potholes

There's something enchanting about New Year's Eve.  The anticipation of potential thick in the air as the media fills our eyes and ears with montages of images and video clips all strung together with songs intended to illicit feelings of reflection, introspection, and anticipation.  In the closing moments of the tapestry of yet another year; we find ourselves somewhere along the continuum of emotions; more often than not. performing a two-step across the spectrum as we recall all of the events that comprised our own 12 month gift of time.

Too often we take the gift for granted; chalking up the bumps and valleys we encountered yet overcome as our own ability to not only survive, but to thrive.  We pat ourselves on the back and prepare ticker-tape parades to celebrate the positives; a welcome distraction to those cavernous pits of negative that pock mark the path in our rear view mirror.

As we buckle in and prepare for the next journey around the sun; our focus is so often jaded.  We float in that undetermined space between 'the end' and 'what's next'; targeting our trajectories on the wonderfully sunlit positive potential; glancing ever-so-briefly {if even at all} at the pot holes.

And they're there, those pot holes.  Occasionally, they're right out in the open; but more often disguised until the last minute; intent on jarring one off course.  The potential in these divots is one we often brush aside; ignore; don't take into consideration as we work our way down the path.  Partly ego, partly pride, partly optimism; but almost all of it is because we just don't see them coming.  

What if we did, though?  Would we keep on going?  Would we willingly submit ourselves to potential disaster, the outcome of which completely unknown?

Reflecting back some years--a baker's dozen, in fact--to a moment on a New Year's Eve that marked the merging of two individual paths, I find myself asking that of the man whose path melded into mine.  

The precipice of potential gleamed alongside the shiny diamond solitaire nestled in the ring box as my instantaneous boyfriend-turned-fiance spoke into a microphone in front of hundreds of featureless faces that encircled a suddenly empty dance floor.  The symbol of this ring, an endless circle representative of love and commitment soon adorned the third finger of my left hand as we basked in the glow of what 'could be'.

What if we had a glimpse, though?  What if in that intangible time between 'we'll see' to 'we will', we had a glimpse of the path; the highs, the lows, the blessings, the bumps, the potholes?  

Would we still?

Would we have planned and arranged and registered, knowing what these last eleven and a half years of marriage have brought? 

Would we have written vows that bore a striking similarity in phrasing, theme, and verbiage; and then shared them with a hundred-plus of our family and friends?

Would we have packed a U-Haul to the gills and trail-blazed for a destination nestled in the shadows of the Rocky Mountains without the comfort of family and familiarity nearby?

Would we have signed for a mortgage and upgraded vehicles to accommodate an unanticipated need for a car seat before we had even celebrated one year of marriage?

Would we have spent years growing our family and planting roots to then make the decision to uproot and move south?

What if we saw the potholes of a shutting down of a wife.  Of a breakdown of communication.  Of infidelity.  Of lies.  Of deceit.  Of heart shattering.  Of questioning the future of the marriage.  Of the frequent use of the word and idea of divorce.  Of the counseling and the fighting and the tears and the uncertainties and the fear and the distrust.  Of the brokenness.  

What if we saw all of those things in those brief nanoseconds of time that elapsed between the enunciation of his question and the teary, elated nod of acceptance?  Would we have continued anyway?  Would he have taken it all back?  The vulnerability of his speech in front of hundreds of strangers, the money thoughtfully spent by a college senior on a ring instead of a round {or...many rounds}?  Would he rather have explored his new home state a bachelor; hiking trails, climbing peaks, and sampling microbrews in his spare time off the rigs?  Would he have knelt before me on that dance floor in anticipation knowing one day he'd be towering over me in anger?  Would he have encircled my finger with a ring, knowing that a decade later, it would be sitting in our safe; unworthy of resting upon the hand of someone who would shatter his heart into countless pieces?  Would he have welcomed me walking toward him down the aisle knowing one day we'd be walking away from one another, mere cohabitants of the same house?  Would the sight of the potholes have veered him off course?  Taken him to a place where I wasn't?

Would he still?

Of course, it's easy to say that without that kneel, without that speech, without that ring; 3-almost-4 children we've created and raised together would not be; and who can imagine a life without that immense blessing?  

But aside from that.  Not to discount our children, but to focus on the source.  Would he still, would I still, would we still...if on that New Year's Eve thirteen years ago, we could jump ahead to this New Year's Eve.  To glance in this rear view mirror over the last year {or even two} of discovered pot holes and sparingly few ticker tape parades.  Would the foundation still be poured out; the cement of a life lived in union be risked at the guarantee of bumps and swerves and those big, gaping potholes.

It's hard to disassociate myself from the family we've created {and are still growing} to make a definitive response to the 'what if'; however as I close out this year, I find myself more reflective and introspective.  Filled with more joy and gratitude.  I find myself knowing that even if he 'wouldn't still', I would have; and regardless of the what if's; we did.  We did and we hit bumps and we stumbled and we hit pot holes and we fell.  But we did.  And, while we don't ever know what pot holes may await; I know that we have been strengthened in the breaking.  We have scar tissue over wounds that proves that the ring; the symbol of endlessness; has yet to claim us as victims.  We did, we still, and we will.

 

Incomplete

I have been walking around for a couple weeks now, struggling to pinpoint exactly what this feeling is that's been weighing heavy on my heart; taking advantage of the cracks and finding warm places to stay and hibernate for a while.  My polish is dulled.  Fingerprints and smears coating my tongue have lead to me spit fire and miserableness toward the people with whom I should be demonstrating and modeling grace in the most significant of ways.

This morning, as I marinated in my own frustration/annoyance/pity, it finally came to me.  The feeling I'd been trying to identify.  Finally.  I could 'fix it' and move forward.  Because that's what we want to do, right?  Encounter, identify, fix, move on.

If only.

This morning, the air was filled with the aromas of chocolate and peanut butter as I decorated my husband's birthday cake.  I usually have my earbuds in while decorating; as the music masks the background noise of giggles, bickers, imaginary play, or whines that are a constant soundtrack to life.

A singer/songwriter station on Pandora had a great mix going; when the next thing I knew, I heard song lyrics that seemed to be a little bit louder, a little bit bigger, a little bit knocking right on the door to my soul.

The song had been playing for about a minute and it was the words in the chorus that gave me pause and had me glancing at my phone to see what it was that I was listening to.  I knew the artist; had heard several of his songs before, but never this one.

The world will turn and we'll grow, we'll learn how
to be 
to be incomplete.

Bingo.  Incomplete.  That's what word I'd been searching for all this time.  As it clicked into the space in my mind, I felt a little loosening in my shoulders and a light shone behind the massive haze that has taken up residence in my soul.

When I thought of the word incomplete and how it fit into my world, the endless lists and calendars and to-dos jumped to the forefront of my mind.  Which, on the surface, is what the mass majority thinks of when we envision incomplete.

But outside of my daily and weekly to do list, the feeling of incomplete touches so many places in my heart.

The song continued; the chorus adding lyrics the next time around:

The world will turn and we'll grow, we'll learn how
to be 
to be incomplete.  
This here now, it's where we touch down.  
You and me let's be incomplete.

Ever had a moment when you feel as though a song has been written specifically with you in mind?  When the lyrics hit you right *there*?

You and me.  Let's be incomplete.

It was talking to me.  To us.  To You and Me.

Randy and I had our first dance as husband and wife to the song You and Me by Lifehouse.  We have signs displaying those words hanging in various places throughout our house.  We have matching tattoos bearing those words on our wrists.  It's always been about You and Me.

Except there's this time period.  This uncomfortable, ouchy time period when things are tough.  Sensitive.  Challenging and ugly and very, very hurtful.  A time when when the You and Me became second string.  When it took a back seat to a whole slew of things that went awry inside of a mind and heart and then metastasized into a giant cancer that strangled and threatened the very life of not only You and Me, but the foundation we'd built over the decade plus since becoming You and Me.

But somehow, somewhere, someway...we're still here.  There's still a foundation; there's still a force that's kept our broken pieces in close enough proximity to each other that we can still qualify as an us.  As a You and Me.  The glue within that ampersand between the 'You' and the 'Me' is heavy-laden with grace.  With patience.  With an underlying foundation of love that stretches back to those first few months of undefined uncertainty when we were too nervous and hesitant to name what was actually developing between us in the wee hours of the night; as we shared pizzas and Louie's chicken sandwiches and story after story story.

Seems like we've always had a bit of incomplete.  Even when we finally defined 'us', I don't think we realized that our definitions, our plans, are really just pencil-drawn ideas that sit upon a drafting table; awaiting the ink from the pen of the One who holds it all together.

This year, we nearly took an eraser to our entire plan.  We nearly took our crumpled paper plan and rubbed out the lines we'd sketched way back when.  We nearly turned it to ash at the hand of a fire that smoldered and erupted and swept through our life.  But somehow, somewhere, someway...we're still here.  The pencil we're using has a dulled point.  It draws broken and imperfect lines.  The plans are half-done and undeveloped.  They aren't incomplete just because we're using a faulty tool.  They're incomplete because we're not the true architect.  We're the apprentices, learning as we go, making mistakes, gaining experience, and {hopefully} applying the knowledge we pick up along the way.

This year we spent a lot of time in apprentice mode.  We approached the paper plan with experiences and perspectives we had never once envisioned way back when.  The learning curve has been steep.  The healing has been and will continue to be a process that leaves scars forever.  The pencil lines we'd once sketched have been tweaked and lead us into territory that seemed insurmountable.  That is, until we found a bit of baseline.

When the mess of pencil seemed too smeared and rubbed raw to read clearly, we found the ink of grace.  Slowly that ink became more and more visible; gradually and deliberately making its way to the surface.  Growing in strength and beginning to bind up wounds and leaving behind scars that aren't meant to be forgotten; but to serve as stepping stones.

This year we began the rebuilding of a You and Me.  We aren't nearly where we should be.  But we sure as hell aren't where we were.

This year we found the grace in the ampersand and began illuminating it in ways we never had before.

This year I really, truly realized what You and Me means is "two are better than one, for if they fall, one will lift up the other {Ecclesiastes 4:9-10}.  And even beyond that, though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves.  A cord of three strands is not quickly broken {4:12}."

That third strand.  The strand of grace, the strand of ink that rests between the 'You' and the 'Me' in the shape of an ampersand and an infinity.  It's that third strand that makes the world turn.  That third strand that gives us grace as we grow and as we learn how to be, to be incomplete.

breathe through the pain

When I see the date of my last post, I am sad that the calendar display exhibits such a lag in time.  I pressed 'publish' on that post; social media-ed it into a few arenas in which I felt called to do, and tried to focus on relishing in victory and relief rather than wallow in doubt and dabble back into the pool of shame.

Vulnerability can be a scary, overwhelming, life-altering experience.  It leaves you susceptible to judgement, doubt, ignorance, assumptions, patronizing, comparing, betrayal...the list goes on.  It's a staunch slap in the face of the enemy to be able to stand upon your truths; broken and janky as they are; and own who you are, where you're coming from, and what you believe about who you want to become.

And while it can feel pretty darn amazing to take that first full breath; the one where your lungs are no longer filled with the thick mucus of lies and sin; the one where your voice is heard loudest and strongest and empowered-est...it can also be stifling.  That first breath of really-real, fully true, shameless {but not lacking in regret} air--it can also make you second guess.  Like you're in a tight space with a limited amount of oxygen; and by taking that giant deep breath, you may have very well just used up a good percentage of what little you have left that's keeping you alive.

Damn that enemy.

Because, y'all, you know that's what that means, right?  You know that as soon as you find yourself in a situation on the other side of ripping off a band-aid that exposes a deep and ugly truth; you're instantly swarmed with nasty bacteria; just looking to re-open that scar, tunnel deep into the wound, and try to re-set your mind to rest in pain and shame.  

So when I published and shared and then walked into the actual world from behind my computer screen; I really had to keep my anti-bacterial close at hand.  Even before that--when I began to speak truth into the situation that was the re-crumbling of my marriage a year ago, after the initial fracturing a year before that; I found myself keeping close track of my breaths.  The first breaths were bold; hot and uncomfortable to some; cleansing and refreshing to others.  The trick was to focus on the latter.  To choose to make the breaths of truth cleanse my soul; wash over the shame of my past choices and to laser-focus my intentions on the betterment of myself.

I liken it to my past experiences with hot yoga.  Holding poses for extended periods of time in a room with a climate that rivals a Houston summer {or spring or fall, for that matter}; many times I felt like a soft pretzel in a concession stand warming box than a person who was making positive progress on her mind, body, and health.  But I remember a particular class where the instructor connected the practice of breathing in yoga to God, something that, until then, I had not placed into the same playing field.  The quote she read, from Sri T. Krishnamacharya, a man regarded as the Father of Modern Yoga, said, "Inhale, and God approaches you.  Hold the inhalation, and God remains with you.  Exhale, and you approach God.  Hold the exhalation, and surrender to God."

There were several times when I would be twisted into a shape that seemed unnatural to human understanding only to find myself stifled from making progress; to find myself falling out of posture {and, on more than one occasion, falling onto my face!}.  Initially, I found myself embarrassed, nervous, flustered and faltering in my attempts to cover up my error.  I was slinging the burdens of shame over my shoulders for the remainder of the series of postures.  Weighed down by my awkwardness and feeling inadequate in my abilities; I was also oblivious to the very limited breaths I was taking during my failed attempts as well as to the amount of breaths I was actually holding onto.
Over time, however, when I would find myself staggering off kilter and face-first with my mat, I began to respond differently.  Persistence {as well as a little bit of competitive peer pressure} would bring me back to the posture.  Only it wasn't until I found the rhythm of my breath that I could find my focus shifting from the outside influences to the inside surrender of my muscles and joints, when I nestled deeper into the posture; head foggy with a the joyful peace of progress rather than a platform for perfection.  Sure, I ached a bit deeper as my muscles strained against what felt comfortable, natural, easy.  But the euphoria.  The joy of accomplishment after pushing through the pain and getting to the end of the series.  The release of that final cleansing, refreshing breath.  It was in that moment that I felt most able--pliable, capable, love-able.

God doesn't call for us to hold onto the shame, but in releasing it, we may have to spend a little time resting in the pain.  We may have to let the ache and burn of muscles that are pushed past the ease of natural and comfortable be where we rest.  Let it be where we focus on the rhythm of our breath; taking in the life-giving oxygen of truth and feeling the tiny tingles as it reaches into the deepest cracks in our heart.  It's in those cracks where we begin to find healing from the inside out.

In the midst, though.  The prowling of the enemy and his bacteria who threaten to gnaw away the progress of your healing wounds; it can be enough to make you cry.   Psalm 35:15-18 has spoken loudly to me in the moments post-posting/sharing/speaking truth.

But when I stumbled, they gathered in glee; assailants gathered against me without my knowledge.  They slandered me without ceasing.  Like the ungodly they maliciously mocked; they gnashed their teeth at me.  How long, Lord, will you look on?  Rescue me from their ravages, my precious life from these lions.  I will give you thanks in the great assembly; among the throngs I will praise you. 

I love the Message's verbiage of this same scripture; But when I was down they threw a party!  All the nameless riffraff of the town came chanting insults about me.  Like barbarians desecrating a shrine, they destroyed my reputation.  God, how long are you going to stand there and do nothing?  Save me from their brutalities; everything I've got is being thrown to the lions, I will give you full credit when everyone gathers for worship; When the people turn out in force I will say my Hallelujahs.

Vulnerability is scary.  At first, it's a breath-holding experience that leaves you staggering off-kilter, feeling like you are face-first on the mat.  It's easy to hold that breath, to keep that wound closed, to hide shame rather than reveal pain.

But then when you actually do it.  When you rip the bandage and find the rhythm and stay in the pain; you find that even though the first half of that scripture {35:15-16} is nothing more than true; that you've become the laughing stock and topic for gossip; it's right there in that moment that you need to press into the pain even more.  Focus hard on the breath where you encounter, remain, approach, and surrender to God.  Because once you reach the end of the posture, once you release your cleansing breath, you find yourself celebrating the stretching of you beyond the comfortable, and feel euphoric joy rush into your heart.

And you won't be alone.

I wrote the following the other day on Facebook accompanying a photo that featured the lovely Anne Lamott's words {...Because when people have seen you at your worst, you don't have to put on the mask as much.}
there will always be those people who are too uncomfortable to see you without the mask. who can't handle the 100 proof-ness of you and who come at you with inaunthenticity--a striking opposition to the raw and real and fearlessness you represent. they're the ones under the guise of caring and compassion when their ultimate goal is a collector of information to dole out to others. they're the ones with the judgmental aura that try to break down the walls of truth you've built with your messiness because they feel it's their job. they're the ones that compare to feel better about themselves. the ones who get offended because you haven't consulted them for advice; who turn themselves into the victim. they're the ones standing at the precipice, nervous to cross the threshold; half-heartedly reaching out to limply grab your hand. they're the ones who retreat; the ones who can't process the realness of a messy situation and turn a blind eye, removing the shoulder on which you can lean, severing what once appeared to be a tie but has since proven to be loose threads of falsely labeled connection. the people who just can't be bothered to sit in the silence of the mess, who doesn't have the courage to approach and linger in the pain, who can't humble themselves to recognize the need in others might actually be a calling to fill a need in themselves. //
these aren't your people. these aren't the ones from whom you will feel the presence of God; but the pressures of this world to be bottled and quiet and still. they're everywhere. those who've been alongside you and integrated in your life--only to be revealed as such as the explosions occur and the dust and ash begin to settle in; re-landscaping the space once occupied into a new frontier. //
don't settle for them. don't rely on them. don't expect from them. there will be the gems. the rare ones who are genuine. who shine simply because they reflect the light of others--of Him. seek them. or, better yet, they'll be the ones seeking you. the ones who take the mask you're hanging on to *just in case* and toss it into the fire. they're the ones; the rare few, the least expected; who love you maskless. 

God gives you people.  The instructors who remind you to connect your breathing to God.  The ones who take the dirty bandages from your hands after you rip; who bring the anti-bacterial sprays; who stand beside you on the mat and both catch you when you fall and fall right alongside you; willing to scrape their knees and wound their ego and stifle their popularity.  All because they are proud of you for standing on your truths; broken and janky as they are; proud of you for owning who you are and where you're coming from; and fully believe in you and champion who you want to become.

And that is a huge, relief-laden, cleansing, refreshing breath that helps while resting in the pain.
  

what he wants

he needs me to write this.  To sit down and fill my teeth with grit; to grab hold of a knife and to slice.  To let it pour out, spilling over the keys as they form the words that condemn.  he needs me to hurt like he hurts; feel the wretched pain of a life interrupted by lies and deceit.  To be left wandering aimlessly, searching for answers to the ambiguous 'why' that haunts everyone from time to time.

he needs me to write this.  To break down the image that's crafted on the screen; to give the real rather than the polished.  To be more authentic, because, as I've been told, I'm not genuine enough.  Or, rather, at all.  he needs me to feel raw and exposed, turning out my soft underbelly for the world to see; so they can gawk and judge and turn their backs.

What he needs you to know is my sin.  The way I selfishly took to the keys and punched out a response to a message that, in essence, began rolling a pebble down a sh*t-covered mountain.  The way I chose to continue a conversation; to build a relationship; with a person who was most certainly standing on a clearly marked path of destruction.  he wants you to hear of my disrespectful, reprehensible sin.  The words and images exchanged across thousands of miles that sealed my fate as one of those people.  One of the women who sidestepped the path of a blessed life in exchange for a path hidden; overgrown with thorny vines of lies and knotty underbrush of deceit.  he wants you to acknowledge.  to point.  to condemn.  to label me for what I am.  liar.  adulterer.

he wants to make sure I'm seen be the world; by the culture in which we live, as among the lowest of low, the weak, the pathetic.  he wants you to see the crappy way in which I put my marriage and family and future and reputation in jeopardy for selfish motives.  he wants you to see me as inferior; self-centered, inadequate, less than.  he wants you to know that I'm disloyal, unworthy of trust.  he wants you to unfriend, dislodge, turn away.  he wants to discredit me.  he wants me to feel lonely.  hurt. suffer consequences.  he paints me with shame. guilt. disgust.  and he wants you to do so as well.  he wants to destroy.

he needs you to know the extent of what happened so you can realize I'm not who I portray myself to be.  he needs you to think of my faults and my faults alone; not recognizing the ongoing work that's going on inside of me.  he doesn't want you to acknowledge or believe there's been a transformation.  a shedding of ugliness, sinfulness.

he wants me to be scared.  to be terrified by my truth rather than own it.  to let it consume me like fire; turn me to ashes and watch me drift away; unnecessary and forgotten.

he wants you to think the worst of me.

and, often times, more often than I openly let it be known; he wins.  his thoughts and words and glares and taunting poke holes that I scramble to cover.  they bring self-loathing and tears and disappointment leaving me to stare back at a reflection that is appalling.  one that weakens my heart and leaves me questioning if I'll ever find true confidence and self-forgiveness.

the boomerang that brought me back from the ugliness of lies has firmly landed in a space of repentance, vulnerability, truth, repair.  but sometimes, many times, he whispers slyly in my ear; giving me pause as I assess my worthiness as a wife, mom, teacher, friend, Christian.

he wants me to think of my wickedness and selfishness.  to jump into a pit of shamefulness and evil because that's obviously where such destructive, malignant decision-making comes from.  a cell of nefarious wrongdoing that multiplied as snake-like tentacles of immorality craftily spread throughout my mind and soul.  in its wake, a vast, empty surface devoid of trustworthiness and shame, a shroud over any positive lens through which I am viewed.

oh, his wants are deep.  he struggles with seeing joy in my life; quickly snapping it up as an angry gator devouring its prey, turning it into a bloodied carcass of guilt and doubt, self-loathing and fear.  he makes me wonder what kind of person I am, makes me doubt my abilities; who am I to teach my children right and wrong, to lead a bible study, to show my face in church and openly praise and pray?

he lurks around dark corners; meets me in my flutters of sleep; smacks me dead in the face when I'm driving or cooking or watching tv or playing with my kids.  his tactics are fierce; snares set intentionally and methodically, little bombs of viciousness left to explode precisely at moments when I'll fall furthest and hardest into his pit.  he knows exactly what he is doing.

after all, he's been practicing his schemes, perfecting his manipulations, and implementing his campaign for centuries.  sometime after the creation of angels but before tempting Adam and Eve, his pride found him in the midst of a dilemma.  for the role of God was already fulfilled; yet he still desired the title for himself.  his refusal to serve God ultimately resulted in this 'fall'.  he found himself  'cast out'.

imagine his hatred.  how he must despise God and His people.  I picture an anger growing and growing; building and building to a point where he is satisfied by the complete destruction of what God has created.  I picture his temper stewing, bubbling over angrily at times; but also see his cunning and sly smirk, savagely picking off individuals by feasting on their weaknesses; highlighting their sins, and using them as weapons of mass destruction.  he crafts a world on earth where the human race begins to unravel itself; a skilled puppeteer, maniacally and adroitly maneuvering his marionettes as we all move along the planet, interacting with the toxicity in which he leaves lying around like banana peels, eagerly waiting for the slip so he can point and laugh and relish in his repugnant design.

but does he know?  does he know that even though it feels at times like he's winning; at times he can label me a cheater, a liar, a sham; that he's going to lose?  does he know that regardless of what he thinks; what he gets others to think; that I'm going to come out victorious?  I'm going to come out from under this mess as not just a person with a past, but a person with a purpose.  I'm going to find my worth and see my value and feel confidence that while, yes, my actions were sinful and broken and shocking, they actually can be forgivable?  They aren't meant to be forgettable, no, no; for the scars of sin serve as reminders of what strength we have gleaned from their sting.  The scars are proof to us that our battles are real, they're tough and strenuous, and can often times be a byproduct of someone else's poor choices.  But they show us our survival.  They prove we can be bold and brave and make a choice to change.  To make a fresh start on a path paved with hope and trust and faith.  The skin of a scar might seem tender; a soft spot of which to avoid.  But it's in those scars where we find strength of two pieces of us, knit back together with bonds of forgiveness, love, and grace.  True, they are and always will be our spots of extra-vulnerability.  The places we guard most fiercely because our memory burns with the fires of pain and hurt.  But in time, the pain of our hurts; the fires we've started in ourselves and in others, the result of his rule of this earth will be smothered.  The oxygen that feeds them; the culture in which we live, judgement of others, whispers of his voice, grasping tentacles of his wickedness; all will be eradicated.  The ashes of the fires that burned so fiercely will be proof that it happened; but the phoenix that arises from those ashes will leave everyone in awe and wonder.  he will exist no more, because HE reigns over heaven and earth.

and I'm sure he doesn't want me to write that.

grace hour

We're falling into somewhat of a routine now that school is back in full swing; backpacks hang on hooks in the hall, lunches are composed at ungodly hours in the dark of a half-caffeinated morning, homework completed and checked under the watchful eye of a mom who knows the ultimate goal is to run back outside for more playtime.  And earlier bedtimes.  Bless.

The gift of sleep is one greedily consumed by my children at 6 a.m.; which makes for grunty, stretchy mornings where the conveyor belt of 'dress, eat, brush, pack, shoes, hug dad, car' is the mechanism for which I rely upon in order to have our stereotypical suburbanite Suburban rolling down the driveway at oh-seven hundred.

Last year, the dance of school children out the door on time did not factor in one adorably lovable, yet highly frustrating caveat.  Last year, it did not matter if my little sensory sweetie was fully dressed and ready to go, or freshly out of bed sporting a super snarled coif and precariously filled pull-up.  I could just pop her in the car seat alongside her obligatory five stuffed accouterments and away we'd go; the promise of an entire extra hour to lazily get her ready for kinder prep.

Oh, to have that hour.

The hour that included easing into choosing clothes that felt 'right' that day, food that was crunchy or smooth or dry enough, hair that was slowly brushed over the course of many minutes and with a multitude of distractions from the apparent pain the brush was causing.  The hour that allowed a trial run of the shoes that would go 'just right' with the outfit and were comfy enough {not to mention the battle of the irksome sock seam that NEVER seemed to cooperate}.  The hour that included not just one, but many, many hugs; hugs to calm and console and create peace.

But this year.  

One less hour, all the same struggles.  The feels and textures and pressure and inside turmoil that turn into outward aggression and anger and sadness and confusion.  Compounding the challenge is the need to be mom-in-triplicate and ensure my older two still get attention and affection and needs met.  All while operating on a less-than-adequate dose of caffeine.  Let's just say, we have driven to school with more than one of us in sniffles on more than one occasion {and it's just week 2}.

After a series of exceptionally challenging days, and a morning ride to school that was 98% stalemate; 2% expressions of love, I find myself in tears yet again.

Why can't I just take it easy?  Be gentle with her, she is soft and tender and doesn't always know how to express what she's feeling or how this big, outside world is affecting her vulnerable, sensitive insides.  Speak softly and with kindheartedness; for she will respond much more easily when wrapped in obvious love.  

And it struck me.  Who am I talking about?  My daughter, or myself?  

When they placed that tiny, spindly little body on mine right after she was born, my heart skipped a beat or two; just as it had done with my first and second little miracles.  I was looking into the face of God, as He revealed himself on earth.  A baby.  A human being with all the pain and struggle and feelings and joys that come along with living on this planet and with other human beings.

Only this human became mine for the raising.  This human looks to me to learn and understand what it means to love, to grieve, to be a friend, to live out the life our Creator has given us.  The trouble is, I am still trying to figure out those things myself.  And, often times, I fail miserably.  

Take the past two weeks of school, for instance.  I keep telling myself I will not raise my voice or yell or scream or shout or spank her little bottom when she whines and cries and struggles to person.  I tell myself I will be loving and understanding.  I will calmly speak, carefully explain, and eagerly try to decipher what potentially could be throwing her off course.  

But then that sound pierces the air.  And my current love is masked by sudden irritation because there is, as far as I'm concerned, absolutely NO reason under the sun for her to be squawking like a deranged parakeet because I have asked her to choose between a bagel or a banana.  Two items she had suggested to me the night before as we discussed what our morning routine would look like, and as we prayed for peace and patience and words to describe how we were feeling.

So we boldly defy the prayers that escaped our lips just hours before; voices become louder and snippier, clipping the morning air with a harshness that should not be associated with children and tender souls and little hearts attempting to absorb truth about life and mold a foundation upon which to grow and thrive.  We have a standoff.  Anger.  Threats.  Consequences.  Tears.  Sniffles.  Guilt.  Shame.

What I really want to do; what I really should do is take that squirming, thrashy, flailing, croaking girl and wrap her in my arms.  Envelop her in safety and reassurance and easement.  Advocate for her feelings that she just can't seem to verbalize in a calm and rational tone.   Allow her to feel loved and accepted for the tiny person that she is; the tiny person trying desperately to disentangle the web of her brain; the tiny person who is looking for a way to break into life as an independent, brave, confident, kind person, with valid and true feelings.  What I should do is give her grace.

What I really should be doing is looking in a mirror.  Because ultimately, I am.  

My little human, this tiny person whom God entrusted to me, is *so* my mirror.  And in more than just the extra long-legged, chocolate-eyed, button-nosed genetic way.  In the heart way.  The soul way.  The extra-feeling-y way.  The struggle with verbalizing what is truly going on.  The pain of feeling 'off' and 'out' and 'odd' when the whole rest of the world seems to be grooving along, getting it.  

Having lived long enough, I know, of course, that those people who all seem to be getting it are in fact more than likely feeling closer to my end of the spectrum; flailing and thrashy, treading water that just keeps swirling in an unhealthy current.

But what I want, what I really, really want is for that facade to be dropped.  For the curtain to fall and Oz to be revealed.  I want my sweet girl, {me!} to be know that it's entirely okay, and, in fact, normal for us to feel this off and odd feeling.  When we struggle to express our souls, it's not necessarily because we have a lack of words; but a lack of freedom, a lack of acceptance.  A lack of grace.

Somewhere along the line, it has become 'not okay' to have these deep and big and inexplicable feelings.  It's become inappropriate to sit down and say, "I need help.  And not just with my homework or my job or my car or getting my kid's swing set built in the backyard.  But real, actual, help.  I need to feel safe to share my fears and worries.  I need to feel like the fact that I have all this stuff swirling around inside my soul is okay.  Understood.  Accepted.  Worthy."  

I need my girl to grow up knowing that her struggles aren't really that.  They're not bad or shameful or in need of being hidden.  But they're special.  Unique.  Transforming.  They're the exclusive hurdles that God has blessed her with; not to make it harder, but to give her a place where she can not just gracefully leap, but beautifully thrive.  Where she can share her soul and not be afraid.  Where she can leap with joy and should she stumble; feel brave and confident enough to know that regardless of how the world responds and what they may think or do or say; that she is just fine.  More than fine.  She is perfect.  She is His.

I want my tiny human; my mini-me; my mirror into my past, present, future, and purpose to feel that gentleness.  To hear that soft, kindhearted voice that lets her{me} know it's okay, it's okay, it's okay.  The shush and lull of a quiet but strong embrace in obvious love that gives reassurance not rushing, empathy not anger, understanding not frustration, and comfort not shame.  The world will respond.  They will judge and fix and assume and shame and guilt and yell and squawk and scream and shout.  They will hold it against you, hold it over your head, hurl it in your direction in angry, ugly, accusatory, comparative tones that make you feel small and inadequate and less than and not enough.  

The world is going to rebel.  They're going to be squirmy and thrashy and flailing because they can't handle the real.  The truth.  The imperfection that is really total perfection of a human being.  They're going to withhold grace because it feels wrong and weird and crazy to give unmerited favor to an imperfect, messy, broken person.  A person who messes up and boldly defies and reacts rather than responds.  Yes.  It seems crazy.  And maybe it is crazy.  It isn't something meant for our understanding; grasping the why of this amazing grace.  There is only One who understands that why.  Maybe one day we'll learn.  Maybe one day we'll look upon this earth and see--really, truly see.  

"Ohh," we'll say.  "now I get it.  Now I see."  We'll see those moments; those missed opportunities; those shattered, sad, defeated souls, pocked with the scars of unforgiveness.  And we'll sigh.  We'll grasp our chests and pray for peace.  Pray for understanding.  Pray for that soul to feel okay.  We'll say grace.  

Why do we wait?  Why do we withhold blessing those with whom we share life and love and earth?  Why do we hoard our grace; only to sprinkle it out in small amounts, carefully and methodically over the people and situations that we deem 'most worthy'?  Why do we not take that time, sit down with that person, know them.  Hear them.  Invest in them.  Make it safe for them to share their vulnerable, sensitive insides; not just because you want to fix or feel better about yourself or become a gossip reporter; but because you can share yours, too.  And it can be good.  More than good.  It can be beautiful.  It can be freeing.  All it takes is tenderness and time.

I want to take that hour.

I'll meet you there

This morning started out kind of rough.  An early alarm for my hard-working husband {good preparation for the reality of the first day of school next week, I suppose}.  The unfortunate continuation of a headache I was hoping to stave off with a good night's sleep {but instead woke up with blinding pain and the urge to take a melon baller to my eyeball and right side of my brain}.  The remnants of first trimester nausea {probably exacerbated by headache}.  Joy.

But the hardest part wasn't even something that was out of my control.  The hardest part was my response {or lack thereof} to my darling just-about-kindergartener when she requested help choosing her outfit for the day.  Don't get me wrong.  I know that my opinions matter zero, and that in fact, me 'helping' her is really me just holding up a wide variety of items for her to see and touch and nuzzle and smell so she can make a well-educated decision on what matches her feelings at that particular moment.  {Because, letsbehonest.  She's going to change a half dozen times today.  Minimum.}

As she sat on the floor 'W' style {despite my multiple requests to change positions}, the fashion experience began.  As tradition has shown me, the best way to approach this is to create a little fashion 'capsule'--three top options {striped, strawberry, and mermaid} and three bottom {mint, neon yellow, blue & purple stripe}--that can work with one another {but only if you're 5, the third child, and your mother has really given up caring so long as you leave the house clothed}.  This technique not only gives her practice in making choices, it often yields results in a reasonable amount of time.

Until it doesn't.

Sparing the details, let's just say mama lost her cool.  Inaudible whining, claims that her underwear wasn't 'fresh' enough {ahem...mom forgot to use 'smell goods' in the dryer}, and a determined obsession with the word 'no' put me into a tailspin.  My tone was not nice.  It was not calm, understanding, or even remotely polite.  Instead, I slipped her jammies off her body, wrapped her up tight into a pre-determined 'soft blankey', and left her to cry on the couch while I got showered and dressed for the day.

Somewhere in the middle of wash rinse repeat, I found myself in the middle of hosting a one-mam pity party featuring a heavy dose of self-loathing and complaining.  And that's when God interrupted me.

Stopped me right in the tracks of my tears and gave me perspective.

This morning I was presented with a capsule of things to deal with and choose from.  I dealt with the various physical ailments that were affecting me but when I stopped to think about it, I really hadn't released the power they held over me.  I had three top options--early wake up, an awful headache, a bout of nausea.  And my three bottom options--my kids, my patience, my faith.  All three top options were bothersome; a pain {literally}, and had the power to affect my entire day.  I couldn't see how any of them would be able to coordinate well with my three bottom options; so I gave up trying.  I whined and complained and essentially said that what I was given to deal with today wasn't fresh enough for my liking.

But God didn't care.  

Wait.  That sounds harsh.  

He does care--more than we can even envision--which is why, when life hands you a crappy capsule of options, He's there.  Guiding, nudging, teaching.  We're not promised to have a life filled with ease and comfort {I have told you these things so that in me you may have peace.  In this world you will have trouble. But take heart!  I have overcome the world. ~John16:33}.  

What we are promised, however, is that in the midst of our strife, our trials, pain, discouragement...He is there.  Our comfort and peace is found in knowing He understands us; hears our cries; loves us.  No matter how big or small our troubles may seem, His Word brings peace and calm, wrapping us in a big hug that lets us know it will all be okay in the end; that we will find our way out from the dark.

Sigh.

I'm really, really glad He didn't leave me crying on the couch; but sought me out, crying in the shower.  

I quickly found a comfortable outfit {and yes, it is fresh} and made my way back to the little mound of sensory-struggling blankey and curls that was gripping the remote control with brute force.  She wanted no parts of her mama, no parts of choosing an outfit, no parts of anything aside from Hotel Transylvania 2.  

So I just sat alongside.  And I leaned in, squeezed her not-so-little-anymore bare foot that peeked out from the pre-approved soft blanket.And I watched her. Soon, I watched her grip on the remote loosen, saw the blanket shift as her form turned toward me, and soon had gorgeous chocolate brown, inquisitive, innocent eyes starting back at my recently dried ones.

A smile.  

Silent, innocent, sweet.  Grace.  

And before I knew it; He met us there.  

I'm really, really glad I didn't leave her there {for too long} crying on the couch, but sought her out sniffling on the ottoman {she definitely was not going to stay where her mama had put her}.

And I'm really, really glad that she found a comfy, approved, fresh outfit for the hour or two she'll wear it.  

And that my headache has subsided.

Bless.

life from a dead fish

One look around any given store and you can surmise that summer is winding down and the new school year is resting upon the horizon; taunting us with it's alarm buzzing, homework folders, needing to know the day of the week, and earlier bedtimes {bless}.  There are mixed blessing in the season of change that is rapidly approaching.

So rather than attempt to dissect the random, large collection of shopping bags scattered about on the floor of my living room; I made the executive mom decision to pack up and hit the beach with some friends yesterday.  

I'd like to say I've become somewhat of a beach day-tripper, level: expert over the past couple summers.  From getting the entire crew up, ready, and out the door in under 30 minutes, to our minimalist approach to beachy accouterments, to making sure that we don't bring half of the coastline back with us in our freshly vacuumed mom-mobile {thank you, hubby, for keeping Frosty clean!}.  Yesterday was really no different; and with 6 capable kiddos between my sweet friend and me; we moms were set up and in relax mode in record time.  

I don't know that there's one iota of my soul that doesn't cross into that magical space between heaven and earth when I smell the salty air, hear the surf, and observe the sheer magnificent beauty and rhythm of waves as they find own way to kiss the coastline.  It's like sitting right alongside God himself and with an affirmative nod of the head, mirroring his reaction to His creation.

It is GOOD.

And oh, is it ever.  

The ebb and flow of the waves mimicked the way in which my friend and I interacted with the kids all day.  They flowed in for sunscreen, snacks, and silly stories; and ebbed back out for all of their sand-and-salt activity.  A perfect balance of parenting and friending that filled our souls.

At one particular 'flow'; our bookends; my youngest and my friend's oldest; came dashing up the beach with their floats and the excited squeals that could only mean they've come across some kid-version of treasure.  

And there it was.  Just over a foot long, shining in the sunlight, unmoving.  A sand trout, according to my dear friend with far greater fishing experience than I {granted: my experience?  does shopping for goldfish at Pet Smart count?}. 

Our girls were pretty thrilled to have found this gem from the deep; and as it lay there in the float, we all noticed it's gills straining ever so slightly, gasping for air.  Or, I guess it would be gasping for water?  I know.  I won't be adding 'angler' to my resume any time in the near future ever.  

When it became obvious that the fish might still have a fighting chance, they dashed to the water in heoric form and, for the next nearly 20 minutes, my friend's sweet oldest daughter tried guiding that fish, holding it while she swam it along in the water, devoting all of her attention to giving that fish a second chance at life in the Gulf of Mexico. 

Alas.  It became evident {more quickly to us moms than that precious preteen, but bless her heart for her efforts} that the 'treasure' discovered along the calm of the waves was in fact not going to make it.  Sadly, the sand trout was returned to the surf, destined to make some salty scavengers very happy.

On the ride home, my ever-inquisitive, bleeding heart youngest daughter pelted me with questions about that fish.  Why and how and where and when and what until I finally promised her ice cream if she would let me drive in peace.  {In related news: I'm running for mom of the year}

But as the peace that quickly ensued after my frozen dairy promise took hold in my heart, I found my thoughts turning back to that stinkin' fish.  Back to the time and tender effort that my friend's daughter dedicated to trying to get it to swim.  I thought about that point when she realized it was a lost cause, and that there was nothing left to do but to return the fish to the place from whence it came and move forward.  

What a hard decision.  That point when you are smacked with reality, gut-wrenching and heart-breaking, scary and uncertain; that place of 'what now' that alters how you're going to move forward.  

For our girls, it was in the form of a fish.  A scaly representation of God's work that was transitioning into a new season of purpose: food.  

Not long ago, that 'what now' place in our marriage came after months and months of endless fights, tears, anxiety, heartbreak, and broken trust that had spun into a tornado that honed in on the very sanctity of our marriage, our family, and the home we had made from the house we were {still--and forever will be} paying mortgage on.

When the sand trout showed up in our marriage, the reverberations were heavy, hard, and HUGE.  The pain was real, the mass of feelings warped realities and rattled every component of what we clung to.  There it lie, shining brightly and aggressively in the sunlight {and the darkness--it never went away}, unmoving.  There were gasps for air, subtle movement of gills that beckoned for answers and comfort and help and prayers.  Oh, the prayers.  

Over the course of the days and weeks and months; prayers held on to us, swam us along in the water.  They guided and protected and righted and healed, albeit in the most rogue, God-like of ways.  The day-to-day; it felt eternal.  Some days the supports were prevalent; but many days felt a lot like floating along, belly-up, at the mercy of the under toe.  

Alas.  It became evident that this marriage, this foundation and family and life we had once known, was in fact not going to make it.  We'd reached that point where we were faced with returning our dead fish to the place from whence it came and move forward.

And so we did.  {kind of}.  We spoke the words {at several different points}.  We let the reality set in as best it could and began to try and craft some sort of semblance for what we would need/do/say in order to take those next steps.  The fear gripped, the tears fell, the truth stung.  We'd failed.  Moreso, *I* had failed.  I took a creation, a gift from God, and rather than foster it and grow it and build it; I stamped upon it.  And then I tried like hell to glue it all back together again, to sit down beside the Creator, and tell Him it was good.

But oh, it wasn't good.  

See, what I now realize in that time of swimming along in the water is that while yes, the prayers of many were what strengthened us 'just enough' to keep moving through the surf; the reality was that instead of misleading ourselves into thinking we had a chance, the reality is we needed to take our dead fish and give it back.  Not because we were giving up; but because we know that ultimately, in the giving back, we would be giving life to something else.  Something more.  Something better.  Something stronger.  In the giving back, we would be taking our control out of the marriage and giving it to the One who is the more. the better, the stronger.  

Giving the control to Him; truly laying face down in the war room and staining the floor with mascara as I lay it all at the cross was like taking that fish and tossing it into the uncertainty of the seas.  The under toe had all the power, the body of the fish limp and unresistant to whatever forces were upon it.  When the moment of impact came; when the body of what was our marriage hit the proverbial water, God had all the power {umm...fun fact: He actually had the power all along *wink, wink*}, the body and spirit limp and unresistant to whatever forces were upon it.  That place.  That lowest, hit-the-ground, punch in the gut, energy-sucking moment where you just can't even.  

That's the place where He steps in and does his most miraculous work.  Where He takes the body that is dead and breathes new life so that it can be a living, breathing representation of God's work that transitioning into a new season of purpose: a marriage of more, better, stronger. 

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts. “For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven and do not return there but water the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it. ~Isaiah 55:8-11  

Who knows, maybe that little sand trout has changed my tune toward dabbling in the sport of fishing.  So long as Randy is there to bait the hook, that is...

xo

Welcome {back}

Hello there.  It's been quite a while since I've sat in front of a screen such as this, grabbed a pin to prick my heart, and let my words bleed through my fingertips.  And it feels so *good*.  My sweet sister in law likened my blog-sence to being all caught up on your DVR and having no new episodes in the queue.  As someone who has stayed up wa-ay too late catching 'just one more' episode of Don Draper and Frank Underwood on Netflix curled up next to my hubby, I can relate.

It's kind of humbling to hear that someone besides your mom misses your words.  My words.  Because, really, my words aren't all that special.  I just happen to put them out there...and LOTS of them...for people to read or to hear.  Which opens up the door for people to judge.  Oh, and that can be scary.  Vulnerability is quite a nasty beast, isn't it?  But, some good news though.  Brene Brown writes that vulnerability is not weakness; that it's the birthplace of innovation, creativity, and change {emphasis added by me}.

And that's what this whole journey is about.  Change.  The past two years of life have been right up there hovering alongside some pretty negative words.  The lows have far outweighed the highs; and the battles have been ugly and hurtful and have had life-changing impacts.  But still we stand.  But still, I rise.  And yes.  I borrowed that line from Katy Perry's song/Olympics theme song.  Because, really.  If listening to that and watching those well placed images in the video doesn't give you all the feels, I'm not sure what will.  But I digress.

I rise.

There's a new season of life brewing here in hot and humid and melty Houston, Texas.  Literally.  Just yesterday, courtesy of a well-loved Melissa & Doug chalkboard, a few props, and a gaggle of quasi-cooperative children; I doused on a healthy amount of bug repellent {because, zika}, and filed everyone outside to make an announcement.

in honor of back to school month, Gavin and Brynn thought it best to school Raegan on how to be a big sister!

Surprise!  Baby Conley 4 making his/her arrival {no, we aren't finding out the gender} in February 2017!  Surprise, indeed.  After what seemed like a really typical, basic checkup on my 35th birthday, my doctor knocked on the door as I was gathering my things to head back out into the heat.  A knock that literally knocked me back down to a seated position while I stared incredulously at two little lines that were more like two giant exclamation points nestled somewhere amidst a slew of little obscenities and sweat tears and plaster-faced smiles.  Intersperse the excited congratulatory tones of the entire office staff and dazed stars encircling my head as I cautiously stepped one foot in front of the other to have my blood drawn and I could relate totally to what Wile E. Coyote felt when those ACME anvils fell on his head from impossible heights after his efforts to capture the Roadrunner went awry.

See, this wasn't part of any of those lovely little 'plans' we have secured up inside of our hearts and minds when we begin stepping through our journey of life.  I mean, you'd think we would all get a true hang of this whole 'God's plan > my plan' thing after the first half dozen or so curve balls whiz past our home plate.  We find ourselves either swinging for the fences and missing completely, or standing frozen.  Wide-eyed and amazed by the way in which we were blind-sided.

But no.  We humans, we like to think we've got a pretty decent grip on things.  Or at least a grip on how we think things should be; even if for the temporary, things aren't quite *there*.  We like to hand God our agenda, our vision board, our hopes and wishes; and, with enough 'good behavior', our Holy Roulette wheel will land right on 27 red--the *exact* place where we laid all of our chips!  Hallelujah, right?

Oh, ye of little faith.

God doesn't give one iota of that adorable little agenda is!  We all know this...but yet we still try.

Did my agenda include a pregnancy shortly after accepting a position to teach part time at a preschool?  Did it include a pregnancy after signing on and investing a significant amount of money to begin working as a clothing stylist for cabi?  Did it include a pregnancy after having 5 challenging *amazing* years of discovering and learning and adjusting and parenting a kiddo like Raegan--our WONDERFUL blessing who is strong and stubborn and independent and confident {the likes of which make raising her occasionally endlessly exhausting?

And, perhaps the scariest, most vulnerable one of all...did my agenda for God include pregnancy news just four days after the heartbreaking realization that my marriage was headed for divorce?

Oh, God.  Your funny ways.  Your glorious plans.  Your generous and abundant blessings.  Sometimes more often than not, Your ways seem to be the very cause of us standing at home plate, dazed and confused by the curve ball.  We swing and miss, we stare quizzically, we feel duped and surprised.  Every.single.time.

So this surprise is no different.  The anvil fell and the stars settled and just like Wile E. Coyote, I'm ready for the next adventure.  And I hope you'll come along with me us.  Because I love the way vulnerability works.  How it begets vulnerability; how it makes others realize it's completely okay--safe and welcome in fact--to share our ish.  To look at each other with eyes that say, "me, too", instead of eyes that judge and disgrace and segregate.

That's what I want for growing FOURward.  I want it to be about growing my family, but also building my marriage, and growing my faith.  I want it to be about stories that stir, that enlighten, encourage, inspire, break down those walls that fear has built; and make it okay to be broken.  Because in order to be a glow stick, you've first got to break.

growing FOURward is a journey through a wiser, more seasoned, better focused, more transparent, less burdened time in our lives.  We have spent a decade plus living in the flotsam of love.  But now, we've hit currents that changed our course, fire coral that has pierced our hearts, riptides that have tumbled us hard and fast into the surf, tidal waves that have drained and then flooded, and shark attacks that have disfigured.  And yet here we are.  Our sailboat is righted, albeit a bit worse for wear; but we're all accounted for, we're adjusting our sails, and setting out for sea with an extra life preserver on board.

Both Matthew and Mark give accounts of Jesus calming the seas during a terrible and furious storm.  The Lord himself, amidst the disarray and chaos of this frightening squall, was sleeping.  Sleeping!  Oh to have the calm of heart such as this!  And when awoken by His nervous, panicked disciples, the Lord simply got up and rebuked the wind and said to the waves, "Quiet!  Be still!". AND THEY LISTENED.  {Matthew 8:23-27, Mark 4:35-41}  Oh, sweet heaven, if only child-rearing were so simplistic.

It's no coincidence that one of the Psalms I have displayed in our living room is 46:10.  Be still and know that I am God.  While 'still' is a commonly used word in the household of our sensory sweetie; it is also one that is incredibly difficult to witness.  So maybe that's the goal.  To not just be a 'witness' noun; a person who sees an event, but to actually 'witness' verb; give or serve as evidence of, testify to.  I want to exemplify still and know.

And with that, I welcome you {and me}.  For me, and some of my readers, it's a welcome back.  But this welcome is a different one.  It's a welcome into a world of what Brene Brown described as a beautiful byproduct of vulnerability.  Change.  It's a welcome into a place where we can all feel that amazing transformation when we choose to be still and know; but not without action.  It's a step into vulnerability.  It's the bravery to wake the sleeping Lord {because, lesbehonest, he isn't sleeping!}, to express our fear, to allow Him to calm us and to allow Him to grow us.  {or grow new people.  *wink*}

Welcome. {back}