List

Before the New Year, have a talk with yourself. I do. I mentally take myself out for coffee. Reflect on the things which happened which deserve a thumbs up. Remind self that the failures were wrong turns and can be avoided in the future. Operate from a place of grace. And then, when I've taken out the trash, I raise a glass of Martinellis with my family and welcome the new possibilities. Here's my brain dump:

1. I am not a supremely outgoing person. I have tried to be fun. I have thrown parties. They're okay, but I'm so nervous I feel like puking afterwards. However, I AM a one-on-one coffee drinking friend. Or tea drinking. Occasionally wine drinking. But throwing parties is for people far more extroverted, fun and flexible than I am.

1a. I do, however, like to be invited to parties. Where I am not in charge of the fun.

2. Watermelon flavored anything is outlawed. Says my mouth.

3. It's amazing that anyone can make friends in this world. What with all the syndromes and inclinations and mental health problems and personality disorders and owing to half the population suffering with depression... it's nothing short of a miracle to have a friend.

4. But making friends is way important. If you don't make friends you'll just stay inside your head all day and rehash. Best to make friends. As quickly as possible. Throw your genetic craziness into the stream of life and watch life smile upon you.

5. When it comes to athleticism I am not brave. But someone once told me that if you start running for one day in a row, then you are a runner. No badge needed. I'd like to try cross country skiing. I must be brave.

6. The days before New Years feel really odd to me. The sun shines too brightly for the frigid days. And I keep waiting for something exciting to happen. Today I bought my own excitement: Six different Jell-O flavors/colors for a rainbow Jell-O salad. It should take 5 hours to make and 37 seconds to eat. It will be pretty.

7. My trash cans are always full. Never do I say, "Oh good... the trash can is empty." Always full.

8. I'm learning to accept people who say crazy things. I used to try and change them but now I just let them be who they are. It's hardest when my six year old says things in public. I just want to hide.

9. I want to learn carpentry. Rephrase: I want to be a master cabinet maker.
*sigh* Like I have time.

10. I need to focus on illustration this year. Every other day my brain says, "You can do this." And then, alternately, "You can't do this." But artists who only work when they feel strong or inspired or pretty or enlightened are not brave. I plan to show up even when. Even when.

11. I purge my house regularly. I might be addicted to it. I don't know where this stuff is coming from b/c I'm not buying more stuff. (OH wait... Christmas.)

12. The man I married is very good to me. He is a gift and I hope I always treat him that way.

13. I have had a huge amount of friends tell me that they were pregnant this year and "not to tell anyone." To which I think two things: 1. Congratulations and 2. I want to tell someone.
Best not to tell me.

13a. I have had a lot of friends tell me they were pregnant who had been trying for, like, many, many years. It happens. I celebrate every time. Don't give up on reproduction or adoption or desiring of being a parent.

14. Someone said some crazy (negative) things about me this year and I am actually grateful for it BECAUSE it showed me the power of words and how I should be more careful with them when talking about human beings. I need to be extra careful with the words which come out of my mouth. Lesson accepted.

15. I had my hair cut and I opted for bangs. My stylist gave me a speech about bangs, about how I needed to do them every day and how they're not an easy style to have. I have bangs. They are currently pinned up but when I wear them down, I look very sassy.

16. In my parallel life, I do yoga everyday and hate sugar. I also wear breezy outfits from Banana Republic and always feel ready for every adventure my family brings my way.

17. I like my laugh. I went through a stage where my laugh was forced, but these days I find that my laugh likes to come and so I let it.

18. My best friends are scattered throughout the country. This is bad. They need to move next door to me.

19. I'd like it if I talk less in 2015 than I did in 2014. Blogging doesn't count.

20. If you found yourself on Facebook, would you like yourself? I don't mean "Facebook 'Like' button" yourself... I mean, would you say, "Hey, that is one beautiful person." Do you like yourself?

21. Fun statement to finish: I have never regretted _________________.

21a. Answers:
Being a parent.
Being a wife.
Being a sister.
Being a woman.
The hard work which becomes a very good design.

22. I love when people reject the title of "victim" and choose instead to move past a bad era of their life and do redemptive things. Own a balloon shop. Bake gluten free things for kids with allergies. Join a dance class. Start a business. Volunteer at a hospital.

23. I'm careful to not bemoan the age "40" because when thirty year olds complain about their age I feel totally annoyed. Also: Forty is truly a great age. I'm loving it.

24. I am starting to read. I am literate, but I haven't found the lure of books until (looking at watch)... late in life. I'm more of a do-er than a reader. That might change.

25. Coffee needs to be strong. And hot. And preferably creamy.

26. I would like to visit the following places: Ireland. The Redwood Forest. New York City in December.

27. Boredom can be a gift. Especially to children. This is why my kids are so creative.

28. All the things that I thought would be easy this year were hard and all the things that I thought would be hard were easy. Which shows me that I don't know how to anticipate anything and might as well strap into 2015 and thank God for life and breath.

29. When I treat my children with respect, they mirror that respect back to me. Not always, but enough that I want to treat them this way always.

30. New discovery: I love bragging about my children to their faces. I want them to know that I'm proud of them and HOW I'm proud of them. They seem to like this. It won't make them grow proud. It will make them grow secure.

31. New discovery #2: Learning to speak specific kind words to friends is important to me. Not just: "I love you" but "I love the way you (take care of homeless dogs) or (make me laugh.)" Specificity is important.

32. I have it in my mind to conquer my anxiety of dinner making this year. As in: Plan a month in advance. As in: Keep dinners simpler. This requires some organization and inventory.

33. Books I enjoyed:
Essentialism by Greg McKeown
Thrive by Arianna Huffington
Sacred Rhythms by Ruth Haley Barton
Calvin and Hobbes Complete Collection by Bill Watterson

34. I want to collect all the positive people of the world and put them in my pocket.

35. Best ad campaign: Kohl's "#FindYourYes" is sticking on my fridge. "Find Your Yes." Love it.

36. I have inherited 2 more siblings (in-law) this year. This is fun. I must have more.

37. There are 79 different ways to tell the same story. Everyone has their own angle. I tend to like storytellers who like redemption, humor, truth and subtlety. Sometimes it's not possible to get all those aspects in one story.

38. I went to a conference this year for the first time in a decade. My brain was so happy that I had to leave early because it wanted to burst.

39. Raising girls is interesting because I think women have to adapt more to life than men. Maybe I'm wrong. I'm not wrong.

40. New Year's Blessing: May you find joy in the simplest of things. May your heart and wallet and mind be full. But may your calendar be open and spare, allowing for unexpected joy and rest. May your hope be true. May you know The Way, The Truth and The Life.

41. I have never:
Been to a fancy schmancy New Year's party where I glam up and dance my bum off until midnight when I'm kissing, well, Dan. That would be fun.

Auld Lang Syne and all of that.

That Time I Turned Forty

When I clinked plastic SOLO cups of bubbly last New Year's Eve imagining the possibilities of the coming year, I couldn't have believed what a difference a mere 365 days could make.

I couldn't have imagined that the family from which I was raised was growing in such beautiful ways. While I was busy in Chicago trying to survive, they were busy in their homes making brave choices. Choosing to stay. Or choosing to be. Choosing to walk across a room and say hello. Marrying amazing people. I felt so wealthy when I saw them all this summer, realizing that I was related to such deep and strong and vibrant people.

I'm still battling the younger version of me who is Miss "I Can Handle This All By Myself." She is tenacious. I'm learning that controlling areas of my life doesn't bring lasting peace. I've caught up on my to-do lists approximately twice this year and it was satisfying for exactly seven seconds until the to-do list began again. Learning to let things be unfinished for a while.

When my children walked out the back door of our house and headed off to their first days of school, the house became immensely quiet. Something changed in me. I felt like my heart grew larger. I felt more peaceful. And most surprisingly, I began to pray. It has alluded me all these years. Prayer is seducing me.

My children are at an age where I think mostly fond thoughts of them. Apparently I am an "elementary children" mom. Some women go gaga for babies. I love other people's babies, but didn't enjoy the experience as much myself. I faked most of my smiles to them. That's like 5 years of lying. In any case, I have always loved them, but now I am enjoying them far more than I thought possible. They are wonderful humans.

I found myself in an interesting intersection of friendships this year. Most of my friends had gone different directions than I. (Not morally... I mean they have a lot of soccer practices to attend, etc.) So I began to reflect on friendships and what is important. Realizing that I could stay home all day and have a super clean house *cough, cough, rolling eyes* or make friends, I began to reach out to a few individuals. This was hard for me.

I am 100% happy when women own their choices in life. Their career. How they eat. If they exercise. If they choose to wear Calvin Klein clothes or shop at Goodwill. If they plan to stay home vs. work outside the home. I just love it when women encourage each other especially if their choice is different from someone else's. I'm amazed when women support each other in these decisions.

I remodeled my kitchen. Dan helped. It was harder than one would think, but easier than potty training a toddler. I gave myself mottos to keep me going, like: "Keep your eyes on the prize," which helps when you're ankle deep in debris. Also: The remodeling will never be done because we are creative, thrifty do-it-yourselfers. New remodeling word of the year: Phases. Own it.

My grandmother died this year. I was devastated by her leaving us here. No more pies. No more of her slowly-made cookies and casseroles. No more of her high pitched voice calling me, "Emmy." But after the grief, I began to dream about her and in my dreams she is holding many babies and she is very happy. I feel as though she is not dead and in a way she isn't. My thoughts of her keep me warm.

I turned forty. A lot happened. All my creative work came at once. All the weddings fell in one chunk of the year. All the new things came at once as well. Someone replaced my favorite chai tea with shots of estrogen. My friends who I thought were drifting to another realm came back to me and those who I thought were my backbone are being sent another direction. So I adjust my sails and wait for God to make sense of it all.

I'm reading. I have never called myself a reader. I read a heap of books about living more minimally and deliberately. Several of the books have probably changed me forever. By the way: I read books like I eat sandwich crust: all over the place. No order. Sometimes I read the last chapter first. Dan hates this.

I said "no" a lot. After realizing that I was becoming dangerously close to burning out in too many areas of my life, I said "no" to a ton of good things in my life. Or I politely declined invitations. It was weird to put down my people pleasing self and just listen to what my heart was saying. But so far, I'm glad I did. I used the time in more creative efforts in addition to taking excess things out of my house. Such an amazing feeling.

I cleaned house. Stuff that was in my house with no purpose got ushered to the front curb. Or the Epilepsy Foundation's second hand store. I'm purging things and allowing my eyes some breathing space which gives my mind some space, too. I approve of living with less though I'm not a shiny example of this. It's a journey.

I bought clothes that fit. And all the women said "Amen."
Colorful ones. *swoon*
I still have one maternity top which must leave the house; why the sam hill can't I get rid of it?
Small steps.

My body rejected dairy this year. I was very sick until I learned what it was. I learned a lot. I miss you, ice cream.

There are some people in my life who I care for but don't understand. So instead of rolling my eyes, God is prodding me to think kindly of them, to pray for them, to look forward to good things about them. No news yet, but I can say that my heart feels lighter.

And this non-new revelation: I love design. It's work. My back aches. My eyes dry out, but I love it. I want the designs to be useful to others. These designs sprang from a period of great sorrow in my life over 4 years ago and have proved to be so healing to me. I want the same for others. Some people believe in my work. Some just buy it because they're my friends and I bake them cookies. I'm just going to keep going and try to be mindful of what engages people. I'm hoping to study illustration this year because my drawings of people are– how do you say it– not good. Yet.

If you would have told me about all these changes at the beginning of the year, I would have hyperventilated. But the changes came just when I needed them, at just the right time. Which finds me grateful, tired and amazed.

My New Years Blessing for Friends:
"May your days be less like 'the mass of men leading lives of quiet desperation'* and more like the charming few who live with truth and inspiration."

___________________________

* "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."
-Henry David Thoreau 

Leaving, Living, Loving

Whenever my children and I go on a trip, I scour my computer for the file titled "PackingList.pdf" and print out a copy. I set it on the kitchen counter a week before we go and I mentally tick off my list, occasionally adding things for the adventure, things like "birthday gifts" or "book for mom" or "chocolate."

The beginning of our trip is usually pretty smooth. If we fly to our destination, I get snacks and electronics ready for everyone in a special, easy to reach pouch. If we drive, I like to clean the car before we go, making sure we have enough leg room for my tall brood. As we journey to our destination, I have immense satisfaction in curbing their hunger pangs by flinging bags of Chex Mix or cut apples in their general direction.

The return trip from anywhere is an exercise in chaos. There are no "Return Home Packing List.pdf" files to refer to and our stuff has been deposited haphazardly around the hotel room or grandma's house or wherever we found ourselves. There are less healthy snacks. We find ourselves rummaging through the car to find *whatever* we can to eat and this week we returned home from Iowa eating stale Cheetos. They didn't crunch. My oldest daughter, in a fit of desperation, began to feel claustrophobic and began hucking clipboards and art supplies and trash at the feet of her sister just to get some breathing room. Understandably.

This year I have said a lot of hellos which have been glad and joyous and long and beautiful occasions. I have said a few goodbyes as well and if I were in fifth grade and had to write a "compare and contrast" essay regarding these two seasons, I would say this:

Generally speaking, it's more fun to say hello than goodbye.
The things you say during "goodbye" seem more enduring than the greetings you say at "hello."
The sentiments you say between "hello" and "goodbye" are important, too. Things like, "I love you" or "I'm sorry" or "My, you're lovely" or, my personal favorite, "Please pass the chocolate cake."

Some people don't know how to communicate to anyone because they haven't been given the tools. Or maybe they see it as a luxury. I don't see communication or emotions as a luxury; I see them as a necessity of living a life observed. I'm not interested in pretending things aren't happening, but then I'm not interested in sensationalism either. I might cry and it might be ugly and I might need a break from the intensity of it all, but communicating and emoting are not bad. They CAN be used in a bad way, but if the aim is to use your powers for good, that's a good direction in which to head.

I recently said goodbye to my dying grandmother, her hand squeezing mine fiercely as hot tears dripped off my face, using my free hand to quietly blow my nose so she wouldn't hear me crying. At first I felt ashamed for being so useless, for being so full of emotion and not being a strong rock for her. But when I let myself just cry, the rivers washed over me, onto her and held us together. A baptism of sorts.

My grandmother loved me. I know she did. That being said, she didn't come from an era where love was distributed in gushy sentiment. It was delivered in the form of letters describing peach pie and little cards and sometimes coupons which she clipped for me. She hugged me and smiled at me, but there was not a wealth of sentiment between us.

Some people are hurt by others who cannot communicate love in the way they understand it. This makes perfect sense. A father may be irritated by his adult son for not being able to live more frugally, while the son may be equally irked at the father for not seeing the efforts he puts into being a good father and husband.

I know a fair amount of people who are under the notion that people need to be left alone when they grieve. The idea is that they'll see you on the other side, as if you're going through an impenetrable tunnel, like the kind they have at carnivals, the ones with boats. "I can't be with you in the tunnel," is the logic, "but when you're free from the hurt and pain and ugly, I'll be there for you on the other side with a nice iced tea."

This does nothing for the heart. If anything it shrinks love. This produces a world of pain and abandonment issues. It would be better if the person bought their own ticket for the tunnel and followed their friend through, calling their name, getting wet from jumping out of the boat ride just to catch up; love would do that. Then they could both emerge from the tunnel with new vision and large hearts and very squishy sneakers.

I don't see people who need comforters who are perfect and polished and poised. People who are hurt need friends who will reach out, make the phone call, touch their hand and say things like, "I don't know what to say, but I'm here to listen. I might make mistakes, but I'm trying. How are you?"

The days of flimsy handshakes and brisk hugs are over for me. It's time for strong goodbyes. It's time to get messy. It's the new fashion trend: Tear-drop soaked shirts and snotty noses on shoulders. Looking someone closely in the face and saying, "I love you," coffee breath be damned.

I don't know a formula, per se, for communicating, but I will say this:

People appreciate when you try.

Just try.

Say the lovely things you need to say. Utter the hard things with truth and humility. Stay a while. It might not be pretty or be neatly wrapped with a bow on top, but at least you expressed love.

Say hello.
Choke out a goodbye.
Try.

Forty

My husband and I have an unfinished basement. We never plan on finishing our basement because we both recognize that basements are holding grounds for memories and rarely-needed high-chairs for babies who visit us and, well, unnecessary stuff.

We moved into this house 7 years ago. Last month I think we finally unpacked the last boxes. We formed a huge purge circle in the basement. A "purge circle" is like a crop circle in that it involves methodically crunching down material. Like cardboard boxes. Old artwork. Business cards. That sort of thing. We had three piles: Sell (Craigslist), Give (Goodwill) and Trash Without Any Remorse. We went bonkers on that basement. We were ruthless.

The next week we came home with a trunk full of memories because Dan's parents are moving from their home of 30 plus years. Naturally the stuff went in our newly purged basement. Nature abhors a vacuum.

When the children go to school, the house will creak less because I will probably attack their closets and remove the following:
Annoying toys
Broken toys
Maybe all their toys
Scraps of paper which they swear are important
Balls of lint which they might swear are important
Anything which smells funny, looks funny or acts funny in a way which does NOT make me laugh

And here's the kicker: They won't even notice.

Nope. For all these years I have allowed them to keep their rooms how they want and now I am going in with HAZMAT suits, a Dyson vacuum and grenades filled with–I don't know–Lysol or something.

They won't notice. But I will.

I'm not sure what is up with this recent rash of purging in my house. It's just so freeing. And most of my Mom friends who have elementary aged children are doing it, too. I see the wide eyes they give me as they describe the things they have found in their house, unawares.

Purging house isn't enough for me.
I'm purging my mind, too. Getting rid of ways of thinking which I have outgrown.

I'm starting to outgrow complaining... I want redemptive endings to stories. I want people to end their sad stories with "And THAT'S when I started to learn (contentment) or (how much my children love me) or (how to fish)." Add some faith and hope between the lines.

Perhaps it's un-feeling of me, but I'm bewildered when people complain that no one is friendly or that people don't invite them to parties. I just want to say, "Have you tried smiling and introducing yourself?" Or..."Have you heard of evite.com? Host your own party, sister! Don't look at their calendars. Just do it." If you're new to a company or school or crowd, don't WAIT for people to introduce themselves. You have a hand. Extend it. Say hello. Shake hands. Fist bump. Whatever. Heaven help me if my children don't learn this life lesson: If you want to have friends, you must be friendly.

In a fair week I  am turning forty. I'm not sure if culture told me to start pumping extra estrogen or if my body did it on its own, but I am becoming bolder and learning to say "yes" by saying "no."

I'm saying "yes" to books and I'm saying "no" to constant negativity.
I'm saying "yes" to true friendships and I'm saying "no" to people-pleasing.
Yes to truth. No to sensationalism.

Thumbs up on:
creativity, baking, gardening, laughing with children, everyday wine, calling friends on the phone, investing in your home team, taking walks, making friends with people even if they're super rich (you read that correctly), praying for justice, crying when life hurts, seeking redemption every instant of every day and always having art supplies on hand.

Thumbs down to:
not trying again, making life complicated, being fancy on the outside and hollow on the inside, dry cake, refusing to communicate, Facebook-only friends, bad theology and stinky refrigerators.

I told my mother about some of these changes in me and she asked, knowing the answer already, "How old will you be turning this year?" And I answered, "Forty." "That's when it happens," she said, "That's when you start standing up for yourself and speaking your mind. That's when you feel more comfortable saying 'no.'"

Sweet mercy.

Here's my hope: That when the sweet surges of estrogen wash over me, I will be transformed gently, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, stretching its wings, drying out, shaking off the old, limiting ways of thinking and rising with new colors, new vision and maybe some super cute Merrell sneakers. The only thing constant is change.

Grammy

When I was in my early teens, I was a lanky, non-confident girl who was always being swayed by the opinions of others. I liked art and home life and seemed to attract best friends who pushed me to be more silly or fashionable or guy-crazy than I actually was. I was in that odd place like most young girls are where their bodies are beginning to show signs of womanhood, but their emotions and life experiences suggest that the pendulum still rests strongly on the "girl" side.
"Like, hey. Like, wow. Like, whatevva."

In short, it was hard to be myself because I didn't know who my "self" was. Those teen years are really the equivalent of researching a grad school paper. My life thesis in 8th grade was how high I could tease my hair and STILL maintain a banana clip in it, all with the help of a little Aqua Net hairspray. Speaking of hairspray: I took up babysitting so that I could maintain my hairspray budget of $17.47 a week. I was highly flammable.

Other junior high foibles include the time I dated a boy for one hour because a friend begged me to do it. By second hour of that day, my SAME friend helped me craft a break-up letter. (Lame.)

Perhaps the pinnacle of my 8th grade wisdom was when a very popular girl came up to me and asked me if I thought Tiffany was a "butt." Except she didn't say "butt," she said a word which rhymed with "butt" and implied that Tiffany might make friends too easily with boys. Being unaware of this word, I ASSUMED that the "butt" word meant "jerk" (not because I asked but because I used context clues from popular girl's argument) so I answered the popular girl confidently, "Yes. Tiffany is totally that word." She smiled and said, "Sign this petition." And so I signed a petition stating that Tiffany made friends with boys far too easily. I'm sure I dotted the lowercase "i" in my name with a bubble heart because that's what we did in the 1980s.

It gets worse: That day I came home and used my new word on my mother.
Hiroshima was nothing compared to the explosion that came from her face.
Related: I learned that the "butt" word did NOT, in fact, mean "jerk."
Also: Context clues cannot always be trusted.

Why am I offering these stories? Because this:
Even though I was hormonally imbalanced and teetered precariously between the worlds of girl and woman and sometimes acting like a full-fledge ogre, I knew that I could visit my grandmother in Pennsylvania and be just me.
I didn't have to dress up or impress her or *gasp* CHANGE who I was.
I could just be me.
The girl who didn't know how to do her hair.
The girl who spent $30 on a surf shirt so that people would like her.
The girl who wouldn't even know what to do with a boy if she liked him.
The girl who loved art.

My grandmother didn't do a whole lot with me. We didn't go on vacations together or go shopping. She bought Cracker Jacks which we ate at night while we watched Wheel of Fortune. All her cereal in her pantry was labeled with a date on top. For a little variety we would mix the cereals in our bowls... a little Raisin Bran and Corn Flakes and Waffle-Os.

We picked broccoli from the garden. It was my job to take a small paring knife and kill the green broccoli worms. They burst when I sliced them. I thought it was fun.

When I turned 18 and graduated from school, my Grammy found a recipe for-- get this-- OWL SHAPED cookies. It involved two different colored cookies doughs which you would wrap one over the other in a large tube shape and slice so that it was a circle with an outline of another color, and then use a pistachio for the beak. She came from an era where happiness was homemade.

She was so excited to make these cookies that she couldn't wait for Granddad to get home; she took the great big Lincoln Towncar and went with me to the grocery store. Upon backing up the car, she caught the bumper on the side of the garage and peeled it from its original placement, causing it to stick out a full foot, if not more.

In order for Granddad to not be so angry about the bumper, she decided to fix it. I thought she was going to try to push it back into place. Instead, she ran inside and got the Windex. She made the bumper shinier than before. What a riot!

In the end, we made the cookies. While most 18-year olds prefer foods with more of a "cool" factor, I was quite happy with the owl cookies. Seriously (shaking head) OWL cookies? With the car repairs and ingredients for the cookies, they must have cost $500.

I haven't spent gobs of time with my grandmother, just enough here and there. But what I can say is that she kept a Spirograph on hand, she gave us fun food, she let us work beside her, she didn't try to impress us, she always, always sends us birthday cards and Christmas cards as well, she loves Jesus and--in the end-- I feel safe with her. I feel like she's on my team.

She's soft and comfy and unassuming. She wears those ankle socks with the pom poms on the back so that they don't slip into your tennis shoe.

I'm trying very hard to not speak in the past tense, but at the same time I am wrestling with the fact that my grandmother has just suffered a stroke which will make her different. She may not call me "Emmy" anymore in that high octave she uses for my name. She probably won't bake cookies anymore; I don't know. And she may not sew, either.

In essence, our family is left with snippets of her previous self. I've heard people talk about losing loved ones before and debate about --forgive the term-- the virtues of losing someone abruptly verses sluggishly and I have to say that plucking bits of a loved one's personhood one memory at a time seems horrible, like using an eraser on an evil pencil very, very slowly.

My reaction, then, needs to be this:
To unabashedly sustain her beauty and goodness and fullness.
To continue to bake cookies, particularly ones in the shape of an owl.
To use Windex to shine up life's errors.
To be myself and realize that living simply beside someone is far more powerful than trying to entertain them.
To realize that Cracker Jack's are special because someone told me they were special.
And to realize that people are special, too, for the same reason.

My VBS Friends

I recently finished a race.

To my running friends, I didn't run a marathon in any traditional sense of the word. But for all the energy it took, it could have been a 10K. I helped with Vacation Bible School.

The leaders of our group had tremendous patience, Red Bull-like energy and fantastic organizational skills. And because I love them and they bribed me with their smiles, I agreed to help.

In previous years I think I volunteered for VBS with half the heart that I did this year, but I chalk that up to the fact that my youngest child's energy and antics kept me busy. Now that she is older, I find that my mental capacity is somewhat stronger, to say nothing of my heart's availability. It turns out I really liked the kids in my group.

I think I was most surprised by the fact that these second graders wanted respect. They told funny jokes and offered smart responses, giving the teachers those "Aren't I clever?" glances. They are at a fantastic age to interact with the story without telling too many tangental tales about their puppy or baby brother. They actually listened. I think the best gift that they gave me was their smiles.

During snack time we were encouraged to quiz the children; leaders were given a sheet of questions which correlated with the day's lesson. Honestly, it was so blessedly loud in the room that any deep and probing conversations went out the window. We spoke broadly and slowly, like people do when they hear a train behind them. One day I looked around the table at my group and told each child something special I enjoyed about them. Their smiles. Their jokes. Their laugh. The next day one of the little girls came up to me and delighted, "I have TWINKLY eyes!" She caught me off-guard that she would remember the compliment I gave her the day before, but it felt right... that showing love to second graders means speaking life into them, right at their level.

The music was worshipful in the best sort of way. Children bumping up against me, occasionally yelling lyrics in my ear and dancing in the aisle all because they owned the space of the sanctuary and God owned the space in their hearts.

We had communion. Our teacher broke the bread. We had a special piece of bread for a little boy who has the most fantastic smile and who also happens to have celiac disease. But everyone ate. We crammed a large piece of bread in our mouth, each of us, and we smiled, hearing the story of Jesus feeding the 5,000, the story which reminded us that God can take little and make it big. I immediately thought of how threadbare I felt, my husband being gone two separate weeks at trade shows, my mind wondering what we would have for dinner... and I rested there in the moment of the story, knowing that Jesus could take my meager time and energy and make it more.

Earlier this week I heard three pieces of bad news from three different friends. My heart felt frayed and afraid and I began to forget that God was their God, too. I prayed for them as I could and, beautifully and mysteriously the Bible lesson of each day coincided with what my heart needed to hear. How Ezra helped rebuild the temple... how the temple was devastated, but God rebuilt it again. How God intersected Esther's life with that of the king at just the right moment to provide for His people.

During craft time I watched in amazement as a little boy scrawled his belief in God on a piece of paper. He was quiet and had big, lamb-like eyes. His declaration caught me off-guard and my eyes felt hot and tingly for a second.

Another boy in my group was strong and active and definitely not a "sitting" type of person. The first day I was frustrated with him. The second day I was challenged by him. By the fourth day, I honestly liked him. I saw that he did not respond well to even the slightest harshness of tone and that he had to be softly, but firmly spoken to in order to change his behavioral choices. Each child has their own love language.

The week felt like boot camp. Every morning my family crammed breakfast down their throats and I threw back some coffee. We rushed a lot and I found myself barking, "Go! Go! Go!" as if we were invading Normandy. I began to forego showers for more sleep, which might sound like I'm being melodramatic, but it's the honest truth.

But at the end of it all, when all the hoopla was silenced and the children were back home, I put my apron over my head and began making dinner. My youngest was sitting in the craft room making something out of construction paper and under her breath I heard the faint sound of singing, lyrics to a song she learned that week. A seed of joy had been planted. I smiled.

Summer Sanity

All the school-bound children were released from their academic shackles this week.

They were twice as twitchy as usual because the make-up-snow-days of school did not make the children 5 days smarter. Instead, it rendered the teachers unable to prepare one more week of studies. Let's just say there was a lot of quizzing, game-playing, assemblies and movie watching. Also, they gave the children popsicles with enough red dye #40 to last them the summer. And frankly, I approve of everything the teachers did.

But now the children are free.

It's not that we don't love our children.
It's just that life rarely offers smooth transitions.
NASA isn't here to coach moms into summertime "reentry," reminding us that our bodies have winter-atrophied and gently guiding us into swimwear and dodging the ice cream truck.

My five year old is accustomed to preschool "circle time." I'm not planning on recreating preschool. I'll probably give her a round hula hoop (it's a circle, right?) and call it good.

If you are a mom who keeps the same schedule year-round and has no transitions in life ever, then this post is not for you. You are amazing enough. You have found your zen. Off you go. Life, love and happiness to you.

But for all the moms who already feel like they're not creative enough or organized enough or loving enough and are scrubbing Pinterest for healthy snacks and casually surveying Facebook friends for swim classes (yes, that was me) all in the hopes that we won't watch television for twelve hours a day... I hold your hand.

First, I don't know the first thing about organization. It's not my strength. I observe what works for others and modify it for myself. My strength is encouragement and creative enterprises. This means that I hate for people to feel badly about themselves and I'll probably draw a happy picture to make them feel good. Which is why I blog and design. Can't help myself.

So I'm not here to give a how-to. Just some suggestions.
I'm here to say "Welcome to summer."

1. A hydrated mom is a happy mom.
Load up your pantry with happy beverages to keep your thirst quenched.
I love finding quirky teas at Trader Joes and steeping them for iced tea. I don't add sugar, but I do throw in some mint from my garden. I feel very posh when I drink it, like I'm at a fancy restaurant.
Iced coffee is amazing.
Lacroix water is fun.
Heck, try some vintage sodas from World Market. They won't particularly hydrate you, but they'll make you smile.

2. Trump your trouble. Plan your pleasure.
Give yourself and your children one thing to look forward to each day and one thing (which you dread) to address.
My daughter would rather put a splinter in her eye than do math. I plan on helping her with math this summer. I also have a closet bag full of craft ideas and adventures we can do to offset her inevitable anger with me for providing math problems during summer break.
Same goes for moms.
Purge a closet, then get a movie from the library.
Hose down the minivan, then get a Starbucks latte. Whatever floats your boat.

3. Lower expectations.
If it feels overwhelming, it probably is too complicated.
If you're not smiling anymore, your heart is gone. Find it.
Also: Naps are good.

4. Good news: Your children will remember the simplest, cheapest, grossest, weirdest activity this summer and it probably will have very little to do with you.
Example: My parents took me and my sister Noel up the east coast one summer to show us Plymouth Rock (boring) and a host of other incredible places. I do recall a lot of fascinating sights, but mostly I remember seeing the lower half of the Statue of Liberty (we were driving, a truck got in our way and I had to peer under its trailer.) I also remember a waiter who spilled a great deal of wine in a woman's lap. Also: I bought a five dollar stuffed animal. It was a white seal.

Plan on your children saying that the best part of Niagara Falls was the dead toad they saw squished in the road.

You get the point.

5. Trick other moms into being your friend.
If you're not particularly athletic, casually invite your marathon-happy neighbor to your house. Take notes on how to raise children who are not lethargic.
We're in this together, people. There are no perfect mom awards.

6. Respond to tiredness.
Hire a sitter.
Take a nap.
Drink coffee.

7. Do something good for yourself. Repeat. 
You can't give what you don't have.
Plan movie nights with friends.
Load up your library book requests of those hard to reach titles online so that when a book *finally* arrives in your cue, it feels like Christmas Day.
Shop at Trader Joes. Buy everything that is healthy and then offset that with Chocolate Covered Sea Salt Almonds.
Join a running club to offset aforementioned chocolate almonds.

Have fun, everyone. It may be a little funny starting a new season, but if you keep your head about you, you might make some fantastic memories.

This past weekend I renewed my wedding vows in a Passport Office.

It wasn't planned. I didn't wear a white dress. And to confuse matters further, only I participated in renewing our wedding vows; Dan did not.

It was a beautiful and sunny Saturday, the last weekend in May. It was the perfect kind of day to cram full of errands and rush children from store to store. (Where's the sarcasm font when I need it?) We were preparing to go to Niagara Falls and realized a bit too late that the passport office needs a little time to create and distribute passports, even if it is only for crossing the border to see our neighboring Canadians.

We rushed to Costco to get passport photos. Side note: that was the day Eve decided to wear her head in something resembling dread locks; Morgan fashioned five braids in her little sister's hair. Eve was thrilled. No time to change; She can have her Medusa picture retaken when she's ten years old.

We rushed home for a birthday party of a fantastic little boy. We laughed much, enjoyed great conversations and found our shoulders relaxing, easing into lawn chairs while noshing on pizza. Then Dan got that "we have to leave now" look on his face which I'm pretty sure I have never seen on him; I am normally the one gently pushing the backs of little people, telling them to wear clothing and get in the car. He wanted to make sure we got to the Passport Office before it closed; he was determined.

A few words about the Passport Office: It is maintained by the United States government. The walls are white. The seating in the waiting room are thinly padded folding chairs, probably from the 1980s. The room was filled with humankind and one--count them-- one person working there. The individual behind the desk was polite and precise. It became evident to me that this person would be immune to my normal modus operandi in such uptight situations (humor, of course) and that if I wanted to anger the federal government, this might be a great opportunity to do so. But I wanted to see Niagara Falls, alas.

Dan and I are sitting in the waiting room. The only indication that we are in any sort of line was the brown clip board we used to sign in, including our name and the time we arrived. The perimeter of the room is filled with people who look very bored. Even Dan wasn't cracking jokes. Even.

The children are tired and hot. I am as well. Dan has already started the self talk of how stupid he was for not starting this process earlier, how much we would have to pay to expedite them. He asks me what we should do.

I am instantly angry. "Oh, no," I'm thinking, "You're not going to blame me for this mess." I give him my "I don't know" face, eyebrows raised. Inside I'm as hot as a branding iron.

If we want comfort at this point, it is not going to come from the people in the waiting room or the Passport Office staff. One individual in the room offers that he used to work for a travel agency and begins to recite all the hoops we must jump through in order to receive our documents.

Dan and I look at each other.
I want to blame someone and he is sitting next to me.
I want to blame him.
He looks like a very good person to blame.
I want to be mad at him. But I quickly realize two things:

1. I am just as much to blame as he is. Neither of us were watching the calendar days flip as we anticipated going to New York. There are no contracts saying he was in charge of this. We just assumed that it would be easy, like getting a book of stamps. "Oh, we just need the 'local' Canadian passport," I imagined myself saying to the Passport staff, "I'm sure it won't take any time at all."

2. More importantly, I love this man. He has shown me more mercy than the entire United States. Plus, we are married. His mistakes are mine; my mistakes are his. Drawing lines in the sand isn't helpful for marriage.

I remembered our vows.

"Til death do us part."
"For richer or poorer."
"Waiting in lifeless Passport Offices."

And right there, in that moment, I picked up "our mistake" and smiled at him. "Let's take a gamble and not get the expedited service." Shoot, if we're going to go down, let's do it in a blaze of glory. Let's be royally wrong. We might not get to the other side, but at least we will be together.

We sat in the dull waiting room listening to people sighing until we heard, "Dan? Dan Dykstra?"

We crossed the threshold together.

Life and Landscaping

So I am fresh off of Memorial Day weekend, gut filled with laughter and maybe 2 Sangrias more than I should have ingested. But a good time nonetheless.

My guests (my in-laws!) were a blast to have over, mostly b/c we know each other and don't try to entertain or woo each other anymore. My father-in-law is still a closet democrat and I am an ignorant republican and anything we can't settle in debate (none) we just settle with laughter and vino. It's our love language.

But as my guests leave I realize that it feels like Monday but in actuality it is Tuesday. This befuddles me. I feel behind already, like I lost a day.

And all day I felt that way, slightly unmoored and definitely not improved by the dietary choices of the weekend. Junk food and burgers, if you must know. Fuzzy brained.

When my mother and father-in-law drove off, I held my baby girl as she wept. She sited that she wanted to be with her grandparents and that they belong here, not in Iowa and not in Wisconsin. Noted.

I took her for a walk so she would stop talking about watching movies. It was hardly exercise, but involved listening to her jabber nonstop about NOTHING, absolutely NOTHING, jumping from one topic to the next like a jackrabbit as it jumps in zig-zag patterns.

And then we came home and waited for a contractor. Can we all just agree that waiting for people to fix things in your house is like waiting for a woman to go into labor? Just busy yourself with other chores and they will come, I swear. A watched pot never boils.

That, followed by trying to locate two new backup batteries for our sump pump. Our backup waited to screech its caw of death "Low battery! Low battery!" while our guests were nestling in their beds. Despite websites and toll free numbers plastered on the battery telling one where to purchase new ones, no help could be found. I almost began to wave money in the air yelling, "I have dollars! Please! I buy batteries from you." But salespeople for battery stores pick up the phone reluctantly hoping you won't ask them any questions as they continue playing vintage Atari on the company's clock. Go ahead, fight me on this. I dare you.

By the time noon rolled around, I had eaten two cookies, hardly any breakfast and fed Eve at least seven meals. Her boredom causes her to ask for food; this could prove a problem in the future, but for now she is only growing vertically.

So in my angst (Darn battery people. Crazy Tuesday.) I took the hedge trimmers from the garage and began pruning the bushes. The thing about hedge trimmers that one must remember is that they are an editing tool but they do not "unedit" whatever you remove. My newly pruned bushes resemble a little girl on picture day when her mother cut her bangs "real quick" before sending her off to school.

Upon trimming the boxwoods, I realized that one particular brown-looking one was not about to resurrect anytime soon, so I took to gingerly snipping off the bad branches and– for fun– attempted to dig out the root ball. There's no formula to digging out a structure which has spent its entire life entwining itself around earth, but I will say that if you can think of something maddening, you can use a lot more force when you plunge your shovel into its entrails.

By the time Morgan returned home from school she found a mother figure who was laying in bed, partly paralyzed by exhaustion and partly laid up due to dehydration. Eve was chirping around me, claiming that she needed to run down the street to visit a friend since she saw that I was unable to fight her. Children have antenna for when their parents are downtrodden.

I made dinner, realizing that I had forgotten to take Eve to her last Tuesday gymnastics class. It's Tuesday, not Monday, but all day my body said it was Monday. I sat down a bit and Morgan hit my thighs, asking me why they jiggled more than hers. I reminded her that my body gave her life and that maybe she should respect it. She smiled.

It was a day. I didn't conquer the world. But I'm still kicking.
Everything is going to be okay.

A People All Her Own

My Mom was in her early twenties when she married. She was nearly finished with college when her mother became ill; she spent her last semester tending to her mother instead of receiving her degree.

Life happened quickly. Mom became married and three months later she became sick as well. Only the sickness was simply a surge in hormones; Mom was pregnant.

Some women become mothers slowly and steadily. They marry and ease into the idea of pregnancy when their best friend has a baby. Lo and behold, they become pregnant, too.

Some women pine for children because their womb is uncooperative.

Eventually all women who long to become mothers find an outlet for motherhood, though sometimes it takes the form of mentoring or fertility drugs or adoption. Ironically, I have seen some single women with no children of their own who mother with far more heart than those married. Motherhood isn't so much a station in life as a place in the heart, a way of the mind.

My mother was thrown into motherhood quite quickly. She didn't even know she was pregnant until her constant sickness alerted her husband to the fact; he suggested she take a pregnancy test.

The thing about motherhood is that it is not a title which is earned over time. Generally speaking, it is immediate. One day you are an individual and the next day you are now the chief expert of a human being whom you have just met. It's a very shocking experience.

My mother grew up in the generation where you raised your own children. Once your children were out of the house, you could retire as a parent. She had a very tender hearted grandmother, Margaret Bready, who showed her how to nurture, but when she died, she had only the memories of that sweet woman to light her path for life.

I don't remember any one grand thing about my mother, but I remember a thousand meals, a safe home, constant guidance and loving arms when I needed them. I can't say that my mother developed a legislative initiative to cure world hunger, but for her tribe she taught that the kitchen should always be warm, that food should be respected and that all are welcome to the table. And all are welcome to chores as well. :)

What my mom doesn't know is that she is more a mother to me now than she ever was. Previous generations may have seen parenting as an 18 year stint with a clock-in, clock-out approach, but not my mom.

When I graduated from college, something odd happened. In the section of my heart where I should have cut the tethers to my mother and established my own methods of being a woman, I found that I needed her more. If anything, growing older has not quenched my need for mom, it has made the hunger larger. Which shocked me.

When I returned from my honeymoon with Dan, she gave us a container with flank steak which she had marinated. "For your first dinner home," she offered, knowing we were tired from our flight.

And that's not all.

When I gave birth to my first baby, I heard the door to my childhood shut firmly. I looked to my mother who was already holding Morgan, just minutes old, and knew that I needed her voice more than ever. It was my mother who taught me how to hold Morgan and quiet her fussiness as a baby.

It was my mother who taught me to dress the way you want to be treated, who wore nice outfits when she was a teacher even though her students were her own children.

It was my mother who taught me to be emotionally honest, to embrace life as a whole.

If it weren't for my mother, I wouldn't know what was happening to my body when I started to feel age creep upon me. My body began to give me new messages which I had never heard before. She told me the path that was ahead and offered suggestions.

My mother taught me about inclusion. About fighting for voiceless people, about seeing people who are usually invisible. She befriended poor and rich alike without any change in her demeanor.

By the time I am an old woman, I won't know what part of womanhood is my contribution or hers; I value her thoughts so much. She will never die while I live.

Some women sneer at the more base tasks of motherhood. It's probably because they don't see them for the building blocks that they are.

That introducing an infant to sweet potato mash as their little wayward tongue tries to navigate eating solid food and urging them to try Brussels sprouts when they are eleven might lead to them giving sushi a whirl on their first meeting with their boss when they're twenty-one.

Or allowing a 4 year old to express herself through an outfit that might induce seizures and holding your tongue when your 16 year old wears fluorescent pink lipstick could yield a child so confident in fashion mishaps that he or she has their own clothing line.

A three year old boy who feels his mother lean over his little body in order to help him hold the bat and feel the stance his chubby legs will need to know for years of baseball is not only learning that his mother is his exoskeleton, but that through vision and passion and muscle memory he can take an object and set it on another path.

Children need moms to brush their hair not because their wild locks will embarrass, but because the scalp is covered with nerve endings; each and every one of those receptors receives the message, "Someone is lovingly touching me and taking care of me" and THAT message is necessary so that children will grow into adults who know physical love in safe, beautiful ways.

Because of my mother, I don't see motherhood as a job for the uneducated or unenlightened.

What I see is a woman who has carefully fed and clothed and loved one child and then another.
And then three more after those two.
And somehow she has caused the threadbare education she received as a mother to be a wild, thriving enterprise. It's crazy. She started with nothing and is now flooded with people who attribute their life to her.

She has raised five humans to ask questions and find answers. To be honest and brave. To be kind and merciful. To be wary of toxic people and be firm in their resolutions about life. To try new foods and take care of our body. To say sorry and to really mean it. To grow things. To take care of animals and enjoy yard sales.

It's the wild, redemptive, ripple effect of motherhood. New chances every day to love and mold and express and grow. And it never ends. Full of second chances. Each day, each year offers new, exciting ways to mother.

Some women check out in life, but not my mom.

Her work has been slow. You won't see her featured on the Today Show, but as any business person knows, slow growth is the best. It's solid, intentional. Has a good foundation for life.

For starting with nothing, working with no end in sight and gaining a people she can call her own.
I'm proud of my mom.

Mess Making

My kitchen counters are absolutely strewn with the ingredients from dinner. There are bowls and whisks and smears of black bean goo on my laminate countertop. I take something hot off the stove and I have nowhere--absolutely nowhere-- to put the hot pan. I leave it on the stovetop.

In the back of my mind I begin the shame talk. "You are the only person on planet earth who can create this much mess making dinner."

I lick the spoon of the black bean goo. I tried a new recipe. Gluten Free Black Bean Burgers. They're absolutely fantastic. I wince at the mess and swoon at the taste. The chipotle peppers in adobo sauce absolutely make this recipe. I avert my eyes from the lack of countertop space in my kitchen to enjoy the new burgers I have made. I sit in the moment of it all.

I have been an artist all my life. I have letters which I wrote to my sister when I was six or eight years old begging her to create things with me. It's in my blood. I can't not create.

In fact, the one area of the gospel where I never--not ever-- struggle with is creation. God created. I believe it with all my heart. I know I couldn't bring a single iota of this earth to some semblance of order and he did.

But tonight as I stood in my sweet-mercy-could-this-kitchen-be-any-messier-mayhem, I was struck with this thought: Creation always involves mess.

I like to avoid the mess. I neglect any sound which might sound like something bursting forth with liquid. Or mud. Don't even say the word "squirt" around me.

And yet: As a creator, I know that I have never created something without a mess. The mess might not be tangible... it might take the form of mental chaos, but it often involves things being out of order while something else is formed.

Anyone who has witnessed a birth of some kind will probably not talk about it, but very much remember everything which accompanied the birth. When I delivered my first daughter I squirmed a little at the first gooey sight of her. But my second delivery was totally different. I scooped up Eve into my arms, goop and all, and kissed her head. When the nurse asked to take her away to bathe her I told her no, held onto her more tightly and continued to marvel at the beauty of my daughter. I recognized the work it took to bring her into this world and I appreciated the whole package.

Why am I talking about mess and creation?

Because this: We live in a world which sanitizes the creative experience. We receive magazines in the mail which show us finished products of homes and projects. We watch food shows which tell us that cooking dinner can be done neatly, without interruptions and with great ease. We see people drive cars that look shiny and assume that their job must be shiny as well. We bow at the feet of authors in English Lit class and assume that the muse gave them a double helping of inspiration without any rejections or failures.

Though I consider myself an intelligent individual, I have fallen for the lie over and over.

The lie is this:
You are the only messy person. 
Everyone else has it together.

Which makes me feel like I forgot to take a class in high school or something.

In the Bible there is a really weird story about mess. There's a man who is blind and Jesus decides to heal him by making a mess. It's kind of gross, actually: Jesus mixed his spit with dirt to make mud and then smeared the mixture on the blind man's face, covering his sockets with globs of clay. A man who is ALREADY in darkness is being given less light. It's a situation where a very responsible person should have piped up, "Perhaps you don't understand... he would like to see more, not less."

If we dig way, way back into the story of Creation, we recall another story about clay. That all flesh, in fact, was made from clay drawn from the earth. That until God spoke and breathed life into the soil it was just dirt but when he gave the word it became creature. You can almost imagine him smirking as people start to gag while he whispers to the blind man, his hand dripping with mud, "Trust me. I've done this lots of times. This stuff really works."

Maybe making dinner is like that, too. We're hungry and we're given basic ingredients to become healers. To make people unhungry.

It's bok choy and carrots and a can of chicken broth until you say, "Come together. Mix. Bubble. Be soup." And then, suddenly it's not separate, dull ingredients. It's dinner. The kitchen looks like a crazed hyena tore barking mad through it, but, by jove, we're eating. We're finding life in the midst of the mess.

Sometimes it involves mud or paintbrushes or kitchens of mayhem, but we're creating life.

The mess is just evidence of the creation.

Life Collides

I have just returned from a wedding that was one of the most fun weddings I have ever attended. And it was all because my baby sister got married to someone at LEAST as extroverted as herself (oy vey) and *dang* those people can dance.

I have been up since 2:30 this morning returning from Atlanta, having slept an entire three hours due to two things:
1. The wedding was fun and hard work and more fun and, well, you don't get to bed at 8:30 for those kinds of weddings
--and--
2. Poor planning on the part of me and Dan regarding our flight out of Atlanta.
One word: Brutal.

I'm an immensely introspective person. Going out for coffee with one person has me pondering that friend for an entire week. Spending a mere 3 days with dozens of my favorite people practically levels me emotionally. I enter the joys and sorrows and excitements and anxieties of all of their stories until my children only have a few threads left of their mother.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Life collides, that's all there is to it.

As I am gushing over the exquisite beauty of my baby sister's bridely-ness (a new word), I hear a chorus around me:
- Where's the hair gel?
- Where are the scissors? No, the GOOD ones?
- What can I eat?
- Doesn't Becky look amazing?
- Are the groomsmen here?
- Where's the double sided tape?
- The flowers are GORGEOUS.

My heart is pulled is 27 directions, mostly good, and I want to rest somewhere and ponder the amazement of it all... of how my baby sister listened to her instinct and didn't allow men to stay in her life who tried to diminish her or make her less... can I be honest?... less emotional and loud and amazing.

Becky married a lovely man named Jon. His mother told me that after a few weeks of dating Becky he knew she was the one. What's more, he tells his mother, "I don't want to ruin this." Which is the best thing you can tell an older sister... that her baby sister so smit a man that he took his next steps with great care so that he could form an amazing relationship with her. Does my heart good.

And then... when you see these two on the dance floor, they move so effortlessly and spontaneously that you don't know who is having more fun.

In the midst of these moments, I look at my own husband. We both look a bit older than when we first married. I don't need to reveal the evidences of this, but I will say this: When you live life, it shows.

So as I am watching this squeaky new marriage being formed, I am looking for my own anchor, for the man who has worn many shoes for me: dance shoes, funeral shoes, work boots... and I see that today he is trying to rein in our 5 year old as she performs her flower girl duties. I look at him. He couldn't find the hair spray, so his hair is soft and fluffy in the wind instead of his normal edgy look. I know that we aren't squeaky new anymore, but it's okay.

I see Becky riding away in the limo with her husband, Jon. Wow... husband... I can't believe she has that word in her vernacular now. Her window is rolled down, she pulls the limo up to me and says, "Kiss me." She has never been more happy. Her entire radiance could illuminate a city.

I shed my bridesmaid dress, catch a few winks and wear my airport clothes. Sneakers are a must. And so are eyeglasses. I think I can hear my eyelids blink. I'm tired and weary and happy and I move very, very slowly.

Life happened, you see.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Carry On, Mother of Little Ones

You tuck your hair back in a ponytail. Your hands have memorized the familiar flip, flip, flipping of the hands as you tie your locks back.

You feel the familiar weight of the laundry basket on your hip and your back pulls slightly the other direction to compensate for its heft. Just like it does when you pick up your 23 pound baby girl.

When you pick up the phone, your grandfather or father or father in law grumbles that medical costs have risen. He refuses to go to the doctor even though there is a questionable spot on his arm. He wonders if he can take a photo of it and send it in the mail to you. Maybe one of your nurse friends could tell him what it is.

You put the baby down (she cries) for just an instant so you can use the bathroom. Someone has filled the sink with water and put all the towels in the water. You smile tiredly at your resident preschooler who uses the entire world as her classroom. The toilet paper is gone. The toilet is plugged with what appears to be 172 facial tissues; another science experiment by aforementioned preschooler. And someone is beating on the door, asking you for juice during your 30 second bathroom break.

The dishwasher is full.
The washing machine is full, as is the dryer. And the hampers bulge with complaint.
All the trash cans in the house are full.

You're not sure why you were placed on planet earth, but dusty photos of a beaming bride and groom remind you that at one time you felt energetic and hopeful and alive.

So you go into autopilot because its your safety mechanism. Your reasoning is: If I don't feel anything at all, then I won't feel the tiredness as much. Or the sadness. Or the defeat. I'll just keep step, step, stepping.

But that reasoning doesn't work for long because you are a creative, intelligent human being. You just forget what it feels like.

It's time to regroup. This is what you are going to do.

For starters, turn off your media. Just for now. Quiet your mind because you're going to brush away some cobwebs to remember who you are or who you were. Start there.

Each day you are going to do something good for yourself. Not because you're selfish. But because an empty watering can cannot give drink to flowers.

You're going to ask yourself what makes you happy. What makes you tick with joy?

Have you read the latest New York Times Bestseller Novels? (Hello, library!)
What's for breakfast? A sausage and mushroom omelet, of course.
A 15 minute walk each morning? Yes, please.
A favorite magazine? Joy upon joy.
An online course? I've always wanted a masters degree.
Learning an instrument? Strum, strum, strumming my guitar.
Do it.

Next, you are going to set boundaries for yourself and your children. And, if necessary, your spouse. You are going to set aside time for this activity. And you are not going to be interrupted. This might require some planning. Or babysit swapping. Or bribing another human being. But do it. It might involve turning on a TV show for your littles for an hour. Do it.

And if it's a daily activity, it's best to do it at the same time every day. A little routine helps the mind.

Then, you are going to redefine success.
Success is not how much laundry you do or how much you liked your children today.
Success is how brave you are. And you are brave, I know you are.
How you listened to your body when it needed to nap.
How you unplugged your phone.
How you stopped to pray when your mind wanted to sort things out on its own.
How you chose to eat an apple instead of fourteen Oreo cookies. That's bravery.

You are going to learn to help yourself.
Don't listen to those thoughts in your head about not having enough help. Prune things from your life that don't matter so that the things that do matter will be respected.
Your mother doesn't live next door? That's okay.
You just moved into a new town and you don't know a soul? One step at a time.
It will take time. To make friends. To make margin. To create space. To create rest. But don't give up. It will come.

Today you will walk. That is all.
You will take one step. You will speak only respectfully about yourself.
You will plod on through the rain.

Because one day the chaos will subdue. And you will want to look in the mirror and see that your muscles haven't totally atrophied. That your mind is nimble-ish. That you can wear a hair style BESIDES just a ponytail. And that because you took those little steps each day, you accidentally ran a marathon without even knowing it.

Carry on, beautiful mother. Carry on.

Two Thousand Fourteen

The bottom of the year is such a funny juxtaposition to January's fresh slate. December is when we eat too much, spend too much and force vast amounts of symbolism and cheer down our gullets. In January we are more prudent and wise, eating more things with the color green, vowing anew to watch our budgets and replacing nostalgia with modernism in the form of gym memberships and new workout music. It's the cliché we all endure but struggle to resist.


Nevertheless, I do love a good set of resolutions to welcome in the new year.

For me, I want to live a life observed.

To me it looks like this:
I want to chew on new words I learn from new books I read.
Which means I should read more books. Probably more than one.
And probably not children's books; opting instead for the kind with multi-syllabic words.

I want to focus on artistic endeavors.
Hone subject matters. Sharpen my illustrating skills.

I want to begin writing a slender book which I have in mind for my daughters. A book about love and life and communication and dreams. And how to listen to instinct. Just for them.

I want my endeavors to be in balance with flexibility and grace and sacrifice.
I don't know any well-minded person who doesn't want this.

I want all the bad theology in my mind to be scrubbed.
I want to be brave. To know God in new ways. To ask questions. To improve in prayer. To start each day sitting in grace and end each day laying in it.

And I don't know a soul who wouldn't mind releasing the heartbreaks of yesteryear so they could enjoy the blessings of today and the twinkly dreams of tomorrow.

These goals will require a little reworking on my part.
Each morning I tiptoe past the bedrooms of two sleeping children for a few minutes of breathing and thinking and praying before the day begins. Within minutes a very loud five year old demands oatmeal and a very barky puppy also enters the chorus. Mentally this is a very important juncture: I will either yield to the chaos of the morning and stay in my jammies for far too long or I will steel myself to my goals and turn on the treadmill or start the laundry. Truthfully, I do the former more than I like. Jammies have a way of not starting the day.

To start the new year, the one thing I really wanted was a book. And that book, I am convinced, is going to change my heart forever. The book is called "Surprised by Hope" and is written by N.T. Wright. I borrowed it from the library but found that I wanted to underline things and write things in the margins (which I RARELY do to books) because I loved it so much.

And the reason I need this book is because of an ugly truth: I have a (metaphorical) hole in my heart. It comes from too much repetition. From folding too many clothes and unloading the dishwasher several times each day.  From being tired. From doing important tasks with too much efficiency and speed and roboticism, resulting in a disease I call "What's-the-Use-itis." A good shot of Wright's book should do the trick.

So this year I am starting January differently:
I'm choosing the words that will go in my mind and find their way into my actions.
I can DO a lot of things this year. I can create a heap of goals. But unless I have my head and heart in the right place, none of those things matter.

May your new year be similarly blessed. May you live less like "the mass of men who live in quiet desperation" and more like "the charming few who live with truth and inspiration."

Now off you go. Auld lang syne and all of that.