Raising Magnolias

Military and Bell

When I was growing up, our doctor decided I was allergic to chocolate and caffeine. I don’t remember any actual tests to verify this and for the life of me, I can’t imagine why I never questioned it, but for a long time we thought it was true.

So, ever dutiful to doctor’s order, I abstained. Whenever we ate out and could order a special drink, I did what any child who was allergic to caffeine would do.

I ordered Mt. Dew.

Who knew?

It looked like sprite.

I also went on the slim fast diet where you mix up that powder stuff with milk, only we didn’t have skim milk.

So, in an effort to lose weight, I drank 24 ounces of whole milk.

Every day.

And tonight. Tonight I discover that my little green tea fizzy water that’s supposed to help me give up my diet cokes is more tea than water.

It’s mountain dew.

Lying in the bathtub, drinking the little fizzy stuff, I start to read. Hmm. Why is there a caffeine content on my water bottle.

And that could explain why I haven’t been sleeping.

And my apologies to  neighborhood parents whose children may or may not have been allowed several of these caffeine-waters during a rather hot day of  trampoline jumping last week.   

But that’s not what I’m really writing about. I’m writing to tell you there’s something else that’s a little weird about Fremont.

It’s flat.

Totally flat.

And for some reason this causes cracked sidewalks. I don’t exactly understand why but there’s probably some science-y explanation, so let’s just go with it.

But first a review for any new readers:

18 months ago: Military and Bell. Voice of the Lord. Do the hard the I’ve called you to do.

Sunday: Military and Bell. Voice of the Lord via redneck truck loud-speaker. Run, Momma, Run.

Today. Military and Bell.

No. I’m not kidding.

But this time He doesn’t speak. He trips me.

I don’t know, maybe He didn’t trip me. It’s possible I didn’t see the gigantic crack in the sidewalk and it’s possible that I didn’t get my feet up far enough and it’s possible that I’m just that uncoordinated. But still.

Military and Bell?

Again?

And I didn’t exactly trip. I flew. Superman style. Face plant, flat down on all fours. Blood starts pouring from both knees and because I reign from a very long line of weak stomachs, I start to get sick.

I’m trying to remember. Head between knees? Feet above head? Please God, I know you are here. Here at Military and Bell. Please don’t let me throw-up in front of all these cars.

All of these people.

And I just sit there. 1 minute. 2 minutes. 5 minutes.

And then I see it. And y’all probably think I’m going to get all emotional about how nobody stopped to help me, just like nobody stopped to help me in the torrential downpour a few weeks ago and if I spend too much time thinking about it, I do kind of wonder what all those people thought as they were passing by, but no. I’m not going to get emotional. I’m embracing the fact that some people just end up running in downpours and flying across sidewalks and those “some people” are me-people.

Anyway, I see it. Amidst all the pouring red and crumbly rocks, a hole.

In my lululemon.

A HOLE!

And I did want to cry.

Later we’re at Emma Claire’s soccer game and she runs back and forth and round and round and she’s trying to keep up and stay up and I see her whisper to her coach and he stops the game and says, “OK. Hurry!”

She runs over for a hug and a hat. Mostly the hat, I guess.

And his coach yells to her, “Come on, ya little diva.”

And my heart smiled. She is totally a little diva. She thought nothing of stopping the game for her own comfort and style, and it was in watching her run and twirl and catch the eyes of  each parent, that I thought, “Oh honey. You will be there some day.”

Just like your Mom. Running, leaping, falling. Not because of flat Fremont and not because of cracked sidewalks and maybe not even because the Lord tripped you to get your attention.

It’s because you dream.

And what’s going on around and beside and behind is sometimes far more fascinating than following the ball that’s right in front of you.

After the game, a mom came up to me and said, “Did I see you at the corner of Bell and Military today?”

Uhm, yes. That is a possibility.

“Yes! Yes! I saw you sitting there with your head down. I would’ve stopped but the light had just turned green and I figured you were waiting on Mike (my client).

And you know, the more I think about it, that really makes for a better story, so I’m just gonna go with that.

I was waiting.

And dreaming.

Get outta the Truck

I saw a picture yesterday that read:

Redneck Divorce.

“Get outta the truck.”

And I laughed.

Out Loud.

Get outta the truck.

If only it were that easy.

And it reminds me of the time my brother was working  for Vice-President Gore and Mr. Gore looks at his boots; his signature cowboy boots that probably cost more than my entire shoe collection and Mr. Gore says to him,

“Where you from, boy?”

And it’s in that very same voice that I hear the man say, “Get outta the truck. Boy!”

And it makes me laugh.

Because looking back, I  thought it would be that kind of easy.

And one day it came to me. You don’t get divorced.

You go through divorce.

And so it should be.

It should be hard.

You  don’t get to jump outta the truck.

And I started wondering about other moms and other little ones and other stories and I wondered, how do you bring beauty from ashes? And my answer has been this:

To share the journey.

To tell the truth and show my  heart and be a witness to the realities of this messy, mis-stepped, beautiful, blessed life and that’s what I’m doing.

Mark Batterson writes in his book “The Circle Maker”, if you are called to write a book, it doesn’t matter if anyone reads it; you write out of obedience.

I’m a people pleaser and I am ridiculously defensive when it comes to criticism, but the same truth holds. If I’ve been called to write this blog and to share my story then it doesn’t matter if anyone reads it-

or  understands it-

or likes it.  🙂

I write out of obedience.

But lately the feedback has been overwhelming and overbearing and I thought Lord, why are you having me do this? I make a joke about being alone on a Saturday night and a reader thinks “I’m above that”.  One of the greatest blessings of my life is that I can find humor in almost anything.  And I’m not above laughing at myself.

And this isn’t funny. Divorce isn’t funny. But being alone on a Saturday night unable to zip (and 3 hours later, unzip) your dress because you are alone is kind of funny. And running down the street knowing that the only people giving you a second glance are the type of people with loud speakers and yell “run, momma, run” is kind of funny. And wearing a running skirt to teach body pump only to realize there’s a reason it’s called a running skirt and not a sqatting skirt or a tricep-dip skirt and a chest press skirt; yes while wearing said skirt only to realize that Coulter’s friend’s dad (yall remember him) is RIGHT in front of me and I’m paranoid so I change directions only to be RIGHT in front of another man (a cuter one, a married one, but for some reason a safer one) and all I can hear above the noise of the music is my Mom’s voice when we were children, “Keep you legs together” and my face flushes red and—

Wait. I don’t really think I had shared that story.

Ok, so now I have.

And it was funny.

And it’s funny that mowing makes me cry and that I once announced to a class with the head of the YMCA that “Save a horse, ride a cowboy” was my new theme song and—

And.

I’m sorry. If you can’t find the humor.

As Ann Voskamp says, “I’ve never been here before.”

And so, yes. I’m sorry when I get it wrong.

Say it wrong.

Write it wrong.

My only purpose is to show my faith in Christ, show what it looks like to lean hard on Him and laugh just a little along the way.

But dangit. I’m ready to give up. I’m so ready to quit.

And then this.

A letter. Like a real letter, with a stamp.

In my mailbox.

And she writes: “Somehow I tripped across your blog months ago.  I love your writing. You speak to my heart and I believe you are someone I would feel honored to call a friend. They (your blogs) make me feel and they make me laugh and they are a kind of poetry that allow the reader to experience it as well.”

And y’all know that if I think a loud speaker on Military and Bell is the voice of the Lord, then for sure this letter is from God.

Almighty.

Himself.

And then she continues. I also read your blogs as a cautionary tale and they sometimes feel me with dread.

Uhm. Ok.  A little on the ouchy side.

She ends with this. That you for sharing your thoughts, feelings, fears and joy. It is a gift. I just wanted you to know.

And how would she have had any way of knowing that her letter would come on the very day I was ready to quit.

How could she have known what she “just wanted met to know” was what “I just needed to hear.”

And I need the hard stuff too. I need to know when what I’m writing offends or hurts or is messy and tangled. I need to listen to all the voices and not just those that ring so clearly in tune with mine.

And I’m trying.

And in the meantime, I’m just gonna run, momma, run until the Lord finally says to me.

“Get outta the truck. Girl!”

And He will.

Someday.

He.

Will.

 

Run, Momma, Run

I skipped church. I turned on Pandora and sang.

You know, with the hairbrush mic.

I folded and hung and boxed-away the heavy; they dreary and the weary of winter and with just a touch of hope, I brought out spring.

White pants.

There is just something really happy about white pants.

And it’s ridiculous that I would wear them, because I’m not the kind of mom-chick who can pull off white pants. Emma Claire will have a spoonful of nutella on them before we even make it out the door and if by chance we are spared the nutella, Coulter will call out an impromptu game of tackle football and I’ll be on the ground, dirt smeared into the crisp white.

But right now, just hanging in my newly sorted closet (and by sorted, I just mean that for today everything’s on a hanger. There are no promises for tomorrow), but they call out for spring; they whisper hope that winter has passed.

They’re also whispering that they aren’t really mine and that I’d better hope my sister doesn’t remember that I have them.

Anyway.

Boxes put away, I lace up my shoes.

Pavement praying. Outdoor church.

As I head out the door, there’s a handyman working and he stops me.

“Oh! That’s too bad about the divorce.” And I think he might be smiling.

Like, you know, he doesn’t think it’s “too bad” after all. And I think this is such a weird town.

With weird people.

And I run and I walk and I circle this town. And I am draped with this overwhelming sense that I am a stranger. People don’t know me and I don’t know them and—

Here. In this town where I have lived for two years.

I am a stranger.

And it serves no greater good; no greater purpose but I allow myself to play the game of why and what ifs and what abouts and what the HALEs and maybe.

Just maybe.

God.

You got it wrong.

This time. You got it wrong.

Why not Sioux Falls? 10 years of friendships, of knowing my heart. Why here? Fremont, where, ironically, there is no freedom.

At least I think that’s ironic. Y’all know I’m always a little iffy on some of the big literary words.

Why here where chaos ensued from the beginning and people didn’t know, couldn’t know and how could I show?

The before “me”.

So I literally say out loud, “Why? God! Why here?”

And y’all know I’m a little partial to freakin’ and it rolls off so easily and I think freakin’ Fremont!

Really, Lord?!?!

Why did you bring us and drop us and leave us and as I’m asking, the answer comes and I’ve never heard talking bushes or heavenly voices, but I recognize the small, still spirit within me and I’m expecting something great.

Something profound.

Something that the Lord seriously needs to apologize for, but instead.

I get this.

‘Cause you didn’t do it in Sioux Falls.

Oh. Alright, then. Yes, there’s that.

You waited. You thought you knew better and could do better and that by the sheer will of determination thought that everything would be better and—

And I don’t use this word and I especially wouldn’t think it’s appropriate while talking to God, but I kinda thought, deep in the dark chambers of my heart,

OK, Lord, you don’t have to be a smart-you-know-what about it.

I know it took me a while.

To hear. To follow. To do.

Several blogs back, I write about a moment when I was driving down Military Ave. and again, the still small voice.

“When are you going to do the hard thing that I’ve call you to do.”

And I remembering this and I’m playing my what-if game and I come to the very.

Same.

Place.

Military and Bell.

And this time the voice is not still.

Not small.

As a matter of fact, it comes through a loud-speaker. And this is what I hear.

“Run, MOMMA, run!”

Uhm, yeah. I’m not kidding.

And did I mention the weird people? I mean, like who has a loud-speaker?

On their truck?

And seriously?

How do they know I’m a mom? (Which I get, is really beside the point).

And I know this seems like a stretch and I get that it was probably just a redneck dude with loud-speaker on his truck but I have an amazing ability to turn pretty much anything around so for me.

For today.

I’m gonna listen.

And obey.

And one step in front of the other, this momma’s going to do her best to run with endurance the race that is set before me,  looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith. (Hebrews 12:1)

Even if that race is in Fremont.

And if I could look back and go back and un-do and re-do.

I wouldn’t.

Because even though I feel like a stranger in a strange (and weird!) land and even though the nice but totally weird handyman next door is seriously not feeling “too bad” about my divorce and even though–

They didn’t see our start or even now, know my heart.

I wouldn’t.

Because in this place. I have friends who are running this race.

With me. Friends whom I’ve fallen quite in love with and friends who know I’m just a little bit weird, myself.

Weird (or, maybe we should go with faithful) enough to believe the Lord speaks to me at Military and Bell.

Sometimes in a still small voice.

Sometimes over a loud-speaker.

Run, Momma, Run!

About this time last year I had to sit across from a man who I have loved for most of my adult life.

And his attorney.

Whom I have never loved. 🙂

The one he promised not to hire.

And I had to listen to hard things.

And untrue things.

And if I’ve learned one thing from all of this (and good grief, God in heaven, hopefully I’ve learned more than just one thing) but if there was one, this would be it:

When I get sad.

I cry.

(OK, we already knew that).

When I get mad.

I cry.

(And that).

But. If I can’t cry. If I somehow manage NOT to cry by some amazing and uncharacteristic sense of control and shear will, yes if I cannot cry.

Then I get, just a little,

(and by little, I mean extremely,)

Sarcastic.

And it was across this table listening and answering and feeling an overwhelming sense of anger and betrayal and unbelievable sadness at the scene that surrounded me and I could not cry and I would not cry and God of all glories,  I did not cry, but I did say this:

“I have no job. I can’t find a job. It’s like I’m on some kind of permanent vacation or something.”

I think I also used the word freakin’.

And it was a stupid thing to say.

Not freakin, I kind of stand by that.

But, you know, the whole vacation thing.

Sarcastically and angrily and ashamed-ly (is that a word?) admitting that I hadn’t been wanted-

or hired.

or desired.

or.

And sometimes feelings get tangled. And the rejection blurs between job and husband and, oh.

Never mind.

And I didn’t mean it.

This has been no vacation.

But hearing “no” gets old.

And hearing “it’s really for the best” gets even older.

And oldest of all is that it just wasn’t part of God’s plan.

And sometimes I just want my own plan!

Anyway. Finally. Somebody said yes.

Just before her 70th birthday, a cancer survivor with a heart for Jesus, she calls me and says yes.

To personal training.

And I panicked.

I mean, I took the tests.

I passed the tests.

And even with all the tricky math problems and sciency-words.

I passed.

The tests.

But the truth is I didn’t quite yet know what the HALE I was doing.

But she didn’t give up and together we got strong.

Together we pushed and pressed and we did not rest and together, we celebrate a year.

And because she said yes. Because she believed more in me than I did in myself-

I was ready.

For HALE YEAH!

For all of this.

A few weeks ago another woman on the eve of 70 walked into the gym and with each new thing she would say,

“I can’t do that”

And I would say.

“Well, we’re gonna try.”

And we did.

And last week she swatted my hand away from the controls on the bike. She gets cranky like that. 🙂

And then she saw a cute boy and she asked me about him and I got distracted and I kept pushing her treadmill speed higher and higher and well, too high—

But, you know, whatever. I fixed it. And she didn’t fall off.

Just showing her that she’s faster than she thinks!

And it’s hard. Harder than I can really imagine but she’s putting in the work refusing to be “done” at 70 and her goals are braver and more admirable than a smaller tush or a new pant size.

Her goal is to walk independently.

To travel with  grandkids.

To bowl.

(And I don’t really understand the bowling thing, but I’m not here to judge. 🙂 )

And for the first time in more than 10 years.

Her goal is to live.

Alone.

And I get to be a part of that journey!! HALE YEAH!

I stand in awe of a God who brought me to this place in this space and with incredible people who trust me to help them. And I think how many times did I almost give up, back up and screw it ALL up by trying to be someone I’m not.

I saw a picture recently that said, “I wonder if we ever give God a headache.”

I’m sure of it. He must have had like a God-sized freakin’ migraine the day I walked out of Duane Svec advertising thinking I could sell pens.

And I mean I was excited, right? They were really cool pens.

And I kept just a few.

Which is wrong.

I guess.

I’m kind of on the fence about that.

Anyway, we get out-of-the-way; and hand over our day—

Look what He does.

Look what can happen!

I’m so proud of my team and humbled and grateful to be a part of their story!

And on this day, my kiddos got to join in on the fun.

And at the end of the day, as I went to hug a friend goodbye, I felt something squishy. Something soft.

It was this. Emma Claire’s sock. Stuck inside my tights from the laundry.

And that’s when you know you’re a working mom. You can run three miles with a bunched up kid sock stuck inside your pants. And not even know that it’s there.

And when I think of all it could’ve been—

I’m pretty thankful for the sock.

 

Almost!

Coulter was turning two and for weeks we had practiced.

“Thank you.”

We would pretend to open a gift. We would practice showing appreciation. We would even pretend to open a horrible gift.

Like socks.

Or a vegetable.

And we would  feign excitement.

The big day came and his Uncle Gregory was there. The box is big.

He unwraps. It’s a basketball goal. Coulter can hardly breathe. He just stares.

And stares.

I keep waiting. You know, for the manners that we have faithfully been working on.

I nudge him.

“Coulter, honey, what do you say?”

Then at a decibel level to shake the foundation of the earth we stood upon, he screamed,

“OOOOOOOOOPEN IT!!!!!”

Which was  as close to a “Thank you, Uncle Gregory,” as one could get.

That whole summer, he would shoot and shoot and shoot.

And miss and miss and miss.

And each time and I will never forget it, he would say.

“Almost!”

“Almost!”

He has this amazing spirit. He keeps going and he keeps trying and he says, watch one more time and one more time and yes, one more time and he knows he’s almost there.

And he knows he will  get there.

Eventually.

Last week he was playing Y baseball and he got ‘out’. And it was hard. And I saw his face crumple and bless his heart, he is my son and I breathe tears and they spring easy and often and what chance does he have? But I look at him.

I’m in the dug-out. You know, cause I’m a super cool mom-coach and by coach I mean, I’m wearing a 4-sizes too-small team t-shirt, holding a team roster telling kids when to bat and they yell at me, “Who’s next? Who’s next? Who’s after that?”

And I can’t take it.  I mean seriously, it’s not that hard. There are two spots.

Batter.

And that on-deck guy.

And that is all you need to know. And it’s possible that I’m not really considered a super cool mom-coach, but Coulter is glad to see me and his blue eyes deep and longing stare hard into mom and I give him the look.

The look that says, “Chin up, young person.”

“Chin up and don’t you cry.”

Even though what I really wanted to do was scoop him up and take him home.

Home.  Away from ‘outs’ and back to ‘almosts’.

But he’s at that age. Where you learn.

That you give your best. You try your best.

You do.

Your.

Best.

But sometimes.

Your best?

Still gets you out.

And good grief, yes, I know—

This is 2nd grade Y-ball, but after that it was football and soccer and there were these super talented hispanic little ninja boys who were quick and well, what’s another word for quick, and they just kept running and scoring and running and scoring and you couldn’t tell who was a coach and who was a parent because they were all screaming from the sidelines, “Andale, Pablo! Andale! ” (And I’m not being disrespectful. They were like little running ninjas and the grown-ups were shouting Andale, Pablo!.”

Which reminds me of how I always know if my Dad’s speaking to a Hispanic person on the phone because for some reason his thick southern drawl takes on this hispanic accent and he starts speaking in clipped English and he’s not being disrespectful either.

He has no clue that he’s doing it. It’s like his way of bonding or something.

Anyway.

Yes, I get that it’s 2nd grade. I get that he’s 7. Unless we’re at the Y and he’s alone in the gym and then for sure he’s 8. You know, just for the record.

But it feels like we’re at a jumping-on place. And there’s that moment when you click the buckle and you realize that it’s too late to jump off. And there’s that click…..click…..click as you ascend and you know without a shadow of a doubt that you don’t have the stomach for what’s coming.

And I don’t have the stomach for what’s coming which was one of many reasons that I didn’t eat with Coulter and Emma Claire tonight, but I did pray with them and  as they blessed the food, they both gave thanks and I think that appreciation practice is finally paying off and then Emma Claire ended with, “And God I’m excited about soccer tonight and if you could help us win, that would be great.”

And I don’t know if we are supposed to pray for sports victories, (especially for 4 year olds) but now that we’re on this ride, rest assured that I will be.

Praying.

Praying that Coulter never gives up and keeps showing up and that I can ride the coat-tails of his unfailing enthusiasm and his belief that we’re “Almost There.”

Because the truth is, we’ve had a lot of misses. And outs.

But.

We are.

Almost.

There.

 

 

Eat. Pray. Love.

That was the book that started it all.

Elizabeth Gilbert tells her story.  And in ours,(in our two stories) there is nothing remotely similar.

Except that we both want out.

And that’s not true either. I didn’t want out.

I fought. To stay in.

But I fought for something that didn’t exist.

Gilbert says about romance, “Sometimes, I’m a victim of my own optimism.”

And that’s me.

I played hard. And with optimism.

But I’ve decided that I was playing basketball and he was playing soccer and no matter how hard you fight, or how hard you play you can’t win at soccer if you’re driblbling with your hands.

And did I seriously just try to create a sports metaphor?

I’m thinking it was actually nothing like that, except there were different rules.

And dang it! I really don’t like soccer.

And I’m out.

And I don’t want back in.

Anyway, she’s a writer. She gets an advance. She sets out.

To Eat.

To Pray.

To Love.

And as I read—

I could.

Not.

Believe. 

The honesty.

I kept thinking. Oh my gosh. Does she know that her Mother is going to read this? I mean, that’s what I always think. I will just tell you right now, there are days that I wish I had a no-moms-or-dads-allowed blog.

Or a girl’s only blog.

Yes! Just like the sign on Emma Claire’s door. “No BOYS allowed (except for friends).”

So basically, it’s a sign telling her brother to keep out.

But oh the stories I could tell if only my parents weren’t reading. And those darn boys.

A few weeks ago, I got word that I had missed a memo. I got the memo.

I tried to catch up to the memo.

I failed.

There was gauze and tape and  band aids and—

Oh! Wouldn’t you like to know, but I can’t tell you because of the boys.

And my mom. 🙂

But Elizabeth wrote and there were no keep-out signs. Everyone was welcome.

And I remember reading,  thinking I want to go to Italy and speak Italian (or at least speak with a little accent). I remember thinking, I want to eat my way through cafes and drink expensive wine (which, whatever, I don’t drink wine, but if I did, wouldn’t it be fun to do it in Italy?), and I remember thinking I want to wake up and pray and walk and pray and lie down and pray and after all the praying, I want to go to an exotic island and meet exotic men. 

And then perhaps more praying. You know, after said island.

And some days I feel like I’m on an island. Only without the men. And my mom says to me, did something happen? Did somebody hurt your feelings?

And she knows me.

And even if I had a no-parents-allowed blog, she would still know.

And she remembers the years (lots of them) where I hid the truth. It wasn’t just that I pretended to be happy. It’s that I pretended to be OK.

When I wasn’t.

When we weren’t.

And I remember this quote from Gilbert’s book:

 “All I could say was, “I don’t know what to do.” I remember her taking me by the shoulders and looking me in the eye with a calm smile and saying simply, “Tell the truth, tell the truth, tell the truth.”

I’ve never played soccer. Or basketball. And I’ve never been to Italy. And there are days, quite simply, that I don’t know what to do.

But each day as we, Coulter, Emma Claire and I, yes as we learn better how to live in this place; how to grow in this space, I can show love and respect and I can nurture and protect and with each new phase, new questions are raised and all I have to do—

Is tell the truth.

Tell the truth.

Tell the truth.

Why I Write

So my friend says, “Why?”

Why do you feel the need to share every emotion?

I had never thought of it that way. I don’t feel the need to share emotions.

I feel the need to tell stories.

To tell the truth. Because for too long, I hid. And writers helped me to become brave. In the telling.

Ann Voskamp and Anne Lamotte and Elizabeth Gilbert and on and on and on and these women wrote and they shared and they told the hard truths and from their experiences I learned.

Am learning.

And I  laugh, because as transparent as you think I am,  there’s a heck-of-a-lot that you don’t know. Believe it or not. I do filter.

Occasionally, I lose the filter. Sharing over tea or lunch or late night talks—

Those words.

Which I could never.

Will never.

Write.

A few weeks ago I met a friend for lunch.

I tell my stories. The ones I can’t write about , and she responds.

“Oh.My.Gosh.

Forget the book! You should write a screen-play.”

And we laughed and we laughed and I got in the car and cried and cried.

Because.

It’s not really all that funny. 🙂

And then the weekend came and I was headed to an event and I felt sorry for myself because there was no-one to zip my dress.

Ok, so I guess I do share emotions. Whatever.  I cried over my zipper. And once I started.

I could.

Not.

Stop.

It’s the little things. And sometimes you just want help with the damn zipper. And I read something about how the Bible starts and ends with a marriage. And I read something about how we were created to live in community and created for relationship and God saw that Adam was alone and he created Eve.

And I don’t want to get married.

But I want someone to help with my zipper.

So I drive to my neighbor’s. She zips. She hugs. I cry some more.

And on Monday, I’m telling this story to a client. I talk entirely too much, and I know this, but when they’re struggling through workouts, I distract them. Sometimes with stories of zippers; sometimes with stories about kiddos and sometimes I pretend I’m the announcer at a race and we’re racing toward the finish line and people are cheering and screaming your name and today—-

My client told me to Shut Up.

But I know she loves me.

Oh! Oh!

I really should remember to tell her the story about how I once attended an air-force academy formal and how I waited in line for the restroom forever only to discover that I couldn’t get my dress up.

Or down.

I stood there for a few minutes. Took a deep breath. Opened the door and asked the stranger next in line to join me in the bathroom stall.

And she did. But I’m off topic.

So my 68-year-old client (the one getting the zipper story, not the one getting the cheering and clapping) is listening and we’re talking about hard things and children and sickness and sadness and she says to me “I wish I had had the presence of mind to just stop and look around” (when her kids were young).

Stop. And have the presence of mind to look around.

I forget to stop. I parent. I work. I play. I run. I try. But seldom do I remember.

To stop.

And dang-it! In the forgetting, I let a zipper steal my joy.

And there is joy. If we take it.

If we claim it.

If we choose it.

If we make it.

If we stop.

And look around.

So why do I write?

I don’t know. Because I can. Because I have to. Because of Elizabeth and the two Ann’s. And because I hope someone reading  will stop. And look around. That someone reading will get a little joy from my dang zipper (that, btw, a neighbor also had to help me get out of). That someone reading will get a little hope knowing there is life after a failed marriage.

That maybe God hates divorce.

But he doesn’t hate me.

That someone reading will start to feel brave. Brave enough to tell their own truth.

And did you read my last post? About dreams and hugging strangers? Yes, well, let’s face it. I write because some of my readers are REALLY, really good at giving hugs.

And just when I need them.

Waiting for Spring

I was in a room. With men.

A lot of men.

I knew only one of them.

Paul, my dear friend from college.

The other men I didn’t know.

They were huge and all  tatooed-up and I was walking up to these men and asking for  hugs.

Ack! I know, right?

All strangers except for Paul and I know that if I called Paul tomorrow he would fly to Nebraska to give this girl a hug.

I woke up in a cold sweat. So ever grateful that this had a been a dream. And slightly worried that I had just, at 40, had a hot flash. I said, out loud—

“Thank you Lord Jesus, that that did not just happen.”

But I kinda do need a hug.

As  moms, we hug and hold; we carry the load. On our hips; on our legs; on our backs. My children, like their momma, have the love language of touch. Which is just a fancy way of saying we like to be hugged. Coulter slept on my chest until he was so heavy that it became hard for me to breathe.  He still turns my hair as he’s falling asleep, which is why I’m feeling super conflicted about cutting it off.

And I did cut.

It.

Off.

Emma Claire also speaks the language of touch. Each night her hand finds the back of my arms and she  lays her head, rubbing softly, until she’s asleep. 

Touch.

We were created for it.

And then last night.

Another dream. And I was in a room and people were, again,  hugging me.

I woke up with 4 year-old legs and 8 year-old arms and blankets and alligators and puppies and a lady- bug pillow; somehow all intertwined and my stomach had that churning, turning, “I’m performing in front of thousands of people tonight and haven’t learned my music” kind of feeling. And I wanted to tell the kids it was a snow day and just let us all go back to bed.

I’m unsettled and I don’t know why. And then someone posted a link on youtube about eating your frog first thing in the morning and I’m trying to figure out what my frog is and grab onto the idea of eating it.

First.

Maybe if I eat my frog, my icky tummy feeling will go away.

And maybe I will stop having hugging dreams.

And hot flashes.

And I think it was some sort of motivational type link, but all I can do is feel sorry for myself that my Frog—

Was.

Well.

Just a frog.

I leave the frog behind. Today was music with the “old people” day and usually I’m inspired but it was depressing and despairing and I looked at these bodies, soft and weary and ready; souls who think they are leaving “just as soon as the snow clears”; minds cluttered, yet hopeful—

That.

Tomorrow will be better.

When maybe it won’t.

Maybe tomorrow won’t be better.

Spring hasn’t come. Is it coming, Lord?  Emotionally, spiritually, physically and for sure literally, did you forget about us? Do You really keep your promises? I believe Lord.

Help my unbelief.

Hearts are breaking. Piece by piece by piece and we are but scattered from dust to dust and there are those who are questioning God’s goodness and His providence and His promises. If God is the giver of all good things then why do fathers of babies get called home leaving behind widows to mourn and to mother, and why do these old bodies, babies all grown; bodies broken and suffering sit and wait for the call and Why, Lord?

And why do I keep ending up in a room full of strangers? Wanting. Needing.

A hug.

I know where the room is.

And I know where I am.

It came to me as Emma Claire and I were singing “How Great Thou Art” with Lottie.

Lottie who’s a cranky old thing, with eyes that sparkle and oh! To have known Lottie when she was young.

And why, Lord?

Why do husbands say “I will” when they won’t and they don’t?

One day, I’ll tell you where I am.

I’ll tell you about this room.

Full of men.

But for today,  my heart  feels the questions and I have no answers.

When is spring coming?

I need to feel the sunshine blaze warm on my face.

The  promise of new life and never-ending grace.

I need to feel Your arms, wrap-hold-strong. Steady me, God and don’t be long.

I need to wait. And so I do.

I wait. On his promise. For new strength. Strength to run and not get tired.

I wait. On his promise. To redeem and restore.

I wait.

For Spring.

I know that it comes.

But.

In the meantime.

In the waiting.

If, you know, you just happen to see me walking by.

You can go ahead and assume that I’d really like a hug. 🙂

Looking up. Seeing the Crystal.

Usually I scroll; skim and scoop, but at this.

I stop.

My friend, Queen Cindy writes—

“I’m thinking and praying  about how well I will carry my load today and how will I help carry the load of others.”

How well will I carry my load ?

defeated?

Teary?

Heavy-burdened with shame and regret—

Mad?

Yes! I’m just so dang mad!

But here’s the thing.

They know that I love Jesus.

They know that I believe in Him.

Trust.

In Him

So what do they see?

It reminds me of my friend, Jenna. She never wanted to put one of those fishes (and yes, I know they have a name) on her car because her foot was a little heavy. She didn’t want to give Jesus a bad name.

And I’m sure there are times when Jesus cringes and has that gritting his teeth thing goin’ on….I’ll never leave you nor forsake you, but man, oh man, today, I’m kinda wishing people didn’t know you were in my family.

So how well do I carry my load? 

And.

More importantly.

How will I help carry the load of others?

It makes me think of the whole WWJD “thing”, which has always just  annoyed me a little bit. If I think I’m getting on some sort of bandwagon, even a Jesus wagon, I tend to shy away. Of course looking back, I’m thinking a different wagon here or a different wagon there might of—OK, never mind.

WWJD? I’ve discovered.

Is not the question.

WAIGD?

It doesn’t really have the same ring. Try it. Say it fast. WAIGD? As a matter of fact with the “G-D” at the end, it doesn’t sound very good.

Not good at all.

It’s not what would Jesus do? It’s we are the hands and the feet. We are the body.

So what are WE gonna do?

What Am I Gonna Do?

WAIGD?

Seriously. I should never write past 10 p.m..

Last week a young man; a husband and father and friend and son and yes, a much-much too young man, died.

I didn’t know him, but I’ve watched over the past few days as those around me mourn his passing.

Mourn for their friend.

His family.

His children.

And then  today.

Boston.

And I’m a runner.

Well sorta.

And I can’t imagine.

But all day, my friend Cindy’s words have swirled and spun and I’m taking in this and I’m taking in that and the Lord reminds me that we are to cry with those who cry; mourn with those that mourn.

And in a media saturated world, we focus on the big.

The tragic.

The shocking.

But here’s what I know. I’m in Fremont, Nebraska.

And I can not carry the burden of Boston.

I can not help them carry their load.

I can cry with them; mourn for them;pray for them; but can not help carry.

And when it’s too big—too hard—we do nothing.

I. Do. Nothing.

A man I didn’t know? How do I mourn him? It feels too big.

And I can’t and I shouldn’t but I can cry with those who cry.

Help carry the load of those who mourn.

So this week, I’m laying down my load. A load that in the light of true tragedy seems not quite so heavy.

And I’m giving thanks to a Jesus that will carry it for me.

And I’m going to ask myself over and over and over—

How can I help carry the load of others.

Because people are hurting.

In Boston.

In Fremont.

Down the street. Up the road. Across the tracks.

It doesn’t always make the news.

Sometimes. It doesn’t even make it to Facebook.

Our friends and our neighbors and our family and the very ones whose lives seem perfect and it is messy and hard and broken and right here in my own backyard—

WAIGD?

To love on others.

And help carry their load.

I’m not sure.

But for starters, I’m gonna look up.

Because another quote from Queen Cindy?

“And then the sun came out….and God showed how easy it is to miss the crystal chandeliers if you’re looking down.”

And then the sun came out. I don’t feel it yet. I don’t feel warm and I don’t see the sun, but I know that it shines.

And if I’m going to help others carry their burdens then I’d better start looking up.

Giving thanks.

And seeing the crystal.

.

The mom debate and why I need my inhaler!

My words are scrambled and spinning and I will for SURE offend someone today.

And yet somehow.

I don’t care. 🙂

Moms work.

All day. All night.

Everyday.

Without end.

Exhaustingly, sacrificially, un-abandonly. Which may not be a word, but I’m a mom and I get to make up words.

When we moved to Nebraska two years ago, my husband and I had agreed that I could stay home.

For a while.

We could afford to do this.

Turns out we could’ve afforded this in South Dakota, but as the Mom who slept on floors and slept in cribs and sang and rocked and scratched and rubbed; as the mom who was up late, up early and who worked in and out of the home and yes as this mom, I was too sleep deprived to stand up for myself.

For my family.

Anywho-

The first night in Nebraska, my husband told me that I needed to get a job.

Not long after, a copy of “Working Mom” came in the mail.

It was a gift.

To me.

From my husband.

So sweet.

That was almost two years ago.

Yesterday I decided to read one.

First article made my skin crawl. A mom brags about catching up on emails during her son’s soccer games so that she could be “more present” with him later.  Uhm, yeah. OK.

She said “Come on, how many times can you yell ‘great kick’ before they tune you out?”

I need a trash can.

I don’t care if you work; why you work or when you work, but if you’re working at your son’s soccer game, I can assure you that he cares.

Then I hop onto Facebook.

There’s a link to a Huffington post blog about the “why”.

Her daughter  asks  if she loves her job more than she loves her children.

The mom blows it off .

She loses all credibility from the beginning. I don’t care why she works. This piece could’ve been a powerful statement  about LOVE.

Instead it was a pathetic attempt at defending her priorities.

And slamming those who don’t share in those priorities.

I scroll further.

Post from a fb friend.

“I could never be a stay at home mom. I’m pretty sure I would get tired of just organizing stuff all day.”

I need a trash can AND an inhaler.

I love my work inside the home and I’m grateful for my work outside the home. The truth is, I’ve never fit neatly into either category. I try to be both.

I have to be both.

I work while Emma Claire is at preschool.

I work while the kids have practice.

I work while they’re at AWANA.

I work while they’re with their Dad.

I would tell you that of course I don’t do it perfectly, but I can just hear it now.

“She admitted that she’s not perfect!”

So.

Of course.

I’m perfect.

You know,  just for the record.

————————————————————————————————————————

So, we were on our way home from school.

Coulter said, “Mom? Did you get my soccer ball?

“Oh Shoot! Coulter,” I said with an inner frustration that perhaps perfection had passed me by just this once, “Mom was at work all day and I just. did. not. get. there. I am so sorry.”

“Oh, OK.

Wait! Where do you work?”

🙂

Should I tell this story?

I don’t know.

Will she say, you’re so lazy that your kids don’t even know where you work?

Yes, she will probably say that.

But she will be wrong.

And lazy is such a lazy word don’t you think?

I’m a mom. For Coulter—

Nothing else matters.

I made it to Walmart the next day for the soccer ball.

He has a game on Saturday.

And I will be there.

Yelling.

And cheering.

And he’ll give me a look that says, “Mom! You’re embarrassing me”

But I’ll know  he’s faking.

And then, WHOA! There it is!

What? You missed it?

Reading emails?

Well, shoot!

Because it really was a great kick.

HALE YEAH!

It was a great kick!