Name Calling.

You, you who have been named by the world, labeled by others or put into a box which demeans-
this is not your identity.

You, you who have put down, cursed out, and trampled under-
this is not your position.

You, you who have been neglected, looked over and passed by-
this is not indicative of your worth.

You, you who have decided they must be right and have, with weary heart chosen to wear their ideas about you- even though a tiny part of you still knows it is a shirt much too small, torn and stained-
this is not the end of your story.

You, you who have surrendered to the world, resolved to live trampled, traded your value for a lie and walk with shame in a garment made for a beggar-
this is not your calling,
this is not your destiny,
this is not how Jesus sees you.

Remember the guy from the lion’s den? Yeah, him, Daniel. Well, the world renamed Daniel “Belteshazzar,” and tried to make him the slave of a foreign king. But Daniel…

Daniel never doubted his identity as Child of God.
Daniel never doubted his position as Favored.
Daniel never wavered in his worth because he knew his worth was from a Heavenly King.
Daniel never feared the end of the story because he knew no matter what, His God would get the glory.
Daniel lived boldly in the face of naming, shaming and threat of punishment. He lived bold, even when he was afraid.

When Daniel was at his lowest, weary and trembling with fear- an angel came to him and strengthened him. Strengthened him with just a touch of a hand and a few words. Words of restored identity…

“He said, ‘O man, highly regarded and greatly beloved, do not be afraid. Peace be to you; take courage and be strong.’ Now when he had spoken to me, I was strengthened and said, ‘Let my lord speak, for you have strengthened me.” –Daniel 10:19

I have never met an angel the type Daniel described, one dressed in linen with loins girded in gold. But I have been strengthened with a word of truth before. And I believe with all that is in me, truth in the face of lies is the greatest use of words our mouths could ever utter. I want to give you some words I have experienced to be life giving truth-

You have been invited to wear the garments of not only Daniel, highly regarded and greatly beloved, but of Jesus himself- whole, worthy and without blemish. This is faith in the work of Christ, to trade in all the muck of sin, all the labels of the world and all of the shame both earned and bestowed for a true identity of Redeemed, Restored and New. In Christ YOU are a New Creation, the old has gone and the new has come! (2 Cor 5:17)

Today, as I give thanks for many things, I give thanks first that Jesus has called me by my true name: His. If you, like me, as child of the King, need some reminding, here is your true identity-

You are Redeemed, who was named not enough.

You are Chosen, who was named rejected.

You are Beloved, who was named neglected.

You are Loved, who was named dirty.

You are Covered, who was named shameful.

You are Saved, who was named lost cause.

You are Seen, who was named alone.

You are Free, who was named locked up.

You are Perfect in Christ, who was named unworthy, hot mess, promiscuous, obnoxious, loud, tease, ugly, stupid, mistake, unwanted, or _______________________. (Fill in the blank with ANY name they have stuck on you, or maybe you willingly put on but no longer want to own it.)

Today, I am covering with prayer and petition everyone whom these words reach. They are not my words to give you. They are the very truth of a Creator God who saw fit to make you, love you and draw you to Himself forever by the good work of Christ. They are the words of The One who is just waiting for you to reach out and take back your true name, to stand up straight and own your true identity. No, I am not an angel and I cannot hug you like I desire to hold you; like you need or deserve to be held. But I can offer to you these words, on behalf of Truth: You are greatly desired, right now, just as you are, no. matter. what.  

Today I give thanks for you, you have breath in the universe, you who God so desired to knit together with love, you who are highly regarded and greatly beloved.

May your Thanksgiving day be filled with an awareness of just how much you are cherished.

Surviving September

I survived September 2018. That is really the only way to put it. The whole darn month felt like an onslaught of responsibilities I could barely keep straight, much less manage. See actual video footage of my month here. I might be the only one, but for me parenting in Survival Mode feels a lot like it might feel to be a contestant for Miss America:

• You have this big checklist (= life) 
• It must be accomplished in front of an audience and judges (=children/neighbors/friends/grocery store checkout people, teachers), 
• The stakes feel ridiculously high (= if I don't get this right my children will fail in life, or die, or heaven forbid forget to wear underwear beneath her skirt at school!), 
• You are tense, on edge and desperately hoping to win (= you had FOUR kids because you thought you could handle it, RIGHT?! Now show the world YOU. GOT. THIS.)
• Yet, to the outside you must appear as freaking calm and put together as possible. Lest folks catch on to the reality which is your desperate internal chaos and vote you off the island. (Wait, what, they don't host the Miss America competition on an island anymore? Or, ever? Huh. Well, whatever, you get the point.)

My prayer during September, like a good Perfectionist in recovery, was "just get me through today." Then in the midst of prayer I would list for God (and myself) all the things I needed to get done to make the day some version of a win. The list was consistently the same day after day, but nevertheless, each day was marked with a certainty that I was missing something from the list. All month long I had this fear that I would forget something, drop the proverbial ball, make someone mad, or was just one wrong step away from being tossed head first off the hamster wheel. Lemmetellyou, it is an awful feeling to consistently live like you might misstep at any time.*

Possibly one trillion times during September I said to myself, muttered to God, or complained to a friend: "It just shouldn't be this hard. Should it?" My self said back to me, "Buck up. No one promised life would be a cake walk." From heaven I felt this gentle reminder that rest is possible even during the busiest, hardest times. And my friends, oh my delightful friends never failed to tell me that even in the drudges of Hard I was "amazing." (You can borrow my friends if you need. They are awesome and I am not stingy.) All this to say, in order to make it to Oct. 1, I pretty much utilized a messy combination of asking for help, ego, grit, with a sprinkling of mindfulness, spiritual rest and a boatload of unwarranted grace.

Then this week, on the last day of September, a new strategy landed in my lap. Literally. In the form of a book on my lap. I had a few minutes (in the bathroom, obvi. TMI? Maybe, but when else does a SAHM of 4 have time to herself to pick up a book? Exactly.) Anyhow, I was thumbing through Gift from the Sea, by Anne Morrow Lindbergh** when I came across her arguably prophetic line, a line I have read fifty times already, but saw it again afresh,

"...today more of us in America than anywhere else in the world have the luxury of choice between simplicity and complication of life." (p. 27). 

She penned this line in 1955. True then, even truer now. Who knew that within 50 years of initial publication of her book we would be able to search the internet, check our email, FaceTime AND watch TV all at the same time, possibly while dancing an Irish jig in pigtails? I mean, if things were complicated in 1955, what the heck would Anne have to say about my life in 2018? Is "complicated" even the right word anymore?

Her words sliced deep, as conviction caught me off guard. One thought flooded forth,

This busy life is a life I have chosen. This To-Do list I slave for, it is of my own doing. 

And instead of shame poking me in the ribs over this revelation regarding the September "I almost didn't survive", I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Gratitude for the power of choice I have been given. I found myself utterly humbled by the "luxury" that is my life of "complication." Because what gift it is to be able to say, I have chosen this busy schedule, I have had crafted this rat race routine, I have manufactured a life of relative mania. 

It is gift to realize, my life isn't so much out-of-control circumstances, or the doing of other people. In terms of chaos, this life is pretty much all me. To remember this is to take a knee in thanksgiving. If we aren't shocked and awed by the gift of free will when we have been given it, then we will be utterly paralyzed when confronted with situations that are out of our circle of control.

Reading Anne's sentence I felt a bit giddy. Because guess what? If I have the power to schedule it, I have the power to undo it. I have within my capacity the option of scaling back, simplifying and sacrificing wants. All while my basic needs are met without question. What is this charmed life? Who am I to be so free?

So I grabbed a pen and did this thing. Call it an experiment if you will, but I listed out every single thing I routinely do throughout the week, and next to the list made two columns: 

Column 1: Have-To

Column 2: Want- To. 

Then I went through my list of "duties" and checked off which column each To-Do belonged in. Just under half of my responsibilities fell under the Want-To side of things. Maybe sit with that a sec, because I still need a moment with it. 

Nearly 1/2 half of my daily To-Do's are things I am CHOOSING to do in my life. Simply because they bring me joy or I believe myself, my family or the larger world is better for them. Or, on the flip side, some of them I am doing just because I said "yes" or rather, didn't want to say the "no." Either way, they are things I, without coercion, committed to in some way, shape or form.

I am embarrassed to say I spent a whole month not giving thanks for this reality. Instead, I spent the month grouchy and looking for someone to hold accountable for my struggle. See, when Husband is gone and my family is an ocean a way, I desperately desire someone to blame. Someone to throw rocks at for the sad state of stressful September affairs my life is. 

But lists don't lie, and the only one to "blame" is me. 

Ugh. That is too pessimistic.

Let's try it another way: 

The only one to congratulate for the chaotic busyness of my life, is ME.

This life is what I have chosen to create with the gifts I’ve been given. 

I repeat, my busy isn't something I am going to beat myself up over, this is something to give thanks for. Because the blessing within is twofold. One, I have the luxury of choice. I have ample resources for stuffed-full living. Nannies, housekeepers, microwave ovens, grocery delivery services, Amazon, running vehicles, access to gasoline, funds for sports, dance studios, health clubs, hair salons, continue ad nauseum. All of these things are good things I have at my fingertips. Things that allow me to be busier. (Because who of us stops at McDonalds at 7pm because we needed time for more rest. NONE. We reheat dinner in the microwave then eat standing up or hit the drive through so we can be more productive, more busy, more To-Do-y.) These are things most of the world has no access too, much less clean water. Second, I have the privilege of saying when my enough is enough. If it isn't a Have-To, it does NOT need to be on my list. 

I realized the moment I make my Want-To's, Have-To's is the moment I lose my power. 

It is the moment I become a slave to my schedule. 

And in that moment I am no different than a caged hamster on her wheel. 

Round and round and round and round and round I go... 

Until the wheel tosses me off because I am too tired to take another step. 

Evidence suggests it is always, always, always best to 

jump off the wheel via our own free will. 

Always.

I can't say what your list looks like. But I am guessing, if you were to be honest with yourself, a bunch on that list falls under Want-To.  Or maybe a better column would be, "I used to think I wanted to." If that is the case it is never too late to uncommit yourself to that which you can no longer do. Or want to do. Sure, some commitments we certainly have to see to the end. Personal integrity or a contract demands it. But that extra harmonica lesson little Hermione begged for on Saturday at 8:30am? Maybe that can go. Or maybe not. Either way, the choice is YOURS. Remember it. Then revel in it.

On that last day of September as I sat with my list before me, and even now as I look it over a few days later, I am struck with an odd sense of joy. A joy I didn't feel two weeks ago. A joy that refreshes. In the car driving to another practice, picking up another dirty sock, or stirring together a loaf of banana bread at 9pm because you promised Crazel she could have some for breakfast and you forgot- that stuff doesn't necessarily feel joyful. No. And I don't think it has to. But, what absolutely needs to inspire joy in us are all the reasons why we do the Want-To's on our list. 

I think my joy in the list came as I realized that every Why behind each Want-To's on my list brings me joy.  Joy happens when we think on joy! It is so simple and so hard. Joy multiplied when I realized all my Want-To’s are ultimately motivated by love. So really, I could absolutely change the name of my Want-To list to "Because I love you" list. Sports, dance, driving them to school, PTA, church, 9pm banana bread, Bible Study, Face Time calls, back scratches and books read aloud much past bedtime, these are things I don't always want to do, but do because I believe someone I desire to love well, myself included, benefits. 

Here is the kicker though, if I can no longer do the Want To's lovingly; if I have a bad attitude every time I do them, it means they have to go. Or something else has to give. If I cannot do a loving thing in a consistently loving way, it is not love. It is probably pride. Please hear this, a To-Do list seeped in pride will kill you. Literally. 

The first thing I forget in my busy, is my Why's. I don't know the reason for this. But I suspect, at its core it is a sneaky move, by an unseen, deceitful force to eradicate love. As I type this, some old verses from the youthful depths of my memory bank arise, 

"If I speak with human eloquence and angelic ecstasy but don’t love, I’m nothing but the creaking of a rusty gate. If I speak God’s Word with power, revealing all his mysteries and making everything plain as day, and if I have faith that says to a mountain, “Jump,” and it jumps, but I don’t love, I’m nothing. If I give everything I own to the poor and even go to the stake to be burned as a martyr, but I don’t love, I’ve gotten nowhere. So, no matter what I say, what I believe, and what I do, I’m bankrupt without love."                                                                                                                      1Corinthians 13:1-7

The above is The Message translation. Mine would read, "If I give everything I have to my children, my time, my youth, my gasoline, my money, my wisdom, my correction, my snuggles, my abs, my milk, my dinners, my energy, my faith, but I don't love, I am a hamster on a wheel. Not because they won't be better for it, but because I will be empty, miserable and exhausted.” 

Kind of like my September. 

But it is October now. And the first day of October was a Monday and I always feel as if that is a good omen. Mostly because I believe Monday's should be the first day of the week, but perhaps this isn't that soapbox. So I digress. October- a new month to embrace the places love asks me to go to, to do the things love encourages me to do, and to rest in the truth that I am fully loved as I go and do love. A new month to officially rename the To-Do list. How about, A Go-Do Love list? 

Kind of catchy, don’t you think?

Praying the same October for you.

footnotes are my favorite

*This is a perfect example of how self-awareness can be a bad thing. 

** I keep Gift from the Sea right next to my copy of Help, Thanks, Wow by Ann Lammot and Ann Voskamps One Thousand Gifts. (Sweet Moses! I JUST realized now the three go-to books for my 30's are all books by Ann/e's! What the what is that supposed to mean?!??!?!?) These three books, next to the Bible, continue to be my holy grail of faithful adulting. If you haven't read them, stop what you are doing and Amazon the hard copies right to your front door. Like, yesterday already. 

my sisters just so we are clear, it is NEVER because of you.

Because you wonder if it was maybe your fault.

Since

You were drinking

You had a promiscuous past

You did kiss him at the bar

You didn’t scream for his roommate in the room next to the couch

You didn’t run out in the morning

You went on another date with him

You told yourself “he was too drunk to know any better.”

Because you wonder if it was maybe your fault.

Since

You were at a bar

You had ordered a drink while you waited for your friend

You hadn’t drug tested that drink

You told yourself if you hadn’t been alone it wouldn’t have happened.

Because you wonder if it was maybe your fault.

Since

You didn’t hit and kick him

You didn’t run to tell your mommy right away

You didn’t tell him he was wrong when he told you “playing doctor is okay” and you knew it felt “icky” and wrong

You knew if you told he would be mad and not want to be your playmate anymore.

Because you wonder if it was maybe your fault:

So, you say nothing.

You take the blame.

You try to shake the shame that always comes with sex and your body.

You explain it away as “boyish” behavior- if it wasn’t really “rape” “attempted assault” or “molesting” then maybe you can pretend it never happened.

You believe you are at fault- because if you are to blame then no one can make you a victim.

You drown your pain with more alcohol, more men and more destructive behavior. Without knowing it you are out to prove just how much a victim you are not. And in the proving lose yourself, hurt yourself and then hurt others. Loads of others.

You run. And run and run. You become the kind of person who should be blamed. Because you are to blame? Aren’t you? Couldn’t you have avoided it all if you would have had different friends, different hobbies, different clothes, different Friday night activities and a whole different college?

Because you wonder if it was maybe your fault.

But then you hear stories. But then you tell a counselor. But then you start listening. But then you start reading. But then you want to stop. Stop it all.

Because then you wonder if maybe it wasn’t.

maybe it wasn’t your fault?

And then you wonder some more.

What if it was his responsibility to stop when you said “no. no. no. please stop.”?

What if he wasn’t supposed to put shit in your drink?

Maybe It Wasn’t Your Fault?

What if he was older, bigger, knew better and took advantage of your size?

What if maybe you are a victim?

What if maybe you are the statistic?

MAYBE IT WASN”T YOUR FAULT?

What if it is true that there are women, maybe 1 in 4 even who, regardless of their history of promiscuity, decisions about sobriety, choice of clothing, Friday night hobbies, and college selection are wondering the exact same thing? Right now. As you wonder.

But then you wonder what if it is easier to be at fault 

then deal with the possibility you were a victim?

And you realize, there are women who protest #metoo and question the coming forward of more survivors because they quite possibly have the most to lose. Because if it happened to the others, you are forced to remember, then choose:  Did it happen to you or because of you. 

Broken and Whole

Sometimes you underline a sentence and then wish you hadn’t. When I underline, it is my invitation to again revisit the words. I underline a lot of Ann Voskamp; she demands a lot of revisiting. If you’ve read Ann too, you get it. This is one of those lines,

“Brokenness cracks open a soul so the power of God can crack the darkness in the world." –Ann Voskamp

I tend to resist the idea of brokenness as it applies to my life. I save ideas like brokenness for those who have suffered real pain, genuine loss, or unimaginable heartbreak. On some level I believe my hurts cannot compare to the hurts of others, so who am I to claim brokenness? Save that for the true heroes, the real saints of this world. The ones who have tasted a cup I have, by unexplained grace, yet to be passed. And still, as I read Ann’s words again, part of me says, “Yes Ann! I know of these cracks you write."

Maybe it is the ghastly Perfectionism in me that counteracts the hint of kinship sensed with the words just underlined? I don't know, but wherever its source, a voice in my head whispers: you haven’t suffered enough to make it count. You aren’t broken “perfectly enough” to claim His light shining through. These whispers bring me right back to the ugly Me vs. Them dichotomy.  Me, who has known easy life. Them, those who can claim true brokenness. It is here in this dichotomy where there is guilt crushing. Who am I to have such a charmed existence? Who am I to have escaped real pain?

Perhaps it is all the work I've done with my shame monster that triggers the voice of Truth which follows... 

The truth is, pain is pain, hurt is hurt.

And I wonder, how many times must I be reminded? When will I get this?

To deny suffering, no matter the degree, is to deny my own humanity. Pain is our shared condition. When skin breaks, blood comes forth. To say my brokenness doesn’t matter- because others have suffered far worse, is to say that some brokenness isn’t worthy of compassion. The moment I decide some pain is more worthy of compassion than others is the moment I make myself judge. It is the moment I steel my heart, instead of letting light pour through the cracks.

I don’t want to play judge and I don’t want to add to the darkness of the world.

This is the reality I tend to ignore- my hurts matter. Because all hurts matter. Everyone has suffered, will suffer or is suffering right this instant and the best, no- the only way to let Light come is to acknowledge the hurt so healing can happen. Healing happens when we finally say, “Help. This brokenness hurts.”

So I sit still with this. What is the broken I am too prideful to admit? I’ve learned if you sit still long enough with a question, genuinely seeking revelation- awareness eventually comes forth in some form. Sometimes s  l  o  w  l  y, sometimes unexpectedly, other times in a rush. This morning, as I sat in the quiet with the sun rising over the horizon, it was a flood. Deep, real feelings poured forth. I miss my family. I miss my mom and my dad and my brothers and their beautiful wives. I miss my nieces I hardly know and I miss the life I anticipated having with them.

Even in the midst of this emotional outpouring and even as I now type, I still have to fight back the voice saying that this hurt of mine isn’t true suffering. That I am weak and lame and ungrateful. But today, in the face of those lies I decide, NO. Hurt is hurt and this hurts. It is okay that this still makes me cry and that it makes me sad and that it makes my heart feel broken. I do not have to pretend otherwise. I am doing no favors to no one with my denial.

I am not weak, lame or ungrateful. I am a human with brokenness. There is room enough at the table for all of our hurts, mine included. Inhale child, next exhale. I realize I have been holding my breath, even as I now remember. Here is some truth I need to breathe in like air:

There is enough healing to go around because there is enough Light for all the cracks.

In this acknowledgement of truth I am given reminders of how Light has come through my cracks- in all of my longing for family and sickness for home I have been gifted such great community. Some community I worked to create, others I was simply invited graciously into. There are so many beautiful souls I have had the pleasure of growing with. Cherished people who now have their lives all tangled up with mine in the best sorts of ways.  People I never would have met had life turned out as expected.

I still miss my parents and siblings and often wish I were there rather than here. Not in spite of this, but because of this my heart beats undeniably for new people to call family, for new places to make a home. Not because I don’t hurt with longing for my family and home, but because I do. Desperately. The broken places of my heart, the places where I have felt displacement are the very places my heart beats to draw others in. It was when I was the one packing up boxes, yet was she who felt abandonment which left the exact scar in my soul that pleads for none to feel left out. My heart grieves for the lonely and groans to give them a home because I too have tasted this cup, this serving of humanness. My slice of suffering is exactly where Christ has called me to compassion. 

The lonely? The homesick? These are my people. 

  

Would I feel any such compassion if I hadn’t known these cracks so well myself? It feels intense, and yet this desire to help alleviate need pales in comparison to what the gospels say Christ experienced while his feet walked with living, breathing, hurting humans:

The English word for “compassion” is far too weak to express the emotion that moved Jesus. The Greek verb splagchnizomai used in all these texts is derived from the noun splagchnon, which means intestines, bowels, entrails or heart, that is to say, the inward parts from which strong emotions seem to arise. The Greek verb therefore means a movement or impulse that wells up from one’s very entrails, a gut reaction. That is why English translations have to resort to expressions like ‘he was moved with compassion or pity’ (NIC, NVSR, JB) or he felt sorry (JB) or ‘his heart went out to them’ (NEB). But even these do not capture the deep physical and emotional flavor or the Greek world for compassion. That Jesus was moved by some such emotional is beyond all reasonable doubt. (Albert Nolan, Jesus Before Christianity. As quoted in Brennan Manning’s, A Glimpse of Jesus)

Anytime our brokenness leads us to extend love and give comfort to another’s hurts, we are living our faith and allowing light to flood the cracks. It is mystery, and it is fact. No wonder Darkness wants us to pretend it doesn’t hurt. Of course Darkness suggests we steel our hearts. Compassion is borne from a heart that is willing and able to feel the hurts. And compassion is the antidote to darkness.

It is not weakness to need help or to acknowledge a hurt. The bravest thing one can do is say: I too have been broken. This is real bravery for in the truth of our pain- we are letting Light in through the cracks. And Light is always an invitation for healing. Healing not just for ourselves, but for the world. Healed people cannot help but want to heal because this is the undeniable nature of compassion. And if there is one thing humanity can never, ever have enough of it is compassionate healers. Healers who know the Light because they have let it in through the very cracks of their one broken heart.

In honor of a dear sweet Sister who has shown me and so many people what it means to let light flood all the cracks life offers up, please consider donating to this beautiful organization. Please help me tell her Happy Birthday and THANK YOU:  CLICK WITH YOUR COMPASSION HERE

In Him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. John 1:4-5 (NIV)

Mothering Day

I was recently reading Anne Lammot's yearly delightful anti-Mother’s Day, but pro-Mother FaceBook re-post. Following her words I began to read the comments. One comment mentioned the British idea of "Mothering Day" in lieu of a traditional Hallmark type Mother’s Day celebration. My curiosity piqued, I Googled this thing called "Mothering Day”. 

Turns out not every thing on Social is a lie because Mothering Day is actually a sometimes observed European tradition within both Catholic and Protestant churches where Christian believers return one Sunday a year to their "Mother Church," the church in which they were baptized. Not so unlike a yearly pilgimage home. Huh. Who knew? 

Wikipedia was clear though: Mothering Day is NOT to be confused with Mother’s Day. 

Got it Wikipedia. Thanks.

Or do I?

The more I thought about it, the more the two traditions actually seemed spiritually congruent. 

Baptism in the Christian tradition symbolizes many things, cleansing of sins, rebirth, public acknowledgment of faith and the coming together of believers into one unified life. The Apostle Paul in 1 Corinthians 12 likens it to every believer becoming part of the body of Christ. The many coming together into the one. The Message translation is my most favorite: 

“...Your body has many parts- limbs, organs, cells- but no matter how many parts you can name, you're still one body. It's exactly the same with Christ. By means of his one Spirit, we all said good-bye to our partial and piecemeal lives. We each used to independently call our own shots, but then we entered into a large and integrated life in which he has the final say in everything. (This is what we proclaimed in word and action when we were baptized.) The old labels we once used to identify ourselves- labels like Jew or Greek, slave or free- are no longer useful. We need something larger, more conprehensive. I want you to think about how this makes you more significant, not less.”

What is a mother? A mother in the most basic sense is one who baptizes a human life into the material world. Through water and blood, hardship and groans she pushes forth a new life, a life to join the family compromising this Planet Earth. But becoming a Mother is very different than choosing to enter into Motherhood. Mothering has very little to do with the act of giving birth. Motherhood is the continual process of welcoming lives into a family. Motherhood is a decision to help integrate persons into the larger community. 

Motherhood is a welcoming committee for all of humanity. Motherhood says, "Come! Let us walk together. I will share what I know and have with you. I will nurture you with all that I have to offer. And as long as I have breath, you will belong."

A decision to mother is a willingness to help others find and establish their unique place in the world. Because the act of mothering is the very process of encouraging the belonging of every single life. Those who mother understand without question that everyone is necessary because everyone has a vital role to play. And a true mother’s heart recognizes that no one person is more important or more worthy of love than another, because mothering means you love yours without discrimination.

The operative word being “yours.” Who you define as “yours” to mother is the difference between Mother’s Day and Mothering Day. 

Mother’s Day in the US is a recognition of the mother who bore you and/or claims you as hers. This tends to take an important, yet selective view of who celebrates belonging to whom. In this sense I am mother to only four and celebrate my mother and mother in law each year. 

In comparison, Mothering Day is a remembrance of ones baptism. An opportunity to celebrate your forever family membership. A family you received the moment you decided to belong to Christ. This is a much larger circle of celebration, as our belonging to Christ signifies that we also belong to each other. In this sense Christ acts as mother and we are all, as members of the same body called to emulate Him. This is sacred ground friends. Can you feel it? “Born again” is a powerful reality. 

Wikipedia, I can see how you felt the need to remind me these two traditions aren’t the same, because they are so close. They are both so deeply rooted in the celebration of the blessing that is belonging. 

The thing I struggle most with about a traditional Mother's Day is the fact that for many people this holiday is the opposite of inclusion and belonging. Instead it is a painful reminder of longing, loss, trauma, disappointments and even despair. Along this same vein, some of the most fantastic people who have mothered me, mothered my children, or taught me how to mother are not mothers in the literal sense of the word. In fact, some of them aren't even women. So a traditional Mother’s Day seems to me to fall a little short. 

Yet as I revisit the words of Paul I am encouraged. Once we are in Christ, our old labels don't really serve us well anymore. Our most significant identity becomes larger and more comprehensive. As those who have been baptized, we now embrace our new position in the family. We get to experience a new sense of belonging which comes from calling Christ our Lord and Savior. My identity as “mother” is not my highest calling, perfect label or ideal goal. To again quote The Message translation, “I want you to think about how this makes you more significant, not less.” 

I carry many titles. Daughter, wife, sister, Momma, friend, book lover, outdoor obsessive, weaver of words, sugar addict and yogi wannabe. All of these identities pale in comparison to who I am in Christ though. My chief identity, the loftiest title I can claim is to call myself one with Christ. This is ultimate significance and belonging. Something I can’t earn, but must receive. 

(And this is especially good news for myself, a mother who consistently falls short of being the kind of mother I wish I could be for my Little’s. A mother who often spends Mother’s Day cataloging all the ways my kids probably shouldn’t be celebrating me, like those times yesterday I yelled for nothing, blamed without cause, grabbed too hard, said that thing I couldn’t take back or neglected to look at them while they talked because my phone was glued to my hands...)

With this in mind the connection between mothering and baptism could make me weep. Mothering is a faith journey. It is an often messy yet beautiful walk with a family. There is no perfect way to mother, just as there is no perfect mother. There is no one way to be a follower of Christ, no formula to follow for being a perfect Christian. We are all called to live out His love in us, and for each of us that looks so different. All members of the same body, with different parts and roles and functions- no one better or worse than another. 

But there is one thing we are all asked to do in love, we are all called to welcome with wide open arms those placed into our paths. We are all called to mother because we mother when we act as bestowers of belonging. And what an amazing thing to say to another, “I see you and oh how you are loved.  You are welcome and loved just as you are because you were created by Love, for love.” This is Mothering and this is Baptism: welcome to the family. 

The table is big and there is a seat for us all. All are welcome. 

Motherhood, real true motherhood is a beautiful picture of what baptism signifies. I cannot tell you how deeply this resonates in my bones. And I cannot express in words how this changes everything.

Especially how I think about Mother’s Day.

To all of those committed to living a life of arms wide open welcome to all who will come, in whatever capacity you have chosen, may I say- happy Day of Mothering! What a beautiful role you have chosen to embrace.

And for those of you feeling like you don’t have a spot, please know there will always be room in my family. 

6 month mark...

                                    

The Fam is days away from our six month mark in Germany. Folks have toted this "milestone" as being a game changer. As in, by six months you will... feel settled... be comfortable driving... have established routines... remember to always keep Euro on your person... consistently bring your reusable shopping bags into all local economy stores... have mastered the art of laughing at all of your well meaning faux pas- even though what you really want is to hide away forever...

And they were right. By six months in, decision fatigue has faded and for the most part the little day to day things feel little again. I don't need to Google Maps my way home each time I leave the house and I have indeed embarrassed myself enough times here that laughing at myself has become an automatic response. Aside from the two one (thank you IKEA) entry way rugs I still need to purchase and our dog who remains to be flown over, I suppose one could say we are settled. For all intensive purposes at least.

What everyone failed to mention is that something else might happen around the 6 month mark.  At six months, the newness and excitement have faded away. Somewhere between learning how to order a beer in German "ein Bier bitte" and demonstrating the ability to instantly recall a "do not enter" roadway sign (solid red circle with a solid white dash through the middle of it)- loneliness will have crept in. Oh, the loneliness has always been there I suppose. But the utter chaos of moving to a new place had wonderfully masked it. Re-establishing a new homestead in a foreign county is a perfect distraction from reality. The reality which is, losing all your people to the geographical schism maps call the Atlantic Ocean. It's delayed grief and it's a thing.

We were driving this weekend, when the Middle Duck said it, "Mom,wouldn't it be nice if there was an app that people could use when they feel lonely? You could just use the app to post a picture of yourself. Other lonely people could see your picture and you would be able to find each other. Then nobody would need to feel lonely because you could always find new friends." By "nobody" he meant us. Because it turns out that the 6 month mark is when all of Team Honeycutt, not just Mom, finally has the time and energy to realize how much we miss our old friends, our old normal, our old life, and the beach... we really miss the beach. Oh, and our neighbors. We certainly took for granted the fifteen kids waiting outside our door for us to come home and play each day.

At the six month mark we finally realized the people we love most are just too far away. Now that we can finally feel we are a whole globe apart, we sorta-hafta to deal with it. It seems six months into a big move is when excitement gives way to loneliness. Then loneliness leads to a form of grief. Grief for all you left behind.

Six months in is when the elephant in the room starts passing gas. You must take care of business. Or, the elephants' business, whatever the case may be, before the elephant poops. No one wants to clean up that mess.

I don't say this to mean we aren't entirely grateful for our new relationships, new opportunities and new life*...

...quite the contrary actually. I am grateful. I know life on earth means death and so often in order for new things to come about, old things need to fade. This is growth, change and the military life. In order to have new Hellos, sometimes Goodbyes must happen. (I recall this reality sucking just as hard four years ago when we left Colorado for Hawaii, or that time I packed my car to up an leave MN for the mountains...) But this process of death into life isn't how it was supposed to be. This is Garden reality. And so, this process will hurt. Every single time.

To quote the great theologian Semisonic: "Every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end."

It is easy for me to want to brush over the pain of loneliness. It is tempting to say, "Well, we have not suffered a tragic loss in death, or a horrible diagnosis or accident or loss of physical safety. So we should buck up kids. Just move onward." It is in these moments of minimizing I must remind myself that hurt is hurt and just because the intensity of our hurt varies- does not mean we have the option of choosing to grieve or not. Because if a loss has occurred and it hurts, it will get grieved one way or the other. In my experience, letting that process happen with awareness, no matter the degree of hurt is always best. For everyone involved. Think elephant poop vs. gas. Gas is always preferable.

So it is I count us blessed, grateful and grieving. I mean, how lucky are we for our geographic relocation Goodbyes to be painful enough to be grieved? Being really sad to leave behind friends and an old life means we had really good people and a really good life. What is not to grieve about this? Grief is simply intense sorrow. Leaving behind people you love and whom love you, is a loss and it is really sad. Starting over is lonely.

Loss+Sad+Lonely= Grief every time. 

This grief The Fam is feeling, while it might drastically pale in comparison to some of the things others are grieving, I know it is important to acknowledge and let ourselves feel.  I think this is why Jesus cried at the tomb of Lazarus, even though he knew what was coming next. (Spoiler alert... He made Laz undead. And not like a zombie.) In all his perfection- Jesus knew, sad is still sad, no matter where your hope is. Grief, hope, sadness gratitude we can hold them all together. They can be a package deal.

So, while grief is no time for competition or comparison; ie. "His tragedy is worse than mine so I shouldn't feel this."  Our grief right now has the space in it for us to stop and take stock. See, to truly be thankful for the good stuff we moved away from or lost is to let ourselves cycle right through the process of grief. To deny ourselves the experience of sorrow is to deny how much we loved what we have lost. To withhold grief is the antithesis of gratitude.

Ya'll know I don't do sad well. I would rather feel anything than sadness (or boredom). So, when my kid comes to me and wants to create an app to zap his loneliness- I get that. I get that hard. Why can't we just stay so busy we don't need to feel this? Let's find some instafriends and pretend we left behind nothing. The plan seems foolproof. Right?! But instead of hiding, this time I Cowgirled up and pressed into his and into my grief. We talked about why we were feeling lonely. We talked about how making new friends takes time. We talked about how losing friends and starting over feels like a death so it is okay to feel really sad about it.

I talked with him about this as I struggled with my desire to minimize the loss and all my faithful tactics to rationalize the sad away. See, I get on paper why letting myself grieve is the right thing- actually letting my heart do the grieving is a whole other matter.

When I followed up with my Lonely App creating boy a few days later, he said something which hit me in a full circle sort of way. I asked him what his feelings of lonely were up to and he replied, "I still feel sad, but God is still with me." Huh. He gets it. Why can't I? God is in my sad. God is in my grief. God is in my lonely. He isn't the author of sorrow and I won't pretend to know why He lets so much of it happen, but He will sit with us in it. Time and time again I have found Him in it.

It is okay to let myself feel sad, I need not fear grief because of my hope. I can lean into the lonely and grieve because my hope can be bigger.  And oh how I have a hope that does not disappoint. Just looking back at the provision with which my family has already been given, remembering all the ways Love showed up for us in Hawaii, or in Colorado or all the love that waits for us every time we return to home to family and friends.  This is why it is okay to bravely walk with my kids into our grief- because we know it is only for a season. We might not know how long the season will last, but we can trust that wherever we go- Love will meet us. As it always has.

Six months... six years... six decades- whatever the milestone we might be waiting for... Love is going to be there. We might not know what it will look like, or how it will come but Love always shows up. And perfect love casts out fear, even and perhaps especially the fear of sadness, loneliness and grief.

My grief need not be an elephant in the room I am praying won't make a mess. Grief can be an elephant we chose to ride until it takes us where we need to go**. We can trust Love will ride with us and will be waiting for us when we get there.

*Notsoquick end note. There is this funny thing I consistently encounter which applies right here, right now. It is the idea that if one misses something, or wants more or different then they are somehow being ungrateful for what they do have. I want to scream in this idea's face! Tell it to shut its' mouth. Because here is the reality- we are created for more. Longing and desire do not negate gratitude.

Wanting more or different becomes problematic when what it is you want becomes more important to you than God and your longing for Him.  Or, when what you want blinds you from your blessings. Absolutely, I'll acknowledge idolatry is a fine line. But many a Christian, especially Christian women have silenced their deep God driven desires because they feared they wanted too much, they feared their desire was a sign of their lack of thankfulness. Sure, it might be. But maybe, just maybe you have been given that desire to actually DO MORE, BE MORE, GROW MORE. Ya think?! The exciting part is letting go just a bit to see how MORE might look a little different than you first envisioned.

We can give thanks while asking for different. It isn't an either/or scenario. It is a both/and deal. We can feed our contentment while growing. Thankfulness does not mean stagnation. For often, it is gratitude which fuels our motivation.

**Just please, whatever you do with your elephant, DO NOT SHOOT IT... Don't shoot and sign the petition. Okay? Click here.

Because a bad hair day is never just about the hair.

I swallowed down my own voice. 

And it felt suffocating.

I shut my mouth. Quieted down. Stuffed all the words.

Because I didn't like how it felt to be the lone voice. I recoiled from my truth because I was afraid. 

I swallowed down my own voice.

And it felt safer for awhile.

I zipped it up. Simmered down. Pushed aside all the feelings.

Because I was afraid. I didn't want to stand out, rock the boat or cause a scene.

I swallowed down my own voice.

And rage sprang up.

I shushed my opinion. Faltered in conviction. Settled on complacency in lieu of courage or contentment.

Because I believed my perspective might hurt someone else's feelings. 

Or perhaps more truthfully, I feared my truth might cause someone to like me less. 

There is a peace that flows from righteous efforts of self-control. From purposefully resisting the urge to speak when silence is more powerful. There is a peace that flows from minimizing self, to lift up another and glorify a holy God. There is a contentment that follows holding back when of this the Spirit asks. 

This peace and contentment stand in stark contrast to what happens when we silence ourselves from a place of fear. When we swallow down our voice- the voice God has gifted, because we are afraid of what people might think of us. Nothing is more damaging to a soul than shutting down truth in the name of self-preservation. 

Yesterday I sat paralyzed in a hair salon, of all places. (Thank you Lord for training grounds which humble.) I had just turned to look in the mirror to see my finished 'do. It wasn't what I wanted. Not like the picture in my head, or the picture I had showed her. But I couldn't bring myself to really say it. So I swallowed down my own voice and violently held back tears of disappointment.

I didn't think once about the principle of the matter, or what an empowered woman might do. I didn't think about the right thing to do, instead I focused on the easiest thing. I didn't think once of my girls at home. I thought about myself and how I didn't want to cause a scene. I didn't think about my now little, but some day grown women and how I want to be a model for them. How I want to live in a way as to show them what it means to feel free and safe to use their voice. 

I didn't think about any of this until I was wide awake at 2 am, fully regretting my lack of  hair cut courage. And lamenting (berating myself for) spending so much money just to pretend I was okay with something I honestly was not okay with.

Then, in true grace form, it was just before dawn when it dawned on me. 

This isn't just about the hair. Hair grows back. 

This tossing and turning was about more. In examining how and why I held my own voice today at the salon, I realized I have been schooling my girls to swallow their voice too. The very thing I hate doing myself, I have been not-so-covertly asking them to do. And I have been asking in the name of my own selfish comfort. Every time I plead with my girls in exasperation to "Please stop crying," "Suck it up Buttercup," or the one liner I employed earlier this week, "I can't even with all your feelings today!" I send them a hidden yet very poignant message. A message this world is fond of sending women especially: your feelings are bad and if your feelings make me uncomfortable they are even worse.

When I shush their feelings, I strip them of the power their feelings hold.

I consistently fail to hold space for their feelings because right now their feelings come out loud, noisy, whiny and constantly. In short their feelings are really hard to listen to right now and often leave me feeling both exhausted and inadequate. (Mommas, can I getta Amen?!) When I ask, or rather command them to stop what they are feeling- I am essentially asking them to swallow down their voice mostly because I don't like how their voice makes my life more difficult. I am teaching them to silence their truth to preserve a facade of peace. Or rather, my ease. Not so different than swallowing my feelings at a salon to avoid creating more work for someone or risking being seen as "difficult." 

But someone else's ease is an awful reason to silence our feelings. If only because it doesn't work. At some point, this tactic will inevitably backfire. I have experienced this first hand. Over and over again.

I don't want a pretend peaceful life and I don't want an easy life, free of things that are hard. I want, for myself and my girls true peace. Peace that comes even in the fire, peace that accompanies scary and hard. Peace that flows from a place of freedom. Freedom to be who we were created to be. Because I know, deep down, freedom in telling our truth comes when we realize our feelings are ours. Ours to feel, identify, manage, move into, out of and through. Our feelings are a gift from a Creator who knew feelings add color, depth and dimension to life. Our feelings cannot make or break us- any more than our feelings must control us. Turning feelings on and off to avoid discomfort is both disingenuous and dangerous. Manufacturing feelings to please another will only exhaust and empty. It is a like living a lie.

Yet somewhere along the line, early in life I missed this memo.  I got the idea that my feelings were bad. That my feelings were too powerful, too much, too out of control- so I learned to master my feelings. I learned to "turn on" the feelings I thought were appropriate and "turn off" the feelings I thought made people uncomfortable. I learned how to swallow my voice. My voice, the very thing God gave to help process, share and express the feelings which were meant to be felt, not bottled up.

When I think of this I am reminded of all the ways those feelings came out when I stopped using my voice to express them.. sex, striving, disordered eating, people pleasing, alcohol, obsession with appearance... but these were simply tools to alter mood. Never once did they help release my feelings. Not one single time. Rather, they simply added more feelings in need of bottling. 

Feelings unexpressed long enough will always, always, always lead to rage. Usually rage of the self-loathing variety. This is why last night I found myself wide awake at 2 am. Internally raging at myself. Some say rage is a fear response, I also believe rage is a byproduct of powerlessness. I rendered myself without power when I restricted my voice. Rage came out in the form of self-loathing as I couldn't believe I didn't muster the courage to speak up with conviction. I played over and over in my head what I could have and should have done or said differently. 

On the couch in the morning dark, sipping tea, wishing for sleep to come I sorted through all the feelings of the day and I was transported back to the young girl I once was, the girl who would do anything to keep the peace and ensure she was liked. The girl who would rather kill her feelings than acknowledge a hurt. The girl I thought I no longer was. Yet, over a highlight job gone amiss, I was reminded part of that girl still lingers. Possibly more of her than I realize. Maybe she will always be with me. Lord knows.

But just because old habits linger, doesn't mean growth hasn't happened- or that I don't have a new normal these days. Because I do. I am not that scared girl all the time any more. Maybe this is why I felt so disappointed in myself. Regardless, I feel like I have been given an opportunity with my baby girls to start anew. To live out a new way of truth telling, one that honors feelings and embraces them as gift. I want desperately for my girls to only have one way of being: fully themselves- with all the hard feelings included. 

I know it starts with me, right now. It starts with me, their momma holding space for them, giving name to and walking with them through their feelings which will come, go, linger, surprise and sometimes overwhelm for the rest of their life. It is my job to teach them now, ever so gently what to do with these feelings, how to feel them, listen to them, honor them. We won't be Buttercup girls who simply suck it up, we will be girls who feel it and be free. Free to use our voice to speak our truth no matter the cost. 

If I am going to raise girls who change the world, there is no shame in beginning with the basics- like asking for what we really want at the salon... because it is never just about the hair, but good hair has never hurt anyone either. And we have to start somewhere, right?