Things, Memories, and Sparking Joy

I once read that there's a whole contingency of people who cannot get rid of an object that a memory is attached to. I don't remember where I read this or in what context, but the idea is that if an object disappears from a person's possession that they are worried that the memory that is attached to an object will disappear with it. Because of this, they keep the object as a reminder of the memory and cherish it with a certain amount of sentimental fondness. 

I am not wired with this particular characteristic. 

I don't know if it's because I moved a fair amount growing up or because I have an innate urge to offload things that I'm not using and that are taking up space, but I have no problem purging a closet or room and getting rid of things I no longer use or need. Haven't worn this dress in years? Gone. Not ever going to whip together anything out of this cookbook? Thank you, next. Scent of this candle I was gifted too overpowering and it's never going to get lit? Let's not keep that light buried in a basket. With only a few notable exceptions, I will offload pretty much any "thing" that isn't getting used. 

With this in mind, you would have thought I would have jumped all in on the Marie Kondo phase that went bananas during Covid. Purging all of the things, organizing all of the remaining things, and only keeping those things that "spark joy". But I didn't. I remember during 2020 my social media feeds were filled with people who were spending their newfound free time when their life slowed down by looking around and realizing that they didn't want or need all of the stuff that they'd accumulated. They sang the praises of the KonMari method and were feeling the freedom of getting rid of piles of stuff. 

That wasn't me. I was in the "How many different ways can I bake bread?" trend of that same era. You don't have time to purge things if you're drowning your stress as a parent who is supervising the remote learning of two young kids - one of whom is neuro-spicy - in carb-laden homemade comforts. My family does not share in the same zeal for the release of the things that I do, and so it was breads and brownies and cookies and King Arthur Baking Challenges instead. Had I attempted to have my two elementary-aged children thank all of their stuffed animals for their service and release them from their shackles, I would have had a mutiny on my hands. 

The kids are now middle-school aged and a lot of the toys and things that sprinkled their younger years are starting to make their way to more playful pastures. One of the last holdouts from the elementary era was the pretend food, a bucket of toys that for the last couple of years seemed to only appear on Thanksgiving Day as some sort of "make a fake meal" tradition they concocted or when a smaller friend was visiting that needed entertainment. I sorted through the bin, placed all of the food that was in good condition in a bag, and posted it on the online Marketplace for a lot less than we paid for it but enough to get the kids an ice cream or new board game. 

Within minutes, a dad messaged me with interest. Yes, please take it off our hands and into the hands of your little one. He drove to my house, handed me cash, and a brief story. 

His elementary-aged daughter had one wish for her birthday: a new play kitchen. My sale of a Trader Joe's bag full of pretend food came for them at the absolute perfect time. 

The paltry amount of cash in my hand does not cover the worth of the joy that pretend food brought my children or the joy it will bring that little girl whose one birthday wish was a play kitchen. I could have charged and received $1,000 and it wouldn't have amounted to the value of that joy. 

But the pretend food is gone from my house and space for a new round of memories connected to things has opened. 

There are times when a purge is necessary in order to move forward. For example, any time I have a move on the horizon I find this to be the prime opportunity to purge of things that have collected dust and taken up space long enough. No one wants to move things they don't have to; moving is enough of a pain in the backside without having extra boxes of clothes you haven't worn in ages, kitchenware you'll never use, and papers you haven't looked at in over a decade. 

Books move. All of the books move. Don't judge. And while you're at it, don't look at my "To Be Read" list on The Storygraph either. 

In the late spring of 2022, a house came on the market in our town that after 5 years of passively watching the market my husband and I agreed fit both of our checklists. We looked at it, put in an offer, and against every odd we had stacked up against ourselves in our head - it was accepted. 

I immediately went into action. I worked my whole life for this. I moved 9 times in my life before I went to college and countless times in and out of dorms during the course of my Bachelor's degree. No, family, we are not going to just throw it in a box and then sort through it when we get to the new place. That's how we never get rid of things and become keepers of boxes of unused things. I became a Tasmanian Devil of packing and purging, getting things squared away through the stages of first getting ready to stage to sell, then minimizing down to what we absolutely needed for the last few weeks while we prepped the new-to-us house, then the last things before we evacuated. I was a machine, constantly repeating the phrase "Trust me, fam, we're in good shape, I've done this more than I care to think about, it's a lot but we've got this" as each box gets packed and each room becomes less of a home and more of a naked shell. 

When you're moving and you're in this flurry of activity to get it all done, at some point you look around and the space you've occupied is now empty. In this case, the space was our first house. Our first space that was truly ours. We celebrated 12 years of birthdays and Christmases in that house. Both of our kids came home through the front door of that house, because we thought that they - like us and every friend and family member welcomed to our home for the first time before them - deserved a grand entrance through the front door and not the basement next to the garage. First birthday cake smashes. First steps. First tooth fairy visits. Snow days. The most amazing octogenarian neighbors who loved our kids like their own grandkids. 

We sat on the floor of the kitchen in our first house, eating takeout dinner and sharing our favorite memories. Our laughs echoed, the sad and excited tears of our kids fell to the floor. Cleaning up the vestiges of our last meal in the house, my husband took the kids outside to play in the yard one last time while I stayed behind in the kitchen to set up the small gifts and menus and brochures from our town I had gathered for the new family with the toddler that was moving in. 

I turned one last time to look at the empty kitchen that I had packed and purged and had made my home office for the last decade after leaving work to be home full-time. I looked out the back deck door at my family running around making one last set of joyful memories before we turned the page to a new chapter in a new house with a new yard and a new set of neighbors who would love my kids so well. 

A house is just a thing. I move on from things. 

But things serve us, and this house turned us from a couple of crazy late-20s kids into a couple of early 40s adults. This house watched us grow from a fairly newly married couple into a full-blown family. This house held us during a pandemic and was a constant when uncertainty ran rampant. This house showed us independence and helped us mature and grow. 

I looked at the plant and the sidewalk chalk and the folded menus and brochures on the island and looked at the space that had once been filled with things and was now empty. This kitchen, this house, this toy that I and my family had outgrown and were ready to pass along to the next family. 

I took a deep breath. And then somewhere, something, some well of suppressed emotion that I had put a cap on while I purged and packed and packed and purged and moved all of our things from one place to hold our stuff to another place to hold our stuff just erupted. I stood there, in the middle of the kitchen, the ugliest of ugly cries spilling out of my depths and pouring out, covering the walls with a dozen years of memories and stories and love. 

My husband through some cosmic spousal connection at that moment looked through the back deck door and saw me standing there, arms at my side like some sort of physically paralyzed yet emotionally collapsing doll, and ran into the house. He held me, he let me cry it out, sharing in the outpouring of emotion that somehow I had been the last one to grab the rail and jump on the feelings train as it pulled out of the station a minute after departure time. 

The money that exchanged from buyer to seller in the closing of the sale of our first house, one that became our home and saw us grow into a family, was paltry in comparison to the memories we made and took with us. It's nothing compared to the couple who bought it and who are now making their own roots and memories and growing their own family within its walls. 

I never did follow Marie Kondo or jump on the KonMari bandwagon. 

But things serve us. And though we may purge them and send them to the next person in a cycle of usage that lasts as long as the object does, the memory impact is much longer. The memories are part of our story, part of what makes us who we are. 

Thank you, Pretend Food. Thank you, Mint Green Colonial. 

We are grateful for how you served our family. 

Death, Dashes, and Decisions

I was introduced to the music of Garth Brooks sometime in my teen years. My high school boyfriend, for all of his faults, was a great lover of Garth and we would often listen to his "The Hits" album when I was riding shotgun in his car. When I was talking about Garth's music during that time with the cousin of a family friend, it was he who told me to seek out the secret extra verses of the iconic "Friends in Low Places" and "The Thunder Rolls" featured only on the live albums. Long after the inevitable heartache trail left by my high school beau, Garth's music continued to keep a hold on me and in some twisty full circle series of circumstances it was my husband who made my concert bucket list complete with floor tickets in the 10th row in 2015 where I got to see not only Garth Brooks but his wife Trisha Yearwood perform for a glorious 2.5 hours. 

Not the best pic from that night,
but it was the best night.

Garth Brooks is a music legend. This is not an opinion. This is fact.

But what exactly is it about Garth's music that I find so engaging, relatable, enjoyable? The songs certainly have a catchiness, a "rock-out"-ability, and the kind of music I can get lost in while driving in my car or cleaning my kitchen. But it's not that.

For me, what I love about Garth is that his songs are personal. 

They tell stories. Take "The Beaches of Cheyenne" as an example, a song about a couple who has a fight, and the wife has to live with the regret of that fight when her husband dies. It is my favorite Garth song. Or "Papa Loves Mama", a song that on paper is a standard issue country song about an affair with a hint of violence - but it's that musicality and upbeat way that he belts out "Papa love Mama, Mama loved men..." that takes it to another level. 

Or they have wisdom. One of his best songs is one of his more recent, the song "People Loving People", a reminder that when it comes down to it the way that we are ultimately going to have to solve the problems of the world is just to love one another. It's the same refrain that can be heard in the words of Carlos Whitaker in his book "How to Human" - "I don't stand on issues; I walk with people." 

"People loving people, that's the remedy to everything that's evil..." 

Sing it, Garth. 

I am currently reading the book Winter's Fury by A.E. Rayne. I chose it as one of my Amazon Prime First Reads at some point, a "perk" that Amazon offers its Prime members which is really just a way to get you to enjoy book authors or series and buy more books. I'm about halfway through, but it's one of these Norse-type fantasy books with arranged marriages and family and political turmoil and power struggles and forced proximity romance. I'm about 56% of the way through the book at the writing of this post and so far the book has been largely character and plot development, buildup of conflict, and we are now to the point where the instigators have shown up and things will start to play out and either resolve or leave you with a cliffhanger to get you to procure the next book. 

The other night while reading, I came across this line and it really hit me in the reality check spot. "If you only focus on the pain at the end, you'll have an empty life, filled with fear and loneliness. Death will claim us all, eventually, you can't stop that. But you can choose how to live before it does." 

Death will claim us all. You can choose how to live before it does. 

Not long after 9/11, Garth Brooks released his 8th album - Scarecrow. I don't remember if I got it as a Christmas gift or bought it for myself, but I had it not long after it was released. This might be my favorite overall album of Garth's, maybe because of its timing right smack in the middle of my college years, but so many of these songs just spoke to me. "B-E-E-R- R-U-N" could have been a college student anthem, and "The Storm" hit me in the feels at a time when we were all reeling as a nation. I felt the loneliness of a late-night radio DJ in "Mr. Midnight" and to this day I still occasionally sing my daughter to sleep with "When You Come Back to Me Again" so she will always know that people are there for her. 

But what does Garth Brooks' "Scarecrow" album have to do with Winter's Fury? 

Three-quarters of the way through "Scarecrow" is another one of my favorite Garth songs, "Pushing Up Daisies". This song, like "Standing Outside the Fire" and so many of Garth's songs before it, is a call to us to live our lives to the fullest. I remember driving between campus and home singing the chorus loudly in my 1994 Pontiac Grand Prix...

To give you a picture. 

"There's two dates in time that they'll carve on that stone, and everyone knows what they mean. But what's more important is the time that is known on that little dash there in between... oh that little dash there in between." 

Death will claim us all. You can choose how to live before it does. 

There's two dates in time that they'll carve on our stones, but what's more important than those dates is the time on the dash in between. 

When you woke up this morning, you woke up. 

Sit on that for a minute. When you wokup this morning, you woke up. What a gift you've been given to just have woken up this morning! Yes, I'm being serious right now. There are 1,440 minutes in a day. Let's say you sleep for 6-8 of them, that means you have about 900-1,100 minutes where you are awake and can make choices that will define that day. 

What will you choose? Will you choose to focus on the pain, whether that's the anticipated unknown pain we may eventually face when Death arrives or the pain of the daily grind? 

Or will you choose to focus on the things that aren't painful? Maybe that's the joy of the laugh of a child or the peaceful silence of a snowfall. The steam coming off of your cup of coffee. The chatter of the moms watching their kids at the playground. The laughter and cheers at a sports bar. The reunion of loved ones at the airport. A movie night with family and friends. 

Serving those who have less than we do. Giving a shoulder to someone who is grieving or our hands to someone who is moving. 

Death will claim us all. What's more important is the time that is known in that little dash there in between. 

You can choose how to live that dash. 

Live it, Reader.

Not Okay

I sat there looking across the table at my sweet 4-year-old daughter's face, the Princess Aurora replica crown sitting on her head resting up against the tiara she had gotten from her Nana. The shimmery pink of the princess dress catching the sunlight through the lights of the tearoom windows and the shine of the glitter brightening up the table. I watched as she carefully sipped her "tea" (apple juice) and set it down on the saucer. She encouraged me to drink my tea and gave me a half-smile while she did so.

I picked up my teacup and pretended to look away while I sipped on my fancy hibiscus something-or-other tea. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her shoulders slip and the smile fade. I saw her eyes let their tired out and relax for a minute while gazing off in the distance.

We sat there in the Disney Grand Floridian Tearoom surrounded by many other little princesses and their moms & dads, sipping from fancy teacups and awaiting our fancy plates of teatime food listening to Princess Rose Petal tell us the story of Sleeping Beauty. I had been waiting for this special surprise time with my little girl for 6 months since we booked and paid for the experience ahead of time not knowing that a boy sitting behind my daughter on the plane would cough non-stop for 3-hours and likely be the one to give her a cold accompanied by a mild fever. We didn't know that we'd be debating whether or not to swallow the cost and let her spend her morning flopped in hotel room to rest or give in to her begging for her very special Mommy & Evie surprise and allow her to go anyways. We didn't know we'd ACTUALLY be using the thermometer to check for fevers and nursing a 100.5 temperature with ibuprofen instead of just holding them to the side hoping we wouldn't have to use them.

I looked at my sweet girl sitting across the table from me and watched as she gave a little sniffle before picking up her cup and sipping on her juice again. She caught me watching her and put the big smile back on her face, not knowing that her eyes were giving her away.

"Sweetie," I said, "you know... I know you're not feeling 100% today. That's OK. We can just enjoy the tea relaxed. Don't feel like you have to sit super tall, OK? It's OK to not be OK."

"OK, Mom. Thanks. I'm OK."

And the smile stayed on for the rest of the tea.

My 4-year-old daughter had already begun to learn the fine art of pretending everything is A-OK.

My heart. My heart broke a little bit in that moment.

Why do we think that being "not-OK" is not allowed? Why do we walk around and cover up the hurt, anger, sadness, and negative emotions we carry? Why do we not allow ourselves to be vulnerable and honest?

How are you? "I'm fine." It's part of our culture, the answer is almost reflexive. But how many of us say "Oh, I'm fine..." when really - we're not fine at all? Or maybe we're just enough not fine that it saddens us to say those words when really we just want to say "You know... I could use a hug/encouragement/break"?

My 4-year-old had already learned this skill, the art of being "fine".

It's OK to not be OK.

Say it out loud, right now. Stop what you're doing and say it out loud: It's OK to not be OK. It's absolutely alright to be a little down, to be grieving, to feel a little off, to have a grouchy day.

And say this: It's OK for other people to not be OK. It's OK to have that awkward not knowing what to say feeling for a few minutes just to allow someone else the freedom to be not OK if that's what they're feeling at that given moment. It's alright to allow someone else the ability to be vulnerable and to let their feelings show.

Imagine a world where people felt like they could be honest with their feelings 100% of the time. Where we didn't feel like we'd have to hide when we weren't OK lest we be judged for being discontent or intentionally miserable. A place where those feelings were allowed to be discussed and processed and FELT.

A world where my 4-year-old daughter didn't have to feel like she had to sit tall and proper in a Disney tearoom even though she had a cold annoying enough to be functional but make her stuffed up and a little sleepy.

Why does my 4-year-old know this skill already?

Then I realized... I am guilty of practicing this. Of putting on the smiling, put-together face on days when I'm exhausted, anxious, angry, or otherwise. Of saying that everything is fine or that I'm OK - even to my own kids and husband - when really, I'm off a bit.

When I realized this, that I had taught her the fine art of "being OK"... my heart broke a little bit more. The worst is coming to the realization that you're part of the problem - especially when it comes to your kids.

I challenge all of us - myself included - to be a little more honest with ourselves. To be a little more vulnerable to those who care about us. To allow ourselves the ability to NOT be OK. To share when we're tired. To be raw when we feel raw.

And I challenge all of us to support one another. To love on each other and to not judge and to allow each other the ability to share our true feelings when "fine" isn't ACTUALLY what we're feeling.

I want to live in a world where I feel like I can just be all the shades of me - the good, the bad, the sad, the ecstatic - and not just have my highlight reel define me. I want to live in a world where my kids can feel like they can be sad freely, be joyous without abandon, and feel and display ALL of their emotions to the world. Where they can inspire others to do the same.

I think we can start by being honest and vulnerable with ourselves. Once we can do that, we can be honest and vulnerable with others as well. Allow yourself the freedom to feel whatever it is that you're feeling, then allow yourself to share that with others. If you're fine - be the best fine you can be. If you're down - allow yourself to work through that. If you're tired - allow yourself to be honest about that and rest. If you're full of joy - spread it.

It's OK to not be OK. It's OK to be OK.

It's OK to be.

So... how ARE you?

Stop It

I'm going to preface this entire post by saying that I do not support either of the two major party candidates. I just don't. I think that they are both wonderfully suited for jobs other than the one that they are appealing to all of us to pick them for.

That's important, because I really and truly do not want any comments about why I should or shouldn't vote for one or the other - everyone reading this post has already made up their minds. There is very little that's going to sway people to go to the other side at this point - and 20% of registered voters either plan on or already have voted ahead of the scheduled election on November 8th. So... save that, put it in your pocket, and wait to persuade each other for the next election.

Now. I have something important to say.

Everyone needs to stop. Myself included - but we all need to stop.

Did you know that Hillary Clinton and Donald J. Trump are human beings? Real ones. With spouses. And jobs. And children.

And mistakes.

Because none of us have ever made mistakes, have we?

And here's where I need to tell all of you to stop again. I don't want to hear "But we're not running for the President of the United States" or "But we're not in the public eye" or any of that business. I've said those things too and recently I realized how incredible wrong and horrible and judgmental all of that is.

They are human. They are sinners. They are imperfect.

There's a story in the Bible about a woman who is surrounded by people with stones in their hands. She's on the ground and everyone is about to stone her because she's committed adultery - in those days a crime punishable by death, not just a messy divorce or breakup. Then Jesus shows up and the way the story plays out the woman gets to walk away without a single stone being cast.

"...so he stood up and said 'All right, but let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone... When the accusers heard this, they slipped away one by one, beginning with the oldest, until only Jesus was left in the middle of the crowd with the woman. Then Jesus stood up and said 'Where are your accusers? Didn't even one of them condemn you?'" (John 8:7-10)

Everyone - put your stones down. Just stop it. You are not perfect either, and there are so many more ways to point out that a person is not qualified or preferred for a job rather than attacking their character. And yes, I understand that character is a huge part of what makes a president - but find a way to say it that allows a person to grow, change, and improve. You can condemn a behavior without condemning the person, and as incredibly hard as that can be sometimes - and believe me, people feel SO strongly about these two candidates that it's hard for either set of supporters to not tear the one they don't support to shreds - it's important. At the end of the day Donald Trump is a person. At the end of the day Hillary Clinton is a person.

And stop it. Stop it reader. I know right now you're saying "No, they're a monster". Stop it. Seriously stop it. Both candidates have had their behavior incredibly sensationalized in an effort to draw your attention to the strengths or weaknesses of one or the other. That's the way the media works, it's what they get paid to do. So stop it.

The world of social media has made it so much easier to depersonalize people, even people like presidential candidates who were already fairly distant from us. Prior to social media, most of us would have to wait for the news three times daily or a mailing or attend one of their rallies or town-hall events or hope they'd show up at our local diner and shake our hand. More than I can ever remember, it's gone beyond the candidates just attacking each other - we are attacking the candidates viciously and if anyone dares to disagree with us: we are attacking each other.

We are forgetting that we are all people, and we are forgetting that all of us - even those who seem the most vile - need to be loved.

"You have heard the law that says 'Love your neighbor and hate your enemy'. But I say love your enemies! Pray for those who persecute you! In that way, you will be acting as true children of your Father in Heaven. For He gives His sunlight to both the evil and the good, and he sends rain on the just and unjust alike." (Matthew 5:43-45)

OK, OK. I'm almost done. So we're all human, we're called to love our enemies... that just leaves one more thing.

One of these two people is going to be the next President of the United States. That's the reality, whether we like it or not. One of them is going to win. One of them is going to swear on the Holy Bible to protect, honor, and defend the Constitution of the United States.

And we're all going to have to live with that. We're all going to have to spend the next 4-8 years with this person as the one who will be running our country. Then we'll have to start this process all over again. Because that's how it works.

In the meantime we need to not implode on ourselves as a country. It is in our best interest to unite together, to remember that we are ALL children of God, to pray together for each other, for our leaders, and for our country. We have to pray for peace, for understanding, and most importantly - we have to pray that we can all learn to first act in love rather than fear, in hate, in anger.

"So now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other. Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples." (John 13:34-35)

Listen - when November 9th hits and we know definitively who will be entering the Oval Office next January, we have a choice. We can either unite together and pray for our next President of the United States, or we can continue to focus on that which divides us and make those divisions even deeper. I for one will be choosing to pray for our next leader. To pray that person will be surrounded with men and women who will have the country's best interest in mind, that their hearts will be open to hearing the advice of those around them, that they will be measured and reasonable and compassionate in their responses and actions. That they will do their best to be good stewards of the finances God has blessed this country with. That they will do their best to come to the aid of those in need - the orphans and widows of the world. That they will see past the differences of the people who live in this country and focus instead on what unites us.

And yes, I know your candidate will and theirs won't. All of you stop it.

Neither Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton are a Savior, and it's time we stop treating them as such. They are people. They are flawed. They need our prayers, they need our encouragement, oh - and they need our prayer.

No matter what the outcome of the election is.

"I urge you, first of all, to pray for all people. Ask God to help them; intercede on their behalf, and give thanks for them. Pray this way for kings and all who are in authority so that we can live peaceful and quiet lives marked by godliness and dignity." (1 Timothy 2:1-2)

Lies, Guilt, Freedom, and Love

When we found out that we were pregnant with our second child, I immediately started to pray for another son. I just felt like my heart was wired to have 2 boys, that God did not wire me to be the mom of a daughter, and that having that extra person to wrestle with  - especially during the hours of the day that Daddy is at work - for my firstborn would be absolutely perfect.

At 16 weeks, we had an ultrasound done due to some complications I was experiencing with the pregnancy. I told the technician that I knew that sometimes at 16 weeks you could tell the gender, and that if anything was obvious she didn't have to hide it from us because in 2 weeks we were going to find out anyways. There was a point in which she stopped the wand and pointed out on the monitor something she thought she saw: "Look at this," she said pointing at the screen. "Now, it's early to tell, but that certainly does look like something doesn't it? But don't start decorating yet, wait until your next ultrasound because I could be wrong."

I didn't start decorating - but I did start picking out and discussing names with my husband. Names like "Matthew" and "Xander" and "Dexter" and other names that you call a boy. I was over the moon with excitement because we were going to have another little boy! ANOTHER BOY! I was going to be one of those Moms of Boys who were always lamenting the troubles of having boys - but I was never going to lament, because BOYS!!!

Evie - 12/2013 ultrasound

Two weeks later, the full workup ultrasound happened. While my incredibly active baby flipped and flopped and the tech somehow managed to get all of the measurements she needed, she looked also for the gender indicator.

"Right there!" she declared. I looked and saw nothing. Nothing at all. Two chunky little spread eagle thighs that she had frozen on the screen.

"Right there what?"

"You're having a little girl! Look at that, see - one, two, three - those three little lines show me that you're having a girl."

...and my heart sank. There would be no "Matthew Dexter" puttering around my house (it was the name I had decided on even though there had been no agreement yet with my other half). There would be no addition of testosterone to the fold.

I feigned excitement. "Cool! A girl!" I said (or something like that). I buried my disappointment and just prayed that the remainder of the pregnancy go well, that the hematoma I had would resolve itself and cause no harm on my little girl. We prayed over a name for her and scoured baby name books (because we didn't like any of the family names we had as first names for a daughter) and waited. At 28 weeks or so - the day before we found out the hematoma had indeed resolved itself - we landed on the name Evangeline, which means "bearer of good news".

Yet here I was, disappointed that I had a daughter growing in my belly. And the first few months of her life she just cried - the child that refused to believe she was a baby, was stubborn and independent and determined from the day she was born. Not only had God given me a daughter - He had given me a daughter that was every mother's wish to their own children: she was just like me.

Somewhere around Evie's first birthday as her personality was really starting to form and that independence was forming into an active, bouncing, exploring toddler who was the best companion her big brother could have ever asked for... the guilt set in.

How could I have EVER questioned God's judgment in giving us a daughter? What kind of mother am I to have been disappointed with any sort of healthy child growing inside me - especially when I didn't think I could have one successful pregnancy, never mind two? What would my daughter say if she ever found out that I was disappointed that SHE is my child and that I didn't get a "yes" answer to my prayers of another boy? Why would I think that anyone other than who God gifted to our family would be a better friend and sibling to Will than our Evie-girl? 

I spent the next year wrestling with this guilt, this doubt of my worth as a mother in ever questioning the gift of my bright, bold, loving, loquacious, adorable, wonderful daughter. Anyone who has ever dealt with "Mom-Guilt" or "Parent-Guilt" knows that it can be some of the heaviest, most self-doubt creating, horrible brands of guilt that exists. It's like the glitter of emotions; once it covers something or enters your heart, it's near impossible to get rid of it - and when you think it might be gone you find more that's even more impossible to remove than the glitter you thought you already got rid of.

There were a few times that I would be watching my daughter in some sort of moment, something that was showing how she was growing and developing into this absolutely wonderful little person, and I would feel that gut-punch of guilt again at the doubt I had when she was still in-utero. So many times I would hold back tears because the guilt would come out of nowhere, in a wave, and I wouldn't know how to contain it.

Then one night as I was making dinner somewhere around my sweet Evangeline's seccond birthday, my guilt seeped through enough that my husband saw that something was wrong. I confessed to him these waves of guilt I would feel, that I hated that part myself for ever doubting God's plan in our daughter, that I wished I had never felt that way.

"D," he said, "I think it's time to let that go. Do you love your daughter?"

"Well... yeah, of course, I mean... look at her - she's Evie."

"Then? Let it go, D. You know God has. And I don't ever doubt that you love her. So? Let it go."

We prayed together that night about it. I prayed about it for a while after that and I know that Steve did too. I know this because at some point the guilt just... disappeared. I hadn't noticed it at all, but it had just withered away and disappeared like dust on a windy day. There was no second thought about it until the other day when I was laughing and giggling with my Evie on the couch and I got this overwhelming wave of emotion - but it wasn't guilt. It was joy, it was wonder, it was love. Then again a few days later as I listened to her telling me a story in a language structure that no 2.5-year-old should have yet. Joy, wonder, and love.

These moments kept happening again and again and again. Joy. Wonder. Love. Joy. Wonder. Love. It was during one of these moments that it hit me: the guilt was gone.

God had taken the guilt off of my shoulders and opened my eyes to the wondrous gift of our little girl. He removed that weight of self-doubt and instead opened my heart to experience that which He wants all parents to experience with children. Joy. Wonder. Love.

In that realization I felt so much freedom. Freedom to enjoy my daughter, to focus on building my relationship with her, freedom to experience the joy of having a daughter and the freedom that comes with having confidence that God's plan is indeed better than any plan we could imagine. 
Moms... Dads... Parents... we all experience guilt in our parenting, am I right? Sometimes we snap at our kids when we lose our patience or we forget about something that we said we would do or we don't pay as much attention as we feel like we should or whatever other list of things we beat ourselves up over in any given moment or day or week. We forget to have grace with ourselves, to remember that we are human and imperfect, that we will never be able to be one of those fictional parents that have been created by society as the flag-bearer of perfection in parenting.

We also forget that when parent-guilt sets in, when we start to experience self-doubt, when we hear those whisperings that we have somehow failed and that because of that failure we cannot be the parent God has called us to be - we forget that those words, those feelings do not come from God. We forget that those are lies, that those feelings are not the truth, that those are things that come from the Enemy. John 8:44 tells us of Satan that "...He was a murderer from the beginning, not holding on to the truth, for there is no truth in him. When he speaks, he speaks his native language, for he is a liar and the father of lies." 

Lies of self-doubt are not of God. There are plenty of kinds of healthy guilt that DO indeed come from God - but that weighty, paralyzing, self-doubting, inescapably burdensome guilt is not. That is not the kind of guilt meant to make us grow, to repent from our sin and become closer to Him. Rather, that is is the kind of guilt that further divides us from God and brings us off of the path He has set for our lives. We need to be able to recognize when our guilt - especially that horrible parent-guilt - is not of God so that we can pray, combat it, and be released from it. Only then will we be able to hear the Holy Spirit work in our hearts and do the work in our parenting that God has called us to do.

Evangeline - "bearer of good news".

And here I thought that good news she brought with her was just that we chose her name the same time that the hematoma was one... turns out it was so, so much more than that.

Joy. Wonder. Love.

When I Look Back, I Feel...

Sometimes I wonder if there's something wrong with me.

I read these blog posts of parents of kids who hit preschool age and find their independence and they have these moments of wistfulness remembering sweet baby sweat smells and how small their babies were and how fast that time seemed to have gone by. Oh those wonderful days of nursing and snuggling and knowing that you were your baby's whole world, and now they're growing and when oh when did that happen... and I feel...

...nothing.

I remember my first year as a parent. I was depressed and didn't know it for 10 months. I was constantly worried about my son's size and not knowing what to do about that croupy cough he got at 9 months old. I overstressed about what food I fed my son and why wasn't I keeping the house clean and how do I get the social contact I just lost by coming home to look at a baby. A baby who, while incredibly cute and snuggly, doesn't speak English and communicates by blinking and pointing. A baby who wouldn't sleep unless I sang him "Boston", "Piano Man" and "Knee Deep" on rotation (no other songs worked... seriously).

All I wanted was to make it to toddlerhood. I even told God I was OK with only having one baby. One was enough.

Then... just as toddlerhood started to come into focus and I thought relief might be on the way... I got pregnant again.

Almost 2 years and 1 week old

My daughter was born a month before my son turned 2. She came into the world screaming, she made sure her presence was known. She had to sleep strapped into a baby seat for the first six months of her life so that she would actually sleep instead of gagging on reflux... which of course made me not sleep because I knew babies "aren't supposed" to sleep in anything other than on their backs flat in a sleep sack or swaddle. My son, my husband, and then my new baby all got colds. During the 2nd month of my daughter's life, we housed 2 teenagers and totalled a car. I got an 8-week ear infection. The last thing my new baby wanted to do during any of this time was snuggle or slow down - she wanted to move, so by the time I could come up to breathe I was contending with a 4-month-old who wanted to do nothing more than crawl. By the time she was 6-months, I was trying to make sure I didn't trip over a baby who would surprise me crawling underfoot while I was cooking dinner. She was climbing and giving me heart attacks at 8-months, and was using short sentences by a year.

If my daughter was ever one of these sweet babies you read about in blogs and books... she hid it well.

As my children hit their various milestones and as I look through old pictures and think back on the tiny people they were, I don't get wistful. I don't become bittersweet at how fast the last 4.25 years have gone by or regret not stopping and playing more cars or reading more stories instead of washing dishes. I would be lying if I said I wished I built more blanket forts or rocked my babies just a little bit longer or that I cherished that last nursing session with both of my kids. I longed for the days when an outing to a park or a museum didn't require a stroller and working around nap schedules or making sure I could breastfeed someone comfortably.

When I was pregnant with my daughter, there were several times that we thought we were going to lose her. I had a hematoma, I had cervical bleeding, I slid down the stairs on my behind leading me to modified bed rest for 2 weeks (which is exactly what the stay-at-home mom of a toddler wants to be doing). During one particular moment of panic, I remember looking at my husband and saying "I know I keep panicking and crying, but I just can't get rid of the feeling that we're not going to be able to keep her."

2.5 years and 8 months old

Sometime during the 6th month of my daughter's life as she crawled around my kitchen on her belly... it hit me - I'm not going to be able to keep my kids. God has given them to me for but a short period of their lives... then I need to let them go. Part of parenting, I've realized through prayer and consideration, is doing that slowly and starting at a young age. So when, at 8 months, my daughter decided to start climbing up the stairs - I didn't stop her. I let her go. When my son decided on a walk at 3 years old he didn't want to hold my hand and instead wanted to run up ahead and pick up sticks and pretend to be a pirate - I didn't stop him. I let him go. I let them run and do things for themselves while keeping a safe distance, watching and making sure they are safe.

God has gifted us with free will... He does the same for us. We run free while He keeps us at a far enough length to allow us independence, but is there for us when we fall. He suggests boundaries, He lets us grow, He lets us make mistakes and feel hurts so that we grow.

They are not mine to keep. They are growing. They want to do for themselves. They are their own people - they've shown me that since the day that they were born. And since that day I have prayed - "God, let me take these personalities that You have gifted them with and use me and use their Daddy to grow them into whatever person You want and have designed them to be. Let us be Your hands and feet in their lives and help them to discover Your plan for them."

And so as they grow and they discover themselves and they do for themselves and they reach out to help each other and others and figure out how to navigate the world... not once have I felt wistful at what has been. I felt a brief guilt over needing a c-section with my son and I felt a brief guilt over not being able to have one-on-one time with my daughter in her early days... but those feelings of guilt have passed and have been replaced with one overwhelming emotion.

Pride.

My kids are only 4 and 2 and they are far from perfect. They are human, and they are kids. They don't always listen, they act out, they are fresh, they don't always eat the dinner I put in front of them.

But my daughter at only 2 years old asks to help wipe down tables and asks how she can help you and my son since he was only 1.5 years old will be the first one at your side if you are sad or upset (even if the reason is that you're another kid in trouble and in time-out, he's concerned). I marvel at the hearts that they are growing to love others, I am amazed at the love they have for each other and the bond they are growing together. I beam with pride when they insist on doing something themselves and then perfect it.

My kids at 4 and 2 dress themselves, put on their own shoes (usually on the right feet), and generally obey safety rules. Strollers are no longer a requirement for most outings (we will be renting one at Disney primarily for storage and napping) and sometimes they can even help carry things.

3.5 and 1.5 years old

I was looking through old pictures last night, organizing on our server the hundreds of pictures we've taken over their daily lives. I came across a video of my daughter at about 14 months, toddling around the driveway while her brother looked on, digging away in the garden. "Evie," I heard my husband's voice say, "don't climb up the stairs." The video moved away from the moving toddler as he redirected her several times before she finally just gave up and walked away, but not before casting a defiant look that said "Fine... but those stairs are mine later."

This is when I had the thought... is there something wrong with me? Am I broken because I am not feeling any of the wistful feelings or bittersweet thoughts that I read about in blogs? Why don't I feel any of those "Wow... time sure does fly..." feelings that I keep hearing about?

Instead I felt wonder, amazement, and pride at how much my daughter has grown in the last year. My heart grew three sizes as I watched my son's face in the video and thought about how much he loves his little sister and watches out for her.

Last night as I sat and mulled over these things I realized... there isn't anything wrong with me.

Every child is different. Every parent is different. Every person is different. 

Maybe I am too close to the baby stage to "miss" it and in several years I'll see this differently. Maybe I won't. Somehow, I just don't know that I'm wired to look back and long for the days of babyhood. I'm incredibly excited to see my kids grow into their own people and see what God has designed them to be. When I see old pictures and videos, I am amazed at how far they've come and find it hard to believe they were ever so little... because now, they're just NOT.

And that's OK.

It's OK that I don't long for (or don't think I'll long for) those days of babyhood and it's OK that you do. It's OK that I am not that worried about holding on a little longer and it's OK that you are. It's OK that I want to make sure the dishes get done and it's OK that you're leaving them there.

It's OK.

This morning my 4-year-old son threw on some slip-on shoes and walked out to the end of the driveway to pick-up the newspaper, a job that he asked if he could do. No, Mom, don't come with me - I can do it myself.

If they paid children to say those words - "I can do it myself" - few would pay for college.

I watched from a safe distance as he went to the end of the driveway (they threw the paper about 5 feet in from the "end"), turned around, and came back.

My heart swelled with pride as I watched my little boy's face reflect a confidence boost because I trusted him and gave him room to do something himself.

I'll keep on praying that they will open their heart to God's plan for their lives. I'll continue to keep my distance away and my arms outstretched. I'll continue to watch in wonder as they grow and become their own person. I'll wait for them to need me and I'll try to be patient as they pull back and come back in their own times.

And I won't wonder if there's something wrong with me anymore.

I'm doing OK.

And so are you.

4 years and 2 years (and a couple of months) old

In Which I Piss Off Some of the Feminists Who Follow Me...

When I was in college, I worked with the orientation program for new students. There was this video that we showed the kids from a guy named Mike Green (aka "Greeny") about making responsible choices - specifically about alcohol and parties, but the wisdom could be applied to many of the situations that we are presented with in college life. What stood out to me was a line that he repeated throughout the video:

"Be your brother's keeper, be your sister's keeper."

In college, and really in the whole world, we are a part of a larger community. We need to watch out for each other and make sure we are taking care of each other in as many aspects of life that we can.

So now we cross into the territory where I get absolutely infuriated when I see memes or posts or whatever posted on social media that basically say that we women should be able to dress as provocatively as we want. That when a young lady goes to school dressed in clothes that are too revealing that it is detracting from her education to send her home or send her to the office for a change of clothes that are less revealing. That our first amendment rights of expression are being violated because men can't just control themselves and not rape us. Or some other variation on this general idea that we should be able to wear whatever we want, whenever we want and everyone else in the world - namely men - should just kind of deal with that.

Before I get into this - let me be abundantly clear about a couple of things:

1. I do feel that no matter what a woman decides to wear be it a full-on burqa or a g-string bikini - no one has a right to violate her body, or cat call, or otherwise treat that woman in any way disrespectfully. Rape is despicable in all instances - no means no, and wearing an outfit (or not wearing an outfit) is not an open invitation for anyone to force themselves upon another person.

...ok really that's it. Rape is horrible and I don't think that dressing provocatively is an open invitation to be raped. There is never an excuse to that deeply abuse a fellow human being. Ever. For any reason. At all.

I just want to make sure that's clear before I begin my rant.

And friends, I AM going to rant. Buckle up.

I can remember as a teenager wanting to dress in a certain way because I wanted my boyfriend to be attracted to me. I didn't understand what all that entailed, but I knew that I had a certain amount of appeal to him and I wanted to... exploit it may not be the right word, but I'll use it for now.

There were a handful of times that I would leave for school in the morning and be turned right around back to my room. But... My mom had a fingertip-and-bra rule: If she could see my bra, a shirt needed to be layered underneath or the one I had on changed altogether and if the skirt/shorts I was wearing did not extend past the tip of my middle fingertip when my hands were at my sides then I had to change that too.

Why?

Because having your boobs hanging out isn't exactly appropriate for school, nor is having your behind hanging out when you bend over for your pen. Also because my mom cared/cares very much about me and didn't want me sending out an unintentional message. She explained this to me, and I understood. I didn't go off on a free-speech rant, and she let me choose what the substitute or replacement was - but those were the boundaries. Because she cared. And wanted to protect me. And I understood her boundaries existed because she loves me.

At no point did I think that she might be violating my first amendment rights or insinuating that I was a slut. She was just being her daughter's keeper and watching my back.

Let me extend this a bit further. Dress codes exist in high schools, I think, for a number of reasons. The BIGGEST one that I can think of is that when students get into the real world they are expected to dress in a certain professional manner. They cannot wear "F**K YOU" t-shirts or "GARAGE BAND WORLD TOUR 2013" t-shirts to work, nor can they wear jeans ripped to shreds, or have their underpants hanging out, or wear incredibly provocative clothing. If the purpose of school is to prepare you for the real world - then that should include clothing. A lot of jobs that these kids are going to work force you to wear a uniform, or adhere to a certain dress code or an expectation of a certain level of business attire exists in the culture. The odds of a student landing a job where excessive amounts of cleavage OR the donning of a "F**K YOU" hat are acceptable are pretty darned slim. As such - dress codes prepare students for the real world where real rules apply for real reasons.

The memes that are out there defending the rights of women to dress provocatively miss this point. Instead they say it's distracting from a girl's education or violating her first amendment rights. Well... to me this smacks of "Yes, but just because you CAN run into a crowded movie theater and shout 'FIRE' doesn't mean you SHOULD". Is it responsible to dress in a way that sends a message you're not looking to send, potentially putting ourselves and our fellow human beings - in this case, likely men - at a risk of being in a situation where intentions are misconstrued and a relationship or a person's emotional well-being can be destroyed?

But Danielle - you're bordering on "slut shaming"! But Danielle - it's not our responsibility to make sure that other people behave appropriately!

Is that really true though?

Let's go with the commonly accepted notion that men are more visually stimulated sexually than women. Whether this is truly engrained in them biologically or created from a society where physical appearance is elevated above internal beauty does not matter, studies have supported this in one capacity or another and so we'll start from here. If that is indeed the case, then if Suzy Student walks into class one day wearing loose-fitting jeans, a standard t-shirt, and a pair of Converse - would you not say that it is less likely that Peter Pupil notices Suzy than if she were to walk in wearing a low-cut midriff shirt with a mini-skirt and a pair of boots that carry the nickname "f**k-me boots"?

Now, if Peter is a stand-up human being (which most men are believe it or not) even if he IS distracted by Suzy it won't affect his studies and he can go on with his day. Suzy feels empowered or beautiful or whatever with what she's wearing and no harm is done.

But Danielle - what if Suzy really DOES want people to look at her physical beauty?!?! What ever happened to "if you've got it, flaunt it"? WHY ARE YOU STOMPING ON HER RIGHT OF FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION????

Welll... because. The reality is that no matter what her intentions, Suzy is going to turn heads with the latter outfit. She's probably going to get attention both positive AND negative from both boys AND girls at the school. It's possible that while walking around with her backpack on that her skirt creeps up the back of her bag and her behind will be flashing everyone. It's possible that some of her male friends will notice that her low-cut shirt creates the perfect "basketball hoop" for potato chips during lunch (both of those things happened to me).

It's possible she'll get cat-called. It's possible she'll be sexually assaulted or sexually harassed or raped.

Dress codes exist to teach kids that there are boundaries for what is acceptable to wear in the real world. A lot of this is professional - but a lot of it is personal. And in this instance, the school is protecting not just Peter from "being distracted" - it's protecting Suzy too.

Because Suzy doesn't understand as a teenager whose brain is not fully developed yet that she is indeed taking a risk by dressing that way - and the school needs to be its sister's keeper in this instance.

I stopped choosing revealing clothes after a time. Sure, I got tired of having Fritos chucked at my chest, but mostly I realized that I wasn't doing myself any favors. I watched as girls who dressed certain ways were thought to have certain behaviors and I didn't want to send a message to anyone that I was someone I wasn't. I began to dress more to represent who I actually was and not who the pages of Seventeen stated I could be.

I have a daughter now - and so a lot of this really hits home and is part of what infuriates me about these memes and posts. I know - some of you are reading this thinking "Well what do you want to teach her? That she needs to dress in a certain way so that men don't go fawning all over her?"

Good question. What do I want to teach her? Three things:

My daughter. She's awesome.

1. How you dress should be an expression of who you ACTUALLY are - not what whatever the magazine or social media of the time when she's in high school says she should be or look like. The people who will love her the most in her life and cherish her for who she is are the ones who will find her attractive in sneakers, a sweater, and khakis. Right now her preferred outfits are dress-like shirts, leggings or jeans, and a pair of sneakers because she loves to run. She's active. She needs to dress to express who she actually is - not what she thinks will appeal her to someone.

2. I'll finally close on my Greeny point that I've skirted on several times. For better or worse, our male counterparts are sexually visually stimulated. I want my daughter to understand how the male mind works and how she can be her brothers' keeper. How she can help men out there to see women as more than just sexual objects and see each one of us for our true depth of beauty. I want her to help the men in her life to disspell this reputation they've gotten as pigs who "only want one thing". I want her to blow up social media with how strong and awesome people are. We're not going to destroy rape culture by elevating the rights of women to dress however they want - we're going to destroy it by empowering real men to speak up and make it harder and more uncomfortable to sexually harass women. I want her to be a part of that.

3. We're a Christian home, and we believe in God and we believe in Jesus. In Stasi Eldridge's book "Captivating", she spends page after page after page describing how we are so beautiful just as we are created by God. Each one of us is unique and beautiful and amazing regardless of how we look or dress. God has designed each of us and Jeremiah 29:11 tells us that God has great plans for us of hope and a future and not of disaster. Psalm 139:13 describes how we were beautifully knit together in our mothers' wombs. We have lost our ability to place our intrinsic value in how God sees us - and I hope and I pray and I desire for her to base her worth in that.

In a world where we scream for equality and for the rights of the individual, we have lost the need for true community and we have forgotten how to be our brothers' keeper and our sisters' keeper. We will not beat rape culture or rape mindset by downplaying our very real role as women. Feminism might seem to some to be about our rights to do whatever we want and not be abused by men - but really it's about being strong, being independent-minded, and being able to be counter-culture and changing the culture. It's about rising above societal norms and not perpetuating the same ones and just changing the soundtrack of reasons.

So, social media - enough with the pseudo-feminist memes about free speech and distractions from education. Enough with the "You Go Girl!" rants and double-standards when we then post pictures of ourselves and expect men not to virtually cat-call us when we do. Enough slut-shaming and enough of not loving ourselves and respecting ourselves and others.

Let's ACTUALLY empower our daughters, our cousins, our BFFs, our sisters to actually do something about it on a personal level. Let's become activists.

Let's DO something. 

The Evolution of Summer

Sometimes time just gets away from you.

That's what happened to me in the month of August.

There were visits to parks, the lake, the local farm, family visits, and lots of playtime outside. Lots and lots and lots of playtime outside.

Then one day last week I looked up and realized that the month of August had slipped through our fingers. This reality occurred to me when I was outside playing with my kids one evening and the sun that just a few short weeks ago that had been still high above the houses was slipping behind the treeline as the night drew near. A cooler breeze took over the warmth of day, and my 3-year-old made the observation that it was getting dark outside.

I watched that evening as the kids dug in the dirt in our yard and thought back to my summers as a kid. Summers outside making "forts" between the few trees in our backyard and neighborhood kickball leagues and going to the town lake or riding bikes down hills after a rainstorm hoping for a puddle. Summers with family vacations to the beach and summers with evening board games on the porch with neighborhood friends. Sprinklers and friends' pools and lightning bugs. Sliding down too-hot slides or sitting on swings whose black color had absorbed the heat from the sun.

Then I became a teenager and summer became a time to work extra hours to gain some extra pocket money. To go to the beach with friends at night and lay on the beach listening to the waves. To get out of work and not have to go right not to finish homework, but instead get an iced coffee and stay outside at a park or at a friend's house or drive around with the windows down singing at the top of our lungs until it was time to be home for curfew. Sleepovers and camping and card games. Drum corps practices and band camp in the hot summer sun, drinking loads of water and lathering on more sunscreen than I knew existed (yet still getting a killer tan).

Of course there were always constants. The smell of a light summer rain on the pavement. The feel of the fan in the humid summer nights as I lay there sleeping between sheets with no blankets. Memories of my Mom's perfectly medium steaks and corn and potatoes on the grill, the juicy burgers that dripped when you bit into them, the feel of BBQ sauce on my fingers from the BBQ chicken legs. Reading book after book in front of a fan or in the shade of a tree because we didn't have air conditioning. Iced tea, lemonade, ice cream trucks, ice cream stands.

Summer always seemed like this magical time of year where there was nothing to be had but enjoyment. Even if you had to work - either babysitting or a part-time job - it felt like responsibility could take a backseat to a 2-month long sabbath.

Then I grew up and summertime changed.

Summertime became a big tease. Working full-time with a limited amount of vacation days doesn't allow for an extended hiatus. 30-minute lunch breaks became my taste of the beauty of summer - 50 yards away from the smoking hut in an industrial park. Drives with the windows down to the beach blaring music turned to drives on back roads home from a 9-hour work day blaring music, the smell of salty air replaced with the smell of exhaust from the car in front of you. There was still the feeling of freedom from the indoors, but instead of the carefree feeling that came along with not having anywhere to be there was always the tugging feeling that something else just had to be done.

Summertime changed for me for a while once adulthood set in. But then... then we had the kids.

So there I sat at the bottom of our front walkway steps, watching as my two little toddlers dug around in the dirt in search for worms, ants, beetles, or any other bug that might crawl up from the filth. I watched as they picked up shovelfuls of the earth, filled miniature dump trucks and moved them to "the dumping place" to empty them out and then start the cycle again. I smiled as my 16-month-old daughter stood up and decided it was time to stamp on the ants, walking normally with her right foot as she lifted her left foot up a-la John Cleese in Monty Python's "Ministry of Silly Walks" skit and stomping it back down. I heard my son declare it was time to play soccer, toss down his shovel and run in the direction of the box of balls to get his soccer ball.

In those moments after realizing that August had slipped through the same cracks that allowed the sunlight to slip through the trees during that evening's slow sunset, I also realized that summer had managed to become magical again.

In preparing to write this post, I asked a handful of moms whose kids have grown what they cherished about their summers with their kids. The common thread was the allowance for memories to be made once the weather warmed, and school was out for the summer. The moms that answered recounted trips to farms, trips to the beach, seemingly aimless drives to a surprise destination, the sounds of carefree and happy children and their friends coming to and from. The relaxing of schedules made way for families to be able to do more, be more, play more, and enjoy more. Wading pools and homemade popsicles and old movies and day camps or VBS and many, many more nostalgic moments that moms have with their kids.

My mom was one of those who responded, and her favorite memory was when we would stay at the beach for a week each summer. We would pack up blankets, lunches, sand toys and head down to the sand, finding the perfect spot. Once the blankets were spread, we would endeavor to build what usually became a rather large sand castle, usually with a rather large "moat" in the middle. I remember we would try to dig a trench to the ocean so that when the tide came in the moat would fill. Then the next day, we'd do the same thing all over again with different sandwiches in the cooler at lunchtime.

So I watched my kids this summer. I watched them play in the dirt and run through bubbles and recoil at sprinklers and splash in a pool and throw rocks in the town lake while wading ankle deep in the water. I watched them kick soccer balls and let sand run through their fingers and slide down slides. I watched them lick ice cream off of their spoons and gnaw on corn cobs and watermelon rinds. I watched them find the joy of the burst of taste that a fresh blueberry allows when it has come straight from the bush. I watched them get inches away from a dragonfly perched atop a branch of a rosebush. I watched as they felt the joy of grass between their toes and flowers picked between their fingers. I watched as they changed from being afraid of thunderstorms to being in awe of them as we explained thunder, lightning, and observed the pouring rain. I watched them dip their fingers in puddles and reach out from the safety of the porch to get their fingers wet.

I watched them play. I watched them run. I watched them wonder.

I watched as through them my summers became magical again.

Maybe... maybe through them, they've become even more magical.

John 13:34

So I have this blog.

I have this blog, and I hope that when I write I can do some good with it. Maybe I strike a chord with people, maybe I can help someone want to help someone else. Maybe I can relate to another mom. Maybe you want to make whatever the recipe was that I just made. Whatever.

But I have this blog.

Six women and three men died in South Carolina this week. Six women and three men who were just trying to meet and talk about Jesus. Six women and three men who welcomed a new person into their bible study. Six women and three men who were then shot and killed by that same new person.

Six women and three men that were black. They were sisters, brothers, wives, husbands, sons, daughters. People. Were killed. By another person. Who was white.

A white person who told authorities today that he was looking to start a race war. He confessed. He wanted to start a race war.

I don't often talk current events on this blog. Maybe I should more often. I don't know.

Here's what I know: I'm white. I live in a bubble. I have and have had friends of other races but I never thought about it - because they're people. They're just people. God made Man, God made women, and we're all just people.

But... I stopped living in that bubble when it became personal. My sister gave birth to my nephews who are mixed-race. My cousin married an awesome black man who she loves with all her heart. Now it's my family too.

But... I should have stopped living in that bubble a long time ago. Because - we're all. just. people. We're all family. We are all God's children.

I wish that I knew the answers to change the minds of people who can blindly hate another person just because of how they look. I wish I knew how to make us all stop judging - because we all judge one another - and just let people prove who they are. I wish I knew how to make more people choose the side of love and to let love win.

Here's what I do know.

I know that Jesus is weeping.

Regardless of your beliefs, a man had evil and hatred in his heart for other people. My beliefs say that the Devil won that heart from God - he is more powerful than we as people give him credit for - and filled it with that hatred.

Jesus wept when that heart was lost.

That man then took that hatred and - if you believe that a church is a house of God - essentially walked into Jesus' own house and lured nine of His children into a false sense of comfort. And then killed them. Six women and three men. Dead. Because of hate.

He admitted to police that he wanted to start a race war.

Jesus... Jesus is weeping...

We should be too.

Let it be clear - this should not be viewed as a gun issue. That's not the problem.

This is a heart issue. There are people who live in this country that feel that they are better than others - so much better, in fact, that they feel the others don't deserve to live. There are people so full of hatred...

I'm not a big "Daily Show" fan. I'm just not, and it saddens me that a lot of people get their news from that show. But today I saw a clip from Jon Stewart's show last night and he really hits it on the head.

We pour all this money into sending our people to other countries to fight terrorism, when we are just imploding on ourselves with the hatred that's still in our own borders.

What are we going to do about it?

I don't know the answer. I don't.

But... I have this blog.

So I am going to make a plea.

If you pray - pray for the hearts of those who are filled with hate. Pray that they can be softened, that they can work to dissolve that hatred that has filled their core and let love begin to take over. Pray that God can prevail over the Enemy in the battle for God's children, that God can win.

Do what you can to dissolve race lines from where you are. If you even have the smallest shred or ounce of racism in your heart - and let's admit it please, WE ALL DO, the denial of that hurts us more than we care to admit - pray that God can take it away. Work to see others as God does - just as people.

People. We're all people. We're all sons, daughters, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, friends, neighbors, coworkers.

Pray that folks of all races can be able to hold their heads high and to walk without fear. We cannot let fear win the battle of our hearts; when we do, we are letting the enemy attack.

Our generation is in desperate need of a real and true Martin Luther King, Jr. A real revolutionary. We've become too complacent. Or maybe a whole lot of "one person" to stand up and say that it's ridiculous. If love comes in numbers... don't they say there's strength in numbers?

Anyway... I have this blog. I have my prayers. I have love. And I have work to do.

What do you have?

More Important

When I was in high school, I spent the better part of my senior year bussing tables at a small Italian restaurant. It was the kind of place that had a fancy menu and a pricey wine list. It had two dining rooms; one was a bit more on the elegant side with trellises and carpeting and a "faux al-fresco" platform while the other had red tablecloths and a black & white checkered linoleum floor. My uniform was a dressy white shirt and black dressy bottoms - either a skirt or pants - and dressy but comfortable black shoes.

For those that don't know what a busperson does - I was the person who brought you bread & water at the beginning of the meal, made sure you always had water, helped the server bring plates to the table if needed, and cleared away your empty (or mostly empty) plates. I pulled trash and carried tubs of disgusting dishes to the back to be washed. Because I did a lot of work to keep the service going, the servers "had" to give me a percentage of their tips at the end of the night.

Being a nicer restaurant, we would get a lot of couples out on dates or families having celebrations or business people bringing a client out for a nice dinner. But once in a while a reservation would happen that would put the restaurant staff on high alert.

The Antons were coming. (Yes, of Anton's Cleaners for those that live in the Merrimack Valley, Massachusetts area - those Antons.)

Every martini glass had to be washed and the buspeople would be advised to make sure to stay on top of seeing they got washed as they got used. Extra bread would be baked and extra calamari brought in for that night. The "who can work late" question would be asked and those people would be assigned to that table. And by "table" I mean 4 tables put together to accommodate a party of at LEAST 10 people who would eat, drink, and be merry from about 7:00 PM until close to midnight. Mr. Anton would usually sit somewhere in the middle of the table where he could interact with everyone, and whenever he would bring his people in it was always a good night to be working.

This picture was taken by us at a fundraiser at a local restaurant.
Funds went towards relief efforts for the Haiti earthquake.

"Who is more important: the one who sits at the table or the one who serves?" This is the question that Jesus asks His disciples at the Last Supper (Luke 22:27).

"Who is more important...?" That night as far as the proprietors of that small Italian restaurant were concerned - the Antons were the most important people, and Mr. Anton was the most important of the important people.

And when Jesus asks the questions, He immediate answers: "The one who sits at the table, of course."

"Of course."

When the Antons came, we were to find the utmost of our abilities and perform there. Be as attentive, as kind, as anticipatory of needs as we had ever been in our lives. We worked like our paychecks - at least for that evening - depended on it. Because Mr. Anton and his party were the most important people, we made sure to treat them as such.

But...

There's always a "but" with Jesus, isn't there?

Jesus sat there at the table at The Last Supper, certainly by all measures the most important person in the room. Son of God, the Messiah who would go on to die for our sins, worshiped over the ages by millions. After asking the question of his disciples as to who was more important, saying that "of course" it is the one who sits at the table - Jesus sticks his "but" into the conversation.

"But not here! For I am among you as the one who serves." 

Jesus was, by every measure, the most important person at that table. He is the Son of God. He would go on to sacrifice His earthly life and take the punishment for all of our sins.

I've really got to get a copy of "The Brick Testament" for the kids...

He sat at the table, yet He placed himself in the status of one who served.

Something to ponder: If Jesus is saying that at the table of His last earthly meal that He is NOT the most important person, that He is the one who serves - what does that say about us each time we take communion? Before discussing who is the most or least important, Jesus tells his disciples to take the bread and drink the wine in remembrance of Him. We continue to take the bread and drink of the cup over 2000 years later in His honor.

He went on to serve us in the biggest of ways. He gave His life for us. He went to the tomb and rose on the third day and walked among us before ascending to Heaven to sit beside the Father.

He restored the most broken of relationships - that between Man & God.

The most gracious, most sizable, most beautiful act of service in history.

There was one night that I was able to get a later ride home when Mr. Anton brought his crew in and was therefore able to be part of the service staff that worked his table. I spent the better part of 4 hours running empty martini glasses back and forth from the kitchen, pouring pitchers of water into glasses, clearing plates, bringing clean silverware, helping the waitstaff get meals to the table in a timely fashion so they could all eat together, and just generally making sure this very important party was well taken care of. It was a whirlwind night.

As the meal was coming to a close, I felt someone gently grab my arm. I turned and saw Mr. Anton's hand as the culprit and asked how I could help him.

"Young lady," he said, "you have been working hard all night. I know you tip share, but here - I want to make sure I give you something too." With those words, this older gentleman quietly slipped a $20 bill into my hand, closed it, and patted the top. "Thank you for a great night, young lady."

I smiled, I thanked him, and I topped off his water glass. Buspeople didn't get $20 direct-from-the-customer tips. $20 is what I would get in tipsharing from one server on a busy Friday night.

Arthur Anton at an event recognizing his service to the community - 2013.
Photo credit: Meghan Moore, Megpix

I have never forgotten that act of kindness. That small, quiet act of kindness by a successful businessman is one that I have kept in my heart for almost 20 years now. I have always viewed it as
an example of staying humble, of remembering to serve each other, of recognizing the hard work that people do.

A reminder that no matter how important we become, that we should still serve. We should still love, We should still be humble.

Jesus sat at His last meal and reminded us that He walked the earth to serve.

We need to remember His example. We need to do the same.