Enjoy the Show

When the walls start closing in, it’s best to just get out.
When mess and mundane swirl about and your chest feels heavy, sky and trees have a way of pointing the narrow gaze upward and opening the tight lungs wide.

Juxtaposed against the bigness of beauty, my world feels small. And that’s a good thing.

All the human talent in the universe can’t match the brushstrokes of the One who keeps the tulips and daffodils looking their best. When they worship Him with their radiant heads held high, trusting Him for everything they need to live beautifully and purposefully, I’m inspired to follow their lead.

These three energetic ones begged to stay longer, to run more, to explore other trails, to watch the fish just a few more minutes. I promised to come back every week through the spring. They need it…and so do I. Their souvenirs were sticks and a few leaves stuck in their hair. Funny how the one and only Greatest Show on Earth is free.

Spring brings forth the beautiful new, offers fresh reminders that dark, wintry dormancy always births life anew if we’ll just wait and trust.
And then it bids us, begs us, to come enjoy the show.

And so we did.

God writes the Gospel not in the Bible alone, but also on

trees, and in the flowers and clouds and stars.

~Martin Luther

{All photographs taken in our local botanical garden.}

When You Want a Rewrite…

Sometimes life stops you dead in your tracks and all you can do is tell your lungs to keep breathing. Suddenly the urgent worries of yesterday—what to fix for dinner, how to discipline your three-year-old—seem laughable. You wonder why you wasted sacred precious energy on the non-essential.

And when the story you wanted to live erodes into as a twisted plot you’d never choose, you’re desperate to scribble away reality, to erase with such force that it rips up the pages altogether.

In gut-wrenching moments of anger, distrust and ingratitude, I echo-scream Ann’s words, I would have written the story differently!

And I would.

The conflict that steps in uninvited involves a different cast of characters for each of us. Cancer, addiction, death, mental illness, adultery, suicide, joblessness, a wayward child—I’m more acquainted than I wish with some of these storylines.

Wishing away the plot doesn’t write it away. No. We have to live it, endure the conflict even when the story’s resolution is nowhere in sight.

We’re all writing our stories, telling it with our lives and sometimes with our pens.

And we do that because we’re created in the image of the One who told His story with His life and His words. And even He, perfect and blameless though He was, pled for the cup to pass.

And we do too. I do. Please, God, let this suffering pass.

But it didn’t for Him and it doesn’t for us and for the joy set before Him, He endured the cross. And for the joy set before us, we endure too.

We endure because the story really does end happily ever after, even though the conflict and the climax that seem to go on without end, they can feel like hell. But for the author and perfector of our faith, the resolution is always redemption.

Always. Hallelujah!

And so we have a choice.

We can snap shut the book and give up, choose to be a hapless or bitter victim.

Or we can write our stories with our prayers, fight this battle on our knees. Because as the chapters unfold on this plane, I know we’re merely characters of a larger plot playing out in the heavenly realms and in the depths beneath. The Author tells us that our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.

Living our story with grace and fortitude is not a polite acceptance of sin and suffering. On the contrary, it’s a battle. We fight for the strength to press on and we intercede that others may be able to overcome. There was nothing polite about the cross.

And there is nothing polite about the real and raw and redemptive stories we live out 2,000 years later.

But because of the cross, because of Jesus with us and in us, His resurrection strength pulsing through our weakness, we can live our stories well, victoriously even.

And as we live it, we tell it. We’re all storytellers in that way you know.

For a word-girl like me, I know I’ll write my story in some form, even if the readers are just God and me. I know it will be a story of hope and perseverance and trusting in an always-good God, even though the days are not always good. And though the resolution is nowhere in sight, I choose faith…

Being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.

My story, though one of struggle and heartache, is also inevitably one of victory and hope.

Because of Jesus, hope.

Because of Jesus, joy.

Because of Jesus, redemption.

And if you have Jesus, this is your story too.

Write it with your life and fight it on your knees.

……………………………..

Several days ago, my mom told me that precious Ann was hosting an opportunity for a She Speaks scholarship. I know, it’s the second time I’ve entered for a chance at one of those scholarships in just a month. And honestly, it seems a bit inconsequential at this point, in light of the current state of my story.

I told my mom “thanks,” but that my word well seemed to have dried up, right along with my heart…that any words would have to filter down from the real Author. And so they did. And so I wrote. I wrote fast and hard and barely edited; I just wanted to make the deadline. I’m wondering if it even makes sense.

And if it doesn’t that’s okay. I trust the Author to take my story wherever He may choose. And if She Speaks is what He wills, well, I would be honored.

If you’re wondering what this event is all about, She Speaks is a conference for Christian women who aspire to be speakers, writers or ministry leaders. The conference is part of Proverbs 31 Ministries. At She Speaks,

You will learn how to make the most of your messages, the nuts and bolts of speaking, writing, leading and influencing, and have the opportunity to meet with some of today’s top Christian publishers. She Speaks is not just another conference … it is a true experience with God and a revival in your calling!

–Lysa Terkeurst, Proverbs 31 Ministries

For more information on this fantastic conference for aspiring speakers, writers, or ministry leaders, see the end of my post or visit the conference web-site.

For the Love of the Flea Market

I’ve been a little blue. But my mom, wise in the ways of therapy, knew just the trick.

“We need to load up the kids and head to the flea market tomorrow morning,” she insisted. “We’ll pick up some of those sausage biscuits they love so much and make a morning of it.”
And so we did.

I threw all three of my young ‘uns and the rusty beach stroller {the one that’s good for dirt and sand} into the van and we took a “field trip” to the Wednesday morning flea market with Nana.
We’re a classy bunch, no?

Lest you think the flea market is some rinky-dink, small-scale establishment, let me tell you otherwise. Our flea market is the size of a small city. And I do say that with a strange sense of pride. Brownie informed me that he had walked two miles by the end of our excursion and he may have indeed been correct.

You can buy everything from roosters to razor cartridge refills. I’m quite certain a not-so-small percentage of the wares are not exactly legal or legitimate. But we shop there anyway.

The flea market never fails to deliver in five key areas. I now look for these items, turning each outing into my own personal, junky, scavenger hunt: Eiffel Towers, Elvis tchotchkes, Jesus art, Confederate flags, and ammo.

{Expired pharmaceuticals are also gaining in market shares.}

Sometimes the Eiffel Towers are well-concealed. But if you look hard enough, you can always spot one. See? Here’s one masquerading as a fluorescent, plastic, corked decanter. I don’t think I want to know what’s been “decanted” in there.

And all of this is what makes the flea market one of my favorite local haunts. My mom and I visit the flea market on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. No kids allowed. We sip hot coffee, buy Christmas presents and stock up on a year’s supply of local color.

{A photo from Thanksgiving}

But this was my first spring excursion. It will not be the last.
We walked past vendors selling forsythia clippings and baby bunnies, farm-fresh eggs and newborn puppies. We trod dirt aisles lined with antiques and auto parts and gently-used sneakers, all the while inhaling a blend of fried food, fresh produce, baked bread, truck exhaust, and cigarette smoke. Call me crazy but it’s actually a really pleasant aroma and strangely comforting.

I picked up the noteworthy homemade biscuits from the snack bar while the kids and my mom listened to a musical posse crooning and plucking everything from Johnny Cash to Vestal Goodman.

{The same musician I saw at Thanksgiving evidently plucks this painted bucket-broomhandle-stringed instrument year-round.}

One side of their “stage” was blocked off by the biggest, rustiest, coolest antique truck ever. As Brownie eyed the truck, an older gentlemen told him, “If you look up ‘truck’ in the dictionary, a picture of that there vehicle will be sittin’ beside it.”

And on the bed of the truck? Cages of “back-up-singing” roosters that seemed to cock-a-doodle-doo right on cue.

Seriously, you cannot make this stuff up. The market should charge admission.

It goes without saying that the flea market is a literal treasure trove of people, junk, and seriously amazing loot. I spent $10 and came home with a lovely bottle of organic olive oil, an Anthropology-looking necklace, one tube of my favorite lip balm and four jars of face cream. My absolute favorite brand…for $1 a jar!

Truly, the Confederate-Parisian-Elvis-Gospel-Gun-Totin’-Rooster gods were smiling down on me today.

The kids bought some slightly-expired gum and a sweet old lady gave Cupcake an ancient Motorola flip-phone. Honestly, people take one look at that toddler head of curly hair and they give him whatever is in his hand. He’s a veritable 3-year-old shoplifter. No wonder he’s such a mess.

My mom purchased a cast-iron skillet. For me. I can’t believe that I’ve lived this long without one. It’s downright shameful. She can’t believe she raised me on skillet cornbread and failed to provide me with a seasoned pan of my own. I think this sobering reality guilted her into getting one for me. Plus, it was a bargain at $10. When you are southern and a mom, it’s never too late to impart the domesticity you overlooked when the kids were young and driving you bananas. This gives me hope for my own neglected and undomesticated children.

For someone who just can’t help but take note of people and irony and the idiosyncrasies that define us as individuals and sub-cultures, a few hours at the flea market is like drinking from a fire hose. My dream job {the realistic one, not to be confused with the unrealistic Food & Wine travel writer / photographer one,} is working for a local newspaper, covering people and places that make our locale unique, colorful, and vibrant.

In the meantime, I’ll be an enthusiastic poseur with my every-now-and-then blog post and amateur iPhone photos. And in case you’re wondering what to get me for my birthday, there’s a darling Eiffel Tower decanter I just can’t live without. A Terrorist Hunting Permit wouldn’t hurt either.

Grace Like a Child’s

The boys use unkind tones with one another and their patience seems non-existent. With edgy frustration, I correct them constantly.
The older two have trouble staying focused on their schoolwork. I am bothered by their distractibility.

They forget to pick up after themselves and they’d always rather play or make art.

I fuss at her for not being ready on time.

She misplaces things, often, and it flies all over me. And every time it happens, I am quick to remind her of how frequently she does this.

She asks 20 questions about Jesus and demons and the Pharisees and I become exasperated that I cannot even get through a chapter of the New Testament without all of why’s and what’s. She is such a skeptic, I think to myself, annoyed by her unending dialectic.

They tend toward selfishness with their stuff and their space and I tell them to share and treat one another the way they would want to be treated. But it seems they don’t listen.

………………………

I pray for patience. I don’t like my tone. And I can’t seem to change as quickly as I’d like to. Or at all.

Many days, I’d rather write or read or make art than teach them math or grammar.

I struggle to be ready on time and have them ready too.

This morning I lost my phone.

Distracted by e-mail, I forget to finish breakfast.

I read through one chapter of the New Testament with them and ask 20 questions in my head. I’m not brave enough to voice them like she does.

I keep my chocolate out of their reach and don’t share my soda. The mama deserves a few things of her own, I rationalize.

They mess up all day long. And so do I, their messes often mirroring my own and vice versa.

Instead of the circle of life, we are the circle of mess.

They are desperately searching for assurance that they are just as loved when they screw up. And I’m searching for it too.

In case you can’t tell, there’s been a lot of mess around here, literal mess and soul mess. And with that comes desperate longing for grace and forgiveness and consolation that we are still okay.

Recently Blondie turned 10 and requested a trip to Build A Bear, just the two of us. On the way we had a conversation that went something like this:
Mommy, do you miss me being a baby?
Yes, sometimes I do. Sometimes I wish I could go back and start over because I feel like I’d be a better mom.
But you can’t be a perfect mom. Everyone makes mistakes. Even if you started over you wouldn’t necessarily be better. Nobody can be a perfect mommy.
I turned away so she wouldn’t see the tears and I scribbled our short, profound dialogue on a piece of scrap paper when I stopped at the next red light.
Often I wonder why she’s not the mommy. At times, she seems wiser. And she is certainly more gracious. All three of them are so very forgiving each time I ask their forgiveness, something I do a lot of and yet probably not enough of. They never deny me grace, not even for a second.
They don’t expect me, at 37, to be perfect. But I have a default tendency to expect them, at 10, 7 and 3, to get it right more than they get it wrong.
It stings to write that but it’s the truth.
Jesus says that the kingdom belongs to “such as these,” that we grown-ups would be wise to take off our blurry, scratched, grown-up lenses and see the world like a child sees it. That we should model our faith after little ones.
The upside-down-ness of it all gets me every time.
Desperately, I pray that He will grow up my grace and my faith to be more like theirs.

And in one way they do listen to what I say about treating others the way they want to be treated…they teach me, through their unconditional love toward a failing, flailing mama, how to love them.

The Evolution of a Word Girl

This post is part of the Cecil Murphy Scholarship opportunity offered through She Speaks conference {Proverbs 31 Ministries.} For more information on this fantastic conference for aspiring speakers, writers, or ministry leaders, see the end of my post or visit the conference web-site.

………………………………………….

I started blogging several years ago. I didn’t have an audience or an agenda. I just wanted a place to share and write and connect. Before long, the fun but superficial posts on recipes and furniture makeovers and family outings gradually gave way to posts about motherhood and struggle and finding joy in the everyday.

And the more I wrote, the more I realized I couldn’t not write.

I wrote posts I never published. I wrote through tears in my journal. I wrote to others and I wrote to Jesus. I scribbled hard on receipts in the Publix parking lot and memorialized thoughts at stop-lights with a golf-course pencil and the back of a bank envelope. And it slowly dawned on me that I wrote…a lot.

The “writerly me” I’ve located in the midst of motherhood and marriage and mess feels both new and nostalgic, like getting back in touch with a childhood best friend.

As I backwards trace through youth and young adulthood, I see shadows of a word girl. My 5th grade poetry book? A prized possession. Diagramming sentences? My favorite. What I got in trouble for in 7th grade? Passing notes. {Lots of them.} Letters and notebooks from college filled with tales of love and lament? Check. I loved literature and mythology and the power of a great story.

And I recall my senior year of high school, going in early before school to get special tutoring from Ms. Joyner, my quirky, brilliant, gray-haired AP English teacher, who painstakingly helped me maintain consistent tenses and locate compelling themes. One-on-one, she taught me composition and I loved it.

But I didn’t become a writer.

I became someone who had to do a lot of writing for her profession. And while I felt at home in academia and loved my career, I wasn’t telling much story. Writing then lacked the personal narrative I never knew I was longing for.

And now that there’s more space for my thoughts to run free, I’m able to write about the real.

Last year I wrote for the first time about marriage. My marriage. The imperfect, almost-wasn’t marriage and how God brought redemption out of mess. It was a guest post for Chatting at the Sky so I sort of chalked up the response to Emily’s larger audience. But last month I wrote a bit more about marriage and once again, it seemed to resonate.

I never thought I’d write publicly about that part of my life. But I’ve now had an opportunity to encourage other women who are tired of putting on perfect every day for the outside world yet struggling desperately behind closed doors.

I know how that feels. I did it for years.

And 15 years after “I do,” it’s still hard. Marriage is not for the faint of heart and sometimes I want that story to have its happy ending already so that I can move on to more glamourous tales. But God…He keeps writing His story out of our failure and I guess we’ve been good at giving Him a plenteous supply of material.

I didn’t see the struggle as a story but someone else did. Bonita, an encouraging writer friend, left this comment on last month’s Love Story post:

Scooper, I thought it before, but now I know it. You need to write a book. This is it–your book–this trudging up the hill and sliding back down and clamoring back up again. This is your story.

You write it well. You live it well. And you express what so many of us experience in the day-to-day living out of love.

And so many will relate to this, to your transparency and willingness to let us peek into your tear-filled closet.

I don’t say these things to everyone and I have a really good track record for picking winners. You are one of those winners, Scooper. Not many people can write this way and express it all so well. You have a book in you, sweet friend!

I cried. I felt scared and exhilarated. Why? Because someone called me a writer and I dared to believe her. What’s more, she read the words of my big ol’ mess and she said it’s a story others need to hear. And whether I delve further into that plot or write something entirely different, whether I publish a book or continue to narrate the grace-drenched everyday in relative obscurity, I know that God has woven story through my DNA. He has given me words and they are my offering to Him and to others.

That’s why I would love to win a scholarship to She Speaks. I want to connect with other writers, to learn, to share, to be equipped, and to see where story leads. I’ve longed to go to the conference for several years now and a scholarship would provide that opportunity. As my heart is unmistakably being pulled in the direction of writing, I’m ready to put my “work” out there beyond the scope of my blog, to follow this dream and see what God may have in store.

So thanks for reading my story. And I really hope to see you at She Speaks in July!

………………………………………………….

She Speaks is a conference for Christian women who aspire to be speakers, writers or ministry leaders. The conference is part of Proverbs 31 Ministries. At She Speaks,

You will learn how to make the most of your messages, the nuts and bolts of speaking, writing, leading and influencing, and have the opportunity to meet with some of today’s top Christian publishers.

She Speaks is not just another conference … it is a true experience with God and a revival in your calling!

–Lysa Terkeurst, Proverbs 31 Ministries

Decade Girl

I laced up my sneakers and set out for a 10-mile run on that hot July day, ten-and-a-half years ago. I had recently finished a half-marathon so the run should have been easy but I felt awful, overheated and ready to puke. Something was off. Coffee hadn’t tasted good in a week either. I should have put two and two together.

We returned from our annual July 4th trip to Michigan with The Man’s family and in the wee hours of the next morning, the pregnancy test immediately showed positive. So did the next one…and the next. I was 6 weeks pregnant. Shocked and exhilarated and already sick, I felt like I was the first pregnant girl in the history of the world.

From the first flutters, she never stopped moving. Never. Stopped. And as my womb grew cramped, she kept kicking, my cracked rib testifying to her in-utero acrobatics. When the time came for her to make her long-awaited and long-labored entrance into the world, she burst out posterior, pulling clenched-fists up by her head just as she crowned.

She cried and I cried and they remain the most precious tears we’ve ever cried together. I had never known love like this. And when they put her in my arms, her crying ceased and she stared me down hard and I felt like she could see straight through to my soul. She intimidated me with that knowing stare.
She still has a way of doing that.

She didn’t sleep in the hospital and she didn’t sleep once we got home. In fact, she did not sleep through the night for two years. Her favorite place to sleep was with me. And while she did not snuggle or cuddle or really take to people much in general, she seemed to find solace nestled up against me when the sleep finally came.

I nursed her the longest of my three…16 months. She refused a bottle and so I just kept nursing. It seemed like forever, living in that attached state with one another. And then one day she was done and now it seems like no time at all.

As for that active baby restricted by her mama’s belly, she never stopped moving. Alert and intense from day one, she spent the first eight years of her life not being still. It drove me crazy. Time and maturity are mellowing her and I find myself ironically nostalgic for those years that she squirmed and fidgeted all the live long day. Her relative stillness these days reminds me that she is growing up…and that one day I’ll be nostalgic for the things that drive me crazy now.

I wasn’t sure either of us would survive those early years. She was strong-willed and so was I. I wanted her to wear one dress and she wanted another. She never seemed to tire of trying to triumph over me. I was worn slap out by the end of every day.
And now? She is much the same. Intense and infinitely observant, she still asks more questions than any of my children. And she is determined to mete out truth in any situation, no matter how inconsequential {which does not always go over well with others.} She has a way of being both blunt and quiet, unaware of how she comes across. This makes me cringe at times and want to stand up and applaud at others.

She is a quirky blend of ironies and I spend a lot of time wondering what she’ll be like when she’s grown. Seemingly aloof and yet compassionate. A dreamer and also a realist. Fiercely engaged in whatever is going on but easily distracted by what’s on the other side of the window.

Time will tell.

And it’s days like today that I want to shake time by the collar and tell it to stand still.

The days are long but the years are short. That’s the phrase I’ve heard from several different people recently and it’s the truth. Is it ever the truth.

For that clenched-fist baby girl who never slept is 10 years old today.

I get a little weepy over birthdays. And when I get weepy I write and this is probably more than anyone besides her mama really cares to read.

Last night I tucked her in, her final night in single digits, and she asked, Mommy, what was your best age? Honestly, I don’t know. But I have to say that where she is right now, this point in time with her? It’s pretty sweet and I don’t want to forget a minute.

Weeks ago she submitted a special birthday request…that I would sleep in her bed on her birthday. And of course I said yes.

It will be just like old times.

Happy 10th birthday sweet girl.

A Room of Her Own

Blondie moved into her own room last August. She had patiently bunked with Brownie here while Cupcake slept peacefully in his nursery until we were ready to move him in with his older brother.

Blondie is 9 and needs her privacy, you know. She is a contemplative girl who appreciates space and quiet to think and play by herself sometimes. Honestly, I don’t know where she gets that from.

The room re-do has been a months-long process. We did the room switch at the absolute busiest time of the year. I’m not sure what I was thinking. But I had promised my girl that by summer’s end she would have her own room and a place of privacy from her brothers and I felt like I needed to keep my promise.

Here’s what her room used to look like. It was Cupcake’s sweet nursery and I must admit, it tore me up to part with his baby room.

And here’s the room now. {Sorry for the blinding window light…I’m not a professional.}

I must admit, it looks like a candy store boutique and I wish it was my room. I hang out in there all the time.

I also wish I had taken pictures of the many moments-turned-months of sheer mayhem as we transitioned kids around to new sleeping arrangements, painted after bedtime, and put together furniture. The crib was in the hall for I don’t know how long. We had beds in various states of assembly, painters tape that stayed on walls for entirely too long. There were many stages of ugly and mess as we waited for time and extra cash to finish her space.

So here’s the low-down on all the stuff and probably more information than you need about this space.

Bed: a consignment sale castoff that I bought for $12.50. No lie. I stored it in my attic for 2 years. It was off-white and I spray-painted it green. It sat in my garage for days to defumigate from all of that spray paint! I still need to spray paint the bed risers so they blend in. We have a mattress stashed under the bed for sleepovers and since Blondie’s room also serves as our guest room.

Bedding: Duvet and pink pillow from Ikea. Turquoise dot sheets from Target.com. Pink chenille body pillowcase from Walmart.

Polka-dot bed-skirt fabric from Ikea, marked down to $1.99 a yard! My mom sewed it for me because I only know how to sew with hot glue and velcro.

Curtains: Polka-dot part was a window-in-a-box thingy on clearance at Home Depot for $5 and included the rod and hardware. I spray-painted the rod and hardware hot pink. Bottom strip of fabric and pink ruffle trim from Hobby Lobby. Again, snaps to my mom for stitching the bottom part on.

I was all set to mistreat {a la Nester} with my hot glue gun but my mom said she could stitch in no time. Yay mom!

We took the closet door of its hinges and put up a curtain instead. Luckily there’s room in her closet for her dresser and a good bit of mess…all hiding behind pretty polka-dots.

Desk: Ikea

Hutch: Not quite the length of the desk but works just fine: $25 from Pottery Barn outlet {retailed for $500!} Yay me!

Desk Chair: Ikea

Pink lamp: The top dangly part of the lamp was from Blondie’s cousin. I rummaged around my attic and found this gold lamp base that I’d gotten for $2 at a thrift store.

Two coats of pink spray paint and voila! I dig this lamp.

Chandy: This may be my favorite part of the room, probably because it came together in the coolest and kookiest way and therefore it’s got a story. Most of my stuff has a story. That’s what happens when you are equal parts bargain hunter and historian {we history folk tend to love stories and old stuff.}

The light fixture was leftover from The Nester’s swapmeet. All the stuff had been swapped and there were a few items left that were going to Goodwill. Lily told me I should take that plain old kitcheny-looking chandy, turn the 3 sconce thingys up {instead of pointing down}, and remove the frosted globes. So I did. And then it sat in my garage for a year and a half. I was going to paint it pink but one day my dad showed up to install the light fixture and I decided I’d rather have it installed and white than pink but still sitting in my garage. Also? The Man was tired of the pink overspray decorating our garage floor.

The sparkly part was super fun. Blondie and I worked on it together. I bought fishing line at Walmart and a pack of clear beads. Most of the larger “gems” were from Blondie’s collection of jewels. They have little holes in the top so that you can string them. Who knew? I did buy a 3-pack of magnetic jewels on clearance at Hobby Lobby. They just stick on. Brilliant.

And last but not least, some of the jewels were purchased from The Nester’s yard sale, all of them in a baggie for a dollar. Thanks Nester!

The shades are from a thrift store. I used spray-adhesive to stick leftover fabric to the shades and hot-glued the pink trim. I ran out of trim so that one in the back is missing its frou-frou. Gotta fix that.

……………………………….

The room makeover process was not an easy one. Blondie has her own sense of style and so does her mama. She agonized over paint selection. I’m pretty sure the nice paint people at Home Depot have never met a more deliberate 9-year-old. I tried to narrow her options and make suggestions and ultimately it’s a room we both love. But really, it’s her room and she’s only a girl once and I left most of the decisions {within reason} to her.

And I have to admit, it’s fun to teach her that a space can be beautiful and personal without being spendy.

We have some finishing touches yet to complete. We’re hoping to make one of these big bulletin board thingys that she found in PB Teen {but smaller.}

I’m on the hunt for a giant thrift store frame for that project. I’m also on the hunt for a big white furry rug. She thinks that would be cozy and pretty and I think she’s right.

It’s been fun to take a departure from my normal string of posts on marriage and motherhood and take some time to dish about this girly space.

I hope there will be a few more sprucing-up sorts of post throughout the spring. My creative spirit has been restless during these busy, messy months and I’m in the mood to pretty things up a bit. How about you?

{P.S. I’m back to good ol’ blogger commenting system. My “new and improved” commenting system was being mean and not letting people comment. So sorry if that happened to you!}

A Home Well-Spent

The clutter and chaos can weary a mama by mid-morning. My visions of domestic tranquility are often tainted by airbrushed Better Homes and Gardens vignettes and books I’ve read about how to implement a more organized homeschooling schedule.

I’ve tried methods for a better home and better schedule but none of it seems to stick. In fact, the only thing that seems to stick is my bare foot to the juice-christened floor.

Real life is messy and real houses are too.

But sometimes grace-filled, Grace-given perspective washes over me and I see it all differently.

Piles of laundry reminding me to give thanks for well-worn days of play and dirt and sweat and spills…

And that I chose to spend my time writing and reading and cooking and teaching and sitting with my neighbor girlfriends in the driveway instead of getting the wash done and put away.

Everywhere I look, I can see clutter or I can see creativity.

Beds made out of decorative Kleenex and jewelry boxes for Playmobil people and their pets…

Cushions she fashioned out of my scarves for her stuffed animals…

Laundry baskets filled with stuffed animals rather than stacks of neatly-folded shirts…

Lego ships and escape pods as far as the eye can see…

I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t want to climb inside one of the pods on any given day to be whisked away to Better Homes and Gardens.

But I don’t think I’d last long in the land of perfect.

I’d miss this little guy wearing a mouse-eared crown and yogurt smeared across his face.

And this sweet girl studying in the light of the sun.

And this poor, feverish boy who can do nothing but sleep and watch movies.

Because one day my house will be quiet and magazine-ish. There will be fewer spills and fewer fevers and I won’t curse as I step on a Lego in the middle of the night.

And when that day comes, I think I’ll be homesick for the home I live in right now.

Word Therapy

I’ve said this before but it bears repeating. For me, writing is free therapy. There is freedom in confession and sweet clarity as I spill thoughts one letter at a time.

Lately I’ve thought a lot about why I write. Because the truth is, I can’t not write. It’s a real and legitimate need. I’m still reluctant to admit that it is, in fact, something I have to do. When I don’t write, I become cranky.

My blog has evolved a lot since the beginning. Once a hodge-podge of posts about everything from furniture rehabs to recipes, it has firmly settled into its destined identity: the place where I write about the real. And while I promise to still do fun posts every now and then about room makeovers and chocolate torte, this is the primary place where I write.
Some posts are on topics I’ve worked through and I’m able to share from a standpoint of resolution. Internally, it’s all been processed {past tense} and the writing part somehow makes me feel complete. Other posts are very much about issues that are in process {present tense.} I use words to unpack and flesh out and find sought-after perspective. I tend to walk around in a very pent-up state, thick thoughts a tangled up mess of knots. But as the words come, my mind clears and the tension drains and I feel a sense of relief that’s hard to explain.
I have people dear to me who achieve this by talking things through with someone else. And while I enjoy conversation and I love my friends, I rarely go to another person in order to process thoughts or to figure something out. I will vent and lament and share and laugh and cry with my husband or my best girls. But the figuring out? That typically takes place through thinking, through prayer, and through writing.
I write plenty of stuff that never sees the light of day. Sometimes I feel better after writing for a bit and have no compulsion to tidy it up and hit “publish post.” Sometimes I begin writing about one thing and end up with something entirely different. I love it when that happens. Writing has a way of laying bare the issues that really need to be uncovered. For me, penning thoughts can be something very intentional or very serendipitous, but always, it is therapeutic.
I’ve also thought a lot about the sharing of words, wondering why I often share my writing with others but sometimes I don’t. I’ve wondered if the writing is indulgent or performance-driven. And it probably is to a certain extent. Of course I’m honored and elated when people tell me that they love what I’ve written, that it resonates with them. Because while writing is my therapy, it is also my art {as Emily would say,} frightened amateur though I am.
I’m sure that artists who create with paints and brushstrokes keep some of their work private. Maybe they think it’s not good enough or maybe they simply feel better after putting color to canvas. But they also put pieces on display and place their work in galleries. They put it out there for the world to behold and connect with and find beauty in.
Those of us who write are no different. Yes, our souls find rest as we string words and thoughts, as we nod proud and feel complete. But there is such joy, such satisfaction, when what we’ve strung together strikes a chord with other souls.
Tangible typeface stringing two or three or a thousand souls together–it’s such a beautiful, magical thing to be part of. And beyond the comfort writing provides for the writer, I think it’s the stringing souls together part that propels us to keep writing.
What about you? If you write, why do you do it? If you don’t, what sort of writing do you return to again and again as a reader?

A Love Story

Sixteen years ago today I trudged through foot-deep snow up Prospect Hill, hand-in-hand with the love of my life and quite suspicious that he was up to something involving sparkle. I borrowed his mom’s snow boots and winter coat since a girl from North Carolina did not have an arsenal of wintry garb like a proper Michigan girl would have.

I can’t recall all of the words but he was on one knee, professing real love, holding out a diamond ring and asking me to marry him. I was crying so hard that I couldn’t even get out a “yes,” just vigorous nodding and tears and wondrous disbelief that he chose me, a girl who was fickle about everything but him.

I don’t even remember the trip back down the hill. I just know that I was happier than I’d ever been. And I would need every bit of it to sustain me through wedding stress and living apart for the entire summer and the muffled sobs in my family’s living room closet because I had no privacy with five other people living in the house. He told me I’d regret elopement and that we could make it to August 12th. And he was right.

I thought that once we got married, those difficult, sobbing-in-the-closet days would be behind us and I could simply bask in the happy love that floated my blissful self down Prospect Hill on February 10, 1995.
We didn’t know it then but trudging up that snow-covered mountain for the proposal was more symbolic than it was romantic. For 16 years we have hiked and labored and slid to the bottom and climbed back up again and plateaued and…you get the picture. There were times I wanted to make it to the top for no other reason than to push him off the dang thing. I know he feels the same way about me.
They don’t make Hallmark cards for that occasion.
Both first-borns and terribly strong-willed, we hold on to pride and are prone to just a wee bit of blame-shifting. We have loved hard and fought hard. But first-born or not, marriage is simply not for the faint of heart.
The Man and I, we love each other something fierce and our strong-willedness came in handy when we were fighting for our marriage.
But love and will are not enough.
And while our story, half-written though it is, is one of grace and triumph, the daily work to make marriage {in this season} something other than cohabitative child-rearing is challenging.
Yesterday we exchanged sharp words with clenched jaws and folded arms. Resentment swallowed us whole and we hardly looked at one another until the morning when we once again commenced to finger-pointing. And as he left for work, I felt wretched and sick.
There is no joy in holding tight to blame.
Midmorning, we talked on the phone and relief came. The making up was not the stuff of movies. His shirt-and-tied self sitting in his office, my pajama’d-self hiding behind locked door from the three-year-old who thinks that getting his fire-truck fixed is more important than fixing a marriage. There was no glorious fanfare and smeary kissing and You had me at hello. We simply laid down our swords and ‘fessed up to the ugly.
Between the busy and the baggage, the babies and the burnout, our issues tend to get pushed aside. Love smolders like a day-old campfire instead of the blaze it once was. We feel neglected and disrespected, overwhelmed and overlooked. I choked out on the phone, I work so hard to meet everyone’s needs and I feel like I’m not enough. He said he feels the same way.
And so here we are, two totally insufficient people trying to be all things to all people and failing miserably.
That’s because being fully enough for one another and for everyone else is impossible. And while we all nod our heads in agreement over that statement, we tend to live each and every day in opposition of what we say we believe.
This week we have repented and forgiven and resolved to take a hard look at this crazy beautiful season of life. Resolved to make our relationship a priority in the midst of children and homeschooling and throw-up and too much laundry.
And I remind myself that even the noblest of resolutions will fall short.
Because there is only One who is enough. Daily, I haul my baggage and brokenness and cluelessness and give it to Him. Boldly, I ask for perspective and fresh love. I thank Him for the gift of my marriage and I remember all that He has done, all that He has given.
And so I have faith for all that He will do and provide…this merciful, rich-beyond-measure God who is always enough.
And that’s the real Love Story.