Raising Magnolias

August 15th

Today I saw a friend and I just blurted it out.

August 15th!

Uhm, OK.

Or as Coulter would say.

Mom! Random!

Because we weren’t talking about dates. Weren’t talking about August. Weren’t really even talking.

But it was in my head and I needed to say it out loud.

So I did.

Nobody wants to get divorced.

Unless you need to get divorced.

Unless you know that you are getting divorced.

Unless you’ve been trying to get divorced for almost 18 months and you find out it’s going to be another several months.

Nobody wants to get divorced.

Unless you  thought you’d be divorced in November. And January. And this spring. And this summer.

Ann Voskamp says that all is grace.

And we gave thanks in all things.

And all is grace.

So there is grace in August.

August 15th.

I let that date kill my joy for a day. And then I remembered that nothing has changed. All that mattered in November 2011 is all that matters today.

It’s all that matters tomorrow.

It’s all that will matter on August 16th. Whatever that day will bring.

I am a mom. And my children are all. that. matter.

Being a mom is all.that.matters. (I mean, you know, beyond loving Jesus. Don’t get all technical on me.)

Last week we were standing in the doorway to my parents’  kitchen. She jumped up into my arms and squeezed right-hard. She was laying it on thick—

“Mom, you are so pretty.”

“And so kind”

“And you are just the best Mom that I know.”

And then she stopped. What came next stunned me.

“And I’m so grateful.”

I looked at my mom. Did my 4 year old just say she was grateful? And no Nutella was invovled?

Raising a daughter who thinks your beautiful?

Yes!

Raising a daughter who is grateful?

Hale Yes!

Because I know that children don’t become what you tell them. They become what you show them.

And somehow, by the grace of a loving God,  I am showing them gratitude.

Even when I don’t feel it.

Faith it till you make it. 🙂

August 15th? Who knows.

Who cares.

OK, I do.

Whatever.

I shouldn’t.

Spring is coming.

Summer is coming.

Coulter’s turning 8.

And his present is AwEsOmE!

And Emma Claire has her first dance recital.

And we will bike.

And play.

And swim.

And I will be warm.

Thank you, Jesus! I will be warm.

Everything is easier when you’re warm.

Actually, everything is easier when you’re grateful.

And I am.

August 15th?

 

Oh! The Things I Would Ask Him To Tell Me

It’s Palm Sunday. My favorite Sunday of the year. Tell me the stories of Jesus.

I really do love to hear.

And OH! The things I would ask Him to tell me.

If He were only here!!

I woke up this morning sans little ones and I purposed in my heart that I would rejoice and be glad.

And I was.

For about 2 hours.

2 hours until I stopped just long enough to listen to the silence.

Streaming down, unwelcome and uninvited, they come.

And darn-it-all. I was having a really good make-up day.

I re-apply.

Except my mascara. I have this new mascara that I am telling you, you could cry a river and it.will.not.come. off. Which is totally beside the point, but I’m just saying if you are gonna cry, you might as well try to look your best while doing it. 🙂

I heard a sermon once on Palm Sunday about our tendency to move from celebration to celebration without the cross. We celebrate  the  entrance and his triumphant resurrection, but the week in the middle?

Sometimes.

We skip it.

The dragging and the beating and the clanging of the nails. The tears and the mourning; the betrayal and the deception and that Peter-thing where we do the very thing we purpose not to do.

Missing the Passion is not my problem, though. Getting to Easter is.

Anne Lammott is quoted talking about being an Easter people living in a Good Friday world.

It’s probably more true that we are a  Good Friday people living in a Good Friday world; Good Friday people looking, hoping, waiting.

For Easter.

But who am I to argue with Anne?

Wait. I have totally gone off point.

My make-up was running. I re-apply. My eyes look great.

I will not stay home on Palm Sunday.

I walked into church and I see the children.

All in a row. Palms ready for waving.

And I don’t even try.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

So I don’t even try.

Little guy asks, “Where’s Coulter?”

And I answer truthfully. “He’s at his Grandma’s in Lincoln.”

I leave out the harder truth. He is with his Dad.

And now I understand the term broken. Split in two. Torn apart.

Broken.

Separated from one another.

And my friend sees me and even hidden behind my completely awesome (thank you Dr. Barrett) sunglasses, she can tell. She moves her family; the pastor’s family and they sit with me.

Covenant family.

Worshiping together.

The hardest moments are always the ones that you don’t see coming. My heart is broken and it doesn’t feel like Palm Sunday.

It feels like Friday.

Like a winter that will never end.

Like maybe this is the year that Spring doesn’t come.

There’s a little blondie all dressed in pink. Her heart is precious and her thinking is deep and she spots Ms. Myra Katherine and she stops singing.

Because she’s worried.

For me.

And it is Friday.

And the wind is howling. I can hear it sing through the walls and rattle at the windows.

And there is snow on the ground.

And it is still winter.

The pastor started to preach and I continued to wipe tears  and soak in truths and just everything he had to offer. Everything the Lord was speaking through him and I look over and my friend’s mother, our “Dana” is crying and the pastor himself chokes out his words and again, I think—

Blessed are those who mourn, for theirs is the Kingdom of God.

Good Friday. Jealousy, fear, pride, arrogance and well—

Just plain ‘ol mean.

And mean, I get.

A Good Friday world is mean.

And Easter seems impossible.

A world of forever, away.

And yet I know it comes because it has already—

And those who wait on the Lord will renew their strength; they will inherit the earth; the Lord will incline His ear to them. We are called to wait and run patiently the race that is set before us.

I’m running. The patient part is getting old, Lord.

Just sayin’.

But I am running. And I will not stop. And I will not be bullied. And I will not be threatened and I will not lose faith in the knowledge that—

Easter is coming.

Because Easter? As it turns out?

Already came.

And the victory?

Already ours.

Disney, body pump, legos and my black friend who’s actually white.

 (This is what happens when a Momma actually gets to sleep!)

Scientists say we dream every night.

But scientist have been wrong about a lot of things.

Remember the low-fat/high-carb diet in the early 90’s that  made us all fat?

Turns out you can’t eat 4 bagels a day and expect to lose weight.

Dang scientists!

I miss bagels.

And then there’s the whole KABOOM! A monkey just fell from the sky thing, but I’m not really smart enough to take you there. And so I won’t.

I never dream. Possibly because I rarely sleep. It’s a mom-thing.

But last night I slept. And I dreamt.

Or is it dreamed?

I woke up around 11:50. I had taken an advil congestion at 8:30 so I was racked with guilt about taking another one. I’m a rule-follower and the box says every four hours. I do the math.

I can’t wait until 12:30.

I take the Advil.

And then I went to Disney World.

I haven’t been to Disney World since 1995, but my children get to go quite often so I was excited to be there. I’m standing in line with my friend and I notice, strangely enough, that my white friend is now black.

We are having to sign in and it’s the Body Pump sign-in sheet and they won’t let me sign in for my friend and there are all these people and they’re fighting for a body pump bar and we get separated.

I walk into the gates of Disney and I see a bed. And again with the moms never sleep thing, if you see your chance, you take it!

So I climb in and I sleep.

I wake up.

Startled.

I’ve lost my friend.

Coulter’s friend’s Dad is following me around and I keep telling him that I have a meeting with my co-worker.

Who is really my friend.

Who is at Disney.

Who used to be white.

And there is no meeting.

And the dad says, “I’m guessing you weigh about 125”

Uhm. No. But weird that you would guess.

(And I dreamt that because it really happened. Yesterday. For real. In real life.)

And I text my friend. I can’t find him.

And there are people everywhere.

So of course we run into my brother.

And his big farm truck.

And I’m holding Emma Claire and we are doing those circle things (donuts?) in the mud and yelling Wheee!

The yee-haw version of a Disney ride.

Legos start flying out of my brother’s truck.

As we stop to get them, we ‘re in a neighborhood and this older woman and man come running out and steal the legos.

“I’m calling the police!” I yell at her.

And I do.

And she returns the legos.

Seriously. You do not mess with Coulter’s legos.

And I find my friend and he’s white again and my brother’s back in Arkansas but we somehow missed Body Pump and I’m worried that I’m going to gain ten pounds and then Coulter’s Dad’s friend will be right and then I wake up.

For real this time.

And it’s 8:15.

8:15 IN THE MORNING.

This momma slept until 8:15!!!

And I sing a little happy opera and then it hits that I really did miss body pump and I’m a little bummed but then I sing my happy opera song again and I give thanks for the gift of sleep.

And dreams.

And white friends and black friends and brothers with cool toys.

And I think about all the hours and hours and hours of lego-building and relationship building  and separating parts and reading directions and lining up little star wars guys and building a ladder that reaches just almost to the top of the bunk bed and the zip line that they slide across to avoid the hot lava below and I give thanks for the gift of remembering—

We don’t need Disney.

We need lego days and book days and coloring out of the line days. We need balls. Footballs, soccer balls, basketballs.

And we need to fix the picture frame that fell during yesterday’s indoor volleyball game.

That’s where we play volleyball in the living room and we don’t use our inside voices and we occasionally knock things off the wall.

 

 

Oh and I need a bagel. I seriously need a bagel.

Praying Without (mostly, sometimes, rarely) Ceasing.

I asked Coulter. He said no thanks. He’s kind of at that age.

Emma Claire chimes in. I’ll do it!

And she begins.

“God, we just love you. And we thank you for Jesus and thank you for Elena and Miss Jenny and thank you that we get to play and thank you for Mammaw and help her not to die because we know she’s probably going to die pretty soon because she is old and old people die but help her not to die and thank you for Jesus and most of all God, thank you for loving us and help us to love you more everyday.”

She pauses. Coulter see’s his opening. and he’s smart enough to take it.

“AMEN!”

And she looks up. Sullen and offended. I was. not. finished.

But Coulter knew a good ending when he heard one and to be honest I’ve never heard a better one.

Most of all.

 Thank you for loving us and help us to love you more everyday.

I’d like to say she learned it from me, but I kind of have a feeling that it’s the snack-prayer at preschool.

My family is a praying family. And I try hard to move beyond memorization and go deeper and be grateful and I want my children to know, more than they know letters and numbers and reading and writing; more than that I want them to know—

They.

Can talk to God.

How many friends do you have that you’ve never talked to?

Talking to God is how we build relationship.

And I used to be super good at it. I pretty much had the whole praying without ceasing thing down. I prayed in my car and I prayed on my runs and once I even prayed while simultaneously (is that the right word?) singing the National Anthem.

Because singing the National Anthem is scary. Especially if you’ve ever forgotten the words in front of a very unforgiving college crowd. And that, of course, is just a totally random example.

One of my favorite Authors, Anne Lammott  (I think I have a thing for writers names Ann)  has two basic prayers.

Help me. Help me. Help me.

And

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

What I’ve learned from Anne with an E is that sometimes that’s all you need.

What I’ve learned from Ann, plain jane and without an E, is that the thank you should always come first.

Because thank you always precedes the miracle.

And this morning I felt like I needed a miracle. I woke up with this headache.

And I mean like it  hurt.

A lot. A lot.

And I don’t get headaches. And I cursed myself for bragging just the day before about how I never get sick and I’ve been cuddling a sick child for 4 days and cheek to cheek and nose to nose and dangit.

I. Am. Sick.

But I can’t be sick. I won’t be sick. I do not have time.

To be sick.

So I take two Bayer back and body (highly recommend) and two Advil. I take a high-potentcy vitamin D along with a glass of orange juice. I topped that off with two flintstone vitamins and ice-cold diet coke.

And then I asked Coulter to pray with me.

Again. At that age.

“Uhm, no thanks, Mom.”

“OK.” I said, “but you know the Bible says that whenever there are 2 or 3 gathered in His name that He will do what you ask.”

And there are several things wrong with that sentence. First, I took it out of context, second, as I try to find the reference, He actually says in the midst of them so I didn’t even quote it right and third, I totally just used scripture in a guilt-trip kind of way.

But did I mention that my head really, really hurt?

“OK. God, please help my mom’s head feel better.”

Amen.

I want Coulter to know that we can go to God with anything. That with people dying and starving and hungry and lost; with war and poverty and yes, with all of this and so much more, I want my children to know that God cares about my headache.

He is huge and awesome and mighty but He is personal and loving and cares about my head. And all the hairs up on it.

So, in an effort to get back to those days where praying was as easy as breathing, I’ve set up 4 alarms on my phone. Just simple little breaks in the day to bring me back to Him and breathe a prayer of thanksgiving and today was my first day. I was teaching body pump. I was half way through the squat track when above the music, above the mic, I hear the strangest sound.

12:12

And then I remember.

Sorry, y’all!  I tell my class.

That’s just my phone reminding me to pray.

And they probably think I’m Muslim.

But I’m not. I’m just a mom. Who loves her kids. Who loves Jesus and is trying to remember the prayer of a 4-year-old.

Yes, Lord. Most of all. Thank you for loving me and help me to love you more everyday.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=By-8BN316mM

(Go back! Listen! It will bless you!!!) 🙂

Standing in the Gap

I don’t know Ann.

You know, Voskamp.

If I did, I’m sure we would totally be bff’s.

(For those of you much older and less text-language savvy, that’s best friends forever.)

But I don’t know her.

But I do know this.

She stands in the gap.

For me.

For women.

For moms.

And so on this day that I find myself back at the “there are no words” place and there are actually words; plenty of words, it’s just that a) they will be twisted beyond meaning and abused to lose their meaning and b) they’re not nice enough for this southern girl to use.

But I’m thinking ’em—

And I’m just betting that Ann thinks them every once in a while, too.

She writes about being a mom. The essence of the sacrifice that is not a sacrifice at all, but a beautiful gift of grace.

And she writes about how women should be treated. How moms should be treated. And her argument? Her standard?

Jesus.

And what resonates is this: If Christ is the Truth, then if there is no truth, then there is no Christ. Why would we ever have to be afraid of the truth.

And I’m not.

Afraid of the truth.

I actually like to think of myself as a mini-Ann, (humble little chicky aren’t I?) only, you know, she’s a much better writer, a heck of a lot smarter and doesn’t have my knack (sp?) for witty-sarcasm.

Oh, and she like hardly ever says, “like” or “seriously” or “HALE YEAH!” 🙂

But today, I know I will say things; true things, hard things, but will totally be misconstrued things and so instead, I offer a little Ann.

www.aholyexperience.com

(I’m having trouble with the link. It’s the blog posted for today, March 20th) You can also find it on facebook at One Thousand Gifts. You can like her page and get updates for her blog).

And she talks about men. And how to treat women. And about nursing babies and cleaning up vomit that covers them both and I think of just yesterday lying in bed with my own sick baby and how she was sleeping and I was holding and she woke up just long enough to throw-up on me and then as if she was sleep-vomiting, just went right back to sleep. A mother doesn’t wake her sleeping baby to get clean. A mother holds and waits and like Ann says it is not a sacrifice, but a gift; a grace; a calling on your life and that life is not a race.

Reading her post today reminds me of how grateful I am for the faithful men in our lives; the faithful men who show up and stand up and will.never.give.up and they have built into my life and into the lives of my children and God is the giver of all good things and today instead of anger and sadness and heart – breaking madness, I will just say thank you.

Thank you to my Dad and Pop and the Pappaw that came before. Papa Tom, Uncle Mark; and my brother who couldn’t love them more. To Pastor Doug and Pastor Brian who got them started on their way and Fremont Pastor Kyle whom I could call night or day (but I promise not to! :).

And I didn’t really mean for that to rhyme. But Emma Claire and I have been home together since Sunday night and I’m starting to talk like a 4-year-old.

And I could go on. There’s Eric and Chris. And Papa who’s not really our papa, but you wouldn’t know this. Coach Harmon and Darin and the men of Awana. And reading aloud Emma Claire just added iguana.

Told you we like to rhyme.

And did I mention we are blessed?

#crazyblessed

My Favorite Snow Day.

I hate being cold.

We aren’t supposed to say hate in our family, so please don’t tell my children.

My friends down South think I must be “used to it” by now. But how do you get used to being cold?

You are either cold. Or you’re comfortable. There’s no getting used to it, there’s just learning how to get warmer.

The irony in all of this (or at least I think it’s irony) is that Nebraska is actually the warmest place we’ve lived in the past 15 years.

I’ve tried to embrace cold-weather activities. But I just want to embrace my blanket instead.

But Coulter’s currency is time.

And being outside.

With his mom.

And we are crazy blessed with the gift of time.

But he’s an almost 8-year-old boy and I’m a 40-year-old mom and there’s only so much dribbling,shooting, throwing, hiking, tackling, nerf-war ninja, wrestling and did I mention the tackling that this Momma can take!

Like my friend said recently. Can we just sit and color, already!?

Not today.

It’s almost 60 degrees. Piles of snow left from last weekend’s storm (the storm that the weather people kinda forgot to tell us about), and it’s soft and slushy and perfect for building snowmen and perfect for throwing snowballs and BAM!

Mom’s all wet.

And cold.

And I want to go inside. But I remember the currency; the building in and the building into and the building up in the way that they should go and I literally, instantly have a seriously great idea.

Snow-Baseball.

It is my favorite sport.

Mostly because of the pants.

Just kidding.

Coulter! I’ll pitch the ball to you!

He hits it with his hand.

He runs the bases.

I throw snowballs to get him out.

I miss every time.

He mentions something about “ghost runners” and I’m confused and they seem to score a lot of points because I can’t figure out how to hit the ghost runner but we are together. In the snow. And it’s 60 degrees.

And I am warm.

Time.

His language of love.

(Emma Claire was so obviously trying to cut her brother out of the above pic. And let’s not have any comments about my hair, shall we?I have a feeling my Mom’s going to call and gently question as to when my next hair appt. is!) 

Continuing on…

The beginning of our snow day had started at 5:00 a.m. Boot camp with a chick-a-dee who’s a heck of a lot stronger and faster than I.  7:45 conference call for Rodan+Fields (the healthy skin branch of my training and wellness biz). 2 clients at 8:30. A  few hoops at 9:30 with the C man and by 10:30, I seriously wanted to crawl into bed.

And I did. Do the research. Naps are totally essential to healthy living and wellness. 🙂

It’s my lunch hour. Everybody gets a lunch hour.

Afterwards, I suggested family painting hour and that’s when Coulter laughed and said how ’bout a snowball fight.

And it was a beautiful day. A perfect snow day. And while we played I watched cars drive in and out of our normally sleepy neighborhood and I watched as they traded their currency for Ms. Mary’s life. They took out boxes and furniture and piece by piece they filled their cup with her things.

And it was hard to watch. And I wanted to call the police. But turns out having an estate sale is not illegal. But here is a woman who lost her husband, and her home and all of her belongs in about 2 weeks time and then got shipped off to the retirement home and here are these people and their currency.

And it was gross.

And I thought, look at all these poor people. Not poor as in ‘bless their hearts’ poor. Poor as in we need money, poor. Looting her life. Icky cars and icky people and her son who needs money and what about her life and what about her memories and —

And.

And I have her piano.

But I convince myself that somehow that’s different.

Because somehow I’m different. And I would tell you how exactly, but I’m still working out that argument in my head.

I shamed myself for these judging thoughts and I shamed myself for cold versus hot and watching her life be torn apart–

 It became clear.

Less “no”. More snow.

Building into your children who cares if you’re cold?

And there is freedom in time. Each day it’s the same. Time blasts into pieces the walls of  status and power; of socio-economics, and race and religion.

And when time is your currency; it’s impossible to feel poor; to be poor.

And so God above all gods, help me remember.

Less “no.” More snow.

More Yes.

To time well spent.

That Girl

There are five stages of grief.

Or is it seven?

I have no idea. I only know that I’m leaving.

The crying stage.

And the complaining stage.

And the woe-is-me-my-life-is-so-much-harder-than-your-life-stage.

And the woe-is-me-my-divorce-is-so-much-harder-than-your-divorce-stage. (And just so you know, is actually is. You know, harder.) 🙂

And  the I-take-no-ownership-and-this-was-in-no-way-my-fault-stage.

Scratch that. I’m thinking I’ll stick around that stage for a while.

It’s not exactly out of maturity and growth. I had a little nudge. 

My Pastor says, “Don’t be that guy.” Actually he was very politically correct (something that I’m thinking is not particularly easy for him) and he says, “Don’t be that person.”

But he meant don’t be that guy.

The my-life-is-so-much-harder-my-divorce-is-so-much-harder-guy.

Preaching in front, his head turned down; my head turned to the side. Please God. Don’t let there be eye contact.

Cause I already know.

And I don’t want to be that girl.

Last week a friend of mine referred to me as “religious.”

Which at first made me laugh and then I stopped laughing and decided my feeling were definitely hurt.

Cause I don’t want to be that girl, either.

I can’t remember if it was too religious or real religious or just what the context was, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t meant as a compliment.

Religious reminds me of the word lovely. Sounds good, but kinda not?

(Insert southern accent here)

“Well, isn’t that just lovely.” (As in, “Bless her heart! When did she start shopping at Sears?”)

Religion is tied to a church or a doctrine and in my short 40 years I’ve been a Methodist and a Baptist (Southern and American). A Non-Denominationist and a Lutheran and a Presbyterian (both kinds) and an Alliancer (which is not really a word), and a church led by a former Methodist pastor, turned non-Methodist pastor and we were “meet in the park-ers”.

Religion is a set of rules; a doctrine and a human interpretation of the gospel. Faith is a relationship. (And thank you to my friend Chris Estudillo for summarizing about 300 of my words into one sentence).

And I’m just thinking it’s possible that we’ve gotten a lot of it wrong and we are going to be reeeeeal surprised when we finally meet Jesus.

Anyway, this girl is reading “The Story”. It’s the Bible as one continuing story. I would say that it’s a dumbed-down version of the Bible for those of us who, after years of trying to read the Bible through in a year, but continually get stuck in Exodus ( no pun intended), but I can’t say that because some of the people I know reading it are actually quite smart.

Wait. Maybe that wasn’t a pun at all. Did they get stuck in Exodus? They left Egypt and then got stuck. What comes after Exodus?

Anyway, reading. The Israelites (and I’m  nervous to use that word).  Knowing a word like the Israelites definitely makes one sound religious. They were so ungrateful. All the bickering and complaining and whining and Oh. My. Gosh, I am so sick of reading this story. Seriously people, he struck a rock and water came out of it. Food is like literally raining from the sky. What more do y’all want?

And then it happens. I have my little, “OH! So that’s why we have to read the old testament.”

And I text my friend Jodi. I’m an Israelite!

And the Word is on her lips as it is commanded to be and she says, “Yes. They didn’t miss the promise land because of murder or adultery or lying.”

The missed it because the could not shut the HALE up with all their grumbling and complaining.

To be fair, Jodi didn’t say the last part. That was me.

The water always comes from the rock and the manna is there every morning. All we must do is look back on His faithfulness in order to move forward with steadfastness.

Oh Yeah!

Time for the Happy Dance!  (Something I can do since I’m so not religious!) 🙂

Strong Mike

This man looks at us. Me and Big Mike. Small Mike as Emma Claire has started calling him because she sees the small.

In him.

He will get there. Someday.

And I only use his real name because he has told everyone in town that I’m his trainer. It’s not exactly a secret.

But this man. There’s this old man and we are in the gym and we are working and Mike is sweating and he is giving me everything and this old grouchy man says, “You’d better stop or Big Mike here won’t be able to walk home.”

OK, but I’m pretty sure he has a car.

I am so annoyed. I take a breath. “Yep!” I say, “He’s really workin’ hard.”

The old, grouchy man continues. “Yeah, but look at that tire around his belly. Gonna have to work a heck of lot harder to get rid of that.”

Uhm, OK. Pretty sure that’s what we’re doing.

Working hard.

At what point did we decide it was ok to talk about big people; overweight people, all-in-all fat people? In front of them? You know they can hear, right?

And I think. I’m not sure Emma Claire should call him Small Mike. We meant getting small. But this man is making him feel small.

I don’t like small. New name. Strong Mike.

I breathe again. Somehow hopeful that maybe in fact Strong Mike can’t hear and we move on. Away from old, grouchy man.

Old, grouchy man who needed a cane to walk out of the gym and I know y’all think I’m nicer than this, I’ve been “accused” recently of being “real religious” or maybe it was too religious? I don’t remember and that’s another blog entirely because I am in fact not religious at all, but I am faithful.

And I believe.

Just not very highly of this man. Anyway, I know y’all think I’m a nicer person than this, but evidently I’m not because as he walked out I looked at Strong Mike and said, “See? He can’t even walk with out a cane.”

Shame on me. I’m sure he is a sweet old man who doesn’t know better and probably calls black people “Colored folk.”

I let it go.

Seriously. I did.

And then today. A not very old, probably not very grouchy, in fact quite attractive younger woman with a beautiful smile looks at Strong Mike and says, “So, got yourself another trainer, hu?”

She turns to me.”He’s been through quite a string of trainers, just so you know.”

“Well, Mike and I are a team. I’m sticking with him.”

“Oh, it’s not the trainers it’s him. He can’t stick. He won’t stick.”

And HE. Is standing right there.

My face flushes hot and it’s one thing for friends to tease and friends to jab and friends to encourage and hold him accountable. It’s entirely different for random gym lady to think she gets a say.

I have to get away from her. I tell Strong Mike. Get some water and I walk away.

And as I walk, she thinks I don’t hear, but turns out strong and fit girls can also hear and she leans into Mike and says,

“She’s reeeeal pretty, Mike.”

And I’m not reeeeal pretty, but his last trainer was Josh, so maybe in comparison I’m a little bit pretty, but that’s not her point.

And Mike knows that. Knows what she’s getting at. And his face, already pouring sweat and red from exhaustion flushes even more brightly and he’s not embarrassed.

He’s mad.

And I’m mad.

And you know what I think? I think we should all. be. mad.

All. Get. Mad.

At social injustice and bigotry and hatred and all the phobias we carry around which are lame excuses to cover sexism and racism and fat-people-ism and all the other isms. And let’s get mad at people who speak unkindly and act unkindly and this week let’s speak up.

I will act in kindness but if you humiliate my client; my friend; right to his face, then I’m gonna speak up.

Well, maybe I’ll act in kindness. I will for sure try to act in kindness. I guess it depends on how many diet cokes I’ve had that day.

And knowing that I fall short and knowing that we are all broken and messy and heavy with weight, be it on our bodies or in our minds and heavy weighing down our shoulders and hearts and knowing all of this I will also watch my words and choose my words and lift up with my words.

“Encourage one another and build each other up.” 1 Thessalonians 5:11

So come on, people! Let’s encourage one another! And pass the word that if you mess with Strong Mike, I’m gonna have to hurt you. And then of course, I will encourage you and build you up. 🙂

Fear is not an excuse for hatred. And humor is a lousy camouflage for being cruel.

An Anniversary of Grace

Two years ago.

Today.

(Yes I know I started yesterday’s post the same way.)

Sorry. It just that it’s our “new beginning—turned fatal ending—turned new beginning” in Fremont anniversary and I’ve been reflecting.

About two years ago.

Two years of trying and crying and defending and pretending; running and rushing and filling and floundering and not wanting to be still; stand still; hold still, just wanting to move forward; wanting to be finished; yes after months of not eating and not sleeping and not knowing and not growing and yes, after all of that on Friday I stopped.

Because God made me. I swear it’s like he pinched me or something. My mom used to do that in church. We got a look and if the look didn’t work, we got a pinch.

Anyway, the pinch. Pretending to be 20 (something I will continue to do,) I squatted too low; too fast; too slow….I have no idea what, but I heard it.

I felt it.

I’ve felt it before.

Time to stop.

So for the past two days, I’ve gone slightly above the recommended dosage of advil (and by slightly I mean by quite a lot) and I’ve been in bed.

Occasionally I go downstairs for a diet coke.

And I did leave once to sit in a hot tub with my friend Beth.

And it feels like I have the flu. Only I don’t. I’m not sick.

I’m just weary.

In my bones.

I slept until 7:30 this morning.

And took a nap at 10:30.

And then I changed my profile picture on facebook.

And needed another nap.

I seriously cannot remember where I was going with this.

Yes, OK.

Two years ago.

Today.

I walk into the YMCA. Coulter notices some boys wearing Clarmar t-shirts. Clarmar, as in the school where he would start the very next day. They played basketball.

I see their Mom. She is doing side planks and for some reason I remember that.

And she was the first person I met. My first friend. And if I don’t write a book, she could because she knows a lot and she knows it from the beginning.

And she invited me to her spin class. And I thought I would die. I called my husband and said, “I can’t drive home.”

We started coming to the Y. To swim. To play basketball. To exercise.

And I met my second friend. And my third friend.

And the ladies at the front desk called Emma Claire, “Emma Claire”.

Each morning, we would go. Emma Claire would play and I would get stronger. I would listen to the music and feel the steel bar in my hand and I knew I was changing.

From the inside out.

And later, after the unraveling, and on nights when I had to be away from my house; away from my children, I would go to the Y.

It became a place of refuge. For me. For my children.

And it that place we would grow strong and be strong and play hard and play long and in that place I now have a way to provide for my family and in that place I have found a home.

Away from home.

Two years. Reflecting. Because when you stop to remember where you were—where you started—you remember to give a holy hallelujah that you’re not still there!

So there is grace in the pinch.

In the slowing.

In the stopping.

In the advil.

Grace.

Even in the ice pack.

That Emma Claire is now eating out of. Which may sound gross, but I assure you it’s not as gross as the ice she picked up and ate off the ground in the Y parking lot.

I like anniversaries. I like remembering. No way in HALE that I’m going to be able to say “Happy Anniversary!” But I want to say something.

I want to say.

Thank you. To my first friend, to my faithful friends, to my Y family and my covenant family and my never leaving, always supporting Cece and Pop family and I want to say stop and get on my knees and say thank you.

For His Grace.

Two years ago. Today. And I celebrate.

An anniversary of Grace.

The End That Became the Beginning

Two years ago.

It was beautiful. And warm.

At least for February in Nebraska

And exciting.

Change can be exciting.

And we moved into the little yellow rent house.

And I knew. I believed. I hoped.

That this was a new begining.

And it was.

The beginning of the end.

And I remember how I hated. Really hated.

That little yellow house.

The way it smelled.

The way it looked.

The way it felt.

And then we found our house.

And we built a new kitchen.

A lovely home. With room to move and room to play and room to grow.

And I knew. This was it.

This was a new beginning.

And it was.

The beginning of the end.

And the end came.

And I started looking for jobs. And applying for jobs and interviewing for jobs. And I tried to be something I’m not and become something I can’t and in God’s grace I was told no and I was told no and—

Oh. My. Gosh! He kept saying no.

One year ago.

It wasn’t a beautiful day.

It was cold. Even for February in Nebraska.

And change was no longer exciting.

It was scary.

And I sat alone in our big, lovely home in my big leather chair and I sat.

And I sat.

And I sat.

Without smalls ones around; with small ones no-where to be found, I was paralyzed.

When you spend your days giving and loving and holding and singing and feeding; when your day is full and your heart is full because your job is wiping tears and bottoms and faces and hopefully not all with the same cloth and when you are the Mom, you don’t get to be alone.

Because in the becoming, you chose. A life with them and for them and yes, somehow in them.

And yet there I sat.

And I thought what can I do for them when they are gone? What I can do now—

For them? For then? For when?

And I know I’ve read it somewhere. “In a year from now, what will you wished you had started?”

And so I started.

And I learned words like vastus intermedius and trapezius pars transversa.

Which is a pretty big deal for someone who planned her entire future around not having to take science in college.

And I got this little card that said you are a Certified Personal Fitness Trainer.

And then I lost the card and now the Y really needs a copy of the card and it’s probably with my CPR certification card that I also can’t find, but what has me really frustrated is that I have a full Jimmy John’s card good for a free sandwich and I can’t find that either.

My husband would tell you they are tucked in Galations somewhere.

And again, he’s quite possibly right.

So here we are. Two years later. And it was the beginning of the end.

And in the end came a new beginning.

I have struggled and I have fumbled and tugged and torn and I think of Joseph or Isaac or who the heck was it that wrestled with God through the night and I felt like that has been me. Wrestling with God.

For two weeks I was a sales associate. That’s a fancy word for, “you will drive around in your car in the snow and the ice and you will walk into buildings where no one will want to see you and they will hide their face and shut their doors and….”

And.

When you try to sell pens because you seriously just want to make a living for your children but you don’t give a flying flip about pens (and seriously, who does?) then it doesn’t work.

Then you seriously make like 18 cents in a day. Because seriously who the HALE cares about pens?

And seriously, I may have just discovered why Emma Claire says, “Seriously?”

All. the. time.

When you ignore the voice of the Lord and you ignore the gifts and you try to define who you are by what you do instead of letting who you are define what you do;

Then we wrestle.

I’m done wrestling.

Last week I wanted to run into the Y to pick up my paycheck. Well partly because I wanted to pick up my paycheck and partly because it was Valentine’s Day and I had actually showered, applied make-up and wasn’t wearing yoga pants. So in short, I wanted my check, but mostly I kinda just wanted my little Y family to know that occasionally I can kick it up a notch. I didn’t really run into anyone who cared, though, cause I still spent Valentine’s Day with my Mom.

And of course, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Anyway, Emma Claire was confused. “They pay you?”

“Well yes, honey. They pay Mom to help them get healthy.”

“You don’t pay them?”

“No.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously!”

And then, totally astonished that these people pay her Mother, she says—

“Alrighty, then! Let’s get this party rockin’!”

And then I opened up my check.

And I looked at the number.

And I looked again.

And I felt lighter. Literally.

(And yes, I know the difference between figuratively and literally.)

And I breathed quietly,

“I am a Personal Trainer.”

And then even more quietly, not audible for her, I whispered—

“HALE YEAH, Emma Claire! Let’s get this party rockin’!