moms - Narrow Paths to Higher Places

What I Didn’t Write on Mother’s Day

I didn’t write on mother’s day. I didn’t write anything about my mom.

I didn’t write about all the things I love about her or the many ways she’s blessed me.

I didn’t tell her that she is the most faithful woman I know. She had to be, to put up with us kids and my dad.

I didn’t tell her that the prayers she prayed for me during the years when I was lost and angry and wandering were heard and answered. I didn’t tell her that her time in prayer and on her knees have shaken the heavens even though she seems timid and meek.

I didn’t tell her that my heart and world view will always be skewed because of her love for third world missions and the way she raised us to think and question and live out our convictions. I didn’t tell her that she taught me to love well and fully by humbly serving. I didn’t tell her that if we move to Africa some day, she’s coming with us, because if anyone can handle huge change and foreign soil it’s her.

I didn’t tell her that I still stink at laundry and she really should have been on me more in my teen years because I am such a lousy housekeeper now, but oh well, I’m learning. Not laundry, but other stuff, kind of.

I didn’t tell her that she is brave and fierce, even though she followed God’s call in so many areas from taking her babies to Nepal in the early eighties with $75 and no commitment for more support, to facing the terrifying reality her child may die, to losing her husband.

I didn’t tell her that since my dad’s death, her living with us is the biggest blessing, even if she still bossed me around sometimes or tells me to clean my room.

I didn’t tell her that I am a writer because I am a reader and that my love of books was born in the crook of her arm, nestled onto her lap while her melodic voice danced over me, creating worlds and imagery that would still stir me at 33 as I read them to my children.

I didn’t tell her that she has always had my back, from the times when the mean girls would leave me crying into my pillow, to the depressions that would follow the birthing of my babies, to the insecurities and fears that mock me.

I didn’t tell her that there is no one who knows me better or loves me more. I didn’t tell her that she is my BFF, my go to gal when I have a funny story, and the one who will tell it like it is when I need to be put in my place.

I didn’t tell her that she is the only one I will let in the dressing room with me when I am shopping for a swimsuit because she’s honest and everyone can use a good laugh now and again.

We don't always laugh, but when we do, we laugh like donkeys.

I didn’t tell her that she always gives the best gifts because she really listens and sees people.

I didn’t write any of that before mother’s day because I got to hang out with her ALONE, (meaning no kids), for the weekend and being with her is always better than sitting at my keyboard writing about her. And did I mention a weekend with no kids?

We got to hang out and lay around and read and go to Goodwill, garage sales, and the fabric store with no kids. Can you tell I don’t get out much?

Plus, she reads to me to fall asleep when my kindle is out of batteries. That’s dedication, plus I think she wanted me to go to sleep and stop yakking all night, but still.

That’s love.

To my mom: The woman I would pick as my best friend even if she weren’t my mom. I love you.

I linked up with 1000 Moms Project

Comments: 15 Comments Category: Family, Love Letters, Parenting Tags: daughters, friends, moms

Getting Real (in)RL

Incourage inRL In the interest of being “real,” I must say that my meetup was not what I expected. I thought my follow-up post would be different than this. But this is real, and so here goes.

I wish I could say that it was life changing and I forged ahead with new friendships that would carry on and someday we would look back at that exact moment in time when we first clicked the meetup link and know that is where our bosom friendship began but in all honesty I highly doubt that will be the case. Although, you never know.

Sometimes, there are pivotal moments only seen in retrospect.

But sometimes life is just, life. Sometimes people come and go and they don’t connect on a super deep intimate level. Sometimes there is an instant attraction and bond and people go on to form those friendships and sometimes they don’t. Some of the attendees I’ve known for years, and some I’m just beginning to know, some I just met. But that’s ok.

If I’ve learned anything over the years after being in varying degrees of relationship with other women it’s this, we’re not all meant to be BFF’s. There are numerous women I admire, I enjoy, or I have things in common with that will never be my BFF by no fault on anyone’s part.

Jesus had 12. And out of those, he had three who he was the closest to. He didn’t exclude others and he obviously reached out to community, everywhere he went he was drawing people but he walked with those 12. He served with those 12.

I have a small handful that I am walking with.

That’s ok. As women, we’re all still part of the body of Christ. We may not all be exchanging friendship bracelets and learning super secret handshakes but we all need to know that we belong. And we do, we all belong. Because of who binds us.

Whether we blog or not. Whether we homeschool our children or work outside of the home. Whether we are married or single. Old or young. We are His people. As Anne Voskamp says, the Jesus women. And I’m here, fully in. Fully open to whatever He brings. But sometimes what he brings is a process.

I faced some discouragement as the number of attendees dwindled due to scheduling conflicts and I wondered why I was bothering with all of this. I would’ve been just as happy to tune in alone in my pj’s. So why did I feel this conviction to host when it’s the last thing I enjoy?

When my router broke the day before the meetup and I couldn’t get the wireless signal to broadcast without glitching out the video every few seconds, I was near tears.

The only computer working was the one connected to the modem upstairs. Short of us all gathering on my bed in my room, the video was not going to work. And with the state my room was in, I wasn’t willing to be that real. There are limits, people.

It was a Friday and we couldn’t get it fixed until Monday. I had a meetup at my house in less than 24 hours.

Why God? This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. I’m trying to be obedient here and you are not helping me out, Lord!

I sent out a tweet for prayer and I know it was heard. Dayspring contacted me immediately and offered to overnight the videos so the show could go on. To me, it was God saying, “I’ve got this.”

I am open to new friendships and I want to be available for anything God wants me to do, like hosting this meetup. But I have to leave the results of anything I do in his hands. I’ve learned from blogging and from this event that I can’t manufacture movement. If no one shows up, if no one reads my words, if no one tunes in, that’s ok. Because he’s got it. I just show up.

I can’t speak for the other attendees but in many ways, this meetup was a testing of my obedience and willingness to step out in faith in an area where I am weak. Hospitality and cleaning. I think I succeeded in the hospitality, and failed miserably in the cleaning but hey, no one can do it all, remember? Lisa Jo said so.

So while my meetup downstairs looked like that, my upstairs looked like this. Keepin it real, gals. Can you see why hosting from my room was out of the question?

Messy room

Was it worth it? Yes. The content spoke deeply to my heart and my desire to serve all out, to choose joy, to reach beyond myself, to minister with my whole life. To use my voice no matter how small. And we did laugh. And eat yummy treats.

It may or may not have touched others in the same way or at the same place, but I leave all of it in His trusted care.

He’s the one who meets us in real life. He always shows up.

Comments: 22 Comments Category: Blogging, Faith, Relationship Tags: blogging, community, faith, friends, moms

Decluttering Part Five: I’m Failing My Kids

I can hear the soft rustle of her feet as she pads sleepily down the hall. I see tiny hands with chipped pink polish, lifting the blankets edge and then the softest wisp of a breathe on the side of my cheek as she nestles into the curve of my arm and settles where my heart beats. She is so beautiful to me. Her soft hair flowing over the pillow.

Kaia is beautiful

He pulls up on the bed, grasping with tiny fingers, a bounding cable of boy energy stretched long and flying toward us. He flops his head onto my shoulder and lets out a howl of chuckles, not like a girl but a deep thing floating from his lungs. He is all boy. This little man in my arms. I pull his body to mine. I feel his heart race with excitement as he jumps free and springs across the bed like a bounding creature.

Nehemiah swinging

And then there’s my oldest, on the cusp of manhood but still so much a boy. He doesn’t bound in like he used to. He sits more tentatively on the edge of the bed. Still wanting to join in but more reserved. He is finding his boundaries, his space. He’s not so quick to hug or snuggle. He carries his adolescent awkwardness with him at this age. I have to chase him down for affection but he is always ready for attention. For my time and praise.

Judah

He’s hurting. I can see it. He feels trapped and lost and is waiting for me to take the lead, after all, I’m his mom. I’ve taught him everything else from the time he was potty training with Thomas the Train undies to writing a persuasive essay in grammar.

But this, this I can’t teach. Haven’t learned.

I’m failing them. And I know that there is only so much we can do as moms. But then again, there is so much we can do as moms!

I see the areas where I am weak, where I struggle, and oh how it slices through me to see those same struggles and strongholds in my children’s lives. Food addiction and gluttony. Seeing it as comfort and overindulging. Piling my plate high when I should be turning to God for those empty and broken places which food never fills.

I don’t know how to change it.

How do you deal with flesh and need in your children’s lives when you haven’t even begun to deal with it in your own?

How do you set boundaries and help without it seeming like you are always judging or policing everything that goes into their mouths? Without making them feel worse than they already do?

How do you set an example when you are so weak? When you’ve tried and failed more times than you can count? When you can’t see your own worth and you hide behind your fat suit and hold people at a distance?

I watched my dad battle these demons all of his life and I know now, he wasn’t judging me as my weight ballooned as I made poor choices and he saw my health declining. He felt just as inadequate to help me as I do now as a mom watching my children imitate me.

I’m failing, guys. I know it. I am stripped bare and exposed. And all I can do is admit I am failing and I need help.