planting

Seven years ago, our family experienced the kind of loss that settles deep down into your bones.  The kind that stays there and slowly eats away at your stability; weakening you from the inside out.  You feel the pain worse on the gloomy days; like an old sport's injury.   'Anniversaries', holidays, and new beginnings are all stained with the tears of this hurt; sometimes bitter, sometimes sweet.

My father-in-law left this earth far too soon for what's considered so by human standards.  At 52 years old, many would argue that he was plucked from us right in the prime of his adulthood.  A devoted husband and father; a doting grandfather; a loyal brother, uncle, friend.  He was well-loved by so many here on earth, yet for reasons beyond any of our understanding, he was called away to be with the Father in heaven, whom he loved and served.

I had the honor of meeting Rick back in the December 2002, when he and his wife Rhonda opened their home to me when I visited Randy over our winter break from Penn State.  I drove almost 7 hours across Pennsylvania; arriving long after dark, only to walk through the back door of the solid, 2-story farmhouse and practically right into the welcoming arms of a man who gave me a glimpse into what middle-aged Randy would resemble.

Getting to know Rick and Rhonda {as Uncle Mike said at Rick's memorial; there wasn't one without the other} felt to me like stepping into a storybook.  There was a rhythm to their interactions.  A natural flow of how things went in their day-to-day.  It looked easy and comfortable and comforting.  I had never personally observed a couple with such a relational style like that; and it intrigued me.

Growing up with parents in two different households and a lot {a lot} of issues that were never properly handled; what I brought to the table in relationships was jaded in every sense of the word.  It's not an excuse for the lackluster job that I do in being a mom, wife, daughter, sister, friend; but it did rest some pretty jagged foundation blocks in the construction of each of these entities.  Most of the cracks are the result of wounds that are self-inflicted and self-sabotaged; the result of my inability to properly handle turmoil, stress, trauma, and pain.  I shoot myself in the foot and then wonder why I don't have a good leg to stand upon.  And the infection that has grown from those wounds is travelling deep into the throes of my adult life.  The offshoots impacting the core of my relationships--my home.

The 'mom' part of me, like every other mother is subject to this increased levels of mom-shaming and mom-guilt that runs so rampantly through our society.  When met with a highly fractured foundation of self confidence; the effects produce countless negative outcomes.  Depression, bursts of anger, anxiety, lack of consistency, yelling, removal of joy.  The tone of the household is reminiscent of a frozen lake in spring; crackling and popping, faces riddled with caution, constantly on-edge for the unexpected break in the ice.  It's a frightening way for children humans to live.  I try to exit the spiral, yet the centrifugal force of my broken core draws me back in; erasing any positive progress I've made in changing myself and shoring up the ice.

But it's the true root of the home--my marriage--where I find my shortcomings have brought the deepest, hardest, realest, most damaging, relationship-ending kind of pain.  My flawed foundations, my broken shell, my poor decisions...all have brought about what feels like an inevitable ending to a marriage more times than I'm proud to admit.  But admit them, I will.  I lived a lot of years bound up by the gnarled, tight-fisted grip of shame.  And where has it found me?  I'm a 35 year old mom of four, married for nearly 12 years to a man who can't and doesn't even want to look at me because of the ways in which I've shattered his heart.  He sees me as dishonest, untrustworthy, manipulative, mean, and incapable of change.  Even these words I type; the truths I spill out for my children to one day read and know who their mom was will be spun into the depths of our dysfunction; viewed by some as a way to gain empathy.  When all they really are, are just truths.  And not the so-called truths I spent years and years, and years craftily weaving into the story I wanted people to believe about me. Real.  Genuine.  Truths.

When I met Randy's family; my guard was up in every sense of the word.  What I knew about them screamed 'ideal family'; and I was nervous.  I was a girl with raging insecurities and a nonexistent idea of my core set of values; and I was terrified.  I remember telling Randy's mom that I don't discuss religion or politics after being asked a {most likely} harmless question.  My brain couldn't wrap around those topics for no other reason than I hadn't been brought up with the knowledge of such.  It just 'wasn't discussed'; so rather than adding some well-roundedness to my identity, I shut the door and hammered a few boards across it.  And it wasn't unique to those two hot-button topics.  I shut and boarded up lots of doorways in my life's story; for fear I wouldn't be accepted.

Yet despite my own many, many issues, Randy's parents seemed to like me and didn't have vocal oppositions to me hanging around for what would become the long haul.  I grew to love them as a second set of parents.  The physical distance between us of course serving as a hurdle to our flourishing relationship; however I am rarely short on words so phone conversations filled in the gaps between our visits.

When we moved to Colorado shortly after arriving home from our honeymoon, the visits from family and friends became cherished treasures on the timeline of our lives; countless memories and quality time squished into the span of mere days, captured in a few snapshots for prosperity.

Shortly after Gavin was born, and just over a year into our marriage, Rick and Rhonda came to visit and meet their newest grandson.  Randy and I of course put on our best tour guide attire and proudly showed off a few of the little gems we had stumbled across in our short tenure in our new home state.
But it was the times when we were doing 'nothing'; or 'visiting', a more fitting term for the quality time spent; that stand out in my mind with the most prevalence.  There was one afternoon--I recall a couple of conversations that both Randy and I viewed for many years with a negative connotation.

We had been driving somewhere; lunch downtown, the Harley shop...the specifics aren't important; and there were some terse words exchanged between my husband and me.  Again, the attention isn't in the details; but there was just enough 'oomph' in our tones with one another that it raised a flag in the eyes {and ears} of my in-laws.

When we arrived back home, I sat in the living room to nurse a very hungry Gavin, and my mother-in-law sat to keep me company.  I'm not sure how it came to be, but Randy and Rick were in the basement, watching something on tv together.

Later on, Randy and I each discovered that in the conversations we each had with his parents; concerns were voiced in regards to the earlier interaction they'd observed.  My husband and I grew defensive; frustrated by what we felt was an attempt to stick their noses into our lives after just a couple of days in our presence.  Randy was not pleased.  And, because I had this inherent ability to mask myself behind shame, I was embarrassed that his parents saw the interaction and decided to step in the way they did; worried they'd think we were failing.

But what if they were right?  What if they saw something in that brief exchange that they recognized as a crack that could eventually topple a structure?  What if they weren't so much 'sticking their noses in' as 'imparting wisdom'?  What if their motives weren't meant to be moment-killing, but instead, to be seed-planting?  To take pieces of their past experiences and wrap them in a tender coat of concern; planting them deep in our hearts for chance they take root and grow and flourish.  And what if we, in our haughty naivete, squashed the seeds out of assumption that we knew what we were doing on our own.

I know for a fact that my in-law's marriage was not the 'ideal' I had labeled it as in my mind during those first few months of knowing them.  This isn't to point fingers and label and highlight any one thing; it's just a common fact.  And even if I never once heard it from the source, I would know it to be true because, humans.  We are all affected by the nature of human brokenness; and my precious in-laws are no exception.

So what if we missed the mark that day; met their intentions with frustrations, and fought against something meant for our good?

Ironically enough, on that fateful day; when Randy was approached by his father; I was sitting across from my mother-in-law, in an over-sized arm chair feeling both defensive {as is human nature, I suppose}, but also feeling receptive.  As a postpartum, brand new mom who was essentially considered a newlywed, I was smack dab in the midst of the reality of my new circumstances.  And as a perpetual people pleaser driven by the fear of shame; I wanted to get it right.

The specifics of our conversation are buried deep in the unreachable archives of the human mind; however, it was how we ended our talk, the words we spoke {well, she spoke...I was too 'new' and uncertain I'd do it right--hello?! confidence issues much?} did plant a seed.  The prayer Rhonda led me in that day planted a mustard seed.  I knew that day that she had faith in me.  That she was proud of me.  And that my father-in-law felt the same; because when Rhonda told Rick, I was once again welcomed into the arms that had hugged me that first night I met him.  It was as if HE were hugging me himself.  And even then, I remember feeling a bit embarrassed, feeling a bit of shame as my husband looked on.  I felt like I was showing weakness when really, HE was just getting me started on my pathway to strong.

My seed took some time to take root.  The forces necessary to bust through the hard coat and reach for the enriching soil didn't take effect over night.  And there have been many, many setbacks.  I've plucked my mustard seed from the ground at times; thinking I can do it on my own.  Events along the way have wreaked havoc on that little seed.  Floods have tried to wash it away; drought, threatened to waste it away.

I've made some really crappy choices in recent years.  I've kept my little seedling growing in the soil, hooked up to a self-watering device so that I could try to have it both ways.  Try to keep up appearances while following a self-fulfilling role.

And it has all but ended me.  My marriage is gripping the thinnest thread, some days with greased fingers.  My children.  Oh, I see the eyes of my children and I fear for what this season is writing on their hearts.  I fear for their confidence, for the way in which they identify themselves.  I worry they'll take on shame and wear it around like a coat that keeps the pulpy, vulnerable parts of them hidden away.  It's in those pulpy vulnerable parts where life is--when a seed grows, it busts through those hard shells.  Right through the coat and those feelings of insecurity or pride or shame or low self-esteem; and the stuff inside does its work.  Does its growing.

I didn't really begin knocking on that hard coat until a couple years ago.  And to be honest, if it weren't for Randy discovering my gross inequities in our marriage; I don't know if I'd be where I am today.  If I'd have the courage to let the pulpy vulnerable show.  The trouble is, the damage that's come from the little self-watering system I had set up is lifelong.  And I can't change it.  Or bring it under control.  There have been other seeds planted in that.  Seeds of doubt and distrust, of hurt, anger and indifference.  The coats of those seeds are much, much harder; nearly impossible to crack.  But I have a suspicion that the insides of those seeds are filled with the pulpy vulnerable stuff as well.  From the insides of those seeds, we find the salve of healing.  It's a deep and very carefully guarded treasure; the control of which lying in the hands of the offended, not the offender.  The harvest could take years.  Even a lifetime.

I wish my father-in-law were still with us for so, so many reasons.  I have found such comfort in conversations with Rhonda over the years; but my heart hurts for her knowing she isn't able to spend her remaining days with the man she chose to plant and harvest seeds with.  Their relationship may have been riddled with periods of flood and drought, they may have had times when their focus wasn't always on their own seeds; but when I met them, none of that showed on their faces.  Their faces reflected one another because they had tilled the ground and removed the weeds.  The hard-shelled seeds still hung out in the soil because, humans.  They didn't let those stubborn seeds choke out the land and render it useless, only to move on to greener pastures.  They tilled and tilled and broke down those hard, hard shells until the pulpy vulnerable eeked its way out and touched soil.  The seeds that were once hard and impossible gave way to healing and to life.

I wish we had listened more that day in 2006.  I wish we had been receptive rather than rejecting.  I wish we would have seen that setting a good foundation; planting seeds in well-tended soil can't guarantee a good harvest, but the odds are in favor of such.  But our soil is rocky.  Dry; baked by a harsh sun, requiring nutrients so great it can seem impossible--even pointless to try acquiring enough.

But there's these four kids.  And their hearts.  So we slowly, slowly, slowly gather; only watering when we think of it--not nearly enough to encourage flourishing.  But thank goodness in this world there's a community of seed growers.  They support those seeds when the growers just can't.  Sprinkling nutrients, tipping a can over the fence to let water rain down from above.  Just enough to keep it going and growing.

I wish my father-in-law were still with us.  For so many reasons.  I would want to talk with him more.  To watch him with our children and my husband and hear his laugh and to watch in real-life the fruits of labor in a marriage pocked by pain, yet redeemed by rain.

whiskey rose

Just over a month ago, on February 6, 2017, our family welcomed baby number 4; our third daughter.  She arrived at 3:10 pm; wide-eyed, healthy, 7lb. 3 oz., 19 3/4", and a head full of hair.  A perfect blend of her older siblings, as well as her mama and daddy.

We didn't know whether we were adding another boy or another girl to our family until delivery day; something we had not done with any of the other three kids; and the experience is one I won't ever forget.  It felt like almost 90% of people who gave their 'weigh in' with their gender guess was team blue; so there were a lot of surprised people out there; myself included.

I didn't have a 'feeling' one way or the other throughout my entire pregnancy; however at some point in the final two weeks, I began to get these little inklings that I'd once again have the experience of bringing up a bouncing baby boy.  I had one, and only one, dream about the specific gender of the baby; and it was even on the same night that Raegan's teacher had a dream about the baby as well.  The consensus for both our dreams was a baby boy.

So when this lil miss arrived; needless to say, my eyes were wide and my jaw, dropped.

I was asked so often if I had a preference one way or the other; and my answer was that; honestly?  I didn't have one.  I really and truly would have loved to have the experience of another little boy, because it's been so very long since I've had a sweet bruiser of a boy come running to me with an armload of trucks and train cars; wanting to use my legs as mountains and tunnels for his imaginary adventures.  But, ohh...a little girl.  The bows, the ruffles, the whole idea of another little mini following in my footsteps {as well as the footsteps of two amazing older sisters}.  I  really loved that idea as well.  Because, #mostrecentexperience {and also; I love raising my girls to become strong and capable, kind and world-changing women}.

I remember telling Randy my reservations and fear that I'd have feelings of disappointment if the baby wasn't the gender I had 'felt' in my dream a few short days before delivery.  The phrase 'ultra surprise' was what he used to describe what I had pessimistically labeled disappointment.  I liked the positivity of that descriptor; and, as fate God would have it, at 3:10 pm on February 6th, I had the extraordinary opportunity to experience that 'ultra surprise' first hand.

Jameson Rose.

When we were thinking of names for the baby, Randy and I decided pretty quickly one evening during the first trimester.  We typed our choices for each gender into the pregnancy app I'd downloaded and kept them quiet from everyone.  We never really said the names out loud, because, with three other kids, our house literally has ears.

It wasn't until the third trimester hit that I really began to {silently} add the choices we'd made onto the roster of names I'd holler up the stairs when I needed the kids to fold laundry/come down for dinner/stop fighting.  I don't know what it was, but something about each of the names we'd chosen so many weeks earlier just wasn't quite grabbing me like they had done once before.  I really liked them, and I knew that whichever one we'd end up with would grow on me over time along with the sweet babe who owned it; but I just...I don't know.  Wasn't feeling it.  I began to re-scan list upon list of unique baby names, uncommon baby names, baby names that end with a short-vowel-n {the one clue we gave people about what the name would be}.  And that's when I remembered.

A name we had once tossed around when we were expecting {what we thought was our final} baby #3.  Jameson.  A name we both liked, but upon finding out we were expecting a girl, set aside for reasons led by worry that this seemingly more 'masculine' name would not be widely accepted for a little girl.  After all, if you do any sort of search on the name, the results are tied to the label 'boy names'.

But this time.  This time the name wormed its way back into my mind, began to find its place at the end of the litany of names I shout out each day.  This time it nestled in well along side Gavin, Brynn, and Raegan.  It worked.  And the best part was I felt like it worked for both a baby boy or a baby girl {and also?  whiskey.  it works for whiskey.  and, yes.  we've been asked.  and no, whiskey is in no way linked to conception. [plus?  Randy's a Crown kinda guy]}.  I digress.

Back to the baby names yet again, only this time in search of middle names for each gender.  Really, we didn't take too long to decide--our conversations about baby names have always been pretty low-maintenance.  Rose became the top female contender pretty quickly for it's beauty and simplicity; and, in keeping with our arrow and 'fourward' theme, Archer became our choice for a boy.  I felt a resurgence of excitement for this new little person we were about to welcome into our family.  And it took a large amount of restraint to not go ahead and just add our self-proclaimed gender neutral baby name to the nursery decor or the litany of names I have tattooed on my arm.  Alas, the ink will wait for a little.

There are expectant parents who pore over lists of baby names; making selections based upon the meaning of the name.  A practice that I fully respect; and confidently acknowledge as 'not what works for me'.  I love words {obviously}, so to try and select meanings behind baby names that I'd want to define our child...?  The poor kid would probably have 7 names, because I just couldn't narrow it down.

So it was of no surprise to me when I looked up the meaning and discovered a little porthole pathway to the Bible.  Because, if ever there's a way to find God, it's in the miracle of a baby.  Especially in this baby.  Our unexpected surprise baby who steered us away from the pathway we had selfishly {and stupidly} tried to navigate toward--the divergent path of divorce.

{He used a baby to change the course of [our] future.  Hmmm.  Sounds familiar.}

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to make the inference that Jameson means 'son of James'.  James is derived from the Hebrew 'Yaakov', which is the origination of the name Jacob.  And now Jacob {stay with me} is often thought to be derived from the word 'akev'--the literal translation of which is 'at the heel'.

Jacob was the son of Rebecca and Issac, grandson of Sarah and Abraham {you know, the father of the Christian faith}.  Jacob was also a twin.  It is said in Genesis 25:26 that when he was born, he came out grabbing his twin {Esau} by the heel; thus his name.  Another name associated with Jacob is 'Supplanter'.   To supplant is to take the place of another, to replace.  In the Bible, Jacob was a supplanter, but eventually was willing to completely submit to God's will.  

When I read all of this {and more...because I always read more}, I couldn't help but smile at the way He was woven into the whole story behind a name we 'just happened to like', yet put on a shelf a while back only to bring it back out for such a time as this.

My pregnancy with Jameson was essentially grabbing the heel of a marriage that was on the brink of divorce.  It wasn't an easy road to traverse, but ultimately, those nine months were in some way, a suppplanter.  They replaced what we thought was our plan with His.  It took work, takes work, and will continue to take work; but the path toward divergence was replaced with a path toward reconciliation, and growth.

Jacob's life was one filled with struggle and poor decisions.  In the Bible, Jacob had been a liar.  He was deceitful to those closest to him.  He was self-centered. He thought he could find happiness apart from God; thought he could control his life.   But God didn't allow him to succeed without HIM.  He blocked Jacob's efforts to satisfy himself and led him back to HIM.   His family was somewhat of a mess, yet in the end, he was the one who set things straight.  God used him.  When Jacob was wrestling with God; he was persistent and refused to let go until God blessed him {Gen. 32:24-26}.  Persistence paid off; for God changed Jacob's name to Israel, which means 'he strives with God' {Gen 32:28}.

'Jacob', a man whose character changed so radically that God changed his name {as well as the course of his life} made way for 'James' which then opened the door for Jameson.  A name we so happened to choose for a child we were definitely not expecting; but through the grace of God has changed the course of our lives.  A name we so happened to choose for a child who came into our lives at a time when we thought we could control our lives and satisfy ourselves by breaking apart the thing that God had put together.

I know there are people who think that Jameson reads more masculine than feminine; and while that may seem to be true, if there's one thing I know it's that if this girl; this tiny little miracle is strong enough to grab the heels of her parents and bring their paths back toward each other again, she is definitely strong enough to carry her name.  And while we didn't have the opportunity to use Archer, she is definitely mommy and daddy's arrow.

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.