31 days UNFILTERED - calling

Day 7 I found my calling.

I thought I had found my calling when I was living in Louisiana working at a group home. I was indirectly counseling the boys, and knowing I couldn't live in a group home forever I thought, "Where else can I help kids in a similar capacity?" I remembered my substitute teaching days and how much I loved working in a school but loathed teaching, and BAM! School counseling. Just like that I had found my calling.

Except I hadn't. Because then I got pregnant and had all these babies, and the job disappeared, and I thought, "I get it now." These babies, the nursing & kangaroo care - yes! This is so me. Mothering. This is what I was born to do.

But then those babies got bigger and became toddlers, and I was all, "I'm out." Kids, you're great and all, but parenting - NOT MY CALLING.

And then I started blogging, as a way to chronicle this journey of life and motherhood and family, and I discovered a love so deep. A love for words. And I was convinced - this is it. Writing. This is my calling.

But with the three minis at home, the part-time job, the house work, the hunter husband, all the things, the writing became more of a challenge. Try finishing a single thought, let alone writing it down, while a two-year-old wails and a five-year-old screams and a six-year-old growls like a lion.

The struggle is real.

And so I thought, there has got to be something - something - that engages all these loves - the school environment, the working with children, the mothering of souls, the writing.

And I found it.

I found my calling.

Publishing Shop.

Have you ever? Can you even? You guys.

Publishing Shop. This is it!

This is the place.

And not just because of the rubber cement fumes.

My son's elementary school Publishing Shop was in need of a couple people to take it over, and I have never jumped at an opportunity so fast.

Every other week, I will meet pint-sized authors and look into their hopeful little eyes and speak softly to their souls, "You did it. You wrote a book. You are an author." Heavens knows, I'll be weeping the entire time. I'll take their tiny hand and walk them through the publishing process, the paper-wrapped cardboard backing, the masking tape wrapped binding, the die-cut decorated cover. I'll seal their creation with an authored-by stamp, and I'll send them back to class with an over-the-top, "I'm so proud of you. Are you proud of you? You should be proud of you. Show everyone your book, and be proud." And that timid little person who entered the Publishing shop will leave with his head held high and a spring in his step.

And I get to be a part of that.

And I pray they don't look back. Because if they do, there's a good chance they'll find me doing the another-one-published-a-book dance on top of the Publishing shop tables.

Worst case, I can just blame it on the fumes.

31 days UNFILTERED - why

Day 6 My dearest friend is heartbroken. We both are.

Her niece, who is the same age as my Henry (6), might not live another day. The details of her situation are complicated, but the short of it is that 5 months ago this little girl was admitted to the hospital and put on a wait list for an artificial heart. The months spent waiting for this lifesaving technology have been a roller coaster, the greatest dip in her health being two weeks ago when she became ill from an infection. She's remained in the hospital all those months, and now she is on life support. This past weekend the doctors gave her parents a most torturous choice - they were told that they can withdraw treatment if/when they are ready.

And then. The artificial heart. It arrived.

This beautiful 6-year-old has been given another chance at life. Her heart arrived.

Except that's not what the doctors said. The doctors believe that this precious girl is too weak. They are going to turn down the heart. She would not survive the transplant.

Her heart arrived two weeks late.

And now she remains unresponsive in a tiny hospital bed, her fate a tragedy beyond any comprehension.

To empathize with this family is almost unbearable. When I put myself in their shoes, my chest knots fierce and I go breathless.

My friend's precious niece, dying without a heart, has stolen ours.

My conversations with my dear friend have been drenched with tears, pain, grief, and questions. We both have so many questions. And almost all of them are questions of God.

In a way, the questions are rhetorical. I find myself shouting the questions at God, not expecting an answer to fall from above.

I trust that God's hand is in this devastating situation. I have faith that He hears me and that He is good.

And so those questions - those emotional, grief-filled, angry-at-times questions - they have me wondering, do we allow ourselves to ask questions of God? Is it okay to say, God, I'm mad. I'm devastated. And I want to know why.

Does it make me crazy that I ask a good God questions about a heartbreaking situation even though I am not really expecting answers?

And yet I know that amidst my sorrow and grief, comfort and peace is not going to come in the form of answers from Heaven rather it will come in the form of Presence from Heaven.

For my friend's niece, she might experience God's Presence in seeing Jesus face to face much sooner than any parent would accept.

For my friend and her family, I can only pray that they experience God's Presence on earth amidst this excruciating sadness.

Whether it's knowing that He's there or praying that He is found, my questions all end up on one great big pillow of hope.

I can only hope and pray.

Even though that hope and prayer sometimes looks like me shouting at the sky.

31 days UNFILTERED - grace

Day 5 Cop-out.

I'm weaseling my way out of Day 5 because the theme of my week is grace for self.

Matt's gone all week so I'm single-parenting. I have several things I'm juggling, a major one being my annual work conference that is a month away. Though I only work very part-time, October is always my busiest month.

All that to say, this week is providing me a great opportunity to practice grace for self.

One topic I am working and writing through involves education and the number one question I've been asked when folks learn that we moved out to the sticks. I plan to expand on that this week in a post, but in the meantime, check-out my friend Marla's 31 day writing series about unschooling.

I am looking forward to sharing my thoughts - unfiltered.

31 days UNFILTERED - buzz

Day 4 I have this reputation for obsessively diving headfirst into a hobby, collecting and acquiring everything that has to do with my current craze.

I went through a collectors phase (stamps, playing cards, and shoe figurines), and there was the music mania - the New Kids on the Block in the 80s and the Beatles in the 90s. There's also been card-making, jewelry-making, and a very close call with sewing.

I've learned to recognize the signs of early onset of these passions, and I am usually able to self-diffuse before it gets out of hand.

I'm afraid I feel a here-she-goes-again coming on. The train is gaining speed, but I have no intentions of slowing it down, let alone jumping off.

You've been warned.

Bees.

I want to be a beekeeper.

For real.

It started when my friend casually mentioned that one of the best remedies for seasonal allergies is local honey. Fast-forward to my family's move to the country, giving us more space and possibilities for farming and gardening. I have started thinking, "I wonder what it would take to farm bees." The research has been encouraging - minimal start-up and maintenance. My obsession really started to kick into high gear as I began to understand the necessity for bees to our ecosystem in addition to learning that the bee population is on the decline.

In other words, I can harvest our own honey to combat my family's seasonal allergies for little cost and little effort while making a positive impact on the environment? Sign me up, honey.

I about fell over today when at the farmer's market in town I met a local bee farmer, and he said, "I've got this little situation called too much inventory, give me a call if you are interested in start-up equipment."

Um, will you marry me?

I mean, no.

I mean, yes, I'll call you.

I don't want to marry the bee farmer. I only want to be like him. Except less hairy. And less bees.

At least for now.

And don't you go rolling your eyes at me. Just you wait until next year when you are in the market for local honey and your friend Ali the beekeeper gives you the homegirl hook-up.

You're gonna want to be nice to me.

This bee thing, it's gonna be awesome.

Just wait until you try my honey.

Or my beeswax soap.

Or you see my honeycomb wall art.

What? It's called brainstorming.

It's not like I've scouted out our yard for beehive real estate or Google Earthed my new beekeeper friend's bee farm.

It's research, not stalking.

Look, there's a pretty good chance my family will never sneeze again. And I might just save the planet.

AND I GET TO DRESS LIKE AN ASTRONAUT ON SAFARI.

If nothing else, you just got to imagine an insanely entertaining visual at my expense. That alone is worth this whole bee thing.

You're welcome.

31 days UNFILTERED - rage

Day 3 As I listened to the Yazidi woman on the radio, my entire body went numb.

Her words foreign to me, but her desperation palpable.

The translator said the Yazidi women beg for US airstrikes, not in hopes of a rescue, but in hopes of death.

The woman pleaded, Kill me. I have no means to kill myself.

I am 34 years old. I've never heard a bomb explode. I've never experienced a kidnapping. I've never been beaten. I've never been raped.

But this woman, those terrors are her reality. Daily.

I am driving home, but I'm not breathing.

Like realizing you've been under water too long, I come up and gasp for breath, my heaves for air trying to recover what my heart had stopped.

The wave of apnea drowns me again as I listen to another woman recount the horrors she has suffered. She is a mother.

Breathe, Ali. You must breathe.

I admit, I don't understand the full spectrum of issues involving Iraq, Islam and ISIS.

But I do understand the heart of a woman, the heart of a mother, and as I turn down the road leading to my home, my chest tight, I hear my heartbeat crying out to these precious souls.

Sensation returns to my flesh, and so does the emotion.

I don't feel sick. I don't feel hopeless. I don't feel sad.

I only feel rage.

Like the kind of rage that will come out sideways if I am in earshot of a harmless cat call or benign innuendo. Some seemingly innocent goof blindsided by my reckless anger. I want so badly to shake someone and scream, just scream and scream and scream. There are no words, I just want to muscle and scream the evil out of this terror, these horrors that are leaving women and children begging for death.

The cowards, with blood on their hands and automatic weapons across their chests, and I am just so fiery mad.

It has to stop and I am so full of rage.

There's no one there but the screams come and I'm screaming at the sky and, "WHY GOD? WHY?"

Please, God, please.

Please.

Why can't it stop.

It's not even a question anymore, just a prayer. A plea. A desperate heart begging God to set the captives free.

And just as quick as the rage boiled my blood, the tears begin to flood my eyes. I sit paralyzed in my driveway, broken and sobbing because these women, these mothers . . . it could be me.

And there are no answers. Only hearts connected, and I don't want to stop praying for these women.

If only they knew.

My heart.

My prayer.

My plea.

My love.

31 days UNFILTERED - jazzercise

Day 2 I joined Jazzercise.

Like resurrected from it's 1980s grave, Jazzercise.

And it's totally rad {jazz hands - get 'em up, girls}.

Granted I've had to get over its passé stigma (When I told my mom, she responded, "Oh my gosh! I used to go to Jazzercise when you and Morgan were little." And even Golden Girl Dorothy mentioned taking Jazzercise classes.)

But let me tell ya, this ain't your Grandma's Jazzercise. Sure we still do the classics (my grapevine puts the California raisins to shame), but we also do moves that would make your Grandma roll in her grave. Don't get me wrong, the moves are G-rated compared to those pole-dance classes that were all the rage (No, I have never participated. Yes, I only know about them because of that one time on Oprah), but the modern day Jazzerciser will come to know the limits of his/her body's ability to gyrate.

For instance, today I learned that I might be a tad slow on the gyration scale, but I got a lot to gyrate, so that counts for extra.

Because it's all about that bass.

And a confident chassé.

31 days UNFILTERED - challenge

"I'm giving up on the 31 days writing challenge. It's making me homicidal." That was the text I just sent Marla at 9:30pm, the first day of the challenge. I am in bed trying to complete my first post except my otherwise house-trained family decided that this would be a good time to regress and act like savages.

I want to kill them.

In my defense, my day started at 5:45am when the thick-as-molasses fog decided to ruin my REMs, lame robot phone service calling to inform me of a 2-hour delay.

And now it's after 10:00pm, some 16 hours since the robot called, and I have yet to meet a single solitary uninterrupted moment with my thoughts. Heck, I don't even know if I've gone one whole minute without someone touching me. Why are people always touching me?

So it's either do bodily harm to my people or quit the challenge.

Oh, and Marla's response?

Blog it.

Dang it, Marla. I don't even like you anymore.

When Marla mentioned that she's doing the challenge, I thought, "Yeah, sure, I haven't been writing at all lately, but a commitment of 31 days straight seems like a good next step." It sort of fits with my, I'm going to be a vegan now even though my favorite condiment is cheese, especially when it's served with cheese. Or the time I couldn't jog 2 miles and so I looked at the calendar for a race to give me a motivating goal and I picked an ultramarathon. Normal people think, "I'm just going to build up my mileage a little at a time," and I think, "I'm gonna do that too, but double that, plus 20."

So here I am. Two hours before the end of day one, blogging about I don't even know what.

This doesn't even count as blogging.

I think I'm going to call this 31 days of whining like a brat.

Or 31 days of trying not to kill my family.

Or 31 days of no longer being friends with Marla.

Pretty much my October is starting off just like that Anne of Green Gables quote I see plastered all over the social medias, "I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers."

How's come no one wants to remember when little-miss-straw-hat-and-braids said, "My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes."

That's more like it, Anne. Me and you, girl. Kindred spirits.

31 days - a writing challenge

Day One - challenge

Day Two - jazzercise

Day Three - rage

Day Four - buzz

Day Five - grace

Day Six - why

Day Seven - calling

Day Eight - pacifier

Day Nine - drive-thru

Day Ten - songbird

Day Eleven - temper

Day Twelve - goodnight

Day Thirteen - falsies

Day Fourteen - meow

Day Fifteen - messages

Day Sixteen - barf

Day Seventeen & Day Eighteen - forgot

Day Nineteen - school

Day Twenty - early

Day Twenty-One - sandman

Day Twenty-Two - why

Day Twenty-Three - drugs

Day Twenty-Four - voice

Day Twenty - Five - haunted

Day Twenty - Six - oils

Day Twenty - Seven - tonight

Day Twenty - Nine (I skipped Twenty-Eight) - 2am

Day Thirty -

Day Thirty-One -

New school graces

I expected the phone call from the bus driver but I never expected I'd hang up a blubbering mess. Rhonda. She has no idea that she's an angel to me. She called to offer the obligatory information - contact number, pick-up and drop-off times, special instructions. But only a couple of minutes in, I was one heave away from sobbing.

I hung up the phone forgetting most of the details she offered, but I will never forget her words:

"I tell my kids that we're a family. We're together everyday, and we function as a family. My own kid rides my bus. All the sub drivers tell me that I have the best bus. And I do. I have the best bus. And it's not me. They come to me this way. The girls that lived in the house you are in now - I'm really going to miss them. They've been a part of my route since they started school. Yeah, I'm going to miss them, but now I have Henry."

I tried to respond but all I could muster was a crackled thank you followed by crazy-mom sniffles.

What grace is this? God moves my family out to the country - a place I would never have chosen for myself - and I can hardly recover from the wave of grace before He knocks me over with another one.

My first touch point with our new school district was when we went to the Board of Education office for registration. As I was completing the paperwork, I was startled by a crash. I turned around and discovered candy and shattered glass blanketing the carpet. Greta had managed to unscrew the top of a large vintage-style candy machine, causing its glass container and all its contents to confetti the floor.

The next moments were a blur. I shuffled us out of the office. I have no idea what I said to the sweet lady Marilyn who was helping us. She kindly offered concern, ensuring that no one was injured by the broken glass. It wasn't until hours later that my mortification lifted and I had enough sense to email her and ask her to allow me to replace the candy machine.

Her reply brought me to tears:

I am just so happy that no one was injured with the falling of the candy machine.  That was my biggest concern.  Please, do not think anything more about replacing it.  I actually am fine with it being out of my office as I always felt like that area is very small.  I now appreciate the added space. 

What grace is this? SHE THANKED ME FOR BREAKING THE BOARD OF EDUCATION OFFICE CANDY MACHINE.

From Marilyn to Rhonda, God has been showering us with grace upon grace upon grace as we settle into this new community.

I don't even know how to process it all. I really don't. Though this district might score a few points behind some of the surrounding districts on those most reliable and valid school report cards, there is no doubt that there is one thing this district will generously offer my kids: Love.

And so this week when we attended Henry's back to school night, I walked right up to the PTO table and wasted no time purchasing a school pride car magnet. I carefully and proudly placed the magnet on the back of my otherwise tidy van. I am so grateful for the spirited reminder of God's most lovely grace.

Refining heart

I recently told a friend that marriage has most refined me in the area of grace. Grace for my husband. Grace for myself. Grace for us. Marriage is just one big grace party - with less confetti & cupcakes and more tears & eye rolls. Sometimes the eye roll is the most grace I can muster, thankyouverymuch. But parenting. OH MERCY ME. Parenting. Parenting has most refined me in ALL THE AREAS. Grace and humility and patience and forgiveness and tough love and letting go and I'm even being refined in my sleep. How? BY NOT SLEEPING.

It's not a party at all except the physical evidence makes it appear like there was a party, sub sippy cups for red Solo cups.

And by the grace of God, it's worth it. It's all so beautifully worth it.

Take my Henry dude. While my six year old has graced my motherhood journey with fewer refining moments than his younger sisters, his tender spirit has refined me in a way that is unique only to him.

Whereas the girls are quick to bounce back after discipline, Henry's recovery requires a bit more salve to his brokenness. While already understanding society's norm that boys should be thick-skinned (as he shows me the bloody scratches he suffered from playing outside, "Mom, check this out! Yeah, it doesn't even hurt."), Henry's young soul requires a label that reads, "Fragile. Handle with care."

Earlier this week I treated my sweet boy to a small Lego set from the bookstore. Following the bookstore, we went to lunch and instead of running around with his sisters on the indoor playground, he sat intently putting together the 100-piece battle pack. The Lego laser canon and troopers never left his hands the rest of the day, and he woke up the next morning clutching his engineered creation.

And that might have been the end of the story of the $12 Lego set except for one of the other refining characters in this act.

The 2-year-old sister.

It wasn't that Greta was even that interested in playing with the Legos, but when Henry was so brave (or dumb) as to leave them sitting out on the coffee table in the FAMILY ROOM which is the room for the FAMILY, her blooming curiosity got the best of her.

Watching his temper rise and witnessing a few blows swung toward the pesky toddler, I fussed at him, warning him that his actions would result in a consequence. Instead of removing himself and his new prized toy from the presence of a two-year-old who acts like a two-year-old, he allowed her to embed herself so annoyingly under his skin that the brewing volcano blew its top.

Without a hint of hesitation, he chucked the Lego set and all its tiny parts across the room and straight at his sister's face.

Except every single one of them missed her and hit the face of the one sitting squarely behind her.

Mine.

Realizing his tragic mistake, his eyes widened and I felt every inch of mercy leave my bones.

"Room now. And these Legos are going in the trash."

The tears instantly burst from his wide eyes, and I listened to his trail of sobs as he approached his bedroom, the thunderous slam of his door leaving me shaken and encircled by a tiny Lego army.

And because I had said it, and he needed to know that I meant it, I picked up every plastic brick and just like that watched $12 trickle into the trash alongside last night's half-eaten noodles and this morning's leftover toast.

It killed me to do it. But I knew in my heart I had to.

As my spirit cooled, I sulked upstairs to mend the brokenhearted. I found him completely buried under his comforter, his dart blaster guarding his side.

I talked. I prayed. I stroked his back. I kissed his head. And by God's grace, he received it.

With our spirits heavy yet softening, together we walked back downstairs. I remained skeptical at how he would respond to his sister, the perceived instigator of the still-fresh tragedy. Though Henry had expressed a changed heart under the nurturing care of momma bird, I wondered if he might still blame his sister for the events that had just transpired.

I found Greta whining by the back door, impatiently begging to play outside like a dog with a full bladder. I opened the door allowing her to go, and only a few seconds later I heard her whining at the door again, typical of our fickle Greta girl. I ignored her, thinking that if I gave her a minute, she might become distracted and engage in playing with her sister who was also outside.

Henry, who had witnessed Greta's wanting out-and-now-in behavior, looked at me and said, "I think she wants to come back inside."

"I know, but I'm gonna let her stay out there for now."

He paused, and then said, "But what if she runs away?"

With little concern on my face or in my voice, I replied, "Oh well."

Unable to gauge my dry response, Henry reached for his shoes, and in one sentence proved that the heart shift I witnessed upstairs at his bedside was not merely lip service for his Lego-trashing momma, "I better go outside to be with her. I don't want her to run away."

As I watched my now soft-hearted son open the door and coddle his fussing sister, I began to muster every ounce of willpower within me to stop my heart from digging 100 buried Lego pieces out of the trash.

Humbled and heavy-hearted, I thanked Jesus for my son. I thanked Jesus for refining my son's heart. And I thanked Jesus for refining mine.

Clearance underwear and why you'll never see me shopping in public ever again.

If you haven't laughed today, I'm about to change that. And if you have laughed today, please tell me that it was the tear-stricken from-the-gut snort-inducing laughter that left you wondering whether or not you should change your underwear.

It's worth the laundry.

And about that underwear.

Recently I had a return to make to Nordstrom Rack. While I was there, I remembered I needed new underwear so I thought I would pop over and look at their selection. I found a pair, picked them off the overstuffed rack ('merica) and headed to the checkout.

As I was standing in line, very close to the front of the store, I saw out of the corner of my eye a beautiful family walk into the store. I made eye contact with the man, not registering that I recognize him, until my eyes turned to the woman and the baby she was holding. Think Beckhams. Except more smiley.

It was at that moment that all of the memory networks in my brain snapped into action and sent me the message: YOU KNOW THESE PEOPLE.

It was also at this point that my brain reminded me that I just made eye contact with the man, like our eyes MET, which means that his memory networks told his brain that he knows me.

And it was at this point that my neck flushed red hives, my eyes jolted to the floor, and embarrassment shot my blood pressure to audible.

Brace yourselves, friends. I had just made eye contact with my ex-boyfriend, his gorgeous wife, and their model-worthy baby girl. AND I WAS STANDING THERE WITH NOTHING IN MY HANDS EXCEPT A PAIR OF EXTRA LARGE UNDERWEAR.

Sweet Jesus, where is the mercy?

I know what your thinking. "Oh, I'm sure they didn't see the underwear. I'm sure it just blended in with your clothes/purse/skin."

Oh, aren't you kind. You really are. But you are WRONG. Let me add that the underwear in my hand was the only pair in my size because it was on clearance, and it just so happened to be FIRETRUCK RED.

I SAW THE BEAUTIFUL EX-BOYFRIEND FAMILY WHILE I WAS HOLDING MY BRIGHT RED EXTRA LARGE CLEARANCE UNDERWEAR.

Digest that.

If ever there was a reason for me to never shop in public ever again, I now have one. Because seeing your ex-boyfriend and his picture perfect family while you buy screaming red granny panties is enough shopping humiliation for a lifetime.