face twice a day, but THAT sounds like hard work.) I think my skin looks amazing, better than it ever has. I am sold on this Therapon stuff. It is all-natural, and I love that! It smells great but is not overpowering at all.

I thought maybe I should go ahead and open my Skin Solutions bag, too, after I made this exciting new discovery that washing your face does make it look nicer. I appreciate the Solar Recovery spray and lip exfoliater from them, too! I am sure the recovery spray will come in handy this summer. And after labor and during nursing, I am positive I will need some major lip upheaval.

So, this is my revelation: it's good to wash your face. Who knew? Thanks Therapon and Skin Solutions for nudging me in the right direction.

This post is unsponsored and unbiased and no one asked me to write it. I get no money if you buy anything from either of these sites. Just my opinions!


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