Confessions of An Introvert Mama

Just me and my introvert self, hiding in the shower!

It's confession time! Today I'm over at Denver Metro Moms Blog, sharing about how being an Introvert has become more challenging since I've been a mom. Check it out here.

"Don’t get me wrong, I am perfectly aware that I will miss this someday - their sweet voices, their cute mannerisms, their need for me - it’s the ultimate parental paradox. But I’ll be honest with you, while I love my children to the ends of the earth, I sometimes feel like their incessant chatter might just cause me to lose my mind. I mean, you moms out there know, you can’t even go to the bathroom alone."

http://www.denvermomsblog.com/mental-health/confessions-of-an-introvert-mama/

Hope On A Rainy Day

When life gives you {seemingly endless amounts of} rain, you go on a worm hunt {and find some puddles to splash in along the way}. While my kids aren't always the best at waiting for tomorrow, they are excellent at hoping for tomorrow. They continue to teach me about what it means to hope - to stare rain in the face and say, rain means worms, so let's go look for worms because worms mean we will get to fish sometime soon and we LOVE to fish. They live fully into today, whatever the weather, with great hope for tomorrow. And I can't help but learn from them.

Little Image Bearers

Today I'm honored to be a part of a beautiful series, The Meaning of Children, for the blog of a long-time friend, Mihee Kim-Kort, from my Wilderness Ranch guiding days. I'm writing about what I learn from my children as unique image-bearers. You can read the piece below or over at her blog, here. 

It's easy to overlook my children's uniqueness, as it is God's vastness.

Not long ago, I found myself on a Mommy-Son date with my oldest child, who is all too quickly approaching his fifth birthday. I was about to tell him how much I love his curiosity when I looked into his big blue eyes and asked, “Do you know something I love about you, Ben?” And much to my surprise and delight, he threw this back at me, “that I am the only Ben like me and that there is no one else like me in the whole wide world?” I smiled a proud-mom-sized smile, “well yes, that is absolutely something I love about you. I love that you are a unique, one-of-a-kind kid.”

Amidst the many messes made, the toilets clogged by 100 times the needed amount of toilet paper, the incessant sibling bickering, the feisty little attitudes hurled my way, the all-around chaos that is my everyday life, it is altogether too easy for me to forget that I’m raising two little image-bearers. God has entrusted me with these two little people, each of whom is unlike any other human being on the planet; each of whom beautifully reflects different characteristics of their creator.  If I pause long enough, look deep enough, my knowledge and understanding of God can be expanded, blown wide open, simply by observing the unique ways that my little guys bear the image of their maker.

When my oldest recounts to me every last fact there is to know about Colossal Squid - it reflects to me a God who is concerned with the minutest of details.

When we’re at the grocery store picking out a snack and with great concern, he says, “Can we pick out one for my brother? - because he would be sad if we didn’t get one for him.” -it reflects to me a God who is thoughtful and cares deeply about each one of his creations.

When he senses that I am feeling sad and proceeds to sit down beside me, put his head on my shoulder and ask, “want a hug, Mom?” - it reflects to me a God who enters into our pain with his presence.

When I have to apologize, yet again, for yelling in frustration, and he says, “I forgive you, Mommy. Want to play hide and seek?” - it reflects to me a God who is quick to forgive and desires to continue on in relationship with me even when I repeatedly fall short.

When I witness him reach out to a friend on the playground and invite him to join in a game - it reflects to me a God who is invitational in nature, beckoning me to engage and eat with with him.

When my youngest son notices a tiny insect on the ground and bends down to count how many legs it has and marvel at its unique features - it reflects to me a God who engages with his creation and takes pride in his craftsmanship.

When he spontaneously begins to dance without inhibition and unaware that anyone is watching - it reflects to me a God who moves in power and freedom and in whom we live and move and have our being.

When he repeats something to me again and again until I acknowledge him and he feels heard - it reflects to me a God who is persistent and desires to be heard and known.

When he slobbers all over his apple slices then offers me a piece - it reflects to me a God who welcomes people to the table and generously shares of his riches.

When he tells me at least 30 times in one day, “Mom, I love you.” - it reflects to me a God who is extravagant and unconditional in his love.

When my sons, together, invent a wild game of Toodle-zoo with specific rules that any player must follow - it reflects to me a God who is both full of imagination and creativity, and who initiates order.

When my oldest screams out to me, “but that’s not how it’s supposed to be. Make it right.” - it reflects to me a God who desires to make things right, to restore and redeem his creation.

When my youngest, tender caregiver, gives great attention to the things in his care like feeding the dog and watering his plants - it reflects to me a God who provides, nurtures, and brings forth growth.

My children’s uniqueness is easy to overlook, as is God’s vastness. On the days when I struggle to see good in my kids, I long to pause and remember that I’m interacting with little image-bearers who reflect to me a unique set of God’s characteristics in a way that no one else can.

Awkward Conversations Worth Having {And Why Sexual Abuse Prevention Matters to Me}

Not long ago, an interaction between my 4 year old son and a friend of mine prompted me to write a blog post for Denver Metro Moms Blog, about Why We Don't Keep Secrets In Our House. Judging by the response, sexual abuse prevention is a topic that people care about, and for that I am so grateful. But had I known the post would go viral, I would have written more - more about where I'm coming from and more about what I'm aiming for in terms of sexual abuse prevention. 

I would tell you why sexual abuse prevention matters to me. I am a survivor of sexual abuse and I know first-hand the long lasting and wide reaching pain that sexual abuse can cause. I am also a mental health therapist who has worked with countless kids and adults who are survivors of sexual trauma. Last but certainly not least, I am a mom.  I love my boys with a fierce love, willing to do anything possible to protect them from being violated in any way, sexually or otherwise. These three roles I play, survivor, therapist, and mom, flow into a confluence of passion.

You see, for much of my life, I've been on the "after side" of sexual abuse, recovering from my own trauma and helping others to recover from theirs. And while I have known and witnessed the insidious nature of sexual abuse, I have also seen that healing is possible. People can go on to have healthy relationships and live joyful lives.  But at the same time, I want to prevent it from happening to one more kid. I want to prevent it from happening to my kids. But the reality is, there is no full-proof plan that will guarantee the safety of my kids or anyone else's kids. I can't protect my children from everything and if I think I can, I'm simply living under the illusion of control {another post for another day}. But here's what I can do -

I can listen. I can listen to my kids, keeping the lines of communication open, creating space for them to talk to me about what's bothering them, big or small. I can believe them when they tell me someone did something that bothered them on purpose, rather than being so quick to speak and say, "I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose." I can say things like, "tell me more about that" and take the time to listen. 

I can talk about it. I can use my voice to talk with other parents and people who supervise my kids; I can talk about it with my kids in an age-appropriate way, so as not to scare them or shame them, but simply to empower them to know that they are in charge of their own bodies; I can use my intuition and voice to speak up about something that doesn't seem quite right; 

I can write about it.  Writing often helps me to navigate my own thoughts and feelings and allows me to better articulate those thoughts with the people around me. I can share my experiences with others.

So, these are the things I aim to do. And here is a little example of how it looks for me:

Picture it, a handful of moms standing around on the playground watching their little minions run and climb and play. The moms are chatting it up, occasionally {or maybe not so occasionally} interrupted by a request for more snacks or to go to the potty. Their conversation meanders all over the place, discussing topics like sleeplessness, best preschools, natural teething remedies, the disarray of their houses, the lack of sex drive, their wishes for happy hour to be here sooner than later, when all of a sudden, one of the moms breaks in and says, “so…how do you all talk about body safety in your house? What things do you do to try to prevent the sexual abuse of your kids?” Crickets.

Who wants to be that mom? Well, I’ll be honest with you, I do. I want to be that mom. And I’ll tell you why. I’d like to start by telling you about my son. He has food allergies, of the life-threatening variety. We actually almost lost him once to anaphylaxis {airways closing} because at the time, we didn’t have enough information about his allergies and we didn’t take enough preventative measures. That was one of the scariest moments of my life, watching him laying in that hospital bed with a mask over his face, barely responsive.

I hope to never have to experience a replay of that moment. There are no guarantees that it won’t happen again, but I have become much more educated on his allergies and I know what measures I have to take, questions I have to ask, instructions I need to give in effort to try to prevent a future reaction. So, whenever he participates on a soccer team where snacks are handed out, or is invited to a birthday party or a playdate or we go to a restaurant or he stays overnight at my parents’ house or we have a new babysitter - you get the idea - I inform the caregiver, parent, coach, whomever, of his allergies both verbally and in written form. I ask questions like what kind of food will be served, can I see the packaging, where will the pizza come from, do you have any nuts in the house etc…What I’m trying to say is that it’s an ordeal. It’s inconvenient. It’s uncomfortable. But I don’t think twice about having those conversations with people and being proactive on his behalf because I NEVER EVER want to witness him near lifeless in a hospital bed again.

So, if it is a no-brainer for me to have a conversation with friends, parents, coaches, teachers, caregivers about his safety related to his life-threatening allergies, why would I hesitate to talk to those same people about his body safety, something that could be potentially life-threatening in both an emotional and physical sense - sexual abuse prevention and body safety? I won’t. Not anymore. I won’t hesitate to have those conversations, no matter how awkward they may be. Sometimes conversation stoppers can also become conversation starters.

It actually happened just yesterday, my son was invited over to someone’s house for a playdate {without me}. The mom was so kind about it and was offering for him to come so that I could have some time to pack for a trip. I don’t know this mom very well and have never been to their house. So, my response went something like this, “Thank you so much for the invitation. I’m sure {my son} would love to play with {her son}. There are a couple of things I’d want to talk with you about before that happens, things that I like to discuss with any parent before any playdate - allergies and body safety rules. Maybe this time we could all come to your house and the kids could play and we could talk about these things, amongst other things of course?” Do you feel awkward just reading that? Maybe you do. I felt awkward saying it. I feel uncomfortable every time I have these conversations, though a little less so with every interaction.

The other mom stared at me a little bit strangely, nodding her head. I think she really had no idea what to say. She said, “Ok, interesting. What exactly do you mean by body safety?” I then began to share with her about how sexual abuse is so common these days and how I want to do everything I can to prevent my kids from being sexually abused or molested and so instead of just trying to guess who might be a potential abuser and who might not {because it could be anyone}, I just choose to have the conversation with everyone. I tell her that I like to know who is going to be home when he is there for a playdate {father, sibling, other friends etc…}, where will they be playing, what does supervision look like, and so on. I also share with her that my son has some body safety rules that help to guide his choices about his body and interactions with others, and I give her a heads up that he might mention his body safety rules. I then go on to share our rules around body safety with the mom {mentioned here in the post: Why We Don’t Keep Secrets In Our House and sourced from the Parenting Safe Children Workshop and the book, Off Limits by Sandy K. Wurtele, Ph.D. and Feather Berkower, MSW}. She asks me more questions, mostly about what else we do for sexual abuse prevention. At this point, all nervousness on my part has subsided, and I tell her that my husband and I have these conversations with anyone who will be with our sons and we ask questions about sexual abuse prevention to schools we are looking at and any other organization whose employees might be supervising our kids. She thanks me for talking with her about this {seriously, I’m not making it up} and that’s that. Exhale.

I have yet to have a parent respond to me in anger or accuse me of suggesting they might abuse my child. They may think that, but no one has ever said it to me. And after the initial awkwardness has run it’s course, I’ve found the conversations to be more connecting than anything else. After all, as parents, we want to do our best to protect our kids, right?

So, just like I hope that I can do enough prevention on my son’s behalf so that he never has to use his Epi-pen for an allergic reaction, so too do I hope to do whatever prevention it takes so that my son never has to put his body safety rules into play. Yes, I want to empower my kids with their body safety rules, but the responsibility of prevention falls first and foremost on me, the parent. So, this is why I believe that these conversations {with anyone who supervises my children}, are worth every ounce of awkwardness and discomfort that may arise.

Why We Don't Keep Secrets in Our House

Today I'm over at Denver Metro Moms Blog discussing why our family doesn't keep secrets and other sexual abuse prevention tips. What things do you do to educate and empower your children with regard to sexual abuse? How do you talk to caregivers, teachers, and coaches about sexual abuse prevention? Click here and come on over to join the conversation!

The Day I Sat At My Kitchen Table

The day I sat at my kitchen table and cried...

The day I screamed at my kids because they brought a pile of red dirt inside and dumped it all over the carpet...after being told countless times not to bring dirt inside...after they had drained a container of ice coffee all over the floor...after they had pulled their closet door off the track, again...after they dumped the soap out, again...all before 9 am.

The day I hit my limit and I screamed at my kids.

The day I sat at my kitchen table, feeling waves of guilt, anger, remorse, and despair pound me into the ground.

The day I said to my husband on the phone, in a moment of utter frustration, "I can't do this {take care of the kids} anymore; I don't want to do this anymore." {Yes, I am the same person who recently wrote about the devastation of miscarriage.}

The day I realized that just because I cognitively understand the developmental limitations of a 3 and 4 year old doesn't mean that I can handle them emotionally.

The day I realized that just because I know a fair amount about what these little people need - they need to be heard, they need empathy, they need good boundaries and guidelines, and they need me to be patient with them - doesn't mean that I'm always {or even often} capable of doing those things.

The day I realized, while crying at my kitchen table, that I don't want or need other moms to assuage my feelings of inadequacy or guilt by telling me that I'm enough and that I'm doing the best that I can, because I just need to feel these awful things and let them be my guide.

The day I realized that if I actually shared these thoughts out loud with other moms, I might risk being judged by people who might think to themselves, I love my kids so much, I can't even fathom screaming at them or not wanting to be with them. And to think, she's a therapist. My goodness. I might also risk having people attempt to make me feel better by encouraging me and telling me that I'm ok, that it happens, that I'm not a bad mom.

I would receive the I'm not a bad mom part, but the reality is, I made a bad choice. I lost my cool, I mean I REALLY lost my cool and I screamed at my kids. Thankfully, my kids are resilient as they {after a string of very tearful moments} are now off in their rooms, happily zooming their cars to and fro. Meanwhile, I'm sitting here at my kitchen table crying, still angry, still feeling guilty, still sad, still a hot mess.

I think I need to acknowledge my anger and my sadness and feel them until they run their course. And I need to feel that guilt, because guilt tells us what we have done wrong, different from shame which tells us we are wrong. I need to feel like a mess for a little while because this parenting thing is messy, really really messy.

The day I sat at my kitchen table and stared at the photos hanging on the wall of my two beautiful, curious, impressionable children and the deep, deep love I have for them washed over me.

The day that I sat and wondered how and why my anger boils up so easily and seems to momentarily silence the love I have for my kids.

The day I sat at my table and knew that I was wrong; knew I was broken; knew I was so very imperfect; knew I felt sorry; knew I was forgiven; knew I was loved.

The day that I apologized to my kids and they apologized to me.

The day I thought, thank goodness that His mercies are new every morning, that while growth is painful it is good, and God's not finished with me yet.

This is the day that I sat at my kitchen table and cried. And the tears were good and hard and cleansing.

Miscarriage - A Strange, Silent Kind of Grief

I picked up the phone and called Tom, preparing myself to utter the dreaded words, the ones I had hoped that I would not have to say, "It's definitely happening. I'm losing the baby." And in that moment, with those words being spoken aloud to the person I love the most on this earth, it became real. We were losing our baby. We were losing our future as we had quickly come to envision it, the chaotic, imperfectly wonderful home with three kiddos in it. Sadness washed over me as I felt a million tiny hopes and expectations flow out of my being. I put on a t.v. show for the boys downstairs and I gave myself permission to sit in it, to feel it all. I crumpled into a ball, alone on my bathroom floor, and I cried. I cried hard and long and deep. I waited until the tears stopped falling, for the moment when my chest stopped heaving, and then I stood up, walked into the kitchen, and I made lunch. Because life with a 3 and a 4 year old keeps going and despite my overwhelming sadness, they still needed to eat. And probably, so did I. It wasn't the only time that I cried, not by a long shot, because grief comes in waves, totally unpredictable waves.

Miscarriage is a strange, silent kind of grief. It is, in my experience, less about grieving something known and tangible, and more about grieving the loss of your hopes for the next ten thousand tomorrows. It's an eraser that comes and wipes away the future as you had it laid out in your mind and heart, replacing it with the unknown and worst of all, fear. It makes you wonder, what was wrong with my baby? And what is wrong with my body? It leaves you feeling a little bit like a ghost emotionally in a shell of a body. It hurts. It hurts physically. It hurts emotionally. It really, really hurts.

Statistics say that 1 in 4 women have miscarriages. Knowing that doesn't leave me feeling any less sad but it does help me feel much less alone. Prior to my own, I knew countless friends who had experienced one or more miscarriages. It has been helpful for me to talk with those friends, because while every experience is different, they get it. They get the awful strangeness of it all. And yet, when I hear that statistic, 1 in 4 women, I continue to wonder why we as women don't talk about it more; why so many women walk through this painful journey in silence and secrecy.

For starters, I think it has to do with the fact that the majority of people don't make their pregnancy public until week 12 or later, and 80 percent of miscarriages happen before week 12. Back when I told a close friend that I was pregnant with my first child, she {after having gone through miscarriage herself} advised me to identify the people I would want to walk with me through a miscarriage, and to tell those people about the pregnancy early on. That is exactly what I did with all three of my pregnancies and as a result, I am so thankful for my community of friends who swooped in and loved on us with food, flowers, childcare, and empathy when I miscarried with our third child. But I am also thankful for the unexpected connections that have formed with people as a result of the miscarriage, people who could sense something was off with me or people who I simply had to tell because of a situation that needed explaining. As I shared with these people, they in turn shared with me - it had happened to them too, some early, some late, some multiple times, some stillborn (losing a baby after 20 weeks) - and a bond formed, the emotional connection that is forged from being together in the same trench of pain. These are the small graces that fell upon me following my miscarriage.

The sadness was still very real though, casting a dark shadow over my everyday life. For a solid month, I didn't feel like myself in any way, shape, or form. My body had been through a lot and so had my heart. I had no motivation to get up in the morning, much less exercise, which is my usual go-to for working out emotional pain. I wanted to hide in a hole somewhere by myself, where I didn't have to talk to anyone or do anything for anyone. I didn't want anyone to have to be around me. Honestly, feeling irritable and prickly, I didn't even want to be around me. I felt myself snapping at the boys more quickly and frequently than I would like to admit. As the laundry and the dishes piled up in my house, I felt the mess piling up in my heart. People are starting to talk more about Post-partum Depression and Anxiety {you can read more about it here and here and here}, usually in reference to the depression experienced after a baby is born. But I think the Depression and Anxiety that can take your life by storm following a miscarriage, is a real thing too, one which very few people recognize and talk about. 

My hope is to create space, whether it be one on one,  in a group, or on the good ole world wide web, for women to talk about their experiences, to listen to one another, to cry silent tears with one another, to validate feelings and experiences, and to build connections forged through pain. My miscarriage is one more reminder to me of how, in motherhood and in life, we need each other. We are not meant to walk through life alone, not in our joy and not in our pain.

Walking this road post-miscarriage has not been easy for me, but some things that have really helped me along the way are:

1. Talking about it. Not with everyone you meet, obviously. But talking about it with God, with Tom, with my friends, and even with people I don't know very well {in what has felt like a healthy context}, has helped me sort through my feelings. As a result, I feel less alone, and it puts some safeguards into place. Being honest about where you are at creates awareness for your people, helping them to recognize if and when you may be heading for a dangerous place. And talking about it with a professional counselor may also provide just the space, empathy, and empowerment you need.

2. Giving myself permission to be where I am at and feel what I feel. Yes, life goes on after a loss of any kind, but it doesn't mean that we can't carve out space to feel the very real emotions that we are experiencing. It also means that we just might need to be ok with not feeling or acting like ourselves for a period of time. Recognizing that this is a season and that we won't feel this way forever can open the door to allowing ourselves to be right where we are, right now.

3. Naming the baby. Losing a baby fairly early in your pregnancy may feel hard to grieve because it wasn't a person you have pictures of or memories with, rather it's a somewhat intangible loss. For me, naming our baby helped me to wrap my head and heart around all of the future hopes and expectations I was trying to grieve. Now when I think about my miscarriage, I refer to it mentally as the loss of Scout, our third baby, and it makes it feel like there is something more tangible to grieve.

4. Looking for the beauty - gratitude. I don't mean looking for the beauty in the miscarriage itself, but the beauty that still exists all around me even as I am in the vortex of grief. And I don't mean trying to think positive and slap on a smile at the expense of denying my grief {see #1 and #2}. I mean that at the very same time I'm holding all of the sadness and grief and irritability, I'm also looking hard for the beauty and the joy. I'm talking about things like looking at my son, who has taken off his shirt and painted his belly and his face and is giving me the biggest, most mischievous smile, and I'm allowing myself to delight in him in that moment. And I'm giving thanks for him, because he is a gift. I'm looking at the buds emerging on the trees and I'm giving thanks for the new life that follows death. I'm listening to the birds singing and I'm asking God to remind me of the song of my heart, a song whose tune feels a little bit distant and forgotten. I'm looking for the little things of beauty that surround me and I'm giving thanks for them, at the very same time I'm feeling all my sadness.

5. Doing things that I love. Even if I don't love them or have any motivation to do them right now. After giving my body plenty of time to heal, I made myself start exercising again. I normally love to trail run, but I had no motivation whatsoever to run after the miscarriage. But I made myself get out there and put one step in front of the other, first hiking, then eventually running. It did good things for my heart, mind, and body, as it always does. I also began to write again, just telling myself to write something, anything, no editing, no trying to be perfect, just write. When we do things that deep down we know we love, even when we have no desire to do them at the time, I believe it helps guide us to the place where we feel more like ourselves again. 

6. Creating new meaning. When you've experienced a loss, life doesn't go back to normal, because there is now a new normal. Life goes forward and you are different in some way as a result of your loss. This is the dance, allowing your loss to shape you in such a way that it doesn't define you, but creates new meaning for you in your life moving forward. I can't go back to the place or the person that I was before this loss, but I can continue to let it shape me, to inform my future decisions, to have greater empathy for other women, to see life in general in a slightly different way.

If you've experienced a miscarriage or similar loss and feel comfortable telling your story to me individually or for others to hear as well, I'd love to hear it. How have you navigated this loss? What has helped you walk through the grief?

Little Brave Hearts

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You are brave. You just have to try.

Last weekend our family went on a hike together. Tom and I are adventurers at heart, so it's pretty fun to see our boys following suit. At one point along the trail, we took a break from the hiking to have some lunch. The boys were playing on top of a big rock and just as I went to take this picture of them, I overheard this beautiful little conversation:

Ben: Blake, c'mon down here with me. 

Blake: I can't Ben, I'm not as brave as you. 

Ben: Yes, you are, Blake. You are brave. You just have to try. 

Seriously, melt my heart. And so spot on. You just have to try. 

                                                                                                                           Just try. This is one phrase is among many that have been jumping out at me over the course of the last few months. You know when a certain thought or phrase just won't leave you alone? The message flies at you from every direction. Lately for me it's people flippantly say things and the words just scream at me. Or I spot the tiny print on the Outside Magazine cover that says, live bravely. Or I happen to pull out a journal someone gave me who's cover reads, Take Epic Chances. 

And then of course, there's music because both the composition and the lyrics of a song often speak directly to my heart like an IV to my bloodstream. Lately, the song of choice has been one from the Dirty Gov'nahs, called Where I Stand. And these lyrics are the ones that I most resonate with:

I don't know where I'm going and I don't know where to start with fear in my body but fire in my heart; I've got fire in my heart.

In all honesty, I have no idea what the rest of the song is about or the meaning behind it, but that line, it grabs me every time. I'm pretty sure I listened to the song at least 6 times on my last run just to hear those words again and again. Like I said, this message, the one that beckons me to live bravely, take chances, and go forward even in fear, was coming at me from every angle. I usually take this kind of thing as a clue from the Loving One in Charge, that he's trying to teach me something and it's just not getting through.

Ok, ok, I get the message. I used to be better at doing things that scared me. Or maybe when I was just younger, fewer things scared me. Either way, I think I used to take more chances.

About a month ago, someone randomly or maybe not so randomly messaged me an application to be a regular contributor for a local moms blog called, Metro Denver Moms Blog. Hmmm, writing, local, moms, that's totally my jam. But then I immediately thought, why bother, it's unlikely anything would come of it. And let's be honest, the last few months have been no picnic, so I didn't know if I even had the energy for something like this. And man, if it did happen, I'd actually have to write at least twice a month for a fairly large audience, and by large, I mean more than my immediate family and some friends. The inner critic was raging. My mind and body were tired. But on somewhat of a whim, I applied. 

And guess what? It happened. I was selected as a contributor. Two immediate feelings emerged: excited, terrified.

So I will actually need to write consistently. I'm thrilled about this because I've been trying to dedicate more time to writing for a while now. These two little people I have running around in my house provide me with some great content but they also steal the majority of my time away that I might otherwise use to write. I wouldn't trade it but now I have to figure out how to fit the regular writing in. Again, excited and terrified.

And as though I hadn't already taken enough of a step out of my comfort zone, this happened: head shots. What? Yep, we had to get head shots taken for the blog. For a girl who barely ever wears make-up and who calls it a good day when both her hair and teeth are brushed, this is a big step. Huge. In the words of the Dirty Guv'nahs, I don't know where I'm going  and I've got fear in my body but fire in my heart!

on my way to get the head shots taken. oh my. 

I recently got up in front of our church to share for a few minutes about working in the kids ministry. Afterward, my friend commented to me, "Wow, you're so brave. I could never have done that." And I responded, "no, not really. I'm not really brave for doing that. Because in order to be brave, you have to be scared of it in the first place. I'm not scared of speaking in public. I actually, really like it." Oddly enough, speaking is not being brave for me because it doesn't scare me. Writing regularly for a blog, that scares me. Getting head shots, that scares me. But the message was loud and clear, I need to keep doing things that scare me. I never know how they might turn out, so why don't I just give it a shot and live bravely. Going forward, I'm going to hold on to the words of my four year old son, "Yes, you are brave. You just have to try."

What is out there that feels big and maybe out of your reach? What do you want to go after but feel too scared to do it? Where are you being called to live bravely? 

I'd love to hear your story and how you're stepping into uncomfortable places and living bravely.

The Grief Now Is Because Of The Joy Then

On Monday of this week my mind was filled with memories of my dear and beautiful friend, Jenny, who was taken from this earth fourteen years ago. She and her twin sister had become like little sisters to me. Her death catapulted me into a season of loss and while it wasn't my first season of loss, it was a very profound and life-changing one. It was during that season that my life phrase, "love deeply, hold loosely" emerged. That phrase really was birthed out of the question, "why bother loving anyone when it hurts so much to lose?" Her death made me question my life and relationships in big ways. It triggered past losses and tested my ability to get close to people, to love, to be loved. Suddenly, everything felt so fragile, though I suspect it had been fragile all along and I was just living under some illusion of control.

After months of wrestling through questions, trying to swim out from under the waves of grief, I began to emerge with a strengthened desire to love and invest in relationships. It felt scary because the pain felt so real and so...well, painful. Yet I stumbled across the words of CS Lewis, in reference to losing his wife, "Why love if losing hurts so much? I have no answers any more. Only the life I have lived. Twice in that life I've been given the choice: as a boy and as a man. The boy chose safety, the man chose suffering. The pain now is part of the joy then. That's the deal."

That's the deal. But there is some strange comfort in realizing that the pain you feel in loss, any kind of loss really, is because there was some joy to begin with. I currently find myself in another season of loss. It's been a string of losses actually, as I lost my ability to run and level of fitness with my hip injury, I had a great friend move away, we are experiencing some turmoil and loss in our church, and amidst all of that, after five months of trying, I got pregnant with our third child and then I miscarried. There has been a barrage of emotional waves for sure, but grief has been the biggest of them all. 

Whether it is the loss of a person, of a job, of health, of innocence, of safety, or of a dream, loss of all kinds evokes the same emotions, sadness, anger, fear, despair. They don't all come at the same time, though they may, and they don't all last for equal amounts of time. And they certainly aren't predictable. Like unwelcome house guests, they just come when they want and stay for as long as they want, even when you're begging for them to leave. It is safe to say that it's that lack of control that is one of the most difficult parts of grief for me. I don't want to start crying when I am in the grocery store check out line standing behind a mom and her newborn baby. I don't want to feel it then. I can't afford to break down in tears when I'm trying to get the boys out the door for school. I need to hold it together, or so I sometimes tell myself. But the truth is, I can't. The emotions come when they want to and actually, I think that's probably a good thing. A healing thing. I need to feel those things. Don't ask me why. I just know that I need to.

There are four truths that this season of loss, mainly the miscarriage, has imprinted upon me.

1) When there is a loss, we feel not only the absence of that which was lost, but we also experience a loss of expectations we had for the future.

2) Our pain informs us of how important that thing we lost was...whether it was a person or a job or a dream. We wouldn't feel sad about losing it if it didn't mean anything to us. The pain now is because of the joy then.

3) Loss attempts to shake our foundation and can leave us fearing more loss, unless our foundation is firm. 

4) When we choose to be vulnerable in our loss, it leads to deeper connection with those around us. And that is both a wonderful and terrifying thing. 

My hope is to write a little bit more about each one of these four statements in four separate posts. Is there any one statement that you resonate with in particular? 

Hide and Seek

I've been touring preschools again and sadly, somewhere along each tour the subject of "the lockdown protocol" comes up, a protocol in which both teachers and students are trained. This is the protocol where kids are taught to hide under their desks or in closets in effort to mitigate a threat in the building. My heart feels queasy just thinking about my babies hiding under their desks shaking in fear.

We were not made to hide. We were made to be found. We were made to be seen, in all of our vulnerable beauty.

This is why I adore playing hide and seek right now with my three and four year old boys. I begin counting 1-2-3-4...and they go scurrying down the hall in search of the perfect hiding spots. Upon reaching 20, I shout out, "Ok, here I come, I'm coming to find you!" I don't even make it halfway down the hallway before I hear the pitter patter of their footsteps as they burst forth, exclaiming, "HERE I AM! I'M RIGHT HERE, MOMMY." My heart melts. Every single time. "Yes, there you are! I see you."

They are so excited to be found. They have no fear of being seen. There is no shame, no insecurity, no fear to stop them.

"Here I am. I'm right here."

And they don't say it in an attention seeking way. They say it with a desire to be seen in the known sort of way; a desire for connection with me, the seeker. It's pure and innocent. Authentic. Vulnerable. Free.

And just as kids grow older and they learn how to hide and stay hidden in the game of hide and seek, so too it seems that we all learn to hide in life somewhere along the way. Somewhere we receive this message that it's not ok to be seen or known. Because we may be met with hurt or judgment or rejection. So we hide. We hide our strengths, for fear of being too much. We hide our weaknesses, for fear of being too little. We hide. And we get really good at staying hidden, shaking in fear.

But what happens when the hiding one is met with the loving eyes of the seeking one? When the hiding one hears, "I found you. I see you. I'm so glad I found you." Then perhaps the hiding one feels a little less afraid of being found, of being seen, of being known.

What if we met each person we encountered, whether stranger or friend, with the love of the seeking one, "I want to find you. I see you. You are worth finding. You are worth knowing."

And what would happen if we let ourselves be found, be seen, be known, really known? We run the risk of being hurt, yes. But we also run the risk of being loved. And that, my friends, is a risk worth taking.