Homework

In my therapy each week, I'm sent home with homework. The last 2 weeks have been tough....having to start changing the way I think and process and view myself(!) is no small task. Yet I'm determined to do the work and grow and change and be the best version of myself. This week, my homework is to write something, anything, everyday. As someone who longs to BE a writer and write wonderful,  witty, inspirational, encouraging, words (dare I say the word books).....who loves to share my experiences to help myself clear my head AND hopefully let anyone having similar issues know they are not alone....you'd think this would be an easy assignment. Given that she gave me a topic, it is....but it isn't.

I've written everyday but the first day. I published one blog already this week. It was slightly controversial, I suppose, but the kicker with anxiety is the over-thinking. Did I upset anyone? Was I clear in my thoughts? Does anyone think less of me? Am I now thought of in a way I don't want to be? Am I a heretic? Did I show love? Is my crazy showing?


This morning, I busted out my red journal that  my daughter has taken over with her doodles, and wrote the following about what anxiety is, for me:

Anxiety is being aware of every. Single. One. Of your flaws
Anxiety is being ashamed of your gifts and talents for fear you may come across too strong/with an ego
Anxiety is being afraid to fail and afraid to succeed
Anxiety is both your straight jacket and your security blanket
Anxiety is thinking you can do everything and unable to do anything
Anxiety is wanting to control the things you cannot
Anxiety means everything is death
Anxiety fuels an actual diagnosis by confirming fears and beginning new ones
Anxiety is how I've decorated my house and I want to burn it down
I'm not free. I'm not at peace. I may have happiness but I have no joy. It is both the chain on my ankle and my crutch. It lingers behind every smile, every bedtime, every trip....waiting to steal any glimpse of peace of mind. It's a pot that always boils.

Anxiety is crippling. It makes me question every relationship. It forces me to replay every conversation and worry that I said the wrong thing. I focus too much on what others think of me and if they like me rather than just living my life on my terms and as a woman of faith. As a Christian with anxiety, it only fuels the feelings of inadequacy. Statements like, "just give it to God" sound so nice, but it's harder than that. And while I know those statements are made in love and a desire to be encouraging, they sting like a whip. I can't just give it to God. I can't shake it. Random visual--You know when you get attacked by the sand bug things in super Mario brothers 3 and you have to jump a bunch to get them off of you? There's me. Trying to jump away the anxiety that's  stuck to me. It's like a chicken nugget from McDonald's....they don't really taste that good, but they do in their way and it's nearly its own kind of comfort food...familiar and consistent. And then you realize they're nothing but pink sludge. Anxiety is pink sludge. #themoreyouknow

For as long as I can remember, I have known fear. I have memories as far back as 2 years old. I remember turning 3. I used to walk down my hallway, as a child, with my hand on my back because I always felt like something was behind me. When Chris and I were first married, I had our apartment blessed because at 26 years old, I still felt like I was being followed. That feeling stopped, but the fear remains. The fear of death, of my children dying, my husband dying, my parents dying...I fear an accident that could leave my children motherless and Chris a widower. Then I worry about him getting remarried to someone who can do my job better than me, that he could love more....my children would only know her as their mother. Y'all.....

These are REAL fears for me, even though my current reality is nothing close to that. Anxiety does not care about real. It focuses on possibilities. It focuses on the what ifs. It reminds you, constantly, that you're not special or immune and highlights all of your insecurities. Anxiety is a thief....it steals peace, kills joy, and plants doubt. It makes me question the God I'm trying so hard to know. Is He good? Is He loving? If it's all for His will, who is to say His will isn't my tragedy? Anxiety makes you FEEL all the fear, doubt, worry. It feels like exhaustion because it is exhausting. The reality, though, the real question is--does the way anxiety makes me feel equal truth?

Lord, I hope not....

The Gong Show

Im trying something new tonight, folks, so get ready!!! A MOVIE REVIEW!! Wootyhoooooo!

If you're anything like me (35 year old mom who still likes a Disney movie, and considers those that came out in the 90s pure classics), you were anxiously awaiting the live action beauty and the beast. I could not wait! I love Emma Watson. Even though I'm still mad at Dan Stevens because of his departure from Downton Abbey, he made a great Beast. I had my reservations about ol dude playing Gaston (he simply wasn't BIG enough), but gosh darn it he owned it. Then comes my beloved Josh Gad playing LeFou. He was the best cast character, to me, prior to seeing the film.

Then, however long before the premier of the movie, comes the uproar. "LeFou has a gay storyline!" Egad! And then boycotts and blog posts and lamenting over explaining something to their children. I've got three words for this: ay yi yi.

Y'all. Cmon. This is a FAIRY TALE. The characters are not real. I'm not going down the path of a story about "beastiality" either because that's just as dumb. It's made up....and besides, he was a human, just turned into a beast because of MAGIC. So, can't really be beastiality. Duh. And they didn't smooch til he was turned back to his human form. On and on....HOWEVER, this whole storyline with LeFou was blown WAY (and I mean it, people. WAY!!!) out of proportion. Had no one said anything, anyone seeing it (Christian, Jew, liberal, conservative, peacock) would have chuckled and gone on their merry way. But because a big deal was made over a 2 second shot on the screen....Lord, help us.

So many people are offended by SO many things anymore. Prayer is offensive. Liberals are offensive. Women are offensive. Men are offensive. Conservatives are offensive. Religions are offensive. Companies are offensive. Disney making reference to homosexuality ever so slightly is offensive and results in a boycot. I'm ALL ABOUT people staying true to their convictions and their conscience. I'm not here to spout off at the mouth about anyone being wrong in what they feel is right. I AM here to say that there are gays in this world. There are gays in your communities and neighborhoods and, please Jesus, in our churches. And a mass boycot over something so truly non-life shattering as LeFou.....what does that show?

I'm well aware of what the Bible says about homosexuality. I'm well aware that conservative christians see it as the sin that is celebrated in ways that other sins are not. I get it. I hear you. I see you. However, in my life, I have been BLESSED by members of the gay community. I am fortunate enough to have met and become friends with and love and BE loved by some of the most amazing people who are gay. I struggle with it from the stand point of Christianity.....and what makes them happy, and consequently me happy for them, may not be what makes them holy. And yet that is not for me to DECIDE. I am called to love and have relationship with people. I thank God above I have the good knowledge of those in my life, both past and present, who are gay. What makes me grateful for them has nothing to do with their gayness, but everything to do with their hearts, their compassion, their humor, their talent, their honesty, and their love. Anyone who may be reading this who didn't go see Beauty and the Beast bc of the LeFou/Gaston stuff, know I'm not judging or condemning or any of that. It is just so heavy on my heart to say something....and this is how I handle the heavyonmyheart stuff. I've gotten up from my chair 3 times while writing this to eat spoonfuls of shells and cheese, cold from the pot on my stove. Who of you will boycot my blog for gluttony? Who of you will refuse friendship with me bc I chose to eat 3 (yes 3) cheeseburgers in one day this week? Who of you will be concerned for my soul bc I made light of it and joked on myself for eating all the things and pretty much celebrated it by tossing back 2 glasses of wine? You're not going to boycot me. If you did ANYthing at all it would be to come to me in love and ask me what's up. Because what came first with Jesus and the woman at the well? Telling her to go and sin no more? Or a conversation?

Relationships. Love. Those are the things. I'm not saying you're a bad Christian or person for not seeing Beauty and the Beast. Lord knows. (But you ARE missing Audra McDonald and that is a true travesty. She is amazing and I want to be her when I grow up.) I just feel so much for people, and I hurt when they hurt, and I become sad and frustrated when I see fellow Christians thinking they are following the Word of God by not engaging at all(!) with gay people. This world, overall, has become a world where it is more important to be right than to show love.

1 Corinthians 13:1 If I could speak all the languages of earth and of angels, but didn't love others, I would only be a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.

Nevermore.....

I have wanted to blog so many times over the past 10 months....I have a ton of random scriblings on church bulletins and my journal pages, but nothing that I wanted to actually show the world. Not that what I was thinking wasn't worth the paper it was written on, but because I feel like EVERY SINGLE TIME I publish something on here I'm wearing all black and have a crow on my shoulder. Gloom and doom. While I don't consider myself to be a negative or very sad person, a passerby of this blog would probably argue otherwise. On here it's all of the sadness, none of the stories in my life that are hilarious or just special. And this one is NO DIFFERENT! Hang on, friends. It may not be funny, but it's about to get real. When you're a woman, who has the body that she's both given herself (i.e. Post baby mid thirties all the starches) and been given (i.e. Autoimmune disorder genetics all the pain), it doesn't just wear on your emotions and physical being, but your very spirit and your mind. Mental illness is something that can be traced way on back up in my family tree. It hasn't skipped my generation. I have anxiety issues. I've started having depression issues. I'm dealing with body image issues and just general self-worth. To say my autoimmune disorder is crippling is completely understood and makes me a sympathetic character in my story. To say I have mental illness makes some people kinda recoil back and both not want to know all the details AND think they already do. I get it. Even I, with all of my Facebook overshare, thinks discussing mental illness out in the social media open may, in fact, be too much. But oh well. Please do not think I'm suffering from suicidal thoughts or self-harm. That's not my particular issue. I'm so terrified of death, the one thing none of us can prevent, that I wouldn't dare take any of that upon myself. I've cried at the thought of my own funeral. It's both extremely egotistical and pathetic all at once. No judging. I'm currently on a low dose of generic Zoloft and recently started some one on one therapy. So far, both are just ok. The therapy is in purge mode, and I'm not convinced the meds are doing much of anything. I worry about everything, including being too much for my therapist. Or making her think SOMEthing that I didn't mean for her to. Because I control therapy. Obviously. ::frustrated emoji faces:: I just came home from a quick trip down to my favorite hometown of Mobile, Alabama. My best friend from there experienced the loss of her mom, and the service was Saturday. I needed to go, both for my friend and myself, and I am so thankful I was able to get away. Twenty hours in a car for a trip that surrounded a death will do a lot for you...especially if you're a mom of three and suddenly On said car trip SOLO. It was peaceful. It was quiet (when I wasn't singing JUST LIKE Aretha). It was reflective. People, I am a mess. Today, like all of my mornings for the past month, I woke up in pain. I went to bed last night, like all of my nights for the past month, in pain. I slept not in restful bliss, but in tortuous naps...where I thought more than once to just get up and be done with trying to sleep. My shoulder, my hips, my low back, my neck....all hurt. Then today, I am exhausted like I am everyday...both from general lack of rest as well as the tiredness that accompanies my disorder. To say it's hard to function is an understatement. It's all a mess because I'm frustrated with the state of my house (clutter), but am both too tired and too overwhelmed to just fix it. Im disengaged with my children and scared I'm a bad mom, that they notice mommy is tired and frustrated more than they notice my intense and fierce love for them. I want to fight and scream and conquer and do and BE, but instead....I don't. I am not. I cannot. Most evenings are spent staying up too late, scrolling my phone for something to numb the feelings of numbness. i feel like I go about my awake times like I go about my sleep....in spurts. I lay down but I don't sleep. I'm awake but I'm not alive. I go through the motions. I hit the basics and nothing beyond. I aggravate myself. I can only imagine the frustration of my husband and I'm terrified to even think if my children are affected by their less-than mom. I do not say this for pity or attention or some weird need to be told, "no you're not that way!" I am that way. I'm hyper aware of myself, especially the negative parts of me. maybe I'm too hard on myself, as far as not acknowledging the good things about me as easily as I can the bad, but I know what my days look like. I know what happened here today. I know that I could have done and been better. Yet at the same time, I couldn't have. My physical ailments prevent mobility and mock me. I just want to rest and feel rejuvenated, but for me to be still means my body turns to stone and turns on me. Yet for me to be active and keep my body loose means I need to exercise and get good rest. My body can't take the movement, my body can't take the stillness. Likewise, my mind can't take the movement, and my mind can't take the stillness. I look at my naked body and when my eyes finally reach my face after the difficult trek around my thighs, belly, and arms...my eyes reflect both my soul and my physical state: sad. Only if I were placed in cement could I be more immobile in both body and spirit. After all of that, know I am seeking help. Actively. I finally have a therapist but I do utilize those closest to me for venting and reassurance, love and guidance. I am as honest as I can possibly be with my husband when I'm having a bad day. While I don't want to embrace my issues, I do have to acknowledge them. They exist. Me trying to hide them or make excuses does no one any favors. i am not sad all day everyday. But I am sad for a bit here and there everyday. It's hard to have my thought pattern. It's hard to live in a broken body. It's hard to be a woman and not feel as if you're living up to the American standard of pretty. I'm vain. That's hard for me and I'm not asking to be told I'm pretty. My face is not my issue (hence 1012 selfies on my phone and in your newsfeed), my body is, both in how it feels and how it looks: Disappointing, all the way 'round. It appears to me as the manifestation of how I feel---sick and tired. I've only recently really started to accept that I do have both this physical disorder AND this mental illness. I've always talked and joked about it, that I'm a unicorn and hypochondriac and crazy. So many jokes. I even poke fun at my "90 year old self" because hell. It's how I feel! But some days, like today, and other days I've posted sad, depressing, could have been written by Edgar Allen Poe blogs, i just have to write out the sad and shake it off. I will feel better when this is done....after I obsess over whether or not I should have actually published this. I write to work things out as much as I write to be real and relatable and transparent and to maybe even help someone who feels the same. We are not alone, none of us. I am not the only person who feels overwhelmed, or less than, or crazy, or fat, or anxious or sad. And neither are you. I also know I'm pretty and loved and funny and generous and kind and empathetic and loving. Just today the physical pain is making the mental pain exacerbated. And I've medicated with Oreos and blogging, because that's real life. ❤

The aspiring virtuous woman rant....

It's been almost a year since I've written. Well, I've written since then....but I haven't blogged. Not for lack of things to say, but lack of a steady thought. My mind goes in about 500 different directions at any given time and it's a wonder I know my own name. I was driving down the bypass this morning and thought the road looked different. Less trees? Did something get torn down last night? No? Just me? Ok then.....

What I've experienced in the last year includes, but is not limited to, the following: immense joy in all 3 of my children, exhaustion, high anxiety over continuing health questions, restlessness, happiness, heightened sense of self, a messy house, an onslaught of laundry, paleo, extreme feelings of inadequacy.

Inadequacy. Something that has been chained to my ankle for as long as I can remember. I drag it around with me daily, and try to remove it every night. However, I feel like I only polish it while I'm feverishly trying to cut it loose. I can go weeks where I'm drowning in my life. Understand I L O V E my life. I love that I'm a stay at home mommy!  I'm thankful I'm a hairdresser a few hours a week. I love being a housewife. But it's a solitary existence that can lead to feeling like you're either fussing at someone all the time, or someone is always fussing at you. My dog throws a fit when we leave the house for any reason....so I'm even getting it from him. I seem to be in constant defense mode. House isn't clean? I picked it up 40 times today! I posted too many pictures on fb? I'm capturing the memories of my children! Clothes are piled up? They're CLEAN! Meanwhile, I've lost myself somewhere. I'm no longer "Monica" but "mommy" and "wife"....which are roles I relish(!!), but also want to be able to take off sometimes. Can I hashtag here? Because #TRUTH

I went on my Walk To Emmaus at Asbury a few weeks ago. While I started my weekend tweaking out over not having my phone or access to my home life, I quickly was able to relax in people getting to know me as ME and not someone's mom or wife. Or even hairstylist. I was just me. I could be vulnerable and open and honest. I could laugh and cry and have the tears be about me and what I was experiencing then and there. That sounds so selfish saying it like that, and maybe it is. But it was GREAT for a few days of guilt free self time. It's why I was there in the first place--so that I could find my relationship with God. I'm exhausted of playing a role. I don't want to play mommy. I don't want to play wife. I don't want to play Christian. I want to BE those things, and be in relationship with the people who make me the titles of mommy, wife, and Christian. It is way too easy to define an entire person by the choices, specifically the mistakes, they make. I'm guilty of doing that, but I'm also aware of it. I do not want to be defined by my poor choices. I don't live in a land of poor choices. I may pass through there, but I didn't build a house. I don't want to be defined by my past (and sometimes even my present)....what I hope defines me is how you feel when you're with me, if I can be of help to you, make you laugh, help you see your worth. What I hope defines me is how people see Christ in me. I'm trying to rest in God's grace and love for me. I've never fully accepted those things.....my life has been a wonky wandering to heaven. My focus has been to stay out of hell. My focus has not been on the gifts of grace, mercy, forgiveness, and relationship through Jesus Christ. I very nearly missed the point.

Relationship. That's the point, right? To be in community with people....to have relationships, to have friends, to help each other, laugh together, do life together,  encourage each other and to make disciples. The promise of God includes the perfection of Heaven, but we aren't there yet! We are still living our lives....we still have work to do. We still have purpose. I have purpose. You have purpose. I don't always know what that is....right now, it's my family. My children, to be sure, but it's also my husband. And Biblicaly, he's the most important one......

There's a reason I feel inadequate. It's because I am. I am inadequately showing love to my husband.  I am inadequately receiving his love to me. I am inadequately in relationship with him. I've gotten so wound up in my life as mom to our precious babies that I have dropped the ball with him. And I am sorry. I began to do what I'd imagine a lot of us moms do....we go 110% into mom mode (because our days are spent with our children and not our husband), and squeak by, by playing the part of wife. Like a play, I put on the costume and the makeup and set my stage. I act out the scene. But I do not engage, not really. It's not an ensemble cast. It's a one woman show. If I allow him in, I go off script and improv has never really been my thing. I like printed words. I like a script. I like my(!) script. I like arguing in text. I like control......as in my relationship with Christ, I couldn't trust him because I didn't believe his love for me. Why should God love me? I'm foul. I'm rotten. I'm spoiled and frustrating and all things unworthy. Why should Chris love me? I'm anxiety overload and tired and grumpy and frumpy and needy and all things annoying.

But Christ does love me. Because He made me....he's a good, good Father, and
made me for a purpose.  My husband loves me. Because he chose me. We are man and wife by God for a purpose. While I am still learning how to talk to him....while I'm realizing how I need to listen to him.....he loves me. "He" being both God and my husband.

So while I may acknowledge I am inadequate, that does not mean I am damaged goods. I have failings and shortcomings. I have things to improve within myself. I could always be a better wife/mother/Christian. Always. But what I have to remind myself, and perhaps anyone reading this, is that I am worthy. I can accept God's love. I can accept the love of my husband. Not because of anything I did for them, but of what Jesus has done for me and for the ways Chris does show me he loves me. Chris and I don't speak the same love language. At all. We are both very stubborn and combative and prideful. We cut each other to the core because we are 2 people hurting and it's easy to deflect and hurt the one you love the most. Yep I said it's easy. He questions where clean clothes are (typically the dryer....), I question if he even knows how to use the washer. Easy. He questions me about an empty wrapper on the counter, I ask the last time he took the trash to the curb. Easy! And pointless. It's hurtful. Plus, it tarnishes everything. A few years ago, I thought I was encouraging Chris to ask for a much deserved raise. I used words to describe him such as "smart," "educated," "experienced," "loyal" "amazing," "deserving"....but because of years of snappy comebacks, all he heard from me was "inadequate" (.....#gutpunch)

This weekend has been rough for us. We had a fight that, per the norm, escalated too quickly and destroyed our time together. While we have different perceptions of how it all went down, we used the same, single word to describe how we currently feel: defeated. He went to bed an hour ago, defeated and done. I watched him silently walk down the hallway and I was equally defeated and done. I started to write because this is how I work things out in my head and my heart.  I blogged vs just scribbling because I've talked to friends and my feelings are not unique to me. God does not tell us we are inadequate. God does not tell us we are unlovable. God asks us to love Him because He first loved us...that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Take. That. In. Seriously. I got saved at 6, but didn't accept that until 2 weeks ago! But since accepting it, I'm also seeing other love than I've basically been rejecting because I didn't feel adequate. In not accepting the love offered to me, I come across as unloving. That is absolutely wrong, but perception is for real. How one feels
often trumps how things are. The same goes for him....what he says to me gets perceived as unloving and unkind when I don't like how he said it. Tone. And round and round and round we go.....

This has gone in a fairly different direction than I thought, but there it is. I hate feeling inadequate. I hate feeling like I'm less than. I hate thinking that my husband thinks those things of me. Because the truth is that he doesn't. The truth is, while he gets frustrated with me and can oftentimes also do/say the wrong thing, he loves me. In spite of my failings. In spite of my shortcomings. In spite of everything, he loves me. I hope that, in spite of all of his own feelings of inadequacy, he knows that I love him regardless of ANYthing. I can perceive whatever. I can feel whatever. But the truth....the truth is love. And I can accept that.......

just keep swimming, just keep swimming.....

The good thing about fasting is that with every pang, you're reminded to pray. The problem with fasting is that you have hunger pangs.


I'm finishing up my 1st (last??) day of fasting, and other than thinking I've lost hearing in one ear, have faired decently well. I was supposed to do a juice fast, but my juice had expired 4 days ago. Plus my sweet Colt had brought me my forbidden cup of coffee not knowing I wasn't really supposed to have it. Luckily, after 2 sips, I noticed it was in a mug from the counter. That hadn't been washed. Because dishwasher.


I've definitely felt like I heard God today....and I don't know when I heard Him last. I had a stream of consciousness journaling session earlier that looked like multiple personality disorder on paper, and then just writing one word instructions over and over. "Write" "write" "write" "listen" "share" "lead"


Ok...write, share, fine. Listen. Ok. LEAD? I lead my 4yo to the potty and my babies to bed. That's about it. I am not a leader, that's not what I'm here for, not my calling, and definitely not my gifting. In fact, the word automatically makes me think of Rose from The Golden Girls, "You can lead a trout to water, but you have to hurry or else it'll drown." There's deep truth in that. I cannot be responsible for the trout. Trout are always in the fight of their lives, are they not? Constant battle, swimming upstream....difficult lives you live, trout.


$#*+ maybe I already lead the trout. "Follow me, friends, I know the way!" ::head punch::


Anyway (mercy...), I like to think that a) I can write and that b) with my writing I can encourage people. I like to think that when someone reads my thoughts or ramblings or questions/conflicts or whatever, that they can see they are not alone. That maybe they can do this life...see that God wants us to do the work! He wants us to ask the questions and live the life He gave us so we can find our way back to Him. I like to think my crazy brain can do that--my words and fleshing out of things can start out messy, but eventually help me, and someone else, find beautiful. I just don't know if it's true. I know I have failed miserably before.....


I am fasting because I need some clarity. Certain situations continually come into my life that are unwelcome, unhealthy, and unstable. These situations are always handled the same way (miserably), and I am always sad that it doesn't just work out. Isn't that the definition of insanity? Doing the same action and expecting a different result? All that *I* know to do is cut ties. I cannot keep revisiting this and subjecting myself to the constant battle of irrationality. But then I honestly wonder WWJD. The snarky side of me thinks he would cast out a demon or 12, but eh. I've cried, begged, yelled, cussed, been gentle, been mean. I've tried to rally the troops and encourage.....no approach of mine seems to work, the trout are still following my lead upstream.....so here I sit. And fast. And want spaghetti. And pray. And write, write, write......hoping I'm not really being asked to lead, but ready to listen for that call.


****ETA I misquoted Rose. Apparently she discussed a herring. Also, salmon swim upstream, not trout. I have 3 kids and haven't eaten. No judging!!!

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.....