Raising Magnolias

Clear As Mud

Hi. My name is Myra Katherine. I’m sarcastic and I use self-deprecating humor both because it serves as a Defense Mechanism—

And because I’m funny.

But usually not on purpose.

I’m like a character from a children’s book who says something not meant to be funny and then says,

“And everybody laughed eventhough I didn’t say anything funny.”

Sometimes I feel that way. Sometimes everybody laughs.

Eventhough I didn’t say anything funny.

If you follow my blog, you are probably aware of the sarcasm and the humor and the random way in which I flit and float from topic to topic and how I occasionaly lose my train of—

Wait. Where was I?

Clear as Mud.

Sometimes.

It seems.

My writing.

Is.

Clear as Mud.

Last week in my attempt at humor I hurt someone that I care about.

Deeply.

It was in regards to Christian/Other.

I didn’t understand. I was making a joke, but it came across as judgement.

And I thought more about it.

And I thought about my High School sweetheart and I wondered what he would’ve checked. And I’m not sure. But it’s possible he would’ve checked Christian/Other.

And he loves the Lord.

And my aim is never to hurt or to offend.

You know, unless you have hurt or offended me and then of course that is totally my aim.

That was a joke.

And then more mud.

I got an email from a new reader. He says, “Oh, I know how you feel. During our divorce, I was mad at God, too.”

And I thought oh good grief. Is that what I’m projecting?

More mud.

I emailed him back.

I’m not mad at God. I’m mad at my husband.

And myself.

And then yesterday. Clear as mud, bless her heart.

I was not referring to the father of my children. That chapter is already written. I was just giving a fun little warning.

To other men.

To liars.

And I am learning. People lie.

A lot.

I’m looking out at the melting snow and how God says though our sins are like scarlet, He covers us and we are white as snow and I see the snow melting outside and underneath, layers and layers of soggy earth and the dogs come in and they are covered.

In mud.

Beneath the surface of the sparkling white is mud.

Muddy lies and anger and fear and hurt and you can hardly see the white or believe that He sees the white because everything is so dirty.

Muddy.

I don’t like mud.

I want crystal and diamonds and sparkly things.

I want clarity.

For my. For my children. For our future.

But sometimes we get mud.

And there is grace in the mud.

And we are called to be thankful for the mud.

God in my writing, provide clarity.

For my readers. 🙂

May I be honest without hurting and as the words come; words filled with anger and forgivness and hurt and healing and fear and hope and joy and humor and yes, as the words spill, may you always be glorified.

And may You continue to wash away the mud.

Bless Your Heart.

Person A is angry with Person B.

Person A makes decisions based on anger with Person B but doesn’t want Person C to know.

Person C says to me, (I’m not sure who I am here….maybe person E?) and C says to me, “Why can’t A just say it. A and B need to talk about it.”

And I hear the heart of C.

And I know you’re confused. So I am.

Try to follow.

C is saying, “Just tell the truth, already.”

And I smile a little bit.

A, B, C and well, E. We were raised in the South.

In certain circumstances truth telling is actually frowned upon.

We say things like, “Bless her heart.”

That’s code for “Did you see how terrible she looks?”

Or, Bless her heart, “Can you believe how poorly behaved her children are?”

Or, Bless her heart, “I’m so glad I’m not turning 40 and single and trying to raise 2 children in a town where the average income for a single Mom is $18,000 a year and Winter lasts 9 months and the wind blows all. the. time. I just don’t know how she does it.

Bless her heart.

I think I strayed from the topic there for a second.

I smile and I laugh.

At person C.

A and B and you and me.

We aren’t wired for telling the truth.

Not really.

Not conflict truth and hard truth and ugly, I’m gonna make you cry, truth.

Remember the whole snake and Eve fiasco?

We lie to protect.

Others.

And ourselves.

I’m so tired of lying. Of liars.

And this has nothing to do with Person A or B.

This has to do with Person D.

No. That was a joke.

I’m weary of liars. Of cowards.

Whose truth is too hard.

Today a friend posted a blog called “Why I hate February.”

Uplifting? Inspriational? Motivating?

Not so much.

But she’s just trying to tell the truth (Bless her heart!) 🙂

I know that we judge others for the.very.thing. that we ourselves do.

And I lied. For many years.

To my Mom. I am happy. All is well.

To my Dad. I am happy. All is well.

To my self. You can fake happy. You can fake feeling loved. You can fake that all is well.

All is grace, but all is not well.

Suck.It.Up. That’s the message, right?

No pain. No gain.

Just do it.

But God does not say suck it up. He says breathe it out.

I mean I think He says that. Somewhere for sure he says that.

Breathe it out.

Let it go. I already know the truth. So tell it to me. Fall onto Me and into Me and I won’t bless your heart.

I will bless you.

Telling the truth is hard and facing the truth is hard and we fall and we fail and we tell our children that the shots won’t hurt or the broccoli tastes good and we lie and yes knowing this, I am working towards grace.

For the liars.

I will work toward forgivness.

I will extend grace.

I will withhold judgement.

But know this. I’m writing a book. And if you lie to me and you hurt me and betray my trust and you make me question my the very essence of who I am because I do trust and because I do believe.

Yes, if you do this. Also know this.

I’m writing a book and there will be a chapter.

Just for you.

And I can hear the faint southern drawl of my faithful readers. Reading, reading, reading and—

Well

Bless

His

Heart!

Why I love Mondays.

I was walking up the stairs into the Sanctuary. She’s seven. She stops me.

“Miss Myra Katherine? Are you staying for the whole church?”

I look at her. Confused.

“Are you staying till the end?”

And I laugh. And I reassure her. Yes. I am staying.

We are staying.

And my whole mood brightens.

I struggle when my children are with their Dad. I grew up filling an entire pew. Even now, up by 7 bodies, we still squeeze into one pew.

One pew in the back that is, because you never know when my brother and I are going to start laughing.

Inappropriately.

So I don’t like going by myself. I don’t like sitting by myself. I don’t like singing or praying or listening or hearing or praising.

By myself.

So sometimes, I leave.

And evidently I’m not too discreet about it.

And when I stay, I sometimes look around at all the men. The married men. Do not judge me. I’m not looking at them like “that”. I’m looking at them like, wow, here are these men who love the Lord and love their wives and provide for their children and I think not about the verse we are reading; not about the song we are singing; I think Oh. My. Gosh.

And I panic. Just a little.

And I think somebody give me a cat already. Cause I may as well go ahead and start collecting them.

(No offense to my little cat lover friends!).

And the “Oh. My. Gosh.” is a strange feeling because I specifically remember telling my mother that I would never consider getting married again.

Ever. Taylor Swift alert. Like, Ever.

But we’ve been separated for almost 15 months and yes, still waiting for the end but looking ahead, I may have changed my mind.

And why did I just use the “m” word. Good grief. I might scare off the 3 single people in the tri-state area who possibly love the Lord and have a job.

Not that I can judge the whole job thing, ’cause, well, you know. I don’t have one either. But all the more reason that he should have one.

I mean good grief, how else is he going to pay for my dinner? And my ring.

That was a joke. Well not really.

Earlier I’ve shared that I’m not a good cook, I don’t mow the lawn. I hate putting gas in my car and here’s a new one.

I don’t carry a purse.

Because I fully expect you to pay for dinner.

And my ring.

And while we’re on the subject of loving the Lord and buying me a ring, did you know that there’s something called Christian/Other?

Anybody know what that means?

Christian/Protestant, I understand. That’s me.

Christian/Catholic, I understand. That’s 93.7% of my friends in Fremont.

But Christian/Other?

No thank you.

Well maybe. I mean, I guess if you make a lot of money. A lot. A lot. And you’re old. Really, really old.

Oh relax. That really was a joke.

I just thought we needed a little humor after my “I didn’t get the job because nobody likes me blog.” 🙂

OK, so about 500 words ago, I was talking about why I like Mondays. Actually, I think I was talking about why I don’t like Sundays but y’all know I tend to wander.

On Mondays dads go to work. As a SAHM, it’s normal to be with my kids; sans dad. It’s school and playdates and craft time and reading time and quiet time and I love the routine of Mondays and I love pretending that their Dad is at work (well, technically he is at work, but you know what I mean).

Saturdays are for couples.

Sundays are for families.

But Mondays are Moms-rock-the-routine days.

Mondays start the beating of the drum; the rhythm of the week.

We wake; we snuggle; we dress; we eat; we linger; we linger too long; we rush; we rush too fast; we check school lunches; we laugh at french toast sticks and mixed vegetables (not kidding) and we stuff backpacks and we search for the one pair of socks that are the only pair of perfect socks and we sign the papers and send the checks and we take a deep breath and we pray.

You are a blessing. Go. Be a Blessing.

You have the mind of Christ. You can learn all things.

THe Lord bless you and keep you and make His face to shine upon you.

Yeah. Yeah. OK, Mom.

One day Sundays will be easier. Maybe. Hopefully.

But today I choose to rejoice in a perfectly Manic Monday! Knowing fully that “this is the day that the Lord has made.” We may not fill a whole pew, but we will fill this house with lots of love and crazy joy!

Happy Monday, Y’all!

.

Nothing Personal

I was standing in the hallway. Early.

I’m a Hale. We’re always early.

Unless we marry a Strother. And then we quit being early.  (tee hee. love y’all!)

Anyway.

My heels click, click, click on the hardwood floors. I miss my tennis shoes. I notice a rug; an ugly rug  and I think about the job that I had selling rugs and pens and mugs and I think about how, at the end of our “trial period” a testing phase of sorts;  how he said, “I knew that you would never be able to do this job.”

You know, nothing personal.

You know, even though I told you I thought you would be able to do this job.

I was lying. I am a man. I lie.

Anyway.

I walk into a room full of people and I’m not nervous even though it’s been almost 20 years since I’ve had an interview like this. I’m not nervous because I know this is it. This is the job. My job.

Community Advocate/ Early childhood Coordinator.

Children!

And I thought it went well. But the letter that came in my mailbox yesterday told me otherwise.

And I can’t quit thinking about this one guy. This guy on the end. (Which makes me laugh a little because  dig back far enough in my writings and you’ll hear stories about another guy on the end….the one that became the father of my children). It’s not fair to speak for him (but, you know, it is my blog, so I’m going to anyway). I  just got the feeling that he thought my life has been too easy.

I haven’t seen real poverty; known real neglect; known real abuse.

OK. But did you ask? I missed the asking.

I see the letter. No real need to open it. And I’m so sad.

And I cry.

And then I’m mad.

And this is not fair; not fair to those charged with choosing the best and I wasn’t the best but I have to find a reason.

Am I not able to relate because of the $300 Ann Taylor suit I’m wearing?

The one my sister gave to me?

Three years ago?

Or perhaps because I’m a Kindermusik teacher. Doctor’s and lawyers with their beautiful wives and their perfect children?

That was sarcasm.

Why didn’t I tell them about the custodian’s granddaughter. The one who smelled and never had a clean diaper and whose favorite place to sit was right in my lap. The custodian who would stick around after class hoping to score some leftover snacks for their dinner. Why didn’t I tell them about the boy who punched me straight in the face or the student whose Mother tried to cook him in the stove.

Could they not see my heart? How it bleeds for children. All children? The poor, the forgotten, the privileged, the remembered? Don’t they all deserve our best?

Or maybe the did see the real me. The “opinionated, high-strung, wants only the best-won’t settle for less for my children,” me.

Maybe the did see the real me. The “children should always come first; before committees, before meetings, before grown-ups,” me. Maybe they saw the “I don’t care if I hurt your feelings if you are not taking care of your children me.”

And I don’t.

Care if I hurt your feelings.

Then the guy says, ‘and you’re trying to hide it, but I hear a little accent.”  And I think he’s joking but lately I’m not too good at taking  jokes.

Page 2. University of Arkansas. 1990-1994

Not really hiding it.

In preparing for this interview, I learned that the average income for a single mom in Fremont, Nebraska is $18,000. Counting child support I make less; a lot less. Unlike most, I have an enormous amount of help from my family, but please do not question my ability to relate to those that have less.  If it weren’t for my parents (and a good attorney) I would be the very family they are trying to reach.

I know what it feels like to be abandoned. I know what it feels like to be told you are not good enough. I know what it feels like to be stuck. I don’t know it in the same way. But I know it.

And I know how to help children.

And I know that it’s only by God’s grace; only by His amazing, unfailing grace that I am not there. Not living in poverty and abuse and neglect. And I wanted to tell them my whole story. I wanted them to know the story of the past two years. But  I know that even our life for the past two years would feel like Disney World to some of these families.

God’s grace.

And I’m only picking on this one dude because he was the vocal one. Maybe they all felt that way. Maybe it wasn’t the poverty thing at all. Maybe they just didn’t like me.

It’s ok. It’s kinda going around. 🙂

But here’s what I know. I know that it wasn’t the job. My job. I know that God’s ways are higher; God’s ways are better. He is able to do exceedingly abundantly beyond all we ever imagined. And He is faithful to complete the work he has started.

For me.

For my family.

For Fremont.

Even for the guy on the end who didn’t like this Arkansas girl. 🙂

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d61LamkXfwk

 

Waiting for the End

Y’all know I love quotes. And this is a good one.

“Someday is not a day of the week.”

Quotes are my favorite thing about facebook. Well that and it’s really easy to stalk old boyfriends.

That was a joke.

But only cause I don’t really have old boyfriends.

Anyway, I’m writing a book. I’m going to write a book.

Someday.

Tonight? Tomorrow?

I don’t know how to start.

How to start over. For me and my two. Stepping out of the old and into the new—

Today Emma Claire and I took a girls trip to the Apple store. Coulter got an ipad for Christmas and he insists on changing the password so that his sister can’t play. He changed it so many times that the ipad became disabled .

I’ve never been to the Apple store. Not even to buy the ipad.

They have to re-boot it. We lose our games.

We lose Mine Craft. This is serious. My heart is beating fast and I feel nauseous at the thought of telling Coulter. And for those of you who don’t know what Mine Craft is, let me just say that I don’t either. I just know it’s gone and it was a sad day at the Hale-Fritz home.

Where was…oh yes. Re-boot.

Boot.

Like Booty.

“Mom! He said re-boot. Scoot your boot! Scoot your boot. Scoot your BUTT!”

“Emma Claire. We don’t way that word.”

” I wish I could say that at preschool. Scoot your boot. That’s funny. Am I right, Mom? I know I’m right. But Dalton would TOTALLY tattle on me.”

And I thought, yes! 

I wanna  put pen to paper and spill words and stories and truths and I wanna write my book and  I wanna shout, “Hey! Scoot your boot!”

But I can’t. Because Dalton will totally tattle on me.

And yes I know I should be writing “want to” instead of wanna.

But I don’t wanna.

Last week Ann Voskamp posted in her blog that we can’t force our life like a bowl of bulbs. (Which totally makes me think of Tom Hanks and life is like a box of chocolates when in fact life is nothing like a box of chocolates).

Back to Ann—We can’t force beginnings and we can’t force endings and we can’t force God.

And so we wait.

We wait for the winter and the cold and the hardening of the old and we wait for the pressing through and it’s slow and there’s a touch of green before the flowers grow and we wait.

But I’ve been waiting wrong.

Waiting, hoping, desperately searching.

For the beginning.

Of new friendships and new jobs and new normals and yes, for a new beginning.

God. Alpha and Omega.

Beginning and End. 

Ann says the endings always come and when they do we give it back to the Lord.

As a gift.

I’m rushing and anxious and waiting on beginnings and I forget.

The ending hasn’t come.

But it will.

Surely.

I mean, come on! It has to.

Right?

Yes.

And when it comes, I will give it back to the Lord. As a gift. Thankful for the story. Chapter and verse.

I feel so foolish! I’ve been trying to close the book; force the pages; demand the ending as if I’m entitled to say what and where and when.

And how.

And the Lord says to me.

“Wait on me.

Finish this chapter.

Finish it well.

And when that story is over; when that story has ended, I will give you a new one.”

And not just a new chapter.

A new book.

 

 

 

Go ahead. Be perfect. But count me out!

Perfect.

Perfectionist.

Sounds good, right?

If we’re gonna do it, we might as well do it right?

Right?

And by right.

I mean perfect.

A little-known secret. Actually secret would imply that it’s not known at all. And most of you know this.

So here’s a very poorly kept secret.

I am not a perfectionist.

I do not aspire to perfectionism.

And quite honestly, I’m annoyed by those who are; by those who do.

Sorry.

I miss notes. 

I paint outside of the lines.

I don’t use a paper cutter when I’m trimming pictures to fit the frame.

I don’t even use scissors. I just jam it in there till it fits.

And eventually it does. You know, fit.

Take a deep breath. It’s OK.

Perfect is paralyzing.

I can’t do it perfectly.

So I can’t do it at all.

And life is messy. Messy with cancer and divorce and poverty and  kids who are in trouble and parents who are in trouble and sometimes, sometimes, you just gotta do it.

Un-perfectly.

My friend’s husband has cancer. I feel helpless. You know, because—I am—actually quite helpless. 

But then it comes to me.

Food.

We can feed my friend. And her kids. And her husband on the days that he’s hungry.

I can do food.

Which is funny because of all my gifts (and you know there are so many!), food is not one of them.

So now you know two poorly kept secrets. I’m not a perfectionist. And I’m not a good cook.

A few weeks ago my mom had gathered the ingredients to make chili, but the whole ‘there’s gonna be a blizzard’ thing came along and she headed south before we had a chance to eat it.

You really can’t mess up chili so I threw it all in the crock pot and invited two families over.

There were no tables set.  I didn’t have enough bowls. I hadn’t vacuumed.

Not perfect.

I tell them. My mom made the chili. It’s safe.

I promise.

And then I grate the cheese.

And I notice this blue stuff. All mixed in with the freshly grated cheese.

And I realize that I’ve grated the blue plastic zipper thing into the cheese.

And then my friends come. And their kids eat. 

The chili.

I don’t understand. It has beans and meat and tomatoes and they still eat.

The chili.

And I didn’t really plan on children who eat.

And I run out of  chili.

Not perfect.

But fun.

Fill up your cup (if not your chili bowl) fun.

Anyway.

I type a quick email. I send it out. Let’s feed our friend.

And immediately I get responses.

From perfectionist.

And I smile. I’ve been married to one for almost 15 years.

I recognize the signs.

The symptoms.

Let’s keep a list of what everyone’s making so we don’t all make the same thing.

Let’s use a website where we can input allergies and likes and dislikes and put in a calendar where people can sign up.

Where should we drop off? Let’s all coordinate to feed them at the same time. Make sure to ask people to include fruit.

A drop center? A call center? A ‘let’s work together to make this perfect’ center.

I’m half joking.

Half.

And my sweet, perfect friends who will read this, please know I love you for being perfect.

I just don’t do perfect.

I do cheese with blue plastic.

Not perfect, but really, really good.

And we have dates filled in for meals until the middle of February. And it won’t be perfect.

But the village showed up and there will be food.

This weekend I saw Silver Linings Playbook. And I left smiling.

Looking at Bradley Cooper for two hours will make you smile.

I’m not kidding.

But these people were messy. Mental illness, harsh language, affairs, broken marriages, physical abuse, messy.

But there was love.

And forgiveness.

And there was hope.

And they danced.

And it wasn’t perfect.

But it was good. Really, really good.

And his eyes are blue.

Really, really blue.

And I think he’s single.

And I think I might want to marry him someday. 🙂

 

 

Save a Horse….You Know The Rest.

He says “So, when’s the launch?”

Body Pump 84.

“Valentine’s or Superbowl weekend.”

Then with equal parts sarcasm and woe-is-me-ness, I continue. “I really hope it’s not over Valentine’s, because I am very busy that weekend.”

He looks at me. Another Greg. A happily married, sun is always shining, never give up on love, Greg. And he says, “Hey! You never know. Glass half-full!”

What? Did he just remind me of glass half-full? I’m an eternal optimist. Nobody ever has to remind me of that.

‘Wait!” I wanted to say. ” My glass is always half-full.”

Well, sorta.

I suppose it’s possible that my fremont village might be getting a different vibe.

Maybe it’s the in-between track comments. 

Slamming Kelly Clarkson and her ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’

Maybe it’s the jokes about an imaginary target when the weight goes bam. When the fist goes punch.

When the kicks go jab.

Hmmm. When did I let my glass go dry?

What happened to Myra Katherine glass-always-full? Why doesn’t Body Pump Greg know that girl?

They know the “I can’t live for one more day in the yellow house” girl.

They know the “I can’t stand this place because everybody and their dog smokes even on school property which is crazy ridiculous” girl.

They know the “I’m getting divorced— it’s taking forever—maybe never getting divorced” girl.

But they don’t know me.  Myra Katherine.

Optimist. Sunny-side up. Glass very full.

Myra Katherine wearing the crown.

Myra Katherine who went to Miss America.

And wore this.

Myra Katherine whose glass was so full, she actually thought she could be Miss America.

I posted the picture on facebook in honor of Miss America weekend. And then I deleted it.

I don’t like looking at it. I don’t know that person anymore.

My High School English teacher whom I adored wrote to me —

“It’s not the tiara that makes the princess.”

I know that.

When I did I forget?

And where the HALE  is that girl?

And where is my tiara?

Last week I introduced a new track for biceps. Old song was Kelly Clarkson. Stronger.

I loved that song.

And then I didn’t.

And then I thought if that girl tells me one.more.time. how strong I’m getting, I’m gonna throw-up.

On her.

So I say, “OK, y’all! New track!  A new theme song for 2013!” 

And I push play.

We lift. Up and down and up and down.

And then I listen to the words.

And I listen closer.

And a friend toward the back is starting to laugh.

And then I start to laugh.

And I’m teaching and I’m lifting and the head of the YMCA is in my class.

And I hear it.

Save a horse. Ride a cowboy.

I’ve just told a class of 30 that for me—

2013

Was about saving horses.

And riding cowboys.

It had sounded so much better in my head.

Saving cowboys.

And riding horses.

The difference is significant.

And I hadn’t meant to say theme….I had meant just “new”

The track ends. We stretch.

I try to explain—you know— about riding horses and saving cowboys and I’m making it worse and people are laughing and I know they are thinking “who is this person?” and the voice in my head screams, STOP TALKING!

But I love microphones. Really. I really love them. And I keep talking and—

Instead of crying; instead of  just dying.

Right there. On the spot.

I laughed. And later I was still able to laugh.

And today nothing is better. Not on paper. Not in real life.

Not better.

But I feel better. And my hope is in the Lord.

Not horses.

Not cowboys.

And the princess?

Well, she’s on her way back.

I know there’s gotta be a crown around here somewhere.  And a wand. I need a wand.

Wait. I need to focus.

Oh yes. The truth?

My cup?

Well, it overflows.

Learning to Talk Again.

As my Aunt Betty would say, “This is not my story to tell….”

Several years ago my brother was traveling with then Senator Clinton. He was interviewed for a profile piece.  The journalist asked how he stayed in shape. Out of the blue, he answered:

“I eat sunflower seeds.”

Now, I think there were other things said; other true things, but at the time he had never eaten a sunflower seed.

Ever.

And I remember him saying, “I don’t know. It just came out.”

That story makes me laugh.

And I thought it about last night.

I have a new  client. (Yay! New Year’s Resolutions!) The long version of this story is that I will do pretty much anything  to avoid the weight room. We will go to the gym, the track, the park,  anywhere, except a room full of treadmills and men lifting weights. But the gyms were full  and the track is closed.  And it’s January in Nebraska.

There was no choice.

I squeeze her onto a treadmill and we begin.  Immediately, I am distracted by the people; the voices; the music.

And the boys.

I’m not kidding. There were a lot of boys.

I’m 40 years old. I’m married (yep, still married). I teach. I train. I’m confidently raising two children. And all of a sudden I’m starting to get really hot and I’m not even the one running.

Ridiculous. I know.

Somehow we manage to avoid all the boys. It was easy actually. We just didn’t do any weights.

But on they way out, we bump into a friend.

A boy.

He speaks.

I fidget. I stammer. I stumble. I forget to make introductions. I forget that I’m actually working. I forget—

How.To. Talk.

My client is young. She hasn’t forgotten how to talk to boys so she carried the conversation. She talk about the workout. She talked about Jillian (Biggest Loser!) She talk about  trying to lose pregnancy weight. She talked about having more babies as in no-way, never again. And I find my voice and I say—

“Oh! I loved being pregnant!”

What?

Right. And my brother eats sunflower seeds to stay healthy.

Let’s see, I remember being sick and huge and each morning taking medicine that doubled as a sleeping pill. Tea? No, thanks! But here’s a sleeping pill to start your day!

Good Morning!

And I remember that Coulter quit napping. And I remember the sound of Barney as we would try to nap, and I remember that even today the sound of Barney makes me want to throw-up.

And I remember sneaking a 6 oz. diet coke so that somehow I could find the energy to teach.  

Yes, I remember the diet coke and it was like Manna from Heaven and seriously, just  look at Emma Claire. She’s perfect. The Coke people should totally use her in commercials:

Expecting? Drink more diet coke!

And then I remember a Kindermusik mom saying to me,

I am so jealous of you!

Excuse me? Come again?

She continued. What an exciting time in your life. You will never be here again. When will she be born? What will she look like? What does this new future hold and for some reason I believed her.

I believed her because she was right.

Yes! I thought. Be jealous of me!

All 30 extra pounds.

And last night when I randomly blurted out that I loved being pregant, I remembered that mom. And the sunflower seeds.

And the excitement of a new baby and new day and a new way and I thought, HALE yes!

Be jealous of me.  Be jealous that I don’t have a job or a husband and that I don’t have family near by and wait.

I’m getting off track.

This is exciting!

I’m getting my life back. Our life.

I’m fighting for my children, for our family, for our future.

Jesus came that we might not have a spirit of timidity. I can humbly, and yet boldly, come before the throne of Grace and fight.

I’ve found my voice. I’m finding my way. And what the heck-0-la, I get to look at cute boys again.

Now if I could just learn to talk to them! 🙂

(Side note: The divorce has been delayed again. I trust in God’s timing and know that all things are working together for good. I only mention this to say that yes, I am still married and this blog is just meant for fun. I couldn’t talk to boys before I got married, while I’ve been married and I suspect it will continue to be a problem in the future. Again…just for fun. And am I happy to say that my client bought 4 more sessions. Not sure if it’s because I’m a good trainer or if she liked all the boys. 🙂

Two Steps Back

Yesterday was forward. Marching. Running, even.

No looking back.

Today, I stumbled. A few rocks on the path and there were 2 steps back. 3. Maybe 4.

Whatever.

I cried to my attorney. I said, sorry. I’m  just tired.

I cried to a friend. I said, sorry. I’m just tired. (And I would tell you I cried to my friend over coffee, but attorneys love to use things like coffee against you, so whatever you may think, I will tell you for sure—I did not cry over coffee).

I don’t even drink coffee.

Remember the promise? The future? The moving forward? Yes, yes, but oh this restless spirit and oh how I can see it so clearly.

Standing still is easier. The past is easier. I know what happened.

I know that story. I’ve nursed it, cursed it and rehearsed it.

Again and again.

But the story moving forward? I’ve never been there. I don’t know the ending.

And I am tired. 

I’m tired of friends who aren’t really friends and people who promise help but, ooops, never mind and offer no help and of Fridays that come week after week and again they are gone.

And it never gets easier. And it’s never OK.

Feast or famine.

And today she cried. Heavy, heaving, hard tears. She doesn’t want to leave her Momma.

She doesn’t understand.

This was not God’s plan.

And she wants to know if Elena’s Mom and Dad do this….this going back and forth; the push and the pull and they water, but I hold it back and say quite simply.

No. Elena’s parents don’t do this.

But it’s not all like I say because I know I am blessed by good friends who are dear friends; who help and who pray; who listen and stay.

In the gap.

For us.

And I remember a prayer from a Beth Moore study. “God, fill up my empty spaces.”

And I write that on an index card and I lean it up on a picture frame. And I speak it.

Aloud. 

“Jesus, fill up my empty spaces.”

Fill up. 

Close up, Cover up, Lift up, Show up.

In this space; in this place.

And in your mercy.

Help me.

Run this race.

“…forgetting what lies behind, and reaching forward to what lies ahead.” Phil 3:13