done.

It's been an interesting few months. Not long ago, I had this sinking, constant feeling that I was in control of nothing. My temper surprised me, my irritation was an addiction, little things exhausted me. Something had to give. I suppose I should elaborate on the feeling of lack of control: I couldn't control the timing of the adoption or make myself feel all the things I thought I should or make our daughter progress any faster in her journey, I couldn't make Silas any easier in the throes of toddler behavior, I couldn't seem to make myself any more patient with very long question and answer sessions with Nicky, it felt like I was going nowhere at work, and I continued to feel the loss of some things that are better not described here.

I was feeding the wrong wolf; I can see that so clearly now. The answer was not to keep shoving my feet into the shoes that just don't fit, or to force anything else, really. It was to find something I could be proactive about and get to work on it.

Turns out I'm a pretty controlling person. (It's been disappointing to realize this.) I honestly think it was God's hand, directing me to simply let go. Stop forcing. Fill my mind with other things. So I did: I took a leap and started a new job that was demanding of my time and energy, and my wonderful partner in life took up a lot of slack in the process. He wants me well too, and I love him for it.

I think one kind of tiredness is a cure for another kind of tiredness. It's the difference between your hands aching because you've been clenching your fists all day and your feet aching because you've been running with a purpose. That good tired when you fall into bed, when you've earned your sleep. I've found a lot of rest in getting good and tired, and I feel better. My mind feels like it's waking up, more than before.

As for those lack of control things: I've seen our daughter blossom under Ricky's calm and relaxed care, I've learned to enjoy my Silas again, and I now look forward to that moment when Nicky runs in the front door with his million questions and observations. Of course I still get frustrated from time to time, but I don't wear it like a heavy overcoat these days. Thanks be to God; I can say it with my whole heart.

I don't think the issue was ever actually about my children. Sure, parenting is such hard, self-exposing work, but there are other things in my life that felt wrong for such a long time that I was trying to keep plugging away at, and that created a toxicity that had to come out somewhere.

There are still things I don't know what to do with, but not everything is fixed right away (or at all, perhaps.) I can carry on. I've come to believe that it's okay to put things on a shelf and distract myself with the good. When the right time comes, I'll feel compelled to take them down, examine and work through them. In the meantime, I'm not forcing anything. I'm not enslaved to anyone's formula. I'll try to be better at listening, knowing we're all carrying quite a load around.

It comes back to this, over and over: walk gently through the world. Look for the goodness of God. Rejoice when you find it; rejoice with the people around you who see it too. Whoever they are, wherever you find them.

So I'm trying to look around, all the while feeling quite vulnerable and oh-so-tired. We're all in some stage of healing I suppose.

here.

I am ignoring a clean dishwasher that needs to be unloaded, a sink full of dirty dishes, and sticky countertops. It is naptime. I didn't write at all last week, and by yesterday I was bursting at the seams. Not in a good way either. Sometimes I just don't have much to say, but that was not the case last week. I had so much to say but so much tiredness too and an endlessly needy little guy. Good ideas come and then float away while I'm busy with life, and the end of the day comes and all that's left is blankness, the need for a hot shower, cold water to drink, and a bit of nothing for a while.

But if I don't write something, express something, make something--the day feels somewhat empty, and I just don't feel right. I'm thinking I need to carve out some space in the early morning, a few days a week, before little bodies are awake and hungry, to write and pray and think.

I got my tattoo. It's all healed up and I love how it turned out. It says "His eye is on the sparrow." The truest and most needful thing I could think of to inscribe onto myself.

Even though I was dying for some time to write/express/whatever, I was calmer. I intentionally spoke gently to my kids in the morning rush around and I took time to breathe. I have a print in my kitchen that says "hush, be still" and I look at it while I do the same things over and over each day; I think it's getting into my soul, finally. Yesterday morning I was reading Brian McLaren's book Naked Spirituality and did a little meditation on the word here. It was so beautiful and helpful, really. I am here, God is here. Wherever I go after this moment, whatever chaos ensues or doesn't, I am here and God is here. That was the gist of it, and it was a flashlight to my dark hiking trail for sure.

But. In the afternoon I totally blew it, got angry, lost all that calm I had been working toward. I had some rough news and hit my tipping point I suppose. I wanted to run away before an old familiar hurt could catch us again. I feel scared and sad and so, so vulnerable right now. I'm realizing just how much fear I've been harboring, and it's not going to be a picnic dealing with it. But I think I'm going to anyway. Vaguest paragraph ever, I know. Just need to get what I can down, for now.

So I'm back to it, today. I am here, God is here. Everything will be okay, chaos or not.

on fear, parenting, and old wounds

A few nights ago Nicky casually mentioned to us that he hopes he doesn't go to hell.

My heart sank and I felt a bit like picking up the phone and yelling at whoever felt entitled to make this word a part of my five year old son's vocabulary. How dare you.

But we just looked at each other, and looked at Nicky, and started asking questions. What is hell? What is heaven? And he gave us his answers; bits of information gathered from here and there; his best making sense of it. And I felt relieved to hear that he doesn't really fear hell, not in the way that I fear he will.

As a child, I was pre-occupied with the supernatural in an unhealthy way, because I was exposed to things that truly terrified me. Books about demon possession. Casting out of demons at church. My movie and music intake was carefully restricted to the most innocent content out there, but I read, and saw things that were far more terrifying because I couldn't dismiss them as fairy tales and scary stories. I had a child's partial understanding and way too much information to process. I would pull blankets over my head even in the middle of summer, lulling myself into a feeling of safety so I could sleep. And being the highly sensitive and introverted child that I was, I didn't mention much of this to my parents. No amount of checking under the bed for monsters was going to help.

I've managed to leave this weird obsession (and some other childhood cripples) behind, but they will always be a part of my story. And now I see my son's story unfolding. I see God's love in  his heart in the most pure and beautiful ways, and I am terrified of what other people will tell him, and show him, about God. And also what I will tell him, and show him, about God.

We talked about how God is love, the one who invented love. A little bit about heaven and death. This is the age, I suppose, where you start tiptoe-ing around the hard subjects, carefully introducing and praying for wisdom with a new kind of desperation.

I do not know what to tell my son about hell. I don't know what I believe about it. What I do know is that in all my letting go of my crippling fears, my us and them mentality, my Christian outsider identity, my unacknowledged sense of superiority.....that I feel God's love in a more profound way than I ever did when I was younger and Knew It All.

I was that girl--the one who ran through her house, looking in rooms and under beds and outside because she woke up to a strangely quiet house and was terrified that she might have missed the Rapture. I've laughed with friends who had this same experience, but it's dark humor. God came for your parents, and your siblings, and left you behind. You are not good enough.

Does Jesus live in your heart? Did you sin since the last time you prayed? If you were in a car accident tonight, would you meet Jesus or Satan when you woke up? Heaven's gates or hell's flames? (Cue smoke and red lights, you know what I'm talking about.....)

What if?......I would ask my parents over and over, inventing different scenarios. What if this? Would I go to heaven then?

I stand watch over my son's heart. He is growing up in a different kind of Christian culture, thank God. But well-meaning people will still plant seeds of fear in his heart. We all fear losing control of our children's intake. In Christian circles, usually people talk about fearing exposure to sex and drugs and foul language. (I hope for my kids to have a healthy sexuality that's not peppered with guilt and shame, to not ever be enslaved to any substance, and to know the beauty of a well-timed cuss word but to have a whole vocabulary of other words to use as well, but that's not really what this post is about.)

What I fear more than anything is what he will need to un-learn. I will surely teach him things and later slap my forehead and wonder what I was thinking. Because culture changes and we do flow with it, whether we like to admit it or not. I keep thinking about this part though-how the Bible says that Jesus is the same yesterday, today, and forever. In my own life, I have always been captivated by him. Most people are, in some way or another. It's the whole I'd be a Christian if it wasn't for the Christians thing. I was given so much good in my childhood, and I was given some confusion. Jesus has always been the constant, and so I know he will be for my children as well.

Knowing him, and his love, really is what keeps me trying. I've wanted to throw in the towel so many times, because of culture. But he remains in all his simplicity, preaching his revolutionary message over and over to the walking wounded. And in all my learning and un-learning, he has been there with me. He redeems whatever needs to be redeemed.

Help, help, help.

the only requirement is thirst

Over the past few weeks I've been listening to a series of podcasts in the morning, on my way home from Nicky's school. Mars Hill, a church in Michigan puts them up on their website. Silas often falls asleep on the way home, allowing me to sit and finish listening. They have really been ministering to me and re-inforcing my conviction that God gives us the words we need, exactly when we need them. This morning's talk, given by Shane Hipps, was about the story of Phillip and the Ethiopian from Acts chapter 8. I heard this story many times growing up, and always liked it. Basically Phillip, one of Jesus' disciples, is traveling and meets and Ethiopian man reading a scroll in his chariot. They talk, and the Ethiopian man tells Phillip he doesn't understand what he's reading (turns out it was the book of Isaiah). Phillip explains the text in a fresh way in light of Jesus coming and fulfilling Messianic prophecy, and the Ethiopian is baptized as a follower of Christ in some nearby water and goes on his way. He is credited with bringing Christianity to Ethiopia (Catholic, Orthodox and Protestants make up 62% of Ethiopia's population today). A very interesting tidbit in this story is that this man was a eunuch; castrated in order to be in service to the Queen (this reduced his "threat level").

So of course the Bible mentions eunuchs here and there; it's not a new concept. But-I didn't really ever think about how the drastic lack of testosterone would effect their features. Not only did they take on more feminine characteristics, they often dressed like women as well. They were, in several cultures, seen as a kind of third gender (there is nothing new under the sun). They didn't fit with the men, and they didn't fit with the women. People didn't know what "category" to file them under.

It occurs to me lately that the New Testament church was all about breaking social norms. Look at Jesus-he spoke to women in public (a big no-no for Jewish men of the day, who were fond of a prayer in which they thanked God for not making them women)-and not only that he kept company with people of ill repute. I love to picture him, homespun garment, feet dusty from the day's work and travel, sitting around a fire eating fish and drinking wine, laughing with the common folk, being human. Only ever harsh with the legalistic rule-followers.  He asked people to consider their own shortcomings before taking on those of others (the lumber yard in our own eyes, as I heard it described once, and not the speck in someone else's). When did he ever encourage his followers to take steps back, to not push the limits, to not accept?

Christianity, in its early days, seemed to be all about breaking with tradition. But wow, look where we have taken it. This is what humans do.

People like limits. And we like to attribute of love of limits to God's love of limits. We're still plenty misogynistic; we still think in terms of us and them. But-if Jesus is the best example of God's heart that we have, maybe we need to re-think things a bit.

Let he who has not sinned cast the first stone.

I'm writing this because I feel challenged. I feel uncomfortable sometimes about people I can't place neatly in categories too. I like boundaries and clear answers and checked boxes.

But.

In the grander trajectory of Christianity, what is the movement? Where have we been and where are we headed? Seriously, we used to burn people for heresy. Now, what would have been called speaking heresy is simply called conversation (well in my circles anyway). It's working out your own salvation with fear and trembling. We are seeking more understanding now, looking at the issues of the heart.

God's love, and his plans, are like the ocean and we can be like dams, stopping up all that power and life-giving force and saying who gets it and who doesn't. There is a Pharisee in all of our hearts, shaking his/her little fist, wanting to be the favorite.

God used someone on the margins, someone unacceptable, to bring Christianity to an entire country. Who might he be using today, whether or not we approve of it?

Just some food for thought (steps off soap box). You can hear the whole message here.


*The title of this post comes from Shane's prayer at the end of the message

He who keeps me will not slumber

I have that song in my head.....just can't seem to get it right today... For some reason I woke up stiff and sore, with the same croaky voice and raw throat I've had for a few days now and it's Ricky's day to play music so he's out the door early. I decide to feel sorry for myself while I feed the littles. I slice bananas, heat up leftover waffles from the other day, sprinkle slivered almonds. I spill my full cup of coffee all over Nicky's paper and crayons. The dog laps up coffee off of the floor.

Lately all I want to do is read. Like for fifteen whole minutes without something being asked of me. Yeah, I'm pretty much in full blown woe is me mode. I'm tired, I guess? My brain is hungry and my body is tired, and days off are not really days off. I made the mistake of staying up too late last night, watching someone on the internet talk about complicated things in a way that made me angry and sad, at who I'm not sure. Also not sure why I did that to myself. I wish I had the option of a nap. I wish I could find Silas' bottle. I wish I could wear all of my hats with grace and confidence.

I think on Sunday mornings it all comes to a halt because it has to, or maybe it's just years of habit-this is when you get vulnerable and slow down, when you examine. I need some soul stillness, some wise old words to soothe, some repentance. I need to be covered under His wings.

In college on the rough Sundays I used to go the mountains by myself. Pack a sandwich, a book and some water and drive away. Sometimes I would hear better there. But this morning it's tripping over toys and a needy little guy pulling on my jeans and smiling his squinty smile, and Nicky with his Mommy? and he waits for me to answer because I've trained him to, with all my just a minutes. Oh, how I want him to not have to hide from me, to not burden him with my heaviness. So I try to get everyone ready, and I fail. It's too late to be anything resembling on time, and so I give it up, put the baby down for a nap, and re-heat my coffee.

It is good to give up sometimes. What is this really all about anyway? He will meet me anywhere, this constant friend. I read Psalm 121-I will lift up my eyes to the hills-From whence comes my help? Grace is lavished once again; help me exhale it.


He is my mountain today, my fresh air.

bread crumbs: anticipation

I did not grow up with liturgy. My parents did, in the Lutheran and Methodist traditions, and they both turned toward charismatic movements in their twenties. Aside from learning to the words to lots of hymns, tradition was not a big focus in our home, and in some ways I saw tradition as being cold and uncreative; the opposite of the freedom of the Spirit we were intent on. So, I never gave much thought to liturgy, until reading Lauren Winner's Girl Meets God in college sparked my interest. Really it just brought an awareness of the liturgical calendar into my life, and I started reading the Book of Common Prayer. I love the rich history and the feeling of community, of a universal body of believers, that comes from liturgical practice.

In my home life, I find words that have weight and centuries behind them to be comforting and grounding. I'm all for heartfelt lyrics, but sometimes I need to draw strength from words, to be reminded of the attributes of God. I have a growing appreciation for liturgy, and I realize more and more that I want my children to have those rich words planted in their brains, for when they really need them.

This year we're making an effort to observe Advent, or it would be more true to say introduce ourselves to Advent. I've seen so many cute Advent calendars on Pinterest that I wanted to make, but geez it's already December 1, so yesterday I picked up one of those cardboard paper-flap ones at Hobby Lobby. This morning's verse: The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light. Isaiah 9:1 led to a pretty great discussion with Nicky, over breakfast and all the way to school. I saw a spark in his eyes when I read it, and he told me about how God said, "Let there be light", and then we talked about literal light and Jesus-light, and I think he got it. And I thought about all that beautiful symbolism between the old and new testaments. I realize what this is now, this season. It's a way to present the gospel to Nicky, and later to Silas, and to ourselves every day for four weeks, and to let the anticipation of re-discovering the beauty of it all grow and grow, until Christmas.

And I also realize that really, I did this growing up. It just wasn't so intentional, so obvious, but it was done, because these kinds of discussions just flowed out of my mother, every day. However, this mama needs intentional and obvious. They are my friends.

Today I have a lightness in my heart that hasn't been there. It was a little bit like being a child again, pulling back that cardboard flap, wondering what gift is there today.

Words are the greatest gift.

bread crumbs

I'm trying something new. For months I've been processing so many things in my spiritual life, and let me just say, it's been a bit overwhelming. I've driven home from church sobbing. I've spent mornings drinking up words, desperate for an answer. I've sought, I've been silent. I've felt like a "bringer of doubt", a menace.

There have been days where I've questioned whether it's still accurate to call myself a Christian, not because I don't want to follow Christ, but because I don't identify with so much of church culture. Then there are days where I've seen a spark of something so new and fresh that it fills me with hope and excitement. Blogs like Emerging Mummy and Elizabeth Esther that just about knock me over with their honesty, their descriptions that match almost exactly how I've been feeling. A nurse I work with sometimes who is like Jesus with skin on. There are bread crumbs to follow. God is gracious.

There are many things in the Bible I don't want to teach my children-at least not in the way it is conventionally taught. I'm more concerned about sheltering my boys from certain aspects of conservative Christian culture than I am about sheltering them from the things conservative Christian culture is afraid of. (Here's an example: the obnoxious bumper sticker I saw today that shouted, "Jesus is Alive! Deal with it." Um, is that supposed to be a presentation of the gospel?)

It's difficult, trying to live up to labels. But I'm finding that when I step away from labels I can say some things about my relationship with God that I mean will all my heart. And that is huge. I don't need to be certain of everything, but I need a foundation.

So I'm trying something new, putting this stuff out there. I want to keep track of the bread crumbs just like I keep track of the way my kids are growing; the birthdays, milestones, anniversaries. This is kind of my pile of stones, marking an important place. An altar of sorts.

I hope for better things.

to hear better

I hear the edge, sometimes, in my voice.
It's that same ragged edge I hear sometimes at the grocery store, that I heard in my own mother's voice. It threatens and pleads, and sounds a little shaky at the end.
It's our way of saying we need help, sometimes. It's not at all attractive, but it's real.

Sometimes I come to the end of my rope. I think I will scream if I pick up one more upturned shoe, wipe one more crumb, remind one more time. I think, how did I get so old?

Comparison is the thief of joy, someone said.

I am struggling today, Friend. I am not finding the peace, not hearing the whispers. Oh, they are probably there, it's just all the clang and clatter in my mind drowns them out. I am the whirlwind, overshadowing the still small voice in all my self-importance.

Anne Lammott says the two best prayers she knows are help, help, help and thank you, thank you, thank you.

It's not at all attractive, how consumed I am with my first world problems. How I feel my husband must see me sometimes. How I escape easily into the company of strangers while a strange anxiety keeps me from picking up the phone. The things I've thought to myself when I hear that edge in another woman's voice. How we live, alone on our islands.

I so want to be a person who lives a life of yes. Yes, I have time. Come over, we'll move the laundry aside, don't mind the dog hair. Have another cup. Yes, I'm not too tired. Yes, I'll read the story.

How do I go from I just can't to a life of joyful yes? I need more of the Vine, because I am spent.

I'm driving Nicky to school and time stands still for a bit. He sings me the days of the week, the months of the year. He tells me the story of the Prodigal Son. "He spent all his money on silly things," he says earnestly.

There's a whisper. I have to drive for a while, to hear better. At home, I clear clutter, evidence of the souls who live here, and ask for help.

And I think what my Friend is trying to tell me is that I have an inheritance too, and it is precious, and it can easily be spent on silly things. But even more than that, just that there is love. Love is waiting with open arms.

Love is not constrained the way I am, and offers itself to me.

on motherhood

This week I found myself vaguely remembering something I learned in nursing school about mothers, how they progress through stages until they find their own mothering style, they "own" being a mom, basically. Had to go look it up because I couldn't recall the specifics. It's called maternal role attainment; a four step process. First, a mom looks to role models for examples, while anticipating the baby's arrival. When the baby arrives, the mom is still taking guidance from others and trying to act how they think she should. The third stage is when a mother starts to develop her own practices, and the fourth is when she really feels comfortable with the idea of herself as a mother and pretty much does what feels right to her. This process also happens with subsequent children, although it's usually more intense with the first child because of the massive lifestyle change.

I was intrigued by this, trying to remember what the process was like when I had Nicky. I do remember feeling frustrated by lots of advice thrown my way- I wanted to experience having a child for myself, and if that included making mistakes, then so be it. Not that I was completely closed off to advice. But I didn't think it was fair for older parents who had "their turn" so to speak to take my turn away from me. I wanted to own the experience, essentially.  So I guess I got to that final stage, but maybe not exactly following a linear path. I really just wanted to be allowed to find my/our own way. And I think we did, but it's funny that even now, I second guess myself a lot. It seems like a lot of mothers do. I feel lucky, though, that I have a group of friends who don't really get into comparisons. We just like each other, and we like each other's kids. Simple as that. I have of course received the random comment from time to time about my parenting choices, but I usually just laugh it off, like the other day when a cashier told me that the carrier I had Silas in looked "awkward". She  said she's allowed to say things like that, because she's a grandma. Oh, um, okay?

I do feel a lot more relaxed this time around. I can see that, even though I stopped breastfeeding Nicky at five months because it still hurt enough to make me cry, and even though he went to daycare sometimes, and he probably watched more tv than some would approve of, he's a great kid. I can see that Ricky and I were his primary influences, and I think that's what I was scared of losing. I didn't know then what I know now-little kids absolutely adore their parents, and would rather be with them than pretty much anyone else. There's no need to force anything, because nature already knows better.

So this time around, I'm with Silas 6 days a week, breastfeeding is going beautifully (after a few months of aggressive refusal to give up on my part, which I'm very proud of, because again it hurt like hell), and the cloth diapers that I bought to try out haven't really been used much (still waiting for that motivation) and everything's much more relaxed because Mama's more relaxed. Amen. I know now just how fast this part goes by, and then it's on to the next thing. I anticipate that he will be a very cool kid, just like his big brother. I think in many ways, kids teach us how to parent them, if we just pay attention. These two have certainly taught me.

my little corner

I've kept this blog private for a long time, mainly because I wasn't updating it much and it was just a place to organize pictures, jot down a few memories and occasionally step on my soapbox. This year, however, I've really been motivated to post more often, and I'm enjoying it. I have a lot more time at home than I've been accustomed to as well. Blogging fits nicely in my life right now. Anyway, this is really just an explanation of why I have this blog and haven't shared it with anyone, until now :)

So, welcome to my little corner of the internet, where I pause and notice all of the blessings in my life.

on days like these

I cannot seem to get one thing done. As much as I love my little bundle of sweetness, I'm overcome with the urge to clean the floor. Puppy paw-prints and spilled juice and who knows what else....I just want to sit down this afternoon and not see all of that. But Silas is ravenous in this latest growth spurt, so I just nurse and nurse instead, forced to sit still.

I struggle. I want what's just ahead, instead of enjoying the now as much as I could. After all, the puppy prints will be back about five minutes after I mop. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and remind myself of all the time I spent dreaming about this little one, and how much I will miss this when he's bigger. My frustration builds in spite of my good intentions. Sometimes all I can do is wave the white flag and whisper help. It's the simple things that are so hard, for some reason.

So many days I feel like this. But, at the end of the day, I realize things have been accomplished. I showered. I loaded the dishwasher. I bribed Nicky to trace some letters; each letter traced = one smartie.

I do love being in control. Good thing I have kids to help me with that issue. I need to just get over it. And enjoy sitting still.

Now he's asleep and I could be mopping the floor, but here I am. I need an outlet like this, to remind myself of what's important and to refuel. Nicky's been fascinated with the South Pole lately and he's watching March of the Penguins in the other room. I think I'll go join him.

Cloudy

The mountains are covered with clouds and undoubtedly, snow. They are one of the things that makes living here majestic. Here in the valley it is sunny and I'm squinting with my glasses on, tired of contacts for one day at least. We are leaving this house in a week and a half, moving up to the East Mesa, to a brand new house. This causes me to dream, and to reflect. This house has chipping-off paint and missing pieces and a backyard full of stickers, and plumbing that is reliably unreliable. But it's pleasant too. The paint on the walls and cabinets is a reminder of hopeful work, ours and friends. Nico's room reminds me how much I want his childhood to be whimsical, no matter where we are. Our history in pictures covers the walls, the refrigerator. There are reminders everywhere-how I've learned to really work on marriage, not just let it happen to me; the kitchen where I really started to love cooking. The birthday parties I planned despite my reluctance to have people over. The luxury of having good friends for neighbors. Learning community. The early mornings heading off to clinicals, the late nights opening the door and smelling the woodstove and the feeling of coming home. Ricky transitioning from school to work, and now me. The place where we started dreaming about another baby.
I can already see myself romanticizing this season we've been in, the one we're moving forward from. I suppose that's inevitable. It was hard in some ways, but in others, it's what so many are looking for. We've been happy, and at peace. I'm so grateful for that.

a love story

Blogging and I go back a few years. I used to blog on xanga, then sporadically on myspace. I wasn't really familiar with non-social networking site blogging until I was pregnant with Nicolas. Actually, I think blogs really made a difference in my life during that time. I was, to say the least, shocked about my surprise pregnancy and started googling anything and everything I could think of related to it. Those searches led me to many of the blogs I still read today, and of course led me to new ones over the years as well. It opened up a whole new world to me. I had just graduated from college and quit my job as a bank teller, and it was such an in between time in life. Ricky and I were transitioning. We had just been married for 3 months, and our friendships were (inevitably) changing because of it. We didn't have a church home. At a time when most people are filling out job applications and dealing with the transition of student to job-haver, I found myself with terrible morning sickness and really no direction. I had made arrangements to start substitute teaching, mainly because I didn't know what to do with my English degree. Should I teach? Get into ESL? Maybe just freelance write? Those were all things that I was considering, but I just didn't know what I wanted. And it didn't really seem to matter, because I couldn't get up off the couch anyway. It's funny now in retrospect that I saw that situation as so permanent, as though I would be pregnant and puking forever. Really, it was only six weeks. It seemed much longer. But, I have to be honest here. Something other than my stomach was bothering me. I was absolutely overwhelmed with this new reality. Me, a mother? Now? As a product of my generation I never saw myself having kids until later--later probably being closer to 30. I saw the pregnancy as the end of my youth. I mourned. I remember the dread of telling people I was pregnant and having to deal with all the happy reactions. Something I discovered very quickly is that it's not socially acceptable to be unhappy with a pregnancy. How weird, I think. You can end a pregnancy in secret, or be ecstatic about a pregnancy in the open, but what about taking on the responsibility of a pregnancy and acknowledging that it doesn't make you very happy at this moment? Doesn't happen much. I tried. I made (most) people uncomfortable. So I stopped. I kept my feelings to myself and one or two friends, my mom, my husband. And that was okay. I knew full well that I would be happy eventually, but I wanted time to just feel what I needed to feel. I've never been a fan of false cheerfulness.
So, I read blogs. Lots and lots of them. I spent most of my days seeking refuge in this online world. Sounds a bit unhealthy, right? It may have been. But I think it's what I needed at the time. I didn't really have friends with children yet, so I guess maybe it was a little therapeutic to read about the lives of young mothers, even if I didn't know them. It wasn't so much voyeuristic as educational. How did people do it, I wondered. And slowly, I found out. I found out that there are young mothers everywhere. That people have children in all sorts of circumstances. That, really, there was nothing out of the ordinary about my situation. I read painfully honest accounts, and stories that were so funny I laughed out loud. I was comforted.


Slowly, my pregnancy progressed. My fatigue and nausea subsided, and as my belly grew I slowly let this new baby into my heart. I began to anticipate rather than dread. I began to dream again, except now the borders of my dreams were expanded. Largely because of just reading about how other people do life, I figured out how to do life myself. I was inspired to let go of my pre-conceived ideas about life. It wasn't that all my doubts and fears about motherhood went out the window immediately, but reading blogs in a way demystified the whole thing for me. Also, I think that the blog world really emphasized to me the need for community. Though it would be some time before we really found a community to settle into, I saw how important it was. And I knew I wanted to be part of something where honesty is valued, and where it's okay to open up about feelings and trust God with the outcome. Little did I know, I would soon be surrounded by a group of people where this is just the case. But that's another story for another day.

So what's my point? Well, several things I guess. Blogs were an outlet for me; a chance to be exposed to different points of view about life and specifically motherhood. Reading blogs allowed me to work out some of my own issues while reading about other people's issues. It clarified things for me. It was a safe place, because I felt pressured in real life to feel about and respond to my situation in a certain way. And, maybe above all, it distracted me from my life for a bit. I was growing out of a me-centered existence very swiftly; that's painful stuff. I cannot center it all around blogging. But really, blogs were a huge part of my growth, and I think, God-sent.


Fast forward a few years. I survived pregnancy and motherhood (shocking, I know). I'm probably the happiest I've ever been. I am, once again, transitioning. And I have a sweet little boy who, though I didn't always know it, is the biggest blessing I've ever received. And I find myself with some spare time occasionally (well lots of it this summer), so I'm blogging. I don't expect anything too dramatic; mainly I expect to post a lot of pictures and try to say witty things once in a while. And maybe write something painfully honest once in a while. Or make someone laugh out loud. I hope so. Sometimes that's enough.

I'm from....

I'm from azure skies against green-dotted brown mountains, fields of yucca and months without rain. I'm from acres of stillness and shy smiles and hours reading on a rock by the pond. I'm from fresh bread filling the house with it's scent, tree swings and kittens and getting up early to hike and see the cave.

I'm from hymns and choir robes, church twice on Sunday and pot roast in between, from eleven summer camps and finding God at the altar, practical jokes and driving to Dairy Queen. I'm from days at the river, green chile enchiladas and honking at the cows standing in the road. I'm from small town, big dream, homebody and world travel. I'm from slip n' slides, tea parties with blue willow china and shooting the .22, from "keep the peace" and "speak the truth in love".

I'm from vanilla ice cream and zucchini bread, mowing the grass on Saturday afternoon, pottery and barrel cactus. I'm from a dirt road, late nights at the Grinder Mill and early morning band practice. I'm from homemade Easter dresses, a 15 year old Finnish immigrant to Brooklyn and a German soldier on the run, Native American pride and Oklahoma shame.

I'm from unknown grandparents and mysteries, the smell of pine and dust blowing in the wind, and an early sense of the pain of others. In many ways, the unknowns outweigh the rest. I'm from redemption and second and twenty-second chances, and this outweighs the unknowns.

(I'm not sure whose original idea this was--I've seen variations of this on different sites, and I love the idea, so I gave it a try.)