My Why

Delve fully into a question, saturate in a curiosity, lean into not knowing and don't move until you've found your answers.

When the great sky gifts rain or snow, you have two options little one : you can immerse yourself in it's magic til you are soaked or frozen or you can stay in your pajamas and watch from the window, wrapped in mamas arms, sipping on hot cocoa.

When a challenge comes and makes you doubt if you are smart, you can stop. Breath. Try again or wait until wisdom says it's time. You are smart. You are special needs and you are gifted. You are all the things God created you to be and I search for the roads he willed you to travel when he formed you as you grew in me.

He chiseled you in this unique design, the patterns are difficult to interpret but overlooking their beauty would be to devalue this masterpiece. You don't absorb the information like she does. You don't love the story like the others. You heard and dreamed of autumn when the lesson was about forests. When you dance you remember. When you sit you forget. When it's quiet you can't focus and when it's noisy you feel safe. Stillness is your enemy and nature is your friend. You'll never forget that book you read under the tree on that September morning. I never told you to read it and you never saw me mark it off my list.

When someone asks you what you want to be when you grow up you can answer them but make sure you also let them know who you want to be now and who you are now. The real world is now and you can prepare for and become the person you were created to be now. Don't wait until your graduation day. Who you are today is important. You are one of a kind. I celebrate the gift of you and the treasure of your childhood when I never miss a chance to celebrate the rain with you or snuggle as the snow falls

- while there is still time.

On accepting pain

Sometimes life freaking sucks. No apologies to the people who have issues with a Christian mama pushing thirty saying such immature words. Whatev. Life freaking sucks. And my dear friends my children are safe with me, living in health and happiness. They roll their eyes (to themselves. If I saw them rolling they know they would be in profound trouble. No disrespect for parents tolerated up in here) when I ask them to do the dishes. And after that they each have to go potty. You know how that works. They have to deal with my  quirks. And I assure you, there are quirks a plenty. They don't have their own rooms.  We don't go on vacations.  But they, in my opinion, have an incredible childhood.

 I've been told there is a tangible love that exists in our home.  I know that is the opposite reality for far too many children in this world. Our children know this is a place where creativity is encouraged, childhood is cherished and Daddy and  Mama seek to make many little dreams come true. When talking about Europe today, Averyn actually asked if we could take her to Paris for her tenth birthday. At first, it struck me as selfish and extreme for a little farm girl who knows her Mama wants wood floors but might never get them. But then I discovered a bit of honor in her request. She has security that her parents want to make her dreams a reality and that we still have dreams of our own.

 I guess I mentioned my want for new floors because its fresh in my mind. Calieah Joy just traced a deep scratch in our linoleum with her sticky strawberry fingers when I started typing. "Mom, this is ugly, don't you think? I wish we could get a new kitchen floor but probably we can't cause we already spent most of our money for Summer Feeter."  Summer Theatre. I don't start correcting pronunciations until second grade because its a lingering crumb of baby left on a trail that leads to adulthood far too quickly.  Yes, we paid more than felt comfy for her and her two older sisters to participate in summer theatre but it was a little dream that we were thrilled to make come true.  Rabbit trail. I just want to say that someone with an incredible life can still think that life freaking sucks. I've stopped feeling guilty for my own suffering and you should too.

 I've always been compassionate. I remember a Christmas growing up that sticks out to me today as a mark that I was an unusually compassionate child. I sat in my room and cried because I had snuck downstairs before anyone woke up to peek at what wait under the tree. I wasn't expecting much.  Bread Basket trips in our pajamas, Christmas gifts from "Jesus" and Mom crying in secret. Worry over her face because she wanted to give her girls dreams served with ribbons. I cried that morning because there were far more gifts than I ever imagined. I cried because I knew there were little girls who would wake up to nothing and not just an absent dad but a figment mommy too. I wrote in my journal that we didn't deserve this.

 That deep compassion has made it difficult for me to accept my own pain.  It has been a struggle for me to relish in the happy times because I feel guilty for feeling so much joy when someone, somewhere is mourning. When my babies caught a cold I found it impossible to find genuine  words to pray for them because I knew that a mama somewhere was crying out to far away God with tears streaming over her child's lifeless body. " God doesn't care about your baby's cough. Coffins are his cue to comfort," lies my compassion. I don't know if it's being tired of denying my own feelings of fear and suffering or if its maturity, but I have taken a step toward pain and letting myself wait there for a moment before I think of someone else's torment. I will never rid myself of care for those who are hurting but I've realized that sometimes, I am that person and that is okay.  Sometimes I need help, extra extra grace and sometimes I just need to say I AM SCARED AND THIS SUCKS!

 My husband is in pain. These months following Aaron's accident I have operated in that fear of our own trials. When people ask me how he is doing, I don't know how to respond. I say something along the lines that we are so thankful he is here. It was a miracle and he is doing great. All of that is true. I have a nagging feeling that they don't want to hear anything other than that. And then I have this harassing burden that I dare not say anything else because he indeed is alive. I look into his eyes. I hear his boot  stomps through the kitchen that fill me with excitement to see his dirt covered face at the end of the day. I hear his annoying clanking of his spoon against his bowl to get every tiny bit of cereal. I hear his laugh and his prayers. I don't mention that I hear his wincing cries in pain every night as he tries to find a way to sleep. Doctors said he is fine so who am I to mention how it pains me to hear his pain. I thank God every day for my husband. Every day I bow to God's control. I am keenly aware that he is sovereign over every breath. Every tear. But what about my tears? I've now let them flow knowing that he holds mine with the same tenderness as he holds the widows.  And so with freedom I declare that life sucks. If you ever question my thankfulness, you don't know me.

Aaron had an MRI tonight. The pain seemed to be triggered unexpectedly and has not subsided this time. The pain is overwhelming on his body. And its overwhelming to witness my hero have no power over the things he would have ignored before. Have you ever seen him coach t ball?  It made me smile just typing that. I wonder what I look like. Tears and cheesy grin, crooked glasses and  smeared makeup on this tired face.  Its a wonder he calls me beautiful nearly every day. And when I least expect it too. When he coaches t ball he is like one of the kids. Full of energy, running around, encouragement on the wing and you just know this guy is the real deal. He's so cute and so happy and so natural when he is coaching little kids. But this Saturday I watched him sit in the dugout, anger I could see covered by a fake smile. He walked back to the car hunched backed, slow, unsure steps.  When we got through the door he collapsed on the couch, covering his face. Covering the truth of the concern from this pain. I'm too tired to type much more. I trust God, I do. I truly believe in his sovereignty but until all wrongs are made right and pain is gone, I hate this. I hate seeing the one I love suffer. The one who always  goes, to stop. The one who always helps to need it for himself. Far too soon this torment has come to his body. Far too soon it comes to us all. Our souls suffer from breath one. Our bodies decay and those who try to make it stop only look like fools because deep down we all know we are merely a vapor. But for now we hold hands. I run my fingers through his hair. I take walks with little girl under the crescent moon and watch the fields my farmer planted sparkle with fireflies. We talk about how God can be trusted. We call his name when we are happy and when we have forgotten what a deep breath feels like. I took a deep breath tonight and found grace in a cool breeze. If I hadn't let myself feel pain and let myself seek solace outside then I would have never known that deep breath of cool air on a humid summer's night is exactly what I needed.  I found grace in happy steps and funny words that don't understand suffering yet because Mama makes dreams come true and she isn't yet in second grade. And he is waiting for me when I walk back in that door. And HE is waiting for me when I tell him how much it hurts.

And so I pray

This world is not my home.

 I live a beautiful, colorful, simple yet chaotic life. Surrounded by love, laughter, forgiveness and hope

 yet

 I am often sad and lonely and unsatisfied. Every day brings reminders that this is not the place where my roots should grow deep. Even the most fulfilling human love that is mine is not enough.

 Sometimes I fear admitting this because I worry God will put this confession to the test. I guess I am bold enough now to admit it because I can't deny truth when it whispers unrest to my soul even after the most seemingly perfect day. after day after day.

 Every day I mourn. I mourn over my own sin and I mourn over evil that I cannot deny though my comfort begs me.


 I am still so very broken. I struggle every day to choose Spirit over me. I mourn because I am stuck in my selfish ways. These filthy rags I try to call holy. Haughty eyes tell those rags to fake it.  But my rags know I am lying and so it makes me feel even lower. Holiness refuses to pretend because God is holiness and he doesn't fake it.

 Grace I hold to you. You'll never let me go because Love wont let you.

 I mourn for children who have no father. For children who are sold like cattle. For mothers who have nothing to feed their dying baby. For grown men who still don't know what love is.  For those who suffer and for those who die because they refuse to stop believing in the message of Jesus Christ. Christians who cannot say the name of Jesus for fear of never saying another word again.

But my mourning can only go as far as the next load of laundry will allow me to ponder. My tears cease as I fix a full breakfast for my children who will sing to God today with no fear of death or abandonment or hunger. My mourning holds no power and it is so sickingly shallow when compared to the true tool of warfare that my King has entrusted to me.

 Prayer.

I will pray. And though my words seem to only go as far as my eyes can see and though my voice sounds so annoyingly awkward to my own ears I will trust in the one who said to never cease praying.

 I talk to him because for some reason I might never understand, he likes to hear my voice. He likes to know I care enough to speak the words that make no sense. I know he likes to hear me obey him when it seems that there should be a better way to cure this evil.

 He knows. When we pray and he moves the mountains, the praise goes to him. All I've done is open my mouth when no one was audience.

This mouth among many. Nothing incredibly wonderful or special. As a matter of fact, the clumsy words that flow out have proven to be very messy and leave me feeling pretty stupid more times than I want to own.

 This way HE gets the glory because he uses the weirdest things to show how vastly immeasurably awesome he is.

He could have chosen something far more worthy to move his heart.

 Oh the stars.

Those miraculous stars. The same words that spoke them to shine to entrance our imaginations spoke this mouth to speak on a given day and then on another chosen day to speak no more. Its those words I choose to speak to him while I am still so. far. away. from home that move destiny in the now and eternity.

I don't understand very much of  you God.

 And really, I don't expect to. I've tried to build kingdoms and carve dreams out of ashes. That's easier than trying to make stars. But I've failed at it all and so I will never pretend to get your ways.

I imagine those stars must sing to you somehow. Do they ever thank you for thinking of them so long ago? Do they sing of what's to come? Do they see this torment they are forced to illuminate and do they ask you to intervene? I am so far below those stars.

 But somehow you care to hear my voice.

 And so I pray.