Blooming

 In passing I said, "I'd like to clean out the flowerbed."

My sweet child, wanting to do something nice for me, cleaned it out in a very different way than I intended.

I came home from work to my beautiful, beloved peonies removed from their spot.

My friend Becky told me to leave whatever roots remained in the ground, and they might grow back.

Four years passed. I had lost hope. In fact, I had forgotten that I ever did.

A few months ago I noticed something growing in the general area the peonies had occupied, but I assumed it was some kind of weed and went about my business.

Until a few days ago when I noticed this bloom. It looks suspiciously like a peony bloom.

Afraid to hope, I scoured the internet for pictures.

And guess what?! It's a peony bloom.

Four years. I waited four years. Actually, I probably only waited for one, maybe two.

This is a friendly reminder that even if you don't see any fruit from a seed you've planted or roots you've put down, don't give up.

So many of the stories in scripture involve waiting, doubting, wondering. Sometimes even trying to figure out what they were doing wrong or what they weren't doing at all. God made a promise and when it didn't happen in the way they expected or in the timing they wanted, they gave up or tried to help.

Until finally, what God had promised would happen, did.

Trust God. He's working.

Plant the seed. Lay down the root. Wait for God to give the increase.

The Next Step

She took the next step. 

I read a book recently where the author shared that it takes the brain 5 seconds to start protesting a change in habit. If I want to do something like get up earlier, I should get up when my alarm goes off within that 5 second window, before my brain builds a case that I shouldn't.

I realized that I have used this technique, without framing it in those terms, for a long time. When I'm walking and I don't want to walk another mile, I don't allow myself to dwell on whether or not I want to, I just take the next step. I focus my mind on something else to keep my thoughts from sabotaging my goal. 

But let's be real, there are many times when I forget to use this technique. When I believe I SHOULD do something but my heart isn't really in it, and I create space for my brain to talk me out of it. I tell myself, "I'll start tomorrow", "I won't be able to maintain the change", or "I can't do that".

The thing I've learned from reading biographies: People who do brave things don't do them because they aren't afraid. They are not blessed with a supernatural gift of self assurance. 

Every person I've ever read about who did something wildly brave, constantly questioned themselves. It wasn't one big choice they made to be brave. It was a series of small choices to take the next step. They made the decision right in front of them. Usually while questioning themselves and doubting their ability to actually do the thing. 

When something seems overwhelming, I break it down into smaller pieces. And then I take the first step before my brain starts to protest. Want to exercise? Don't think about how you'll feel while you're exercising. Just put your shoes on. Focus on that and do it. When you're done with that, start a song you love. Focus on that and do it. When you're done with that, open the door. Focus on that and do it. When you're done with that, take a step outside the door. 

Break whatever it is into pieces so small that it isn't at all intimidating. Don't allow your brain to defeat you by jumping 10 steps ahead to what feels overwhelming. Focus on the next step. And the next step. And the next step. 

Eventually all of those steps will add up to the overwhelming thing I felt paralyzed by. That momentum will propel me on to the next thing, and ultimately a life of courage and fulfillment.

Often in scripture God didn't call people who were self assured or an obvious "shoe-in". And he didn't reveal the whole plan all at once. He gave his people as much information as they needed to take the next step. And then the next step, and the next step. His plans are magnificent and eternal. Too big for our minds to grasp, and overwhelming for our finite imaginations. We don't necessarily need the ten point plan. Just the next step.

It comes down to faith. Having faith to take the next step.

What have you put off doing because it seems overwhelming? And what is the next step you can focus on?

Growth as an Expression of God's Beauty

I love beautiful things. People, art, music, nature, food, psychology...the list is endless. I love it all.

The thing all beautiful things have in common? Imperfection. In my opinion, beauty is perfected by flaws. Flaws proclaim uniqueness, reveal intimate details of the journey the object of beauty has taken to arrive where it is in time and space. It allows me to see the world through someone else's point of view. 

Growth is beautiful too. Not just the kind you see. The kind that comes from learning new things. New things that take root in my heart and produce a harvest. 

I feel most fulfilled when - 

• I am learning, growing, and sharing what I've learned and how I've grown. 
• I experience beauty in a new way and I can share it with other people. 

Maybe God put me here to find beauty, learn from it and share it with other people. Maybe. I'm still trying to figure that out. 

The thing I've discovered about learning & growth - I have to want it more than I want comfort, to save face, or be right. It has to matter more than my ego, or my right to place blame. 

It happens exponentially when I intentionally seek it, and live in a posture of openness. Openness to feedback, information and new perspectives. This involves listening without interrupting, and refraining from the instinct to be defensive. Allowing information to come in, without feeling the need to volley it back. It means continually turning toward others, instead of turning away when sparks begin to fly.

Iron doesn't sharpen iron because it's soft and frilly. Sparks fly. There is heat. Friction.

Openness has to co-exist with discernment. Not everything flung at me will be something I should soak in and take on. 

I've learned to 'try things on' in my head. To imagine putting it on like a garment and what life would be like to wear it. How would I feel? How would I treat others? What would my relationship with God look like? This allows me to think about it and process the information in more ways. Ways that I might not consider by just looking at it on the rack.

Slow down. If it's right, it will still be right tomorrow when I've had time to calm down, process and create space to discern. 

When I feel the instinct to do something RIGHT NOW, I take that as a sign to pick an appropriate amount of time to remain neutral. When that time is over, if I still believe the belief/action is right, I take the first step. While intentionally remaining open to feedback. 

All of this is done in the context of being connected to the True Vine. Being plugged in, fed regularly, nourished properly and filled with the Spirit, empowers me to make decisions in wisdom and discernment that comes from God. 

Growth is possible and beautiful. It's how I encounter God on a daily basis. It's how I experience beauty in the world around me. 

How a Freckle-Faced, Free-Spirit Bucked the System, with a Little Help From Mama Bear

Convinced that if we did it right - if I could be positive about it, never compare her, or imply she was less than - there would be no negative consequences, I enrolled her in 3rd grade.

Her twin brother advanced to 4th. 

It broke my heart that there was no accounting for all the ways she excelled that couldn't be reflected in the classroom. Her creativity, and horticultural genius. Her exquisitely riotous, free spirit that knit my soul to hers. 

But slowly, her confidence eroded. 

The thing about being a mama is, I can only work with the knowledge I have now, the advice of others in the moment, prayer and where I believe I am being led. But eventually I have to make a decision. 

It isn't possible to predict every outcome or encounter. I can't protect her from other children or interactions. There is no bubble suit for what happens when a sweet, freckle-faced girl doesn't fit the mold laid out for her.

I did my best. I made the best decision I could, and still had to watch my daughter become damaged by it. 

To this day, I don't know how I could have made another decision. I believe that we did the right thing. 

A couple of years ago, it became very apparent how all of this had harmed her and I made a commitment to her that we were going to figure out a way for her to graduate with her brother. 

At the time I imagined homeschooling her to accomplish it, but I did some research and learned about a program here in Irving that allows students who have been held back to catch up to their original grade level. 

We applied months ago, and were supposed to learn about whether she was accepted back in March, but the world went crazy and it was delayed.

We have waited VERY impatiently, and because of our tenaciousness, we got a call today...on the day the decision was made instead of having to wait for a letter... 

SHE GOT IN.

I don't know how all of this will shape her life, or mine. 

But for now, I'm happy with the twinkle in her eye and the spring in her step. 

Drowning and Letting Go

I swim in open water. 

Deep. Dark. 

I pray.

Desperately I scan the horizon for a sign, a marker, something to indicate this won't last forever. Endless ocean fills my visage. 

I pray.

My arms are filled with precious things. Good things. Beautiful things. 

I pray.

I kick my legs furiously, but my arms are full and the water is tempestuous and . . . I choke and bob and gasp for air. 

I pray.

I fight the panic that threatens to consume. 

I pray.

I hear a voice . . . let it go. 

I contemplate releasing the precious, good and beautiful things that impair my ability to navigate the deep and choppy waters. But the people around me tell me to hold on and kick more efficiently. They can't see that my lungs are full of water, so I hold on and kick my legs harder. 

I am asked what's wrong with me, why I can't keep up...but I am unable to even take a breath without filling my lungs with water...and I can't form a thought or speak a word asking for help. 

I fear. Will my relationships survive me letting go? 

So I kick harder. I hold on to the precious, good and beautiful things tighter. I pray. 

I hear a voice . . . let. it. go.

There is no amount of work that I put in, no amount of attitude changes or silent prayers said, that decreases the amount of water entering my lungs. I hear voices asking what I need and how they can help me...but I can't take a breath . . . and I certainly can't speak. I'm too busy trying to survive to be able to form a coherent thought. I pray.

I hear a voice . . . LET. IT. GO. 

My head spends more and more time under the water, until it is consumed by it. 

As I sink lower and lower and lower into the depths, I am about to die. I pray. And I hear a voice . . . 

LET IT GO!

So I release one of the good, precious and beautiful things . . . but I continue to sink. So . . . I release it all. As I watch them float away, I wave my arms, kick my legs and am drawn closer and closer to the surface.

I can't breath yet. But there is hope. 

I let it go. 

Being Free

My soul gasps for breath,

Shovels full of dirt fill my lungs and eyes and ears and. . .

I try to scream, make noise. Anything to indicate that a living, breathing person is being buried alive.

To be seen and heard so they will let me out . . .

Of the box of who I used to be.

They don’t see me growing.

They don’t see me different.

They see the old mistakes and reactions and sins.

Somehow, I find the energy to place others in the same box.

I don’t see them growing.

I don’t see them different.

I imagine the shovels of dirt I am heaping onto their spirit.

People change. People grow.

Let’s pray for them and

just as we would with any other thing we pray for…

let’s EXPECT it.

Let’s set boundaries where they are needed but not build walls.

I lay down the burden of managing other people’s perceptions.

Their “truth” is just their perception,

given more weight.

Their “truth” doesn’t apply to me, If it’s THEIRS.

And just as I would never pick up someone else’s luggage at the airport,

I leave it where it sits.

So when they expect me to be the old me.

When they interact with me as though I am,

I remind myself that I’m not and feel no pressure to prove or clarify.

When I expect them to be the old them,

when I am tempted to interact with them as though they are,

I remind myself that they're not and feel no pressure to prove or clarify.

The truth doesn’t change because someone said it does.

At least not the kind that sets me free.

Don’t you want to be free?

Shootout at High Noon

It felt like

sitting at a table,

in the old Wild Wild West,

in a saloon.

with friends,

discussing the business of the day..

.making plans to build something.

All of the sudden the atmosphere changed.

It became toxic.

Out of the blue,

both of the other parties got up from the table,

walked ten paces in opposite directions

turned around and

shot their guns

I remained seated at the table between them

It felt like my soul and spirit were full of bullet holes and wounds gushing red

They ran for cover

While I lay there bleeding out.

But God was faithful.

He bound my wounds with His stripes.

Wounds are healed,

But questions fester

Spiritual agoraphobia threatens to envelop

If love keeps no record of wrongs, and believes the best,

Where did I go wrong?

Is life a Groundhog Day?

Am I relegated to reliving the saloon scenario over and over until my last breath?

A post mortem is in order.

Where did I go wrong?

I’ll tell you . . .

I didn’t speak up when the air turned toxic.

I talked more, laughed louder

to cover their silence

Instead of speaking the truth in love,

I filled the silence with noise

So . . . armed with this knowledge and the armor of God,

I let go of my spiritual agoraphobia

step out into the sun,

Walk over to the saloon

sit down at that table.

And when the air turns toxic,

I don’t talk more, or laugh to cover the silence.

I name the unnamed and

walk away if I need to.

Because yes, love doesn’t keep record of wrongs

but it also doesn’t shoot people.

I Am a Writer

“What do you do?” He asked. The ubiquitous question produced deeper thoughts and questions than were likely intended. The panelists in my head weighed the pros and cons of sharing the answer I longed to say out loud.

The words ‘I am a writer’ have rarely passed through my lips.

Even though I do write, which would intrinsically make me a writer, I’m hesitant to claim the title.

Long before I knew what it meant to be a writer, before I possessed the fine motor skills required, I composed stories that played like movies in my head.

But I have never been able to bring myself to possess the word, writer.

I am a writer.

It’s a word, but in my heart it’s a title that I don’t deserve, and feel afraid to claim. It isn’t just a word. It’s a badge to be earned, a ribbon to be won. I have neither earned, nor won.

The voices for and against are the voices of my high school sophomore English teacher, and my college English teachers.

Regardless of how hard I worked in 10th grade English, I couldn’t earn anything higher than a 54 on an essay. In college (which I took in lieu of 11th & 12th grade high school English), my professors raved over my writing. Once, she interrupted the semester final to read a portion of my essay, which I had written one hour before and turned in one week late. She gave me a 100, even after taking off points for tardiness.

I have never been able to account for or reconcile the two extremes.

What do you do? Is a simple question, but the answer isn’t quite as simple.

I answered, ‘Well, I handle the billing for a logistics company, but that’s not who I am.’

As I described who I am, my words danced around but never explicitly stated, ‘I am a writer’.

I think that until I do it well enough that someone wants to pay me for my work, I will have a hard time claiming the title.

For now, in the same way that a liar is someone who lies, I am a writer. Even if nobody likes my words or wants to commission my work or publish it.

I am a writer.

Spiritual Appendicitis

I’m convinced that no parent is perfect.

Sure, as with anything else, there are those who excel, seem to naturally embody the ideal. But most of us weren’t able to receive this, or give it. Even when it looks like Leave it to Beaver, it rarely is.

Grappling with my own limitations as a mother, I have wondered - why are some families able to forgive and heal, while others find the only way to love is from afar?

It seems that some families are satisfied in simply not talking about the bad things. They move forward and have a satisfactory relationship without ever bringing it up. The relationship might not be as fulfilling as it could be, but it is satisfactory enough to justify denying the pain and avoiding the confrontation.

I’m not one of those people. I need to process, to be honest about my part and how I feel so that I can move forward in the relationship untainted by the ugliness.

From observing, reading and continued thought, I believe the answer is in the ability - or not - to listen, accept and acknowledge what happened. Not blanket - ‘I’m sorry if I hurt you’ or ‘I did the best I could’ - apologies but real acknowledgement. Listening with an openness that can only be present when I love the other person more than my ego. When the desire for the relationship overcomes my fear of shame.

I practice this in my relationship with my kids, even now. Emphasis is on the word ‘practice’.

When I feel accused, and heat begins to rise in my gut, when the response comes automatic, when my mind desperately searches for a defense - I take a deep breath. Remind myself that it’s okay to be wrong, that this relationship and the person standing before me is important to me. More important, ultimately if not in the moment, than saving face, being right or playing the victim.

I ask myself, ‘do I want my pride or this relationship?’. The answer is always the relationship. Even with the pain of confronting my own sin. It’s worth it.

The pain of an appendectomy relieves the pain of appendicitis. Both hurt. One is an indicator of illness, the other is the cure.

Being Misunderstood

I read the words and conviction swelled in my heart. I heard a story from a friend in 2008, and allowed my perception of another person to be affected.

It turns out, the story was only partially true, and the part that wasn’t true completely changed the part that was.

I had spent 12 years misjudging someone.

I’ve shared a lot of stories. I don’t share as many these days. Partly because I’ve learned to curate them. Partly because, in the moment I want to share them, I don’t feel willing to offer my story at the altar of misunderstanding.

Being misunderstood is an inevitable reality of this life. Perhaps it’s a symptom of a fallen world, or maybe it’s just part of us all being slightly oriented in a different direction. We see the same story, but from a different angle, and draw a different conclusion.

Even when I believe I am communicating clearly, it’s possible to be misunderstood. How it is perceived isn’t only up to me, and isn’t only affected by me. In the same way that “beauty is in the eye of the beholder”, meaning is in the mind of the perceiver.

This propensity to misunderstand isn’t always the result of deliberate obtuseness. Or ill motive. It’s the result of different knowledge, feelings and experiences. Of viewing people through a simplistic lens. Of one small thing I know about them becoming the shade by which everything else is colored.

Trying to manage other people’s perceptions of me is exhausting and fruitless. It’s like setting a million eagles free and trying to control where they fly.

So, I’ve been intentionally allowing other people to misunderstand me. Remaining quiet when I feel tempted to clarify. Allowing myself to be unknown and unaffected by it.

The trick is to love anyway. It isn’t enough to hold my tongue. Remaining silent is not the objective, because it isn’t all about me.

During the time I would normally spend feeling unloved or trying to clarify, I spend intentionally seeing them as more than this one moment. Looking for things to love, trying to understand. Being curious about them.

Curiosity illuminates. Allows me to see complexity. Wholeness. To find compassion. To see people as God's children, instead of an enemy or competitor.

I’m not only misunderstood, I am also a misunderstander.

I can't control where the eagles I release go, but as an eagle I am in charge of where I fly. I don't want to waste another 12 years going in the wrong direction.

Plucked

Over and over I trusted the God who had plucked me from the darkness.

He called me, He would equip me. 

But after months of practice, I stumbled. 

Panic. 

The girl not to be trusted.

Incapable. 

Forgetful.

Girl who got pregnant before she was married and who would always be a loser. 

Rejected.

Unapproved of. 

Lost. 

And just like that, I located the most reliable person who could take up the reins,

trusted her, instead of God. 

It happened fast.

Automatic. 

Covert. 

Until God woke me up from my spiritual daze. 

He chose me. 

Me.

The girl not to be trusted.

Incapable. 

Forgetful.

Who got pregnant before I was married and who would always be a loser. 

Rejected. 

Unapproved of. 

Lost. 

But He called me. 

I wrestled the reins back and trusted the God who chose me to direct my steps. 

And He did.