Raising Magnolias

Because it's never too late for happily ever after…

 

Sunday night, exhausted from a weekend of DIY projects, including re-fisinshing hardwood floors (that, for the record, I’m going to re-finish again. Only this time, I’m going to hire a professional and pretend the mess he’s inherited is from the previous owners, something he’s probably not going to believe since I already posted on Facebook, but I’ll do it anyway) and pouring almost 2000 lbs of concrete in an effort to expand our driveway to accommodate a basketball hoop, I received a message.

That may have been my longest run-on sentence yet.

My phone pings and I slide it open.

It is a friend telling me that Coulter had been Sunday School class that morning and that he was a joy.

Upon hearing something as precious as my son being called a joy, I did what any loving mom would do.

I burst into tears, threw my head into my husband’s lap and cursed the father of my children.

I know, right?

So loving and rational. Maybe most moms would’ve just said thank you?

I could’ve, but it would be like congratulating your arch-nemesis on receiving a promotion that you were up for. Like, wahoo….teeny-tiny letters.

yay.

I don’t have an arch-nemesis and I’ve never once been up for a promotion so not sure what cloud I pulled that one from, but I’m guessing it’s the cloud of being high on polyurethane.

In case you’re wondering its a Lutheran Church.

I’m back to the Sunday School issues.

I didn’t know a lot about the Lutheran church before moving to the Midwest. The only Lutheran I knew, or at least I think I remember was my friend Kevin B, but I’m pretty sure he never went.

Lutherans in the midwest are like Baptist and Methodists in the South. They are everywhere.

Yes, I realized that I capitalized South and not the midwest. I was going to correct it, but thought maybe it was a Freudian thing?

Anyway.

I only mention to assure that I have nothing against my children attending a Lutheran church, learning about the same Jesus that they hear about at Grace.

And in our home.

It’s just that.

Wait. What’s that?

Just be glad they’re in church? That is what you were thinking.

 

I know. Because if I were anywhere but inside this life, it’s what I would be thinking, too.

I’m still mad and having irrational responses to “Oh, what a joy to have your son in Sunday School” remind me that I’m still mad.

Maybe I’ll always be mad.

Hopefully not.

This past weekend was First Communion for many of my friends. This is also something I didn’t grow with. We took Communion from the time we could walk to the alter. Once a month, every month. Bread and grape juice. For a while we had a Preacher who tried to save money with little wafer things and I realize that churches everywhere still do that, but for the record, it’s not bread.

And I don’t think Jesus would be very happy about the cracker-wafer-gluten free thingy. He would probably not be happy that we would sit in the front row and make fun of the little old ladies who forgot to take the price tag off their shoes.

🙂

Anyway. I had inhaled two days worth of varnish fumes and concrete dust and a my entire Facebook feed was lit up with beautiful families celebrating faith in Jesus.

Together.

And I am a rotten human being because here is the truth.

I’m jealous.

Like so seriously jealous.

Of families that worship together and take Communion together and simply ride to church.

Together.

And I’m angry that I have to miss 1/2 of all their Sundays.

Half.

I’m missing out and somedays I’m a small child, stomping my feet in the sandbox refusing to accept that life’s purpose was never about fairness.

I have a dear cousin who may or may not still read my blog, but when I go back—when I go back and reflect and remember— it frustrates her because she can see what is very true.

I am living an amazing life.

Even today, walking out of Women’s Methodist where they scraped out about half my insides for a stinkin’ cell sample, I had a stop-in-my-tracks moment of gratitude for this life I am living.

So seriously blessed by the goodness of a loving and gracious Father.

But it doesn’t mean I can’t get mad.

Hello, David?

Or frustrated.

Or for a tiny self-indulgent moment, wonder.

What might have been.

And I think that’s OK.

And I think of my friends who have lost their spouses and are learning to love again. Or friends who have buried their child and are leaning into healing and fighting for joy.

For me. Today. I’m praying for eyes to see and a heart that remembers, they are still hurting.

And they still get mad.

And wonder.

What might have been.

And that’s OK.

Time heals? I don’t buy it. Time simply passes and we adjust to a new normal.

Broken hearts? Only Jesus can heal those.

Fortunately for my children, they’ll have plenty of Pastors, Sunday School teachers and Christ-following friends to share that truth!

 

I’m thinking that there are two types of people in this world.

Rational thinkers and emotional thinkers.

Those that plan to perfection, and those that dive in.

Those who hire a professional the first time, knowing their limitations, and those who jump in with no research and no knowledge and do it anyway because it’s on their to-do list and then fail and then they hire a professional.

Whatever. Either way, in the end, I gotta share my Sundays and trust in the One. True. Professional.

 

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