Dear 2013,




I'm going to go ahead and need you to stop the madness. So far, you've proven yourself to be quite the %*&$. My grandfathers gone within 30 days. My sister-in-law moving to Guatemala. My own sister and her family moving to New Orleans. A friend from college suddenly just passing away leaving his wife and baby girl, after getting in the best shape of his life. A friend from high school and beauty school having her 2 year old daughter diagnosed with both cancer and a rare auto-immune disease.The list goes on.




WHAT IN THE NAME OF ALL THINGS HOLY IS GOING ON HERE?!?




Oh, yes, I know I still have much to be thankful for....I know I know I know. I'm sure there is a plan at work and God is in control. I can count my blessings. I'm not dead. I don't have a sick baby. My spouse is still alive and well. I'm FINE. Yet those around me seem to be falling into utter chaos and I can't help but self-centeredly sit back and wonder when it's my turn to have the calamity strike.These people have now become mine. I worry about them. I pray for them and their families. I miss them. I wonder what I can possibly physically DO to help...and is there anything?? My problems are so trivial and so insignificant and STUPID that I want to smack myself for trying to complain. About anything. Ever. I can't help but flood my son's bedtime prayers with phrases such as "help them" "be merciful" "reveal yourself"....and all he needs to hear is "thanks, God, for mommy and daddy" etc etc not scary stuff. Children should not get sick. Mommy and daddy should not die when little ones are so little. Life should not be so troubling.




We've got crazy weather, awful politics, unemployment, wars, crashes, innocent people going through the most heinous of times.....I want to stomp my foot and scream, "it's not FAIR!" because it isn't.




Upon hearing a friend is dead because her husband shot her, and their 4 children are left without any parents, or explanation, becaue their father then shot himself, I started to rock my daughter.....I started humming the song I've sang to Scarlett since she was in my womb:




Bless the Lord, oh my soul


Oh my soul


Worship his holy name


Sing like never before


Oh my soul


and worship His holy name


I will worship Your holy name








I could hear my voice and Scarlett quietly sucking on two of her fingers. I could feel the light weight of her, relaxed and resting in my arms. I felt the familiar heat from anxiety in my neck, but I couldn't see past my tears.





I truly feel the easiest way for me to see God is in nature. I will see a beautiful sunset with the clouds perched just so, and I am filled with awe and love and turn pentacostal in my car, raising hands saying, "HALLELUJAH!" and laughing when Colt asks, "hawawooya, mommy?" I see God in my babies faces. I feel God when my husband, who is always busy at church running sound so we never sit together, comes to stand with me and take communion. It is abundantly easy and glorious to see God in nature, in family, in beauty and love.





It is terribly and heart-wrenchingly hard to see God in death. In despair. It is hard to see God when the unGodly happens. Yet I know it is often in those times that people turn to Him. Christian cancer patients feel their death is not in vain if just one person has started to pray during their battle. What? Seriously? They have a deeper connection and firmer grasp on God and His love than I ever have.(than I ever will??) I struggle so hard with death, that no one can escape it. I struggle with the fact I brought 2 lives into this world knowing that one day, they will also be no longer. God, keep me from ever seeing that world. I struggle knowing that there is life after death because I don't know what that looks like or how I will get there.....





The mystery of why we are here at all is not foreign to me. I don't understand that if God wanted fellowship with us, and for us to be with Him always, why he created us as humans with choice in the first place. It seems cruel. We are obviously going to make mistakes. We are obviously going to fall short. We are obviously going to lose. But then, yes, He sends us Jesus. He sends us our Savior. And yet here we are.....still struggling thousands of years later. Here we are, still trying to figure it out. The words have not changed. The story is the same. Yet so are the questions!





I am apparently more frustrated than I even knew when I started this post a few days ago. I call myself a Christian....for fear that I am not. I know Jesus lived. I do believe He is who He said He was. I have heard all my life of God's love and mercy....and I know I have experienced Grace and compassion. I have felt forgiveness. But I have yet to feel redeemed. I have yet to feel free. I have yet to be the child of God I know I am meant to be. I struggle with everything. I am lazy in my search. I have little desire to read the Bible, but I demand all the answers like petulant child. -sigh-








I am completely unlovable and annoying.








I am so frustrated with all of the loss this year. I have lost relatives and friends. I have fought depression and I have embraced my worry and stress. I pray. I pray. I wish. I hope. Do I believe? I don't know. I do, I don't. I doubt. I get distracted.....I can barely truly enjoy the good for fear of the bad that will surely follow. I am a prisoner.








.....and I am clinging to my cell.







I'm not dying, but here's this

I'm sitting here watching Remember the Titans...and after getting over the shock that this movie is 13 years old, it made me extremely sad. It's a football movie set in the 60s, which automatically made me think of my grandpa. I miss him so much sometimes I can't even stand it. I just want him back, and it makes me so sad. Yes, he lived a good long 84 years....but he should've lived longer...I want more memories!




So this also has me thinking back to reading Our Town when I was in the 8th grade, and how much of an impact it had on me. I've always been a touch morbid and curious/scared of death...but this play made me think so hard about LIFE and how we all take it for granted like we won't ever get sick, get old, and die. The scene where Emily goes back and is begging her mama to just look at her...it's her 12th birthday and they are just going about their usual business, but no one actually looks at each other. It gets me in my core. I so want to soak everything up. I so want to look everyone straight in their eyes. I want to remember every detail....and I am able to do so, to a point. I can remember the texture of my Granny's hair and the way her hand felt in mine. I can distinctly remember the smell of my Papaw, a kind of sweet, sawdusty aroma. I can hear my grandpa's voice clear as a bell and can still feel his grip on my arm as I walked by. I can see my Big Daddy's smile when I'd walk in the door, and the sound of MaMae's laugh as she'd (lovingly) inflict pain on me. I remember my Mimi never being without GooGoo clusters. I remember sitting on my MaMaw's (great GREAT grandmother) lap and feeling I was her favorite. I remember how Grandmother Mary walked and how she held her mouth and say, "mmm" when acknowledging what you said. And how thick all of their accents were. These thoughts and memories all bring hot tears to my eyes....




There's a reason I take so many pictures and keep my phone on my body 99% of my day. I'm so afraid I'll forget something. I'm so aware of the fact that I don't always pay attention like I should, so I keep my camera at the ready so it can hopefully "remember" and capture what I can't. It's already so hard to remember Colt being the same age as Scarlett.... it's foggy and unclear. I can remember carrying him around and how small he was....how his foot was the length of my finger, and his head fit perfectly in my hand. I can remember the sound of his baby-cry and how he only wanted me for months. Yet I can look back at some pictures and be in amazement at how I don't remember him being that little. I look at his outgrown shoes and forget his foot ever fit in them. I want to go back and snuggle my sweet baby Colt more because at the time I was so exhausted and hormonal and awful that even though I know I loved him, I didn't truly cherish that time. But who can??




First time mommyhood is the pits. You're provided with super high expectations of instant connection to this being you've cooked inside you for 9 months. All the pictures you see in maternity stores and kid's places are of a svelt woman cuddling her sweetly sleeping baby on white sheets. The reality of it (for me, anyway), was trying not to lose anything in my newly developed kangaroo pouch and never sleeping because the natural act of breastfeeding was anything but. On top of no sleep, a serious life changing event, and body catastrophes, I was also unknowingly starving my child. For 6 months. I had a natural (read: drug free) birth, so of course I was absolutely going to nurse this baby come hell or mastitis to kill a moose and infections in both breasts. It didn't matter I was seriously sleep deprived, not producing enough, or that formula was not going to cause permanent brain damage. He was getting the boob. He may not get any milk, but he was getting the boob gosh darn it. He got it for a full year, but once food was introduced--what a difference!




ANYway....




Even though I had such a hard time with Colt (I'm pretty sure he was 2m old before I ever really talked to him), I knew I wanted to do it again. I knew I could do it all again bc once you get passed the post-partum junk, once you get over yourself a bit, once you get into some awesomeness that is motherhood....life is better than you ever could have imagined. I was scared to death, but we had another baby. Scarlett Mae was born at 5:08am on Tuesday June 11 after a quick (but holy crap super super intense) 3 hour labor. She nurses and sleeps and fits right in. But geezaloo, do I wish I had waited 15 more minutes and had her in the parking lot of the hospital. Could've saved us $2000....oy. But that's another blog....




I want to remember everything, but more than that I want to cherish everything. I want to acknowledge that even the smallest of things are incredible. I want to simply breathe in this life, my family, my friends. I want to breathe it all in and never exhale. I don't want to let any of it go. I am overly sentimental and I know that...and remembering everything is impossible (unless you have some weird brain issue), and needlessly saying stupid. Do I really want to remember potty training (AKA: those months Colt just did his business on my living room floor. That's carpeted.)? Do I really want to remember every moment I lost my cool? Do I want to think about all the time that has already gone by and that we can all only get older from here? Not so much. But I do want to remember the little things as well as the big. The way Colt runs around being "Super Colt" in his cape, and how his cape has now become his church uniform. The way Scarlett coos while squinching her eyes. Colt meeting Scarlett when she was only an hour old, talking to her in this funny high-pitch voice, and tickling her toes...asking me where my belly was (then giving me his). I want to remember their birthday parties, first everythings, the feel of their hugs, the words Colt doesn't say right ("bitch" for "bridge" and the embarrassment that is him wanting to take his sidwalk chaulk outside, "I want my cock out!!"). I want to remember how early Scarlett locked eyes with me for the first time and how she smiles with her whole face. I want to remember this life I've created with my husband. I want to remember why I love him and that we promised so much to each other. Moreso than wanting myself to remember, I want them to remember.




I pray my children remember singing silly songs, bathtime madness, and watching movies in the fort I'd make for them. I pray they remember what my hugs and kisses felt like. I pray they remember a mom who played with them and paid attention....not the mom who had to clean before she played, or who couldn't put her phone away, right away. I pray they remember books with my silly voices, bedtime prayers that included me being thankful for the joy they brought, the knowledge they were adored...I pray they remember the touch of my hand, the sound of my voice, the way that I laughed...the ways they made me laugh. I pray they want a marriage like their parents. I pray that my children want to remember.....I pray the things they forget are the things they should forget.




I am thankful for so many things in my life. I cherish my memories. I hope, when it's my time, to leave the kind of legacy that has my loved ones remembering me with love in their hearts, as they stay up later than they should watching a random movie.....

The Good, The Bad, The Boring....

So. Last night I stayed up with my friend SB and put some highlights in and cut on her hair. She's adorbs. During that process we talked about this and that and normal Mon/SB conversation....which normally includes laughing A LOT as well as me listing off quite a few things to fuss about. I cherish my time out with my friend, but I always feel bad later because I feel like I ruin it by complaining.


In this particular conversation, I realized that I'm just not the same person I once was....which, like everyone, is both good and bad.


The Good:

I'm no longer partying it up

I'm no longer on the search for a skoozer* to date (skoozer--a boy you date just for the simple fact that you "love" him and no one, including you, knows why)

I'm no longer living in a slum apartment

I'm no longer waiting tables

I'm no longer excited by possible jail time




The Bad:

I'm boring.




Seriously. I spend quite a lot of my time changing diapers, saying, "no", doing laundry, napping, being hormonal, and updating facebook with witty comments such as "must. stop. cleaning. tubs." and "passed my glucose test yeehaw!" Really? Is this what my life has become??




And I am way ahead of some of you sweet folks who will say that this is "just a season" of my life and, truly, I'm a-ok with my life....I love my little family and being preggers and all of that....but I just feel like things used to happen to me. I would always send out mass emails to my sorority sisters of crazy situations during the summer (blogging before blogging existed...you're welcome), things that were both slightly beyond my control and, I thought, hysterical. I don't want to complain about this, but....nothing stupid funny happens to me anymore. I mean there's the occasional redneck who will holler at me being "sexay" in Walmart while I'm 6m prego....but that's a one-liner. There's no story there. I need something nutty! I need some prolonged road trip that involves a non-English speaking Mexican guy who doesn't like hugs (that happened!) and an offering of Krispie Kremes. What? Having babies isn't enough for me, you ask? Do you people not remember the hourly updates when Bruce was on the loose 3 summers ago?? I like things to be a big deal. I like the drama. I like the excitement of random happenings. It's so pitiful around here that I catch myself looking up "best proposals" and "real natural birth" on YouTube just to get a glimpse of semi-surprising life events....true.


It's as though I'm in a mom/wife rut. I'm huge. I'm super pale...as in, wow.....w h i t e. I'm tired. I only discuss laundry, Colt, being pregnant, being tired, being hungry, or something equally block-worthy. Just be glad some of you only have the pleasure of reading my life....my poor friends here have to actually deal with it, God bless 'em. Plus, they get the additional fun topics of "Chris is getting on my nerves" OR "I super love him!"...which are equally annoying, even to me.


Anyway...here's to hoping that I don't get too much of what I asked for and have some insane birth story in a few weeks (just imagine--a quick labor at my house that involves our neighbor delivering her in my living room, Bruce getting out, and the horrifying realization I haven't shaved my legs in 2.5 months)...I need just enough to help me remember that while some of the crazy being gone from my life is a good thing, there's still some of the "fun" me hanging around to make this ol' life interesting...because, as it is, I'm waiting 5 more minutes on the laundry to finish so I can hang up my bras to dry.

Kids! Husband! Arise and call me blessed....or else!

I find myself being extremely worn. I'm tired. I'm cranky. I'm 31w1d pregnant with an active little girl rolling around in there (who we've also not prepared for at all), a 2y5m little boy who is more precious and crazy than I can express. I lost both of my grandfathers within 30 days and I just feel like I'm done. D-O-N-E. I'm ready for a beach vacation with no children, no dog, no laundry, and no husband, really, because let's face it....he's on my nerves, too. Everyone and everything that could possibly tweak my patience has...or will soon enough. I've said it a few times today, "You've been warned."


Why am I so angry? Why am I so mean? Yes, the easy answer is hormones and to blame it away on my sweet unborn...but I don't feel like that is truly accurate, or fair. She's done nothing but prove her existence with each wild kick or precious nudge. Why do I want to go to a place of "fussing" about her in there when she's healthy and active and I truly L O V E being pregnant?? I'd be pregnant 20 more times....but, ya know. That's weird. It's just that I also feel totally feel justified in each rampage. I feel like my internal self is walking around drooling, hunched over, dragging a leg, and snarling at everyone....and that it's totally A-OK to act that way. You gotta problem with me? Then that's too bad, amigo, because I gotta problem with everybody! Forget being Godly or ladylike, I'm flat out inhumane.




And yet, in the midst of my tirades and rants and big-girl 4 letter words, I still want to appease everyone (translation: I want to get my way and have everyone LOVE it). I want my husband to hop on board with my name choices for our daughter (when we have totally different opinions on name styles....apparently "Southern Granny" names aren't for him. Boo.). I could just say that her name is "Tallulah" and be done, but I want him to at least be ok with it...I want him to love it, actually, with every fiber of his being. Trouble brews, though, because I don't feel like he cares if I like his middle name pick or not, simply because it's a family name. I didn't care for his name for our son....everyone knows that. It's grown on me, and he is most definitely a "Colt", but at the time I would have rather not named him at all....hence why, for a long time, when you asked Colt his name, his response was, "Baby".....whoopsie! I do want him to like it, I do want him to agree to it....I don't want to feel like I'm making a decision without him, but I don't want him to feel guilted into it, either....I need genuine love for my sweet Georgiana Vivienne Rose Shearer. But I know I'm not going to get it and that pisses me off.


I'm also nesting like a madwoman...which means: I want what I want when I want it and I want him to do it. Is that fair? Is that reasonable? No. Do I care? Um....no. I want to be babied a little. I want him to come home from a long work day where he stays outside a lot and puts up with verbal abuse from customers and just say, "My love. My sweet. Sit down...how can I pamper you today? You're carrying my child and caring for my son....you've done enough. Ask and it shall be given!" That, however, goes against his nature and if that ever did happen, I'd know my death was fast approaching. My husband is not unkind, no no...he's just not a spoiler. And right now, I'm demanding spoilage. Coincidentally I'm stomping my foot and pouting because I'm not getting what I want. And who doesn't want to love on that??


What is this all about? I have no clue...I'm just tired. I want rest. I keep hearing the song "Worn" by Tenth Avenue North....I was upset about 2 weeks ago over losing my grandpa and my papaw, and I had the radio on. I prayed for a song to play that would help....and that's what I got. It kinda irked me because I immediately started crying. Yes, it totally encompassed ALL I was feeling but geeeeez....I didn't feel uplifted at all. Just. More. Tired. As the days have gone on, it's been this song that pops in my head....mainly because the first lyrics are "I'm tired I'm worn....my heart is heavy" and when anyone happily asks me how I'm doing, I make a face and say "tired"....I'm tired. I'm worn. My heart is heavy, from the work it takes to keep on breathing. Is this the worst thing that has ever, or will ever, happen to me? I don't know....I keep hearing "pray, pray, pray" over and over in my heart and in my head....but I'm so tired/lazy I can't even do that most days. I want God to just take over, but I don't think that's how it works....but then again am I really handing anything over to Him to allow Him to take it, or am I clutching my misery like my life depends on it?


Blerg.


So with no further ado: Father God....I don't know whether I'm supposed to apologize for my short-comings first and then list off all of my thanks (because I am both miserable and thankful) or the other way around, but You know that I want to be better and do what You want me to do. You know my heart. You know my mind. You know. You know how much I love my family and my friends, my home and just my life....You know how truly thankful I am and how undeserving I know I am to have such blessings. I don't have to tell you that I am exhausted and mad and generally an unpleasant person to be around right now. But I'll tell You. I'm unhappy. I'm tired. I'm not a good friend, I'm not the best wife (Proverbs 31 is annoying, just sayin), my mothering skills are somewhat lackluster these days, and I worry about bringing another child into my care when I'm this tired because I know those first weeks are awful. Yet I do still want to be pleasing to my friends, my husband, my son and my daughter. I want to be the best for them...I want them to not only hear how much I cherish them, but see it and feel it and know it! I absolutely want to bring Glory and Honor to You...but beyond being tired and worn, I feel lazy. I don't want to do what it takes...I want to wallow in my unhappiness and grasp at any and all pity and take my frustration out on whoever happens to be around. Make that stop. Make me stop. Remind me that I am Your's and that a child of the King is not pitiful and pathetic. Remind me that I am precious. Remind me that I am better than anything I could dream up or want for myself....remind me to be still. Remind me....for in that moment, I will remember, and I will find rest. I ask not for patience, but for mercy and strength. I humble myself to You, I thank you, I beg Your forgiveness and for Your guidance. I thank you.....I thank you....

Lord, help me...

I find myself, yet again, at a complete loss. Not only of words, but quite possibly of mind. How can one endure the loss of 2 grandfathers exactly one month apart, almost to the hour? How can one grasp the pain that is these 2 forces of nature being gone from this earth? How? How can I simply tell stories of these 2 men to my children and do them justice?


My Papaw, Ralph F. Watkins, was a man's man. He loved to work with his hands...the smell of wood nearly always preceded his entrance. He loved to talk about WWII and was extremely proud of his service in the Navy. He loved his independence and that he could still build things just out of an idea in his head. He was sharp. He was quick. He was Papaw. So much of a Papaw that in birthday and Father's Day cards I had to scratch out whatever other term for grandfather used and write his specific title. He was a lover of early mornings, breakfasts, coffee, and if they didn't kick him out, the Waffle House. I have been to many a Waffle House with him, and no matter if he'd been there before, he's strike up a conversation with someone, anyone, within seconds. He was quick to make a buddy, someone to tell tales of old or just discuss the weather. More than anything, after nearly 7 years apart, I love that he still talked to folks about Bet, my precious Granny.


They had known each other since they were 5, married 60 years. About as opposite as you could get, really, but as complimentary, too. My Granny...sweet, friendly, kind, patient, and my Papaw...friendly, cantankerous, full of stories. I will miss calling him and hearing, "Y'ELLO!" or walking in and seeing him smile and say, "hello, darlin'!" I will miss the smell of him, that crazy finger he cut off years ago and still babied, how he could watch a Western like he'd never seen it, his boot stocking at Christmas. While our relationship was not as close as I would have liked these past few years, I hope he knows how loved he was and how precious my memories are with him. We lived in the same town, but for one reason or another--either craziness of home life or him just being out and about--, didn't see each other a whole lot. I knew it. I called myself on it. But because he was as awnry as they come, I thought he would always be around and outlive us all. Silly me. My memories as a little girl consist of chickens, turkeys, our sweet pieces of small furniture he'd make himself, being amazed by the houses he could design, and a diary full of excitement like, "going to see Granny and Papaw tomorrow! yesssss!", "this weekend at Granny and Papaw's YAY!"...the joy of seeing and spending time with grandparents, and not knowing that they will ever have to leave you. Good ol' days, indeed.


I said it a month ago, and I will say it again today. I know I've been blessed. Not by simply having my grandparents as long as I have, but by who they were as people. My grandpa, giving and wonderful; my granny, loving and kind; my Papaw, open and hard-working. I now pray, pray, pray my Grandma lives to 1000. I can't eat a bologna sandwich without thinking of him. I can't see boots and not think of him. I can't close my eyes today and not hear him clear his throat and imagine his walk, jingling the change in his pocket. With Papaw, it's not so much big things I will remember...but little things. Enjoying a good meal, seeing him love Colt but not dare hold him when he was little, hearing him remember Gran with love in his voice. I'm so thankful they are together now.


I don't know exactly what heaven looks like, I don't know how earthly relationships appear in heaven. What I do know is that my Granny was excited when she saw him, smiling that squinched smile of her's as if she had a secret. I know he is experiencing happiness like he has never known here on earth, and a peace that surpasses all of our sad understanding. I know that because we are children in Christ, that my last time seeing him....of seeing him and knowing he was in his final hours...was not my last time seeing him. He will greet me again, with a rowdy "Y'ELLO!" and probably up on a tractor.


My sadness, my grief, my shattered heart are being held by my Maker's hands. My mom, who is now without her earthly parents, is being cradled by the one who knit her together. My God, my God...even in the depths of my sorrow, I know loves me and acknowledges my pain. I know he catches my tears. This horrible part of life will not conquer all. Death is not the end.


Papaw...I love you more than I can say. I thank you for the example that is your marriage and how it survived and thrived. Thank you for letting mom marry dad, even though it's legendary how hard that was for you. My memories are great, you are loved and missed.

Love, Moni

.....!

So I'm a tad late this week getting my blogging in....I had my niece a few extra days and have just been generally cranky/tired/pregnant this week. Yes, excuses, but it is what it is. I find myself a lot more crabby this pregnancy than what I was with my son. I think my husband will say that I am equally crazy, but I cried a lot more with Colt vs simply lashing out with "Morty"--short for "Voldemort" if I haven't explained the nickname of our unborn daughter. She's been giving me hell since 3w2d when the smell of Cheerios made me wanna hurl. 

Lovely.

So what is on my heart this week? My family is most definitely my love...my son cracks me up by the minute, my husband seems to grow and change into an even better man than the one I married 5.5 years ago, I'm currently growing what has to be the next great American female gymnast, my parents continually show their love and support, my in-laws could not be better, and my sister and her family are everything I envision they should be. That sounds weird....but whatevs. I'm also all too familiar with poop that is clearly the corn nuggests my son ate at the Chinese restaurant the previous day. I have come to realize (note: not accept), when I don't see my husband til 830 at night, that he really doesn't want to have much to do with me other than to ask if he has clean underwear for the next long workday. I'm aware that my parents, sibling, and in-laws will all aggravate me to some level at some point, and that I will return the favor.  I know that I am crazy and hormonal and will eventually want to cry in the bathtub, fully clothed, simply because I can.

Life is not all butterflies and honeypots. Having a kid is not that pretty picture of the perfectly toned mother nesting with her sweet sleeping baby who never cries or has corn nugget poo. Being married isn't always cuddles and anniversaries, and is very rarely ever making out like you once did in a car. (and that sucks) Your parents are still your parents--I don't care that you're married with your own kids, your own bills, your own issues. Parents are there, lurking, being crazy. In-laws, no matter how giving and welcoming, fall into the same category as your own parents. 'nuf said. Siblings often immitate your early years together, no matter how much you now have in common or don't mind sharing.

It's funny how your mind works...how you rationalize, how you think you can be convincing and change someone. My idea, in the early days of our marriage, of how to get Chris to be more affectionate and pay more attention to me was to scream and yell about how he didn't ever show me he loved me. Awesome. We have several historic fights that should get written down before they are just family myth, but the truth contains several instances of slamming doors, removal of doorknobs, flying french fries, discarding of all clean clothes from dryer/dresser to the hallway floor, and one unfortunate use of barbeque sauce. But I digress...I think when we first got married and were in our first apartment, I kind of thought things would be easy (which was silly because we have always been combative)...that we'd snuggle up on our loveseat every night after work, discuss the day and how we missed each other, have romance novel love sessions more often than not, and then have children when we couldn't contain our love to just each other anymore.

......!

Eventually (as in about a month ago), I had to realize that I cannot change my husband. He has to want to change himself. I had to realize that he could not change me. I had to want to change myself. I had to want to be a better wife. I could not just expect that my repeatative harping of, "spend time with me! hang out with me! watch me play on my phoooooooooone!" would actually inspire him to sit with me on the couch instead of his recliner. Or opt to watch a movie with me vs going back and playing a video game. Or to stay awake past 10pm (nudge nudge). I had to kind of let go of my ideal marriage...which was hard because I'd been hanging onto my Darcy-Rhett Butler love combo for a while. I started praying to obtain the marriage God intended for us to have. I began to attempt to fulfill my role as wife and mother in its most basic form, and I released all the things I felt my poor sweet husband wasn't living up to (2 fictional characters created by women...whoops) Sounds very 1950s, perhaps, but I'm telling you....not only is my house cleaner and I'm more calm, but my husband had flowers delivered to the house this afternoon just because he knew I had gotten up 4 times with Colt last night and I was tired and suuuuper cranky. What? Who? I had prayed that God would not only show Chris that I needed a little more hand-holding, but that He would allow me to show Chris that I respected him as well as loved him. Can that be revealed in a clean toilet? Who knows...but what I do know is that when I stopped thinking, "if he would just read how Edward treats Bella, he'd see what I need" (and yes, that's embarrassing...please forgive) and started thinking along the lines of simply showing respect (Ephesians 5:23) as well as not complaining (Philippians 2:14) and rejoicing always (1 Thessalonians 5:16), things relaxed and we were both capable of revealing our true feelings in a more understandable and accurate way.

Don't expect anyone to change. You're the only one who can change. Just remember to PRAY. Pray...simple as that. It's a time to repent. It's a time to be thankful. It's a time to ASK FOR THINGS. God cares about the desires of your heart (Psalm 37:4) and there's no shame in asking for His help. I begged for help in my marriage, so I could both see how Chris does show his love for me (in so many ways it's embarrassing I ever complained) as well as how I could better show my love for him. We don't have it all figured out, obviously, but I can guarantee our barbeque sauce will stay where it belongs.

Family, whether it's your family of origin or the one you chose, will challenge you. Every family has its strengths as well as its weaknesses. Sometimes the weaknesses seem to take over...and they can rule all. My prayer for my family, my entire family, is that we don't allow our weaknesses to guide us. I pray that we can look on others with a loving and forgiving heart, that we can be  positive examples to each other, that we can always be supportive and uplifting and not let differences (no matter how big or small) keep us from the love that God blessed us with having within our unit.  


 

I'm trying to be somewhat on a schedule with my blogging...I'm really wanting this to be an outlet for me, and maybe even help others realize there are other people out there with the same, or similar, questions or thoughts.  It's just not always easy figuring out what is on my mind.  I'm a pregnant mother of a 2 year old with a house I -attempt- to maintain and a job with clients to juggle. I'm not always deep, but am often deep in it.  I try to chant my mantra (from sweet Professor Bhaer in Little Women), "Write what you know..." but what do I know at this moment?

Very little.

So. Instead I'm going to ask some questions...which are directed at myself as well as those who may stumble across this lil blog. Life questions. Death questions. Questions about what you believe, if you believe, and why you believe it. In my last post about my beloved grandpa, I stated clearly what I believe which is known as the Apostle's Creed. The word "believe" doesn't always feel right to me when discussing God, is He or isn't He, and the afterlife....it's more of a trust issue. In my opinion, to trust is to have a willingness to be vulnerable, and requires complete faith. To believe, on the other hand, is to accept something as fact, but doesn't necessarily mean that you trust it. After all, people believe/accept that Jesus existed, but that doesn't mean that they trust who He said He is. 

I often wrestle with the inner question of "What if I hadn't been born into a Christian home?"....I've struggled with this one for years. I feel that the basis of my belief system is that, yes, I was raised that way. (non-believers love that response, but hang on) My parents had us in church every time the doors were opened. I was brought up Southern Baptist, got out of church-going for a few years, suffered a great loss that pushed me even farther from the doors (let alone altar), and then I started dating, and eventually married, a hottie Methodist. Now that I'm "back in" so-to-speak, I question whether I'd fully accept what I believe if I had a Jewish upbringing or Muslim....or nothing. And then even as I think that, Proverbs 22:6 pops to mind (don't get excited, I totally had to google it), "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is older he will not part from it."

Was I destined to be a Christian? Stop the crazy, John Calvin, I  don't believe OR trust in predestination...but I do believe we all are given the exact same choice (to accept Christ or not).  I also feel that maybe I had an unfair advantage???  Yikes. Now I feel very deep in it, yet again. It's harder, I would think, to turn against something you've been taught by your parents, grandparents, and circle of friends your whole life vs just falling in line with what they believe. At some point, I had to accept their guidance. At some point, I had to do my own research. At some point, I had to find my own faith. At some point, I had to trust in what I personally believe, yes.....but I worry about those who weren't brought up in church. Jesus says that we should all come to Him like children...."the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these" Matthew 19:14 (again props to google)....are all new Christians child-like in their belief and eagerness/willingness to accept? I feel like as a child, I believed easily like a child does...but the older I became, the harder it was to trust in that belief (1 Corinthians 13:11....) How can an adult, with all that life bitterness strangling him, really come to Jesus without any kind of childhood guidance as discussed in Proverbs 22:6? How can someone, whose entire family may believe otherwise, turn to Christianity where it clearly, plainly, and simply states, "No one comes to the Father but my me." John 14:6 Yes, these things keep me awake at night....

Then to add to the craziness of all that, I stumbled across a little documentary on Netflix a few months ago....that really addressed all of my core issues through 4 college aged guys. It's called Beware of Christians and I highly suggest you check it out, or at least look here (the last speech given by the kinda goofy guy, could have been written by me...just what I think about). Christianity is more than just believing. It's about obeying, it's about doing as we are commanded by our Father. We are supposed to love others, take care of orphans, widows, the least of these. It's not about accepting everyone for every decision they make, but about loving them and showing as much of God's grace to them as we humanly can. It's not about sitting in a church pew, walking up at the altar call, raising our hands (or not) during worship songs. It's not just about a profession of faith but about going out and making disciples, teaching them to obey all He has commanded. (it's called the great commission, people...check it out)

I came back to church and to God and found my trust in Him because something in my soul was begging me to come back...begging me to return....God was pulling and nagging and saying, "Here I am! I am with you, always! I have plans for you! You are more than what you are now!"...does everyone feel that? Does everyone feel like something is missing?? Is that why this whole planet turns to the most random of things to try and make themselves whole? Is that why there are a billion different religions? Is that why it is so hard to believe and have trust in God? Because it's so hard to believe in someone so awesome, so much bigger than ourselves, who loves us?

Maybe..... -sigh-

Suddenly Sad....

What a crap day.

I'll never fully understand how we can always be so shocked and stunned by something that we as humans know will eventually come for us all.  We cannot escape death, yet when it happens to one we love, it is often met with surprise, disbelief, and time spent using the word "surreal"...I'm 31 years old and just experienced the death of my grandfather.  Why is that so shocking? Why am I so stunned, confused, and lost?

There are so many words I could use to describe how I feel at this moment, at the end of this day that started falling apart at 9:07 this morning when my mom called to let me know that my grandpa was "unresponsive" and they "couldn't find his pulse." The only true word to encompass all of my soul right now is sad.  I am so sad. My heart hurts. My body feels weak. I have a headache. I know the next few weeks are going to be more of this, so I'm trying to walk slowly into this pool of sorrow, but at the moment I feel like I dived in. Tomorrow I fear I will feel like I'm drowning.......

My grandpa, Dr. Earl Joiner Bentley, is my dad's da. He comes from very humble beginnings in a small town in Alabama. He's been married to the same beautiful woman, my grandma, for over 60 years. Their home has been the one constant "home" in my life. It's so weird knowing he will never be back there. It's so weird remembering all the things he used to do there with ease--crack walnuts in winter, make a fire so hot the candles would start to melt, open our oranges with his teeth, grab us and show us how a mule eats corn (so painful, yet so hilarious), work in his garden, chase away the deer, mow his yard, sit on the front porch and wave and say hello to all who walked by....normal stuff. Some may know him as a great man who helped a lot of people get an education or a job....I just know him as grandpa: giver of piggy back rides, hander-outer of $25 in quarters, who'd spray you down with "stinkum" (aka: strong men's cologne) if you weren't fast enough to run away.  He loved to make up nicknames for people. I had the most-"lindy crux"  "cruxy" or the ever-popular "lomax"...he always would ask a waitress what football team she played on or if they served cow tongue. He'd stop and talk to anyone...and would remember everyone. He loved to laugh and to make others laugh and smile with him.  I'm smiling typing this.....

My grandpa wasn't a perfect man, but he was everything you'd really want a grandpa to be: playful, giving, honest, sincere...an example. His marriage is one to be envied. I remember after one of his hip surgeries going back with my grandma to his recovery room because I had to leave but I wanted to say goodbye....we got in there and immediately they were talking, whispering their "I love you"s, and as I watched with tears in my eyes over their absolute sweetness, I suddenly felt like an intruder, like I shouldn't be there. I quickly said I'd see them later and that I was glad he was ok and left. My grandpa loved her so dearly....when I was little I always wanted to sleep with them when staying overnight...his nighttime routine consisted of telling grandma, "love you, sweet"...more precious that I can express.

I'm so thankful that I had thirty one years with my grandpa. Not a lot of people can say that. In my life I have known and loved 3 great-grandmothers, 1 great-grandfather, and all four of my grandparents. I can even remember one very special great great grandmother. Blessed is not a big enough word. I was 24 before losing a single grandparent. Losing my sweet granny was like a bullet to the chest. She had been sick for a long time and I should have been more prepared, but I wasn't. I was spoiled. I was spoiled with the same wonderful people always in my life. I had never known life without any of them, so how could I imagine it? I couldn't.

Death will come for us all. It shouldn't simply because we are not meant to be separated from each other. God did not want death...He did not want us to be sad and hurting and grieving. He does not want to be separated from us. But here we are....this is how it is until our Savior's return. I do not believe my grandpa or my granny are looking down over me and my family. I do not believe they became my guardian angels. I believe to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord and I believe that their time without us is like a blink of an eye to them. They do not think to miss us....how could Heaven be perfect if you had a moment to miss your family and friends? I believe they were greeted by those who went before them, I believe they were welcomed with open arms by our Creator, I believe their bodies will never fail them again, they are enjoying the splendor of the King, and that I will see them again.

I am so sad. So very, very sad. My heart aches. My soul screams out in pain. But I will rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say REJOICE, because this horrible, unfathomable, unspeakable, surreal pain will not last forever. I will be greeted by my family when my time comes. I will see my precious friends whom I miss. I will fall at the feet of Jesus because I know this to be true: My God will never leave me nor forsake me. I believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth; And in Jesus Christ his only Son our Lord: who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, dead, and buried; the third day he rose from the dead; he ascended into heaven, and sitteth at the right hand of God the Father Almighty; from thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic* church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. 

Grandpa...thank you for everything. I love you so very much. I take comfort knowing how much you loved me. Colt and your newest great-grandchild will hear some amazing stories. We are a blessed family because of the foundation you laid. Love you. 
All my love,
Lomax

 

All I know here is that I have always been fascinated by writing.  It may take me a minute to get into a good book, but once I do I am enraptured not only by the story itself, but in the way the author was able to pull me into the character's lives.  I get drawn in gradually, slowly...in a calculated way that even if the story is bad, I cannot put the book down until I've finished.  It's a sickness, but one I hope will propel me down the path I think was placed in front of me long ago.

When I was in the fourth grade, I began reading The Little House on the Prairie series.  Oh what I wouldn't have given to be Laura Ingalls (I had no clue about outdoor bathrooms, obviously, but I thought her cornbread and beans sounded amazing).  In fact, at the end of 4th grade we were given the choice to be a historical character to do research on all year. At the end of our 5th grade year, we had to give a HUGE presentation where we actually were the person we had spent so much time researching.  Also loving to perform in front of people, this was my kinda project, and I *knew* I was meant to be Laura Ingalls Wilder.  We had our pick of 3 from a list of authors, first ladies, etc.  If I could have, I would have suicided LIW, but instead I chose:
1-Laura Ingalls Wilder, duh
2-Louisa May Alcott ( June Allison's version of Little Women made me love Laurie)
3-Annie Oakley (I had watched a movie on Annie Oakley over the previous summer, and none of the first lady options interested me) 

Can we talk about how I ended up with my THIRD CHOICE!?  Holy crap. No one was more disappointed than my 9 year old self.  No one.  Annie Oakley??  No one even knew who she was! She inspired nothing out of me....I remember coming home from school and asking my mother if anything interesting would ever happen in my life so I could write a book like LAURA INGALLS WILDER.  Never did I ever say, "yeah so I wanna shoot a gun." Ever.Ever.  

Devastation filled my poor heart for a few weeks. I saw the girls who had "won" the chance to be Laura and I envied them and knew I would have done a better job. Ugh. Disappointment is an evil wench. However, over the summer and the coming months, I began to love Annie Oakley.  She had a natural ability that no women, and few men, had at the time. She was able to draw crowds and travel the world with this skill.  She was respected and admired. She had books written about her, movies and musicals were performed about her life (although seriously inaccurate...she was a quiet Quaker, far from the loud-mouth broad she was portrayed as in Annie Get Your Gun....I do love that one, however, in spite of myself). By the end of the project, I had formed a fierce and protective bond with Annie. A few nights before my final presentation, I cried in the bathtub. My mom came in and asked what was wrong. I could not stop wailing and was inconsolable. Finally, I confessed to my dad: "Annie Oakley....is DEAD!!!!" I would never see her perform, get to meet her, or tell her how truly amazing I thought she was. I would never tell her that I was so glad I had to research her life vs boring ol Laura. It's a hard pill to swallow, the death of your inspiration. -sigh- 

However, I was able to tell both of my 5th grade classes about her and how awesome she was....all the tricks she could do, her husband who she out-shot, how she traveled and did her shows before royalty....and I even ended it with a trick of my own. My teacher, sweet and encouraging Mrs. Lambert, was my "volunteer" to have a straw shot out of her mouth. I did it in one shot, just like Annie (albeit with an air gun, and with her spitting it out on cue)  It was a hit. Not only did it wow and confuse all who saw it (you wouldn't believe the "how'd you DO that?!" questions I received afterwards), but it encouraged me to just go with it. No, I hadn't been given my first (or second) choice, but what I was given was something better. It's weird what sticks with you.  

I still want to have an amazing life to write about like Laura. I still want to have an amazing skill like Annie and be able to travel the world and be awesome. I also want to be an amazing wife and fabulous mother. 

The past few years have really put the wammy on me about what God wants for me. Writing has been in my heart for a while, since 4th grade. (arg that's 22 years...really?) Performing has been in my heart longer (yes, I'm 31. Let's all be ok with it) I'm told to believe in my gifts and that God gave them to me for His purpose. I'm told that He will use them through me. I also know I'm vain and egotistical, but also scared and intimidated and don't think I'm all that awesome.  However, (however!) I'm attempting to embrace my gifts. I'm wanting to use them to glorify Him. I'm wanting to say "yes absoultely" to everything that may not be my first choice vs "wah wah wah".....I'm wanting the love that I feel every Sunday at church, that intense feeling of love and power from the Holy Spirit, to stay with me through Saturday so that I can be the hands and feet like we are all called as Christians to be. 

 I want that Sunday Kind of Love at church to reach out to those I come in contact with on a daily basis. Maybe this is the avenue....no, it's not a 900 page novel that inspires a movement (or even a t-shirt, dangit), but it's something. And it's me obeying, believe it or not.