Dignity, Family, Gratitude, Motherhood, Personal Reflection, Worthy

Believing Them

One of the things my kids have taught me is to believe I’m worthy of admiration. For all the years I can recall, I’ve felt like a pretender whenever I received recognition, whether big or small. I felt like an impostor or a fraud as I thanked anyone for a compliment. I wondered how long it’d take for someone to figure out my actual abilities and charms, or lack thereof.

In their earliest years, children are blunt, honest creatures. This applies to the positive and negative alike, as there is no natural filter between their thoughts and their tongues. As much as this exposes us adults to harsh critiques and awkward commentaries from our little chatterboxes, it also pours over us the soul-saturating water of honest praise. Their compliments are pure. Their admiration is authentic. What else could be right but to accept the gifts of them? To BELIEVE them?

This lesson hasn’t squashed the voice that whispers I’m a pretender. Now there’s a contradictory voice though, and it sounds a lot like my children.

#parenthood #parenting #momlife #boymom #girlmom #mothersday #worthy #nofilter

Faith, Family, Motherhood, Personal Reflection

Until Then

A week ago, I snuggled my 5 1/2 year old daughter as she cried through question after question about Heaven and her Auntie Cheryl. When I’d hugged her goodnight several minutes earlier, Annie became teary eyed and said she wished she could see Cheryl. I squeezed her and told her it was okay to be sad and at the same time we could remember the things that made us happy while we were with Cheryl. Her smiles and laughter and hugs. She nodded and kissed me goodnight. Then as I reached her doorway,  Annie blurted, “But Mom, all those hugs and smiles and laughs are done!” and broke down in tears.

So we hugged each other some more and both our tears wet her pillow. Eventually the tears mostly ceased and she began with her questions.

How will we find Cheryl when we get there?

Are you sure she’ll remember us?

What does Heaven look like?

And several more.

I did my best and waited until much later to let my sobs out. I tried to share her sadness while also sharing wisdom. But, oh, how far from wise I always feel now.

The next morning, after she was dressed for school, she came to my desk where I’d started my workday.

“Mommy, when you and Daddy go to Heaven, I’ll want to go too, but I won’t get to yet.”

A few more tears. More hugs. How do I explain? How do I accept it all myself? I don’t know, but for her sake and mine, I’m trying.

The next day, these photos were in my Facebook memories. I marveled at the time that passed. How could that Christmas be nine years ago? How could Cheryl be gone almost 5 months now? As I considered these numbers, I thought next of eternity. Nine years – a blip on the spectrum of time. 5 months – next to nothing. Someday… someday that’s what it will feel like too. Until then, it simply feels like too much.

Easter, Family, Gratitude, Midwest, Motherhood, Personal Reflection

Home Again

IMG_20190425_142050_875.jpgThis is home. Where I spent my first 18 years. Where I fumbled my way through childhood and teenage ups and downs. Where I witnessed my six older siblings leading the way. Where my parents still reside, ready to feed us, talk Jesus, and start a 1000 piece puzzle any time we’re inclined. I treasure any opportunity to bring my children there so they can stockpile experiences and memories of the place. I’m well aware the opportunities will run out one day. I prefer not to think on that except to let it remind me of the value of those visits.

The kids ask multiple times a week when we’ll return. Well, not so much when we will return. They love more than anything to stay with Grandma and Papa on their own, without me or their dad. And I love allowing them to do so. I love their independence. I love their complete confidence that they will be happy and safe and cared for while they are with their grandparents. I frequently wish that my husband’s parents lived within a few hours drive too, so the kids could be collecting similar experiences with them.

We spent Easter Sunday at my parents’ home and the day was everything beautiful. It began with Mass at my childhood parish. Afterward, I cooked with my mom to serve a delicious dinner at the table that has gathered up our family and friends for countless meals. (Seriously, I didn’t want to stop eating. It was so good.) Then we spent a while soaking in the springtime sunshine.

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My fifteen-year-old stepson, who lives with his mother in a neighboring town, joined us for the afternoon too. Any chance to see the younger two excitedly enjoy time with their older brother is a heart-strengthening treat. Our family of five plus my father walked down the one road that I know better than any other road on this earth. We marveled at how high the creek is now that the snow has melted. We visited my grandparents’ former farm with its collapsing old barns. Lastly, we lingered at the pond, throwing rocks to splash in the water while I remembered all the summer afternoons spent wandering there and the winter days of ice skating on its hardened surface. It was one of those days when I couldn’t overlook my blessings even if I tried.

My people will live in peaceful country, in secure dwellings and quiet resting places. Isaiah 32:18

Family, Gratitude, Intentionality, Motherhood, Personal Reflection

Head Colds and Happiness

This girl teaches me daily how to handle life. Sure, at times it’s more like she sets the example of how not to handle it (with whining and exaggerated tears). The rest of the time though, she handles it like I wish I could: with vigor, confidence, earnestness, and an eye for adventure in all things.

She’s been sick all week. Unlike her brother’s cold that is running a predictable course toward being well soon, hers took a different path of new and worsening symptoms that landed us in the doctor’s office today. The doctor looked at her face – pale, dark circles under her reddened, watery eyes, nose pouring incessantly – and asked, “How are you feeling today?” Annie grinned and said, “Good! I just have a bad cough. Want to pet my kitty? She’s really soft.”

I wanted to hug her so hard in that moment. Her genuine desire to share her happiness with others is a beautiful sight to behold. Maybe even more beautiful than usual when it’s expressed in a hoarse voice through a stream of snot.

Dignity, Faith, Family, Friendship, Intentionality, Jesus, Marriage, Motherhood, Personal Reflection, Worthy

Enough

Several days ago, I shared a photo on Facebook. Not a personal photo. Just a photo of some words that, on that morning especially, were relatable for me. It crossed my mind that it was likely relatable for others too, so I shared the photo and moved on.

Reactions and comments are still trickling in on that post, and it hasn’t yet left my mind. The text in the photo said this: “We expect women to work like they don’t have children and raise children as if they don’t work.”

I was already feeling this before my workday started on Monday. Although my son loves school and both of he and my daughter enjoy their babysitter, there is inevitably at least one day each week when one of them clings to me a little extra in the morning and expresses their wish that I could stay home from work with them that day. Also inevitably, that is among the hardest moments of my week. Monday morning happened to include that moment with my daughter.

I’m blessed with a good job. It is enjoyable, interesting work in a healthy environment with a solid team of people. I’m grateful for it and challenged by it daily. No matter what though, I am a mother. I am always first responsible to my family and then to everything else. So I work extremely hard to balance it all (again, a statement that so many of you can relate to, undoubtedly). Workdays, meetings, projects, schooldays, doctor appointments, drop-offs and pick-ups, mealtime and playtime and bedtime and everything in between. Balance is a constant goal.

On Monday afternoon, I had a brief meeting with my supervisor. A generous, flexible woman who knows the life of a working mother, I’ve been thankful for her understanding in this balancing act. Among other topics covered in this meeting though, she shared that someone in our office had voiced complaints about my comings and goings. This anonymous individual was bothered by what they felt were too many times I had to adapt my schedule to those school and sitter drop-offs and doctor appointments and sick kids and so on. While I was in no way reprimanded or told to stop adapting my schedule to those needs, I still can’t dismiss the disappointment that this is what someone thinks of the work I put in at my job. Whomever it is doesn’t necessarily know about the number of days in which I work through lunch, or the nine, ten, or eleven hours I put in when I’m working from home while simultaneously caring for my children. They don’t necessarily know why I arrived at 8:10 instead of 8:00, or why I had to work remotely from my home unexpectedly. They see what they see and form their opinion.

I’m going to be fully honest here. I want to look that person straight in the eye, possibly grabbing them by the collar, and say this: “I am doing the best I can do.” I want to inform them that I already know it will never be enough. Their input is not needed for me to know this.

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The current trend in women’s self-help/self-esteem culture is summed up in one phrase:

I am enough.

It crops up in articles, books, and social media posts with head-spinning frequency. I’d even wager that the image I used above was designed to serve that message. Those words are the mantra of many tired, over-extended, trying-to-meet-all-expectations women, and they are a lie.

I am not enough. You are not enough.

If we ever want to stop striving until we break, we must admit this. If we want to quit the worldwide, olympic-level competition for Instagram-worthy perfection on the surface while we are unraveling when no one is looking, we must admit this.

I am not enough.

If I were enough for my children, they would not need their beloved father or their dear grandparents and extended family. If I were enough, I would not need my husband’s partnership and love. If I were enough, I would not need my teammates and managers at the office. If I were enough, I would not need my church community, my writing community, my health and fitness community, my neighbors, or even those most precious friends who know the real me. Above all, if I were enough, I would not need my Lord.

I am not enough.

Certainly, I can understand the intentions behind the popular message of being enough. It is answering the emptiness countless men and women carry inside of them. It is speaking to the ways we punish ourselves for not living up to our or others’ expectations. It is reminding us that our worth has been forgotten. I do understand. But believing you are enough doesn’t admit your inherent need for others. Believing you are enough doesn’t admit your need for the Divine.

I am not enough.

I cannot do it all. I literally cannot. I only have one body, one mind. I only have 24 hours in my day. I am only capable of being in one place at a time. Unlike God, I cannot be all things to all people. Admitting this is not a detriment to my self-esteem. It is an enlightened self-awareness. It fosters a great amount of freedom, clipping the binding ties of strife and disappointment.

I am not enough. I am a member of a marriage, of a family, of a friendship, a community, a church, a team for that very reason. While I will always work to be my best, I will not misguidedly carry the weight of striving to be enough. I am not enough and I am happier for knowing it.

Dignity, Family, Gratitude, Intentionality, Motherhood, Scripture, Worthy

Do Not Laugh – Thoughts on Compliments, Selfies, and Psalm 139:14

My three and a half year old son walked into my bedroom as I finished combing my hair. Mentally, I was running through what remained of readying ourselves for the day. I was distracted and about to send him back out with instructions to brush his teeth so we could leave on time.
 
He cut me off with his words, “Mommy, you look beautiful. You should take a picture.”
 
Immediately, a voice spoke in my head, “Do not laugh.”
 
I had to close my mouth because that was the exact response I was about to make. I looked my son in the eye and smiled. I said, “thank you, peanut,” and put my comb away.
 
He remained at my side, waiting. “Take a picture.”
 
The voice was there again. “Do not laugh.”
 
Don’t laugh at his admiration for you. Don’t dismiss the clarity with which he sees you; clarity that is fogged up in you by years of insecurities. I didn’t laugh. Instead, I took the picture. He asked to see it. Satisfied, he gave me one more heart-stealing smile, then bounded away to see what his sister was up to elsewhere.
 
Honestly, I almost deleted the photo. What did I need it for? I saw the roundness of the belly where I’d love for it to be flatter; the softness of the arms where I wish they were toned. I saw the gray hairs I don’t pull out anymore. I saw the migraine behind my eyes, and the thick glasses because I didn’t feel like putting in my contacts when I could barely stand to have my eyes open in the daylight. I saw the awkward half-smile because selfies seem meant for younger, perkier people.
 
Why didn’t I delete the photo? I didn’t delete it because of a hunch that every mom ever caught off guard by their child’s admiration could relate to the thoughts filling my head. I even had a feeling that the dads out there can relate to it all, perhaps when their children look at them with unwavering confidence in their strength and capabilities. I didn’t delete the photo because, while the things I saw in it are real and true, the things my son sees are real and true as well.
 
I not only saved the photo, but decided to share it here because of Psalm 139:14, “I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; wonderful are your works, and my soul knows it well.”
 
Years aged.
Extra pounds carried.
Hair grayed and thinned.
Body tired.
Pains and illnesses endured.
Patience lost.
Voice raised.
Mistakes made.
Weaknesses experienced.
 
None of these eliminate the truth my child sees and accepts about me, or your child about you: that I am, and you are, “fearfully and wonderfully made.”
 
The next time you encounter that truth, whatever the source, don’t laugh it off. Don’t dismiss it or argue against it, mentally or aloud. Hear it. Be grateful for it. Let it sink in until you can say, “my soul knows it well.”
Faith, Family, Motherhood

The Heart of Life is Good

This is one of my favorite photos. Sure, I have others that better capture my children’s faces and smiles. This one, though, captures life.

Some things have me thinking hard on the matter of life. It started with the suicide bomber cruelly choosing the concert in Manchester as his target and killing twenty-two adults, teens, and children. It continued with the news of the twenty-eight adults and children violently martyred in Egypt when they refused to deny their belief in Christ. Numerous others were injured in these attacks. Countless more were directly affected and traumatized.

And so, I think about life. Life as it is now, in this world in which my husband and I are raising our little children. In the midst of this thinking, I came across that photo. It’s a recent one, taken at my kids’ first time at a major league baseball game. All I have to do is look at it and I relive that night. We bought the tickets on a whim when we saw a low cost deal for some upcoming games. I was excited, as I always am when I attend a baseball game, but I was also worried. Would the kids enjoy themselves or be overwhelmed by the size and the noise of the place? Would they get bored and whine? Would they complain about having to stay in their seats for too long? Would they be too tired the next day? Typical motherhood worries.

My worry was silenced by their wonder: the wonder on their small faces when we entered the stadium; when the crowd stood clapping for the first time; when the fireworks were lit to celebrate each home run; when my son kept his eyes on the pitcher and batter as I explained  a little of the game and he was rewarded with witnessing a hit to the outfield; when the racing sausages and the 7th inning stretch brought everyone to their feet in unity. The pair of them enjoyed every minute. They were thrilled at being part of something so much bigger than themselves.

So many things could have gone wrong. They didn’t, but they could have. I think of the dozens of concerts my friends and I have attended from the time we were teenagers to the present without a doubt that we’d arrive back home safely. I think of the pilgrimages we’ve made to churches and retreats without the looming threat of being attacked for our beliefs. I think of the number of people in that baseball stadium with no thought of whether or not someone might make us a target. So many things could go wrong.

If the fears and worries win, we must withdraw from what is bigger than ourselves. That’s what it comes down to, I suppose. Being part of what is bigger than ourselves is at the heart of life, and life cannot be sustained without the heart.

There’s things you need to hear
So turn off your tears and listen
Pain throws your heart to the ground
Love turns the whole thing around
No it won’t all go the way it should
But I know the heart of life is good
John Mayer