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"I bet you didn't think I could do that."

 Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Last summer, I was walking in a park and something very bizarre happened.
I had been sitting at a picnic table reading. It was a beautiful day — one of those days that brings a small smile to your face whether you notice it’s there or not.
After reading for some time, I decided to go for a walk around our walking trail behind the park before heading home. I stepped on the sidewalk near the picnic table and began walking through the park toward the trail. 
An old black man was on a stroll on the sidewalk about ten feet in front of me. He must have been in his upper 60’s or early 70’s. His shoulders bent forward naturally and he walked slowly. I found him interesting and as I often do, I wondered what his story was. 
I wasn’t in a hurry so we were walking at about the same pace. As the man walked, he glanced back and saw me casually walking behind him. He looked forward, took a few steps, then looked back again. A part of me was thinking, why does this guy keepl looking at me?  
Then he did something completely unexpected.
The old man stopped walking, put his hands above his head, then DID A CARTWHEEL on the sidewalk!
I was so taken aback I stopped walking and just stared at him. My small smile turned to a look of confusion as my brain was trying to put together what had just happened.
He stuck the landing, and we stared at each other for a brief moment, him with the small smile that had previously belonged to me and me with a look of bewilderment. After just staring at each other for a moment, he smugly broke the silence. All he said was:
"I bet you didn’t think I could do that.”
I didn’t know what to say. It was too strange. I was caught off guard. I managed to just say, “Nope. I sure didn’t.”
He gave a nod and a smile, then turned and continued walking. Within a minute or two, he turned to go a different direction and I finished my walk and then headed toward my car.
Have you ever been completely by yourself and laughed so hard you cried (then hoped no one was watching you)? This is what happened as soon as I closed my car door. I felt like the Chewbacca Lady video that had been floating around social media.  The encounter was so random, it just got the best of me.
To be honest with you, I just wanted to tell you this story because it was a little crazy and I don’t think it happens every day. But when I think about it, there are some cool takeaways that can be drawn from it.
I’m sure you could come up with some of your own, but my takeaways are these:
· You have the ability to brighten others’ days
· Age may not be a choice, but “Old” is a choice. Stay youthful!
· Random acts of joy may be just what we need now and then
I’m going to chalk this up as a bizarre, once-in-a-lifetime moment, but a part of me wants to believe that this old man spends his days walking around parks doing cartwheels for unsuspecting bystanders — bringing joy into the world one cartwheel at a time.
It’s not a likely scenario, but who knows? The world needs a few more cartwheels and maybe this old man knows it.
So if you happen to see an old man doing cartwheels in a park, please walk up to him with a small smile on your face and casually say, “I didn’t think you could do that,” then simply walk away.
(and also let me know because it would make my day).


"The Stand Upper..."

 Thursday, May 4, 2017

I dread the doctor’s office. I dread showing up on time and then sitting through the long wait. I dread the paper thin gown with the white strings in the back that inevitably rip off before I can tie them. I dread just about every last thing, but you do what you go to do.
So I showed up, I waited, I tied and I dreaded.
And inevitably accidentally eaves dropped on a conversation that was happening between two women that sat behind me…and when I say accidentally, you know what I mean. Ears are hard things to close.
The one was talking about a mutual friend and it was NOT pretty. “She this,” and “She that.” Had she known I was going to write about the whole thing, I am sure she would have changed her tune, but that’s ok because a helper was on the scene. She was sharing with one who I’ll just gloriously crown, “The Stand Upper.”
This other woman was amazing. It was like she paid the words of her friend no mind. She was rock solid, didn’t miss a beat and didn’t jaunt in defensively; to save or to fix, but rather meandered slowly but surely.
She was matter of fact.
She PRAISED the poor woman her friend was bashing till a wealth of treasure was bestowed upon the invisible woman’s feet. There was no face to the name, but I pictured her…
“Thats never been my experience of her. In fact, she is extremely dedicated and loyal. She has always been there for me when I needed her. She is incredibly encouraging. She has a full plate and manages the best she can.”l
I sat there, wanting to turn around and shake her hand. I wanted her autograph, a picture, anything…and if I could be 100% honest, I was so incredibly attracted TOher in all the right ways. This other woman had something I wanted to possess; her ability to stand up and stay steady rather than being swayed and staying silent drew me in.
She was a needed breath of fresh air.
I sat in my seat waiting for my name to be called and thought about all the times I have been a giver and a taker. Since I can only assume that I’ve been the recipient of someone else’s side conversations, I’ll share about my first hand knowledge of how I have dished out my fair share of negativity towards others unbeknownst to them and have felt validated in doing so. Yes, I have played innocent.
I can honestly say, EVERY TIME, it’s a sure tell sign the issue is mine.
Which can pretty much be summed up in one word, right?
So what are my issues then if I just sit back in my seat and refuse to stand up when someone begins to drudge another through the mud and the muck? Are the issues really that much different? I think not.
I think the woman who stood up today was confident in WHO she was. She wasn’t afraid to disappoint and wasn’t out to people please. Fear of man was not a forethought and if it was, she was secure enough to push through the trembling and the best part was…she didn’t do it in a way that was ballsy or brash. She was loving and kind and steered the ship into a peaceful harbor. I appreciate accidentally eavesdropping…so very much.
It made me wonder what I would look or sound like if FEAR were not an option. If I removed THAT…WHO would I be? I want to be ME, but I want in large parts to be the other woman too.
Stand Uppers are one of a kind, in fact they are one in a million. They cannot be swayed by your opinions and are not afraid to go against the grain and form their own. They are tried and true friends.
Everyone doesn’t just NEED one, they need to BE one.


"It's not about me...."

 Monday, April 17, 2017

I love stories.  About almost anything.  And almost all kinds of stories.
I love telling stories, even though I might not be the best at it.  I have the tendency to ramble, to add too much detail, to drag it out a little longer than I should.  But my friends listen to me anyway.  Bless you.
My favorite stories are the ones people tell about their lives.  Of family, childhood stories, testimonies.  Real stories–the good ones, the bad ones, the ugly ones, the messy ones.  All of them.  Because most of them usually have the best climax.
I’ll give you an example.  Here’s my story: I am a mess, but God picks up my mess.
Beginning to end in one sentence. Boom.  That is my story.  But the best part of that, to me, is that my story isn’t about me.  My life isn’t about me.
Sometimes I forget that.  I forget that this isn’t about me.  My goal in life is not to bring people to me.  My purpose in life isn’t to make ME known.  Why does anyone need to put a spotlight on a mess?
My purpose in life is to let people see the second part of my story.  I am a mess-got that.  But God fixes my mess.  Every day.  Every minute of the day, He is making me less and less of a mess.  He is tidying me up.  That is the story to be told.
I’ve been taking part in a daily prayer challenge. I pray out loud. I say all the things in my heart that I am afraid of. All my doubts. All my insecurities. I pray for my friends. My family.  I call them by name.  There is no better way to realize how big your mess is.  How much you cling to that isn’t Jesus.  How much of a mess you’ve been making of yourself instead of letting Him remove your clutter.
Today I cried.  I am not unaware of the fact that I am train wreck without Jesus.  But it really hit me hard this morning.  This week has been the toughest of the challenge.  I’ve been trying to believe more than I ever have.  Trying to hold on to the promises more than I ever have.  I lost sight of that somewhere along the past couple of days.  It felt like they were never coming.  That there wasn’t really anything else to believe in.
What a fool.  To not believe that the promises are on their way.  To not trust that His ways are so much higher than mine.  To not trust that everything has already been planned out, and that it is for my good.  To not believe that God has already gone before me and set everything out in its time.
Here’s a secret: He hears us.
I always knew that.  I’ve experienced it before now.  I’ve had it spoken to me, over me, drilled into me since I became a Christian.  But y’all.  How quickly we lose sight and grasp of the truth when things aren’t going according to OUR plans.  Do you know what happens when a mess of a person makes life plans?  More mess.  Bigger mess.  Catastrophe.
I can’t even imagine how horribly things would turn out if they went how I wanted them.  But God, thank you Jesus, knows what I need–not what I want.  He gives the things we need, I need, to make this story all about Him.
Because He is worthy of all the stories.  And then some.
I read an article about a football team that  had a theme for the season. The team walked around with shirts that had the letters “INAM” all over them.  INAM–it’s not about me.  The more I think about it, the more I want that be a summary of my story.  “My” story.
I want the story I get to tell be less about me and more about how He saves me, walks with me, guides me, hears me, answers my cry, delivers me, fights for me, frees me, etc.  The list will never end.

My prayer is that as my list gets longer, my praise is louder.  And that it drowns out the lies of insecurity, of insignificance, and of the need to keep it to myself.  And I pray that for you, too. 

Because every story where God is involved is a story that deserves to be told.  So let’s do just that.


"Adulting is hard....maybe I should buy a raincoat..."

 Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Let’s be honest, we’ve all laughed at a good adulting meme that so adequately describes the difficulties of trying to be a grown up and do the responsible thing.
I will be the first one to admit that the majority of the first half of my twenties has been a complete train wreck. I didn’t own a rain coat for most of it. A rain coat. Even small children own rain coats. I also literally did not understand the phrase take it with a grain of salt until like two weeks ago. Okay....maybe it was more than 2 weeks ago but I spent a good bit of time not really knowing what that phrase meant. You can also add "Dont count your chickens before they hatch" to that. So you know, there’s a lot that I have yet to master about adulthood.
But I have become so incredibly annoyed with a generation of people who keep complaining and making t-shirts about how hard it is to adult. Adult is not a verb. It is an adjective. It describes the stage of life that you are in and will continue to be in. You don’t get a choice about that, my friend. You are an adult. You will never be a child again and it is time that you just get past that fact and accept that this, in all its glory, is not a choice.

Your adulthood is just a fact.

When we treat adulthood like a choice we create a lifestyle of really horrible habits. We justify and make jokes about our really poor choices because adulting has become a thing we do or don’t do today.
I love you enough to tell you this because I was the person doing it like eight and half seconds ago. Eating doughnuts for breakfast every morning and watching Netflix until 2 PM in your bed when you’re in your twenties is not cute. It is not worthy of a “like” on Facebook or Instagram.
Being a human is hard sometimes, but the hard parts about it are not your laundry, making your bed, or taking a shower. Difficulty is not looking at your bank account and being sad that you can’t buy more Starbucks.
When we say it out loud, I think we can see how selfish it is: I’m feeding a culture that says life is hard because I want to be able to eat Oreos and not gain weight, or have the luxury of walking into Target and spending $200 on pointless crap. 
We are a product of our choices, the things we do and the things we say. If I keep telling myself that the struggle is real at Target and everyone spends this kind of money because adulting is hard and budgets are hard when I wake up without any money for my future, at least I can laugh about it. I can post about it on Instagram and get a few hundred nods of approval.
Those things are not the hard part about adulthood and if you actually believe that they are, you live in a very small world. You live in a bubble known as entitlement and it’s a really dangerous place to stay. It’s a dangerous thing to joke about. It feeds bad habits. It’s a bubble that I’ve known well and it has caused more grief in my adulthood than maybe anything else.
You know what I love about my grandmothers’ generation? Those women got out of bed every morning, got dressed, took on the world, and sometimes never left their own home to do it. They’d wrangle seven kids looking like they just stepped out of a magazine. I never understood it and I actually thought it was incredibly pointless. But throughout the years of listening to their stories when I wasn't younger.... I finally started to understand why.
They did it because getting out of bed, looking presentable, making breakfast, and getting things in order is good stewardship. It is being thankful. It is loving themselves and others well. It is taking care of what God gave them. It is living a lifestyle of worship, of having a grateful heart. It is saying to God: I love and cherish this sweet life that you’ve given me and it is way way more than I deserve. I’m going to take care of it, I’m going to treat it like the gold that it is.
That’s not to say that some of them didn’t have careers. Both of my Grandmothers worked. They showed up for themselves, their kids, their husbands, and worked outside of their homes. They kicked butt (am I allowed to say that about my grandmothers?). They were moms, wives, workers, church members, community members, and more. They were not adulting, they just accepted the fact that they were adults. Most of their generation accepted this a lot younger than I did.
The point of all of this is not to say that we have to be perfect. I will have times of rest. I will also still have some days where I wear sweatpants and watch a few hours of Really bad tv. . I will have times of eating pizza (every Friday) and wishing that it didn’t have so many calories. But that’s not an acceptable daily lifestyle and it’s not a culture that I want to encourage.
God handed me adulthood, sometimes it’s hard, in's really really hard. ....but the fact remains that I don’t get a choice. But how I honor this gift of life and how I choose to respond my God-given responsibilities is entirely up to me.

And In  true adulting fashion, I am writing this as I just handed my child a bowl of M&M's for breakfast, it's raining outside and I still don't own a raincoat at 33 years old. 


"Romanticize your life..."

 Sunday, January 15, 2017

I saw a quote posted on social media that has bothered me. It was something to the effect of "There is beauty in the broken....the depressed....blah blah blah....."
Let’s make one thing clear from the start: there is nothing pretty about depression. 
Whoever told you that either was lying to you or has no idea what it means to be at constant war with yourself.
There is nothing poetic about feeling broken, exhausted, useless; nothing graceful about it.
No one will see you, hollow and shattered, and think “wow, this is gorgeous”. And when you look at your reflection in the mirror, the person you’ll see staring back at you won’t believe that either.
Depression is a monster eating you from the inside. It’s thick dark smoke filling your lungs until you can barely breathe anymore. It’s unfamiliar voices inside your head turning every thought into a gun and leaving you there to wait for them to pull the trigger.
Depression  is ugly and it’s scary and it’s lonely.

Depression is not who you are.
So change your perspective and learn how to romanticize healing instead.
Start small. Begin by celebrating the days you can get out of bed long enough to wash your hair or to take out the trash; the days you feel like answering your phone when it’s ringing and end up talking to that friend you haven’t heard from in a while.
Begin by appreciating the nights you spend sitting on the couch watching bad TV with your kids; the songs you sing at the top of your lungs (very very badly) during long drives, with your windows down and fresh air hitting your face.
Romanticize the third cup of hot coffee of the day; that first sip of the morning.  the piece of chocolate you allow yourself to eat before going to bed. Romanticize the kind of love that makes you feel like you belong; the friends who tell those silly jokes that make you laugh until you cry; the days you can stand in front of the mirror with no clothes on and not be ashamed. Those mornings when the world is quiet and you get to see the sunrise witnessing Gods art work first hand. 
Romanticize that little giggle from your 4 year old when you tickle her and she wraps her arms around you so tightly it feels like she will never let go. Those moments your son asks "How was your day,  mom?" And he genuinely wants to know. 

Slowly, step by step, learn how to let go of everything and everyone that makes you feel like you are not good enough. 

Because you are.

And there is hope for you.
You are not your dark days; you are not your scars. You are not broken and you deserve to be live each day with a smile.....just as much as everyone else.
It will get easier. It will get better.

And healing, oh, healing will look beautiful on you....Romanticize that. 


"An old friend...."

 Monday, December 26, 2016

Hello little blog. It's been a while. 
What I'm about to write isn't easy. I've gone back and forth and started and erased a thousand times.  I've shut my computer off and cut it back on and back off again. Ashamed. So very ashamed. Although I don't know why. I can't answer that. 
2016 hasn't been easy. There's been a lot of changes for me personally and those changes left me questioning myself on a deep level. And  it really liking the answers my mind answered with. Soon it wasn't my mind answering those was a deep dark old friend. A friend I fought for years to break ties with. And I did. For a while. But given the opportunity.....he weasels his way back in.....taking up space in your head and heart....leaving no room for oxygen....he starts to suffocate you and makes it near impossible to breathe. 
That's his name. 
Before I started suffering from depression whenever I thought about mental illness, a certain image would always come to mind.
I pictured the Depressed person  to look drained in every sense of the word. I imagined someone thin to the point you can see their collarbone showing beneath the collar of their too-big t-shirt; I imagined messy hair and cold hands; I imagined no make-up and worn-out (grey, for some reason) clothes.
So when the symptoms started showing, I was confused. How could I- someone who spends at least an hour in the bathroom every day to do her hair, who doesn’t go anywhere without her favorite lipstick, who always wears heels, even to go to school – be depressed? That didn’t make any sense. Pretty, well put together girls can’t have that kind of problem. My life isn't that bad. Honestly, what do I have to be depressed about?
Well, it turns out they can. Also, it turns out  depression  has many different faces, not just the stereotypical one that society has instilled in our minds since the beginning of time. 
And while it can look like that sometimes, it can also take a lot of other shapes.
Depression  can look like the woman you see every morning on your way to work, taking her little kids to school and carrying their colorful backpacks; it can look like the elegant businessman who always wears expensive suits and ties and drives a Mercedes around town.
Depression  can look like the funny teenage boy who makes everyone laugh during class with his jokes, the one that teachers love just as much as anyone else; it can look like the fit girl you see at the gym, with the ponytail and abs of steel.
Depression  can be a family father, a rockstar, a nun; it can be black, asian; straight, gay, bisexual; it can be religious or atheist.
Depression  can take any shape and form it wants and that’s maybe what makes it so scary. 
As sad and negative as that may sound, though, it also means that you are not actually as alone as you think you are. Just because you don’t see anyone looking like what you imagine a depressed person should, it doesn’t mean that the people surrounding you are not struggling with their own demons. They might be fighting a battle just like yours.
And most importantly, if you don’t look like what you think a depressed person should, it doesn’t make what you’re feeling any less valid or real.
Some days are good. Some days are  bad. Some days or weeks.... I'm quiet. And some days it's easy to smile while others....the smile has to be forced. Some days I'm withdrawn and some days I'm a social butterfly. It a process. And it took me a while to understand this process.  And I can honestly say, I have more good days than bad here lately. 
In the end, I like to think the ultimate solution to this problem is kindness.
Be kind to yourself, first and foremost: respect your sadness, your bad thoughts, your dark days and don’t be ashamed or scared of the idea of asking for the help you need and deserve. And be kind to others as well, because they might be going through something equally as hard as you are.
Kindness is certainly not a cure, but it is the first step to a more empathetic and understanding attitude towards depression  and those who suffer from it.
But always be kind to yourself. 


"Don't be "that" mom..."

 Wednesday, November 9, 2016

Teenage pregnancy. 
This is going to be a touchy subject. But I wanted to do a post about all the things I went through when my son was born and all the things I hated about how people treated me. But that would be impossible because there was just so much that, quite honestly, ticked me off. I have forgotten most by now. But a few weeks ago, I saw a teenager with her baby at the doctors office. And it took me back to a very lonely and sad time in my life, a time I didn’t think would ever pass. But eventually it did, and here I am, alive and well on the other end, and dare I even say quite happy too. So here’s to all the teen moms out there bravely battling on each day despite all the dirty looks in public, the criticism and uglyness that our messed up society so cheaply offers. Here’s my take on teen pregnancy and why people should get off their high horses about it.
Oddly, this girl keeps looking at me, do I have something on my shirt or a piece of food in my teeth? Or a booger hanging out my nose? I look up but what I see is myself a quite a years ago, and I instantly know why she looks at me like that.

I am what she hoped to be, instead of herself.

I know, because I was once her. You see, today I am the 33 year old  mom, with the wedding ring on my finger, my beautiful baby girl sitting quietly on my lap.....with my nice put together outfit......while I chat to the other moms about pre-school and cute monogrammed clothing and the price of a good family vacation. She, on the other hand, does not get spoken to, instead, people give her a look of sympathy mixed with a little “you should’ve known better”. She doesn’t get asked about her opinion on teething or diapers or anything, because she doesn’t know anything right? I mean she’s what? 17 or 18 maybe? She’s just a child herself right? And she shouldn’t even have a baby yet right? “We shouldn’t feel sorry for her, but for that baby” someone whispers. And suddenly all the rage I used to feel towards these judgy moms comes rushing back.
About this teenager. There are a few facts we should get straight. She is as much motheras me, or you, or any other twenty or thirty-something mom. Because she, long before having given birth, made one of the most difficult decisions that a young girl can ever have to make, she chose to deal with the consequences of her actions despite all the difficulties it brings. She’s not dirty, or wrong or slutty for getting pregnant. She is one of the unlucky few to have gotten pregnant, but she is not the only one who was at risk of getting pregnant. Fact is, if you all are completely all were doing exactly what we were as a teenager....we are just the ones who got caught. But our double standard society makes us believe that only the pregnant teens are those who were sinful enough to have sex. All the thousands of others who didn’t get pregnant, or those who rather opted for abortions, we don’t think or speak of them. We channel our disapproval only toward the pregnant teens. They take the heat for the whole world’s sexually active teens. They get all the judgement on behalf of all the others who, yet not visibly wearing their sins, did exactly the same thing. Girls who opt for abortions do not have to wear a t-shirt reading “I had my child aborted” they get to carry on with their lives and their ended pregnancy is something the can either choose to hide or to share. Likewise all the other sexually active teenagers do not have to wear a t-shirt stating their exact number of sexual partners or how old they were when they started having sex. They too get privacy and dignity when it comes to their sexual activities and habits. But pregnant teens, oh no, they can’t hide it for very long can they? So what happens is, they get all the judgement. All the dirty looks. All the “you should’ve known better” looks. Not fair is it? Well I don’t think so anyway. So let me rant about how unfair this is for just a bit. And let me point a few things out. 
As a mom now in my thirties,  having had a baby as a teenager, and  having had one as a married twenty something year old, I have had both experiences. Now I want to ask a favour from all the other moms. You already know how challenging motherhood can be. You know what it’s like to multitask getting dressed and packing a diaper bag and feeding a little human his breakfast while you go hungry and have your coffee cold an hour later. You know going to the bathroom can be a rare luxury and even a shower is somehow something you ask permission for as your husband has to watch the baby while you do it. You know what it’s like to be so tired you cannot think straight. You know that serving froot loops for dinner is sometimes the best you could do. And let's not forget the M&Ms youbletthem have for breakfast. Now imagine doing all of that (and everything not even mentioned above) as a teenager. Imagine it without the help and support of a husband. Imagine all of it, while constantly being judged. Imagine your opinion and instinct over your child constantly being undermined by everyone simply because you’re young. Imagine people taking pity on your baby as if you were a meth-addict living on the streets simply because you’re a teenager. Not a fun thought huh? So my request to all the non teen moms reading this is simple : Don’t be that mom. Dont judge these girls. These girls are also just moms. Moms who have it so much harder than you do.
They may be young, but age has never been a measure of how good of a mom you can be. They are in the same boat of minority as the forty something year old moms who, for whatever reason, only had kids many years after all their peers. Let’s have compassion for these ladies, whatever their ages. Motherhood is so difficult, and one of the best feelings is having a friend who understands what you are dealing with. Having a baby in my twenties made me realize this, because this time I’m not alone. I was also very fortunate to have a amazing support system behind me. My family stepped in and the saying "It takes a village" is so true. And still true to this day. Some days, even as a 33 year old mom, I don't know how I would survive without the help of my parents and in laws. 
I guess all I’m saying is that it’s not fair to judge a teen mom unless you are going to judge premarital sex altogether. And it is not fair to judge a young mom, if you are not going to judge older moms as well, for both have their fair share of pros and cons for the child. Unless you are willing to take on a huge debate on all the sides to this very complicated topic, just let everyone be and try not to be "that" mom. 
Perhaps we feel there should be some sort of winning recipe to raise a good child, and it’s frightening to consider that maybe our kids will be whatever they’ll be regardless of us and how old or rich or whatever we were when we had them. Maybe thats why we judge so easily. Maybe not. But let us just try and support one another. Parenthood is not easy and everyone brave enough to face it head on everyday deserves whatever support they can get. Aaaaaand that is all. End rant.

Life is hard,  y'all. Let's be a shining light to someone today. 


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