Apparently I am
Disallowed to
Disagree
I guess it's better to speak
Evil only quietly.
Go away then. I see.
Extend a hand
Reluctantly
Let it only be
An act of
Courageous
Humility.


A
Distorted
Daughter of an
Insensitive mother.
Except when she
Gets retired.
Escape from this
Role of child.
Lay down the line of
Assumptions and
Crossed boundaries.
Halted.

Hurt

So, when your brother-in-law whom you've fed and housed, counselled and prayed with, unfriends and blocks you on Facebook, it hurts. I know it's just Facebook and it's not real life, but it just...hurts. I didn't think it'd bother me as much as it really does. I just don't understand. Unfriending AND blocking? It seems unnecessary. Was what we replied really that horrible? Um, Adam, no it's not okay to put words in our mouths over and over and think that we hate you. We don't. We're sorry you think that. But...unfriending and blocking? Seems a little extreme.

But really, why do I even care? Why do I care what someone thinks of me if I'm doing what God says I should do. I get so anxious when I feel judged...judged by prissy religious people, judged by my friends, judged by my husband.

What's under that? I'm afraid of making mistakes...being perfect will ensure I am never judged for being not-perfect. Why? Why do I want to be perfect?

I was shamed for making a mistake, being wrong, being imperfect. Affection was withheld when I was in "the doghouse." When I tried to apologize it was "accepted" but then I was lectured at about how I shouldn't have done what I did. No shit Sherlock, that's why I'm apologizing. Solution? Always be right, perfect, never make a mistake. Then I won't get reprimanded and shamed. Be right from the beginning.

Makes sense to me.

Boring

My life is boring. Every day is more-or-less the same. I get up, make food, clean, do schoolwork with the kids, rest (sometimes), exercise, clean, cook, put everyone to bed and maybe have some time to myself in the evening. Tonight I am so incredibly thankful for my boring life. Mundane. The same.

I look at my five kids bounding all over my house, laughing and playing. Just about on the verge of fighting, but toeing that line. Five parts of my heart around me all the time. I get annoyed by them. Their constant yelling and me having to play referee. But then, like tonight, I just soak up the beauty of the boringness of my life. Mundane. The same.

Tonight I am so grateful that I have kids to be annoyed by, and messes to clean up. Every bedroom in my house is full with people and their things. No empty beds, no perfectly neat rooms because nobody lives in them. This house is lived in. And that's the most wonderful thing of which I can think.

Because tonight there's someone who has one less child to tuck into bed. Someone out there has one fewer hug to receive. That child went home to Jesus. And I'm selfish, I'm not ready to give my kids back to Jesus.

It'll happen someday. Maybe I'll go first, or my husband. There will be pain and crisis, a symptom of the world being no what it should. But for now, I'm satisfied in my boring, quiet, predictable life; and the little souls for whom I get to care.

Unconditional

One of the main places I have felt the love of Christ is in my book club. It wasn't always like this. This book club has been the source of many of my frustrations and pain in the last four years. This is not to say it was caused by the ladies in the group. It is more likely that the pain I have felt radiating from the group is an echo of past legitimate sin against me. Regardless, book club has been very difficult for me. I have been difficult to befriend in this group. I now see that this is a symptom of something very wrong in me--wrong thinking, a lack of bonding, and lots and lots of sadness, and likely some spiritual oppression.

But these ladies have responded with grace. My behavior in the last year should not warrant any concern from them. I have acted out, thrown a fit, and been a major selfish bitch. But I am not condemned, I am forgiven. I get a new start. They seemingly do not remember the bad time. In my religious mind this makes no sense. I should have been kicked out long ago for being contentious and selfish.

But these ladies have responded with Christ's words, not their own. They have not piled on the shame as I have done with myself. And I see Christ more clearly because of them.

I feel unworthy of any kindness or love. But they, and Christ, still give it endlessly and I'm so grateful.

To look at a picture of two friends having fun and I wasn't there and NOT feel hurt or jealous is a new feeling. My first reaction was joy for my friends. But then, that prowling lion looking to attack tempted me and started to whisper lies. I know he is a liar, a deceiver, an enemy. Not just for me but for my friends. The enemy wants me to be angry and hurt and bitter. The enemy wants me to give into my feelings and hold resentment against my friend. My friends that always point me to the Advocate, the Redeemer, the Father. The friends that know my struggles and love me enough not to shield the truth of their friendship from me, just as I should not have to shield my other relationships from them. 

You lost this time, Deceiver. And you'll lose again. 

Lord Jesus, you know my heart. You know my desire for my husband. You know my struggles. Let my understanding be pure and holy. Let me glorify you in my marriage, in all things. Let me see people the way you see them, let me understand the way you mean. Redeem my fallen mind to be one with your mind. Redeem my heart to follow you, not sin. Please show me how to be friends and not to obsess. Please show me why I struggle in this way, to understand rather than just shame myself into change because that's the "right" thing to do. Please heal my heart and restore my soul and mind.

That longing
That yearn for relationship
I never learned how to just
Be
Friends

I never learned
I don't know

Married young
Married up
I wouldn't change
A
Thing

I am learning
I still don't know

Being friends is good
Knowing boundaries
Is good
Like
A Brother

The longing is
Good
I want to
Learn
How

Kindness to myself

What if kindness to myself is staying off of Facebook?

I have been on Facebook since the beginning almost, because I was in college when it was introduced and only accessible to those with an .edu email address. It has been a daily part of my life for probably about 15 years. But, the last fifteen years have seen a lot of angst. A lot of pride and despair cycling relentlessly. Maybe there is a connection? Maybe Facebook and my personality and past aren't the best combination. I am already prone to compare, judge, and think badly of myself and others. What if staying away from Facebook is being kind to myself AND my friends? What if I am a better friend by being "disconnected" online?

What is the "hook" keeping me from having a healthy relationship with Facebook?

I don't know. I know I can have self control and not log on when I "deactivate" my account but I have a hard time having self control when I'm just avoiding logging in. I think part of that distinction is if I'm not online, no one is tagging me in things and I'm not "missing" things. Well, I am, but I won't have as many notifications when I come back. So, it's because of the notifications? Who cares if I'm being notified? What if it's kindness to myself to no judged myself for why I'm hooked to Facebook?

No, it's because of the notifications. Because I don't want to miss things. Because I don't want other people to know I'm missing things. If I'm deactivated from Facebook, people won't even see me listed as "not responding." When I see people as not responded, I sometimes get offended. Like, "How dare they not even respond!" So, I judge people. I am afraid of being judged if I don't respond on Facebook. It's better if I just don't know what I'm missing, and others can't contact me about it.

I can be a better friend, stay connected and get relevant information in other ways when I'm taking a break from Facebook. That's being kind to myself right now. It makes my brain less scattered.

Baggage Claim

I walk into a situation and I carry a bag with me. The tag says "Abandoned Girl." Not my name, not my address. Actually there are many bags I carry in with me. Another being "Stupid" and yet another "Comic relief." Sometimes the bags are so heavy I can't focus on anything else in the room but the weight on my back. I think sometimes I put the bags at my feet and join conversation so it "looks" like I'm not carrying anything, but the weight is still with me.

When do I pick up the baggage?

In specific groups. Groups of people with whom I've gone "behind the counter" seem to be harder to even let the baggage set at my feet. Groups of people with whom it's still kind of surface I can trick easier. People who have seen my garbage, I feel like they're judging me. Community group knows I'm not perfect, new people I seem to have fooled. Book club knows where I struggle, new women's group doesn't in the same way. I don't know why that's threatening. I can be "vulnerable" but it is at a very high cost to me because I think they judge me. Instead of feeling safe with safe people, there is an intense feeling of abandonment and judgment.

Why is that?

Because it was the people I was supposed to be bonded to, and who I tried to bond to, that judged me the most, or from whom I felt the most judged. Mom and Dad. So the people I am bonded to now, and the list is short, have the potential to judge me and hurt me the most. It's just easier to keep things surface. Less disappointment. But not actually fixing the problem.

Painfully awkward

Feeling off

Not understanding tone

More comfortable with children

Uncomfortable around men

It makes more sense now that I understand I am not grown up yet. It's not a bad thing. It's just a fact. It will change. But I can't rush through change. I can't shortcut through this. I want to. I want to be fixed. I don't want to do this work that seems never ending. I want to be at the end.

It's a grace to me that I don't get to shortcut through this but instead get to rely on Him and Him alone.

It's your birthday today.
But you gave up on birthdays a long time ago.
You gave up on me a long time ago.
I don't understand.
I don't understand why I care now.

Maybe it's because so many years I helped you celebrate
And it takes a long time for those memories to fade.
I always spent so much time looking for
The perfect present
For you.

You hurt me.
You betrayed me.
You dumped me as a friend.
Like I was nothing, like we were nothing.

You can't just dump 15 years of friendship
And expect there to not be consequences.

But in the last few months I've realized that
You don't have power over me anymore.
You aren't hurting me anymore
The hurt I feel is a shadow of the past
And it's not happening anymore.

I remembered your birthday because
I forgive you.
I thought of you and felt sad
Because I forgive you.

It's a new feeling.
A new thinking.
A new me.

Taking it Year by Year

A common response when one asks whether another will be homeschooling all the way through high school is, "We are just going to take it year by year." I think it's a legitimate response, and I have frequently replied this when asked the previous question. I never thought anything of it until this weekend at an all-day homeschool workshop. The workshop host discouraged this answer, explaining that you would never respond, "I am going to take it year by year" if someone asked how long you will be a Christian. I see her point, but the analogy sort of breaks down because comparing homeschooling to being a Christian just isn't a fair comparison.

In homeschooling, that's a fair response because it's probably wrong to assume that you would homeschool exactly what you plan all the way through until high school. I don't necessarily know what I'll be doing in a year let along the next 12 years. I could get sick and be unable to homeschool, I could be widowed and that would change my approach, heaven forbid I might die and I don't want my husband to feel tied to homeschooling if it's not something he's able to handle. The point is, we don't know what God has planned to sanctify us! Perhaps our sanctification will not include homeschooling.

I think this is why the Bible says, "Come now, you who say, "Today or tomorrow we will go into such and such a town and spend a year there and trade and make a profit"--yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring. What is your life? For you are a mist that appears for a little time and then vanishes. Instead you ought to say, "If the Lord will, we will live and do this or that." As it is, you boast in your arrogance. All such boasting is evil. So whoever knows the right thing to do and fails to do it, for him it is sin." James 4:13-17

A more appropriate response to the question, "How long will you homeschool," might be, "I would really like to homeschool all the way through high school but I'm holding that decision in an open hand and evaluate this decision regularly to see if it's in line with what God is telling me."

[As an aside- how come when kids are schooled in public or private options, this question isn't even an issue? It's usually only asked of the homeschooler. How come our culture feels comfortable questioning (and therefore judging) the homeschooler when it would be ridiculous to ask the same questions of a non-homeschooler? Additionally, why are really any questions about how I school tolerable to ask? I don't go around asking public teachers what curriculum they are using or how long they are going to keep teaching their students. Just keep your questions to yourself unless you really want to know, which usually you don't or don't need to know. <endrant>]

Now to the point of "taking it year by year" for the Christian. The workshop lady has a point, and that's that we don't reevaluate our walk with Christ every year. This is true. But if one were judging by my actions, I probably don't walk with Christ every day, so I don't actually know if I will be walking with him in another year. I know intimately that I am "chief of sinners," but I also know that His grace is irresistible and he, in kindness, always draws me back to Him despite my heart and behavior.

I identify so much with Peter. Proud, zealous Peter. "And Jesus said to them, 'You will all fall away, for it is written, "I will strike the shepherd, and the sheep will be scattered." But after I am raised up, I will go before you to Galilee.' Peter said to him, 'Even though they all fall away, I will not.' And Jesus said to him, 'Truly I tell you, this very night, before the rooster crows twice, you will deny me three times.' But he said emphatically, 'If I must dies with you, I will not deny you.' And they all said the same." Mark 14:26-31

Very shortly after this exchange, Peter does deny his Lord, three times as Jesus predicted.

We do not know what God has for us and how he is going to use it. Homeschooling or not, we should hold these things in an open hand. As James writes, "All such boasting is evil."

My heart feels scattered. So many places to go and so many things to pursue. Which is your path, Lord? What would you have me do and pursue? A few things are constant in my ideas for what to do and where to go.

Writing
Encouragement
To Women

How will this be a part of my path? You Lord have clearly given me a heart to write. Please let this heart be to glorify your name, not my own.

My brain lies to me. It says that I am stupid, fat, ugly, unworthy. I says that people don't want to be my friends or spend time with me. It refutes the nice things people say and tells me they're lying.

"Daughter, you are loved."

My brain fills my days with judgement, to-do lists and reminders of stuff I need to do to be worthy. Sometimes the noise is too loud for anything else.

"Sister, you are loved."

My sleep is interrupted by people needing me and when I do sleep I am unsettled by my dreams and anxieties. Remembering things I need to do or things I need to remember.

"Friend, you are loved."

My brain lies.
God tells me the truth.
My heart is swayed.
The Father is true.
The enemy whispers lies.
The Shepherd leads me in the right way.

"Come to me, all who are weary and I will give you rest."

"My sheep hear my voice."

Thank you Father for being greater than my brain and better than my desires.

Before my feet touch the floor
in the morning
I have
failed

My mind reminds me
"You slept in too late"
"You need to help Bill"
"You are doing it wrong"

The judgement is coming
from me
Nobody says these things to me
But myself

Jesus please let me feel your
Peace
Please let me hear your voice
Not mine

Help me see you
Not my
faults

You are perfect
So I don't have to be
You are perfect
So I don't have to be
You are perfect
So I don't have to be

That's your job
Not mine
My job is to
Trust you
Not my abilities

Just
You

Please Jesus
Help me

The Black Hole

I wake to a breeze brushing across my face. It is cold and makes goose bumps upon my back and arms. A shiver of anxiety in my throat tells me this isn’t my bed in which I usually wake. I open my eyes and see tall brown grass in each direction for miles and miles. Nothing is familiar and my heart is racing. Normally I know what is going to happen in every situation. Here I have no control, no understanding, no influence over which way to go; how did I get here?

In the distance I see a circle in the grass and it catches my eye and seemingly calls to me. Like a bog, it is lower and darker than its surroundings. I begin to walk toward it with a magnetism pulling me. I am barefoot but the scratchy grass doesn’t make me itch, I barely feel it, as if I am floating across the grass. I arrive to the lowland circle and realize it is a gigantic hole.

I stand at the edge and peer down into the hole. It seems to go on forever; there is no bottom in sight. A strange part of me has an urge to jump because the pit is strangely inviting. I am afraid of the unknown. What will I find down there? There doesn’t seem to be anything here anyway. I look around the edge of the hole. I look to my feet and see smaller jagged rocks and sand. I am not wearing any shoes, but the jagged rock beneath me doesn’t hurt. I feel strangely safe and at peace.

Far away I see a rock pile probably one-hundred feet high. The rocks look like solid marbles stacked upon one another, but marbles that are each a ton in weight. How those rocks got on top of one another, I wonder. No human could be great enough to build a pile such as that. Behind the rocks, the sky is a strange purple, pink and orange, like a sunset, but there is no sun in the sky, no clouds to provide any shade. The sky just is.

A draft of wind pushes my skirt in front of my body and my entire being toward the hole. I hear in the wind a whisper, “Peace. You are loved. You are safe. Face your fear and step forward. This is your next step,” the voice is calm and peaceful. “Be daring, be brave, be courageous,” it continues, “I am your protector. I am your friend. You are loved…you are loved.” It’s like everything else is a blurry sepia in the background. This voice and that black hole in front of me are clear. My eyes begin to tear up, a lump in my throat; this vague feeling that I am unworthy of the kind words being spoken to me. The words are like a healing salve upon me. Like a baby who does not know its mother, but still loves her, that is how this voice relates to me.

Trusting this voice, but full of fear of what I will find on the other side, I lean my body into the hole in what feels like slow motion. I am falling, but to where I don’t know. Someone will be there to catch me. I feel the cool breeze against my face and my skirt flying. My feet are still bare and remnants of the sandy ground are stuck to my toes. I must be taking that with me to wherever I am going.

Falling, falling, falling. It’s dark and there is no one beside me, but somehow I am not afraid because I feel The Voice with me, he whispers, “Come to me, all who are weary, and I will give you rest.” My eyes are still heavy with tears because I know I am loved and protected while stepping out into an unknown place. The sand between my toes reminds me from where I have come; that strange wasteland. I am not afraid of where I will fall because I know I will be caught by Him.

I softly reach the ground and I am in my room, in my bed. This, I remember. I reach out my arm and feel my pillow. The softness of the material is all around me like a baby wrapped in a receiving blanket. My hand touches a form and I recognize it as my husband, next to me now as every night for the last thirteen years. My hand rustles him awake and he snuggles close to me. “You’re back,” he whispers, “I wondered where you’d gone. I missed you.”

I lift my chin to kiss him. Smiling, I say, “I’m glad to be back too.

Black and White

What is your personality according to Meyer-Briggs?

This is the topic of conversation frequently among my group of friends. It is interesting to see how everyone "stacks up" but I have learned to hold the test results in an open hand. One will not stay their personality type forever or across all environments, in my experience. I took the test a few months ago and was 100% introvert. But, as I have begun to face my insecurities, self-judgement, pride, and frankly, my sin, I see how I have used the label of "introvert" to cover my sin. I am more extroverted and outgoing than I once was. When I am less worried about what people think and more confident in my standing in Christ, I actually love being around people and am energized by them, not exhausted by them. I think I am more in the middle than far to the introvert side of the spectrum.

But there is one aspect of my personality that I think has hindered my understanding of people, God and the gospel. It's the black-and-white aspect of my personality. I think the Meyers-Briggs test would classify that as Judging vs Perceiving. It's Black-and-White vs Gray. I tend to be very black-and-white, but I think that can work against grace in my mind. Since I see things as black-and-white, if someone does something bad, or if I do something bad, I classify that person or myself as "all bad." There is no gray area for my mind to classify things in. When in reality, we are all bad and Jesus is all good. And because of Jesus we are all (regardless of ability or behavior) classified as good. But we are bad and we do bad things. But we also do good things. So we are both bad and good. We are gray. The reconciling of this black, white, and gray, wars in my mind. Maybe the black/white aspect of my personality isn't how it's really supposed to be? What if I'm not understanding grace and excusing it because "it's not my personality"?

These are some things I am thinking about. I have held up the Meyers-Briggs personality type test as gospel, when really it's just a tool. The Gospel is gospel.

And Jesus is ALL the personality types.

Kindness to my body

What does kindness to my body look like?

My whole life, as long as I can remember, I have hated one part or another of my body. It's too big here, too small there, it's just wrong. Food wasn't for fueling my body, food was an enemy. But sometimes it was a friend, my only friend. Food is what makes my body look wrong, so therefore food is wrong. It can't possibly be that my idea of what is "right" is wrong. No. No. Maybe? Food was a friend, my only friend at times because it was always there for me. It didn't criticize or talk bad to me. It didn't get jealous when I did something better or got chosen for something. It didn't get chosen and leave me feeling left out. It didn't get the cute boy-attention and comforted me when I didn't get the cute boy-attention.

It was there when my friend was in another country, my closest friend moved 5,000 miles away and left me alone in high school with a douchbag boyfriend. Food, you are my friend, my only friend, who won't take something from me that I'm not willing to give freely. But I also hate you. I can't eat you, because then I would get fat. Oh wait, I see a way. I can eat you then feel guilty and throw you up or overexercise. Nobody noticed. NOBODY NOTICED. Nobody said anything. Nobody said, "Addie, stop."

Well, when that friend came home she said something. She's a good friend. But Food, you're better.

How can I "break up" with food, when legitimately I do need it? And legitimately it is a friend? What does a kind relationship with food look like? What does being kind to my body look like?

I think kindness to my body in the area of food looks like eating healthy things, foods that will sustain my energy to manage and have fun with my kids. Food that is a good investment. Food is fuel. Food is fun. My body isn't a garbage can for garbage food.

The joy of serving that I haven't known before, the joy of church as a family that all pitches in, the grace of being okay with mistakes, the grace of understanding that we are all "in process"  and the loudness of children all around. I'm loving this arm of His Church.

Huh...

A new feeling. Trying something new and not because I want to try really hard. It just happened. A familiar situation which has been difficult in the past and one to which I have responded poorly. But this time, something new. Peace. Grace. Happiness. No envy, no judgement, no pain. Just normal. And it's so refreshing and wonderful. Why did it just happen? It might be the nutritional support, or the peace that comes from actually forgiving those in my past. Whatever it is, it's grace pure and simple. Thank you Jesus for the peace that comes with forgiving others as I have been forgiven. It's more of a gift to myself than to the person I have forgiven.

Rocks

Rocks

Colliding against one another

The rocks in the ocean or on the shore

are big and jagged

The rocks on the beach

are smooth and rounded

Much smaller

The smaller and smoother rocks

are more weathered and worn

More treated by their

Creator

Surrounded by other rocks just

like them

How is the church like these rocks?

How is God gives other people

to bump and push against

Challenging us to break off

the rough and jagged parts

and polish slowly what is left

How can the process of

sanctification be like the

process of rocks being turned into

sand?

Sometime the big rocks

collide and crack, then

break completely

Entire pieces break off and

the rock is completely

changed.

The change can be

quick and violent

or

the change can be

slow and gradual

Kindness

God's kindness to me. My own kindness to me. I don't even know what that looks like. I've hurt and abused and neglected myself for so long. I can't get past the sad right now. I am sad for what I've experienced and what my paradigm of thinking has been for so long. Is that pride? Or am I just sad?

I have been very afraid of sharing my opinion. It has not been okay for me to say, "I disagree" or "I'm not okay." It has not been okay to ask a question. Just the other day when I asked my friend a question, a simple question, a clarifying question, I felt guilty for asking it, like it wasn't my place and it was "sin" to even ask. I haven't been allowed to have my voice without being judged, ridiculed, or punished. Sometimes the punishment has been as small as a look of disapproval, or a tone of voice that says, "You're stupid for asking that question." Disapproval for so long has meant "bad." Correction for so long has meant "stupid."

I also notice my awkwardness when talking with people. Smiling at the right time, but not necessarily when my heart says I should. Saying, "uh huh" when the other person pauses but sometimes it feels forced. Following all the right rules of polite conversation but because I'm self-conscious, not because I really care or understand. Because asking a question would be I'm stupid for not getting it the first time.

Apparently I have a displeased resting face. Or "bitch face." It's just the way my face looks! I don't know what to do! Maybe it's an indicator of my teetering on the edge of a black hole that I will fall into and be unable to stop. Maybe that face of displeasure is not because I'm judging others (which, let's face it, I do), but more because I'm constantly judging myself. I'm constantly uncomfortable for one reason or another. Even during intimacy with my husband. It hurts to say that.

So what does kindness look like to myself? Being okay with my resting bitch face? Not being self-conscious of it? Honestly asking questions when I don't understand something? Honestly answering the question "how are you"?

Probably all of those things.

**Within a few hours of this despair and writing, God reminded me through the friend of whom I refer to in this post that I am remembered, I am loved, and I am considered a best friend. Thank you Jesus for pointing me to people who love you and also love me and are not like former friends I have had.**

That frustrating feeling. Someone else has what I want. I want that midmorning coffee break with a friend. I have that, often actually. But I don't have it like I want it. I'm disappointed. When my friends make time to meet for a coffee break, and on "best friend day" I am sitting by myself doing a puzzle and overseeing schoolwork with my kids. It is hidden. Nothing to be admired. I hear those lies that say I am unimportant. That I was lied too. It hurts when I ask my friend what she's doing this week and she says she's working in her kids' classrooms all day. Then the next day I see her doing something fun. It makes me sad. I feel lied to.

She didn't really lie to me. She doesn't have to justify herself to me, nor I to her. But why does it have to be public? Why does it bother me? But it still does. It feels like a judgement. I hear, "Hey, it's best friends day and I didn't ask you to join me for a best friends coffee. You're not as important as me. I'm not going to make time for you." Why does it feel like a judgement? If she listed her best friends (and there is more than one), I know I would be on that list.

She is a safe person but this judgement makes it feel unsafe. The judgement isn't coming from her, but from me. I am what makes it unsafe. The comparing. What is wrong with me? Why do I do this?

It hurts because I was hurt like that before. The way Gina treated me was wrong. She said with her words and actions, "I only have room for one best friend and you're not it. And the reason you're not it is because there's something wrong with you, something I don't want to associate with." And she put it on display. The judgement comes from that pain, that abuse from Gina. She mistreated me and hurt me on purpose and told me it was because there was something wrong with me. I didn't give her the status she wanted from her friends. I wasn't "cool enough."

That. Was. Sin. Against. Me.

That's not on me, that's on her.

And punishing my current friends for what Gina did to me doesn't get me anything but hurt and anger and despair.

Yesterday I taught Sunday School and it was about the stoning of Stephen in Acts. Even though the pharisees and Sanhedrin were lying about Stephen and trying to trap him and eventually kill him, Stephen forgave. Instead of carrying around that heavy stone of what was done to him, he put that stone down and forgave.

I have been carrying the stone of Gina's sins against me around for a long time. I may never reconcile with her and I probably won't hear an apology from her. I don't know where she is living or moreover, where she is with Christ. Probably pretty far away. But I have been carrying this weight of pain from her around and it's simply too heavy to bear. It might not have been that heavy to begin with but simply that I've been carrying it for 20+ years has made me tired and worn. And every time a friend now does something that echoes that hurt from Gina, I get angry again. I get mad that I'm still carrying that weight. I try to throw that stone at my current friends, but that just leaves all of us confused and hurt.

Jesus. I don't know where Gina is or what she's doing. I have been hurt by her. She treated me unfairly, she judged me, she abadoned me. My current friends are not like her. They're not perfect but they are not like she was. I am tired of carrying around this weight of unforgiveness.

Jesus. I forgive Gina for telling me I wasn't cool enough, good enough, popular enough. I forgive her for not being a good friend to me. I forgive her for her sins against me. I am ready to put down this weight. She believed she could only have one best friend, but that's not true. I have many best friends. And those friends in turn have many best friends. It is possible to have a group of friends and still be okay. I am not "less-than" if I don't see people or interact in the same way. I am not justified by how often I interact with my friends. I am justified by Christ. Please help me stop punishing my friends and myself for the things Gina did to me, because you died for those things.

Chapter 1

Hannah looked across the table at her brother Caleb. Tonight for dinner she made pot roast with carrots and cabbage and onions just the way he likes it. She had also made some fresh rolls. 

"Hannah will you pass the water?"

"yes of course," she replied.

This is how most of the evening's passe, sitting across from one another quietly. It always felt like there was tension in the air, like he was always disappointed in her for some reason. She could never really put her finger on it, and he never offered a reason.

"I'm going into the city tomorrow, do you need anything from the general store," caleb said. 

"No but thanks for offering," Hannah replied.

The sun was going down and as they finished up dinner, Hannah cleared the table and got started on the dishes and preparing the kitchen for the next morning's breakfast. 

They went to their respective rooms after a tense good night. 

Hannah didn't mind living with her brother Caleb. After their parents have died he had taken over her finances and in return she took care of him around the house and sometimes helped on their farm in West Virginia. Aside from the intimacy a wife is expected to provide her husband, she was basically Caleb's wife. 

Ruminations upon the unsafe

The concept of safety eludes me. I know I consider myself people at the daily advance of kids and where we need to be makes the practical safety hard to imagine. I want to be safe and share something with my husband, but our kids are always there, our kids are always getting in the way. And it just never seems like the right time to be safe and to be vulnerable. 

I saw my friend (and sister) recently and felt like I wanted to share my writing with her, we are one of my poems. It was something I had been thinking about for a long time but it was never the right time for one reason or another. When I got ready to share my writing my son started screaming and interrupted the mood. What if I am safe because I haven't had time to myself? What if that promulgates my unsafely?

What if, given the time and emotional energy, I really am safe? What if it is unfair to myself to call myself unsafe? 

I can barely manage time by myself or time with my husband. How can I be expected to have the time to be safe with other people? Is 10 little ears are always listening, always over here and everything I have to say. I love them but I am starting to understand why I'm so exhausted. 

I long to have that on interrupted time with my friends...what if by the time I get there i've forgotten what it's like to be safe? What if my unsafety isn't from something that happened to me? What if my  unsafety isnt from being victimized or abused but rather because of other things.

Writing shame

I am afraid 

To share

My writing

With anyone

But especially 

Him 

This doesn't

Mean he's not 

Trustworthy

Safe

Or caring

It shows me that the 

Unsafety

Is inside

Me

Everything feels unsafe because 

I 

am

Unsafe

For whatever reason

I am not able 

To be myself

To anyone

Even

Him

Do I really need a reason?

Or can

I just be okay with knowing that how I am

And move on

I am more willing I write this 

Anonymously 

That share it with

Him

Why?

Shame

Dripping with shame 

For as long as I can remember

A year later

A year later, we can sit around a table together and dialogue, debate, joke and be serious. Behind-the-counter. No one's prescribing this, this is real community. Community that won't shun if we disagree, there is indeed freedom to disagree and encouragement to disagree. This is community that won't have to "replicate" and disband. This I community that says, "we've walked through garbage and trial and we can still stand by one another. Looking back, the dissolution of our church is actually a small part of this group of friends. Financial difficulty, surgery, surprise pregnancies, new babies. Disappointment and rejoicing. Despair and amazement. 

That God would provide a consistent group of friends who I look to as my sisters and brothers, my kids' aunts and uncles, is simply amazing to me. Losing these relationships was the biggest thing I was worried about a year ago. And to see the tender care with which God has dealt with me in this area makes me feel so loved and cherished.

I am remembered 

By God

I am prioritized

By God

I am loved

By God

I have three daughters. They are each different. Different than me and from each other. Different personalities and talents. Differently-shaped bodies. 

I have struggled very much with the body I was given. I have loved it, hated it, and abused it. I have coveted that I was given a short torso, full legs and a lumpy tummy. Now that I have birthed five children I have wider hips. 

Watching my children, I can't help but compare them. Not in a bad way, but side-by-side comparing one against another. One is more coordinated than the others, one is more graceful. One is stronger. One is a fast runner. One is very small for her age. Another is on the trajectory to be big for her age. The one who is big for her age (compared to my children who are small for their age)...my heart hurts for her. Will she be made fun of? Will she feel ashamed that she weighs as much as her big brother? Will she feel less-than because she has a round tummy and strong, capable legs? 

She doesn't feel those things (that I know of) right now. I feel those things for her, because that was my experience. 

I was less-than because of my size. I was ashamed because I was bigger than the boys on my soccer team. I was embarassed because I needed my dance costume altered. I was embarassed by my round tummy, early chest development and double chin. 

It's so easy to be critical of my daughter, because that's how my size was responded to. But they are all perfect, the way God made them. I eventually grew taller and leaned out. By middle school I was "normal". But I had taken on the identity of the "fat kid" and still felt different. Other. Less-than.

I am not that person, regardless of my form and I will not let my baby girl be that person, regardless of her form.

P.

I have a skin disease
A disorder
My body attacks itself

My skin make new
skin very frequently
It flakes
It itches

Dry
Red
Flakey
Ew

"Oh, what happened?!"
Strangers cry
"Did you burn yourself?"
The look of disgust

The aesticians ask
If it hurts
Then speak to one another
In a language I don't understand

I know it's about me

"Does it hurt?"
Yes
But I'm used to it
Yes

"No, it's not contagious"
You can't catch it
I don't understand
Why I have it

I
Wish
I
Could

In a way it's a
Metaphor
For my
Soul

I look thick-skinned
and funny
But it flakes off
Easily

Onto people I don't intend
Because they're not safe with my
Heart

And I bleed and ache
Twitch
and
Itch

Under the surface

Cover it
Soothe it topically

Been doing that for years
It's time for a change

The healing
needs to
come from
the inside

But maybe the
pain
will never be
gone

Maybe it's my cross to bear
To remind me of Him

Having this doesn't
make me better
holier
stronger

It makes me
weak
embarassed
dependent

Maybe that's okay

Just Normal People

"They're just normal people."

In her one-room apartment in her retirement community, my Grandma Evelyn started opening the first of many boxes of family history. She had spent much of her earlier years assembling endless family trees and organizing the information about her and her husband's lineage. She organized family reunions on Hood Canal. She discovered and confirmed our family's connection to the Revolutionary War and was active in Daughters of the American Revolution. They travelled to Virginia and even Scotland to visit gravesites and meet distant family members. She transcribed stories from World War II for Grandpa. She did it all without the help of the internet too, which is impressive in and of itself. 

Looking through photo albums of a past reunion she mumbles, "They're just normal people." 

Lots of names and dates. Trees and lists of kin. Landowners, laborers, surveyors, pioneers, even slave-owners. Families, large families of seven or more children. John, Robert, Evelyn, James, Sarah, Thomas. Babies and young children who didn't survive their childhood. Women dying in childbirth and husbands widowed. 

If anyone is from an American family, it's me. 

Our roots were originally from Scotland but this continent has been our home for almost three-hundred years. My ancestors presumably fought in the Revolutionary War and probably fought their kin during the Civil War, or known at the time as The War of the States. 

But still, normal people. Nobody stands out as a great war hero or politician or businessman. Normal people living normal lives and doing what's expected to support themselves and their families.

In an age in which people are all special and "destined for greatness," this is the story of a normal family. One branch in a huge oak tree that eventually led to me. 

The disease can be the cure

Can it be 

That the thing of which I am

Afraid

May help me?

I am uncomfortable around people

Particularly men

Which is okay

But the "cure" isn't 

"Never be around dudes"

That just intensifies the fear

But the cure might be

"Have healthy friendships with dudes"

Learn that some of them are 

Trustworthy 

My husband

My friend's husbands

My family 

Disordered relationships 

The goal isn't avoidance

But

Discernment

Please God 

Allow healthy friendships

With all

Husband

Girlfriends 

Safe dudes

Iceberg

Cold as ice

Hard as a rock

No emotion

No love

No fear

A lot under the surface

A lot you cannot see

A lot I cannot see

The water is warming

Melting my heart of ice

The emotion I've pushed underwater

Is overflowing

I thought I could skim the surface 

And survive

But God won't let me 

Skid by

By my own work and will

His will is that I would be known

And I am not afraid

For He is with me

The iceberg is melting

Global warming

Is real

It started with one person 

But now 

In His grace 

I will melt for all

To

See

I have many dreams and ideas, aspirations and inspiration. For as many ideas as I have, only a sliver get off the drawing board and into real life.

I have wanted to start a school, like a developmental play group. I drive past buildings for sale or storefronts in a strip mall and think that'd be a good location for my school. As we've done more homeschooling, the idea has changed to be more homeschool-oriented. Maybe not developmental playgroups but mentoring or counseling the homeschool mom and helping with ideas for teaching. I do are that I would need significant years of homeschooling under my belt to be taken seriously, and to even have the time to do that. Who am I kidding? I have  a not-even-18-month-old! This is like millennia away. 

I aspire to write. What, I don't know. Fiction, "Religious", Bible study, memoir? Who knows? 

I aspire to paint. I'd love I learn how to make beautiful art.

The difference between a child and an adult is that a child dreams, but an adult does. I learned that recently. Yes, I am an adult but frequently with the mindset of a child. I don't want I make decisions and be held responsible. I don't want to speak my mind and be judged. I don't want to be myself out of fear of being wrong. 

I want to be an adult, and I am learned to do just that. I have something to offer this big scary world. Maybe it's just my mind. Or my hands to serve. But I am an adult, not a scared child who is allowed to dream but not actually do anything.

My only question is, how can I "do" and not just dream when I need significant experience and years under my belt? God is clearly saying "wait". Dream, practice, do. He is saying, I will tell you when to do, but until then, wait and run in place. 

I was so afraid

To lose

My friends

My comfort

My home

But He provided

A year ago

God called us out

Not knowing what

Would happen

Or where

We would go

I was certain

I would lose

My friends

My community

My safe place

But He provided

To watch others

I was sure I would be

Forgotten

Misunderstood

Shunned

But He provided

My comfort

Came from Him

My strength 

Came from Him

My heart

Relied on Him

He showed me

I relied too much 

On others

Not on Him

He showed me

I was comforted 

By others

Not Him

But he didn't leave me

Forsake me

Forget about me

He provided

A year later

Life is different

But a lot is still the same

I wasn't 

Forgotten

Misunderstood

Shunned

I was 

Treasured

Validated

Comforted

By Him

I went to a creepy house yesterday to run an errand for my husband. I didn't know if someone would be home. As I drove up a secluded street the house was at the end of a drive surrounded by trees. It was a quiet neighborhood. I looked for the thing I needed to pick up but didn't see it on the porch. The front door was wide open or perhaps there wasn't even a door, it was hard to tell.

I've been thinking about things that are safe, unsafe, and dangerous. Both physically and with my heart in relationships. I have categorized much of the safe as unsafe. I am still working through why I believe this, why I am hesitant to trust. I have had a good, safe life. I feel like I'm a chronic sexual abuse victim or something, but that's a very small part of my story. 

When I drove up to this house and looked around, immediately the "dangerous" signals went off. I didn't want to go 10 feet from the front door. I was convinced a man would jump me and drag me into the basement and rape me. I didn't want to think about what would happen to my kids.

I called my husband and told him I didn't see the thing I needed to get and that I didn't want to look around. He talked me into opening the garage and finding it, which I did. I felt that "flight" response in which I just wanted to run fast and far. 

Irrational? Maybe.

Revealing about how I see safe/unsafe/dangerous? Definitely

Relate

Relating to other people

Would be a lot easier if 

I knew what they were thinking

I have learned that the words

That come out of a mouth

Aren't always true

"How are you?"

"Okay."

Not really

Not okay at all

Lies

Hiding

Unsafe

Confusion

Did my issues come from my parents

Or my peers

School didn't help

My

Self-consciousness

But I felt self-conscious at 

Home

Too

The look from my mom

Or dad of

Disappointment

Disapproval 

"You're okay"

No

Not okay

Love 

And

Logic

More like

Fear

And

Confusion

My relationships now

Echo

Their influence

I fear 

Disapproval from

Parents

Not peers

But it reminds me 

Somewhere along the line I decided that being different was wrong. And wrong was bad, very, very bad. I learned that sharing my opinion openly didn't get me admirers, but instead got me weird looks and scheming secrets from my "friends." I never really believed the whole, "There are no stupid questions" garbage from my teachers. Just because there were no stupid questions doesn't mean I won't get judged for asking one. And by judgement I mean a look of disdain, disapproval, shunning, or worse yet, outright being made fun of. The thing about being made fun of is that even though it hurt my feelings, I learned to roll with it, make fun of myself, or just laugh along with them. Really, it kind of hurt to be called cherry bomb because when I laughed my face got all red. It felt vulnerable to be known as that girl who fell into the sewer drain. Like my stupid mistake was on display for all to see. It felt horrible to know that I wasn't "smart" enough to be in the special group of kids who got to go on special trips and the teacher just let me in anyway. It felt bad to have crushes on boys but have it not be reciprocated because I wasn't cool enough. It felt bad to have to get my dance costume altered because I was too fat. 

Where were my parents? How could they not see? Didn't the teachers notice me and tell my mom what was going on? 

If my parents didn't notice me, why should I believe in a God who notices me? I have to make myself noticeable, love-able. I have to make myself worth His time. 

I know that is a lie. I know that I don't have to, nor can I make myself more noticeable or worthy to God. Jesus did that for me. But is it any wonder that I struggle with being hidden, working to be recognized and praised? Any wonder that I struggle with being valued based apart from my good deeds? It's seeped in for so long. I've been marinating in this paradigm for so long, it's hard to wash off practically.

Hard boiled

I am an egg 

Hard on the 

outside 

By necessity

An egg develops a shell 

To protect what's inside

But the shell is fragile

Easily broken

Sometimes eggs are hard boiled

Which is basically boiling the egg in water

And then making it stew in it until 

Done--a variable amount of time

Hard boiling an egg doesn't change 

The shell

Only

The stuff underneath 

Still

Fragile

Still

Thin

I must be a hard boiled egg

I am hardened by the heat and time

It's been a long time 

My shell is broken 

And won't come off easily

It has to be peeled off in tiny pieces

And can't be done alone

Sometimes the shell is reluctant to

Detach from the white 

It sticks on as if adhered with 

Superglue

But nobody wants shell in their egg salad

The hard boiled egg is of no use if 

Full of

Shell

The shell must come off

The insides must be exposed

The self-protection must be

Ripped away

 

 

Broken

An egg cracking

One crack

Another

And another

And it's broken

Am I an egg?

Shiny and put together on the outside

But my inside is jelly

Formless 

Needing to be contained

Getting hit with my sin 

And my shell cracks

Hit with grace 

It cracks more

Thinking I can just be cracked 

And heal myself

Really I need to be completely

Broken

Is the egg scared to break?

Seeing the hit coming but

Unable to do anything

Am I but an egg in the hand of 

The Creator?

Am I part of something bigger

But I must crack completely and be

Broken

To be of any use?

An uncracked egg doesn't do anything

But look pretty 

And uncracked egg doesn't 

Nourish

Contribute

An egg needs to be broken 

To be mixed with other things 

And turn into something new

Behold 

I will make all things new

Says the Baker

But I need to break first

Stuff in a Pan #2

Tonight I planned on making a crostini but didn't get home in time. So it was another stuff-in-a-pan creation! Sautéed onion, red, yellow and orange pepper slices, add cooked chicken and a little chicken broth and cook until soft. I had a little marinara sauce and added it along with quinoa. Add water to cover and cover the pan until quinoa is cooked. Once cooked add goat cheese and serve.

Day in the life

I wrote this a year ago, but could have easily written it yesterday, or three months ago, or tomorrow or really any point in the last year or more. When I realized that, that I've been feeling like it's been the baby blues for longer than I can remember, I decided to get the prescription filled, swallow my pride and join millions of others on antidepressants. My kids deserve a mom who's "there" in the present more than just sometimes. 

I still chalk so much of it up to hormones, but that doesn't mean I might need a little help kicking this junk to the curb and moving on. I feel like I'm on a treadmill. I make some good progress, talk to Jesus and confess sin, but at the end of the day maybe it's something more than that. I don't want to be the crazy mom. I know I am a sinner and my kids for sure know that, but I don't want my kids to say of me, "she never asked for help even though she needed it." I hope they say, "because my mom asked for help, she got help and now I understand Jesus better because of it." 

Tuesday

8am- Got to "sleep in" until 8am, but really have been up since midnight feeding the baby, falling asleep in the nursing chair, waking to put baby back in bed, only for a few minutes before he wakes again and the cycle begins again. Nevermind that we didn't go to sleep until midnight because the postpartum emotions and tears were like a wild fire that I couldn't contain.

815- make lunch for the husband and get started on breakfast for kids, kiss husband goodbye, holding off tears as I face the next day of uncertainty and feeling guilty for saying some things during last night's hormonal issue. 

830- kids eating breakfast, baby wakes so I get him, eat my breakfast.

9- kids run off and play and for the next hour I nurse baby and walk around my house crying. The hormones are back. It's hard to distinguish truth from lies during this time. I know my thoughts have some truth to them, but how much of it is true and how much is the enemy exploiting my hormonal instability and exhaustion? 

1030- pull myself together enough (I realize now I didn't go to Jesus, really at all) to "do school" with the kids. Baby Calvin is napping. The little ones (Wes and Della) are doing who-knows-what. In keeping with our "Grace Year" theme, I only ask them to do the minimum- math page and language arts workbooks and handwriting. They are becoming surprisingly independent!

noon- lunch- PB&J, our usual. I don't remember what I frantically ate because I was probably starving. Also pretty sure I was on my 6th cup of coffee at this point.

1pm- Get everyone dressed so we can go to the orthodontist for a surprise visit because Caley's retainer fell out. This is like the 5th time it's happened and it's starting to get really annoying. I think I wore yoga pants and my grubby high school swimming sweatshirt. 

2pm- at the orthodontist, trying to put on a nice face for all the "wow, 5 kids" "he's so cute" "what are their ages" and "how do you do it" so I don't give into the hormones in front of unsuspecting strangers.

230- Come home and put Della down for a nap, Calvin is napping in his carseat and miraculously the big three agreeably do quiet time in this rooms for a whole hour! I got to read a book and surf the internet! 

4pm- The day is looking up, the kids are playing well, someone's bringing us a meal and I am drinking wine. I spontaneously decide to do a sorting activity with the kids, sorting the winter and summer olympic events. 

530- Food arrives. Hooray! I forgot to set the rice-cooker. This almost sends me into a tailspin, again. Husband gets home and he jokes that I've failed because I forgot about the rice. I totally know he's joking, but the tears begin again. He feels horrible.

7pm- Everyone's eaten dinner, and we all watch "Little House on the Prairie." It's becoming a regular thing. History lesson and literature lesson--check!!

8pm- Kids are in bed, Calvin is down for the night (almost) and I get to snuggle with my husband and read "Call the Midwife."

It wasn't such a bad day after all.

Art for Art's Sake

I am struggling. It seems this is a theme to my blog so far. I write here when I'm struggling. Whoever reads this probably thinks I'm melancholy all the time and suicidal. Well, no, but I do come here to write and process my thoughts. Usually it helps. Until the next time.

Thinking about art tonight. "Art" being used loosely to include writing, fiction and non-fiction, painting, music, film, photography, really any creative expression. Why art? Why do people create art? Why to people consume and digest art? What's the point? More personally, why would I spend time doing something so frivolous, when I could be using my time to accomplish something?

The way I see it, art is our attempt at being like our creator. Creating something. Using the mind and body God gave us to create and have dominion over something. In that sense, you can argue that parenting and marriage is an art. It's having dominion and creativity in something outside of yourself. This sentence I'm composing right now is art. It's an outlet, an attempt to connect with something, or sort out myself.

Some would argue that, and in American culture today more specifically, art can be made to cause change. A poingnant film may inspire action, changing ideas and changing culture. A book can do the same. Art can make a statement about an inequality or a sterotype or prejudice. A song can change the way people think.

But...what if art can just be art? What if the details aren't really that important, like what the book or film or painting represents and it's just pretty or enjoyable? What if it's going to take me years and years to process a painting or book or film? Do I really have to dissect something immediately after interacting with it?

I think this idea that we need to read or observe or experience something and then immediately tell about it really affects education. There's so much pressure on producing something, like a book report or presentation or taking a test to "show" you know something. I think that's doing a disservice to the students, our children, and on a greater scale it's doing a disservice to each other when we demand "proficiency" in the form of showing something. Yes, I understand that proficiency tests are necessary in some ways, like a driver's test, but as a whole it's overused.

I noticed this with my kids a few weeks ago. We visited the state capital buildings and campus. The architecture was impressive, very Roman and grandiose. Statues of important historical figures. When we were driving home I really wanted to drill the kids on the importance of the state capital and why the buildings were constructed in that way, the three branches of government and such. But on the way home they watched a movie in the car. I didn't even really talk about what we'd seen for several hours. And I didn't lecture about facts and dates and such. I made comments about what I noticed. Like, "I love all the columns on the buildings and how everything was made from granite." Who am I to drill my kids on the specifics?

Such as with art. I need time for my brain to process the things I consume throughout the day. Reading a book and one concept will stick out over and over and my brain will chew on it. Then suddenly it will make sense or I can apply it to something in my life and then maybe I will be able to tell about it, or write about it. This may have been a process that takes days or weeks. The on-the-spot discussion is anxiety-producing for me. It almost takes the enjoyment out of the art. I'd like to form my own opinions and not be corrected. If I need to be corrected, be kind, be gracious, and maybe it doesn't matter if I'm "wrong" because IT'S ART.

Stuff-in-a-Pan #1

A new journal-esque plan for this blog: Stuff-in-a-Pan

A friend suggested I keep a log of the various random meals I feed my family. We call it Stuff-in-a-Pan. I didn't make up the name, a friend told me about it. The meal ideas though are "original." I say "original" because it's not like I really have any creativity, it's just stuff in my fridge that I need to magically turn into food to feed my family. They're different every time.

To make Stuff-in-a-Pan, you need a pan and some stuff. Usually a meat or protein, vegetables, and a cream or sauce to pull it all together. Sometimes you can bake the stuff like a savory pie or serve the stuff over some other stuff like rice or quinoa or noodles.

So here's Stuff-in-a-Pan #1. I don't have a picture, but intend on including pictures with my future stuffs.

Ingredients:
Ground maple pork
minced garlic
onion slices
cabbage slices
tomato chunks
chicken broth
sour cream
paprika
curry
salt
pepper

cooked rice (white)

Brown the meat, then add garlic, onion and cabbage. Saute until soft. Then add tomato chunks. Add chicken broth and let it all soften and mix flavors. When it's kind of soupy, add the sour cream and spices and mix throughly. Let cook until thickened. Serve over rice.

This got rave reviews from my husband and five kids!

Liking What Looks Back at Me

I have been afraid and obsessed with mirrors for as long as I can remember. In the house I grew up in, there was a little desk I would do homework at in the guest room. It had a mirror on the wall next to it. I remember looking in that mirror and making funny faces and making myself laugh. Laughing so much I didn't get any homework done. I don't think that was the first time I felt drawn to the mirror, but it's one of the times I didn't feel despairing or prideful because of the mirror.
For so long I have avoided a mirror. It never reflected me accurately. Either I felt great and my reflection was horrible, or I felt horrible and looked not-so-bad. When I say horrible or not-so-bad, I mean my body size and shape. I look in the mirror and my tummy is too poochy, my butt is too big, or my chin has too much fat.
I saw a meme on Pinterest a while back that said, "I wish I was as fat as I was when I first thought I was fat." It's so true! Even at 130lbs I thought I was fat. Heck, even at 119lbs in high school right after I'd lost 50lbs going to Weight Watchers I thought I was fat. I've always been dissatisfied with my weight or pants size or something about the way I look.

The more I think about it, the more I think it's not a dissatisfaction, it's a disorder. I have a disordered way of looking at my body. Changing my body won't necessarily change my view of my body. I just have to change my view of my body. Having five babies in the last 10 years has helped change my view of my body, if even a tiny bit. Like, it's okay that I'm not 130lbs, I've had five babies. The cumulative time my body has been my own in the last 10 years? Probably less than a year. When you count pregnancy and breasfeeding, I've had probably 12-18 months in the last 10 years in which my body has only supported me. Learning to not hate my body is practical grace to myself. It's practically walking that I'm already pleasing to Jesus. Holding onto dissatisfaction with my body is the equivalent of "I'm not able to forgive myself." It's simply pride.

Does this mean I should stop exercising and eat crap? Not at all. But it took 10+ years to get this body, so it's going to take a while. In the meantime, I get to enjoy the body I have, not be afraid of what reflects in the mirror.

Writing and Reading

I'm kind of miserly. I like getting a good deal. I have always been this way, considering where I could get a better deal if I just waited instead of impulsively buying something. I get annoyed when buying books especially, because I know I could just get a book at the library for "free." Whoever came up with the idea for public libraries...I wish I could kiss that person. Libraries are among my favorite places to be. Bring some coffee from home and it's the cheapest therapy an introvert can imagine or hope for. I just can't believe all this information and artistry is available at my fingertips. A friend said she doesn't like the library, doesn't get the appeal, and I just crinkled my forehead in disbelief. What?? Why?? How are we even friends?

My kids love the library. I don't like letting them play on the computer when we go, except as toddler-management, because they can do that anytime. The library should be for books. (Hypocritically, I surf Facebook on my phone when we go, it just needs to stop!) It always kind of grates against me when I see other families and the parent instituting a "only 3 books" rule. That just seems cruel. Three books?! Why limit to such a small number? We regularly load up with 30 or more. I hear the limit is 100 per card, and we have three cards in our family. Books are like friends. I wish I could have control over my friends like I do my library books. Picking up one as I choose and taking what they have to give, with them never minding whether I have anything to give back.

Although there is a certain level of anxiety when we are gathering our books to return to the library and one or many are missing. One time we were missing a CD for almost 3 months. I was very concerned. It turned out it was behind the DVD player. I know that it wasn't accidentally put there but strategically placed by some well-meaning toddler. It was a good thing too because I didn't want to pay the $12 to replace.

For all my miserly-ness, however, sometimes I feel like I'm taking something I don't deserve at the library and have warmed to the idea of buying books even for their retail price. When you think about how much work it is to write, and now that I'm identifying more and more with being a writer, $12.99 for a novel really isn't too much. The author probably isn't getting paid more than a few cents per word. And a person can write and write for years without being recognized, let alone rewarded. It almost make me ill thinking of all the people profiting off one person's years of agonizing work, pouring their heart onto pages and pages that will never be seen, sharpening their skill of writing.

It also seems cruel that garbage writing can be so rewarding while simultaneously brilliant writing can remain unknown. It's ridiculous that "Fifty Shades of Grey" is a blockbuster film while my brother's thoughtful screenplay still sits unread.

These are the thoughts of a writer-housewife at 5am.

Home Tattoos

The entirety of my life is inside my house. I wake up and come downstairs and the day begins. Sometimes I am up every few hours during the night and those a s "clocked hours" too. My life is bound inside this house, yet it really has nothing to do with this physical space but only the people in it. Sometimes it's only the people who live here with me, but frequently I invite others in and they become my "work" too. There are days in which I don't even step outside to get the mail or go to the garage. There are days in which the hours creep by ever so slowly and other days in which the hours fly by and I can't keep up.

There are reminders in my house of the good and the bad. The dent on the floor by the front door when my brother-in-law and his wife were visiting and he dropped their computer and dented the hardwood. I was so mad at the time for his clumsiness but now I look at that mark and remember that fun weekend. They are now separated.

My living room was regularly full of friends and acquaintances from church. When I look at our couches I can see the leader and his wife sitting there from my memory. We all had our usually seating place. Looking at the other living room I can see my friend and I sitting on the couches and my mind remembers the hard conversation one morning over a cup of coffee. It was the beginning of almost a year of angst between us. So many lies we both heard about who the other was. Yet when I look at that couch I also remember the fun times with the same friend on Wine Friday--kids occupied in the other room and use two chatting and laughing.

In my home there are evidences that children live here. Toys on the floor, kid socks discarded on the couch, pictures colored and taped on the wall. Right now there's a 12th Man theme. A few months ago there was a six-foot wide storyboard drawing about Christmas that my daughters collaborated on with a friend. This home isn't going to be Pottery Barn perfect because my kids and I aren't Pottery Barn perfect.

I look around my house and see my not-so-good moments too. The things I've kicked in and broken because I was frustrated with my life and responsibilities. The piece of the stairs I had to repair with wood glue because I threw something at it and it broke. The door I kicked and dented one morning when we were trying to get out of the house on time. These marks are reminders of my redemption. I need Jesus. For so long I didn't see that simple fact. I cannot and I did not save myself. I need Jesus. The broken door frames shouts at me when I forget. I need Jesus. I do not feel condemned, but I am reminded of my need and then of his grace.