I bet most of us have an epic childhood story in which we suffered a pretty gruesome injury. Mine occurred around my teenage years, during a family camping trip. I ventured out on my bike about the large circular section of the camping site our group usually rented. My exploration along the pebbled road began like all the other times I rode the same route...until my back wheel caught some extra-loose gravel and slid out from under me, hurling me to the ground. My knees absorbed the brunt of my fall and were bloody and encrusted with shards of tiny, jagged rocks. For months, my mom scrubbed and tweezed at my scabs, hoping to prevent the remnants of leftover gravel from permanently embedding into my knees.
The scars remain, and I would not be surprised if another bit or two of rock eventually worked to the surface of my bumpy and discolored skin. Though the years have passed, I am still reminded of that nasty fall and the physical damage it caused. I can recall my accident and remember the pain and how long it took me to trek back to our campsite limping. The elapsed time did nothing for the scars, and I often wonder if I will ever have to scrub my own daughters' knees after a similar injury.
Trauma and disaster can even tarnish our good memories. My family spent plenty of fun-packed summers camping with some great friends. Most of my childhood years involved slurping stew and making s'mores around the campfire; exploring and relishing God's handiwork in the outdoors; and being tossed about the waves on an inner tube behind my dad's beloved boat. One evening, during one of our earlier trips, there was even a hailstorm that pummeled our family's tent. It was soon after that my parents began shopping for a tow-behind trailer, and we felt like Texas royalty because it. had. bunk. beds. You see, I did not always suffer an injury, but the one I did sustain impressed upon my memory some negative emotions.
The immediate camping trip after my fall, and even many subsequent bike rides, brought about anxiety and timidity in me. I was hesitant to resume the activity for fear of another painful outcome. If I fell again, I would endure more pain and acquire more scars. I was doubtful of the Lord's protection over me. I saw the scars I already had for the wounds they covered and not for the healing they represented.
Time's effect on our wounds is not always total healing, though. Physical scars can be sensitive to the touch and prompt in us a recollection of painful events past. Emotional scars can keep us fleeing from relational closeness with those who love us. Both kinds of scars may even keep us guarded and separated from the One who longs for us the most. The walls we build and the boundaries we establish to protect us from the source of hurt can separate us from a gracious Father capable of healing the deepest of wounds and mending the most shattered of hearts.
Jesus's scars are far more powerful than ours. Our scars symbolize defeat, while His boast of victory. His scars tell of a redemptive storyーone of sacrificial and complete, selfless love. His scars remind us that, no matter our missteps or heartache, we are worthy of salvation. That we are important enough to receive redemption and that He sacrificed His life to save ours. That our scarred bodies and bruised hearts are made new in Him. Jesus carried a cross so that we may lay our burdens at His feet. He suffered an excruciating death so that we may live free from our pain.
"'He himself bore our sins' in his body on the cross, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness; 'by his wounds you have been healed.'"
1 Peter 2:24 (NIV)
©️ 2019 Beloved Reflection Media
Tuesday, April 23, 2019
Tuesday, March 26, 2019
Stillness
It is Christmas morning and the building excitement is bursting from the seams of our home. Giggles, whispers, and little scampers up and down the stairs can be heard over the brewing coffee and faintly-playing Christmas music. Of all the cherished memories in my life, Christmas mornings rank highly for so many reasons: the fulfilled anticipation, the closeness, the gratitude, the sleepy tantrums, the arguing over toys, the hours spent in the kitchen. Nothing beats it.
A favorite tradition of mine is the stockings. Handmade by my mama to resemble my childhood stockings, ours are red with white cuffs and gold trim. Their long and slender construction allow for some pretty good stuffing. Our little girls' arms can barely reach the bottom without help. Our third daughter, in all her excited two-year-old glory, reached the bottom of her stocking. I can imagine her chubby fingers fishing for the last of her treasures. She pulled out a necklace and squealed! Its chunky and sparkly iridescent beads flanked a pink, rhinestone butterfly. Coupled with a coordinating bracelet, it was her first big girl jewelry set and destined to be a keepsake.
For the past few months, our sweet girl has adorned almost every outfit with the butterfly necklace that is "very special" to her. We chose her bedroom doorknob for its resting place, making it easy to find and difficult to lose. She simply grabs it on the way out of her room on a regular basis, and that shopping day with Mama was no different. It was a bitterly cold and blustery day requiring both of us to bundle up; we accessorized her with boots, a hat, and her coat's hood, not forgetting to slide her favorite necklace around her neck before leaving for our fun outing. The day's temperature and wind kept us both bundled in our winter gear, keeping her butterfly necklace hidden under the layers. I remember telling her to keep it under her coat so it would not get tangled in her car seat straps.
Fast forward to the next day and she asks for her necklace, declaring it cannot be found in its usual resting place. Her panic ensues as my mama investigative skills come to life. Mamas have a special sense of exploring some of the strangest places a toy or favorite necklace can be hiding, but I looked everywhere to no avail. Dresser drawers and kitchen cabinets. Laundry hampers and baby doll strollers. Up and down. Over and under. Nothing. Cue my teary-eyed conversations with my mom. Maybe she dropped it while running errands. Maybe it broke. After she and I returned from our shopping day, she excitedly flew back inside to see her sisters, throwing all her outerwear aside. She left a trail of clothing and accessories strewn behind her, but never once do I remember seeing the necklace.
Before the necklace's hiding place was discovered, I kept interviewing its owner, hoping to hear a nugget of evidence leading to its recovery. During separate interrogations, she said she threw it on the floor in the store. She "remembered" flushing it down the toilet. She thought it broke. Insert facepalm. Our endless discussion failed to jog her memory with any sort of accurate detail. I was forcing her to remember something she did not remember. I kept prompting her with unrelated and unnecessary questioning that proved useless in the quest.
It took a couple days of fruitless hunting before that necklace was found. The three big sisters were entrenched in a game of hide-and-seek upstairs when I heard a piercing shriek echoing down the stairwell. "Myyyy neeeecklace!" Her excitement was uncontrollable and contagious. It was always hereーnot broken, not lost in a store, or flushed down our toilet. I do not even like her playing upstairs in her big sisters' room, but that is where the necklace was lost AND recovered in an impromptu game between the sisters.
Much to my relief, I had not been instrumental in my daughter losing her necklace during our errands. Much to my dismay, I had not been instrumental in my daughter finding her necklace either. That revelation caused me pause. All too often do I consider myself part of the solution when God is usually prompting me to be still...and to be quiet. My daughter was going to find that necklace under her sister's bed because God was going to lead her to it. He knew she flung it under the bed skirt and He guided her right back there to recover it. He did not need me, and all my frustration, concern, and sadness about her "losing" the necklace were self-made.
Our Father oftentimes calls us to be present and active in situations around us, but He may also need us to be still and quiet so His work and direction can be seen and heard. Our good intentions may be disruptive at the least and harmful at the most. If you keep trying to insert yourself into a family or work conflict, you may be hindering true resolution. Obedience in movement is important; it involves our moving when directed. Obedience in stillness is just as important; it involves our staying put when we feel the urge to move.
The Lord's presence in our lives is not always felt or seen, but it is always there. Maybe you find yourself in a season of waiting and wonder why you cannot see God visibly working around you. Maybe the change you are waiting to see in your life needs to firstly happen in your heart. Maybe the sacrifices you are expecting someone else to make need to be firstly made by you. Maybe the growth you are craving will occur in the journey itself and not the destination. Could it be the necklace you are seeking is not actually lost? Give yourself pause and determine if your stillness is needed more than your movement. After all, the God who parts seas, frees nations, and saves an entire humanity from eternal damnation can move mountains in your life...without your help.
"The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him, to the one who seeks him; it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord."
Lamentations 3:25-26 (NIV)
© 2019 Beloved Reflection Media
A favorite tradition of mine is the stockings. Handmade by my mama to resemble my childhood stockings, ours are red with white cuffs and gold trim. Their long and slender construction allow for some pretty good stuffing. Our little girls' arms can barely reach the bottom without help. Our third daughter, in all her excited two-year-old glory, reached the bottom of her stocking. I can imagine her chubby fingers fishing for the last of her treasures. She pulled out a necklace and squealed! Its chunky and sparkly iridescent beads flanked a pink, rhinestone butterfly. Coupled with a coordinating bracelet, it was her first big girl jewelry set and destined to be a keepsake.
For the past few months, our sweet girl has adorned almost every outfit with the butterfly necklace that is "very special" to her. We chose her bedroom doorknob for its resting place, making it easy to find and difficult to lose. She simply grabs it on the way out of her room on a regular basis, and that shopping day with Mama was no different. It was a bitterly cold and blustery day requiring both of us to bundle up; we accessorized her with boots, a hat, and her coat's hood, not forgetting to slide her favorite necklace around her neck before leaving for our fun outing. The day's temperature and wind kept us both bundled in our winter gear, keeping her butterfly necklace hidden under the layers. I remember telling her to keep it under her coat so it would not get tangled in her car seat straps.
Fast forward to the next day and she asks for her necklace, declaring it cannot be found in its usual resting place. Her panic ensues as my mama investigative skills come to life. Mamas have a special sense of exploring some of the strangest places a toy or favorite necklace can be hiding, but I looked everywhere to no avail. Dresser drawers and kitchen cabinets. Laundry hampers and baby doll strollers. Up and down. Over and under. Nothing. Cue my teary-eyed conversations with my mom. Maybe she dropped it while running errands. Maybe it broke. After she and I returned from our shopping day, she excitedly flew back inside to see her sisters, throwing all her outerwear aside. She left a trail of clothing and accessories strewn behind her, but never once do I remember seeing the necklace.
Before the necklace's hiding place was discovered, I kept interviewing its owner, hoping to hear a nugget of evidence leading to its recovery. During separate interrogations, she said she threw it on the floor in the store. She "remembered" flushing it down the toilet. She thought it broke. Insert facepalm. Our endless discussion failed to jog her memory with any sort of accurate detail. I was forcing her to remember something she did not remember. I kept prompting her with unrelated and unnecessary questioning that proved useless in the quest.
It took a couple days of fruitless hunting before that necklace was found. The three big sisters were entrenched in a game of hide-and-seek upstairs when I heard a piercing shriek echoing down the stairwell. "Myyyy neeeecklace!" Her excitement was uncontrollable and contagious. It was always hereーnot broken, not lost in a store, or flushed down our toilet. I do not even like her playing upstairs in her big sisters' room, but that is where the necklace was lost AND recovered in an impromptu game between the sisters.
Much to my relief, I had not been instrumental in my daughter losing her necklace during our errands. Much to my dismay, I had not been instrumental in my daughter finding her necklace either. That revelation caused me pause. All too often do I consider myself part of the solution when God is usually prompting me to be still...and to be quiet. My daughter was going to find that necklace under her sister's bed because God was going to lead her to it. He knew she flung it under the bed skirt and He guided her right back there to recover it. He did not need me, and all my frustration, concern, and sadness about her "losing" the necklace were self-made.
Our Father oftentimes calls us to be present and active in situations around us, but He may also need us to be still and quiet so His work and direction can be seen and heard. Our good intentions may be disruptive at the least and harmful at the most. If you keep trying to insert yourself into a family or work conflict, you may be hindering true resolution. Obedience in movement is important; it involves our moving when directed. Obedience in stillness is just as important; it involves our staying put when we feel the urge to move.
The Lord's presence in our lives is not always felt or seen, but it is always there. Maybe you find yourself in a season of waiting and wonder why you cannot see God visibly working around you. Maybe the change you are waiting to see in your life needs to firstly happen in your heart. Maybe the sacrifices you are expecting someone else to make need to be firstly made by you. Maybe the growth you are craving will occur in the journey itself and not the destination. Could it be the necklace you are seeking is not actually lost? Give yourself pause and determine if your stillness is needed more than your movement. After all, the God who parts seas, frees nations, and saves an entire humanity from eternal damnation can move mountains in your life...without your help.
"The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him, to the one who seeks him; it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord."
Lamentations 3:25-26 (NIV)
© 2019 Beloved Reflection Media
Thursday, February 7, 2019
Your Empty Arms
I was folding a load of laundry when the urge to write you rushed over my heart. Words began flooding my mind that only our Father could have given me. My hands felt the need to touch these keys in complete compassion and sisterly love for you. I have felt overwhelmed, lately, and admit that my gratitude for this life's givings has recently been in short supply. I can sometimes take for granted what you so profoundly desire. I am so sorry.
I am hesitant to expect anything I say to have the power of healing, and nothing I transcribe here will offer the understanding your mind and heart beg for. Ache for. Your pain is immense; your tears are immeasurable; and your love can reach the heavens. Please forgive me if my efforts fall short, but these words have been cautiously and tenderly chosen for you. Whether your story has already been shared or you hold your grief tightly concealed, I pray the Lord meets you in this place. I pray, if only for a moment, you tear down the walls built around your heart so that His peace and overflowing love for you penetrates your soul. May you feel His presence in your empty arms.
There is nothing to describe the anguish you feel in your heart. The tucked away self-guilt that cuts you deep to your core. The sorrow and jealousy that are all-consuming. I have heard your cries and shed tears alongside you. Your sobbing is deafening, and too few of us know how to respond or even try. You question your calling and the yearning that resides so deeply within you. You second-guess your health, your habits, your purpose. You carry your family's grief, even though the weight of your own is debilitating. You blankly stare at a future of unanswered questions, having little strength to persevere. You doubt God's goodness and sovereignty, standing alone with unfulfilled promises and empty arms.
Time refuses to erase the pain, but the pain is what connects you to what was and what could have been. A name so lovingly chosen becomes a whispered prayer echoed in the depths of your heart. Two dates every year bring with them unbridled emotion. One signifies hope and your what-was joy, while the other signifies sorrow and all that was lost. Outsiders underestimate the importance of these days and how they so greatly changed you. Your loss changed the way you look at yourself as a woman and a mother. It changed the way you look at other children around you or how you feel next to your husband. Your loss changed the way you look at God and has even shaken your confidence in His divinity.
So many of us fail to meet you in the valley of your heartache and oftentimes overlook the relentless hurt you endure. You are bombarded with pregnancy announcements on social media, yet you offer sincere congratulations. Your mailbox overflows with baby shower invitations that you graciously accept. You receive invasive questioning of your family planning and physical health, but you are hesitant to disclose your painful journey. Nobody really considers the scars buried deep within your being. The emptiness in your heart that is almost too heavy to withstand. The never-ending longing that unsettles your soul. The aching in your bones to touch and smell.
I grieve alongside you and utter your name in petition of settling peace. I pray you see through the darkness to the One who loves you most. Though your questions may remain unanswered and your pain will never wholly subside, I promise to listen. To hear your story with empathy and compassion. To share in the love of your angel. To recognize that there was life, no matter how long. Life breathed into that precious and perfect being by our sovereign Father. Life celebrated and life mourned.
You carried an angel who took part of your heart to the heavens. Your arms may be empty, but Jesus's are not.
"As you do not know the path of the wind, or how the body is formed in a mother's womb, so you cannot understand the work of God, the Maker of all things."
Ecclesiastes 11:5 (NIV)
© 2019 Beloved Reflection Media
I am hesitant to expect anything I say to have the power of healing, and nothing I transcribe here will offer the understanding your mind and heart beg for. Ache for. Your pain is immense; your tears are immeasurable; and your love can reach the heavens. Please forgive me if my efforts fall short, but these words have been cautiously and tenderly chosen for you. Whether your story has already been shared or you hold your grief tightly concealed, I pray the Lord meets you in this place. I pray, if only for a moment, you tear down the walls built around your heart so that His peace and overflowing love for you penetrates your soul. May you feel His presence in your empty arms.
There is nothing to describe the anguish you feel in your heart. The tucked away self-guilt that cuts you deep to your core. The sorrow and jealousy that are all-consuming. I have heard your cries and shed tears alongside you. Your sobbing is deafening, and too few of us know how to respond or even try. You question your calling and the yearning that resides so deeply within you. You second-guess your health, your habits, your purpose. You carry your family's grief, even though the weight of your own is debilitating. You blankly stare at a future of unanswered questions, having little strength to persevere. You doubt God's goodness and sovereignty, standing alone with unfulfilled promises and empty arms.
Time refuses to erase the pain, but the pain is what connects you to what was and what could have been. A name so lovingly chosen becomes a whispered prayer echoed in the depths of your heart. Two dates every year bring with them unbridled emotion. One signifies hope and your what-was joy, while the other signifies sorrow and all that was lost. Outsiders underestimate the importance of these days and how they so greatly changed you. Your loss changed the way you look at yourself as a woman and a mother. It changed the way you look at other children around you or how you feel next to your husband. Your loss changed the way you look at God and has even shaken your confidence in His divinity.
So many of us fail to meet you in the valley of your heartache and oftentimes overlook the relentless hurt you endure. You are bombarded with pregnancy announcements on social media, yet you offer sincere congratulations. Your mailbox overflows with baby shower invitations that you graciously accept. You receive invasive questioning of your family planning and physical health, but you are hesitant to disclose your painful journey. Nobody really considers the scars buried deep within your being. The emptiness in your heart that is almost too heavy to withstand. The never-ending longing that unsettles your soul. The aching in your bones to touch and smell.
I grieve alongside you and utter your name in petition of settling peace. I pray you see through the darkness to the One who loves you most. Though your questions may remain unanswered and your pain will never wholly subside, I promise to listen. To hear your story with empathy and compassion. To share in the love of your angel. To recognize that there was life, no matter how long. Life breathed into that precious and perfect being by our sovereign Father. Life celebrated and life mourned.
You carried an angel who took part of your heart to the heavens. Your arms may be empty, but Jesus's are not.
"As you do not know the path of the wind, or how the body is formed in a mother's womb, so you cannot understand the work of God, the Maker of all things."
Ecclesiastes 11:5 (NIV)
© 2019 Beloved Reflection Media
Wednesday, January 2, 2019
Second-Hand Best
Have you ever received anyone's hand-me-downs? I am my parents' youngest daughter and was very accustomed to wearing and playing with hand-me-downs as a child. Three of my own daughters commonly receive a mixture of brand new and new-to-them clothing and toys from their older sister. My girls are always excited about and grateful for their seasonal clothing rotation and toy organization. They do not care that clothing store tags are missing or that toys have already been removed from their original packaging.
Each new and previously-owned gift is welcomed with equal amounts of gratitude and excitement. The newest acquisitions soon become some of the girls' favorites and provide just as much delight and entertainment as anything else costing double the price. My girls' gratitude is in abundant supply, no matter the item's origin or value.
I have much to learn from my children.
I received a box jam-packed with white, plastic hangers from a person who does not value me and considers me socially and financially beneath her. I knew, just knew her intention was to keep me feeling inferior. She maliciously chose me from her list of possible recipients because she knew I would crumble under the weight of my insecurity and self-doubt.
I did crumble, not because anything I described about her is true, but because I allowed my insecurities and self-doubt to convince me they were. Surrounded by mounds of incoming new-to-us clothing, I stood in the middle of my baby's closet crumbling beneath the heavy lies.
Truthfully, the hand-me-down hangers were identical to those already hanging in my children's closets. I had already purchased the exact type of hangers with our family's money for our family's use. So why did receiving them from someone else uncover such a raw place in my heart? Honestly, the matching hangers were much more pleasing to my perfectionist self than mismatching ones would have been. And not surprising at all, we needed hangers. The box of someone else's leftovers or no-longer-needs fulfilled a tangible need for our household, but it revealed to me a devastating lie I was holding deep in my heart: I am second-hand best.
It is not every day that I battle feelings of being less than, but the enemy's stronghold can be suffocating on the worst days. Before escaping from its smothering grip, I can convince myself that another wife can love my husband better. That another mother can care for my children better. That another woman can share Christ's love with those around me better. That used hangers are all I deserve. That hand-me-downs no longer good enough for someone else are good enough for someone less than... like me.
The enemy knew I was vulnerable and relentlessly attacked my aching heart. New, heaping tears welled in my eyes with each hanger I hung on the closet rod. I accepted defeat and believed a falsehood about my value with each additional piece of clothing arranged amongst the others. Adding another used hanger to the rod further chipped away at my spirit and built up in me a misconception that the box giver's intention was to send me into a sad and emotional place.
Friend, reader of these words, is it possible you also believe the devil's lie about you? Are your deeply-embedded feelings of "less than" tricking you into believing you are second-hand best? I know that it has nothing to do with things, though. Hangers may just be the vehicle for the consuming negativity to set in. It is about feeling insufficient. Unimportant. Unusable.
Before you suffocate within the enemy's grip, let me share with you some of the truest and most beautiful words you may read here: Jesus chooses you. Jesus will choose you over the ninety-nine others, every single time. He will leave the rest of us in pursuit of his beloved, you, whenever you stray or feel lost. Not because you purchase brand new hangers. Not because you are the giver or recipient of hand-me-down hangers. But because you are immeasurably cherished by our Father.
For as long as you feel lost and invaluable, Jesus will relentlessly pursue you. For as long as you search for your identity and worth, you will see your flawless reflection in him. Equip yourself with the truth before you are given a box of hand-me-downs full of the enemy's deception.
"For this is what the Sovereign LORD says: I myself will search for my sheep and look after them."
Ezekiel 34:11 (NIV)
© 2019 Beloved Reflection Media
Each new and previously-owned gift is welcomed with equal amounts of gratitude and excitement. The newest acquisitions soon become some of the girls' favorites and provide just as much delight and entertainment as anything else costing double the price. My girls' gratitude is in abundant supply, no matter the item's origin or value.
I have much to learn from my children.
I received a box jam-packed with white, plastic hangers from a person who does not value me and considers me socially and financially beneath her. I knew, just knew her intention was to keep me feeling inferior. She maliciously chose me from her list of possible recipients because she knew I would crumble under the weight of my insecurity and self-doubt.
I did crumble, not because anything I described about her is true, but because I allowed my insecurities and self-doubt to convince me they were. Surrounded by mounds of incoming new-to-us clothing, I stood in the middle of my baby's closet crumbling beneath the heavy lies.
Truthfully, the hand-me-down hangers were identical to those already hanging in my children's closets. I had already purchased the exact type of hangers with our family's money for our family's use. So why did receiving them from someone else uncover such a raw place in my heart? Honestly, the matching hangers were much more pleasing to my perfectionist self than mismatching ones would have been. And not surprising at all, we needed hangers. The box of someone else's leftovers or no-longer-needs fulfilled a tangible need for our household, but it revealed to me a devastating lie I was holding deep in my heart: I am second-hand best.
It is not every day that I battle feelings of being less than, but the enemy's stronghold can be suffocating on the worst days. Before escaping from its smothering grip, I can convince myself that another wife can love my husband better. That another mother can care for my children better. That another woman can share Christ's love with those around me better. That used hangers are all I deserve. That hand-me-downs no longer good enough for someone else are good enough for someone less than... like me.
The enemy knew I was vulnerable and relentlessly attacked my aching heart. New, heaping tears welled in my eyes with each hanger I hung on the closet rod. I accepted defeat and believed a falsehood about my value with each additional piece of clothing arranged amongst the others. Adding another used hanger to the rod further chipped away at my spirit and built up in me a misconception that the box giver's intention was to send me into a sad and emotional place.
Friend, reader of these words, is it possible you also believe the devil's lie about you? Are your deeply-embedded feelings of "less than" tricking you into believing you are second-hand best? I know that it has nothing to do with things, though. Hangers may just be the vehicle for the consuming negativity to set in. It is about feeling insufficient. Unimportant. Unusable.
Before you suffocate within the enemy's grip, let me share with you some of the truest and most beautiful words you may read here: Jesus chooses you. Jesus will choose you over the ninety-nine others, every single time. He will leave the rest of us in pursuit of his beloved, you, whenever you stray or feel lost. Not because you purchase brand new hangers. Not because you are the giver or recipient of hand-me-down hangers. But because you are immeasurably cherished by our Father.
For as long as you feel lost and invaluable, Jesus will relentlessly pursue you. For as long as you search for your identity and worth, you will see your flawless reflection in him. Equip yourself with the truth before you are given a box of hand-me-downs full of the enemy's deception.
"For this is what the Sovereign LORD says: I myself will search for my sheep and look after them."
Ezekiel 34:11 (NIV)
© 2019 Beloved Reflection Media
Tuesday, August 28, 2018
The Overlooked Mama
Quiet.
I am engulfed by a sea of quiet. All that fills our home with noise are the running dishwasher, my husband's snoring, and our children's sound machines. I can hear crashing waves echoing from the hallway of our babies' rooms, while white noise and snippets of Mozart drift down from upstairs.
From the time my morning alarm jolts me awake to the marathon that is putting our children into their beds at night, there is little quiet. I sit here, during this last hour of the day, depleted of energy and overwhelmed with exhaustion, but sleep is still a far-off place. My mind spends most of the day preoccupied with responsibilities, to-do lists, and dinner menus. Once my head hits the pillow, I catch up on thinking about my family and their families; my sweet mama friends; special events I am planning; selling our old house; if I will finish my accounting degree and what sort of work I will pursue with it; writing a book... There really is no end to this list. I just cannot seem to quiet the worry, the stresses, the planning, the yearning.
Days can pass without my needing to leave the house. My steps down the driveway to the mailbox give me a fleeting moment of serenity to deeply inhale all of God's majestic handiwork. This is the first home out of four that we cannot hear a train blasting its whistle as it barrels down railroad tracks. Highway noise is miles away and emergency sirens are scarce. We relish in the bits of nature that are now a scenic backdrop to our everyday life. Our girls are thrilled to take inventory of the little creatures making our outdoors their homes. But amidst the grandeur of the Lord's design, I feel so overwhelmingly little. Overlooked. Sometimes even forgotten. I realize that, upon collecting the mail, I will recluse back into my home and quickly be needed again. Tugged on and spilled on again. Needed for more meal-making and dish-washing. More bath-giving and laundry-folding. More teeth-brushing and bottom-wiping. I give all of me to these children whose lives give me life. But this journey takes so much of me, sometimes leaving me feeling barren--emotionally, socially, and spiritually.
A lot of women are professionally successful, building their corporate legacy and contributing to their family's finances along the way. They have value, both inside and outside of the home. Our family saves money by not paying daycare tuition, but it also feels as if I run a daycare (and nightcare) for free. There is never a paycheck. Never a column of my income next to my husband's income on our budget sheets. My on-the-clock responsibilities look just like my off-the-clock responsibilities. I can go hours without participating in any sort of conversation with another adult. It is common that my lunch break occurs one or two hours after I feed our girls. I preface business calls with "Please ignore the screaming. I promise they are not dying." I cannot leave a stack of work on my desk for me to tackle the next day, allowing me to break away and clear my head until the morning.
Yes, I chose to have these (and this many) children.
Yes, I also chose to stay at home with them.
I do not aim to gain your respect, impress you with my mad skills, or have you pity me. I write these words, full of compassion and understanding and camaraderie, for the other mama engulfed in the worry, the stresses, the planning, and the yearning, in this last hour of the day. Of all the mamas in the whole world, I know I am not alone in feeling overlooked and forgotten. I write this for you. We are so much alike. I know the same exhaustion you feel, and I know the same emptiness you feel. Something often described as "the most rewarding job" can be so depleting. Friend, I wish we could sit together, to share with each other the beauty and the ugliness that so commonly accompany one another.
I am immensely grateful and humbled that God chose me to love and lead my children through life. But I would be lying if I said that I truly know my value here. There is no impressive title by my name; I do not receive recognition for the completion of extensive projects (although, grout cleaning should qualify); and there are no tenure-based or performance-based pay increases. Evidence of my hard work are full-bellied, sweetly-smelling, kind-hearted babes, on the good days. Some other days, I feed our girls junk food, I spot-clean their sticky hair, and I remind them to be considerate of their sisters more than occasionally. When difficult days abound, the self-guilt and self-doubt see me as a vulnerable target.
Far too often do I reach a day's end feeling depleted and defeated. Maybe I yelled at my girls too much or could have helped them navigate their sibling conflict better or tackled my housekeeping and homeschooling duties more efficiently. You see, how we conclude a day dictates how the next one will commence. In a moment of pure honesty, I might admit that I envy my friends who send their kids off to school or daycare. If I had a "real" job, nobody would question how I spend every waking moment at home and have no substantial proof of accomplishing any tasks. If I had a "real" job, I would never receive such lackluster responses when asked what I do for a living. For whatever reason, there exists a stigma for stay-at-home moms. We can be considered professionally incompetent, academically disadvantaged, or downright lazy. Society imposes impossible standards, as if battling our own expectations of ourselves is not enough.
These expectations we have of ourselves exist because we cannot imagine giving our children anything less than our best. We exhaust every muscle of our body and every ounce of our sanity to give all of ourselves every waking moment. We are good moms, even when our hearts grow weary and our minds try convincing us otherwise. Dear friend, I see you. You have been tugged on and spilled on again. Needed for more meal-making and dish-washing. More bath-giving and laundry-folding. More teeth-brushing and bottom-wiping. Sitting on the couch, soaking in the day's last offering of quiet, depleted of energy and overwhelmed with exhaustion, I see you. You are not alone in feeling overlooked and forgotten. I may not know your name, but I know your heart.
"Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."
Matthew 11:28 (NIV)
I am engulfed by a sea of quiet. All that fills our home with noise are the running dishwasher, my husband's snoring, and our children's sound machines. I can hear crashing waves echoing from the hallway of our babies' rooms, while white noise and snippets of Mozart drift down from upstairs.
From the time my morning alarm jolts me awake to the marathon that is putting our children into their beds at night, there is little quiet. I sit here, during this last hour of the day, depleted of energy and overwhelmed with exhaustion, but sleep is still a far-off place. My mind spends most of the day preoccupied with responsibilities, to-do lists, and dinner menus. Once my head hits the pillow, I catch up on thinking about my family and their families; my sweet mama friends; special events I am planning; selling our old house; if I will finish my accounting degree and what sort of work I will pursue with it; writing a book... There really is no end to this list. I just cannot seem to quiet the worry, the stresses, the planning, the yearning.
Days can pass without my needing to leave the house. My steps down the driveway to the mailbox give me a fleeting moment of serenity to deeply inhale all of God's majestic handiwork. This is the first home out of four that we cannot hear a train blasting its whistle as it barrels down railroad tracks. Highway noise is miles away and emergency sirens are scarce. We relish in the bits of nature that are now a scenic backdrop to our everyday life. Our girls are thrilled to take inventory of the little creatures making our outdoors their homes. But amidst the grandeur of the Lord's design, I feel so overwhelmingly little. Overlooked. Sometimes even forgotten. I realize that, upon collecting the mail, I will recluse back into my home and quickly be needed again. Tugged on and spilled on again. Needed for more meal-making and dish-washing. More bath-giving and laundry-folding. More teeth-brushing and bottom-wiping. I give all of me to these children whose lives give me life. But this journey takes so much of me, sometimes leaving me feeling barren--emotionally, socially, and spiritually.
A lot of women are professionally successful, building their corporate legacy and contributing to their family's finances along the way. They have value, both inside and outside of the home. Our family saves money by not paying daycare tuition, but it also feels as if I run a daycare (and nightcare) for free. There is never a paycheck. Never a column of my income next to my husband's income on our budget sheets. My on-the-clock responsibilities look just like my off-the-clock responsibilities. I can go hours without participating in any sort of conversation with another adult. It is common that my lunch break occurs one or two hours after I feed our girls. I preface business calls with "Please ignore the screaming. I promise they are not dying." I cannot leave a stack of work on my desk for me to tackle the next day, allowing me to break away and clear my head until the morning.
Yes, I chose to have these (and this many) children.
Yes, I also chose to stay at home with them.
I do not aim to gain your respect, impress you with my mad skills, or have you pity me. I write these words, full of compassion and understanding and camaraderie, for the other mama engulfed in the worry, the stresses, the planning, and the yearning, in this last hour of the day. Of all the mamas in the whole world, I know I am not alone in feeling overlooked and forgotten. I write this for you. We are so much alike. I know the same exhaustion you feel, and I know the same emptiness you feel. Something often described as "the most rewarding job" can be so depleting. Friend, I wish we could sit together, to share with each other the beauty and the ugliness that so commonly accompany one another.
I am immensely grateful and humbled that God chose me to love and lead my children through life. But I would be lying if I said that I truly know my value here. There is no impressive title by my name; I do not receive recognition for the completion of extensive projects (although, grout cleaning should qualify); and there are no tenure-based or performance-based pay increases. Evidence of my hard work are full-bellied, sweetly-smelling, kind-hearted babes, on the good days. Some other days, I feed our girls junk food, I spot-clean their sticky hair, and I remind them to be considerate of their sisters more than occasionally. When difficult days abound, the self-guilt and self-doubt see me as a vulnerable target.
Far too often do I reach a day's end feeling depleted and defeated. Maybe I yelled at my girls too much or could have helped them navigate their sibling conflict better or tackled my housekeeping and homeschooling duties more efficiently. You see, how we conclude a day dictates how the next one will commence. In a moment of pure honesty, I might admit that I envy my friends who send their kids off to school or daycare. If I had a "real" job, nobody would question how I spend every waking moment at home and have no substantial proof of accomplishing any tasks. If I had a "real" job, I would never receive such lackluster responses when asked what I do for a living. For whatever reason, there exists a stigma for stay-at-home moms. We can be considered professionally incompetent, academically disadvantaged, or downright lazy. Society imposes impossible standards, as if battling our own expectations of ourselves is not enough.
These expectations we have of ourselves exist because we cannot imagine giving our children anything less than our best. We exhaust every muscle of our body and every ounce of our sanity to give all of ourselves every waking moment. We are good moms, even when our hearts grow weary and our minds try convincing us otherwise. Dear friend, I see you. You have been tugged on and spilled on again. Needed for more meal-making and dish-washing. More bath-giving and laundry-folding. More teeth-brushing and bottom-wiping. Sitting on the couch, soaking in the day's last offering of quiet, depleted of energy and overwhelmed with exhaustion, I see you. You are not alone in feeling overlooked and forgotten. I may not know your name, but I know your heart.
"Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."
Matthew 11:28 (NIV)
Monday, July 23, 2018
An Unrealistic Reality
Do you have a TV? We do. If I can be honest, I think it remains turned on more than it should, but it is this mama's cheap babysitter for a portion of the day. We are also a football-watching family. Boomer Sooner. Our chosen programs mostly focus on matters of real estate and home renovations, children's programming, and the good ol', trusty Wheel of Fortune. Eleven years ago, my husband and I predicted what it would be like to be cool at thirty, and dinnertime Wheel of Fortune was involved. It is nice to know we are embracing our younger selves' idea of total coolness.
After our girls' bedtime, the hubby and I rummage through our Netflix library of investigative shows or lighthearted comedies. One of our favorite series follows a group of misfit employees through years of workplace shenanigans and personal, tumultuous relationships. Let The Office fans unite! And if full disclosure is in order, I can also waste countless hours lost in sappy Hallmark movies or a few network dramas sure to leave me a sobbing mess. I should have covertly slipped "through corny and overly-sentimental television programs" into my husband's wedding vows to me as he still refuses to oblige.
Now that I have divulged my family's ever-so-entertaining TV agenda, you might be pondering the purpose of this soon-to-come tirade. You see, a few weeks ago, I saw a commercial for another weeknight network show, and it was disheartening. Repulsive, really. I chuckled with disbelief before gasping with utter disappointment. This show boasted of attention-gripping entertainment for its viewers while contestants sought to find their spouse within the one-hour television block. Yep, the proposals were real, and the rings were real. Supposedly.
I am not doubting that proposal and engagement customs have changed over the years, and I will even admit that my husband's and my story is less than traditional. We met and married in about five months. Eek. Our journey has not been perfect or easy either, but the both of us have learned something very important: a marriage worth having takes grit. Commitment, selflessness, and solidarity are just a few essential components to a prosperous relationship. From the little I saw, the show failed to explore substantial content, and so wrongly conveyed marriage in a negative manner. How can those couples expect to withstand life's storms together when they take marriage so lightly? There is little real-life to a reality show engagement.
The need for instant gratification is a distinctive trait of this generation. Two-day shipping. Sign me up! Grocery pickup. Yesss, please! Subscription shopping. Take my money! By no means am I faulting these practices. As a mama-of-many, I heavily rely on these services to lessen my stress-inducing workload. But we should be careful that our reliance on convenient services does not plant seeds of expectations in other areas of life. My marriage is not always gratifying, nor is it always convenient or stress-free. Sometimes, laundering my husband's pile of dirty work clothes at 9pm is dissatisfying. Can he not wash his own clothes on the weekends? Sometimes, cooking a hearty dinner for him is inconvenient. I would rather throw a couple extra corn dogs into the oven. Sometimes, offering a listening ear to his professional challenges is stressful. I can have exhausting days, too. It is easy to be a selfish woman, but God calls me to be a selfless wife.
Not one year of our marriage has been or will be the same; some seasons bring bliss and others bring storms. The commitment my husband and I made to one another helps us navigate through the choppy waters and makes the sunshine that much warmer. We have learned that jumping ship betrays our promise--to ourselves and our children. (Just last week, our oldest daughter asked me to make a promise to her like the vow I made her daddy. She was convinced that kind of promise was sure to hold me accountable.) There are days we do not mesh well. Some conflicts are petty, and some issues are more substantial, but neither of us have expectations of quick fixes. We both desire and strive for less friction, so compassion and collaboration are a long-lasting approach to a better version of us. We enjoy a lot of victories, conquering this marriage thing "like a boss." Never does our real-life marriage mirror the inauthentic dynamics of a reality show relationship, and I am okay with that.
I think now is an appropriate opportunity to acknowledge that failed marriages exist. Some of my favorite people walked from previous marriages or had spouses who were not true to their vows. For whatever the circumstances, those relationships dissolved, but God has blessed those people still. I firmly believe that God can redeem any situation and bring back to life a lifeless love. And because our Father is one of grace, He also blesses second marriages, and third marriages, and beyond. When a husband and wife are fixed on the One who designed marriage, in all its sanctity, there will be healing, intimacy, and growth.
Attempting to identify the TV show's worst offense, I hone in on the bloated idea of self. A selfish wife cannot prioritize her husband when too consumed with her own emptiness. Equally, a selfish husband cannot prioritize his wife when too consumed with his own emptiness. Much of today's entertainment and advertisement industries prompt emotional decision making. We are told to do what makes us happy and say what helps express our every-changing emotions, no matter the effect on those around us. A selfish world is a hurtful one, an unkind one, and an inconsiderate one. A dear friend planted such a precious seed of kindness and generosity into her young son, a few weeks back: "God first, then others, then yourself." I recant those same words to our daughters on the regular, and I am proud of my friend for raising my future son-in-law so well.
I would be lying if I said that I successfully tackle my marriage every day, but I am granted the opportunity for a reset with every waking moment and extra cup of coffee I get. Being kind and helpful and loving to my husband today ensures I can be kind and helpful and loving to my husband tomorrow. Do not let the show fool you. Marriage is hard! There are no quick fixes, and it takes a heaping amount of selfless love to prioritize my husband before myself. So, what happens after the show ends? Does the network provide marriage counseling to help couples survive the storms, or does its interest cease with the rolling of the credits? Weddings can be beautiful and the talk of the tabloids, but the extravagance and publicity does not dictate a successful marriage. My marriage may not be a Hollywood hot topic, but my husband and I would rather it be a success story shared with our children, our grandchildren, and beyond.
After our girls' bedtime, the hubby and I rummage through our Netflix library of investigative shows or lighthearted comedies. One of our favorite series follows a group of misfit employees through years of workplace shenanigans and personal, tumultuous relationships. Let The Office fans unite! And if full disclosure is in order, I can also waste countless hours lost in sappy Hallmark movies or a few network dramas sure to leave me a sobbing mess. I should have covertly slipped "through corny and overly-sentimental television programs" into my husband's wedding vows to me as he still refuses to oblige.
Now that I have divulged my family's ever-so-entertaining TV agenda, you might be pondering the purpose of this soon-to-come tirade. You see, a few weeks ago, I saw a commercial for another weeknight network show, and it was disheartening. Repulsive, really. I chuckled with disbelief before gasping with utter disappointment. This show boasted of attention-gripping entertainment for its viewers while contestants sought to find their spouse within the one-hour television block. Yep, the proposals were real, and the rings were real. Supposedly.
I am not doubting that proposal and engagement customs have changed over the years, and I will even admit that my husband's and my story is less than traditional. We met and married in about five months. Eek. Our journey has not been perfect or easy either, but the both of us have learned something very important: a marriage worth having takes grit. Commitment, selflessness, and solidarity are just a few essential components to a prosperous relationship. From the little I saw, the show failed to explore substantial content, and so wrongly conveyed marriage in a negative manner. How can those couples expect to withstand life's storms together when they take marriage so lightly? There is little real-life to a reality show engagement.
The need for instant gratification is a distinctive trait of this generation. Two-day shipping. Sign me up! Grocery pickup. Yesss, please! Subscription shopping. Take my money! By no means am I faulting these practices. As a mama-of-many, I heavily rely on these services to lessen my stress-inducing workload. But we should be careful that our reliance on convenient services does not plant seeds of expectations in other areas of life. My marriage is not always gratifying, nor is it always convenient or stress-free. Sometimes, laundering my husband's pile of dirty work clothes at 9pm is dissatisfying. Can he not wash his own clothes on the weekends? Sometimes, cooking a hearty dinner for him is inconvenient. I would rather throw a couple extra corn dogs into the oven. Sometimes, offering a listening ear to his professional challenges is stressful. I can have exhausting days, too. It is easy to be a selfish woman, but God calls me to be a selfless wife.
Not one year of our marriage has been or will be the same; some seasons bring bliss and others bring storms. The commitment my husband and I made to one another helps us navigate through the choppy waters and makes the sunshine that much warmer. We have learned that jumping ship betrays our promise--to ourselves and our children. (Just last week, our oldest daughter asked me to make a promise to her like the vow I made her daddy. She was convinced that kind of promise was sure to hold me accountable.) There are days we do not mesh well. Some conflicts are petty, and some issues are more substantial, but neither of us have expectations of quick fixes. We both desire and strive for less friction, so compassion and collaboration are a long-lasting approach to a better version of us. We enjoy a lot of victories, conquering this marriage thing "like a boss." Never does our real-life marriage mirror the inauthentic dynamics of a reality show relationship, and I am okay with that.
I think now is an appropriate opportunity to acknowledge that failed marriages exist. Some of my favorite people walked from previous marriages or had spouses who were not true to their vows. For whatever the circumstances, those relationships dissolved, but God has blessed those people still. I firmly believe that God can redeem any situation and bring back to life a lifeless love. And because our Father is one of grace, He also blesses second marriages, and third marriages, and beyond. When a husband and wife are fixed on the One who designed marriage, in all its sanctity, there will be healing, intimacy, and growth.
Attempting to identify the TV show's worst offense, I hone in on the bloated idea of self. A selfish wife cannot prioritize her husband when too consumed with her own emptiness. Equally, a selfish husband cannot prioritize his wife when too consumed with his own emptiness. Much of today's entertainment and advertisement industries prompt emotional decision making. We are told to do what makes us happy and say what helps express our every-changing emotions, no matter the effect on those around us. A selfish world is a hurtful one, an unkind one, and an inconsiderate one. A dear friend planted such a precious seed of kindness and generosity into her young son, a few weeks back: "God first, then others, then yourself." I recant those same words to our daughters on the regular, and I am proud of my friend for raising my future son-in-law so well.
I would be lying if I said that I successfully tackle my marriage every day, but I am granted the opportunity for a reset with every waking moment and extra cup of coffee I get. Being kind and helpful and loving to my husband today ensures I can be kind and helpful and loving to my husband tomorrow. Do not let the show fool you. Marriage is hard! There are no quick fixes, and it takes a heaping amount of selfless love to prioritize my husband before myself. So, what happens after the show ends? Does the network provide marriage counseling to help couples survive the storms, or does its interest cease with the rolling of the credits? Weddings can be beautiful and the talk of the tabloids, but the extravagance and publicity does not dictate a successful marriage. My marriage may not be a Hollywood hot topic, but my husband and I would rather it be a success story shared with our children, our grandchildren, and beyond.
Saturday, June 16, 2018
A Little Place Called Home
Foundation, walls, and a roof--a lot of life can be lived in such confines. That place offered security, familiarity, and comfort; no other feels quite like it. The brick may look aged, the walls slathered in decades' worth of paint, and the roof beaten by unforgiving springtime storms, but that dwelling was home. Our short-lived possession is only a fraction of its existence, but it was the place of so much life for my sweet family.
I can remember driving back from the title company as brand-new homeowners, holding our new keys in one hand and my husband's hand in another. I asked him to remind me of our new zip code, then repeated it in my head until memorized. Although proud of ourselves for the accomplishment, we were nervous to abandon the lesser obligation of renting. We discussed interior paint colors and furniture arrangement, while cruising through the city we would grow to love. The next few days were a tired-eye blur of emptying boxes and overeating fast food, but, almost immediately, our life was shaken.
Within the first week of living in our new home, our little family experienced one of the most frightening days we can recall; a deadly tornado barreled through our state, leveling miles of civilization in its track. With only one-half a mile of protection, our lives and our new home were spared, but our town was forever scarred. The following months of cleaning and rebuilding did little to hide the storm's damage, but that town, our new home, proved resilient. Over the five years of our life in that house, we encountered beauty and ugliness, good health and sickness, joy and sorrow. It feels as if parts of our hearts are now tattooed onto the beams of its framework. The memories created there are at the core of our beings. Our marriage grew there. We welcomed precious babies there; endured military deployments there; and shed tears for lost family members there. We will not always own that home, but it will always feel like home.
Moving day came, at the end of March, and I was ill-prepared for the flooding of emotions I encountered. I awoke on my thirtieth birthday grateful for our family's willingness to conquer the day's feat, but the day's events proved difficult for my heart to process. The removal of furniture exposed hidden clumps of dust and dog fur and left random, nonessential toys and decor cast aside. Our once-quaint and well-kept home so sweetly adorned with keepsakes and our babies' pictures was entirely disheveled. Unfamiliar. The rental truck and every available vehicle was loaded, our children were buckled into car seats, our dogs on their leashes, and my husband and I walked out of the first home we ever owned together. I was holding our old keys in one hand and my husband's hand in another.
There are a couple of things I learned about myself, throughout the transition. Firstly, I am a hoarder of replacement clothing buttons--the ones in teeny, Ziploc-like bags attached to clothing tags. Secondly, big makes me feel small, and new makes me crave the old. There is nothing cozy or familiar about a home that is void of sentimental value, no matter the bedroom count or the size of its closets. In fact, most of my emotional moments (read: ugly-crying moments) occur because I can so easily close my eyes and imagine my babies dancing with each other in the old living room. I see them running down the old hallway to welcome their daddy home, or their quick skip across to our old bedroom for weekend morning snuggles. Similar memories will be established here, and probably a lot of them, but, for the unforeseen future, this home will be the "new" home, and we all know how I feel about new things.
It has been a couple months since our move. There was little opportunity for writing and my heart certainly needed time to embrace the changes. My husband tirelessly worked at the old house to remove most evidence of our residency, in hopes of meeting a new family's expectations of the lived-in space. Along the way, drawings were removed from the girls' bedroom door and sticky, little fingerprints were painted over in the hallway. More and more, it reflected less and less of us and will soon belong to another family.
Just as with clothing buttons, I am a hoarder of sentiment. I keep our girls' birthday cards and deflated birthday balloons. I have their hospital bracelets, first pacifiers, and adorable locks of wavy, baby hair preserved between tape. Are you wondering if I have one of their first used bandages? You are not wondering that? Well, I do, much to my husband's disgust (and yours, too, I am sure). I want to collect all the evidence of their childhood I can so that, one day, I can offer them and me a glimpse into their past. If our memories begin to blur, we can bring back to life some of our most enjoyed moments. Except for some dozen pictures and a front door key, there is nothing tangible from our first home I can store away for later reminiscing. That house is merely an old chapter. A closed door... literally.
One of my greatest struggles in life is embracing change. I oftentimes find myself being dragged by life, digging my heels into the ground contesting its ever-changing phases. The logical approach, of course. I remember spending days as a teenager wishing my life could advance a good ten years to marriage and motherhood. Wish granted, and I now understand the importance of savoring my todays before they become yesterdays. What if I find myself turned around, though, staring through my tears at a pile of yesterdays, neglecting to welcome today's offering of adventure and blessing? It is a pendulum needing balance that can so easily swing out of control.
Last week, my husband and girls were outside cleaning up our front landscaping. It was a productive day with plenty of sweat and adventure for all, and, if just a little, this new house became a tad more ours. This phase still feels unfamiliar, and it will take a while before our memories here exceed those created at the old house, but I am grateful for Who ordained this life for me and His unyielding guidance. His design for our family's future will always exceed my expectations and what I think is best for us. He is constant; yesterday, today, and tomorrow, His comfort and guidance are steadfast. I can wake all my tomorrows knowing He had purpose in bringing our family to this new place--this little place called home.
"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens..."
Ecclesiastes 3:1 (NIV)
I can remember driving back from the title company as brand-new homeowners, holding our new keys in one hand and my husband's hand in another. I asked him to remind me of our new zip code, then repeated it in my head until memorized. Although proud of ourselves for the accomplishment, we were nervous to abandon the lesser obligation of renting. We discussed interior paint colors and furniture arrangement, while cruising through the city we would grow to love. The next few days were a tired-eye blur of emptying boxes and overeating fast food, but, almost immediately, our life was shaken.
Within the first week of living in our new home, our little family experienced one of the most frightening days we can recall; a deadly tornado barreled through our state, leveling miles of civilization in its track. With only one-half a mile of protection, our lives and our new home were spared, but our town was forever scarred. The following months of cleaning and rebuilding did little to hide the storm's damage, but that town, our new home, proved resilient. Over the five years of our life in that house, we encountered beauty and ugliness, good health and sickness, joy and sorrow. It feels as if parts of our hearts are now tattooed onto the beams of its framework. The memories created there are at the core of our beings. Our marriage grew there. We welcomed precious babies there; endured military deployments there; and shed tears for lost family members there. We will not always own that home, but it will always feel like home.
Moving day came, at the end of March, and I was ill-prepared for the flooding of emotions I encountered. I awoke on my thirtieth birthday grateful for our family's willingness to conquer the day's feat, but the day's events proved difficult for my heart to process. The removal of furniture exposed hidden clumps of dust and dog fur and left random, nonessential toys and decor cast aside. Our once-quaint and well-kept home so sweetly adorned with keepsakes and our babies' pictures was entirely disheveled. Unfamiliar. The rental truck and every available vehicle was loaded, our children were buckled into car seats, our dogs on their leashes, and my husband and I walked out of the first home we ever owned together. I was holding our old keys in one hand and my husband's hand in another.
There are a couple of things I learned about myself, throughout the transition. Firstly, I am a hoarder of replacement clothing buttons--the ones in teeny, Ziploc-like bags attached to clothing tags. Secondly, big makes me feel small, and new makes me crave the old. There is nothing cozy or familiar about a home that is void of sentimental value, no matter the bedroom count or the size of its closets. In fact, most of my emotional moments (read: ugly-crying moments) occur because I can so easily close my eyes and imagine my babies dancing with each other in the old living room. I see them running down the old hallway to welcome their daddy home, or their quick skip across to our old bedroom for weekend morning snuggles. Similar memories will be established here, and probably a lot of them, but, for the unforeseen future, this home will be the "new" home, and we all know how I feel about new things.
It has been a couple months since our move. There was little opportunity for writing and my heart certainly needed time to embrace the changes. My husband tirelessly worked at the old house to remove most evidence of our residency, in hopes of meeting a new family's expectations of the lived-in space. Along the way, drawings were removed from the girls' bedroom door and sticky, little fingerprints were painted over in the hallway. More and more, it reflected less and less of us and will soon belong to another family.
Just as with clothing buttons, I am a hoarder of sentiment. I keep our girls' birthday cards and deflated birthday balloons. I have their hospital bracelets, first pacifiers, and adorable locks of wavy, baby hair preserved between tape. Are you wondering if I have one of their first used bandages? You are not wondering that? Well, I do, much to my husband's disgust (and yours, too, I am sure). I want to collect all the evidence of their childhood I can so that, one day, I can offer them and me a glimpse into their past. If our memories begin to blur, we can bring back to life some of our most enjoyed moments. Except for some dozen pictures and a front door key, there is nothing tangible from our first home I can store away for later reminiscing. That house is merely an old chapter. A closed door... literally.
One of my greatest struggles in life is embracing change. I oftentimes find myself being dragged by life, digging my heels into the ground contesting its ever-changing phases. The logical approach, of course. I remember spending days as a teenager wishing my life could advance a good ten years to marriage and motherhood. Wish granted, and I now understand the importance of savoring my todays before they become yesterdays. What if I find myself turned around, though, staring through my tears at a pile of yesterdays, neglecting to welcome today's offering of adventure and blessing? It is a pendulum needing balance that can so easily swing out of control.
Last week, my husband and girls were outside cleaning up our front landscaping. It was a productive day with plenty of sweat and adventure for all, and, if just a little, this new house became a tad more ours. This phase still feels unfamiliar, and it will take a while before our memories here exceed those created at the old house, but I am grateful for Who ordained this life for me and His unyielding guidance. His design for our family's future will always exceed my expectations and what I think is best for us. He is constant; yesterday, today, and tomorrow, His comfort and guidance are steadfast. I can wake all my tomorrows knowing He had purpose in bringing our family to this new place--this little place called home.
"There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens..."
Ecclesiastes 3:1 (NIV)
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