The Calm in the Midst of the Storm

Let me tell you the story of the calmest, coolest bride there ever was.

It started on Thursday with flowers. They were supposed to arrive that afternoon, but we received word that morning that the entire shipment of ceremony and reception flowers was still on a plane in Colombia (the country). I made a few calls and sent a few texts, and we found a place to order backup flowers from. Only when Plan B was in place did I call Cassidy with the news.

"That sounds fine; no problem," she said cheerily. "I'm sure it will be great."

On Saturday, the (outdoor) wedding forecast was for scattered storms and showers. There was no indoor venue backup plan. We pushed back the setup time to 2, then to 4. Friends rolled heavy tables across the lawn from the lakeside setup to one closer to cover. While the rest of us watched the sky and made contingencies, she stayed calm, even-keel, and unflustered.

The wedding was to start at 7. Radar showed a massive storm arriving at 7:10. Everything and everyone was crowded under the open-air, covered pavilion—the best shelter available. We hurried the bride across the lawn and under cover at the precise moment that the first raindrops fell.

She walked down the aisle and when she arrived at the front, so did the 70 mph winds that knocked centerpieces and glass jars to the ground. The thunder and lightning were incessant. Children were crying, adults were casting anxious glances at a dark and furious sky, and the ceremony paused while everyone huddled together in the center. The bride never stopped smiling, while the groom, officiant, and friends compared weather sources and debated what to do. The winds abated briefly, but there was a series of storms lined up behind the first. It was clear this was as good as it was going to get, weather-wise.

"Snuggle together—we're getting married!" the groom shouted to the cheers of the crowd.

Handwritten vows were read, tears were wiped, rings exchanged. They were pronounced husband and wife. Another cheer went up from the windblown, rain-spattered friends and family surrounding them.

With the decorations strewn across the ground by the wind and more storms imminent, the decision was made to cancel the reception and encourage folks to head for shelter. Many dispersed, but several also formed a line to hug the new couple.

"Most memorable wedding ever!" was the frequent refrain. "We will never, ever forget this night."

As we cleaned up after the last of the crowd departed, my hair worked its way loose from the bobby pins and the hem of my dress was soaked. But all I kept thinking about was I would indeed remember this night forever.

I'll remember the wind, rain, thunder and lightning. I'll remember watching my brother find love, joy, and redemption after a lonely and hard season.

But mostly, I'll remember her face and how she never stopped smiling. How her constant refrain was "I'm great/it's great/whatever you all think." I'll remember her smile as she read the note he sent her and the way her eyes sparkled when they were pronounced man and wife. She was never ruffled, never worried, never shaken.

I've never seen anything like it. But then, I've never known anyone else like Cassidy. She is joy, and peace, and certainty in the midst of turmoil. You can't help but feel she knows something you don't. So you draw closer and you watch carefully, and you realize that it's Jesus. Her trust and confidence in Him is unwavering. The rest of us are the disciples on the boat in the middle of the storm-shaken sea, bailing water and casting frantic glances at the sky. She is the one watching Jesus sleep and trusting that if he thinks it's okay, then it will be okay.

It was all okay.

And now I have a sister who will remind me where to look when the storm rages.

That Kind of Love

bowl

I'm in a Bible Study that meets every Thursday night. Most of us are mothers and all of us are women, but when we started our only common thread was the woman whose house we meet in. Ms. Ava knew some of us from church and some of us from other parts of her life, but she invited all of us to come sit on her couch once a week and talk about life through the filter of Jesus. We've been meeting for more than two years—a newborn Ellie accompanied me to the very first one. Over the years, we've developed our own bonds of sisterhood as we've helped each other navigate through births, losses, hard decisions, and bad news.

For the past several weeks, we've been studying the book of John. I will confess my disappointment when this was chosen for our study—John has never been my favorite writer in the Bible. I find him flowery and descriptive, with all his talk about Light and Life, vines and branches. Matthew and Luke have always been my preferred gospels, grounded in facts and the fulfillment of prophecy. John frustrates me, and because of that I find myself getting frustrated with Jesus.

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." (John 1:1)

So ... capital letter—Jesus is the word? What word? Jesus is the Bible? Jesus is God? THIS IS WHAT YOU START WITH, JOHN?

"Then they asked him, 'Where is your father?' 'You do not know me or my Father,' Jesus replied. 'If you knew me, you would know my Father also.'" (John 8:19)

HEAVEN, Jesus. Your Father is GOD and He's in HEAVEN. As I tell my children, USE YOUR WORDS, JESUS.

There are a lot of shouty capitals when I read John.

My frustration with John (and Jesus) takes me all the way to the Upper Room on Thursday night during Holy Week. Jesus has spent the day explaining to his disciples that where He's about to go they cannot follow (just tell them you're dying, Jesus) and that one of them is about to betray him (Jesus, tell them it's Judas. Someone will stop him—my money is on Peter).

I empathize with the disciples and the way they keep missing the point of Jesus' stories.

Me too, guys. Just say what you mean, Jesus. Stop dancing around the metaphors and the parables and the answering of questions with another question. How is this supposed to help my faith? I've been in the church since I was weeks old; I've heard every story and know every character, and even I'm wondering how it's possible to have faith in someone who can't answer a simple question in a straight manner. Can't He just SHOW us what he means?

And then, He does.

They're about to eat when Jesus wraps a towel around his waist and gets a bowl of water and a pile of rags. He kneels before his friends and takes their dusty, calloused feet in his hands. One by one, he washes them.

Even Judas.

Yes, Jesus washed the feet of the man who would betray him. I wonder what Judas felt like during those moments. Did he feel loved? Known? Guilty? We know little about Judas, but sometimes I wonder if it's this scene that played over and over in his mind when he tried to unravel his betrayal. When he found it couldn't be undone and he tied his own noose.

Not everyone knows what to do with that kind of love, I guess.

They say that John was the last one to write his gospel. He knew what Matthew, Mark and Luke had written by the time he wrote his, which means he included the story about Jesus washing feet, knowing they'd left it out.

Clearly it meant something to John, and it's everything to me. It redeems the confusing metaphors and analogies, because he finally captures one that couldn't be more clear.

Jesus takes the dirtiest parts of us, and makes them clean. When he commanded us to love one another, he didn't specify who the "other" was, but he didn't have to. He'd already shown us.

Not everyone knows what to do with that kind of love, though. Sometimes it's hard enough to love and serve our family, our friends. Washing the feet of the person who has hurt me the most? I don't know how to do that. I don't even know where to start.

But then, I remember that Jesus showed me that part, too.

It begins with getting on my knees.

Preemptive Love

pre·emp·tive prēˈemptiv/ adjective serving or intended to preempt or forestall something, especially to prevent attack by disabling the enemy.

I've spent a lot of time lately thinking about what our world needs. It feels loud and harsh. It feels unfamiliar and remote. Mostly, it feels angry, unsafe, and more than a little broken. My natural response is to quietly retreat and insulate myself as much as possible. I'll keep to my familiar routines, known and trusted faces, and a sliver of the world I can identify with.

It is dangerous out there, so let's keep it safe in here.

My instincts are preserving the wrong thing.

My silence is comfortable, but it doesn't make the world any quieter. And my distance will protect me, but maybe I'm not supposed to be protected. In fact, maybe it's the opposite. Perhaps I'm supposed to risk myself in pursuit of love.

On one occasion an expert in the law stood up to test Jesus. "Teacher," he asked, "what must I do to inherit eternal life?" "What is written in the Law?" he replied. "How do you read it?" He answered, "'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind'; and, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'" "You have answered correctly," Jesus replied. Luke 10:25-28 NIV

Love. Not safety, not peace, not quiet. We are commanded to love. In the Bible, the man that Jesus is talking to tries to carve a way out, to make his command more palatable. He asks "But who is my neighbor?"

Bad news, fellow introverts. It's not our physical neighbor. It's not our friends or our family or even the people in our own community. Instead, Jesus answers his question with one of his most famous parables — the story of the Good Samaritan.

A Jewish man is robbed and beaten and left on the side of the road. A priest and a Levite (basically a priest's right-hand man) both passed him by and did not offer help. Then came a Samaritan. A little Internet research tells me that Samaritans and Jews did not get along. In fact, their religious leaders actually commanded them not to intermingle. They were to have nothing to do with one another. They were the ultimate Us versus Them.

But the Samaritan was the one who stopped. He tended to the man's wounds, took him to a place where he could be looked after and even provided the funds, should he need further medical care.

He was his neighbor, not because of proximity but because of compassion.

***

Our world can't be healed by screaming the loudest or sharing the perfect meme or blog post on Facebook.

The healing starts more simply than that, but also much, much harder. It starts with love. Not a familiar love, but a preemptive one. One that has the power to stop the Enemy in its tracks.

Our enemy is not the Them. Our enemy is hate, it's misunderstanding, it's fear. When we love our neighbor, we shine a light on all of that darkness. Just as darkness ceases to exist in the light, so fear dissipates in the presence of love.

Darkness is merely the absence of light, and fear is merely the absence of love. If we want to be rid of fear, we cannot fight it but must replace it with love." Marianne Williamson

We were created from love. We were given free will from love. We are saved by love.

Now let us be defined by our love.

P.S. Over at Coffee + Crumbs, my other Internet writing home, we're collecting donations for Preemptive Love Coalition. Drop $5 in our online collection bucket, and we'll send you a snazzy "Love Never Fails" downloadable print. Every penny will got to Preemptive Love to support their work in our world. Donate here.

Lessons learned

"Mom, I HAVE to learn to tie my shoes!" The car door had scarcely closed behind him before Nathan was simultaneously ditching his backpack, buckling his seatbelt and telling me everything about his school day. I know the day is not far off when my inquiries about his day will be met with a sullen "fine," and absent any clarifying details, so I'm trying to embrace the flood of information while it lasts.

"Hold up buddy, slow down. What's this about tying shoes?"

"The kindergarten teachers sent a letter home and everything. I HAVE to know how by Christmas. They won't tie them for us anymore after that!"

"Okay bud, I'll teach you how to tie your shoes in plenty of time. I promise."

Yes, I promised that I would teach him.

Usually, Jon is the teacher in the family. I suppose it's because of his patience —I can only endure so many slow or misguided attempts before I take over and do it myself. I am a taker-over. It's not my most charming quality.

Jon has taught Nathan how to brush his teeth, climb trees, shoot basketball and button shirts. He taught him how to help take the trash out and clear the table after dinner. He teaches things that I don't even think about teaching until after the fact. If you're thinking it sounds like Jon would make a better stay-at-home parent than me, you're not the first one with that thought.

But I was determined this time. I would be the one to teach Nathan how to tie his shoes. I showed him the time-honored "Loop, Swoop and Pull" method. He nailed the loop on his second attempt, but the swoop and pull were lost causes. Undeterred, every single morning we headed to the bonus room a full 10 minutes before we needed to leave for school so we could practice tying shoes. I didn't want us to be rushed; my fledgling patience didn't need any additional tests.

Loop, swoop, pull. Loop, swoop pull. Nathan, biting his bottom lip in concentration. Me, biting my lip and fisting my hands to keep from taking over.

After two weeks, he finally did it. I held my breath, lest his loosely formed knot fall apart but it held. His whole face lit up and his eyes met mine. My grin matched his.

"I did it, Mom! I tied my shoe!"

"Good job buddy! I knew you could do it!"

We high-fived and I quickly double-knotted the laces so we could head out the door.

Usually when Jon gets home in the evenings, the kids rush to him to tell him about their day. Not that night though. I was first in line, triumphant with my news.

"I did it, love! I taught him to tie his shoes!"

Jon smiled, amused at my phrasing.

"Good job love. I knew you could do it."

Then he turned his praise to Nathan, and Nathan ran to grab his shoes and show off his newfound skill - the one I taught him.

Of course, I learned a lesson, too. Instead of letting Jon be the patient one, I dug deep and found that I can be, too. It doesn't come as easily, but planning does — so I've learned to out-plan my impatience. I've built time into our routine for Nathan to tie his own shoes and for Ellie to climb into her carseat by herself. I'm taking over less and letting them take on more.

It's not the first time that motherhood has made me the student, rather than the teacher. I think that's the hardest part of this gig, really - having to learn on the job. Every single day pushes me to be better, to confront my weaknesses and find a way to parent around them. It is a refinement of the most complete kind, this role.

I fail often. I've learned to keep trying anyway.

Maybe that's the biggest lesson of all.

The Scenic Route

When I was younger, my dad and I would take a ski trip for my birthday every year. It wasn't anything fancy; just a Red Roof Inn and a couple of days on the modest slopes of Western Carolina. For all my awkwardness and lack of coordination, I’m actually a pretty decent skier; we always had a great time.

One year - my 13th birthday, if I remember - we decided to try out a new resort. We weren't certain of the best way to get there, but my dad was confident we could find it without trouble. This was before there was GPS or Google Maps, mind you. Although, even if we’d had them, they likely wouldn’t have worked in the backwoods of North Carolina anyway.

Dad had taught me how to read a map though, and I sat shotgun, playing navigator, in his rear-wheel drive Lincoln town car. The directions indicated we needed to take Beech Mountain Road; Dad spotted a sign for Old Beech Mountain Road, and we assumed that's what the map meant.

It wasn’t.

Before long, the paved road had given way to a gravel one, covered in ice and snow from a recent winter storm. Steep drop offs lined both sides, and more than once we took a wrong turn that lead us off the road entirely.

It should have been scary. We should've fretted about being lost forever in the woods of Boone, North Carolina, or at the very least we ought to have worried about sliding into a ditch we couldn't get out of.  I can't remember being afraid though. We laughed and joked as we slid around one corner and then another, eager to make our way off the mountain to an audience who would appreciate our tale of conquering Old Beech Mountain Road.

Eventually, we ended up at the ski resort, nearly two hours later than we had intended. As we checked in and got fitted for our gear, the guy adjusting the bearings for my boots to snap into the skis asked how our morning had been so far. I told him about Old Beech Mountain Road, and he laughed as he said, “Oh wow. Y’all really took the scenic route to get here, didn’t you?”

Dad and I took three or four of those ski trips before our little tradition petered out. Twenty years later, the only one I can remember in any detail though is the one with Old Beech Mountain Road, when we took a wrong turn, got a little lost, and ended up with one hell of a story.

***

I am not a New Year’s resolutioner. I don’t use a daily planner. I don’t set goals. I don’t make lists or plans for my accomplishments for the coming year. This is strange, I think, because I’m a pretty Type A person in every other regard. I mean, I organize my grocery list in order of the aisles at our local store (they’re actually building a brand new Kroger, and the thought of learning a new store layout and having my list be a hot mess for awhile is killing me).

I suspect there are a couple of reasons for my non-resoluting ways. The first is that I’m a contrarian. Frequently, the expectation that I would do something because it’s always done that way is all the motivation I need to never, ever do that thing. This is not my most attractive trait, but it is perhaps my most honest one. I am rarely motivated by external pressure; in fact there’s nothing that causes me to stiffen my back and jutt my jaw more. My get-up-and-go has to come from within.

The second reason is actually even less complimentary of me than the first: I’m scared. I’m afraid of putting my dreams down on paper. I’m uncomfortable declaring that “This is the Year That I Do X!” because what if it’s a year of nothing but Y? I’m terrified that if I sit down to make a list of all the things I wish to improve about myself, I’ll never stop writing.

I’m an endless fixer-upper, you see. And I never was very good with tools.

***

A friend once told me that, when it comes to answering prayers, God rarely takes the quickest and most direct route. He is not a genie granting wishes, but rather, a Father invested in growing the character and shaping the legacy of his children.

I’ve found this to be true. Whenever I have faithfully, deliberately, and trustingly prayed for something specific, the answer has never been a simple one. Sometimes a yes has looked a lot like a no, until the threads come together and I see the tapestry He’s been weaving all along. Sometimes a no has been a devastating blow, until he leads me out of the woods and around the corner to a sight more beautiful than any yes could have brought.

This has, unsurprisingly, left me skittish about praying. I am a poor meanderer. I like my beaten paths. I have a hard time slowing down. God's way is frequently not my preferred way, and I have the arrogance to argue. I am efficient while God is omniscient, and I'm foolish enough to confuse the two.

***

My friend Erin lives on the island of Oahu; her husband is stationed at the Army base there. A few weeks ago, she was telling me about a drive she took up to the North Shore. She explained that the fastest way to get there is an inland highway, but there was also a second, longer route. That one hugged the rugged coastline and offered amazing, postcard-worthy views.

“When you have the time, it’s kind of a no-brainer,” she said. “You always take the prettier route, even though it’s longer. It costs you nothing but time.”

Her words have been rattling around in my brain ever since. I've thought about my need for speed, and how I rarely take the slower route anywhere. I like being efficient, and feel like slowing down to enjoy the view rarely fits that bill.

But who wants to look back at the end of her life and say, "Wow, I sure lived efficiently?" When my grandkids spare me a moment to listen to one of my stories, I'm not going to regale them with tales of met deadlines and moments that unfolded exactly according to plan. I'll tell them about Old Beech Mountain Road, and how the scenic route always makes for the best stories.

Maybe I’ll never be a New Year planner. But perhaps this could be the year I learn how to pray. Really pray. Not like purchasing groceries from a list organized by aisle (I’ll take one successful career, two healthy kids and no unexpected expenses this year, please Lord. And no thanks, I can take my own cart out to the car.), but like I’m ready to trust the Navigator. 

Take me on the scenic route, Father. I’ve got the time, and I’m ready to enjoy the view.

After all, I always did love a good story.

Planting Seeds

In Nathan's preschool class last year, there was a little boy named Aaron.* For reasons that were never explained, Aaron seemed to have a harder time than most settling in. At drop off and pick up, he was frequently seen bolting out of sight of his grandfather, who appeared to be his primary caregiver. Many of Nathan's stories at the end of the day included an anecdote about how, "everyone got a sticker for being a good listener in music class ... except Aaron," and how, "Aaron pushed me down the slide on the playground today."

One day, Nathan asked me why Aaron did those things. "Why doesn't he make better choices?" he asked. "It makes me not want to be his friend."

"Well buddy," I said, choosing my words carefully. "Aaron seems to have a hard time controlling his words and his actions. It's harder for him to make good choices about what to say and do, than it is for you. He probably gets frustrated, and that's when problems happen. Do you know what you could do to help him?"

Big brown eyes met mine in the review mirror, and he shook his head slowly.

"You see, Aaron - and other boys and girls like him - need extra patience and kindness from you," I explained. "I know it's easy to get frustrated or mad at him, but it's really important that you try your best to show him what making good choices looks like. And that includes being a good friend to him. If he sees you being kind, that might help him be kind, too."

Nathan said nothing, and we soon switched to talking about stopping to play at the park on the way home, but I prayed my words planted a seed in his mind.

Weeks later, preschool had ended and he was headed to a week of Vacation Bible School (the struggle to keep an active kid occupied is real). Ever my social boy, he was mostly excited and looking forward to making new friends. On the way there the first morning, he jabbered on about what they might do and who he might know. Then he grew quiet for a moment and he asked, "Mom, what will I do if there's someone like Aaron there?"

My eyebrows raised; we hadn't talked about Aaron since that drive home two months prior. Keeping my voice even, I lobbed the question back to Nathan - "Well bud, what do you think you should do?"

I watched him glance out the window, his brow puckering in thought just like mine does. A small smile played on his lips and he said, "I'll be extra kind and patient ... right Mom? Because it's not easy for everyone to do that, but when I'm doing extra it makes it easier for them."

My heart felt like it would burst and my eyes filled with tears of pride, and I said, "that's right, buddy. I'm really proud of you, you know?" He beamed and gave me his "no big deal" shrug.

It's hard work, this mothering gig. So much of it feels thankless and fruitless: I've lost track of how many times I've given the exact same set of instructions over ... and over ... and over.

But every once in awhile, you get a gift. You plant the seed of an important lesson in their hearts and cover it with prayer in the hopes it will take root. At first, you eagerly check for progress every single day. You are dismayed when the landscape looks unchanged though; maybe you did something wrong. Maybe it was too early in the season, or you didn't pick the best spot. Then one day, when you've finally quit looking for any signs of growth, you see it. It's just one tentative little green shoot, but the evidence is there all the same.

Your seed found fertile soil and has sprung to life.

* name changed

big news

I have a pretty exciting announcement: I've been asked to join the writing team of Coffee + Crumbs! I really am over the moon - I might've screamed a little in my kitchen when I got Ashlee's (Gadd - founder of C+C)  invitation. C+C is a collaborative blog about motherhood, and these women are AMAZING writers (see this, this, this and this  ... really, it's all just fantastic). So of course, there's that little voice inside my head that's whispering I'm not good enough and  I don't belong. And maybe I'm not and I don't, but I'm here so I'm going to make the most of this opportunity! I'm going to write my little heart out and be as brave and vulnerable as I can be, so that maybe God can take my words and help someone else feel less alone by reading them.

Thanks for reading my words, for sharing them and for all the feedback and encouragement. It really does mean all of everything. I'll keep on writing here, but I hope you'll visit over at Coffee + Crumbs as well. I'll be the super excited one trying to play it cool ;)

The Care and Keeping of Me

One whole shelf of our bookcase is dedicated to parenting books. There's Babywise and Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child - reminders of the sleepless first 10 months of my son's life. Without fail he would wake up two, three, four times a night, despite my best efforts to keep him asleep. I read them frantically, devotedly, sure they held the key my sleep-starved body was longing for. (For the record, none of the tricks worked, but he's now five and sleeps like a rock from 8 p.m. to 7 a.m. every night. Solidarity, tired mommas.) Next to the sleeping books that beget very little additional shuteye in our house, you'll find the What to Expect set - a misnamed series if ever there was one. Most of pregnancy and the first year of motherhood were muttered oaths followed by why didn't anyone WARN me?!?

Holding up the end of the shelf is a behemoth from the American Academy of Pediatrics that only gets consulted when a weird rash pops up at 2 a.m. (because that kind of thing never happens during office hours), plus a couple of "humorous" books received as gifts.

The books on that shelf purport to hold the answers to all of my parenting questions. If the books somehow fail me, there's the whole wide world of Google. I can find out the right dose of Tylenol for a teething five month old and watch YouTube swaddling videos. There's a seemingly endless fount of information on how to make, birth and care for a baby, right at my fingertips.

But what about me? Where are the books and the experts who can tell me how to take care of me?

Almost two years ago, I was staring down the last few days of a maternity leave that just wasn't long enough. Ellie still wouldn't nap anywhere other than on my chest. Her eating schedule was every hour and a half (two hours on a really good day) and she hated bottles, so it was all me, all the time. We'd also just found out she had dairy and soy allergies, which meant my diet was reduced to apples and water ... or so it felt. Postpartum women are known for their dramatics.

Compounding the realities of life with a hard baby, I'd taken Ellie by my office that day for the obligatory meet and greet. After a conversation or two, I learned that literally nothing on my "please do while I'm out" list had actually been done. The number of projects, hugely overdue and awaiting my return, was daunting. Frustrated and overwhelmed, I cried the whole way home.

That night once Nathan was in bed, Jon and I had a deep, heartfelt marriage talk. Just kidding; we had a preschooler and a newborn. Deep and heartfelt weren't exactly in our wheelhouse at the time. I believe the conversation actually went something like this:

Me: It was awful visiting work today. I don't want to go back. Jon: Well ... then don't. Me: Seriously? Jon: Seriously. Quit your job. We'll make it work.

So I did. And we did. It wasn't easy, especially those first few months. Not only were we a dual income household, we were a 50/50 income household - which meant we had just slashed our budget in half. The belt tightening felt more like a corset. We ate spaghetti every week for a couple of months and it was an extraordinarily lean Christmas, but we managed. By January, I'd landed some regular part-time work for a non-profit and Jon had gotten an unexpected raise, which built a little breathing room into our budget.

But what our budget gained, my sanity lost. Every morning I was up at 5:30 or 6 to feed Ellie, and the marathon was on. I pushed on through a full day of occupying an infant and a four year old; balancing feedings and fort building, trying to prove that I could do this stay at home mom thing. I managed to get both children's naps overlapping for one hour of the day, and I used that hour to tackle the mountain of laundry or do a little cleaning. Then came the whirlwind of dinner, bath and bedtime, followed by working another few hours and finally crawling in bed at midnight. Between my highly-restricted diet and a daughter who nursed all the freaking time, the baby weight dropped off quickly. It kept dropping though, and within a few short months I was down nearly 30 pounds from my pre-pregnancy weight. I was the thinnest I've ever been, with everyone complimenting how "great" I looked. But I was also exhausted and lifeless. The tears came regularly and over the silliest of things, but what worried me more was the rage I would feel sometimes. It felt like I was hanging on by the thinnest of threads. I went to see my OB/GYN, but she insisted it wasn't postpartum depression. In desperation, I reached out to a nutritional consultant. I was still losing at least two pounds a week, and with another six months of nursing on deck at a minimum, something had to be done.

The consultant was wonderful. She asked gentle questions about what I was eating and how much, and how frequently Ellie was nursing.

"It sounds like you're not replacing everything that's going out," she told me. "You're trying to operate from a place of depletion, and your body can't keep up with that for very long."

I knew she was talking about calories and proteins and healthy fats, but it hit me like a ton of bricks. Because she was talking about my life. I finished the conversation in a daze, promising to put avocado on everything and eat peanut butter and almond butter by the spoonful. She gave me a recipe for a protein shake with a calorie count that bordered on the ridiculous.

I thanked her profusely, and when we hung up, the tears came again ... but without the rage. I knew what would eventually heal and restore my body would do the same for my soul. I realized that I needed to slow the blur of life a little. I started carving out time for coffee with a friend. I let the housework and laundry go and started working during naptimes so that I could get in bed at a decent time. I needed more sustenance, and I committed myself to finding it. Maybe I couldn't change what was demanded of me, but I could work harder at pouring more into myself so I could meet the challenges without losing myself so completely.

Today, things are better. I'm not so skinny anymore, but that's because I'm not starving. My house is only tidy on Thursdays, because that's cleaning day. Once a week, I leave the bedtime routine to Jon, and I head out to dinner with friends or to Starbucks by myself for a few hours. I make time almost every day to do a devotional, to write, to read. I commit myself to reaching out once a week, via email or text, to a friend I haven't talked to in awhile. We have the kids enrolled in a preschool program two days per week, so I have dedicated time for working. It sounds a little indulgent when I string it all together like that, but the truth is, it's what I need. It fills me up and makes me whole, and my children deserve a healthy and whole momma.

There was no book or three-day method to guide me in figuring it out. There was just rock-bottom, and clawing my way back to a life that I could live in. I think that's why new moms tug on my heartstrings so. When I drop off a meal or stop by for a chat, I whisper the words to them that I finally learned to say to myself:

Take care of you.

Captured

When Nathan started pre-K last fall, he would ask to take a picture before school almost every morning. Over and over, I brushed off his request. We were usually running late, and there are few things that agitate me more than being late. He never argued my answer, but his shoulders would slump forward as he climbed into his carseat. I'd feel a brief stab of guilt over his disappointment, but that always dissipated whenever we managed to pull in the school lot by 8:30 a.m. on the nose. One evening, I mentioned the every day picture request to Jon. My husband speaks, moves and acts slowly and deliberately. He is my opposite in almost every way, and while occasionally this makes me grind my teeth in frustration, most days I whisper a prayer of thanks that God helped me find this gentle, thoughtful soul. He's exactly what I need, and this time was no exception.

"Love, take the picture," he said. "Ten years from now, would you rather know that you were on time to pre-K every day or have a picture of Nathan from every single day?" My cheeks burned; I knew he was right, and I was mad at myself for once more letting my desire for promptness override enjoying the moment.

For eight months, I took pictures of Nathan whenever he requested them before school. It wasn't every day - some mornings were too rainy or too cold, and some were simply too grouchy. Eventually Ellie picked up on the fun, too - first demanding to be in the pictures, and then being the one to call for taking them as she bounded out the door. We were late to school far more than we were on time, but I realized actually being late didn't bother me nearly as much as the fear of being late did.

Jon was wrong about one thing, though: it didn't take 10 years. We are only a month removed from the end of pre-K, and I already tear up when I look at the 60-odd pictures that I took over the course of the school year.

A whole season of childhood, frozen in time.

Here's to learning how to put aside my Type-A, get it done quickly personality once in awhile so that I can see the world through their eyes. Because, truth be told, I've never seen anything more beautiful.

On Vulnerability & Grace

Earlier this year, I participated in an online writing workshop. It was led by the team of writers over at Coffee + Crumbs, one of my absolute favorite blogs. We were divided into writing groups of five or six, and each group was led by one of the C+C writers. I was lucky enough to have Ashlee Gadd, the founder of C+C, as my group leader. Ashlee is as kind as they come, and she will be your biggest champion and cheerleader in the writing process. She's also an excellent writer who makes a tough-as-nails editor. When given permission (again, she's nice, so she always asks permission to be blunt first), she'll slice right through your wobbly prose and half-assed ending, prodding you to unearth your best work. It was exactly what I signed up for.

One week, a question popped up on the group message board about how to write with vulnerability. I quickly pecked out a reply and patted myself on the back -- I'd been blogging for awhile now and had even been published by other sites, I TOTALLY had vulnerability down. Hopefully I could offer some encouragement to these other timid souls who were afraid to dip their toes into writing for an audience.

Come on in! my ego was shouting. The water feels fine.

Then Ashlee called shenanigans on me. Nicely, of course, and with great grace. She told me my writing was beautiful, but safe. Sweet, but not always relatable, because sometimes it felt like I was sanitizing reality. And suddenly, I felt like a fraud.

She was right, of course. It's tempting to only write the happy stories. I like the ones where I look like a good mom. Oh sure, sometimes I might dance along the edges of the hard stuff, but only if I can tie it up nicely with a "life lesson" bow. It's hard to write honestly, and harder still to write with uncertainty. What happens when I admit that I don't really know what I'm doing most of the time? If you know me, then you know one of my trademark characteristics is that I appear to be brimming with confidence. The secret lies in that sneaky word: appear. Truthfully, I'm a hot mess over here and it's scary to be brave with my words, because what if you don't like them? They're my words, after all ... so doesn't that mean that you don't like me?

There it is: the crux of my problem. It's equal parts pride and insecurity, a paradox of paranoia.

And yet.

That's not why God made me a writer. He didn't give me a burning desire to put pen to paper for my own edification or glory. He didn't do it so that people could read my words, nod and think, Wow, that Jenn has really got it all together. She's great. When I write, it's not about me at all. He gifts us all with talents that are to be used for His glory. HIS, not ours.

Don't get me wrong; I'm under no misconceptions that I'm a terribly talented writer. I am, and always will be, a work in progress, at best. Imperfections aside though, writing is what I love; it makes me come alive and demands to be tended to. That alone makes it my gift; not greatness or ease (because it's certainly not easy), but sheer need. After 33 years, I've finally drawn the conclusion that I was born to write, simply because I can't imagine my life without it. It completes my trifecta title: Wife. Mom. Writer. The three pieces that make me ... me.

I also believe that the path of my life should lead others to seeing a need for God's grace. And I've realized that an inauthentic story doesn't do that. I have to include the shadows, and not just the light. In our glossy, veneered, Instagram/Facebook/Snapchat world, that's more than daunting. I won't post a picture where my arms look fat; why in the world would I let my real flaws hang out for all to see?

But the world doesn't need my perfection. It needs my vulnerability. With everything I write, my prayer is that somewhere, someone is nodding and thinking "me too." If I can step out on the ledge and talk about the way things really are, maybe someone will join me there, and we'll both feel less alone.

Maybe the purpose of vulnerability -- the holes in my story and the chinks in my armor -- is to allow a place for His grace to shine through.

Twenty Years

Jon and I met twenty years ago. 20. I think that makes us old. I was 13, he was 14. I don't remember the exact circumstances; it was probably summer, and he was probably one of a whole passel of boys hanging out at my house with my big brother that day. I do remember his brown eyes, and how my stomach gave a little flip whenever they met my green ones.

I was shy and awkward then. I suppose most 13 year olds are in one way or another, but I was what my mother would graciously call a "late bloomer." I wore pleated shorts and had stringy hair that was perpetually in a ponytail. Boys confounded me completely ... especially boys like Jon. I said nothing during those early teenage years as other girls - prettier, more outgoing girls - vied for his attention. He was charming and friendly, and there were always two or three who would try to catch his eye.

Oh, we exchanged a few words here and there over the years, as our mutual group of friends brought us together. I even thought he may have been flirting with me once or twice (he was, he tells me now), but I was too clueless to know what to do about it.

The summer after my freshman year of college, I was about to move 500 miles away for a boy. Another boy -- the wrong boy, as it would turn out. Days before I was set to leave, my brother had a bunch of people over to swim. Jon was there.

"You can't move to Michigan for this guy!" he told me emphatically as we stood next to each other, filling our plates with food. I looked up at him, and my sharp retort was lost.

Flip flop.

Give me a reason to stay, I thought. But he didn't, and I went ... for six months, anyway. The weather turned bitterly cold, and it nudged me to admit what I'd known for 5 1/2 months. I'd made a mistake. I was going home. Alone.

Weeks after I moved back, my brother got married. I was the maid of honor; Jon was a groomsman. Wedding festivities brought us together, and there seemed to be more flirtation than ever (there was), but I still tried not to read too much into it.

The night after the wedding, the phone rang at my parents' house. "It's for you," my mom said. I took the phone in surprise -- who would call me here? It was Jon, inviting me over to watch a movie with some friends. I stayed until 2 a.m., talking and listening to music.

He was nervous. I was the little sister of his good friend. He wasn't ready for anything serious, and didn't see how dating me could be anything but. He kept it casual - always hanging out with other people around. No real dates. Until the night, seven years after we met and three months after that phone call, when he kissed me.

Flip flop.

After that, it was Zapp and Roger's "I Wanna Be Your Man" playing in the background while he asked me to be his girlfriend. Five years later, it was waves crashing in the background when he asked me to be his wife.

We've been married for seven years now. We've lived in three homes, had two kids and slowly morphed from the couple who closed down the bars at 2 a.m. to the couple who unwinds with an episode of West Wing on Netflix at 9 p.m. He knows that just because the cap is on the toothpaste doesn't mean the cap is really on the toothpaste. I know that the pile of dress shirts that accumulates on the back of the couch over the course of a workweek doesn't need to be washed.

20 years. Those brown eyes still make my stomach flip, you know. Oh, not every time. Sometimes when our eyes meet, all I feel is relief -- my 5:30 p.m. savior has arrived. Sometimes it's annoyance or even anger. You can't build a life with someone else without getting a little pissed off every now and then.

When the butterflies come though, they almost always catch me by surprise now. He's hot, sweaty and tired from working out in the yard, and his gaze briefly meets mine as he steps into the coolness of the air-conditioned house. I watch with a smile on my lips from the doorway as he focuses intently on putting a tiny bow in our daughter's hair, until he feels my eyes on him and looks up.

Flip flop.

It's no small feat, to make a heart flutter after 20 years. He's seen me at my worst and champions me always toward my best. I've made plenty of mistakes, and I'm sure I'll make many more. But saying "yes" to his "will you?" will always be the best thing I've ever done.

The Memories We Keep

Do you ever wonder what moments from childhood your children will hang on to? Nathan is five, and although I remember a snippet or two of my life before that age, I feel like five is the beginning of my real memories. I can still recall the first day of kindergarten - what I wore (a red and white shirt with a blue jean skirt), and how stiff my new backpack (Roger Rabbit) felt on my shoulders. I don't remember telling my mom goodbye at the door to Mrs. Watson's classroom, but I remember my desk and being envious of the incredibly neat coloring skills of my seatmate, Jennie. It panics me a little bit, this memory-keeping phase of childhood that we're entering. You see, my guiding principle of parenting up until now has been to brush off any mistakes -- and there have been many -- with a reassuring, "he won't remember this, anyway." Except now, he will.

Sometimes I worry that his memories will be full of me prodding him to do my bidding. Will he remember how many times I scolded him to stop talking and eat his breakfast, so he wouldn't be late for school? Fussing at him to stay in his chair, quit teasing his sister and please stop making that god-awful racket. Barking instructions to put on his shoes and jacket, three or four or five times - my voice raising in volume and sharpness with each turn. Perhaps the version of me that will be the most real to him will be the one who ran short on patience, the one who made him feel small sometimes because I couldn't hide my frustrations like I should. If it is, I can only hope that it's tempered by the memory of me kneeling before him, early and often, to look him in his eyes and ask forgiveness when I fell short, once again, of being the mom he deserved.

Of course, if I could choose for him, I'd pick the moments that make me look good. Waking up to his favorite chocolate chip pumpkin bread for breakfast, that I stayed up late the night before to bake just for him. Sneaking him away from school for a day of fun, just the two of us. Snuggling in his bed and whispering about his favorite parts of the day. Singing "his song" for him as he closes his eyes and smiles, slipping closer to sleep than wakefulness. Reminding him every night, with the last words he hears before sleep claims him, that I love everything about him, and that I will always be proud he's my son.

The more I weigh the measure of it, the more I find myself praying that he remembers the full balance of his mom. I want him to know how very much I have loved him, from the very start. I want him to remember the things I've done to earn his smiles and his hugs. To know that watching his eyes light up with excitement at a favorite food or special surprise was the very best part of so many of my days.

But to know also that my love, however full and complete, has never been flawless. No love is, this side of heaven. I've always loved him perfectly, from the moment I knew he existed, but too many times my words and actions have failed to measure up. It's the thing that has kept me up the most at night and flavored most of my mom guilt over the years ... but he'll have never seen any of that. He might only have a vague recollection of being roused from sleep to find me in his doorway or brushing a kiss against his cheek. He won't know it's because I couldn't allow myself to go to bed until we'd had one right and peaceful moment to end the day with.

I pray for these things because, someday, his own frustrations will get the best of him and he'll say a word he doesn't mean. He'll watch a face fall and feel it - the pang of regret for hurting someone he loves. With any luck though, it'll spark one of many memories tucked away inside his mind. Moments when his mama, after losing her temper yet again, knelt down, held him close and offered a sincere "I'm sorry." He'll remember that we can't take it back, but we can make it right.

If repetition is the key to recall, then finding the grace to fail may be the enduring memory I'm able to sow. As I flounder and falter my way through raising him, I'm trusting that the underpinning of all the magic, fun and heartache he'll carry with him from these growing up years is that people aren't perfect, but we love them anyway.

A resilient love ... now that's a memory worth keeping.

Not That Kind of Mom

I have a friend who plans amazing, Pinterest-worthy birthday parties. She is crafty and clever and can carry out a theme like it's her life's mission. She will scour Etsy for the perfect cake topper and spend hours upon hours making beautiful tissue paper flowers, rustic banners and assembling invitations. The cake will be beautiful, the food delicious and the games will be a hit with every kid at the party. I am not that kind of mom.

I have another friend who is the outdoorsy-type. She takes her kids exploring in the woods and rock climbing and caving. She points out bugs skating on ponds and the worms that hide underneath rocks. Weekends with her family are spent camping, hiking and canoeing.

I am not that kind of mom.

I also have a friend who excels at sports. She teaches her kids how to play baseball, basketball and soccer, and they're always the best on their teams. She can execute a perfect flip on the trampoline, and her tricks off the diving board at the pool are most impressive.

I am not that kind of mom.

It's hard sometimes not to be envious. I wonder if my kids feel like they're missing out on something; if they notice that their birthday parties are less glamorous and their days are less adventurous. I watch all of these other women who seem to be mothering better than me, and I feel a little embarrassed. The embarrassment snowballs until before I know it, I'm irrationally upset with myself that my daughter's cupcakes will come from Publix instead of being hand-crafted by me. Then my irritation sets in. Crying over baked goods? I'm certainly not that kind of mom.

Comparison is the thief of joy, but I won't let it rob me. These fabulous friends of mine are just being themselves, after all. Pinterest Mom is at her best when she's being creative. Nature Mom lives for the outdoors. Sports Mom is exactly that athletic. They're not putting on a facade or pretending to be something they aren't. They're simply embracing what it is they love and sharing that passion with their children. And by doing so, they're loving their kids bigger, harder and more completely than they ever could otherwise.

What does my best love look like?  I'm the mom who can spend all afternoon reading book after book to the child tucked into the crook of my arm. I'll contentedly spend an hour side by side coloring pictures, using every single crayon in the box. A perfect rainy Saturday means a morning in the kitchen, baking up something yummy with  a "special helper" and covering every available surface with flour. There are usually giggles and there's always a hefty amount of cleanup. These are the moments of mothering that I store up in my heart, the ones where I feel like I shine instead of faltering like I so frequently do.

These are also the moments that can get lost in the day to day grind of it all. I must remember, though, to make the time in the midst of the caring and tending and raising of these precious babes. Bit by bit, I will pass along little pieces of what I love most, and pray it blooms a passion in their lives, too. It won't necessarily be what Pins well or what looks good on Instagram. But it'll be the parts of me that they remember once they're grown, the lessons they learned and moments we shared that they couldn't have had with anyone else.

There will likely never be an elaborate birthday party in our house. You won't find anything in the  way of decorations that you can't find in the aisle of your local Party City. Despite many hours spent attempting to learn otherwise, I will probably always throw like a girl. And heaven knows you'll never catch me inside a cave on purpose. But when my children's eyes light up when the words on a page weave a story of magic and wonder, when I watch them beam with pride as they present their "artwork" to someone they love, when they scarf down dinner because they helped make it - it's a breathtaking thing, really. I've found a way to pass along a part of me to become a part of them. I've become more than  the cooker, cleaner, diaper-changer and tender of boo-boos.

I've become a mom.